Christmas in Miami, Circa 1955

For those of you not familiar with Christmastime in south Florida just know that, it is December, and we are still mowing our lawns.  The trees don’t change color and the leaves stay on our trees.  Most of us have never seen a snowplow or snow shovel.  We wouldn’t know how to walk on ice and, if  YouTube is any indication, most northerners don’t do well in this regard either.

As I write this on December 10, 2015, I was able to check the surf/ocean temperature and it is clocking in at a chilly 79 degrees Fahrenheit.  I worked outside today wearing shorts and a tee shirt.  It wasn’t always this way and that brings us to today’s topic.  We are still talking about Christmas in Miami, but in the middle of the last century.  Yes, this is the time of my childhood

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Growing up in the 1950’s in Miami was much different than it is today.  It used to get cold here in December, with temperatures plunging into the 30’s and 40’s.  The women would get their furs out of storage and kids wore jackets and sweaters.

  

Our house in Biscayne Park was a small two-bedroom one-bath concrete block dwelling constructed in the 40’s.  Nobody had air conditioning but we did have central heat.  I say central since the steel Kenmore two burner kerosene stove was in the center of the house.  It would put out just a bit more heat than the match used to light the wick.  If you weren’t standing within 6 inches of the steel cabinet, you really didn’t feel much.  The houses were constructed for proper ventilation to beat the hot summers, not to provide an airtight cocoon that held in the heat during our brief winters.  

Biscayne Park house, where the magic happened

Our winters started before Halloween and lasted until around Groundhog Day.  This was well before we managed to pop holes in the ozone layer in order to warm things up.  One winter’s day in the 50’s, my dad woke me up and dragged me outside to watch it snow.  Not many people saw this and it never made the headlines like the "blizzard of 1977", when it actually coated a few cars.  Well, it also snowed in the 50’s and I saw it actually fall from the sky.  It didn't stay on the ground but there were snowflakes in the air.  With the latter event, who knows, since it was the 70’s, that "snow" could have been from a Columbian cocaine flight that had a cargo door malfunction.

Miami Herald Headline for January 20, 1977

In the 50’s, Miami was much smaller than it is today.  We had one major department store, Burdines, and it was in downtown Miami on Flagler Street and Miami Avenue.  We would make our annual trip to Burdines to see Santa and it was the highlight of the season.  In addition to getting to sit on Santa’s lap to let him know what you wanted that year, there was also the giant neon Santa that filled the north side of Burdines that crossed over Miami Avenue.  On the rooftop, they used to have a small amusement park with rides for the kids.

Our story is set in about 1955.  I’m guessing here, but I would be ten and my younger brother Rick, would be five.  I wanted a new bike.  I was outgrowing my first rather small blue bike and needed something bigger and faster.  I wanted one of the new “English Racers” as they were called.  These were lightweight bikes with narrow tires and a three-speed shifter on the handlebar.  I just knew Santa would be granting my wish because I had been good all year.  Well, at least I hadn’t been caught doing anything serious.  Those days would come, but not in 1955.

Christmas day of 1955 fell on a Sunday, which was a double good luck omen.  You see, if Christmas fell on some other day of the week, you had to go to church on that day and again on Sunday.  This year you killed two birds with one trip to church.

I awoke Christmas morning in my 57-degree bedroom.  I know it was 57 degrees because I looked it up.  That was the outside temperature in Miami that morning and my bedroom was always the same as it was outside.  As they mentioned in the Farmers’ Almanac for that day, the snow depth was, “n/a.”  Visibility was 8 miles and the winds were out of the southeast at 11 knots.

I ran from my bed to the living room.  This activity took exactly 1 nanosecond since my bedroom door opened to the living room and our Christmas tree.  It wasn’t a big house.  I looked to the left, I looked to the right.  I couldn’t see anything after I looked to the left because of the glare.  It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the site before me.  There were actually two bicycles under the tree.  Neither one of which was my sought after English Racer.  The glare was coming from all the chrome on my new bike.

Once my eyes adjusted, I saw “The Beast.”  My new bike was not to be the requested lightweight English Racer, it was to be a 200 pound chrome laden Western Flyer.  The fenders were chrome, the seat had a chrome rail, there were two large chrome suspension springs on the front fork, there were chrome bars supporting the rear luggage carrier, there was a chrome center compartment to house the electric horn, there was a chrome headlamp, and last, but not least, the traditional chrome handle bars.  It was as if someone had taken a giant buzz saw to a Cadillac Eldorado and cut it lengthwise to make my new bike.  There were even fat, white-wall tires mounted on chrome rims.

Typical 1955 Western Flyer

If my parents were expecting squeals of delight, they were sorely disappointed.  That morning, all across Miami, children were squealing with glee because they just got a new English Racer.  On 120^th street, there was only a quizzical look from a disappointed ten year old.  On the other end of the spectrum was my brother Rick.  He had a new maroon and white bike that was somewhat non-descript.  He was delighted with his first new bike.

We thought it must be SPF.  In this case SPF has nothing to do with sunscreen.  It stands for Santa Proximity Factor.  You see, as every kid knows, Santa starts his Christmas Eve journey at the North Pole.  He then works his way south.  When he hits south Florida, SPF has taken its toll.  We figured that, by the time he hit Miami's 25th degree of Latitude, he had already consumed enough cookies and eggnog to be in a diabetic coma.  Eggnog?  Yes, we left out the traditional milk and cookies for Santa but, when the rum and eggnog went missing, dad told mom that Santa was responsible.

Santa with SPF

If my parents were trying to keep me close to home, mission accomplished.  You don’t pedal the equivalent of an Airstream trailer much further than the end of the block before exhaustion sets in.  My brother’s happiness was also turned into disappointment when he was able to over-ride the training wheels and managed to take his first tumble on the asphalt.  It was then that his brand new bike was scratched and he saw the blue paint shine through the new maroon paint job.  You see, my parents had painted my old blue bike maroon, put on new handgrips, training wheels, a new basket, a new seat, and plopped it under the tree. 
 

Believing in Santa became even harder with our new knowledge.  Actually, I think we now both knew Santa was some sort of parental con-game but came to the realization that, once you no longer believe, you can’t expect him to bring you stuff.  We would hold onto our belief a little while longer.

Well, I rode that Western Flyer tank well into high school.  You couldn’t kill those things.  I would huff and puff pedaling that humongous mechanical monstrosity the two and a half miles each way.  My friends on English Racers would fly by me.  I would lock up my bike when I got to my destination knowing that no one in their right mind would ever steal my chrome curse.  By the time I got to senior high school and my friends were driving cars, I would park my bike at the Junior High and walk the rest of the way.  The one benefit from all of this has been the fact that, to this very day, I have great looking legs.

I guess my dad was right when he said that he didn’t believe those flimsy lightweight English Racers would last.  I’m thinking that, 60 years later, all of those wimpy English Racers are now long gone but, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that someone in Jamaica is still riding my Western Flyer.  Just look for the Rastafarian with great looking legs.