Tag: Written

The question, “Who will remember?,” comes to mind when I think of the fragments of Miami history that never made it to the popular prose about my hometown, our “city of dreams.” Who will remember these times, these people, from decades before digital news and social media? Here is my short epitaph to some of those long gone.

The city of Miami Police Department in the 1940s and ’50s was the focus of stories my father told me of his many exciting cases as a uniformed officer and later, detective. The Miami Herald and Daily News followed some officers’ careers surprisingly closely in those days, when the police force was still relatively small. All the stories I heard growing up were verified when I received hard copies of news stories many years ago, thanks to a Herald archivist. Stories my young mind had made mythical turned out all to be true.

Those fascinating times my father spoke of included recovering stolen cars, and investigating Voodoo cult activity and the Ku Klux Klan. Most of his career was in the auto-theft bureau, but this focus led him and his various partners to bank robbers, murderers, and domestic abuse on the dark side, and to lighter duties like finding lost children and catching escaped monkeys!

My father was Charles M. Johnston, Charlie. His career as a Miami policeman began in 1944 and was summed up in 1963 by Chief of Police Walter Headley, who wrote, “He compiled an outstanding record which will probably never be equaled in the recovery of stolen automobiles and the apprehension of felons… His service record is filled with commendations from Federal Bureau of Investigation, State Attorney, and grateful citizens.” By then my father had well earned his sobriquet — Eagle Eye.

One of the most celebrated cases that my father “solved” was that of Cleveland bank robber John Wesley Hux, who on Jan. 11, 1950, robbed $35,000 (over $348,000 in 2016 money) from Cleveland Superior Savings. The FBI traced his movements south for 50 days, ending in Miami where agents asked assistance from Miami Police. Within five hours of that request, my father saw a car with license plates matching Hux’s parked at The Turf Club on Northwest Seventh Avenue and 79th Street. He and his partner, John Resick, blocked the car in, drew their guns, and arrested Hux as he exited the club. Hux had a loaded .38. Remarkably, Detective Resick recognized Hux as a classmate from a Cleveland High School they had both attended. Much of the bank money had already been lost, as Hux had bet heavily and lost at the Hialeah race track and The Bahamas, a gambling club at 3890 Northwest 36th St.

The Ku Klux Klan was active in Miami in the late 1940s when they “invited” Herald reporters to a meeting and promptly assaulted them and stole a camera, all in retaliation for honest reporting that the KKK felt was damaging to its public image. The ruckus, as reported in an article by Jack Anderson (not the syndicated Jack) in The Miami Herald, happened at the John B. Gordon Klan No. 5 Woodman of the World Hall at 2800 Bird Ave. My father was first to arrive as part of a police riot squad. He and his partner, Patrolman P. Lipscomb, confronted the Klansman, rescued the reporters, and recovered the camera. Anderson wrote eloquently in the Herald story, ironically comparing the Klan’s “hooded bigotry” and burning cross invitation card to the contrasting Red Cross, “a service which renders help and first aid to humanity without regard to race, creed, or color.”

There is also the story of an 11-year-old boy my father found huddled in a pasteboard box at West Flagler and 23rd Street. He’d gotten lost during a house-hunting trip with his parents. My father tracked the parents down before they even noticed that their son wasn’t in the car with them.

My parents had a social life focused on police friendships, and my Mom had worked the police microphone at the Division of Communications for the city of Miami, so it was not uncommon to have families of other officers at our house on Southwest 118th Street. This was a great source for hearing stories I still recall, like a Twitter feed of Miami crime stories and city politics. All those memories and more came alive when I was given a photocopy archive of news stories from the Herald’s basement many years ago. Who had saved just these stories in a manila file, all about just one officer? Who had diligently gone through and circled just my father’s name in each story? It’s doubtful we’ll ever know, but this was the template that preserves this small history, with my gratitude to the Knights of the Fourth Estate. There are so many stories it is hard to count– long and short, all about these early days of police work in a Miami that no longer exists. I hope this short essay will allow others to remember.

When I was in college, I made a vow: I would NEVER move back to the Catskills and I was NEVER going into the hotel business. I also learned an important lesson: Never say never!

As luck would have it, I married my high school sweetheart David Etess, an internist, who decided that the Catskills was the perfect place to set up his private practice. Of course, the fact that his parents and mine were nearby was a major factor in the decision.

I had grown up in the Catskills, daughter of the famous hotelier, Jennie Grossinger. My grandparents, Selig and Malke, had left New York City’s Lower Eastside in the 1920s when my grandfather became ill. His choice was to relocate to Connecticut and grow tobacco or live in Sullivan County, New York, as a farmer. He chose the agricultural route, but the land was not fertile.

Thankfully, my grandmother was a fabulous cook and they decided to take in boarders. Their business was so successful that, by the second summer, they needed to pitch two additional tents in order to house all the guests. The Grossinger’s Catskills Resort Hotel was officially off to a promising start with my parents and grandparents as partners.

It has been said that our hotel, one of the many famous family-style resorts that dotted the Catskills’ landscape, was the inspiration for “Kellerman’s Mountain Resort” featured in the 1987 movie Dirty Dancing. There also are claims that we were the first to use artificial snow for the ski slope, create a day camp, host a singles weekend and promote future stars such as Eddie Fisher and Freddie Roman.

As proud as I was of our family’s fame and success, I decided I was not going to work there. As a teen, I had worked the front desk as a key girl, helped out in the golf club and ran the switchboard (my favorite). My plan was to be a typical doctor’s wife and join the garden club while staying home with our children.

The problem was that I was bored. I asked my brother Paul, general manager at the hotel, for a task. The task became a job and by the time Grossinger’s closed in 1985, I was executive vice-president of the hotel and secretary- treasurer of the American Hotel and Motel Association (en route to becoming its first woman president).

In the meantime, my husband and I already had established ties in South Florida. In the 1940s, the Grossinger family had built a hotel on 17 Street and Collins Avenue. The army took it over for rest and recreation and then returned the property to us. We sold it and opened the Grossinger Pancoast where the historic Seville Hotel on Miami Beach is now located. But my brother had young school-age children and was finding it difficult to commute, so we gave up the notion of a southern branch.

I never gave up my Florida connection. In fact, our first vacation home was located in International Village at Inverrary, near Forest Trace, the resort retirement community where I now serve as director of hospitality. When my husband could no longer handle the bitter cold New York weather, we bought a condo in Highland Beach where he spent the winter while I commuted to the Catskills. When I retired, we bought a home in Boca Raton so we could be close to our many friends who had relocated to South Florida.

I am a country girl by nature, but I do love the sights and sounds of the big city. That’s why I love South Florida. We can enjoy the amenities of a small town at our local bank, dry cleaner and restaurants where everyone knows your name. But we also have the advantages of a big city with plenty of cultural activities and numerous universities.

I also love the national and international mix of people that is a signature feature of the South Florida melting pot. It reminds me of the hotel where we attracted guests from everywhere, and from every walk of life. Did I mention that First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt used to serve pickled herring from the Grossinger kitchen?

Once we moved to Florida, I vowed I was never going to work again, until I was asked to serve as director of hospitality at Forest Trace. The resort retirement community, which opened in 1990, was seeking to duplicate the high standards that made Grossinger’s a success – lavish food, top-notch entertainment and wonderful amenities. I was so taken with the community and with Stanley Rosenthal, who still manages the property, that I came out of retirement and have been part of the team ever since.

Florida in the 1980s was good. Florida in my eighties is NEVER better.

I grew up in Miami. In 1964 my family relocated to Miami from Rhode Island, at the time I was six years old. The three of us, my mother, my sister, and my younger brother lived in a small house in the Roads section of Miami.

One of the first things I remember is the aroma of the mango trees. I had never been exposed to the abundance of tropical fruit trees or beaches with palm trees. The Miami architecture compared to nothing else. The school I had left in Rhode Island was brand new, very square, and very modern. The Miami schools had a Spanish style, and homes had red barrel tile roofs.

When I started second grade at Coral Way Elementary I was thrust in a program referred to as an “experiment” with bilingual schooling. I had half a day in English and half a day in Spanish. I had never been exposed to anything like it, and I loved it. I stayed in the program until middle school.

I had neighbors that were American, Jewish or Cuban. Rabbi Landau lived on the next block, and my best friends were Cuban refugees who had relocated to Miami Fidel Castro had taken over their home in Cuba and turned it into a military school for boys.

The Martinez/Herrera family had opened an auto parts store on 8th street. After school I would walk with my friends to their store. We went next door to the lunch counter and had Cuban bread with melted butter and a Coke.

Their family had their grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles all living in the same large house. Each person had a different duty and they ran their home so efficiently. My friends showed me a world filled with Cuban culture, palomilla, Cuban coffee; the excitement of their Quinceañera and the special bond between fathers and daughters. Through the Gouz family I learned about Bar Mitzvahs, Hanukkah, exposure to Jewish foods and the Temple Beth David.

My high school years were spent at Miami Senior High School. Now a historic landmark, my alma mater was built in 1928. The detail and architecture compare to no other.

Like Heidi Gouz and my sister before me, I joined the Miami Senior High School Band and became a Flagette. I twirled a flag and my life was filled with football games each week.

Not to be played at any an old football field, not for us, we performed in the Orange Bowl – with Astro-Turf back then. Our proms were not held in the gym – no, our proms were held at the Fontainebleau or the Eden Roc on South Beach.

New Year’s Eve always meant the Orange Bowl Parade, with Brickell Avenue painted white in preparation. We lined up at the DuPont Plaza hours in advance. Chuck Zink hosted as we marched through Downtown Miami. I loved being on TV.

Growing up in Miami gave my life such diversity and exposure to multiple cultures.

Miami enriched my life in a way that could never have been found anywhere else.

It was 1941. I was born at St. Francis Hospital on Miami Beach. My parents had met on the 14th Street beach a few years before.

This story is actually about my parents, Josie and Lou Adler. My mom and dad really made an impact in Miami musically. In the pictures, you will see a photo of my dad at the Deauville Hotel on Miami Beach where he was the head of the Lou Adler Orchestra. He also played the bass fiddle at the Delano, Saxony, and the Americana, to name a few. Those were great days.

We lived on Northeast 50th Street and Second Avenue, now the Design District. My dad’s orchestra was playing on Miami Beach and all the rehearsals were at my house. I was the most popular kid on the block. He and my mother, who was the organist at Temple Israel for more than 30 years, played for many weddings and bar mitzvahs over the years.

We loved to eat at the Boulevard Cafeteria and at Edith & Fritz, for lobster. We went to the Olympia and the Boulevard theaters for movies and went shopping at Richards and Lerner’s on Flagler Street. After Sunday school, my mother and I would go downtown to Burdines to the cafe inside and have the Snow Princess dessert. This was a beautiful doll with an ice cream skirt with silver sprinkles all around the skirt.

My brother, father and I joined the Jim Dooley fishing club and went fishing often. We took lessons on a big boat at the port, which is now the Port of Miami.

I went to Shadowlawn Elementary school, Edison Junior High and Edison High. The pep rallies rocked the school. All the kids would go to the Red Diamond Inn for pizza and to The Big Wheel drive-in. I became a “Debs” girl and attended many dances and had a great time at Temple Beth David on Coral Way.

I love to dance. My friend Sherna Simonhoff and I took dancing lessons with Hildegard, and my mother played for the dancers. Sherna and I danced around in her beautiful house in Morningside in our ballet pink. She and I loved to take the bus downtown; it was10 cents. To this day, when I’m here in the winter, Sherna, now Sherna Brody, and I still hang out.

I finished my last two years at Miami High in the concert orchestra playing the viola. Southwest Miami was a new world to me. I was introduced to “Little Jerusalem,” and L.J., as it was known, was loaded with kids from that part of town. I remember a Dick Clark’s American Bandstand broadcast and we danced like crazy. The only way my parents could find me in the crowd was to look for the lilacs in my hair.

I went to the University of Miami and became a teacher. I was at Treasure Island Elementary School for more than 30 years. I met my wonderful husband Norman and we have two beautiful children, Gregg and Jennifer. Those were the good old days. Miami is a wonderful, diverse place to live and the best is yet to come.

My great-grandfather, Joseph Rapisardo, Sr., was a farmer in Chester, New York, with my grandfather, Leo Nicotra. As the cold and nasty winters arrived every year making crop growing a challenge, they decided to move to sunny Florida in 1950.

After arriving in Florida my great grandfather and grandfather built a home in Homestead, Florida on the corner of NW 8 Street and 6 Avenue. On the adjoining property they decided to plant onions. The crops grew well in the South Florida’s sunny winters. In 1950 the area was rural and Homestead only contained 4,573 residents.

After being so cold in the winter, South Florida was a piece of heaven and that is why for more than 50 years the family has continued to live in South Florida. At first my great-grandfather and grandfather tried to settle in Naples, Florida, but did not care for the area or the soil. They both agreed to move to the small town south of Miami known today as Homestead. It was a perfect fit for raising a family and starting a farming business.

After the elder Rapisardo and Nicotra were deceased, the children and grandchildren continued the family tradition. My father, Gaetano Talarico married my mother in 1962 in New York and in 1967 he also moved to Homestead, Florida. After falling in love with the area he started F&T; Farms, which is now over 40 years old.

I, too, went to school here in the winter and also in New York for the summer to continue the planting of the onion seeds. My uncle, Joseph Nicotra, continued the tradition that his father, Leo Nicotra, and grandfather, Joseph Rapisardo, started back in 1950.

The seeds were planted in December and the plants were pulled in April. Joseph and Leo made the long trip back by truck to Chester, New York, where they were planted again only to be re-harvested in July.

In 1953 the Homestead Air Force Base opened and grew the community to 9,152 residents and became a national center of attention since it contained the closest jet fighter facility to Cuba. With the new growth in Homestead, it still remained a part of an agriculture spot as it is today.

The property to date, now on the corner of NW 8 Street and 6 Avenue, houses duplexes that are still owned by the family. I have now lived in Homestead for nearly 46 years and was so proud to be a part of the Nicotra-Rapisardo family and learning the history of the planting seasons.

I was born in 1932 at Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami. After my first three years at Grandma Rose Fields’ hotel, across from the prestigious DuPont Building, we moved to Miami Beach.

My recollections of those first three years was of me pretending to direct traffic from the arms of a kindly policeman at the corner of Northeast First Street and First Avenue, watching uniformed-dressed, Gesu-parish schoolgirls playing on the cement schoolyard on Second Street, occasional trips up the Miami River to a Seminole village, and watching Pan Am clipper ships land at their seaplane base in Coconut Grove.

As a young teenager, I returned to the hotel to be an assistant desk clerk and telephone operator. It was my habit to treat myself to a two-inch thick bologna sandwich with yellow mustard on rye bread at Albert Deli. It was next to Wilson’s garage, directly across the street from the hotel. Sometimes I walked a block to Royal Castle and had two or three burgers and a birch beer.

Surely some sensory experiences are never forgotten. I can recall the smell of the grilled onions and pickle on those soft tasty buns that sandwiched tiny RC burgers. In 1948, when I was 16, my parents Larry and Sophie Gilbert opened the Town Restaurant on part of the footprint of the New Pioneer Hotel.

“The Town” was to many professional and business people the place to go for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Many of its customers never had to decide what to order. The staff of waitresses knew most customers’ favorite dish for each day and the customers enjoyed being habitually recognized. It was the habit of many families to meet and eat at the Town before going to the Olympia theater for an evening of entertainment.

Miami Beach was the heart of my life. I went from kindergarten through sixth grade at Central Beach Elementary. Officer Bob Loveland worked the traffic light at 14th Street and Washington Avenue to safely cross us kids. The stanchion-pipe housing that held the electrical elements of that device remained standing for decades on the northwest corner of that busy intersection. As the years passed, it was my habit to drive by it and point it out when I took my children and grandchildren on my patented “heritage” tour of the city of my youth.

At Central Beach, Principal Katie Dean set the stage for us to understand the value of being considerate and compliant. Then came WWII. I was 9. We all did what we could to help in the domestic war activities. Shared efforts included air-raid drills and using coupons to buy rationed butter, meat, sugar and eggs.

We collected metallic objects to make munitions. From 1939 until the war started in December of 1941, my family operated the 14th Street Beach Cafeteria next to Sol Goldstrom’s Washington Avenue bakery. The government commandeered it for a military mess hall along with Hoffman’s Cafeteria on Española Way and Dubrow’s Cafeteria on Lincoln Road.

During the war years, my family operated a drugstore and lunch counter on Collins Avenue. Essentially all the customers were recruits. They were housed at hotels along the beach. When I saw them at that time I thought they were so manly; as I think about them now, they were little more than young boys.

As kids on the beaches, we watched blimps patrol the coast for Nazi submarines. We gathered cans of provisions washed ashore from U-Boat actions not far out. We developed unqualified patriotism that has remained my generation’s credo.

Scouting became a central interest to many friends and me when we turned 12. Troop No. 35 met at the American Legion Hall on 18th Street and Alton Road. Overnight hikes to what is now known as Watson Island were memorable events. So were the weekend camp outs at Greynolds Park. Scouting events took us to the old Deauville hotel and Venetian pools for swim competitions.

Life was made full with school programs at Ida Fisher Junior High and Miami Beach High school, semi-organized sports at Flamingo Park, and socializing at 14th Street Beach. Our Flamingo Park teams traveled to Shenandoah Park and to Little River to play.

My four years at Miami Beach High School was the most joyous time of my span of 25 formal educational years. Academically, it prepared me well for higher education. But it was with our teammates in interscholastic sport competition against the five other public high schools in Miami, and many others in the state, that proved to be the glue that bound us closely and from which we remain friends in our later years.

Beach High opened in 1926 on 14th Street and Drexel Avenue. I was a Beach High “Typhoon.” Our colors were black and gold. That school remained there for 34 years until 1960. It was then moved to its current location; its teams became known as the “Hi Tides.” From its opening in 1960 until now, 53 years later, people refer to the present school as the “new” MBHS (Hi Tides) with colors of silver and scarlet. Those same people refer to its predecessor as the “old school.” I think I know why. It’s just a habit.

I always felt special because I was born in Miami. My parents, like so many others, came from someplace else.

My father Jack Moore grew up in Waycross, Georgia and my mother Anne Parker in Maysville, Kentucky. My grandfather, John J. Moore, a lawyer and judge, moved to Florida during the great 1920s boom and settled in Stuart. My father moved to Miami as a young lawyer in 1930. It was at the height of the Great Depression. Times were tough he always reminded us

My mother came to Florida to attend Florida State College for Women, now FSU, in 1929. With the luck of the draw, she roomed with my father’s sister. She stayed only a year in Florida and graduated from the University of Kentucky and became an elementary school teacher there. During the summer of 1936, she visited her old roommate in Miami and at that time met my father. After a whirlwind romance, they married.

When I was born, the Moore family, which included my sister Pat and brother Bill, lived at 1367 SW Third St. in an area then called Riverside, now Little Havana. Our home was a wooden bungalow with a screened-in front porch. It was a perfect way to live before air conditioning. There were many children in the neighborhood and we spent most of our days outdoors — skating, biking and playing kick-the-can. I walked to Riverside Elementary and even came home for lunch.

We frequented two neighborhood shopping areas — one on Flagler Street and the other on what we called the Trail, now Calle Ocho. Every Saturday, my brother, sister and I walked to the Tower Theater to watch movies, cartoons, news reels and adventure serials. Twenty-five cents would buy admission, a drink and a bag of popcorn.

My family went to a downtown church so from my earliest years I was in downtown Miami at least once a week. As a result, I feel very much at home in downtown Miami, even today. There were four churches within walking distance of each other and their members frequently went to Luke’s Drug Store between Sunday school and church. Attending a downtown church made it possible to know people from all over Greater Miami. In high school, we even dated across town through friends we met in church youth groups. Because of these friends, I always saw Miami as a whole and not just as a sum of many parts.

When I was in the fourth grade we moved to Miami Shores. I thought we had moved to Jacksonville. Although this was considered an upward move for my family, I missed the old neighborhood and my friends. But I made new friends in Miami Shores, especially my best friend, Adele Khoury. We were the two tallest girls in the class and liked to call ourselves “back row” girls because we were always together on the back row in school pictures. We rode our bikes everywhere. We also went downtown on Bus 11 for a day at the movies and lunch at Royal Castle where hamburgers cost five cents. She remains my closest friend today.

I got my sense of history and my passion for Miami from my father. He always had his nose in a history book, taught me historical facts, a love for the constitution and took me around and told me things about Miami. “Remember this,” he would say. He ran for the City of Miami Commission when I was 5 and I remember passing out brochures at a rally in Bayfront Park. He and my mother set a good example by being involved in the community.

My family was ethnically Southern and I could talk and eat Southern-style. When it came to race, however, they were unlike most others who lived in then-segregated Miami. I was taught to respect everyone regardless of their race, religion, gender or ethnicity. My father often spoke out against segregation and anti-Semitism. Once, I remember being very embarrassed when he spoke out in a restaurant because the management would not admit black patrons. Years later, I realized how remarkable he was and how blessed I was to grow up in such an inclusive environment.

I went to college and my first career was an American history and government teacher. I taught at Miami Edison Senior High, my alma mater, the first year it was integrated. I also had a large group of young Cuban refugees in my class — many of whom had been sent to Miami without their parents. They taught me through example to respect the Cuban exiles who were moving to Miami. Many invited me to come visit them when they returned home to Cuba. Little did any of us realize that they would not be able to return for many years, if ever.

How lucky I was to be born and grow up in Miami.

Miami taught me to be open to change and to adapt to the unexpected. It taught me to accept people and welcome newcomers. It gave me an eagerness to learn. When I began writing Miami history and working to preserve its important places, I called on all these memories of people, places and events to help me. When I write about Miami, I always include everyone in the story. Each day, I realize more and more that there is no better place to live if you want a jump start on America’s future and always have a great story to tell.