A Bit of Personal Commentary—Part III

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By Seth H. Bramson

On the GROWING UP ON MIAMI BEACH list recently, one of the members, below a great picture of a man diving from the high board at the Fontainebleau, wrote that she had warm memories of Inga, the ice skating instructor at the hotel. Inge (“e” on the end of her name, not an “a”) Brandt was a lovely lady from one of the Scandinavian countries who managed the rink and gave ice skating lessons. That rink, incidentally, was one of only two ice skating rinks on Miami Beach, the other, I believe, at the Deauville.

The picture—of the Fontainebleau pool and the mention of Inge—set off a “slew” of memories of and about not only the Fontainebleau, but of my years there, a lady (one in particular, though one of many) who I met there and wanted to marry (she was “one of many” but until I met—and married—the beautiful and elegant Myrna, she was the only woman who I ever wanted to marry prior to Myrna) and an annotated noting of the woman who, after chasing her for the three years after I met her one week and one day after Thanksgiving of 1973, finally caught me, with us getting married on November 27th, 1976, almost three years to the day after we met. But more about that next issue.

My dad (may he rest in peace—smoked himself to death with the G-d Camels, several packs a day, probably having started smoking when he was about four, dying in 1961 at the age of 56) was famous for being “the sign man” on Miami Beach and made a great many contacts which served him well over the years, including a friendship with the late Harold Gardner, beloved Miami Beach publicist and long-time publicity director for the Fontainebleau.

For the summer of 1960, Dad took a share of a cabana at the ‘bleau, and I spent almost every day there, enjoying every minute of it, feeling my oats, swimming endlessly and falling in like with the sexiest and most beautiful girl I had ever met, up until that time. Her name was Nanci Grodin and I really was entranced with her. She was from Forest Hills (New York, not West Palm Beach!) and we spent a lot of time together that summer, at the end of which she went back to New York and I went back for my junior year at Beach High.

Although I did date a few Beach High girls I guess I should note at this point that it was sometime in my 10th grade year that one of the fellows who I was friendly with said to “us” (I think there were four of us who were quite close, my dear and beloved and still a great friend, Bill Sonne, was not yet part of that group) one day, “hey, I heard about this great place in the Gables—why don’t we go over there and maybe we can meet some nice girls.” Frankly, dear readers, I must share with you—and as I now tell a large number of people, including you at this moment—that there were an awful lot (not all, not most, not even a majority) of Beach High girls who were nasty, snotty and stuck up, they, believing they were “the popular kids” thought—as the late, great Neil Rogers would have opined—that “their shot don’t stank, and don’t forget to dot the i.”

Anyway, it was 1959 and the Julia Tuttle Causeway would not open until the next year, so we hiked ourselves over to Coral Gables, probably using the MacArthur, and walked into that wonderful gathering spot, much more than an ice cream parlor on Miracle Mile, “Jahn’s.” And when we walked in you could almost literally hear the murmur go through the crowd of Gables and Miami High girls who were there: “Wow! Look at this! Fresh meat from the beach!” Again, although I did date a few Beach High girls I spent—for the most part—my three years at Beach dating Gables and Miami High girls. Yes, and again, most of the Beach High girls were not the obnoxious, overbearing females (NO pejoratives—this is a family blog!) who—seriously—contributed mightily to the less than savory reputation that M B H S developed over and during those several years. Sad but true. And you know the worst part of it? Some of those nasty, unkind, close to vile females still think that they are “the popular kids” and that “their shot don’t stank,” when, in truth and fact, it now stanks worse than it did then because the little (alternative word for feces) still think that they are who they were then and neither they nor the anal-orifice males who behaved that way are, either, most of those people today simply being nasty, obnoxious over bearing anal orifices.

We (my class) graduated in ’62 and I can’t remember how it came to be that I again spent that summer at the Fontainebleau, but, happily to report, for that moment, there was Nanci Grodin again, looking better than ever and I was really enchanted with her. Again, wonderful summer memories but that time, after parting, she going to American University in D. C. and me—along with another beloved still friend, Charlie (“Epp”) Clark—went to ½ S U (you’ve heard of ½ S U) in Tallahassee, we did exchange several letters. Charlie and I were both swimmers and that part was great but oh, lordy, were they hillbillies, hicks, red necks and racists there, to the point that the NOT “fine Southern gentlemen” (anything but, those vile crackers) of the Kappa Alpha fraternity (has anything changed with them?) threw a Molotov cocktail at and on to the front porch of the T E P house. Fortunately, it did very little damage, but it will give you a good idea of what it was like there, in 1/2Assee, pre-Civil Rights Act of 1964 and pre-Radical Jack Lieberman.

Now that I have you breathless, waiting for the next installment, I will “call it a day” at this point, letting you know that in the next chapter I will regale you with my return to Miami Beach in December of ’62, enrolling in Sun Tan U and immediately going to work at the Fontainebleau.

I think you will enjoy what is on the horizon and we be “backatcha’” shortness.

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