Halloween must be coming. . . .

I went to the doctor's office today to cry a little about the sciatic nerve in my left hip and was greeted with a strange looking gentleman offering a delicious variety of candies.  I gladly accepted his offer.

Then I sat down to wait to hear my name called across from two gentlemen, one wearing a khaki hat, who seemed to have lost a great deal of weight.  Actually, he was literally all bones.

My hip felt better already. 

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Lots of interesting people out there. . .

I've written in the past about my volunteering as a guide at The Kampong, the former home of the renowned horticulturist, Dr. David Fairchild.  We do walking tours at The Kampong and I never know until I arrive who will be in my group, where they come from, or anything about who they are.

My group today was truly memorable.  It was listed as The Pedro Pan Society and it consisted of eight very elegant women who were exceptionally bonded together.The bonding was understandable, because as they explained to me when we were initially introduced, all eight of them arrived as teenagers in Miami in 1962 as part of the Pedro Pan exodus from communist Cuba.  The shared experience created a very special friendship that has lasted for more than fifty years.

We talked a bit before we started the actual tour and the women were fascinated to hear that I spent a great deal of time in Havana before the revolution and represented the Tropicana Nightclub here in the U.S.  I will love them forever for questioning how could I have been in their country before the revolution of 1960, since I obviously would have been much too young to be working that many years ago. When I assured them I was very much an adult then, and am now a great-grandmother, they wanted to know my secret.  I told them "good genes", but to be honest, it's more like denial, especially since I have a birthday coming up next month.

The ladies loved The Kampong, asked lots of questions and didn't seem to mind that tramping through the garden, still quite wet from last night's rains, was playing havoc with their very fashionable shoes.  I took pictures of them with their cameras as well as with my iPhone.  It was close to 90 degrees out and almost all of them were wielding fans as we  walked along. 

One of the delights of being a guide at both Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden and The Kampong is the ability to meet the most interesting people from literally all over the world.  I remember very well hearing about the arrival of the Pedro Pan children, young and alone, without their parents, who sacrificed so much to keep them safe.  It was a pleasure meeting these eight ladies today and having the opportunity to tell them about this wonderful garden.
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The Pedro Pan ladies keep cool.

I have a complaint. . . .

I'm losing my favorite tram driver at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden starting this week and I'm not at all happy about it.  Ted Weiss has been my driver-of-choice for the last three years for the tram tours I narrate every Friday morning. He knows me well.  He understands I am incapable of getting the top off the water bottle.  I return the favor by filling a cup with little pretzels that we share throughout the morning.  Most of all, he knows where during my tour I like the tram to go slow and where it's hurry up time because I have nothing more to say.  Lastly, when my mind is starting to go blank on the third tour, he throws me the name of those funny looking Bald Cypress knobs that I keep forgetting.

In short, Ted is a great part of my Fairchild volunteer experience and I shall miss him.  I told him he had no right to go have a hip replacement when I needed him to drive for me on Fridays.  He absolutely agreed and promised to come back after the first of the year.  I'm holding him to that.

I know I write about my Fairchild experiences fairly often, but I never cease to be slightly awed at this remarkable place and consider myself lucky to be even a small part of it. To give you some idea of its international identity, here's a look at our tram passengers this past Friday morning.

On the 10am tour I was introduced by one of our members to his guest, a young man from Egypt.  I made sure to point out the Egyptian geese when we got to the Lowlands.  At the start of the 11am tour, I welcomed a couple who were visiting from Austria.  And on the 12 noon tour, one whole car of the tram was occupied by a perfectly delightful group of mature ladies and one gentleman who were visiting from Surinam, a tiny country on the northeastern coast of South America.  (Ted had to remind me that it used to be a Dutch colony. See, I told you, I need him.)

My favorite tram driver

If you have never visited Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, I urge you to do so the next time you're in this area.  Come on a Friday morning and I promise you an interesting tour.
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The beauty of Fairchild

 

I've got a problem, folks. . . .

I have a new addiction.  I admit it.  It doesn't come in a bottle or from a syringe.  It's more in the form of an app on my cell phone and I can't stay away from it.  If this keeps up, I may have to consider rehab.

It's called Magic Puzzles and it is turning me into a jigsaw fanatic.  At last count I have successfully completed 46 individual puzzles in the last two months, plus one additional "free" puzzle for each day of July and August.  Not to mention the fact that I have worked my way up to the next-to-highest difficulty level.  I definitely need help.

I'm starting to relate to the kids you see glued to their cell phones playing Pokémon and all different games.  This morning I finished off two puzzles from the Wild Animal series while supposedly watching Meet The Press.  One was a picture of a Madagascan lemur, the other a pygmy sloth from Panama.  Don't ask me what they were talking about on the TV, I was much too involved to pay any real attention to the latest on Donald and Hillary.

I've always loved a good crossword puzzle and the day wouldn't start right without my two cups of coffee and the Miami Herald's daily offering, but this new addiction is getting out of hand.

Any suggestions out there for a cure, short of losing my iphone????

Bad Stuff!  Stay away from it.

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Memories are made of this . .

I went to the Wolfsonian Museum on Miami Beach today.  If you've never been there it is the result of the astonishing collection of memorabilia from the 1850's through the 1950's by Mickey Wolfson, the very wealthy scion of one of Miami's first families.

The collections change every few months and the premier one right now is titled "Promising Paradise: Cuban Allure, American Seduction."  For me, it was a walk down Memory Lane, revisiting the years 1958 and 1959, when it was part of my job to fly to Cuba once a month and review all the major night club shows in Havana for the entertainment editor of the Miami Beach Sun. 

Paul Bruun, the man who hired me for this fascinating job, was the "Walter Winchell" of our town in those days, and it was his name that appeared in the newspaper on my written  reviews, but my name that appeared on the monthly check that he paid me. He also paid all my expenses to fly there and back and stay at one of the top hotels, either the Havana Riviera,  the Havana Hilton, or the Havana Nacional.  (The only thing he wouldn't pay for was my husband's airfare on Cubana Airlines, $25 round trip!  We managed to begrudgingly come up with that.)

But it was one particular nightclub in the exhibition at the Wolfsonian that mesmerized me today.  An entire room was dedicated to Havana's famous Tropicana Nightclub, and I knew it very well.  In addition to reviewing its incredible shows, held outdoors under the palm trees, with gorgeous showgirls  parading on catwalks through the trees, my public 


Exhibit at the Wolfsonian

relations firm was also responsible for representing the Club in the American press.  For that reason, I spent more time there than any of the other clubs we visited.

The Tropicana's gambling casino, in fact the entire club, was overseen by a man named Lefty Clark.  In truth, Lefty represented the Mob, the true owners of the club, but he was a very likeable guy who was extremely nice to me and my husband Ralph, who always accompanied me on my trips to Cuba (much to the annoyance of my client, Mr.Bruun, who was a well known lecher.)

We would usually show up at the Tropicana on Friday evening for the midnight show, having already reviewed the 10 o'clock show at one of the hotels, and would go on to do a 2am show before quitting for the night and heading back to our hotel room at close to 4 in the morning. Three in a night was my limit, and we would do another three shows on Saturday night before returning home on Sunday.  (Remember, I was a lot younger then!)  Since all the clubs knew who I represented, and that I was there to review, we were always seated next to the stage and I would just sign the bill for whatever we ate or drank. That was a good thing, since we were not exactly in the chips in those days and these were expensive places.

My favorite memory of the Tropicana:  Lefty Clark welcoming us on our arrival, giving me a hug and simultaneously handing my husband a $10 roll of quarters. "Go play the slots, Ralph,"  he would say, patting him on the back.  "Joan has to work." 

We were scheduled to go to Havana for New Years of 1959 but decided not to go because we had a party in Miami we wanted to attend.  It was a good thing we didn't.   If you know your history, Castro and the Revolution arrived on January 1st, 1960.  Haven't been back since, but I did have many memories looking at the Wolfsonian's presentation today..
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Menu/program cover
 

Desi and Luci. . . he played the Club very often

 

Ginger's upset she wasn't invited. Wasabi couldn't care less.

Friday evenings are traditionally "Wine Down Time", here at Grove Isle.  Especially if you own something with four legs and a full coat of hair.  In the winter, when it's cooler, the parties are held at our waterfront dog park.  Now that it's so hot, we've been making it to the bar at the  Grove Isle Club, but a nasty new rule that no dogs are allowed has made life difficult for our group.

I know, you're thinking now, "She doesn't have a dog.  What's she talking about?"  You're right, I don't.  I proudly represent the Feline Owners at our community, and although we're not actually invited, by this time the dogs all know me, so I manage to pass.

Last night the party was very special.  It was hosted by Henry Goodman, Sheila's malti-poo, and was held in his apartment (and believe me, it is his), and attended by four of his best friends.  Also along were their assorted owner/parents, but they were just there for the good wine and food.  It was the "four paws" night and they enjoyed it thoroughly.

Herewith the guest list:


Henry, the host (with his Mommy)

Brindle

Chloe

Mila

Oliver
 

Will somebody tell me why I wasn't invited????