- September 6, 2024
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As he told it, the day before Harold Ronson shipped out to the Philippines, courtesy of the U.S. Navy during World War II, his commanding officer gave him and his buddies leave for the night. They headed to the Hollywood Canteen, where a “lovely creature” asked him to dance.
That woman was 19-year-old Ava Gardner, and it was an experience Ronson said he would never forget.
Or there’s the time when he got court-martialed for accidentally firing a 40-millimeter cannon into a beach after falling asleep on watch duty. Luckily, his captain knew it was an accident and withdrew it from his file. Ronson said it was a shame; he would have liked to read the charge against him.
Or the time he got kicked out of his dog’s obedience class for making one too many wisecracks. That left it to his wife to train the dog, which she did well. Ronson said he never had to worry about her when he traveled for work, but that dog never did warm up to him.
From his humble upbringing in Brooklyn to his success running his own business, Ronson had a story for everything, and he was willing to tell it to anyone who would listen.
And if you were lucky enough to hear him tell it, you’d know that life through his eyes was an enchanting mix of comedy, hard work and luck — and he enjoyed every bit of it.
Ronson died July 15 at his L’Ambiance condominium on Longboat Key. He was 98 and is survived by two daughters, Norma and Joanne, his two grandchildren, Lauren and Jonathan, and his great-grandchild, Jackson.
Although Ronson was known for his stories, which were as colorful and full of personality as he was, he was also a larger-than-life character to his friends, family and the causes he cared about. He had a unique ability to make others feel special and gave generously in all aspects of his life.
“I had the pleasure and honor of knowing my father for 67 years,” said his daughter, Norma Ronson Koppel. “He was a proud Jew, and he was a devoted husband, father and grandfather. He taught me to make every moment count and to never take life too seriously.”
In 1926 in Brooklyn, Ronson was born into a family that struggled to make ends meet. According to his 2013 memoir, “The Way I Tell the Story,” his mother died when he was 14. After that, he lived with his father, who drove a cab at night and was more reliable for good times than parenting.
As a teen during World War II, Ronson was inspired by his two older brothers’ service in the armed forces. At the age of 17, Ronson forged his father’s signature on a consent form to join the U.S. Navy.
As Ronson told it, a friend told him he should join the Navy instead of the Marines so he could stay out of the infantry. “Yeah, he was a smart guy all right. He told me to join the Navy to avoid combat, and I wound up on Iwo Jima,” Ronson said.
From 1944 to 1946, Ronson served at Iwo Jima and in the Philippines.
His time in the military netted him his best material for stories. And, although he saw horrific things and survived a great deal, he always kept an eye looking toward the lighter side of life.
Close friend Ken Tarasi said one of Ronson’s favorite stories was about his experience on the ship that took him across the Pacific Ocean to Iwo Jima.
“I saw a picture of it on his wall in the den,” said Tarasi. “I thought, ‘That looks like a giant ship.’ But then you get closer to it and realize that it’s not a very big ship at all. When Harold got on that ship, he thought it was going to take them to a bigger ship. But then he found out that he was actually going to be stuck on that tiny ship with 30 big guys. He loved telling stories like that.”
Another story Ronson told frequently was about how he got his nickname, “Cookie.” According to his memoir, when the ship’s cook fell ill, Ronson was tapped to fill in.
Knowing nothing about cooking, he set pork loins to roast. After spending too much time talking up on the deck, he came down to the kitchen to find the meat burned beyond saving. Looking around, he decided to use a can of mincemeat to make hamburgers for his fellow servicemen instead.
Of course, not knowing that mincemeat is flammable, when he placed his “burgers” on the stovetop they exploded, setting the whole galley on fire.
As Ronson told it, he was a religious cook: Everything he made was a burnt offering.
After returning home, Ronson was working in the warehouse of a textile company when some co-workers urged him to go back to school. Heeding their advice, he used the G.I. Bill to attend the Philadelphia Textile Institute at Philadelphia College, now Thomas Jefferson University, from 1946 to 1951. He was the first in his family to go to college.
After graduating with a degree in chemistry, he became a plant chemist for W. Lowenthal, a synthetic fiber company in Cohoes, New York.
One of his longtime friends on Longboat Key, David Novak, said, as Ronson told it, the company’s president saw he was a go-getter and told him someday he would end up owning the company.
In 1962, that’s exactly what happened, when Ronson bought the company with a group of stockholders. In the 1970s, he bought out his partners and became the sole owner.
In his memoir, Ronson recalled that the company had been losing money for 11 years. In Ronson’s first month at the helm, it made $6,000. He continued to increase the productivity of his plant and expanded the business to South Carolina. Throughout his career, he had a knack for finding opportunities and for winning over those who could help him.
“There’s a reason you fail in life,” Ronson wrote. “There’s a reason you fail in marriage. There’s a reason you fail in your work, and the formula is very simple. You’ve got to devote yourself to what has to be done, not what you want to do.”
But, always a people person, he credited most of his success to his relationships with others — and a little to luck as well.
It was both that resulted in him selling his business to Hanes Co. in 1984. A chance encounter with the company’s president in the Atlanta airport led to striking a deal to sell a month later. At the time, most of the textile mills in the U.S. were closing. Without consulting his lawyer or accountant, Ronson took the deal as it was offered and retired a few months later.
In 1976, Ronson and his late wife, Kay, became snowbirds on Longboat Key.
The Ronsons loved the Sarasota Opera, for which Ronson served on the board for nearly 20 years, and he played tennis almost religiously at the Longboat Key Club — even after three hip replacements.
Even after he stopped playing tennis at 94, he would meet with his tennis friends once a week for lunch. After he stopped driving, his friends were happy to pick him up and take him wherever he wanted to go.
His friend Hein Rusen described Ronson as always cheerful.
“He viewed the world as the glass always being half full,” said Rusen. “He was a real people person and loved his wife, family and friends dearly. He was a very generous person and a very caring person.”
Ronson described Kay and his two daughters as the loves of his life. He never missed an opportunity to brag about them and his grandkids.
When Kay fell ill with Alzheimer’s, Ronson took care of her at home as long as he could. When she was moved to a facility, Ronson had lunch with her daily for the nearly five years until she died in 2012.
Erin McLeod, president and CEO of the Senior Friendship Centers, said Ronson had a special relationship with the organization after a tennis buddy talked him into attending a support group for caregivers. This introduction eventually led him to co-chair the organization’s annual gala with his partner, Molly Schechter. In keeping with Ronson’s sense of humor, each gala incorporated a theme featuring Groucho Marx, one of Ronson’s comedic heroes.
“They really helped put us on the map philanthropically,” McLeod said of Ronson and Schechter. “He either had really good info on people, or they just really loved him. I tend to think it was the latter.”
Although he came to the organization as a caregiver, McLeod said Ronson saw it in a different light later on in life. Ronson would come to the downtown Sarasota center three days a week to dance and socialize with others. She said it was special to witness him expanding his circle and meeting people he probably wouldn’t come across otherwise.
And she’s grateful the organization could give back to the lovable raconteur who had done so much for it.
“He was here for us,” McLeod said. “And then we got to be there for him.”
To ensure a safe haven for seniors, Ronson partnered with Rusen to create a $2 million endowment at the Senior Friendship Centers.
The Ronsons supported many causes in the area and up North. At his alma mater, Thomas Jefferson University, he donated $2 million to create The Kay and Harold Ronson Health and Applied Science Center. At Kay’s alma mater, Russell Sage College, Ronson and his daughters established a graduate nursing scholarship fund in her honor.
Ronson said his deep belief in philanthropy came from his mother, and he wanted to give away as much as possible. Novak said one of Ronson’s favorite jokes was that when he writes his last check, which will be to the undertaker, he hopes it will bounce.
The atrium at the Sarasota Opera is named for the Ronsons, as is an endowment for nursing education at Sarasota Memorial Healthcare Foundation, in honor of Kay and her profession.
“In all his donations, there was never any question as to whose name was going to go first,” Novak said.
In 2023, Ronson donated $500,000 to Temple Beth Israel, which is the biggest contribution in its history. On Feb. 25, the 45th annual Temple Beth Israel gala honored Ronson for his many contributions throughout the years.
When thinking back to the eight years he knew Harold Ronson, Isaac Azerad, executive director of Temple Beth Israel, could only think to describe him as the Hebrew word “dakka.”
“In Judaism, philanthropy is not charity,” said Azerad. “In Judaism, it is something called ‘dakka.’ Dakka is an act of righteousness. That’s his biggest impact, how he was so forthcoming with righteousness toward the temple.”
Two times in his life, Ronson tried to visit Iwo Jima again but only made it as far as Los Angeles. It was too emotional for him to continue on those journeys. But in 2018, he traveled back to the island with Schechter.
The bittersweet trip allowed him to pay homage to his fellow soldiers who died fighting there. It also made him grateful for everything he had experienced in life after he came back to America.
Although humble in spirit, Ronson wasn’t shy about his successes. Schechter said he took great pride in his straight stance and youthful physique and dressed with style right to the end.
McLeod said the last time she saw him, Ronson was flexing his bicep and urging her to feel how firm his muscles still were.
Yet that playful personality was balanced with a genuine love and deep caring for those around him.
“He was proud of his accomplishments, but they never came at the expense of others,” said Novak, who believed Ronson led a “perfect life.”
But, as usual, perhaps Ronson told it best: “I like to be somebody; I like people to know me. I like to leave a mark,” he wrote in his memoir. “What better feeling is there than to help somebody?”
