SUNDAY MORNINGS when I was a kid meant a drive across Miami. We lived in the southwest section; my paternal grandparents lived in the northeast section. We made that drive every Sunday and spent the day there, leaving after dinner.
We come north on Brickell Avenue, as I recall, across the small bridge over the Miami River into downtown, then progressed up Biscayne Boulevard toward their house. We’d pass the McCallister Hotel, where the Dodgers stayed when they were in town for spring training, right at the corner where Flagler Street terminated into U.S. 1. On the right was the big park next to the bay where the large public library stood at the southern end. Between the northbound lanes and the southbound lanes were several lanes just for parking.
Biscayne Boulevard was a cement highway and I loved the staccato sound the car tires made as they crossed the many connective edges between the solid areas. Causeways led off to the east and crossed Biscayne Bay to Crandon Park or Miami Beach. Before long we were beyond downtown and nearing my grandparent’s home on a quiet little street of old people. I never saw another kid in that neighborhood, no bicycles or skates, no raucous children’s voices or screaming parents. Just old people.
Their yard was full of wonderful plants. The front lawn was so thick it was spongy. Multi-colored crotons filled in beneath the living room window. A tall white melaleuca tree had peeling, paperlike bark and if you tore the thick, narrow leaves in half, they smelled like Vicks vapor rub. There were two tall, curving coconut palms that seemed always to be producing big bunches of coconuts that my grandfather and I would tear open, freeing the actual coconut from the thick husk, then cut up the white meat and put it in the refrigerator for a snack.
The whole length of the backyard was a hibiscus hedge with flowers in many wonderful, bright colors. Fruit trees abounded: grapefruit, orange, banana, mango, even avocado. There was an ixora hedge along the side of the house filled with small reddish-pink flowers. Then, right under the porch window where my grandfather’s chair was, a fragrant gardenia bush perfumed the air.
As it should be, my grandparent’s love for my sister and me was clear to us, unconditional and without reservation. Someone once said that the reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy. At any rate, my enduring memory of my grandparents is their beautiful, homely faces, which shone with their love for us.