Tag: Written

The year was 1973, the beginning of October, and for our Indian-origin family of five, the beginning of our new life.
I had just turned 6 and my first memory of our new hometown was actually one of fear. Everything here looked so big and spread out. The city’s bright lights especially scared me. Before moving to Miami Beach, we had lived all over England.

I’ll never forget the drive from Miami International Airport to our two-story apartment building on Normandy Drive. The neighbors living beneath us, Ralph and Betty, spoke Spanish, a language we had never heard before.

My father Virendra Bhuta, a 40-year-old physician, had only come to the United States a few months prior. My uncle had been telling my dad for years to move from the UK to the United States. He also advised him that there were only two possible places where he should choose to live: California or Florida.

After applying to a ton of medical residency programs throughout the country, Miami ultimately came calling Dr. Bhuta. What did my parents know about Miami before coming here? They knew only three things – sunny beaches, beauty pageants, and lots of millionaires!

My father, who had practiced reconstructive plastic surgery before coming to the U.S., unfortunately had to give up his love of being a surgeon. He did a medical residency at St. Francis Hospital in Miami Beach. In 1973, he was only earning an annual salary of $10,000, not much to support a family of five. After only a year of training, my dad eventually turned to emergency medicine. Baptist Hospital in Kendall had the privilege of his expertise in their ER for more than 30 years.

Pravina, my mom, also did more than her fair share. Being 11 years younger than my father, it wasn’t easy for her to take care of my two brothers, ages 4 and 8, and me. She put my older brother, Amar, and me in Treasure Island Elementary. Incidentally, the school’s principal was Christina M. Eve, who would eventually have an elementary school named after her. .

Soon my mom also became an Avon lady and receptionist at nearby Mount Sinai Hospital. Her best customers were the employees at the hospital. Her monthly Avon meetings were around the corner at Howard Johnson’s.

My parents really took full advantage of achieving the “American Dream.” In October 1973, we were living in a two-bedroom/one-bath apartment in Miami Beach. By January 1976, they had already purchased their first home. It was in Kendall, a four-bedroom/three-bath home with its very own swimming pool. My brothers and I attended Blue Lakes Elementary. In fact, we were there the year it “snowed” in Miami. I still remember the snowball fights.

We also went to Glades Junior High and Southwest Miami Senior High. Our higher education came from Miami-Dade Community College, Florida International University, and the University of Miami (where we were national football champs for my senior year). My older brother, Amar, eventually went to Ohio State University medical school to become a doctor.

We have enjoyed many things growing up here in Miami. My dad and brothers would enjoy going to Dolphins games at the Orange Bowl. Of course, we didn’t move here until the year after their perfect season. We also remember attending the spectacular Orange Bowl Parade for New Year’s. I recall the aroma of roasted peanuts and delicious chocolate in the air, along with all the decorating of Winnie-the-Pooh teddy bears.

My teen year weekends always included visiting Burdines and Jordan Marsh in Dadeland Mall. The Falls being built seemed so luxurious, now that we had a Bloomingdales. Eating at LUMS was always a treat, as was being a spectator at the annual Bed Races in Coconut Grove. The Seaquarium and Parrot Jungle were always places to take our out-of-town guests. We also enjoyed showing them the colorful sails gliding on the water at Key Biscayne every weekend. Crandon Park beach was also always a fun time.

My mom even got to chaperone a few beauty pageants in the 1980s. They were all broadcast from the Knight Center in downtown Miami. She did Miss Universe, Miss Teen USA, and Miss USA (the one where Halle Berry was Miss Ohio).

I feel very fortunate to have lived here for most of my life. While I am now 45 and have traveled extensively, I can’t imagine living anywhere other than Miami. Yes, I’ve seen many changes here over the years, but for the most part, they’ve been beneficial for our community.

My parents still live in Kendall, in a different home, near Norman Brothers. My husband, Rajesh, is an interventional cardiologist, practicing mainly at Baptist Hospital and Kendall Hospital. I help with the bookkeeping for his solo practice. I have three daughters.

Seeing my own children and husband live where I grew up is such a great feeling for me.

It’s as if everything has come full circle. For me and my family, Miami will always be our wonderful “Home Sweet Home.”

Yes, I am a Miami native, born in 1951 at St. Francis Hospital on Miami Beach. My dad was in dental school at St. Louis University and my parents came home so I would be born in Miami.

My dad Jerry Denker a native of Brooklyn, N.Y., attended Miami Beach High and played football there in the early 1940s. My grandparents, Julia and Harry Mahler, had a dry cleaning store, DuBarry’s, on Fifth Street.

After the war, my dad met my mom (Gloria, from Woodbridge, N.J.) while she was vacationing on Miami Beach near the store.

After my dad finished dental school, we moved back to Miami and lived in a small duplex on Southwest Seventh Street in what is now known as Little Havana.

I attended the Miami Jewish Community Center (YMHA-YWHA), also located in the neighborhood, for kindergarten.

In 1955, we moved to a new housing development called Westchester. Everyone wondered why we were moving to “nowhere” in the Everglades.

Actually, it was in the area of Coral Way between Southwest 78th and 87th Avenues. There were no expressways and the neighborhood at first was barren, with no trees or landscaping. My father set up his dental practice on Bird Road and I attended Everglades Elementary School.

In 1957, when I was 7, my sister, Marti, was born at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Little did I know that as an adult, I would work at Jackson as a nurse for more than 38 years.

Westchester was a great neighborhood for growing up — playing ball games and riding bikes on the quiet streets, knowing most everyone in the community.

My dad, a proud Gator from the University of Florida, influenced my sister and me in many ways.

Dad was an all-time sports lover and we spent much time in the Orange Bowl, cheering on the University of Miami Hurricanes, claiming season tickets when the Dolphins arrived in Miami, attending the Golden Gloves boxing in Dinner Key, and any other sporting event that came to town.

I have many remembrances of the “sleepy” town of Miami where we did not lock our homes or cars. We picked strawberries and tomatoes blocks from our home.

We walked to the shopping center in Westchester and bought 45 RPM records at Zayre’s. I spent summers hanging out with friends and club members at the Westbrook Country Club (Southwest Eighth Street), later to become the “Y” where my Coral Park swim team practiced. My family liked to go out to eat and some of our favorites were the Red Diamond on Lejeune, the Pub, and Glorified Deli on Coral Way.

My grandparents lived on Miami Beach, and it was always a treat to sleep over and go to Flamingo Park and the beach.

I remember the long ride to the beach weaving in and out of streets through downtown, before the expressways. My girlfriends and I would sometimes take the bus to South Beach and hang out by the old dog track.

If it wasn’t the beach, we would ride the bus to Miracle Mile, shop at Young Sophisticates, eat lunch at Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor and see a movie at the Miracle Theatre.

As a result of the sports culture in our lives, I became a competitive swimmer and swam with the Coral Gables Swimming Association at the Venetian pool from 1959 until I joined the Coral Park High School swimming team in 1966. My sister became a competitive tennis player and often played at Salvador Park in Coral Gables.

My mom, very dedicated, would drive us back and forth to swimming or tennis practice, sometimes more than twice a day. We would spend weekends at swimming meets anywhere from West Palm Beach to Miami.

To this day, I continue to swim and work out with groups at José Martí Park. I have great friends from my age-group swimmers and the Masters swimming community of South Florida.

Needless to say, I attended the University of Florida and also became a loyal Gator and a nurse practitioner. I spent a great 38 years at Jackson Memorial Hospital in many roles, caring for the people of Miami-Dade County.

I continue to reside in Miami in a building with a great view of the beautiful bay and downtown skyline, not far from the little duplex that still stands on Southwest Seventh Street.

My family came to Miami from Holland after World War II. My father had first visited the United States during his youth while working for the Holland America Cruise line.

He knew the United States was the land of milk and honey. So after the war, in April 1947, my parents, my brother (6 years old) and I (1 year old) came to the U.S. aboard the SS Noordam II and were processed through Ellis Island and then directly to Miami, Florida.

We lived with Mrs. Miller, who was the mother-in-law of my father’s uncle. She resided in South Miami near the Cocoplum Women’s Club on Sunset Drive for a short time. We then moved to a home on Red Road and SW 46 Street. My parents became proud citizens in 1953 and my brother and I were naturalized through our parents.

I attended kindergarten at the Cocoplum Women’s Club on Sunset Drive; I was in the Red Bird class. From there I went to David Fairchild Elementary.

I remember being so excited after getting out of school and my mother would walk with me to Allen’s Drug store on the corner of Red Road and Bird Road to get a nickel (yes, that is correct, 5 cents) ice-cream cone. Walking to the supermarket and drug store was common for us.

It was about 6 blocks which seemed very far for my little legs but it was well worth the trip to get ice cream or candy. There was very little traffic on Red Road at that time, and I can remember sitting on a coral rock fence that surrounded our property waiting for a car to come by so I could wave at them.

We frequently went to Matheson Hammock; I learned to swim there. The Eskimo Pie ice cream was an added treat from the concession stand in the coral rock building. We also went to Tahiti Beach years later so we could go on the slide, which was moored in the lagoon. That public beach has since gone to make way for the elegant houses there now.

My father worked as a Master Mechanic for Pan American Airlines for 25 years. This would enable us to fly to Holland on a few occasions. I was 9 years old on my first flight to Holland and remember it being a propeller aircraft. It flew from Miami to New York, Greenland, Iceland, London and finally to Amsterdam, Holland.

I was airsick most of the trip; flying has greatly improved since then. My father took me to visit the Pan Am building on 36 Street when I was about 10 years old. I remember being so impressed with how BIG the aircraft and hangers were. It was a sad day when Pan Am stopped flying. My Dad was very proud to have been a part of Pan Am.

My mother would take me to Dadeland Mall, which looks nothing like it does today – it was an open air mall. Before Dadeland opened we would take two buses to downtown and take time out to feed the pigeons at Bayfront Park. At Christmas we would go downtown to enjoy the carnival rides that were on the roof of Burdines. What a special time it was!

After attending Southwest Senior High I went to work at Sears in Coral Gables in the credit department. Several years later I started my own office products company, which was located near The Falls. After 20 years of ownership I sold my company to invest with my stepson into a financial services company which was located in Palmetto Bay.

I have since sold my shares and enjoy all the free time I have to appreciate how beautiful our area is. Having lived in Palmetto Bay for over 30 years, I have many memories, such as dining at Black Caesar’s Forge on the corner of 152 Street and 67 Avenue, famous for their potatoes baked in a tree resin.

We also had land crabs the size of a small dinner plate running through our yard. It was impossible to drive 152 Street without running over them. I never see any large ones anymore once in a while a few small ones appear.

It has been a blessing to see Miami grow from a small town to the multi-cultural beauty that it is today.

I was born in a wood frame building on Miami Beach in 1924.

My parents were Greeks, born in Turkey. My father’s parents raised silkworms that were sold to the local factories in Bursa. A wealthy Turkish merchant in the silkworm industry who did business with my grandparents, made frequent business trips to the United States. My father would listen in awe as he related stories about a tropical paradise there called Miami.

He said it was located directly on the ocean where cool breezes prevailed all year long, people went swimming every day, it never got cold and the sun shone every day. The merchant also said no one ever went hungry because of all the fruit-bearing trees in the wild and that there are even trees for children called kumquats with oranges the size of a thumb. A glass of water was not necessary to quench a thirst because a large nut called coconut has water in it.

Picture in your mind someone never having picked a nut larger than an almond from a tree being told that in America they was a nut the size of your head with a shell inside that has the pulp of fifty almonds and holds a glass of water. Well, that was all my father had to hear. He vowed then and there we would someday live in that paradise.

After the Balkan countries declared war on Turkey in 1912, the family went to Greece, and in 1915 my grandfather left for America. Working on the railroad laying track, he settled in Cincinnati and sent for the rest of his family. My father begged him all along about going to Miami and he finally arrived here in February 1920.

It was everything he had been told, and he convinced the whole family to move here. They bought a property on West Flagler Street with a restaurant, rooming house, and a hat-blocking and shoe-shine shop. They prospered, but it wasn’t long before my grandfather noticed his two sons were running around with American girls. So he went back to Turkey and returned with two neighborhood girls. The double-wedding took place in 1923 at the Episcopal churchnear the Venetian Causeway.

That same year, my father went to work helping to build the Nautilus Hotel. Looking for a less back-breaking job, in 1924, he drove a jitney to and from downtown and in 1928, he helped with the opening of a market on Washington Avenue.

Having led a very sheltered life with only Greek and Turkish spoken in the house, I was enrolled in the first grade. When told my name was Aristotle, the teacher said, “I wouldn’t name my dog that.” She asked how it was pronounced in Greek. Because “Ari” sounded like “Harry,” that became my name through high school.

We endured the 1928 hurricane, but not the 1929 stock market crash. The Depression years were trying, but we endured. By the end of 1933, my parents had put enough aside to buy a restaurant on Ocean Drive. My father and I fished the jetties every morning, he to catch big fish and I to gather snails and big crawfish for the store. He caught mostly snook and barracuda, which was on the menu as snapper, while I caught Florida crawfish listed as Maine lobster, and snails listed as French escargot. We always sold out because my mother was a great cook.

I once crawled under the fence at the government field and picked a choice watermelon for our store. A police officer saw me walking off with it and offered me a ride. It wasn’t to my house, as I expected, but to the police station. He sat me on the curb, cut it into four pieces, told me to eat all of it, and said he didn’t want to see any red when finished. When I asked if I could use the restroom, I was told it was for police only. I got the picture and hurried home.

By 1935, my parents had put enough aside to buy the lot next to where I was born for $2,500. The following, year they built our house for $5,000. When finished with building, we busied ourselves landscaping it to be the best in the neighborhood. My job was following the horse-drawn ice wagon down the alleys, discreetly gathering horse manure to fertilize our plants. You can bet it was done discreetly.

I made money the hard way: I worked for it. I sold peanuts for an old man named Doc to bathers on the beach for five cents a bag, keeping a penny for myself. Occasionally, when given a dime, I would give it to Doc. My reward was a bag of peanuts to take home.

I would also go to the Miami Beach golf course and dive into the canal to retrieve golf balls for a nickel. I would get in free at the plaza theater by picking up chewing gum wrappers and cigarette butts from around the building. I did the same for Occasionally, I would buy shrimp from a fish market on 63rd Street to fish. When I told the owner it was my mother’s birthday and that I was going to catch a big fish for her, he gave me 10 shrimps for a nickel.

At a boat rental concession near Biscayne Bay, I was allowed to use a 10-foot sailing moth in exchange for cleaning out all of the returning fishing boats. That little moth took me all over Biscayne Bay, from the spoils banks to the ragged keys and Fisher Island.

Later, so as not to be drafted, I joined the Navy, was assigned to the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Yorktown and served the remainder of WWII in the Pacific. After being honorably discharged, I went to work for the city of Miami Beach, in the engineering department. I started as a rod man on the survey crew and retired 45 years later as assistant public works director.

The highlight of my life is my marriage to my lovely wife Artemis, who has given me 57 beautiful years and two beautiful daughters, Adrian Artemis and Andrea Aphrodite. They in turn have given us two exceptional sons-in-law, Robert Sherman and Javier Holtz, who have each given us three exceptional grandchildren: Michael, Andy and Bryan; Matthew, Nicole and Andrew.

Since I retired, the population of Miami Beach has exploded, traffic has become unbearable, and parking next to impossible. I close my eyes and reminisce about the good old days in old South Beach. As a child.

My name is Alex Sturman, and I am sharing with you a glimpse in the life that took place in the summer of 1957 when I was a nine year old in a family of six.

We were living in Charleston, S.C., where I was born. My father was a ‘travelling salesman’ at the time. He would pack up his company station wagon with restaurant supplies and take off for a week or two, covering most of South Carolina.

I’m sure that he was ready for a change when my uncle gave him a call to join him in Miami. My father decided to pack up the family and join his two brothers in business down in Miami.

The business was owning and operating lunch stands and trucks that serviced construction sites such as the Fontainebleau Hotel along Miami Beach. My Uncle Ben started the business a few years earlier and by 1957 he saw a chance to get his two brothers, Coleman and Nathan, to come down and work with him in beautiful Miami. The business was called Hadacal’s Mobile Canteen.

It was August 28th, 1957. My father, brother Philip and I packed up our 1953 Studebaker Champion Starliner, hooked on a U-Haul trailer and headed for Miami. My mother Ruth and sister Anita would join us once we got settled. My oldest brother Joey left for Miami a few months earlier and rented a house with our cousin Dave Hill. They were both nineteen at the time. Dave would later own the Taurus restaurant in Coconut Grove during its heyday in the ‘70s and ‘80s.

There was no I-95 back then. We drove all the way down using US1 and A1A. My father drove and Philip sat shotgun. I sat in the back with our two myna birds, Heckle and Jeckle. When we hit Hollywood, I kept sticking my head out the window looking for John Wayne. My father laughed. I didn’t know that this was a different Hollywood. We made it to Miami and pulled into the Chelsea Court Motel, made up of small cottages located on Biscayne Boulevard.

The car stopped, and once the dust settled I could see these shirtless, shoeless kids looking into the car window. They were my cousins Max, Annie Kay, Ina Rae and Martin. They were my Uncle Nathan’s kids that I was meeting for the first time. Max and I would later attend the University of Miami and become architects.

The next day my brother Joey had to run errands and asked if I would like to join him. He had a 1947 Hudson with an in-dash radio that was the size of a present day boom box. As he ran errands, I would sit in the car, windows down with the smell of horsehair padded seats and listen to the radio on a beautiful sunny day.

I remember the songs that played as I waited. They were “Honeycomb,” by Jimmie Rodgers, “Bye Bye Love,” by the Everly Brothers, and “Diana,” by Paul Anka. I was hearing these songs for the first time ever that day. To this day, whenever I hear any one of those songs, I am a nine year old back in that old Hudson, so excited about this new life in Miami that I am about to begin . . . and what a beautiful day.

Miami seemed so new back then. Everything was clean and freshly painted. It was as hot as it is today, but I never complained. The uniform of the day was shorts, sneakers and no shirt. No one wore shirts back then. The only air-conditioned buildings were the drug store and movie theater.

No such thing as graffiti and the only thing that kept an intruder out of your house as you slept was the latch on the screen door. There was no need to protect your property, because everyone respected each other and a break-in was unheard of. And as you slept, the oscillating fan kept you cool. It felt so good when the fan made its sweep and got back to you.

Trips to Miracle Mile and Lincoln Road were always family events. We would put on shirts, eat at the local cafeteria, and Mother would shop. I always remember the sky being sunny and bright as you looked through palm trees that were everywhere.

From Pogroms to Palm Trees: Rose Weiss, “The Mother of Miami Beach”

How does it feel to be the granddaughter of a Pioneer Family In a word—unique!

It would be a colossal understatement to say being born in Miami and growing up in Miami Beach has been spectacular, but how that all happened is the real story, and it all started with my grandmother, Rose Sayetta Weiss.

“Rosie,” as she was known, immigrated with her family to Brooklyn, New York, from the small village of Mizrich, on the Russian/Polish border. Jews there lived under the oppressive rule of the Czar, and going to America was every family’s dream.

The Sayettas settled in the East Side, and eventually Rosie married Jeremiah Weiss. They had three children: the oldest my Aunt Malvina Liebman Gutschmidt, an educator and author, My father, Milton Weiss, a lawyer and banker, and my Uncle and Godfather, Eugene Weiss, a podiatrist.

Rosie suffered from allergies and asthma and was advised by her doctor to move South. Luckily for me, she chose Miami Beach. In 1919, she arrived, and it’s safe to say the City was never the same.

I remember her as being formidable in stature as well as personality. She immediately became active in politics and attended every city council meeting for 40 years. The City Fathers called her the “eighth councilman.”

While raising her children and then directing her grandchildren, she managed to organize the first Red Cross, found the PTA in Beach schools, design and sew the Flag for the City of Miami Beach and raise five million dollars in War bonds, more than any other woman in the State.

I pity the person who ever tried to say no to my grandmother, and there weren’t many who did. During the Thanksgiving and Christmas Holidays, she convinced the local merchants to donate food and clothing for poor families.

She would take my cousin Wolf (who was 10 at the time) and make the deliveries in her four door green Chevrolet. On her car was the decal of a Rose, and the Police knew when they saw that rose, not to ever ticket her no matter where she parked. If only I still had that car and decal!!!!

I’m told that when my Father announced he would marry my Mother (Ceecee Alexander), Rosie was skeptical of the blonde bombshell as a future daughter-in-law, but after two grandchildren and lots of brisket dinners they became friends.

Grandma Rose loved to babysit my sister and me. Our outings included the Parrot Jungle, The Rare Bird Farm, Crandon Park Zoo, and Pigeon Park, which is now Bayside.

At home she made up endless stories about a fantasy town called “Catsville” and played Opera and classical music all the time. As a result, I became a music lover and a Mario Lanza groupie in the first grade!

Grandma Rose had strong opinions and was very protective of her family. She made it clear that she disapproved of women wearing trousers and smoking in public. When I went to Europe after graduating from Beach High, she cautioned me to have a good time, but not to talk to any strangers; I didn’t always take her advice.

Rosie was nicknamed “The Mother of Miami Beach.” Her friend Carl Fisher once said that it was his money but her spirit that built the city. She died at 88, and whoever said that one person can make a difference certainly knew my grandmother. Miami Beach continues to be my home and I’m proud that my family tree is a Palm.

“Tey, mire esos hombres con esos sombreros tan chistosos. … Tey, yo quiero ir ahi.”

“Tey,” I said to my grandmother. “Look at those men wearing funny hats. … I want to go over there,” I excitedly pleaded.

“Please, take me over there, please, pretty please, I want to see what’s over there. Look at those cars with angels and stars. It is so pretty in there with all the lights. The tall skinny dancing palm trees adorned with sparkling lights. I want to see the Christmas tree, the stars and all the colorful magical lights.”

As I marveled, our bus arrived, and she would grab me by the hand and say, “Let’s get in, watch your step, let’s go home and get some rest.”

We were at this bus stop after my grandmother had worked another long day cleaning and cooking in one of Miami’s opulent homes. I went with her the days I had no school and my single mother worked, to that house with the courtyard, the tennis court, the pool and a giant poodle I loved to play with.

A week went by and here we were again at my favorite bus bench, waiting, and I was hoping this time Tey would take me over there, to “The Beautiful Place,” the magically adorned building. I may have insisted a little too much this time because I will never forget her reply.

“We cannot go over there, you cannot go in there, do you hear me, do you understand?” she shouted.

“Por que?” Why? I asked.

“Because over there is a place where only rich people can go; they are different than us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ese es un lugar para los TUFOSOS!” That is a place for the snobs.

My tearful eyes looked up at her hoping to understand what she meant by rich and TUFOSOS.

I loved being with my pretty grandmother. She was strict but she was also funny, kind and loving. She would tell me I was beautiful and covered my body and face with hugs and kisses.

I loved going inside the majestic homes and I daydreamed of the day I, too, would live in a fancy home, near or on the bay or beach. I took in my grandmother’s sad and tired eyes with no light, no hope, and no shine.

I insisted, “Please take me over there.” But here comes the bus. She said, “Let’s get in, watch your step, let’s go home and get some rest.”

The years have gone by, my grandmother is now up in the sky, and our world has changed so much that I am perplexed when I think of where my family comes from and all the possibilities for the future.

She was from the countryside of El Salvador, an orphan raised by aunts and uncles, and shuffled from home to home. I only learned her story later from my mother. My grandmother was only granted a second-grade education, and when she was 12 years old, she was hired to clean other people’s houses — the homes of the “tufosos.” It was in these homes of the “tufosos” that my grandmother became an exceptional cook and she mastered European cooking such as apple turnovers, yams, cheese tarts, and various types of stews and quiches. It was because of her gastronomic talent that she was later hired by an American diplomat who arranged for her to come to the United States, first to Boston but settling in my beloved Miami.

I was born in Miami, raised in the suburbs of North Miami, have loving and generous parents and stepparents. I was privileged to go to private school. I have a graduate degree and a well-established career. I now own a beautiful South Florida home, steps away from the beach and the bay.

The beautiful and enchanted place I have been talking about is a ritzy mall called Bal Harbour Shops. When I was a child, security guards and valet parkers wore pompous uniforms that now seem silly. Their hats with feathers, which I found so funny and enchanting as a child, resembled royal guards’ headdresses. The cars that were led by angels and stars are gaudy Rolls-Royce and Mercedes-Benz.

Now that I am grown, with privilege and abundance, every time I drive in my convertible sports car by Bal Harbour Shops, I get an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. It is a fleeting feeling that goes away as soon as the light changes. I emphasize drive by because to this day, I have never been in there. Perhaps it is loyalty to my grandmamma, my own limited beliefs or my simple sensibilities. But to this day, “Not in there … not in there. …” I was told I cannot go over there.

You can probably imagine my reaction as a 9-year-old from Winston-Salem, N.C. after seeing Miami Beach for the first time in 1947. My parents brought my younger brother and me down from North Carolina to escape a polio epidemic running through the South that summer. Miami Beach was the first big city I had ever seen. I was mesmerized.

Compared to life where we grew up, the possibilities in South Florida seemed limitless. Back then in Winston-Salem, it was impossible to avoid the smell of freshly harvested tobacco. There was still Jewish segregation and some anti-Semitism. Our family was one of 50-60 Jewish families in Winston-Salem and our contemporary friends were spread out across the South. Many of my friends lived in other towns in North Carolina, Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia. Our world definitely felt a bit isolated.

The Reform Temple in Winston-Salem was basically our home. Aside from a few movie theaters, Aleph Zadik Aleph (a Jewish youth fraternity with chapters all over the country) was the only true local hangout for us growing up. I really had never seen anything like Miami Beach. It was mostly desegregated for Jews by 1947, except for Bal Harbour. That unforgettable smell of fresh tobacco in the air was gone. Once our family checked into the rooms we reserved at The Georgian Hotel on Lincoln Road and Collins Avenue, I took one look out of the window at the ocean and knew that one day I would make the Miami Beach area my home.

The Georgian was at the heart of everything we did for fun that summer. It was a short distance to some of the Beach’s legendary eateries: the Crossroads, DuBrow’s Cafeteria, Huey’s Cathay House, Wolfie’s, Joe Hart’s Pickin’ Chicken and the Noshery at the Saxony Hotel. Between the hotel pool, the beach, miniature golf next door, and breakfast at the Liggett’s Drug Store counter, what’s not to like for a 9-year-old? I can still taste the fried chicken from Joe Hart’s and the corned beef sandwiches from DuBrow’s, sliced thin and piled high for a dollar.

My family continued to visit Miami Beach during the summers before finally moving full-time in August 1954, when I was in high school. Much to my dismay, I had to go back and stay with my brother in Winston-Salem to complete high school. I skipped a grade, but Miami Beach Senior High did not recognize that year and would have required me to redo it.

I’ll never forget what happened in 1954 during our first few days as official Miami Beach residents. We went to see the house my parents had rented in Bay Harbor Islands, when two gentlemen stopped to see my father about urgent business they needed to discuss.

They were sent by Rabbi Leon Kronish, the legendary rabbi at Temple Beth Sholom. Rabbi Kronish had received a tip from our rabbi in Winston-Salem that our family was moving to Miami Beach and that Temple Beth Sholom should recruit us to be members. Rabbi Kronish apparently wasted no time and, we later learned, sent two of his best to recruit us for their congregation. The two gentlemen were Judge Harry Arthur Greenberg and Howard Miller, one of the initial developers of Cooper City. I guess temple membership recruitment was serious business back then.

My family did join Temple Beth Sholom, and my father quickly became one of the leaders in the congregation, a role he proudly held until he passed away in 1973. My father was always volunteering and giving back. He was a community leader in North Carolina and afterward in Miami Beach.

Naturally, I looked up to him and wanted to follow in his footsteps. After college graduation in 1959, my military obligation was fulfilled as a member of the Florida National Guard outpost in Hollywood, and later in the U.S. Army Reserves across from the University of Miami. In March 1960, I landed my first (and only) job and also enrolled in the University of Miami graduate school for classes to prepare for the CPA exam. I was living in Surfside at the time, and my classes were at night. Getting around back then wasn’t nearly as easy as it is now. The interstate had yet to be built, so I had to take the Broad Causeway or the Venetian Causeway to Biscayne Boulevard, taking that all the way to campus in Coral Gables.

Even though there were about 30% fewer cars on the road than we have today, that was still a huge drive. I stayed busy by volunteering as a firefighter with the Surfside Fire Department. Aside from the chief and captain, , who trained us well, the rest of the Surfside Fire Department was composed of volunteers. We had a single truck. They needed us, but I can really only recall one time when there was an actual fire.

I eventually met my current wife Nancy in the late 1970s and would settle with her in Hollywood. She has been a permanent fixture by my side in the community, involved with Temple Solel, Jewish Adoption & Family Care Options (JAFCO), Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, David Posnack Jewish Community Center, and our current involvement with Miami Jewish Health Systems, where I serve as chairman of the board of directors. This August will mark my 60th year as a full-time South Florida resident, though it all began with that first summer vacation in 1947.

Thank you Miami Beach, for making all the dreams of a wide-eyed 9-year-old from Winston-Salem come true.

Just like so many other Cuban-Americans, we came to Miami to escape the ravages of the Communist regime that had taken over our island-nation.

We were lucky enough to still be able to come on a regularly scheduled Pan Am flight. My parents obtained their visas to leave Cuba in November 1961 and were forced to leave their two children behind.

Those were torturous weeks waiting to see if we were ever going to see our parents again. However, God was looking over us and my brother and I took our first-ever airplane ride on December 1, 1961, from Havana, Cuba, to Miami, Florida.

I remember looking out the window and, as we prepared to land, I saw my mother, father and cousins standing on a terrace on the roof of the airport. Little did I know then that this terrace would be one of the places where we would frequently spend Sunday afternoons – it was free entertainment!

Since we were only able to bring some clothes and had no money whatsoever, our family discovered all the places that provided diversion for my brother, my cousins, and me for free. So we frequently went to the beach (Crandon Park or South Beach), Lincoln Road, the airport, Morningside Park, and Bayfront Park. All these places still exist today, but in a very different way.

South Beach had a dog track right by where Government Cut is and there was no pier. There were rocks that all the kids would climb on and jump from into the water. Lincoln Road was similar to today, but it did not have all the high-end restaurants and it was not as crowded.

There were simple shops, a Carvel Ice Cream shop and a little tram that would take you from one end of Lincoln Road to the other for, I think, 10 cents.

There was no Bayside Marketplace at Bayfront Park – actually, it was really just a big stretch of grass along the Bay. The airport was tiny and you would still have to walk to the tarmac to get on and off planes. The rooftop terrace was very nice to spend time hearing the roar of planes taking off.

Our family settled in what is now called Wynwood. I really do not know if that area had a name then, but I do not think so. We referred to the general area as “el Norwes” (the Northwest). The building that we lived in is actually still there, but the area has changed dramatically.

There was no Miami skyline to be seen and Midtown was not even a thought in anyone’s mind. In fact, having come from Havana, a bustling city with a lot of nightlife and bright neon signs, Miami seemed like a sleepy town then and reminded me more of the town where I was born, rural Moron, Camaguey.

Somehow, it seemed that half of Moron settled within the same block of NW 32 Street. By 1967, when we bought our first house and moved to Hialeah, the entire two blocks between Miami Avenue and NW 2 Avenue seemed to be inhabited by “Moroñeros.”

It was a great childhood there. Everyone knew everyone, we rode our bikes freely without the concerns that seem to worry every parent today, we played “hide-and-seek” throughout the entire block with dozens of kids, and on rainy days we would play Monopoly.

There was no Publix or Dadeland Mall. The only large supermarket in the area was a place called Shell near NW 54 St. We bought our groceries at “Paul’s Grocery Store” on the corner of Miami Avenue and 29th Street and took the bus for a few stops to shop downtown at places like Richards, Kress, Lerner’s, Burdine’s, and McCrory’s. My mother and I loved to have corn dogs at the McCrory’s luncheonette.

I went to Buena Vista Elementary School where I was first called a “spick.” I can still remember the boy’s name: Juan (!). He was taken a little aback by my non-reaction – I had no idea what it meant. I asked him, he explained it to me, and we became good friends. Still not sure what a boy named Juan was doing calling me a spick, though! Fortunately, I never heard the term (nor any other derogatory name) directed at me again.

Later, I went to Miami Edison Junior High, which was bulldozed out of existence several years ago. My brother graduated from Miami Edison Senior High, which was where Edison Middle sits now. We loved going to the Orange Bowl for the Red Raiders games – especially when we played our main rivals – the Stingarees from Miami High.

My father was a very resourceful, intelligent, and ambitious man. Within a couple of months of arriving in this great country, he owned his first gas station – on NW 7th Avenue near 50 Street.

The pumps were manned at the time – no self-service then. He provided full service and automotive repair. My mother pumped gas, checked the oil, radiators, put air in the tires, and cleaned the car windows.

After school and during summers, my brother also worked at the station. I always wanted to work there, but my father would not let me – I was a girl and this was well before feminism and the time, like now, when everyone pumps their own gas.

Within a short time, my father owned several gas stations throughout Miami and we saved enough to buy a house in Hialeah. Hialeah had not yet become the Cuban and Latin-American haven it is today. We were actually only the second Latin family on our block in 1967.

My mother, who had never worked a day in her life before coming here, was also incredibly hard-working. Initially, she worked the night-shift at a shoe factory nearby. Her shift started at 11 P.M. and ended at 7 A.M. She would arrive home just in time to get us kids ready for school. She would rest while we were in school, but also clean the house and get dinner ready. Once we were tucked into bed, she would go to work.

Eventually, she was able to transfer to the day-shift. Then she went to school in the evenings to learn to speak English and become a beautician. She received a beautician’s license and opened up her own beauty shop on Collins Avenue and 23 Street.

Both my parents accomplished this when they were already in their forties and fifties, in a new country whose language and culture was totally foreign to them. Hardly anyone spoke Spanish then. Both of their children went to college and received advanced degrees – mainly, I believe, as a result of our parents’ example and expectations.

Although I went away to school and have traveled extensively, Miami remains home and will always be. This is where I grew up, where my parents brought us seeking to raise their children in a free land where opportunity is available for all.

I appreciate all that Miami has given us and I try to give back whenever I am able. Coincidentally, a few years ago I moved to the Morningside area, right down the street from the old park that I used to frequent as a kid. It is still beautiful!

I remember vividly the days that led to my coming to Miami from Cuba. I was only 9 years old and turmoil, to say the least, was at hand. We were leaving my country for a short period of time. No one in my family thought it was forever. But even as a goodbye, it felt very sad.

My mother told me we would be staying in Miami for a long vacation, but I knew better. I overheard a conversation between my mother and father. They were afraid that Fidel Castro was installing a communist regime and that they would lose custody of the children to the state and the ability for us to practice our faith.

At that time, I couldn’t understand how they would make the ultimate sacrifice of leaving everything behind for my little brother and me. My father, who was in his 30s, already had a very successful job and future in an American company, and was finishing his studies at La Universidad de La Habana as an electrical engineer. My mother had a doctorate in philosophy, also from the same university. She was working as a teacher.

In those days, they seized all American businesses, and Mr. Skilton, my dad’s boss, and his family were expelled from the country. It was very sad for me. In their home, I had learned many American values and, because of the Skiltons, I celebrated Halloween and Thanksgiving. The regime asked my dad to help in the take-over of this business. My dad replied he wasn’t a thief. He had to leave the country before us.

On November 6, 1960, my mom, my 4-year-old brother Freddie, and I left Cuba for Miami. They put us in the “fish bowl,” a glass room where you stayed for hours, fearing your name would be called to be searched. From my seat, through the glass, I could see my grandparents trying to hold their tears so that we would not see them cry. What I didn’t know at that moment is that I would never see my paternal grandparents again. Still today, that sad memory touches my heart when I’m sitting in any enclosed glass room. I held my mother’s hand as the Pan American flight left Havana late that afternoon. People were crying; others feared the plane would go back to Cuba and screamed to the pilot not to return. You could hear the sobbing throughout the hour that the flight lasted.

The Miami International Airport was in the same place as it is today, but back then it was a small building with a terrace. We all came down the ladder and some kissed the ground. Before we went into U.S. Customs, in a moment of emotion, we sang the Cuban National Anthem. Then I saw my dad on the terrace waving at me, and I knew at that moment, that Cuba will always be in my soul but that Miami was home.

A few days later, I started school at Kensington Park Elementary. I knew very little English. My classmates were so friendly, but I only had one friend who could communicate with me, a Cuban boy named Ricky. We were the only two Cubans in the class. Children learn fast, and weeks later, I could say the words to “America the Beautiful” and the Pledge of Allegiance.

Every Saturday, at 8 in the morning, I had religious education classes at Sts. Peter and Paul Catholic Church. It was too early for me, but my father would make me go, regardless of my protests. After all, that was one of the main reasons we had left Cuba — so that we could practice our faith in freedom.

Soon, all my friends and their parents started arriving from Cuba. We lived in the northwest section of Miami, near the dog track. We went almost every day to the airport to give support to those in our same situation who were just arriving. Everyone was family and we helped each other.

Christmas was an emotional time. The year before, I had received so many gifts – twice — some from Santa Claus and others for Three Kings Day. But most important, my grandparents were there. This year, my young parents were alone and could not afford too much since my dad did not have a job. Days before Christmas, we received an invitation for a Christmas party for Cuban children at the Gesu Church in downtown. Included was a card for a special gift, and I still remember how nice it felt, and the excitement of a child who had nothing. It also meant a lot to my parents.

On Sundays, were outings to Miami Beach, Lincoln Road and the parks, and we would take picnics. Once, we tried to sneak into Parrot Jungle but were told you had to be 5 to go in free. So the picnic was outside.

Months later, we had to leave and go to Puerto Rico to find a job for my dad. In all the years we lived in Puerto Rico, we came to Miami every year. The Magic City is the place where most Cubans want to be – for friends and family, Cuban food and pastelitos. But the love of America, the generosity of its people, and the opportunities given to us, made us Cuban Americans.

More than 40 years ago, in 1971, a small restaurant called Versailles came to be. Every time we arrived from Puerto Rico, my dad would take us from the airport to Versailles. Later, when I moved back, my friends and I would always go after the parties for café con leche. I sat there with my husband, then my boyfriend, for long conversations. I pushed my babies’ carriages through the tables, and when my children were teenagers, I took them for lunch and advice. Today, Versailles is the first place to stop when they come from college or from a long trip. Versailles is part of our Cuban culture in Miami.

In the ‘70s, my parents bought an apartment in Key Biscayne, which we call El Cayo. It was the place where I met my husband. We married 35 years ago and have three children. Today, I live in the Grove, and see bikers every day riding the same trails I used to ride to Matheson Hammock. And still my Cuban-American soul finds Miami is my home.