Tag: Written

My sojourn to South Florida started before I moved here in 1957. My sister and brother-in-law were here from New York on a winter vacation on December 26, 1947. The metropolitan area of New York had a snowstorm of 26 inches in a 24-hour period. It was a record then and may still be to this day. My sister called my father to find out the conditions and my father told them to stay in Miami, the city was paralyzed, no transportation, nothing was going on. They decided to stay and move permanently to South Florida. They came back to gather their personal belongings.

I started coming down in 1950 when my nephew was born. I went to jai alai every night and sat in the balcony for 50 cents. Back then jai alai was the place to be, especially on a Saturday night. The highlight of my trip was when we would go to Leonard’s La Peña on Bird Road, where I think the Palmetto Expressway is today. The menu, if I am not mistaken, was a shrimp cocktail, steak or lobster, stuffed baked potato and, for dessert, hot apple pie with a slice of American cheese — all for $3.95 (plus tip).

I moved to Florida in 1957, a day after the New York Yankees lost to the Milwaukee Braves in the World Series. My parents followed me one month later. They bought a house one block north of the Tamiami Trail and Southwest 60th Avenue. There is an elementary school called Fairlawn, which also had a park with a baseball field. Playing there one day I was recruited by a team that was practicing. They mentioned a league they played in at Shenandoah Park off Southwest 22nd Avenue and 19th Street and asked me if I wanted to join their team. Naturally I said yes. It was a church league and I played for St. Matthew’s Lutheran one year and Shenandoah Baptist the following year.

My first job in Florida was at the Food Fair warehouse on Northwest 71st Street and 32nd Avenue. I believe at the time they were the largest supermarket chain in South Florida. Other supermarkets at the time were Margaret Ann and Kwik Chek, which eventually merged with Winn Dixie, their main competition. Other stores came and went such as Grand Union, Albertson’s, and Shell on Northwest 58th Street. Publix was not as prevalent around South Florida in those days, but of course they have come a long way since then.

In 1960 I bought a hardware store on Northwest 183rd Street and 7th Avenue. The Palmetto Expressway only extended from the Trail (Southwest 8th Street) to Golden Glades. They used to call the Palmetto “Dead Man’s Highway” since there were no overpasses, or very few. You had to drive way below the speed limit to avoid accidents since very few cars stopped or slowed down at the intersections. I think within a year they started building overpasses at key streets which opened the area to residences and businesses immediately.

Some familiar and favorite restaurants through the years were Gold Star Deli on the Trail, just east of 62nd Avenue, the Great Gables on Ponce and the Trail, The Pub (with Whitey the host) on Coral Way, Royal Castles all over, Shorty’s BBQ, Captain’s Tavern, and Frankie’s Pizza on Bird Road, which is still there under family ownership. Dressel’s Dairy Farm on Milam Dairy Road had rides for the children and the thickest malt shakes anywhere.

Miami Beach in the ‘50s and ‘60s was second only to Las Vegas in live entertainment — from Roberta Sherwood and Don Rickles at Murray Franklin’s to Charlie Callas and Shecky Greene at the Deauville Star Theatre and Buddy Hackett and Joan Rivers at the Diplomat. Movie theaters included the Miracle on Miracle Mile, the Tower on the Trail, the State and Claughton theaters.

I have been happily married to my wife Elaine for 52 years (45 for her and seven for me – our joke). We have three children (and one grandchild) and, 45 years on, still live in our house off Miller Road and Southwest 92nd Avenue.

I was an avid tennis player for 30 years and dazzled many courts such as the Dadeland Inn, Marlin Racquet Club, Kendalltown and Courts at the Falls until my shoulder and knees finally gave out.

In between all this I enjoyed a long and successful career in real estate, where our company built, developed and managed warehouses, retail strip centers and private residences, mostly between Bird Road and Southwest 120th Street, and also along South Dixie Highway and Kendall Drive out west, when it was largely undeveloped. It has been a great ride. Thanks for the memories, South Florida (Miami).

In 1951, I was young and it was the summer of my junior year in high school. I left St. Louis to join my older brother, a waiter at Martha Raye’s nightclub. It seemed to me to be an interesting life and he had agreed, after some pleading, to let me join him – as long as I worked and paid my own expenses. So, after apparently every possible stop in Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia and Florida, my non-air conditioned Greyhound bus arrived in Miami Beach and I saw, for the first time in my life, the ocean, framed by palm trees, sand and the just rising sun — and I was hooked.

My brother lied about my age and my “several years” of experience to get me a union card and a job as a busboy. My “experience” consisted of an hour or so of practice carrying dishes and glasses piled upon an up-turned coffee table. From the late ‘40s through the ‘50s and ‘60s the Collins area between 20th and 25th Streets was one of the liveliest in Miami Beach. Martha’s Five O’Clock Club was on the corner of 20th and Collins; Collins and 22nd housed “Wolfies,” the quintessential New York delicatessen. The Grate, the Pin Up, the Place Pigalle and the Night Owls clubs were within blocks; the Embers restaurant and Dubrow’s cafeteria were nearby; Junior’s deli and the old Roney Plaza hotel were just off 23rd Street. The 22nd Street public beach, between the Roney and the Sea Gull hotel, was well known by natives for its homosexual clientele, both male and female, and occasional bewildered tourists, wondering just what they had stumbled on to. My daytime job was working for three dollars a day and tips as a “cabana boy” at the Sea Gull, handing out towels, setting up beach chairs and umbrellas, keeping an eye on guests in the pool and ocean and selling them on the local water ski schools, hand-woven palm hats, Monkey Jungle tours, scuba lessons and other “opportunities” for which, if they bought, I received a one percent commission.

In the 1950s, the Five O’Clock Club was a popular, small nightclub offering two shows a night and three on weekends. The club was named for dispensing free drinks to anyone still at the bar at 5:00 a.m. The 5:00 a.m. sessions were populated primarily by after-work waiters, waitresses and musicians from other clubs, an occasional hooker and sometimes, a celebrity or two. The club had a three-drink minimum and, if you didn’t order food at the 6 p.m. dinner show, you paid a separate cover charge. The experienced nightclub goer nursed a glass of wine, paid the minimum or cover and never, ever ordered food from what was one of the worst kitchens on the Beach. Martha’s was where I learned to maneuver trays of dirty dishware through narrow aisles of tiny, tourist-filled tables and sometimes helped the bartender water down the bourbon, scotch and rye. I also learned that the “snowbirds,” particularly those who had perhaps had a drink too many, were often easy marks for inflated bar tabs. Martha’s was a lesser club, not as big or flashy as Copa City, the Beachcomber or the Latin Quarter but, when Martha was on the bill, it catered to loyal locals and aging movie-going tourists who remembered her from her ‘30s and ‘40s Hollywood musical comedies and who appreciated her off-color comedy routines and very considerable talent as a jazz pianist and vocalist. The five o’clock shows also featured lesser comics, male or female vocalists on their way up, or down the showbiz ladder and, sometimes, a movie-star friend of Martha’s.

I sometimes frequented the Rockin’ MB lounge which featured saxophone duos, drums and no-name vocalists, performing from an elevated “stage” behind the narrow bar. The band played mostly tunes like Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock,” always at full volume. The sound cast out on Collins from late night to early morning and the entrance sheltered a large, bored gatekeeper, seated on a stool, who casually checked IDs and denied entrance to nobody. The offices above the MB also housed a phone-filled “wire room” handling bookies’ action. This was still Meyer Lansky/Al Capone/pre-Kefauver Miami and the horse parlors, “private” casinos and bolito shops had not yet been shut down as consequence of the crusading senator’s traveling hearings on crime and corruption (Kefauver’s first hearing was in Miami in 1951). What wasn’t legally wagered at Hialeah or Gulfstream on the horses or at dog tracks on the greyhounds or at jai alai frontons was gambled with bookies in cabanas by the pool at the ocean front hotels — like the one at the Sea Gull.

The Rockin MB’s clientele, like that at the Sea Gull and other beachfront hotels, were mostly young tourists, often female, in groups of twos and threes — secretaries, teachers and office workers, down from East Chicago, Indiana, Cleveland or other cities up north lured to Miami Beach by the airlines and hotels advertising “3 days and 2 nights (or 7 days and 6 nights) of sun and fun” on the “American Plan” where airfare, hotel, and most meals were included in the package. For example, in the 1950s you could stay at the Di Lido or Shore Club and other ocean-front hotels for less than $27 a day and for an additional $25 get breakfast and dinner. The American Plan became very popular in the 1960s and its utilization by mega-hotels like the Fontainebleau and Eden Roc with in-house nightclubs and New York/Hollywood level shows and entertainers marked the beginning of the end for clubs like Martha’s as well as the bigger entertainment venues.

I met celebrities besides Martha — had my picture taken with Jake LaMotta and Rocky Graziano at the Sea Gull, parked a car for Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher, made sure Irving Berlin’s jock strap and bathing suit were dry for his morning dip, and was able to finance my “other” education at the University of Miami — thanks to Miami Beach and the generosity of tourists.

South Miami Heights — it brings a smile to my face. I wish the kids of today could have had the childhood we had — it was so simple.

Dad was the first of the six Sinclair brothers to move from Massachusetts to South Florida. Mom and Dad moved to Miami in the late ’50s, where they rented an apartment across the street from the Orange Bowl. I was born soon after at Jackson Memorial Hospital; I think the entire bill for the birth was about $115.

We lived in the aptly named Orange Bowl Court Apartments, and when a game was played in the OB, Dad and other OB Court renters made a few dollars parking cars on the premises. Four of my uncles followed, they worked in Doral and later settled with their families in Broward County.

Soon they heard of homes being built 25 miles south, starting at only $11,000. They packed their bags and moved south, to everyone’s dismay — it was just so far away!

Our new home was situated directly across the street from South Miami Heights Elementary. The house was a terrazzo-floored, jalousie-windowed single-family home with three bedrooms, two baths, and a turquoise eat-in kitchen with a nook where the whole family sat for every meal. Best friends Nancy and Linda were my constant companions. We went from kindergarten through high school together.

Some Saturdays, Linda and I walked up to 7-Eleven story for their famous Icee drinks, and we got the jumping beans candy for free. Food Fair, Mike’s drug store, and the pediatrician’s office were all within a mile from our homes. Where everyone shopped, they were known by name. We cannot forget the Cutler Ridge Cinema, and the Saturday morning matinee, for 10 cents.

My dad Ray was a sign painter and worked for Richards and Grant’s department stores. Later, he got a job on with Miami-Dade’s Parks and Recreation Department and retired 25 years later as the county sign painter, back when signs were actually hand-painted. He moonlighted doing his favorite thing, playing the drums. He played the drums with various bands throughout South Florida over the years, both paid and unpaid. Dad was one of the few people I have ever known who truly enjoyed his work. He vowed he would die with drumsticks in his hands, and when he died in 2008, we made sure he took them with him.

My Mom Sarah was a waitress at a few local spots, but most memorable for me was the Bowl-0-Mat, on 87th Avenue and U.S. 1. Sometimes, she would take me along and send me over to the roller skating rink during her shift. I LOVED that.

As a teen, I joined Dad and his guitar-playing friends and their families in a weekly bowling team; it was lots of fun. In between, having four more children, Mom later worked at Palmetto Golf Course where, during the summer, she would load us into her green Chevy station wagon with all our friends and we’d hang out at the pool all day.

The days were long and after breakfast, bed-making and washing the dishes, we were sent outside to play — no TV for us. Give us a ball and a bottle cap and we played for hours, a rock scratched upon the sidewalk and you now have hopscotch.

At 4 p.m., my brother Ray and his friends Lee and David would start humming, “Nah nah nah nah na, BATMAN!” and the three of them would run off into one of their homes to watch.

Our year of seventh grade at Cutler Ridge Junior High was great. Then, for eighthh grade, we were tangled up in politics — integration had begun. We would now be bused into Goulds, the neighborhood east of the highway just south of our neighborhood. National TV reporters were in town, police were everywhere, and accusations, threats, and emotions ran high.

Impromptu schools began popping up; some white parents didn’t want their kids going to Goulds for schooling. Classroom assignments and bus routes were received and I was to be at the corner for bus pick-up early Monday morning. The weekend before school started was hectic. My friends called to tell me they were not going to school, none of them. I, being a very shy, awkward, freckle-faced pre-teen, was scared to death to be alone at a new school with no friends, so I begged my mom to let me stay home. She, the all-knowing mother that she is, said, you will go to school and you will be just fine. Yes, I went. Mom was right; we were fine. We developed some great friendships and learned a lot about different cultures.

To this day, we remain close to our childhood friends, although most have moved away. I am sad when I go through the neighborhoods and see no one — no kids playing, no neighbors in the yard talking, no bicycles ….

My friends, you don’t know what you are missing.

In 1924, Jo and Frank “Spud” Murphy came to Miami from Port St. Joe in the Florida Panhandle. Originally, they were both from Alabama.

My grandfather is nicknamed Spud, after Irish potatoes. He got an offer for a better job as a bookkeeper to move to Miami. They bought a house in Allapattah and my grandfather took a job with Mill’s Rock Company. In those days, rock pits were blasted using dynamite. In a freak accident, there was a premature explosion and the owner, Robert Mills, and several workers were killed. After this happened, Ed Mills, one of the Mills brothers, took my grandfather in as partner. This became a longtime, well-known, road-building business known as “Murphy and Mills.”

In 1923, Rilla and Tom Murrell decided to move to Miami from Alabama to escape the cold and come down to the wonderful weather and easy-going lifestyle. They bought a house in Miami Springs and opened a beauty salon and barber shop together on the circle. My grandfather, Tom, also became the first postmaster of Miami Springs. My grandparents lived in that house until they passed away. My grandmother always grew a wonderful vegetable garden. Men and women would come from all over to have their hair done by my grandmother.

My grandparents all weathered the 1926 hurricane. Back then, they did not have the knowledge of hurricanes like we do today. My grandfather Murphy was stuck out in the storm at a gas station.

My mother, Ann Murphy Murrell, was born in 1931 at Jackson Memorial Hospital in the Alamo Building, which is still there as a historical site. When she was born, that was the only building at Jackson. She went to Miami Jackson High School and was a majorette in the marching band. After high school, my mom attended the University of Miami.

My father, Lee Murrell, was born in 1930 at his family home. He went to Miami Edison High School where he played football and ran track. He played back in the days when they wore leather helmets and facemasks. They did not even know what a mouth piece was. Can you imagine — they traveled around Florida by plane to play other high school teams?

After high school, he also attended the University of Miami. That is where my mom and dad met; a mutual friend introduced them. They dated for a while and then were married in the First Baptist Church of Allapattah.

My mom worked as a secretary before becoming a housewife. My dad worked for Holsum bakery with his own delivery route. Then in the 1950s, they bought property in North Miami at 131st Street and West Dixie Highway. They bought a Carvel ice cream franchise and built a Carvel shop. This was the beginning of their first business. My parents were living in Allapattah at the time, so to be closer to the Carvel, they bought a piece of property in North Miami and built their first home.

In the 1960s, they sold the Carvel store then went across the street and opened an ice cream and hamburger place called Lee’s. This became the new hangout for the North Miami kids. After owning Lee’s for a few years, the long hours were just too much while raising four kids. My father sold Lee’s and started M&M; Landscaping.

In the meantime, he went to the Lowe Art Museum to take a metal sculpting class as a hobby and also went to Coconut Grove in the 1960s to take a class to learn to make jewelry. Well, a hobby became a business. He was making jewelry and metal sculptures and selling them at arts and crafts shows. He stopped making the jewelry, but he still has his metal sculpture business, Copper Creations by Lee. Now, 45 years later, he is still doing art shows and selling online at Etsy. When anybody asks my dad where he is from, he still says, “My-am-uh,” like a native.

My mother and father had four children. The two oldest were born at Mercy Hospital, and the two youngest at North Shore. We were raised in North Miami when it was just a small town where everyone knew each other. We would ride our bikes everywhere and loved hanging out at Haulover Beach and Greynolds Park. We loved going to eat at Pumpernick’s, and then we would go to the First Baptist Church of North Miami. All four of us graduated from North Miami Senior High; we were true “Pioneers”!

Some of us still live here, and some have moved on. My parents have seven grandchildren, who were all born in Miami. My father has one great-granddaughter. We are University of Miami Hurricanes and Miami Dolphin’ fans. When the Marlins came to Miami, we became big fans of them, as well. My mother was one of their biggest fans, going to almost every game. After the games, we would go to Rascal House to enjoy dinner. She had a room in her home dedicated to all three sports teams. My parents always loved Miami, and my mother believed going to the beach could cure anything.

I have written this story in memory of my mother, who always wanted to write this story. Sadly, she passed away July 29, 2013, so I used her notes to write this piece.

I was born in Nicaragua. I lived there until I moved to Miami in 1979 when I was 19 years old. I moved with my daughter; she was almost 2 at the time.

From the moment I moved to Miami I felt at home. My sisters were living here. The first time I came to Miami from Nicaragua, I was 5 years old and I loved it; my memories from it when I was a child were beautiful. And I came often with my parents from Nicaragua. When I moved here, I was acquainted with the city. My sisters living here also helped a lot.

When I was 12 years old, something terrible happened: I lost my father, Julio C. Martinez. He died here in Miami while I was living in Nicaragua. It was a sudden death and it was really difficult. I was very close to him, so it was hard on me. I’ve always been a happy and cheerful person, but in my heart I had that sense of void, that sense of missing my dad, that grief. It is because of that great loss that I do what I do, and that’s why I share this with you.

My daughter went to school here at Carrollton School of the Sacred Heart, which she loved. When she was in high school, I decided to go back to school myself. I started at the south campus of Miami Dade College, and now I teach a class there on world religions.

At Miami Dade, I chose psychology to be my major, and then I applied to different schools and was accepted at the University of Miami. I went there and took a class in world religions, which I loved, so I took on another major, religious studies.

There I took a class that really attracted me, called “Death and Dying.” I realized I needed it for my own sense of loss. It was very healing.

When I was in Nicaragua, I didn’t have counseling or support groups, or books to help me cope with my grief. I had my family and my Catholic religion customs at the time to wear black and white. There was no music, no TV and no going out because I was mourning. But at my young age, I did not understand what was happening.

When I finished at UM with a double major in psychology and religious studies, I started the graduate program on gerontology at Florida International University and then went to St. Thomas University for a certificate on loss and healing.

Now I help people cope with grief, including immigrants who suffer from a loss of homeland, traditions and language.

Since I moved here, 30-something years ago, Miami has grown so much. A place that I like to go to is Brickell Avenue near downtown Miami. It’s beautiful, and I love to see how downtown Miami has grown. Mary Brickell Village, and now the Design District — it’s so cosmopolitan.

I’m proud to have accomplished my purpose in this amazing city. Miami is such a warm city. And being Hispanic, with so many Hispanics here, I feel at home.

Miami will always occupy a special place in my heart. My beloved grandmother spent such a great portion of her life here that the two are now synonymous in my mind. She had impeccable taste, which means Miami is the second-greatest city in the world; of course, our native Petionville, Haiti, comes in first.

My grandmother passed away April 2, 2012. I know she is in a better place now. The nationalist in her wanted to reach eternity via Haiti. Since that was not meant to be, Miami opened its arms – as always. It is where her remains are interred.

With a smile brighter than all the lights on Ocean Drive, my grandmother was the city personified. She wrapped her head in colorful scarves, reminiscent of Miami’s golden age, pulsing with the roar of turquoise and chrome convertibles. She loved the Fontainebleau for its Old World glamor and once-upon-a-time elegance.

My grandmother’s Miami was quite similar to our native country. Many friends gathered on her porch on Sunday afternoons to enjoy lodyans – a form of storytelling drenched in humor.They reminisced and laughed about old times back home. Most of her friends spoke only Creole, even if they had lived in the States for decades.

Her front door stayed open all day – as it did in long-ago Haiti. Restaurants that sold food cooked like back home, if not better, were just around the corner from her house. The grocery stores’ shelves were stocked with the ingredients she used to buy in Haiti’s open-air markets. Miami was her second Haiti. When back home was not accessible – because of various coups d’état and other inconveniences, Miami was her sanctuary.

My grandmother’s last visit to Haiti was in late 2009. She was thrilled to see the house in which she planned to spend what remained of her life. She had spent years sending money for builders to make her house just so. She was ready to move in the fall of 2009.

When she flew home to begin the rest of her life, friends and neighbors received her as though she had never left. Just as they did in Miami, everyone gathered at her house for marathon conversations and tasty food.

But the longer my grandmother stayed in Haiti, the more she pined for “home” – meaning Miami.

Three months after arriving in Haiti, she decided she had lived so long in Miami that perhaps she could not live anywhere else, including her birth country. She flew back to Miami on Jan. 10, 2010.

Two days later, a devastating earthquake struck Haiti, killing hundreds of thousands. She sobbed for the lost lives. I sobbed with her, but took comfort in the fact that she had returned just in time; she might have been among the still-unaccounted-for victims. That would have destroyed me.

As stories poured in about the quake’s aftermath, the utter destruction, the chaotic medical situation, my grandmother wept in silence. Her South Beach smile dimmed. Not even Miami could console her.

She mourned the fact that she could no longer return to her other, sometime home. She mourned the loss of long-ago Haiti – the Haiti that pulsed with turquoise and chrome convertibles, the lush and Miami-green Haiti, the Haiti she knew as a child. She was secretly grateful that her adopted city’s arms were always ready to envelop her. Miami had become her own private Haiti.

Five months before my grandmother passed away, she was admitted to University of Miami hospital. With each passing day, she became more and more frustrated about having to be in a hospital bed. She was accustomed to living life standing up. She detested the hospital gown, and wanted instead to wear her colorful wardrobe that reminded me of the sea, sunshine and coral reefs.

She told the doctors to send her home. By “home” she meant both Miami and Haiti. The intensive care unit was drab. It lacked vibrancy. It lacked life.

My grandmother has been gone two years now. I will always owe Miami a debt of gratitude for opening its arms to welcome my grandmother for as long as she wanted to be here. Whenever I come to the city, I sense her presence in the air. Everything she loved about the city is still here: the Fontainebleau, the banyan trees, the blue-blue water that hems the coast.

And just as my grandmother did when she was alive, I go to stores where only my native language is spoken. I eat Haitian food morning, noon and night. (I’ll admit I love Cuban cuisine just as much.) I visit Libreri Mapou and chat with the friendly owner and customers who cannot get enough of Haitian literature. Each visit makes it clear to me why my grandmother loved Miami so.

Perhaps one day, the city will claim me, too.

Living in Detroit’s bustling Lebanese community in the 1940s was very predictable -unless you were Joe and Mary Thomas, two of Miami’s pioneers from our nation’s largest Lebanese population.

The top priority then was doing everything to help our war effort. Two of Mary’s brothers went overseas, and the youngest died seven months later on the Pacific island of Morotai as part of Gen. MacArthur’s island-hopping campaign toward an attack on Japan.

To this day, I carry a dog-eared article about my uncle George from the “War Page” of the Nov. 20, 1944, Detroit News as a reminder of his ultimate sacrifice for our freedoms.

He was also the person who introduced my mother to my father. Joe’s tool-and-die job at the Hudson auto plant was converted to armament production. He won a glowing commendation from the Navy Department for developing a system to recycle damaged artillery from the field, which enabled him to get needed weapons back on the front much quicker.

After the war, Mary and Joe were married and began raising a family. Mary grew up on the second floor of her father’s grocery store and helped Joe open their own store. Unlike their parents, both from Lebanon, they decided they did not want their children working in the auto plants or the family store.

Upon hearing great things about Miami from their close family friend John Yunis, they headed south in 1955 and first lived in an apartment house he owned across from the Orange Bowl.

They later bought a house nearby on Northwest Third Street. Their oldest children attended Citrus Grove Elementary and Junior High, and ultimately Miami High. Mary’s father had refused to let her take a scholarship to a local college, despite being at the top of her high school class in Detroit. His old-country attitude was that education was a waste of time, especially for women, who should work in the family business.

This great disappointment shaped Mary’s No. 1 life goal: Do everything possible to give her children the maximum possible education. Joe, who briefly attended the University of Detroit but could not afford to continue, agreed.

As a result, one of their greatest accomplishments was that all five of their boys became doctors: two college professors with Ph.D.s, two orthodontists and one optometrist. The total of 16 different undergrad and graduate degrees for their five boys made up for the two college degrees they were not allowed or could not afford to pursue.

Besides raising and educating her five boys, Mary’s second life was dedicated to helping found and develop in 1973 Our Lady of Lebanon Church, which was established in the old Food Fair market on Coral Way. Joe converted the check-out counter to an altar so the first Mass could be held on Dec. 30, 1975.

When the church was struggling to generate income to pay off its mortgage, Mary suggested a weekend festival, as they had in their Detroit church. With their grocer backgrounds, Mary and Joe went to the farmers market to get fresh fruits and vegetables. She then organized a group of women who worked nonstop for a week to make homemade Lebanese food and treats. She was able to convince many local business people and others to make contributions for the fair, including live music.

The first festival in 1978 was a great success, and since then it has expanded to include arts and crafts, folkloric dances, and other fun activities. The 36th annual Lebanese Festival will be held Jan. 25-27, 2013, and it is the top moneymaker for the church. Approximately 5,000 Miamians and visitors enjoy it each year, but few know who the brainchild was behind it.

Mary was also the founder and first president of the Ladies’ Guild at the church in 1974. She continued her work at the church for decades until her health deteriorated.

Among the many accolades she received from the church and the national Maronite Church was the Silver Massabki Award in 1976. It is given to members of the parish “who have contributed extraordinarily of their time, talent and treasure” by the National Apostolate of Maronites.

In March 2011, she was able to attend a special Mass at the church honoring her and other founders.

Meanwhile, Joe became a general contractor and achieved his dream of building the family home on a two-acre mango farm in Pinecrest where Mary, now 91, lives. Joe died a happy man in 1998 on his 84th birthday in his dream house with his five boys and Mary at his side.

If you were to ask him or Mary about their greatest accomplishment, their answer would be very simple: “Five boys, five doctors!”

A vast field of lights met my gaze as I flew into Miami for the first time in the late ’90s. To the west was the blackness of the Everglades and to the east, the ocean, but below me were lights — a breathtaking array of tightly packed luminescence, tantalizing and exciting. And ironic, as my love of nature had apparently lured me to one of the more densely packed urban areas in the nation.

I was moving to Miami for graduate school, to study tropical amphibians at Florida International University. Yet as I settled into town those first few months, the jungles I yearned for felt a lifetime away. I was trapped by concrete. The yards in my neighborhood were cemented over; my commute was a maze of gray; I spent my waking hours within the thick concrete confines of the biology department’s bunker-style building.

I remember my feeling of liberation the first time I escaped the monotony and entered the lush oasis of Coral Gables, passing under archways of spreading oaks laden with Spanish moss, exploring Fairchild’s tropical gardens and, at Matheson Hammock, discovering forest unlike any I had experienced. Elation filled me the first time I crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway and discovered natural beaches with intact dunes at Bill Baggs State Park. It was a side of Miami I had somehow been ignorant of. I had spent time in the Everglades, but what I needed were everyday doses of green.

I moved to the Gables. I became a nature guide at the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Biscayne Nature Center in Crandon Park. I worked part-time for the Institute for Regional Conservation, where I expanded my animal-centric interests to include native plants.

The more I learned about Miami’s natural side, the more I appreciated its subtle but stunning mix of tropical and temperate species. I had moved well beyond my concrete confines, but somehow the improvements weren’t quite enough. I finished my degree and headed for Australia.

I spent three years wandering the wilds of Australia, New Zealand, Borneo, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos, teaching in China, and crewing on a sailboat in the Bahamas. Writing and photography became my new means of interacting with the natural world, but it left me baffled as to a career path. Where and how could I combine these with biology?

And as I grew weary of living out of a suitcase, my thoughts wandered toward anchoring somewhere more permanently. A home base maybe, somewhere I could plant roots. I never consciously considered Miami a contender, yet it kept re-emerging on the periphery of my thoughts.

How could this heavily concreted community with mere patches of green be calling to me? My travels had taken me to more-pristine beaches, more-luscious forests, more-impressive vistas and more-intriguing wildlife, and to cities with more environmental awareness and better green space.

But Miami was the overall package. Beaches, forests, wildlife and green space, although scattered, were here. The city held something for everyone. You could find your niche, perhaps even a green one. It was the kind of place where one person might possibly make a difference.

Warily, I moved back to Miami in early 2006. I resumed residency in my former Gables neighborhood, reconnected with friends and began working full-time for the Institute for Regional Conservation. My project was Natives for Your Neighborhood, the online native plant resource. My role was to add the animals. I realized that conservation through backyard gardening was a solution to the concrete world that had so jaded me initially.

Why was Coral Gables such an oasis? Because individual yards and communal spaces were so thoughtfully landscaped with oaks, figs, palms and pines. There were birds in the trees, butterflies on the flowers, and crocodiles in the ponds. There was space for Miami’s subtropical blend of plants and animals.

Given the tools and knowledge, residents of the rest of Miami could create just as tantalizing an oasis. Yet because South Florida’s natural environment is so special, it didn’t take long to realize that those tools did not exist.

There are piles of books on native plants, wildlife gardening and how to achieve naturalistic landscaping for temperate North America. There are even a few aimed specifically at Florida. But South Florida is subtropical. We are different. We are special, and we need our own set of unique books and resources.

I’ve spent the past five or so years creating my own backyard sanctuary on Key Biscayne — testing wildlife gardening techniques to share with others. I’ve spied on the red-bellied woodpeckers that nested in my coconut palm, applauded the successful rearing of two broods of eastern screech-owls in my nest boxes, and celebrated when a purple martin colony finally settled in my martin house after years of futilely playing their calls over loudspeakers every morning of their season to attract scouts to my yard. Now my yard is filled with live calls.

Following these yard successes, I’ve helped complete South Florida’s first bird gardening books — Attracting Birds to South Florida Gardens and Birds of Fairchild. They have allowed me to combine my biology, writing and photography interests in a meaningful way. It’s Miami; I found my niche.

I am proud to say that I am now part of this city of sparkling lights, and being here no longer seems ironic.

Hands shaking…holding back tears…acting as if it weren’t breaking me apart… I said good-bye with tears falling down my cheeks and walked through the doors, not looking back.

They were the doors that would forever separate me from my family. The doors that made it impossible for my grandparents to see me grow up and graduate with honors from high school. The doors that took me away from my three closest cousins, Javier, Joan and Yoandi.

While I was waiting for my flight with my parents and sister Leirys, my mind drifted and I began to wonder why my mother Mirian and father Erick had decided to leave everything behind to start all over in a new country. I could not comprehend why they did not stay with the rest of our family.

The more I thought about it, the less it all made any sense and the more aggravated I became with Mirian and Erick. My parents had never told me the reasons behind moving. What 9-year-old child could ever understand that there was no hope for anyone in their country? How could my parents explain to me that they were leaving because it was the best decision for everyone?

“Mami, why must we leave?”

“Leimys, please, try to understand. We are only doing this so that you and your sister can have a better future.”

“But why? I was fine here with everyone.”

“Trust your parents, Leimys. One day you will understand.”

“No, I will never understand.”

I left Cuba in November 2003 after my family won the visa lottery — the random selection of legal U.S. entry visas granted to Cubans on the island each year.

In Miami, one of our father’s cousins, Nico, waited for us at the airport. Nico welcomed my family into his humble home. He gave us shelter, food, and transportation for three months. My father was very independent and did not like taking advantage of anyone so he decided that it was time to move out after three months.

During this time, I struggled because I couldn’t adjust to all the new changes. I had lived all my life in a place where everyone was family, in the sense that they all helped each other.

My mom enrolled me in elementary school as soon as she could to help me make new friends. Unfortunately, this did the very opposite. I began with a teacher who knew not even a single word in Spanish. The teacher would ask the other students to translate for me but they were cruel and would tell the teacher horrible things about me. They would also make fun of her for not knowing the language. I isolated myself little by little in school.

“Mami?”

“Si, mi niña…”

“I don’t want to go back to school. No one likes me and they are always making fun of me.”

“That can’t be true, sweetheart, they like you. It’s just that they have a different way of showing it.”

The years passed by, and I was now in eighth grade. I was able to understand why my parents made the decision they did and why they sacrificed their lives for my sister and me. I saw that we both had futures in the land of opportunities, while our cousins and friends were unable to better themselves.

Back in our country, the situation had worsened. The majority of the teenagers were dropping out of school to find a job and help at home. I couldn’t help but think that would have been our case if our family had stayed. I couldn’t believe that my cousins would never have the opportunity to attend college.

Although I was very proud of my heritage, I was ashamed to talk about how Fidel Castro left families to die of hunger; how he took their belongings, ripped their freedom from their hands, and separated families forever. I was torn between the culture I once left behind and the new one she was part of. I was growing up with two cultures.

It was difficult for me to adopt the ways and beliefs of the United States because I felt I was betraying my family in Cuba. Visiting my country after nine years confused me more. It was as if I were being pulled by opposite sides.

When I was a baby, I was always with someone related to me, and now I couldn’t accept the fact that people in the United States did not see each other as often. I never considered myself American because I was not born in the United States. Whenever I was asked where I was from my answer was always the same, Cuba.

But this changed after my first visit back. I’ve come to realize I’m part of the American culture and the Cuban culture because I’ve been raised by both. Ever after, when I’m asked where I was from, I say Cuba and the United States.

After living with the separation from my family, I wanted everyone to move to the United States. I embarked on a long journey that consisted of raising funds in order to claim my close family members — my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins.

I wanted to give them the opportunity to have the “American Dream,” as my parents had given me when I was a child. I believed my cousins had the right to receive an education and aspire to be someone in the future, something they couldn’t even think about back in Cuba.