Category: Miami Stories

When I was just 6 months old my parents moved to Miami and rented a house across from a beach on Collins Avenue. They could actually open the front door of their house and see the Atlantic Ocean, but this beautiful view almost cost us our lives. Three months later a powerful Category 4 unnamed hurricane made landfall on September 17, 1947 at Port Everglades.

My parents were raised in New York City and were unwise to the dangers of tropical cyclones, so they elected to remain in the rented house; that is, until the Atlantic Ocean came “a-knocking.” My mother told me that when the ocean came through the front door my father decided it was time to leave. My parents grabbed me and my 4-year-old brother and tried to make it to the safety of the mainland in the family car.

When the sedan finally succumbed to the rising tidal surge halfway across the Venetian Causeway all they could do was huddle and hope for the best. An uncle on the mainland must have been more hurricane-smart and realized that one of his six brothers was probably in trouble, so he jumped into a 2 ½-ton truck they used for the family tile business and came looking for us. He possible saved our lives as my dad’s car was being battered by waves coming over the low bridge’s railings, according to my mother.

This experience had such a profound effect on my father that when he decided to build a house for his family a few years later, he used topographical maps and searched for a lot with a very high elevation. His final choice was near Southwest 23 Street and 14th Avenue and has an elevation of 36 feet above sea level. This ridge is part of the Miami Rock Ridge and is called Silver Bluff.

The fine house my father built rested slightly more than a half mile from Biscayne Bay and one mile from the first bridge of Rickenbacker Causeway, which were both in easy bike range for a young boy. This close proximity to Biscayne Bay would have a profound effect on me for the rest of my life.

At that time one could fish behind Mercy Hospital on the seawall for trout and jacks, or head over to the Rickenbacker bridges in winter for snook, loads of mackerel, bluefish, bonefish, tarpon, and big jacks. We even caught snook in the canals in the Grove and assorted fish on the bridge to “Fair Island,” before it was developed and renamed “Grove Isle.”

When I was just 3 years old my father died of natural causes and my mother had to struggle to survive. Before I was even 10 years old I took advantage of being a child of a single parent and became a free-ranging youth that ventured as far as his bike and legs would take him.

I took up fishing in earnest, and by the time I was 14 I fished in the summers all through the night, mostly solo since none of my friends shared this kind of freedom. (I leaned early on how to defend myself from pedophiles and bullies.) I was a late bloomer and did not learn how to swim until I was in 9th grade. One year later I bought a used Scuba outfit with my paper route money and started diving under all of the Rickenbacker bridges.

By age 15, I had complete usage of my mother’s ‘55 Chevy, and was ranging all the way down to the middle Keys to fish and dive. I lived a very adventurous life and often slept in her car next to bridges in the Keys, since my mother had a friend who drove her anywhere she wanted to go.

I lived to fish and dive and this pastime stayed with me for the rest of my life. In the 1950s, one really didn’t need a boat in South Florida to locate quality game fish. I caught tarpon, snook, trout, bonefish, snapper, bluefish and even grouper all from land or bridges. Some of these fish even earned me weight citations in the Miami Metropolitan Fishing Tournament before I graduated from high school, and still hang in my den.

Miami was truly a paradise for me over a half century ago. I now look how young kids are practically sequestered inside their houses out of parental fear. I always thank my lucky stars that I was fortunate to have those early experiences instead of being cooped up in front of a TV or computer as today’s children often are.

It was the end of the first week of June, 1963. I had just finished third grade at Shenandoah Elementary School and I was looking forward to summer vacation. Papi was a third-year resident in neurosurgery at Jackson Memorial Hospital; he was on call 36 out of every 48 hours.

Neither my mother nor my father was particularly young: Papi had been 45 when I’d been born; and Mami, almost 42. I was their only child: their hija consentida (pampered daughter).

In 1963, Mami had just turned 50. As for Papi, both his salary, at $219 per month, and his age, at 53, were “record-setting,” according to Mami. “He was the oldest resident in JMH’s history.”

My sweet natured, shy – yet gregarious – father had befriended many of the staff at the Jackson. A tall, lanky, bow-tie clad, pipe-smoking Tennessean became his special friend. He called my father, “Fred.”

Basil Yates, who figured in our lives for many years to come, came to our financial rescue. Estábamos muy apretados: we didn’t have much money. One day Yates asked his friend Fred if he had enough money to take care of his family. Papi very honestly responded, no. Yates reached into his pocket and pulled out $200.

With Yates’ generosity, we were able to move from the kindly, shabby tenement, “El Vanta Koor” (Vanta Court) to a better apartment building several blocks away. Not only were we to move, but – thanks again to Dr. Yates – we were able to spend a month on Miami Beach that July. We rented an apartment in the Amsterdam Palace Hotel.

There was no air-conditioning, but that’s the way Mami wanted it. Las brisas del mar – the ocean breezes – provided plenty of cross-ventilation. When Papi could join us, he was able to enjoy the alcove that fronted the balcony, right smack in the middle of the second floor of the Amsterdam Palace.

For my part, I played among the statues and fountains on the first floor, ceaselessly rode up and down the elevator, and spent as much time in the ocean as I could. Sometimes I went swimming twice a day. Mami liked to take me in the early mornings, when the sandbanks were built up, and we were able to walk out into the ocean as far as we dared. I became vey tanned that summer.

There’s a picture of me at a party, sitting next to Papi, where I’m muy bronceada y rosada, very bronzed and rosy, indeed. I’m wearing a white shift with big roses on it. I’m shyly looking down at my hands and Papi is glancing over at me. This is the way I remember myself from the summer of 1963.

Late summer found us in the new apartment. For three years, I had all but stumbled out of bed to get to school, as “El Vanta Koor” was located next to Shenandoah Elementary. Now I had to walk a few blocks.

As my English had improved tremendously, I fully expected to find myself in an English-only fourth grade classroom. To my horror, I found myself being directed back to my third grade bilingual classroom! It turned out a number of us Cubanitos were in the same predicament. We soon found out we were not being held back – we just needed a little extra “tweaking.” I remember not finding it so strange after a while.

In the old days, walking from Calle Ocho on Southwest Tenth Street Road, one was able to run smack into Shenandoah Elementary. All three floors of it, with its Mediterranean tiled roof and graceful arches.

Passing underneath these arches on Nov. 29, 1960, I embarked upon my first grade experience in the United States. I didn’t speak one word of English. I remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Morvil, speaking to me in English. Looking up at her, quizzically, I responded en español. And that’s pretty much how it stayed, all year.

At the beginning, I wrote a few letters to my teacher in Cuba, asking her to send me my textbooks. And then I didn’t open my mouth, to the point that I almost failed first grade. I had learned enough to know that an F was a bad grade, and I had received six of them. Somehow, I was passed on to second grade.

The first six weeks of second grade were pretty bad. Then something happened: a small group of us were handed over to Mrs. Bustillo, a Cuban teacher who spoke enough English that she was able to teach us in both languages. I did much better with her, ending up the year with my lowest grade being a C in Physical Education. And, oh, how I hated P.E.

On the other hand, I didn’t fight learning English, any more. I did really well: I became the spelling champion in our class, and runner-up in the entire grade. I actually remember breathing out, “hand-ker-chief,” in spurts: that did the job.

Third grade was my year of glory at Shenandoah: the Spelling Bee, and the Hungarian Gypsy Dance.

Two Hungarians were the obvious choices to lead this gypsy dance out from underneath the central arch, under the lights one May evening in 1963. Nicky Perusina and I were all dolled up in our red velvet and gold-trimmed jackets. He wore black pants, and a long black bow fringed with gold tassels. I wore a white skirt with red and green stitching, a flower-trimmed headdress, and carried a little bouquet of flowers in my hands. I even got to wear makeup – I felt so grown up.

I DO remember being nervous, and trying to remember on what foot I was supposed to skip out, first. Most importantly, I remember telling myself, “Don’t trip. Don’t trip.”

Well, I didn’t trip. We all had a good time. And I became known as The Hungarian Dancer.

Although I was born in Miami, I left when I was a couple months old and did not return until I was almost seven.

My father got hired as a pilot for Pan American Airlines, but when they cancelled his training class, he took a job for Dominicana Airlines, based in Santa Domingo. When the political climate in the Dominican Republic became too dangerous, my family moved – first to Warner Robbins, Georgia, then to Wayne, Michigan, where my Dad flew cargo for Zantop Airlines.

My sister Kelley was born there, but his plan had always been to move back to Miami, where his parents lived. When he got hired with National Airlines (“Fly Me”), we moved back to Miami and my parents built a house in Gables-By-The-Sea. My sister Elise was a baby and my Mom was pregnant with my brother John, when we moved into our new house in 1967.

I celebrated my seventh birthday with my new classmates, at Parrot Jungle. I attended Silver Bluff, Sylvania Heights, and Pinecrest elementaries before landing at Epiphany School in the third grade.

Living in Gables-By-The-Sea, I grew up fishing and swimming in the canal behind my house, exploring the swamp across the street and going on outings on our family’s boat. I also organized musical extravaganzas for my father’s annual 4th of July birthday parties. I once water skied from Matheson Hammock all the way to Elliot Key. My father was so proud of this accomplishment, he bragged about it to my ballet teacher, Mr. Millenoff. My strict Russian instructor was none too thrilled, claiming it would ruin my legs for ballet.

After Epiphany, I attended Our Lady of Lourdes Academy and was a cheerleader for Christopher Columbus High School. Friday nights, after football games, we would hang out at Lums in Westchester, or Little Caesars in the Gables. During this time, my parents and sisters were very active in the Miami Ski Club, competing in water-ski competitions and even going to Nationals.

After graduating from Lourdes in 1977, I went to Florida State University in Tallahassee. After two years, undecided on a major, I came back home and got a job as a flight attendant with Air Florida. In 1980, National Airlines was purchased by Pan American Airlines, so my Dad ended up flying for Pan Am after all.

My first route when I got hired (since I was French-qualified) was Port-Au-Prince/Santo Domingo, so I ended up returning to the city where I had lived as a baby. I flew that line for almost a year. I was flying into Washington, D.C. on January 13, 1982, just as another Air Florida plane crashed into the Potomac. We aborted our landing and landed in Boston, but had to return to Washington the next morning to pick up our passengers.

I later flew with one of the flight attendants (and one of the few survivors) of that flight. It turned out her stepmother had hired me for Air Florida.

Miami in the “Miami Vice” eighties was glamorous, fast-paced, and a little scary. Still, I enjoyed going to clubs such as: Cats, Suzanne’s, The Mutiny, and Faces in the Grove. One night, while at Biscayne Babies, my sisters and I even met Senator Ted Kennedy. With Air Florida, I traveled to London, Paris, Zurich, Frankfurt, Brussels, Stockholm, and even Havana.

Air Florida went bankrupt in 1984, the same year I got married. I then worked at my family’s nursing home, The Floridean, as a secretary. I worked in the office with my grandmother Julia Rice, who was the Administrator and my sister Kelley, who was the activities director.

My family was featured in a MacArthur Milk commercial, since we had four generations (from my grandmother to her great-grandchildren) who had “grown up on MacArthur” in Miami.

I also did some extra work (“Miami Vice,” movies and commercials) to make some extra money. I finished my A.A. at Miami Dade when my daughter A.J. was a baby and got my B.A. at F.I.U. in 1994. Getting a degree with three young children (Brad, A.J. and Christopher), a husband, and a house to maintain was a considerable challenge but I made the Dean’s List and graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in Liberal Arts.

Like many other Miamians, we survived Hurricane Andrew. At the time it hit, we lived in Mangowood, very close to the strongest winds recorded. Our neighborhood was practically unrecognizable, without a leaf left on the trees. In the days and weeks following the hurricane, we got to know our neighbors very well, taking turns grilling food from our freezers for dinner, and helping each other out.

Our children, who attended Coral Reef Elementary, started about a month late with the National Guard escorting them to their first day of school. Although it took more than a year, we re-built our house and it was better than ever.

My husband and I moved to Tallahassee in 1996, in search of a slower pace of life. I decided to return to Miami four years later, in order to spend time with my dad – Butch Rice – who had been diagnosed with lung cancer. I moved back on July 3, 2001, just in time for his annual 4th of July Birthday Bash.

I got divorced in January of the next year, and my father passed away in October. I was very glad I had that year and a half to spend with my dad.

I continued my education and got my Master’s in screenwriting at University of Miami in 2003, so I now consider myself a “Cane.” I love attending UM football games with my husband Zeke (also a UM graduate), just as my father did (although no longer at the Orange Bowl).

I also enjoy entertaining, traveling, photography and all kinds of writing – from blogging to screenwriting. I edit and write articles for The Pulse, the Floridean newsletter, where my sister Kelley is now the executive director.

I play tennis on several teams and enjoy going for runs around my neighborhood, which is right down the street from Epiphany and Lourdes. All three of my grown children live in Miami and I am now stepmother to three daughters – Lauren, Rachel and Emma.

I love the energy of Miami – the diversity of its residents and the variety of activities it offers. Miami is always changing and offering new opportunities and I hope to embrace them all.

My father, John Mantell, was born in 1898, somewhere in Romania. At age 16, he emigrated to the United States and was employed by relatives as an apprentice in the parquet and flooring craft industries.

Industrious and of high intelligence, he quickly became skilled in this craft, learned to speak impeccable English, and adapted quickly to American culture.

Saving his earnings and seeking to capitalize on his newly acquired skills, he accumulated enough to start his own business. In a relatively few years, he developed one of the largest wood parquet flooring company in the United States.

When Dad discovered Miami Beach in 1922, he bought a bungalow with an unobstructed view of the ocean. In those days, people were hesitant to build too close to the ocean, so there were no buildings on Ocean Drive. In effect, our home on the east side of Collins Avenue and Second Street was oceanfront.

Almost all Miami Beach single-family homes at the time were built with coral rock or Dade County pine wood. Our pine home had wide, screened openings around the perimeter instead of windows, which kept out bugs. Canvas covers were rolled down on pipes when it rained.

Even though there was no air conditioning, ocean breezes kept us comfortable even during the hottest summer days.

In those times, no one had dogs or cats. The pet of the neighborhood was a Japanese chicken, which came with the purchase of our house. The chicken lived under our house, which sat on concrete blocks two feet high off the ground.

There were no airlines or interstate highways at the time, so our vacation travels alternated between two available coastal liners. One went from Miami to Savannah to Norfolk to New York, and the other from Miami to Nassau, Bahamas, to New York.

Our family was up north on vacation in September 1926, when a major hurricane hit. Upon our return we fortunately found the bungalow intact, except for some of the screening. Amazingly, the lonely Japanese chicken was still under the house.

The banks caved in that year and the stock market crashed. Dad had retired at age 32, but lost everything except the Miami Beach bungalow in the market crash. So the extended family moved in and Dad went back to work, this time as a general contractor and realtor.

Dad worked with leading architects, building Art Deco hotels, apartments and homes — Flamingo Plaza, Shorecrest and Chelsea Hotel, to name a few. At one time, he was one of the five biggest contractors in Florida. With the help of Seminole Indians and others, Dad had 20 jobs going at once. He built and managed the Mantell Plaza Hotel. Then World War II changed Miami Beach.

In 1942, the U.S. Army Air Forces took over all the hotels, including the Mantell Plaza, for housing Army Air Forces personnel. Miami was troop-training headquarters for U-boats. We would watch soldiers marching the streets, including famous actor Clark Gable. We were very patriotic and I sold war bonds at the local movie theatre. Lucky for us, the Mantell Plaza was the first hotel released by the Army and was the only operating hotel on Miami Beach for a year.

While my father was working to recoup the family fortune, our dear mother Anna was running the household and raising the three children: Murray, Sally and me. We had carefree early childhoods spent barefoot on the golden sands of Miami Beach. I have early recollections of jumping boulder to boulder on the government rock jetties, later the 14th Street beach.

I attended Miami Beach Elementary and Beach junior and senior high schools. It was a small student body; we all knew each other. We had small classes and great teachers. Many thanks to them for all they did for us. After class, there were fun-filled afternoon patio dances and championship basketball games.

In high school, eating off-campus was “strictly forbidden,” so lunches at Joe’s Broadway were dangerous, thus especially delicious. Weekends were for sunburns on the sandy 14th Street beach.

Most weekends, kids took the short jitney to Miami for the movies and big name stage shows at the Olympia Theater (now the Gusman). The favorite lunch spot was Burdines.

My sister Sally also went to Beach High and then University of Miami where she played violin and was a member of the UM symphony orchestra. She met her husband Dan Raylesberg during the war while he was stationed at the Biltmore Hotel.

To date, my brother Murray is the oldest living graduate of Beach High. He studied and got a degree in civil engineering.

During World War II, he was a naval architect, and after the war he became the founding chairman of Civil Engineering at UM, where he taught for 57 years and received numerous awards for teaching excellence.

I started college at the University of Miami in 1946. During my senior year at UM, while doing my teaching internship, the mother of one of my pupils arranged a blind date for me with Norton Pallot. We were married three months later.

Norton was associated with his father, and later his brother and brother-in-law, in the operation of Norton Tire Company, which sold to Goodyear in the 1980s.

Life in Miami has been good. The city has grown and changed beyond recognition, and we enjoy it all the more — and perhaps also because our three children and spouses, and our four grandchildren all live around us in Coral Gables.

(This story was compiled by Laurie Appignani Pallot, as recounted by her mother Gloria Mantell Pallot).

In 1949, I first came to Miami to check out the University of Miami.

I hitched a ride from New York with my Uncle Pat, who drove the boss’ shiny black Cadillac down south every fall to be the chief mutual racetrack teller through the winter season at Hialeah and Tropical racetracks. Leaving New York on a sleety day, we cruised the whole way down on U.S. 1 and arrived, almost magically it seemed to me, in warm, sunny Miami.

As everyone promised, it was heaven!

Then it was Miami again in ‘52 when my parents and I joined Pat for another southland sojourn — this time including the necessary tourist stop at Silver Springs. But I ended up at NYU part-time and was lucky to land a great job at IBM, so Miami had to wait until 1954 when my friend Barb and I split our vacation and took a week in August — first to Vacation Valley in the Poconos — and then a week in December back to my warm Miami.

I had booked a package tour with round-trip air fare, seven days at the Lombardy Hotel on 63rd Street, some meals, transfers and tours — for $99.

That summer before, back at Vacation Valley, Barb had been bitten by a black widow spider and had been pretty sick. Now in Miami, the sun activated the poison in her system, and she ended up at St. Francis Hospital on Miami Beach for the rest of our Miami week.

I ended up — by myself — at the hotel pool reading everything in sight, including the classifieds in the Miami Herald and The Miami News. Two ads intrigued me. They were looking for “Qualified Gals” to be stewardesses for Eastern Airlines and National.

I had become friends with a sweet Hawaiian who wove palm hats poolside. He encouraged me to apply — even lending me his old car that backfired all the way across 36th Street to the interviews. I was accepted by both airlines. The Lombardy’s doorman, George, another new acquaintance, said to go with Eastern, and I did.

I graduated — after six days of training — and remained at that great job for 20 years.

In 1957, I bought my first home in southeast Hialeah for $12,500. To go furniture shopping, I rented a car at $1 a day and 10 cents a mile (airline discount). In the middle of that “Other Century,” I wasn’t able to close on the house I bought because I was a single woman, so I called for “back-up” and sent for my mom to come down from New York and co-sign with me. But that wasn’t enough because she was a married woman and — at that time — needed her husband’s permission. I finally settled when Dad came down to sign for me. We’ve come a long way.

In the Miami sunshine, Mother’s arthritis almost entirely disappeared. When Dad came down on weekends and saw her improvement, he, too, became a Miamian, retiring from his job as an innovative production manager with Ever Ready Labels, which served the entire international label industry.

Within the year, they moved to Miami and, instead of living with my parents, the switch happened. They lived with me.

We bought a few more houses — from $10,000 to $17,000 — and rented them out to new stewardesses, and my folks happily became surrogate parents to the homesick girls. Mom, always a terrific seamstress, tailored their uniforms expertly and gave more than a few Italian-style cooking lessons. We became a happy extended family — my parents and all their high-flying “daughters.”

It wouldn’t be a bad idea for a thoughtfully written movie, I think, with worthy actors to play Sinatra and all the other celebrities we met and dined with back then — at Jilly’s on the 79th Street Causeway in those glamorous years.

I married a pilot in ’68, and we moved to Kendall. My husband’s hobby was rebuilding planes, so we bought an acre behind Baptist Hospital where he could have his large airplane parts spread out to work on. We remodeled a one-bedroom cottage to a three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath home with a separate three-car garage workshop.

My airline job had to end in ’74 so I could be available if and when construction workers decided to show up. It was a sad day when I wrote my letter of resignation. I still had my heart with E.A.L. and became a Silverliner, our national service organization of former Eastern flight attendants.

I only recently stepped down from being Miami’s Silverliners president for 13 years, but I’m still active in our club, though our national membership has dwindled to 850 members and our local chapter from 45 to 11. I also joined the Red Hat Society, which widens my circle of friendships.

Under my mango trees and palms, I count my blessings every day for the good luck and sunny path that took me and my family to Miami.

As a youngster, I was excited to be driving out 36th Street to see my uncle, Dave Click, arrive in an airplane. He was secretary to Florida state Sen. Trammell.

The airstrip was just a small landing area in a big grassy field with a chain-link fence around it. (In later years, I spent much time at the fine new terminal at Miami International Airport, because my husband, the father of my three children, flew for Eastern Air Lines.

We sang Moon Over Miami and loved it. “Stay Through May” was a Chamber of Commerce plea. Flamingoes at Hialeah Race Track were fun to watch. Kids were allowed on one special night to watch dog races at the Kennel Club, and Daddy took us there.

Watching the Orange Bowl parade was an annual event never to be missed. My husband and I had two good stepladders and stretched a board between them for us and our three children.

There was a huge rivalry then between Miami High and Edison. In the 1940s, a friend and I from Miami High attended Edison classes one day and were never noticed. That proved to us that Edison just did not have the disciplined organization of Miami High. Strangers there would have been sent to the office for identification right away. Once, Edison students splashed red paint across the front of our building when they finally beat us in football after 28 years. It made the news.

I received a scholarship to the University of Miami in 1943, but I did not own a car. I waited on Coral Way for a bus on class mornings. When I gladly accepted a ride from a gentleman who had stopped, the man was quite brusque in stating that a young lady should not accept rides from strange men.

I quickly settled in the front seat and said, “But everyone in Miami knows you, Police Chief Quigg.” He seemed pleased with my response and took me all the way to the university.

Coral Gables established its Miracle Mile of shops on Coral Way. The city put plants and flowers in beds in the sidewalks in the business district. Lincoln Mall in Miami Beach had also done this years before. Since I grew up to have a profession in landscape architecture, these places had a lasting influence on me.

My life was very much affected by strikes at the airlines, and they were so bad for our family and the city. I believe it was said that Eastern Air Lines employed 7,000 people in Miami at that time.

The airline closed for good in 1991.

I started my life insurance career in Norfolk, Va., then transferred to South Florida in early January 1964 to manage my company’s Miami district office.

I had previously rented a small, new house in Coral Gables for my wife Barbara and two young daughters, Jane, 7, and Margaret, 5. What we didn’t know was that there was a minimum size requirement for houses, and to qualify, the builder put a bomb shelter underground, in the garage, covered over by a steel plate so a car could still park. It was an airless hole in the ground, and fortunately we never had to use it.

At the end of the first year we all posed for a picture against a palm tree at Tahiti Beach, now a private enclave, and placed our photo on our New Year’s card, which we sent to our Virginia friends to wish them a warm new year.

After a few years, Barbara started what became a successful interior design practice while continuing her studies of languages, and was among the first to enroll in the new Alliance Française in downtown Miami.

Early on we joined the original Coral Oaks Tennis Club, then owned by the tennis pro Leo Fullwood. I still play in the mornings with “the Dumbheads,” a name conferred upon them by Leo, a group of men who show up for round-robin tennis each morning.

I was given the opportunity to invest with a man in Key West who was diving for sunken Spanish gold. My money is still at the bottom of the ocean, but a year later, Mel Fisher discovered a vast quantity of Spanish bullion and jewels.

Some friends and I went scuba diving in the Keys, only to find upon surfacing a waiting police officer who suspected us of robbing the crab pots. After we were searched and found empty handed, we were released.

Several years after our arrival, the insurance company I worked for moved their offices into a new high-rise office building built in downtown Miami after World War II, the Ferre Building at 100 Biscayne Blvd. From my office, I had a beautiful view of the seaplane as it arrived each day from Bimini. In those days, you could literally shoot off a cannon on Biscayne Boulevard in the summer and hit no one. Parking was no problem. All that was soon to change.

I still miss the fine dining at the Pub on Coral Way, and my favorite wedge of lettuce and the three choices of dressing. Fortunately, we can still go to Whip ‘n Dip on Sunset Drive for our favorite ice-cream desserts.

Eventually, we bought a home in the Gables, conveniently located near Sunset Elementary, Ponce Junior High, Coral Gables High and the now-defunct Deerborne School.

To this day, I’m like a walking Chamber of Commerce, but from the beginning, my wife Barbara would complain about the heat and humidity. I would reply, “Off to Fargo, North Dakota!” reminiscent of Jackie Gleason’s “To the Moon!” remark to Alice in the then-popular “Honeymooners” TV show. I finally mailed my comments to the Fargo newspaper asking for their sympathy, and they not only printed my letter but also put it on the radio, prompting a flood of letters to my wife, inviting her to come to beautiful Fargo and stay with them.

The years were passing too quickly. We moved to our second home on Hammock Lake and resided there almost 30 years, where my mother-in-law swore she saw an alligator in the lake and we were hesitant to let the children go swimming. I remember going for the newspaper one morning and seeing snow that melted as it hit the ground. It was the only time in my 50 years that that had occurred. Many trees and plants were damaged, but the following spring was the most beautiful I can remember.

I loved to garden in our lakeside yard. Hurricane Andrew in 1992 did minimal damage to our house but destroyed all my plants. We started all over and it was so beautiful the next year that it made The Villager’s Garden Tour.

Eventually, I became the South Florida agency manager for my company and retired Jan. 1, 1990. Then I volunteered for 10 years as a docent at Zoo Miami, taking people on private tours and carrying animals to schools and nursing homes. In 2014, Barbara and I will celebrate our 60th year of marriage, which we can partially attribute to limiting our games of mixed doubles in tennis, as the photo attests. I fell in love with South Florida from day one and look forward to that love affair continuing into the rest of my life.

I am sitting here in our den and weathering another tropical storm. Fortunately it is one of the smaller, less significant ones, but interestingly enough, it is on the 20th anniversary of Andrew.

I was born in Miami and so storms and hurricanes are just some of those things that we have to endure for the pleasure of living here all the rest of the year.

When I was a child, I lived in Shenandoah. My Aunt Anna had moved here when she married a man I never knew, William Mankes. They started a bottled gas company on Flagler Street, near the courthouse, which was the tallest building downtown at the time. It was also close to the train station, our major source of transportation. I remember sitting in front of the store on a curb watching the Orange Bowl Parade. We had great seats.

William Mankes passed away very shortly after they moved here and my aunt was left to run the business. She had a large family in Connecticut and she sent for my father Robert Brenner to come help her. Soon after, almost everyone moved here.

My aunt married a man named Ben Meyers, and in doing so, she became Anna Brenner Meyers. She had been a teacher and a nurse before she came here, and at some point she also became an attorney. She later met many political figures, was involved in politics and once ran for mayor. I remember handing out leaflets and stomping for her. She did not win, but she did serve on the Dade School Board for many years. She also received many, many honors (too numerous to recount). In her later years, a building in downtown Miami was named for her.

One of my best memories of my mom Rose was our Saturday girls’ outing to Burdines Tea Room. She would always order a Snow Princess for me. It was an ice cream sundae with candy pearls on it. After lunch, we would go into the bookstore and I could add to my collection of the orange-covered Bobbsey Twins set. After that, we would go to the Olympia Theater (now, Gusman). We would see a stage show and then a movie — our rendition of Radio City. Some years later, I would take my little sister, Helene, on the number 9 bus. It was so safe; I was 10 years old.

Also, when I was 9, my dad was on a radio show. I don’t remember the name, but he decided I should go into show business and he put me on the show. That did hook me into theater for quite a long time. My Dad used to put on shows at the Coral Gables Jewish Center, and other venues later on. He continued acting and directing for many years. Early in his life, he had been in vaudeville and the Federal Theater. The Federal Theater, which was created during the Depression, had many actors who later became very well known.

We had moved to Coral Gables and lived around the corner from the Coral Gables Youth Center. My sister grew up loving that place and later worked there. Also, living around the corner were our good friends, the Barrishes and the Skops. I was encouraged to send my story after reading other Miami tales.

I choose to remember the really good things about Miami, but there was a lot going on in those days. I remember “KKK” on temple buildings, signs where certain people could not be seated in restaurants, waiting for colored water to come out of the fountain, and some people purposely walking to the back of the bus to be seated. But the great thing was, there were so many other people to counteract that.

When I rode with my bus driver, Paul, after dark, he would drive me off his route on Le Jeune to deposit me safely in front of my house. I have been fortunate enough to have spent my entire life here, watching Miami grow and seeing cultural changes that have totally enhanced our jewel. These memories of my Miami will stay with me forever.

“In the Everglades there´s a way of life.

There´s a way of peace without stress or strife.

There´s a natural danger and a man to face.

Lincoln Vail of the Everglades,

The man on patrol in the Everglades.”

Before there was Flipper, before Gentle Ben, way before Miami Vice, there was Lincoln Vail of the Everglades.

Vail was one of my first childhood heroes. The television show on which he appeared was called Everglades and it was also among the earliest television programs to be filmed entirely on location in South Florida.

In the early sixties, having only recently arrived from Cuba, my brothers and I learned about life on the “River of Grass” and about good and evil from watching the show. I even started learning English with Vail. One of the first phrases I picked up in my adopted language was, “This show brought to you by…” Who says TV is not educational?

I sometimes thought that the only people who ever watched the show were my brothers and me, as nobody else seemed to remember it. Vail was a law enforcement officer in the Everglades. He patrolled his territory aboard an air boat, defending it from criminals, poachers and other evil-doers. I clearly recall the words and music of the excellent theme song, which I have always been ready to sing for unsuspecting and usually unappreciative audiences.

In later life, I sometimes asked friends, acquaintances and even perfect strangers who were about my age if they remembered the show. If they seemed at all interested, I would even burden them with my rendition of the theme song. To my surprise, it would be a long time before I found anyone who remembered the 1961 series.

In the mid-nineties while attending a nephew´s birthday party at Gator Park airboat rides out on Tamiami Trail, I asked the attendant, who was about my age, if he remembered the show. With a bored look, he told me he was from New York. I suspected that he was thinking that I should “get a life.”

In that pre-Internet age, I set out to find whatever information I could about the show. I wanted to confirm that we had not imagined the whole thing.

My initial efforts led me to the Miami Herald archives, where at least I was able to find the TV listing for the program. It was shown on Sundays at 6:30 p.m. on Channel 4. The librarian suggested that I try the Wolfson Media History Center. The technician for film and video archives at Wolfson, who was extremely helpful and understanding, had grown up in South Florida but had never heard of the show. He was, however, able to send me some information. He also referred me to the Florida Department at the Main Library. Here at last there would be a break in the case.

At the Main Library, I spoke to Steve and explained what I was trying to do. To my delight, he immediately said, “Oh, Lincoln Vail of the Everglades!” and proceeded to recite the words of the entire first verse of the theme song. (There were two verses.) He asked me if I knew the name of the lead actor and then said, “No, no, I remember… it was Ron Hayes.” I knew this already, but I was very impressed. It was exciting to finally find someone who remembered the show. He recalled the day and time when it aired and said he thought it was a great show. At that moment I thought that perhaps Steve should also get a life.

Everglades was a syndicated program distributed by ZIV-United Artists, made by Schulberg Productions and actually filmed on location in the Everglades. It premiered in October 1961. As Steve correctly remembered, Lincoln Vail was played by Ron Hayes, who was described in one review as “a distinctive young actor”. A total of 38 episodes were made.

Thanks to information provided by the library, I discovered that all of the episodes were still in existence. They were on 16mm film and stored in the archives of the Wisconsin Center for Film and Video. I called the center and asked if there was any way I could view the shows. They said yes, but that I would have to obtain permission from the owner of the programs.

The owner turned out to be MGM. I went as far as writing a letter to MGM´s Legal Affairs Department and made the request. They responded that it was “not their policy to authorize screenings for such purposes.” My purposes, while honorable, were not particularly serious.

The first episode was called “The Escape” and featured a then-unknown actor in an uncredited role. That actor was Burt Reynolds. The episode dealt with Lincoln Vail´s efforts to recapture a convict who had escaped from a road gang. It turned out that the convict had run off to be near his dying father and help his impoverished wife and child. Vail caught the “cracker” criminal, but with what was described in one of the reviews as “too much innocence.” This all sounded pretty good to me. The critics rated the show as “a notch or two above the standards of its breed.”

I have sometimes wondered why the memory of this particular show has stuck in my mind the way it has. I now think that I would have loved for my three boys to have enjoyed a show like this when they were growing up. I wonder which show or shows they will remember in a similar way when they get to be my age.

At the risk of sounding sappy, perhaps that was a more innocent time. At least the very survival of the Everglades was not in question then. It would be very sad if rather than being a quaint piece of “Floridiana,” the show would come to serve as a celluloid record of the Everglades that once were.

One of the reviews I was able to find said that the show “suffered, when it suffered at all” from excessive talk and “from the effete theme song, which it would be better done without.”

“As they fight for rights,

and the homes they make,

simple grassroots people of the Everglades,

there´s a fellow there who protects their rights,

Lincoln Vail of the Everglades,

The man on patrol in the Everglades”

Effete indeed!