A Very Special Moment In Time – Debunking the Orange Blossom Myth Part IV
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By Seth H. Bramson
As was noted in our last several columns, the orange blossom myth is and always has been a fable and a fairy tale, a story told by those seeking to attract new travelers, farmers and residents to the shores of Biscayne Bay. While it always had a certain allure, it was easy to dissect it and prove its unlikelihood if not its complete lack of veracity. Think about it! Would Florida’s greatest name simply extend his railroad sixty miles because a woman who was the daughter of old family friends sent him some orange blossoms? Not even a chance!
The previous columns noted the progression of events leading to the eventual extension of the Florida East Coast Railway to the shores of Biscayne Bay and documented the occurrences (particularly the great freezes of December, 1894 and January and February, 1895) which led to Henry Flagler’s bringing the railroad to the as yet unnamed settlement which, in July of 1896 would become the City of Miami. And Julia Tuttle, along with Mary Brickell, the two mothers of Miami, did not—ever—send Mr. Flagler some orange blossoms!
The arrival of the railroad on April 15, 1896 with the first train—a construction train—coming into the area which would become Miami several months later was followed one week later by the first passenger train. While Miami historian Larry Wiggins wrote an article for the Tequesta magazine of the Historical Museum discussing and using original issues of the Miami Metropolis, the city’s first newspaper, as documentation, the facts as stated by the FEC do not support the conclusions drawn by Mr. Wiggins regarding the dates of the first trains. Not only do the FEC’s official documents clearly state the arrival date as April 15, but no less an icon of Miami history than Isidor Cohen, Miami’s first permanent Jewish settler, who arrived on February 6, 1896, also gives the date as April 15, noting that when the first passenger train arrived a week later he was there to shake Mr. Flagler’s hand.
In any event, Miami, without ever having been a village, town or incorporated area of any kind, sprang into existence as a full blown city on July 28, 1896, with (depending on the account) 343, 344 or 345 of the 502 eligible voters (including a good few black men) deciding on and voting for, incorporation. Sadly and unhappily, within just a few years, segregation would rear its ugly and vile head and the black people of Miami were relegated to decades of life as second class citizens. The aforementioned Mr. Cohen, incidentally, was one of the signers of the city’s charter.
Stepping back in time for a moment, it should also be noted that the aforementioned Metropolis first saw the light of day with the publication of its first issue on April 15, 1896, one month before the arrival of the first train. There are three known copies of that first issue, two of which are in the Historical Museum, while the third reposes regally in The Bramson Archive, which, of course, is the largest private collection of Miami memorabilia and Floridiana in America and may be viewed by appointment.
Several months passed as Miami went through the rituals of birth, electing a mayor and council, appointing a marshall and making plans for growth. Mr. Flagler, meanwhile, was also busy, as, keeping his promise to Julia Tuttle and William Brickell as part of their contractual arrangements, he had his forces hard at work on Miami’s first great hostelry, the fabled Royal Palm Hotel.
The Royal Palm was a very special entity, for as soon as it opened the five story hotel, which cost $750,000 to construct and which could accommodate 600 guests, was the center of Miami’s social life and would remain so during the entirety of its much too brief life. Opening with a grand and gala ball on December 31, 1896 and receiving her first guests that night and on the next morning, January 1, 1897, the magnificent wooden hotel, with golf links, bowling, fine dining and all of the other amenities then expected of a Flagler property would be ravaged by the 1926 hurricane, remaining shuttered until a brief few weeks during the 1928 season when the FEC Hotel Company made one last, brief effort to revitalize the aging property. Closing for good, the hotel was torn down in 1930 but the orange blossom myth would be accepted by certain local faux historians until first debunked by this writer in a 1972 article.
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