Category: Miami Stories

One sunny, mid-week afternoon, I arrived at home to family cars parked in the front yard. I did not have to dig for the house key in my bookbag. My father stood in front of the door as if shielding me from something.

As I entered the house, I heard a woman crying. Family members surrounded the crying woman whom I soon realized was my mother. It was the first time I saw her cry as a result of something I didn’t do. I did not have a broken arm or a D on my report card. On that afternoon, my mother had lost her father.

After I kissed her and said nothing, I went to my room and watched MTV when videos were all the rage. I did not understand what had happened. Death was one of those things I heard tossed around in other people’s conversations. I identified death with Friday the 13th movies and drug dealers on the news.

My whole life I had taken pride in the fact that all of my grandparents were alive and well. I wore that on my sleeve and carried it around as if I had won a trophy. Abuelo was not sitting in a Cuban jail cell, waiting in a ration line, and eating other people’s household pets. Abuelo was in Miami, living in a condo, shopping at Publix and eating steak. Now, Abuelo was suddenly gone, from complications related to diabetes, and there was nothing doctors, my family or I could do about it. Life threw us this curve ball and we had to catch it.

It was my first funeral and the only thing I looked forward to was to practice making my own tie. When I arrived at the funeral home, everyone was already there. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and Cuban coffee. Strangers offered their condolences, hugs and spearmint gum. All I could do was smile and walk away.

As I went toward the room, my grandmother sat crying in a chair next to the casket. Beautiful flowers were scattered near her. The reds, whites, yellows, and greens clashed with her black dress. She was surrounded by more strangers with some hovering over her like more of those loser contestants. The rest of them stood in line waiting their turn to comfort her. I thought all the faces were probably the same to her. Her hands always touched their elbows and her tissue almost always fell on the floor.

I went up to my grandmother, kissed her cheek and walked away through the lobby, the glass doors, the parking lot, and into a cafeteria. As I ordered a pastelito and Materva, I saw some of the strangers from the funeral. They didn’t seem so strange anymore. Their faces and voices sounded familiar. The talk of old Cuba, the exile community, Miami, Hialeah, and my family comforted me. Those were things I had heard before and things my Abuelo used to say.

After spending the night at the funeral home, I woke to find the world still around me. Everyone was still talking and whispering comforts in the air like shooting the breeze over a game of dominos. No one slept. They probably feared they would miss out on one of my grandmother’s wails or so-and-so’s daughter or son and how they are still not married.

At that moment, the priest called everyone to pray the rosary. When the prayer was over, I walked outside with my parents, grandmother and brother to look for the limo. In the corner of the parking lot, the limo rested beneath the shade of one of those trees filled with moon-shaped green seeds. I remembered having block fights with those same seeds and that after one of the fights, I walked back home to find my grandparents waiting in the driveway with packages in their arms and smiles on their faces.

Abuelo said in broken English, “Who’s going to pick up the seeds?”

After the priest did what priests do and said what priests say, the cemetery workers rolled Abuelo’s casket to the rear of the mausoleum. My family and I were walking on a back street with a chain-link fence dividing the mausoleum and some kind of factory. The unkempt hedges sheltered some litter scattered close to the fence. The workers opened the side of the building and I caught a glimpse of where Abuelo was going to be. It looked like dusty concrete shelves. Objects were scattered like the litter next to the chain-link fence. I comforted myself by thinking it was better than being buried in just another hole in the ground with other people’s loved ones walking all over him. At least Abuelo had chosen this place for himself.

That night, I found myself sleeping next to my grandmother. It was dark and I realized that I really did not want to be next to her. I started to cry because I knew this is where I had to sleep tonight. My grandmother woke up and as she wiped the tears off my face, she told me, “No lo puedo creer. El gordo no esta aqui.”

She couldn’t believe her fat man was not there with her. I felt guilty for sleeping in his spot and for reminding her that she would not sleep with Abuelo again. As she reassured me that everything was going to be fine, I reached over and touched her face. As the wind and rain howled outside the window, I rubbed her dry face, rolled over and went to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Por que?” Why? I asked.

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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