I loved seeing these…

When I was 10–1958–I visited my grandparents who spent about 3-4 months a year in a rented apartment at Lincoln Road and Collins Ave. I spent almost a month with them at the time. I was free to roam the neighborhood, go in the shops, buy ice cream. I took the public bus as far up the beach as they went in those days–there were miles of undeveloped beach up to the Fountainbleau hotel which was under construction at the time.

I remember Wolfie’s and another place that had baskets of the most delicious rolls and baked goods they would put out on the table for you–The Rascal House, I think it was called. They encouraged you to take home the ones you did not eat.

I bought one of the earliest issues of MAD magazine at the corner newsstand and still remember how excited I was as I read the funny, satiric, snarky pieces.

Most of all I remember the people, all like my grandparents, who had come to America seeking “the land of milk and honey,” escaping oppression, discrimination, pogroms or worse. They wanted the opportunity to give their children more than they had, that they ever could have hoped for in the shtetls of Poland, and Russia and other eastern European countries. Had they waited any longer to leave their homes, their villages, their families–well, they would have been rounded up by the Nazis and their ilk–and I would not be writing this…

What they found in America, what my grandparents found, was not milk and honey. But they did find opportunity, a spark, a chance. For my grandparents–Sam and Bessie Pollack–it was sweatshop work on the lower east side of NY until they could save enough money to buy a tiny confectionery store on the corner of Baltimore and Pearl Streets in the city of my eventual birth, Baltimore. My grandparents slaved seven days a week, turning that store into a haven for jewish businessmen to come in for a delicious home-cooked lunch on workdays. On weekends they would bring their families back for dinner as the reputation of my grandmother’s cuisine spread.

My mother and her sister worked as waitresses in the restaurant, eventually met their husbands there.

When my grandparents retired they gave themselves the gift of these few months in Miami Beach each winter. They lived frugally, never went out for a meal. But they felt–and I could see it even as a 10 year old looking into their lined faces–rejuvenated in some way: the sun, the blue blue sky, the wide beach, the turquoise waters of the sea. There amongst their fellow immigrant jews, they found the land of milk and honey. At least for a little while before they died–too young, it seems to me looking back. They deserved many more winters in Miami Beach.

I will never forgot that one winter I shared with them there. I have gone back but it is not–and never will be–the same.

Best,

Jerry

From faraway in Boynton Beach, Florida. I salute them.

And I thank you, Dr. Jeffrey M. Levine, for your photos and insightful comments.

What geat pictures of Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie and the rest.

Makes me feel back in the 60′s. Brings back many memories of what power the people have.

It’s quite revolutionary to consider how there are cultures that do have respect for aging [or in some cases 'did'] . The U.S. culture is saturated with quite the opposite. In fact ‘respect for age’ might be considered extinct. Maybe something we’ll read about in a museum some day. Definitely a worthy subject to study & I hope you’ll continue with your good work.

p.s. With regard to your other South America post I’m impressed with the idea of chewing coca leaves INSTEAD of brushing my teeth. I’ll bring that up with my dentist next time.

Thanks for sharing.