CHAPTER 1
Budd, With Two Ds
There wasn't anything special about Oradell. Like all New Jersey boroughs, it was small. Tidy. People were friendly. Hotel Delford was built in 1870, after the Hackensack and New York Railroad's first locomotive steamed through town. Public officials hauled in a 20-foot suction dredge and reengineered the Department of Public-Works' first attempt to dig a reservoir with a clam shell bucket. By 1923, a 22-foot-high concrete dam directed the stony ground Hackensack River into the Oradell Reservoir—an engineering feat that assured pure water for Oradell's citizens. Winters were cold. Slushy. Summers were hot. Humid. All normal. Not special.
Oradell had but three claims to distinction. The first was the giant ginkgo tree on Kinderkamack Road. As the story goes, the Cooper family purchased the then tiny tree from a sea captain who transported it all the way from the Orient.
The second was Soldier Hill, where in 1780, just days before discovering General Benedict Arnold's treason, Major General Lafayette camped, during the Continental Army's foray between Englewood and Jersey City.
The American Revolutionary War was a long battle—eight years, four months, two weeks, one day. Reported casualty figures are probably too low. Yet, records note that 25,000 revolutionaries died in combat and another 25,000 perished from small pox, starving, freezing to death, or rotting on British prison ships. America spent over $150 million—all subsidized by loans and paper money "not worth a continental." Still, this war earned America's independence and Oradell's bragging rights to Soldier Hill.
Oradell's third claim to distinction began on August 25, 1924—a Monday, to be exact. On this day in history, three years after their March 5, 1921 wedding day, 30-year-old Harry Eugene Post and 26-year-old Imogene Areson Nichols Post became parents. From the moment he took his first breath, their son and only child, Howard Malvern Post, was special. Very special.
No one remembers why. But from childhood, Howard was called Budd. And that's Budd, with two Ds. Budd, with two Ds loved to be asked, "So, why do you call yourself Budd?" He would grin and say, "Because, like the beer, I'm wiser."
Budd was an obedient little boy. Handsome. Longish, thick blonde hair. Brown eyes. He liked school. From the first day of kindergarten through graduate school, he was an excellent student. Budd's mother (family and friends called her Jean) was a stay-at-home mom. Harry was an accountant. The Post family was happy. Comfortable.
After all, this was the Roaring Twenties. World War I—the war to end all wars—was over. The United States of America returned to business. With Republicans in the White House, the country prospered ...
America's population boomed to seven million. Life expectancy reached an all-time high: fifty-four years. The Dow Jones soared to 100 points. Unemployment was five percent. Average annual earnings reached $1,236. Wonder Bread sold for 9¢ a loaf, Maxwell House coffee 47¢ a pound, Wheaties—The Breakfast of Champions—10¢ a box, Hostess Cakes 25¢ a package, Baby Ruth candy bars 5¢ each.
Ignoring American's cries to "get a horse," Henry Ford increased the efficiency of his assembly lines and dropped the price of a new Model T—the horseless carriage—to $320. Gas to fuel it cost 18¢ a gallon. Just introduced red, yellow, and green electric traffic signals, complete with warning buzzers, controlled it. The nation's 387,000 miles of freshly paved roadways allowed adventure-seekers to drive from California to New York in 13 days.
Technology turned the era upside down ... electric irons, pop-up toasters, refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, home hair dryers, electric shavers, and rotary dial telephones made life easy. Radios and talking movies made life fun. Almost better, the general public could purchase "the good life" on credit.
Not to be left behind, the medical field introduced major breakthroughs ... Vitamins, sulfa drugs, penicillin, insulin, the electrocardiogram, TB vaccinations, and an immunization for scarlet fever increased life expectancy.
Convention and Victorian morality were tossed aside. A new woman shocked the nation. She was a flapper. She bobbed her hair, wore make-up, shucked her corset, and showed off short skirts. She smoked, drank, and shimmied to the Charleston. She, according to her newly liberated sisters, was the bee's knees. After all, this was the first time in history she was allowed to vote.
In America's ballparks, fans began a love affair with baseball. Babe Ruth—The Sultan of Swat—was their hero. In America's nightclubs, the jazz culture took on a beat of its own—Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald made musical improvisation mainstream.
Charles Lindberg—Lucky Lindy—completed the first solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. The first motor hotel—Motel Inn—opened in California. Macy's hosted the first Thanksgiving Day parade. MGM's lion roared on the big screen.
Clarence Birdseye, a naturalist from New York, invented frozen food. Accountant, Walter Diemer, concocted pink Double Bubble gum. A California entrepreneur by the name of Roy Allen sold the first frosty mug of A&W root beer for a nickel. White Castle opened the first fast food hamburger chain and sold small, square sliders for five cents. Kimberly-Clark announced Kleenex. Johnson & Johnson introduced the Band-Aid. But in the hearts of many Americans, Edwin Perkins of Omaha, Nebraska, created the most important invention of the era (if not all-time)—Kool-Aid.
On a macro-level, America's economy boomed. Banks loaned money. Lots of money. Borrowers spent two out of every five advanced dollars to buy stocks. On September 3, 1929, the stock market peaked. Economist Irving Fisher announced, "Stock prices have reached what looks like a permanent plateau."
On a micro-level, the Post family liked New Jersey. Harry liked his job. Jean liked their house. Budd liked school. He had friends who liked doing what little boys do—shoot marbles, ride bikes, climb trees, play in the park. Life in the Post household was good. Optimistic. Abundant. Even exuberant.
Then, on October 24, 1929—Black Thursday—the Dow lost 11 percent of its value, at opening bell. Chaos.
On October 28—Black Monday—the slide continued. By closing bell, the Dow lost another 13 percent. So many shares changed hands brokers could not record them all. More chaos.
On October 29—Black Tuesday—shouts of, "SELL! SELL! SELL!" drowned out the market's opening bell. Brokers made margin calls. Phone lines clogged. Western Union telegrams tripled in volume. Trader fistfights broke out. Investors' life savings were wiped out in a heartbeat.
By the time the market closed, more than sixteen million shares changed hands. Fifteen thousand miles of ticker tape lay curled on the trading floor. The Dow lost yet another 12 percent—over $30 billion in three days. Beyond chaos.
Along with the rest of the country, the Dow slid swiftly, steadily, solidly into the Great Depression. By year-end 1932, 13 million Americans (25 percent) were unemployed. They picked up whatever money they could—a little here, a little there. Every little bit counted. It all helped fill the common pot.
Fourteen million people lived in unheated, unsanitary, overcrowded tenements. Thousands less fortunate were forced out onto the streets. Banks closed. Factory doors were nailed shut. Mobs scrounged dirty city markets for scraps of spoiled food. Kellogg's Bran Flakes cost 10¢ a box, eggs 15¢ a dozen, and bacon 19¢ a pound. But pockets were empty. Folks stood in bread lines and flocked to soup kitchens.
Families that could afford milk toast, oatmeal mixed with lard, boiled cabbage, chicken feet simmered in water, or white bread sandwiches made with only ketchup, mayonnaise, lard, or potato peels were well off. Families that ate Spam and noodles mixed with cream of mushroom soup were rich.
The mantra of the masses was: Repair. Reuse. Make do. Never throw anything away. Mothers mended socks and sewed patches over knee-holes. New dresses, pants, and even underwear were fashioned from patterned feed and flour sacks. Younger children wore hand-me-downs.
Hobos rode the rails and begged for food at farmhouses. Bandits raided highways. Men who could no longer provide for their families pulled the trigger. Parents packed up children, veiled their pride, and moved in with extended family.
It was the Dark Ages all over again.
CHAPTER 2
Alligators and Avocados
Harry was a hard worker. Driven. He managed to hold on to his accountant's job until early 1935. But when his company went belly-up, he decided to move his wife and son to Miami Springs, Florida, where at least winters were warmer.
Harry had two possessions ... an old Model A Ford and a new hundred-dollar bill. He situated Jean and Budd in the Model A, stuffed the bill in his pocket, and drove south out of Jersey, hoping for a better life.
Interstate highways were yet to be built. Roads were constructed from rock, sand, or even shells. But the model A—Henry Ford's new Baby Lincoln—was a "miracle." Sporty. Jaunty. Sparkling. It came in four colors—tan, deep blue, olive green, maroon—each with shiny black fenders. The 3-speed gear-box required the driver to double-clutch, but no one complained. After all, it had "remarkable acceleration," cruised at forty miles an hour, and reached a top speed of fifty-five, maybe even sixty-five, miles an hour.
No one knows where the Post family stayed along the way or how they managed basic creature comforts. Uncharacteristically, Budd did not record or relay any details.
Jimmy says ...
The only thing Dad said about their trip from Jersey to Florida was how long it took—three months, to drive just over a thousand miles, down parts of U.S. 1 and A1A, in that Model A Ford. It was brutal.
We do know Harry rented an apartment, on NW 36 Street, across from Miami Jackson High School, in the Allapattah neighborhood, within the City of Miami. Allapattah was founded in 1856, when William P. Wagner, the earliest permanent "white" citizen, arrived from Charleston, South Carolina.
Mr. Wagner established a homestead on a hammock alongside Miami Rock Ridge and borrowed the Seminole Indian word meaning alligator to name his new home. It seemed appropriate. After all, during the 1800s, alligators and avocados were neighbors.
When the Post family arrived in 1934, Allapattah was predominately a "white" neighborhood. Folks were friendly. Neighborly. Palm trees lined streets. No one thought twice about walking downtown. (When it rained, Jean spent a dime and rode the bus.) Crime was but a word in the dictionary.
Allapattah was a typical 1930s small town. The five-and-dime store, with its metal cash register, candy counter, and creaky wooden floor, sold brooms, dustpans, tin pepper boxes, gravy strainers, biscuit cutters, flour dredges, egg whips, apple corers, pie plates, tack hammers, boot blacking, baseballs, pencil charms, lined writing tablets, shaving brushes, jewelry (mostly red), candle sticks, handkerchiefs, needles, thread, even police whistles. Most gadgets cost a nickel—maybe a dime. Expensive items, though, sold for 20¢.
The Live and Let Live Drugstore's large display windows were trimmed with crepe paper. Ailing customers could buy everything from Ex-Lax, Mercurochrome, and Sloan's Liniment, to mustard plaster and toothache remedies. Lucky Strike and Old Gold cigarettes cost a quarter, for two packs. King Edward el cheapo cigars cost a nickel, for two. Premium Perfecto Garcia cigars cost a quarter, for two. The step-on, black and white, "guaranteed accurate weight" Toledo scale was free.
The Double Kay Nut Machine, heated by two large light bulbs, was filled with fresh, warm peanuts, cashews, and mixed nuts. A magazine rack stood next to it. Everybody liked Life and Look. Men bought Gangster and Popular Science. Women snuck in for True Confessions. Kids sat on the floor and read Batman, Robin, Superman, and Wonder Woman comics.
Wall cases displayed cosmetics—Coty lipstick and Armand face powder and rouge were especially popular. Gifts were located next to cosmetics. Customers bought Evening in Paris gift sets, wrapped in fancy paper, and Chantilly cologne for women; boxed billfolds for men; Sheaffer pen sets for grads; cups, spoons, and booties for babies. Gift cards cost a quarter.
The pharmacy, where the druggist mixed prescriptions, was a separate room in the back of the store. He shook powders into a pestle, ground them with a mortar, spooned the mixture into small papers, folded the papers in half, and turned up the corners. He typed labels, one at a time.
Then, there was the Allapattah public library, shoe repair shop, funeral home, movie house, Screwball bar, Al's restaurant, jewelry store, and Baptist Church. That was it.
Harry's very first day in Florida was busy. He got up early, grabbed a quick breakfast, and hit the streets, looking for a job. Eight hours later, he opened the door to their apartment and grinned at Jean. "Lost it," Harry said.
"Lost what?"
"My hundred-dollar bill."
Well, Harry's hundred-dollar bill was long gone. Jean glared. She retreated to the kitchen and stirred her soup. Fast.
Harry followed her. "Lighten up, Jean. I'm the brand new salesman for Miami Stationery Company," he said.
Not an accountant's job, but at least he could earn a living.
Harry was a hard worker. Determined. Driven. Time passed. Harry's accounts grew. His client relationships blossomed.
As so happened, one of Harry's clients—Jackson Memorial Hospital—heard about his accounting background and hired him to work in their accounting department. Eventually, Harry was promoted to head accountant.
But Harry's career path didn't stop in accounting.
Jimmy says ...
My grandfather was a good businessman. As time passed, Jackson Hospital had financial difficulties that included inventory control problems. All kinds of stuff just disappeared. Well, to date, the hospital administrator had been a doctor. But the governing board had enough. They revolted and decided to kick him out. The board needed a business person to run the business side of the hospital, so they promoted my grandfather to be Jackson Memorial Hospital's first non-physician administrator.
Back in the '30s, that was a very big deal.
CHAPTER 3
Nowhere. Nothing.
The Post family lived in their apartment about a year before Harry bought a large lot and contracted with Tommy Tompkins to build a house at 871 Lake Drive in Miami Springs, Florida.
The house was tiny—a conventional 1938 CBS (composite building style) one-story, with a tile roof, three bedrooms, one bath, screened-in porch, detached two-car garage. Its claim to fame was it was the second house built in the western half of Miami Springs.
The Post property was off South Royal Poinciana Boulevard, across from Deleon Park. It was the largest lot on the lake. Actually, two lakes flowed into the Miami River. Lake Drive split them; a big pipe connected them.
During the '30s, the area was on the edge of the Everglades. It was, basically, nowhere, with nothing around. Still, just north of what was then called Pan American Field, the neighborhood was fresh. Growing.
In 1927, Pan American Airways' executives decided to move their base of operations from Key West to Miami. So, they purchased 116 acres along NW 36 Street from the Seminole Fruit and Land Company. When, in 1928, their airport was complete, Pan American Field boasted two hard-surfaced runways and two hangars.
Pan Am's inaugural flight took off September 15, 1928, when Captain Edwin Musick piloted a Sikorsky-38 to Havana via Key West. During its first year of operation, Pan American Field handled around 8,000 passengers and 20 tons of cargo. (During 2012, almost 28 million passengers and two million tons of cargo passed through what was by then called Miami International Airport—MIA for short.)
Pan Am's original terminal building (purchase price: fifty grand) was the first passenger facility of its type in the United States. It was a two-story, reinforced concrete structure, with a high-domed ceiling and numerous large windows. Passenger services and amenities were on the lower level. Offices and a balcony, with an impressive view of the airfield, were on the upper level.
Jimmy says ...
My grandparents were trailblazers. Visionaries. Their neighborhood was out in the woods, on the edge of civilization. But I'm confident they believed it would change.
The location was perfect for Dad—fishing, swimming, and a park with a baseball field, were a stone's throw away. Eventually, the City of Miami even built Miami Springs Golf and Country Club in the area. Dad loved going to the Everglades. He loved the outdoors, period.
Dad also loved guns. Back when he was a kid, everybody had a shotgun. He didn't venture into the Everglades without one—he'd be a darned fool if he did. Huge snakes were everywhere. I have a picture of my grandmother standing in their yard, over a water moccasin, with a shotgun. The snake was deader than a doornail. Grandma was a fiery old broad—not afraid of anything.
