A Dying Breed
Left: Joyce Tarilton Sandell, author’s mother. Right: Jane Tarilton Lewis, author’s aunt.
Miami, circa 1946.
My Aunt Jane died a few weeks ago, and with her passing went the last of that generation. Both of my parents have been dead for years now, so Aunt Jane acted as a kind of surrogate mother to my sister and me. Never mind the fact that I’m 60 and my sister is 63. We all need a mama, no matter how old we are, and Aunt Jane played the part beautifully.
Born in Miami, in 1929, my aunt was one of a dying breed of “Old Miamians” who still have a very soft, understated southern drawl, and pronounce “Miami” as “Miamah” (the phonetic version: My-am-ah). To hear someone pronounce it that way is a sure giveaway that they are an old native from there. Miami was once a simpler place, a slower-paced place, as opposed to the hustle and bustle of big cities elsewhere. But, as Miami grew, it was no longer viewed as a southern town in the tropics, but an international Mecca instead. Gone were the billboards that enticed people to visit Miami with a cartoon drawing of a woman on the beach, and a friendly alligator sitting on the sand close to her holding a glass of orange juice. Instead, they’ve been replaced by billboards with pictures of neon-lit Art Deco hotels, and beautiful people buzzing by in million dollar boats. The days of a laid-back, tranquil Miami vacation that was affordable to everyone have long since passed. Now, it’s a glittering, high dollar destination for the affluent jet set. And that makes me sad.
I miss old Miami, and my aunt did, too. I loved hearing my mother and aunt talking about the good ol’ days there, and how easy and simple life was for them growing up. Their home was on Miami Beach, and I remember Mama telling me how they used to keep the door unlocked on their sun porch, and that their friends used to let themselves in to play records and dance, whether anyone was home or not. People weren’t suspicious of strangers, or constantly in defense mode. If you wanted to go fishing, you simply took your rod and reel and walked into someone’s back yard – whether you knew them or not – to sit upon their seawall and catch a fine snapper or two. There weren’t security cameras all around, or gated communities. There was no need for them. And I can’t remember either woman telling me that their homes had been burglarized or anyone they knew murdered.
A piece of old Miami passed away with my aunt, as it does with every old Miamian who has been around long enough to remember Lemon City, Burdines department stores, the Crandon Park zoo, and the Orange Bowl parade. But time marches on, taking with it generation after generation. And now I’m part of my family’s “older generation”. Just thinking about that makes my back and knees ache, and reminds me to take my Metamucil.
As Betti Davis once said, “Getting old ain’t for sissies.” Nor is watching the changes take place that wipe away all recognizable vestiges of your old home town. But, that’s life. And death.
All things considered, I don’t have too much to complain about. I loved growing up in Miami, when there was still a little bit of “Old Miami” left. And I loved growing up with two of the best true Miami golden girls who ever graced the shores of Biscayne Bay. I shall miss my aunt terribly, along with the rest of my family who is long gone. I just hope they’re saving a seat for me to cast a line from on a heavenly seawall.