Month: February 2017

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.

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.

It was February 1964 and Chicago was really cold – a blustery, painful type of cold.

I vividly remember standing on the corner of East Superior Street and Lake Shore Drive, waiting for a bus to take me to the warmth of my new apartment located on Surf Street.

It was well after midnight and I’d just gotten off duty at Passavant Memorial Hospital. I’d been a nurse for just a few months and liked my job as charge nurse on the evening shift. Also, living in Chicago was my dream come true; however, it was January and while waiting for my bus it had begun to snow and the frozen particles were sticking to my eyelashes.

Finally, I reached my apartment, took a hot bath, put on the warmest jammies I could find, curled up on the couch and set about reading the mail. Leafing through my new copy of The American Journal of Nursing (AJN), I spotted the ad: “Nurses Needed at St. Francis Hospital. Come to sunny Miami Beach, live and work one block from the ocean…”

That’s all I needed. I fanaticized about the possibilities and vowed to rise early to make the call that would prove to change my life forever.

The next morning I called the contact person mentioned in the ad: Sr. Marie Francine, director of nursing. She explained that the census at St. Francis was seasonal and filled to capacity during the winter months. Evidently, the hospital relied heavily on “snow birds” to accommodate the heavy load. Although our conversation was short (she hired me over the phone and asked if I could come as quickly as possible), I recognized her to be likeable and endearing. In short order this “snow bird” would come to admire and love this woman very much.

Much to my parents’ chagrin, I arrived in Miami the next month with the intention of staying until spring. The following month, I wrote to the kind folks in Chicago and tendered my resignation. I would continue to work at St. Francis for the next 23 years.

Initially, I lived at the hospital nurses’ residence. It was a terrific deal: monthly rent was $25 – with daily room service. As promised in the AJN ad, the nurses’ residence was one block from the ocean. Those of us who worked the evening shift found plenty of time for the beach. It became routine for me to walk that one block to the 65th Street beach and work on getting rid of my unsightly northern pale. Frequently, prior to hitting the beach, I would stop at Pumpernik’s on Collins Avenue and 66th Street and order the coffee and Danish roll basket – all for $1.

Miami Beach in the ‘60s! To be alive and young during those years was simply the best. Despite the despair of war, we were a nation of young dreamers. Perhaps it was because of the war and the loss of our young president that we were determined to carry on and live life to the fullest – an easy task in Miami Beach.

St. Francis Hospital was located on Allison Island on 63rd Street. It was an impressive site, sitting on this wonderful piece of property that jutted out to the middle of Indian Creek. Over the years as it expanded it was a striking presence on Miami Beach.

In 1964, the hospital was only four stories high, yet quite spread out. Despite the age of the place, it was immaculate. One could plainly see that it had been well tended to by generations of people who provided the loving care that it deserved. From the solarium on the fourth floor one could look out and see nearly all of Miami Beach. In those days, when looking south, there were no high-rise condos and views of the ocean were breathtaking.

As remarkable as it was, St. Francis Hospital was far more than bricks and mortar. It was a community of caring and nurturing that truly made it one of a kind. I believe the Franciscan Sisters maintained an environment of family orientation so pervasive and enduring that all who graced its halls recognized it. Their mission must have been to provide the very best care possible to the community it served, to include the residents of Miami Beach and the many celebrities.

Some of our most famous patients included Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Lena Horne, Aretha Franklin, Meyer Lansky and Lou Walters (Barbara’s father). Martha Raye, a famous comedienne of the day ended her weekly television show with “Good night, Sisters of St. Francis Hospital.”

As a nurse, I have embraced my profession with great passion. For me, nursing was a vocation that I have always considered a sacred trust. For some inexplicable reason St. Francis Hospital attracted many others who must have held the same beliefs. Indeed, the sisters must have been very proud of the excellent care provided. I know that I, along with countless others, felt pride in our work.

When I left St. Francis to further my career, I vowed to promote this tradition of ultimate caring. Over the next several years, I was blessed with opportunities as chief nursing officer in three hospitals throughout Kansas. To impart my philosophy and expectations to nurses, I always told the story of St. Francis Hospital and presented it as the perfect hospital, the one for all to emulate.

Since St. Francis Hospital closed in 1992, two reunions have been held. Both were well attended by several hundred people, to include employees representing all departments, administrative staff and physicians.

While working in Kansas over the past 23 years, my husband and I never wavered from our plan to return to Miami. Finally, upon my recent retirement, we have come home.

On the plane ride from Panama to the United States, there was a short layover in Nicaragua. However, we were not allowed to deplane. I looked out the window and asked my mother, “Why are there men with guns outside?” That was my first memory of Nicaragua, where I was born.

The day was Feb. 14, 1985, and I was a precocious 5 year old. I had only heard the stories as my parents spoke with their friends about the events that forced them out of their country. I vaguely knew that the reason we were living in Panama was because of the Sandinistas. It was because of them that my parents were forced to start all over in a different country.

My mother never wanted to go to the United States because she wanted to continue her profession as a professor, which she was able to practice in Panama. In addition, although my father knew how to read and write in English, he saw the United States as a place where he would have to clean toilets, and having been the credit manager of a bank in Nicaragua, he shuddered at the thought. My parents had worked very hard and had overcome many obstacles to become professionals in their country. They wanted more for their children, and that was their main motivation for leaving behind all that they knew.

Under the Sandinista regime, boys would be forced to become part of the military service to defend the “Revolution,” headed by Daniel Ortega, against the counterrevolution, known as “La Contra.” My parents had two boys before me and they refused to allow their children to be used as pawns for something they did not support. So we left for another country without family and without relatives, but where my brothers and I had a chance for a future.

Life always throws curve balls, however, and my brother Lodwin fell sick. My parents took him to doctors and they couldn’t diagnose what was wrong. They took him from specialist to specialist and no one was able to give them a clear answer. After several attempts to take care of the symptoms, the doctors finally came to the conclusion that he had acute lymphoblastic leukemia, which spread to his central nervous system and attacked his vision. My 12-year-old big brother had almost completely lost his sight in a matter of a year. The cancer was attacking his body and the only solution that my mother saw was to bring him to Florida and find out what the doctors here could do for him.

My mother was completing her doctorate in education at Universidad de Panama, and we were supposed to be in Miami only temporarily. My father and oldest brother, Richard, stayed behind because they had to continue with our lives in Panama. After all, we were going back once my brother was well. When we walked through customs, I had five dolls. My brother was in a wheelchair wearing dark sunglasses and his lips were cracked and dry; he looked like a skeleton. My mother was strong and swift; she knew what her child needed and she was going to find it here.

We went to stay at my uncle’s studio apartment off Biscayne Boulevard and 29th Avenue in Miami. My mother slept in a chair and my brother and I slept on a couch. My two uncles slept on the floor. Thankfully, the doctors and nurses in the cancer unit at University of Miami/Jackson’s Holtz Children’s Hospital brought my brother back to life. He went through chemotherapy, and a series of other procedures. Eventually he was in remission, and although he had lost his sight, he was a top student in high school.

We never went back to Panama. Instead my father and eldest brother came to Florida and we all became Americans. We left behind all that we knew. My parents were able to work and grow in different fields, and were able to provide a better future for all their children.

This country gave my brother eight additional years of life. He filled the house with jokes, art, and never complained. My identity revolves around being an American. This country signifies life to me. It brought my brother back to life and it has given me a life that I would not have had in Nicaragua, or Panama, for that matter. I’ve been submerged into this culture and I feel like a tourist when I go back to my place of birth.

Living here, I have had the opportunity to graduate from Florida International University in business, and later had the opportunity to change careers. Here, my political party affiliation doesn’t determine the jobs or promotions I will get. How I feel about President Obama doesn’t determine my future. My children will never be judged by my choices and they will be able to decide their own futures. I have the liberty to grow and achieve what I am willing to work for.

Today, I hold a master’s degree and I teach young people who are very much like me. This melting pot, Miami, exposes us to a “ colada” and “ empanadas” and different ways of saying things in Creole, Spanish, and Portuguese. I have met people who have come from Haiti, Argentina, and Iowa – in one sitting. My students reflect that diversity and that same hope for the future. They have their own immigrant stories and they are here because their parents want a future for them that they cannot have in their own countries. There is no other place like Miami in the world. The United States is a beacon of light, when we have come from such dark paths. I tell them this every day as we salute the flag and “Pledge Allegiance” to it.

We hauled my parent’s aluminum canoe off the roof-rack of his 2002 Mitsubishi Montero and onto the grass near the edge of the Biltmore canal. I grabbed the essentials from the trunk and tossed them into the canoe: two wooden paddles, a foldable, plastic seat, a faded, waterproof cushion, and a couple of well-worn life-jackets.

Larry—the tall, Colombian-American I had just been introduced to a few weeks before—adjusted his maroon FSU hat and repositioned his thick-rimmed eye-glasses before reaching down to help me lift the canoe.
My water bottle rolled towards the stern as we lowered the boat down the grassy bank to the water’s edge. I glanced over my shoulder at Larry, trying to keep the giddiness I felt from showing on my face.

“You ready?” I asked, eager to embark on our first date adventure.

“Let’s do this,” he replied.

I held the canoe steady as he stepped in and made his way towards the back of the boat. Once he was seated, I nudged the boat so that it slid further into the water, until all that was left on the rocky shore was the tip of the bow, just enough to let me climb aboard without having to get my feet wet.

I had been in this canoe countless times before. Growing up in Coral Gables, my parents would often take me and my brother out for a Sunday afternoon stroll along the waterways that snaked their way through our neighborhood and out towards Biscayne Bay.

Our usual route would lead us from the starting point near our house to a spot where the canal dead-ended across from the football fields of Coral Gables High. There, we would spot manatees that had come in from the bay in search of more tepid waters. In the winter time, when cool air graced a muggy Miami and the ocean temperatures dropped, the warm waters of the canal offered a sanctuary for these marine mammals.

From the edge of the water, on-lookers often congregated to count the rounded backs of these dormant sea-cows, which emerged from the surface like buoys. Every few minutes a pair of circular nostrils appeared as a manatee brought its nose up for air. From the canoe, however, it was easier to see through the murky canal water and observe what went on beneath the surface.

With a few quiet strokes of our wooden paddles, we let our canoe glide right up next to them, stuck our hand in the water, and caressed their slimy, algae-covered backs. It was easy to spot the older ones, who were often coated with barnacles and striped with scars from motor boat propellers. The younger ones were more curious, and came right up to the side of the canoe, rolling belly-up and lifting their flippers out from the water as if to offer a high-five.

As Larry and I paddled through the canal on that cloudless, summer day, I was hoping that we would get to see a manatee up close. Larry had grown up in Miami as well, but had never canoed through these parts before, and I was excited about showing him a side of his home town that he had yet to discover.

From the few times we had hung out since our first encounter on a South Beach dance floor the previous month, I already knew he was the type of person who, like me, enjoyed being in nature and staying active. In our first phone conversations, he’d told me about his years playing basketball and running track, about his days owning a longboard and surfing the waves on the northern coast of Florida, and about his plans to hike in Patagonia with some friends that fall. While getting “outdoors” in a city like Miami sometimes felt like a challenge, this, I thought, would be a great way of doing it.

Cruising passed the unique Spanish-style homes that lined the waterway, with their lush, tropical landscaping and beautiful backyards, it wasn’t long before we noticed the wildlife that called the canal their home: a great blue heron perched on a mangrove; a charcoal Anhinga drying out its wings; a giant iguana sun bathing on the coral rock.

At the edge of the lawn to our left, a family of ducks wandered towards the canal, squawking a dissonant tune as they hurried passed the canoe. On the opposite bank, a slender white egret waded in the water, keeping its eyes and beak fixed on the ground below its branch-like legs as it crept towards a potential meal.

And as we drifted down the canal, I thought about how comfortable I felt spending time with Larry. Perhaps it was his laid-back personality, or how he’d been so eager to join me on this canoe ride through the Gables.

Perhaps it was the way he joked about almost anything, and how good it felt to laugh so much whenever we talked. I never expected to find myself starting a new relationship weeks before moving overseas to teach English, but that day in the canoe, as we explored the hidden outdoors of the “City Beautiful” together, I couldn’t help but recognize that being with him just felt right.

And as we slid past a “no wake” sign and turned the corner towards the high school, hearing nothing but the sound of water hitting the sides of the canoe, my eyes fell upon a pair of rounded, barnacle-covered backs emerging from the surface. There in front of us, floating near a dock at the end of the canal, a pair of manatees rested in the tropical waters of Coral Gables.

Growing up in Miami has been an experience for me. You never realize that where you live can have such a great impact on your life. Living in Miami has taught me some things — through struggles and hardships, to moments of rejoicing and opportunities, it has taught me that with endurance and faith I can achieve anything.

Living in Miami has made me versatile. My mother was a single parent raising my sister and me; sometimes we struggled and fell on hard times. We moved several times, so I got exposed to different areas of Miami such as Opa-locka, Carol City, North Miami, Miami Lakes, Hollywood and Pembroke Pines. I went to schools that were predominantly African American, Hispanic and other cultures, and I met students from a mix of these. This experience not only helped me to learn and understand other cultures, but I gained a mixed diversity of friends from various backgrounds.

I have participated in several activities and programs that were located in various parts of Miami. My mother believed in exposing us to different things. I participated in the Lamplighters, which is sponsored by the Omega Psi Phi Fraternity (Sigma Alpha Chapter, Miami), a program for minority young men ages 12-18, “Focused on Helping Shape & Develop Tomorrow’s Future Leaders.”

I participated in the Manhood Youth Development Camp and Educational Institute, a community-based, non-profit organization that provides personal development education, counseling, and mentoring services to youth and families. Their mission is to increase the young male’s potential of leading a productive, responsible, and self-disciplined life crossing into manhood. Through this organization, I had the privilege to go to New Orleans to help victims that experienced devastation due to Hurricane Katrina.

Other programs I participated in were Teen Upward Bound; its mission is “to build strong families, youth and teens through education and faith.” I participated in the North Miami Beach Teen Summit, volunteered at Alonzo Mourning’s Overtown Youth Center, and I am currently on my last year of a three-year internship with Teen Miami. Teen Miami is three-year research and collections initiative on the history of teen life and culture in Miami-Dade County.

My mother also encouraged us to participate in school activities. I joined the band, chorus and the drama club. Through the Flanagan Senior High School drama club, I had the privilege to go to New York and attend workshops, as well as see Broadway shows. I also got the opportunity to go to Statesboro and Savannah, Georgia, to learn about the history of my grandfather and the history of both states.

My experiences living in Miami have been inspiring, informative, interesting, with some low and high moments. Through my experiences in Miami, I have learned to take hardships and struggles, my moments of rejoicing as my learning grew, and my opportunities as a blessing, and to live my life to the fullest.