The Bramson Archive Gets Larger & Larger Part VI
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By Seth H. Bramson
Before we continue, a few (or more) words to express my aggravation of and from the last several days. Suddenly, last Thursday morning August 30th, we were fresh out of computer…and telephone…and television. Myrna had already left for work and I had to leave for school so figured I would handle it when I got home. Tuesdays and Thursdays this term are my long days: in the office by 12 then one hour and 20 minute classes from 1 till 2:20 and 4 till 5:20. Fortunately, and even with 25 in each of the three classes (one on M—W—F) I love what I’m doing so that makes it fun as well as enriching.
At any rate, got home and “none of the above” were working. Finally reaching a human—in India—at A T & T, I was told that somebody would be here on Saturday between 12 and 2. He didn’t come until three and was here for three hours. Meantime, no computer, TV or phones for three days. I was not a happy camper.
Now that I’ve shared that mischigass with you we can get back to continuing from where we left off last time, which was, briefly, a look at earning my Bachelor’s Degree at Cornell (only took seven years!) and teaching at St. Thomas and Barry University with a mention of meeting Myrna and going to New York to run the famous New York Gaslight Club.
Because my heart was in control and not my head, I allowed myself (my fault entirely, no one to blame but me) to be jerked around by the not-so-nice Italian girl from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, even though I dated some pretty terrific young women from the time I got home in December of ’69 until that fateful night, one week and one day after Thanksgiving of 1973 which would change my life forever.
I was invited to a party by Roberta Waller, who also lived on Biscayne Point, not as a date but just as an invitation. I called my friend, Butch Stallings, and invited him to join me, telling him that maybe we could meet some nice women there, since the party, in far South Dade County, would be mostly teachers.
We drove down there one week and one day after Thanksgiving, 1973 (I think it was November 30th) and I walked around for about half an hour, not meeting anybody of interest. At that point, ready to leave, I went to the front door, put my hand on the door handle and then realized that I couldn’t leave without Butch. I turned around and suddenly the room went dark except for a floodlight coming down on this incredibly stunning woman on the other side of the room. I was stultified, frozen in place, and couldn’t take my eyes off of her. All of a sudden Butch came up to me, grabbed me by the forearm and said, “do you wanna’ meet her?!!” I said, “Do you know her?!!” to which he replied, “Don’t worry about it” and proceeded to drag me across the room.
He grabbed her by the forearm and said “What’s your name?!!” and as she looked up and smiled she said, “Myrna!” And Butch, in one of the most classical introductions that I have ever seen, heard about or been a part of said, “Myrna, this is your new friend Seth! Seth, this is your new friend Myrna! Now you can’t say you haven’t been properly introduced.” My knees felt like pudding, but that, dear readers, is truly how stunning she was.
At first I thought to myself that as much as I wanted to ask her out, she probably lived “down here” way south and was, therefore, geographically undesirable (g u), but overcoming my momentary reticence I said to myself, “what the hell?!!” and asked her for her phone number. She smiled and said “864….” “864….” I repeated, almost with a gasp, “that’s a North Beach number. Where do you live?” And the answer delighted me: “In the Treasure House in North Bay Village!” “Oh my god,” I said, as I fumbled over the words, “that’s incredible—I live on Biscayne Point.!”
She gave me her number and a day or two later I called her. When I picked her up for our first date I was as stunned as I was on our meeting night: she was still gorgeous! On our third date I took her to my house on Biscayne Point to “show her the collection.” Taking her out to the glassed-in back porch, which had become “the railroad room,” with lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams and book shelves on the south wall filled with volumes and file cabinets stuffed with timetables and more (there was, of course, more in the utility room as well as in my room!) and wanting to impress this beautiful babe, I said, “well, what do you think?!!”
With that, she did three complete pirouettes, looking carefully around the room as she turned in three—360 degree circles. I, standing there rubbing my hands together, thinking to myself that this would be no problem at all and that I had it made with this one. That, however, was until she stopped, turned, looked at me and said, “what is all this junk? Why don’t you clean this place up and throw all this stuff out?!!”
That certainly was unexpected, but it did give me an opening to explain what all that “junk” was and why it was anything but “junk” which time and rarity have certainly proven.
And now, all, we’ll be back with you to continue in a few days, since I know you are on the edge of your collective seats awaiting “the rest of the story,” during which time I chased her for three years until she caught me, but more on that and the writing of my first book, “Speedway to Sunshine: The Story of the Florida East Coast Railway,” now the Company’s official history, next time, noting only that this coming November 27th will be “42 glorious years of marriage.” Myrna, of course, usually says, (with a smile, of course!), “they haven’t been so glorious!” And even if some were and some weren’t here we are coming up on 45 years after we met and 42 years after we married, still together and planning to stay that way.
Love to all of you and hoping you had a safe Labor Day. All good things always.
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