The Hidden Beauty of Spring Ephemerals in the Appalachians

Why is finding these small, delicate flowers so satisfying that I go looking for them every year?

Virginia Spring Beauties have a delicate pink stripe down the center of their white petals. Photos © Moxie Gardiner.

We have a cabin in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, deep inside an area of West Virginia called “Valley and Ridge” by geologists. The land undulates here in soft folds, like a rumpled baby’s blanket. The forests are still wild and unspoiled, and perpetually covered with dead fall and a thick mat of leaves.

A favorite springtime ritual here is to take an early morning hike in search of the earliest harbingers of the season—the wildflowers known as “spring ephemerals.” These small flowers usually bloom just after the last snow melt, but before the first cluster of leaves opens on the trees.

Who doesn’t love the rich purples of the ubiquitous spring violets?

These perennials are called “ephemeral” because they bloom and disappear quickly, then reappear the following spring almost to the day. They are most often found in rich, moist undisturbed woodlands, and rarely found elsewhere. They are impossible to cultivate because once they are moved, they quickly die.

Although it’s name sounds dangerous, the cutleaf toothwort is a dainty little flower.

As a new Master Naturalist, I was curious about why I was unable to carefully dig up one of these precious plants, and successfully move it to my wildflower garden. After doing a bit of research, I learned something quite interesting.

It turns out that wooded properties are ideal for something called myrmecochory, a fancy word for seed dispersal by ants. Ants are attracted to the seeds of spring ephemerals and carry them back to their nests, where the fatty appendages attached to the seeds are consumed by the young. The seeds themselves are discarded and thrown into a rich “trash heap” that stimulates germination of the seeds. Neither the ant colony nor the discarded seeds are ever far from each other, hence the same flowers pretty much grow in the same spot every year.

Hidden beneath the Spicebush forest along the banks of Sleepy Creek, is a cornucopia of spring ephemerals.
Mayapples are up along the creek but not yet blooming.

Knowing this, I was even more eager to begin my search this morning, and set off when the sun was at a low angle, reflecting off the merrily rolling creek. As I walked along the banks, I spotted the first bluets, mayapples, coltsfoot, Virginia spring beauties, tiny violets, and of course, dandelions. Bees buzzed about the pussywillow bush, where they were busy gathering the first nectar of the season.

Unspotted were the yellow trout lilies, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Dutchman’s breeches with their funny trouser-like flowers, or rue anemone with its feathery leaves—all of which are native to this part of the country. A few times we have found that most favored of West Virginian delicacies—morel mushrooms—nearby, but not today. The weather conditions have to be just right.

These bluets are so tiny they are easily overlooked on the forest floor.

As I wrapped up the search I asked myself, why is finding these small, delicate flowers so satisfying that I go looking for them every year? Is it because they are elusive and short-lived? Or is it because in a world of big, beautiful showy flowers, they are overlooked and unloved, which makes me love them more? Perhaps, like all hidden treasures, it is the search itself that makes the quest to find ephemerals so intriguing.

Over the next couple of months, spring will unfold in all its glory, with lilacs and cherry trees and daffodils and tulips covering the landscape in a wash of color. Let’s not forget to let our gaze fall downward, to take in the small beauties that lie at our feet. In a world with plenty of distractions, it is so easy to overlook the small but important stuff.

The bees had no problems finding the pussywillows as soon as they flowered.

What are the hallmarks of spring for you? Whether it is Easter Eggs, daffodils, or the first pitch on Opening Day, I’d love to hear from you, in the comment section below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

After Fifty Years, a Different Vietnam

Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon, fifty years after reunification. (All photos are copyright Moxie Gardiner.)

When I was developing the character of Joey, a despondent Army veteran for my novel Virgin Snow, I found it necessary to research and reflect upon the sad time in American history when we were engaged in a war with North Vietnam. The conflict had long-term and debilitating effects on many American military members who served there in support of South Vietnam in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and a devastating impact on what would eventually become the unified nation of Vietnam.

I remember the scenes of the chaotic US withdrawal from Vietnam in 1975, with helicopters landing on rooftops, trying to extricate as many remaining Americans and South Vietnamese allies from Saigon as possible. Back then, newspaper articles and nightly TV broadcasts told us the story of how the war ended, but not what happened next. 

In the process of trying to capture the effect of the war on my novel’s character, I grew more curious about this aspect of the historical record: how had the country of Vietnam fared over the past five decades? I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to travel to this part of the world recently to see for myself how things had progressed.

Motorbikes now crowd the streets of Vietnam’s cities.

It became quite obvious within hours of our arrival that tourism is now a major contributor to the Vietnamese economy, at least in the big cities. Hotels and restaurants are filled with tourists, and buses and taxis jockey with endless swarms of motorbikes for space on the highways. It’s difficult to navigate Hanoi’s city streets on foot because sidewalks are jammed with parked scooters, street food sellers, and bewildered-looking tourists trying to read maps in a language they cannot decipher. Crossing the street was perilous, and we were advised to venture forward “like sticky rice,” that is, all in one big clump. We had the chance to visit important cultural sites like the Temple of Literature in Hanoi, beautiful Ha Long Bay, and the Independence Palace in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), but thanks to our fellow tourists, the lines and the wait could be long. 

Mysterious Ha Long Bay is one of the many places of natural beauty in Vietnam attracting tourists.

A friend and I landed in Hanoi in mid-February buffeted about by winds. Our views of the sprawling city, once the target of American B-52 bombers, were obscured by drizzling rain. Once on the streets, our driver was surrounded by thousands of motorbikes snaking through traffic as we crawled toward our hotel, and as we looked about, we saw a curious blend of structures both ancient and modern, including hallmarks of colonialism (French), communism and, these days, capitalism. Perhaps the most amusing sight was the motorbikes equipped with little umbrellas, intended solely to shield mobile phones from the sometimes scorching sun.

Vietnamese Airlines was clean, friendly and efficient.

Tourism is not the only sign of prosperity in this country of nearly 100 million people. I asked our tour guide (“Just call me V”) what he considered to be the most important changes in Vietnam over the past 50 years, and the first thing “V” mentioned was the government’s decision in 1986 to move from a centrally planned economy to a market-based one. The economic reforms that resulted from that decision led to rapid growth, urbanization and infrastructure development which continues to this day, making Vietnam one of the fastest growing economies in the world. (Just check the label on an item of clothing you recently purchased, and you’ll see what I mean.) 

Young barista making egg coffee.

Separate and apart from the statistics, there is a vitality here that is infectious. Nearly half of the Vietnamese population is under the age of 25, and young people dominate the streets of the big cities. American and European brand names are ubiquitous, as are coffee shops and electronics stores. Vietnam is now a major coffee producer, and the coffee shops have gotten creative in developing distinctive flavors for their young clients. My favorite was “salty cream coffee,” but the coconut and egg coffees were pretty good too.

Nothing surprised me more, however, than how warm and welcoming the Vietnamese people were to us Americans. Much has been done in the past fifty years to heal the wounds of the conflict that killed or maimed so many on both sides. Programs to find and repatriate the remains of our missing soldiers and airmen, to support orphanages for the descendants of Vietnamese soldiers and citizens, and to detect and remove the land mines and unexploded bombs that dotted the landscape, have gone a long way towards improving relations between our countries, as have the visits of a number of US Presidents after the conclusion of hostilities. 

Everywhere we went we were greeted by smiles.

As I wrap up my trip here, I cannot help but leave impressed, not only by the cultural and physical beauty of Vietnam, but also by the spiritual beauty of the Vietnamese people. While the Vietnamese still remember and honor the sacrifices made by their ancestors during the many conflicts that led to their independence, they have been able to move on and establish healthy relationships with former enemies. Forgiveness is an important element of Buddhist philosophy, and although Buddhism is not an official religion in Vietnam, its teachings are practiced by many. 

Grotto with Buddha shrine on Marble Mountain.

These practitioners believe that letting go of the past is a way to end suffering, and to bring peace and harmony into one’s life. If more people would practice this philosophy, I believe the world would be a far better place. How about you? Please leave your thoughts in the comment section below. 

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

For the Buffalo Bills, It’s Like Groundhog Day

The morning after the Buffalo Bills lost to the Kansas City Chiefs in the AFC Championship game, I saw the “Agony of Defeat” on many faces.

The opening montage of ABC’s Wide World of Sports.

Everyone of a certain age remembers the montage at the beginning of the ABC network’s “Wide World of Sports,” a popular TV program that ran for four decades. The 1970s version of the show’s opening featured athletes of various sports celebrating “the Thrill of Victory,” followed by a clip of a solitary young man flying down a ski jump, hands behind his back, appearing to have everything under control—until he didn’t. He falls backwards, spins sideways, and to everyone’s horror, begins to cartwheel out of control, hitting the wood platform, flags and spectators as he goes tumbling off and down the steep slope. The young man’s name was Vinko Bogataj, and his misfortune at an international tournament in Germany will forever be synonymous with the phrase so grimly intoned by the show’s announcer: “The Agony of Defeat.”


The morning after the Buffalo Bills lost — again — to the Kansas City Chiefs (aarrgh!!) in the AFC Championship game, I saw the “Agony of Defeat” on many faces. It was the Bills’ last hurdle on this year’s road to the Super Bowl, a prize that has eluded them for a long time. It has been more than 30 years since the Bills last participated in the NFL’s championship game, and of the four they played in the early 1990s, never once did they leave with the Vince Lombardi Trophy.


On social media that morning, I saw photo after photo of a dejected Josh Allen, Buffalo’s quarterback, having to explain why his team lost, the hurt on his face matched only by that of Buffalo fans who felt the loss just as deeply, if not more so, than the team. Every Buffalonian thought this would be “our year,” only to have their hopes crushed once again. Like Bill Murray in the movie “Groundhog Day,” we keep reliving the same nightmare.

Some of us have been Bills fans for a very long time….


It is hard to describe how much our football team means to the people of Buffalo. For years the city felt overlooked and disrespected, a poor relation to its glitzy and glamorous big sister, New York City. Even through the years of economic decline, urban blight, depopulation and infamous snowstorms, the Bills, especially during their winning seasons, remained the one great source of civic pride


The Bills were the glue that kept the city together after neighborhoods were carved into pieces, congregants stopped going to church, and family members left for jobs or warmer climes. The “Bills Mafia” as the team’s fan base has come to be known, travels to support the team at NFL games in other cities, sits through blizzards in Buffalo’s uncovered stadium, has crazy tailgate parties in frigid temperatures, and is known throughout the league for passionate commitment to the organization. After all, in what other town would the fans bring shovels and make sure the seats were cleared of snow so the game could be played? Bills fans take the team’s losses very personally—hence the look of devastation I saw on faces the day after the big AFC game, including my own.

Everyone thought it was over for poor Vinko, but not so!


But after weeping into my Monday morning coffee for a while, I thought once again about Vinko Bogataj. As the story goes, the ABC cameras followed as the young Slovenian skier was wrapped up on a gurney, solemnly pulled through the snow, and taken to a nearby hospital. Everyone was concerned that he had broken his neck and possibly worse, only to receive a phone call from the hospital. It was Vinko calling, saying he was fine and wanted to jump again!

Next year there will be happy faces once again.


It is a wonderful story of resilience—of losing publicly and spectacularly, and then brushing it off and thinking about the next opportunity to do it all again. That is the story of the Buffalo Bills and their fans. Disappointed but undaunted, Josh Allen will be back next year, leading his team to victory. (“I’ve got so much pride in our guys,” he said, in an interview after the game.)

A Buffalo Bills themed wedding cake.


Bills fans agree. “Let it hurt,” said one Bills fan, acknowledging what everyone was feeling, “but then let’s come back again tomorrow.” Just like Vinko Bogataj.

Are you a Buffalo Bills fan? If so, do you live in the area or are you part of the diaspora, distant from your old home town but a diehard fan forever with the Bills close to your heart? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments, below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

My “Big Rocks” for the New Year

My New Year’s Resolutions are a way to remind myself that if I don’t make the “big rocks” a priority I’ll never get them done.

I’ll never forget a parable I heard one snowy Christmas Eve at a hotel restaurant in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, a pretty little mountain village in the southern part of Germany. The holiday dinner was hosted by the hotel’s owner, and before we all dove into our appetizer, she asked everyone in the restaurant for a moment of silence so she could tell us a short story.

The pretty town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen where I first heard the parable of the rocks.


You could hear a pin drop as she told us in her beautifully accented English about a professor speaking to a group of students. “Okay,” said the professor, “time for a quiz.” He pulled out a one-gallon mason jar and set it on a table in front of him. Then he produced about a dozen fist-sized rocks and placed them, one at a time, into the jar.
When the jar was filled to the top with rocks, he asked, “Is this jar full?” Everyone in the class said, “Yes.” Then he said, “Really?” He reached under the table and pulled out a bucket of gravel and dumped it in. Then he smiled and asked the group once more, “Is the jar full?” By this time the class was onto him. “Probably not,” one of them answered.

We were all captivated as our hostess read the story.

He then reached under the table and brought out a bucket of sand and started pouring it into all the spaces left between the rocks and the gravel. Once more he asked the question, “Is this jar full?” “No!” the class shouted. Then he grabbed a pitcher of water and began to pour it in until the jar was filled to the brim. Then he looked up at the class and said, “What this illustration teaches us is this: If you don’t put the big rocks in first, you’ll never get them in at all.” (Note: The origin of this parable is not exactly clear but it is most often quoted from Dr. Stephen Covey’s book, First Things First. https://www.appleseeds.org/Big-Rocks_Covey.htm)

Although I first heard this story more than a decade ago, I think about it every time I sit down to write my New Year’s Resolutions. Yes, I am old-school; I do not believe I am perfect “just the way I am.” I still have plenty of room for improvement. So I use my 10 resolutions as a way to remind myself that if I don’t make the “big rocks” a priority, I’ll never get them done, and my year will be filled by necessary but comparatively less-important things, the gravel, sand and water that are part of daily life.

Readers are asking, “When is Book Two coming out?”

Book Two in the Virgin Snow trilogy is my biggest rock for 2025, of course. I had hoped to have the complete manuscript drafted by the end of this year, but I let too much of the “small stuff” eat up my time, so this year I know I need I need to make it “Priority One.”


However, I find I am already asking myself, is the next book more important than spending time with loved ones? Doing volunteer work so I can “give back” to my community? Exercising daily and eating healthy home-cooked meals? Traveling while I still have my mobility? Reconnecting with friends, taking care of my pets? You get the picture. Not only is it important to focus on the big rocks—you have to figure out which big rocks can fit into your job jar, and then how to give each one the time it deserves.

My way of doing this is to keep an engagement calendar that lets me list the priorities for each day. I print out my 10 New Year’s Resolutions (i.e. the “big rocks”) on the first of January, and check it against my calendar from time to time to make sure each resolution is being addressed in due course. As the year comes to a close, I do my final accounting.

Last year I did pretty well—I completed eight of my 10 top priorities for the year. Not every year boasts a similar record of success, of course, but I make it a practice never to beat myself up about the ones I haven’t fulfilled, especially if I’ve made some progress. I just transfer them to the top of the next year’s list. That’s where Book Two will be sitting.

What are the big rocks in your life? A specific project? Time with family? An important cause? More exercise? Do you make New Year’s Resolutions? I would love to hear your comments in the section below. Happy New Year to all my readers!

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

Why “La Famiglia e Tutto” (Family is Everything)

Sicilians have a saying—La Famiglia e Tutto (Family is Everything)—and they live by what they say.

Last Saturday, I had the opportunity to speak to a lively group of people at the Centro Culturale Italiano (Italian Cultural Center) in Buffalo, NY. Ostensibly, folks came to hear me read from and talk about my novel, Virgin Snow, the setting of which is on the largely Sicilian (at the time) West Side of Buffalo in the late 1960s and 1970s.

One benefit of being an author is being able to share with readers such things as one’s motivation for writing and inspiration for particular characters and scenes. While I did indeed offer the audience some behind-the-scenes details, I had a hunch that it would be far more interesting for all of us to hear from folks in this diverse gathering, which ranged in age from 29 to 90, and learn about how and why the book connected with their lives and experiences.

Everyone in the room seemed to enjoy talking about Buffalo back in the day.


To facilitate this wider discussion, I decided to read a short passage from the novel, then let the audience share how the behavior of the characters and the themes explored in the story resonated with them. What followed, to my delight, was a wide-ranging and sometimes emotional discussion about what it was like to grow up in Buffalo at that time, in that neighborhood, and in that cultural environment.

I began by asking the audience how many of them grew up on the West Side, were of Sicilian or Italian heritage, and were raised in the Catholic religion. Nearly everyone raised their hand. So we talked about Saint Joseph’s Day and the bountiful tables of Sicilian foods prepared from scratch, about the changing role of the Catholic Church in family life, and we reminisced about neighborhood swimming pools, family-run grocery stores, and significant historical events of that time, like the riots in Buffalo (as well as across the country), the Vietnam War and the moon landing.

La famiglia

But the discussion seemed to always return to the idea of “family.” Sicilians have a saying—La Famiglia e Tutto (Family is Everything)—and they live by what they say. Everyone I knew on the West Side back then had family living nearby and they gathered frequently, especially on Sundays.

Both the audience and I laughed at the stories being told about Sicilian fathers and uncles giving prospective boyfriends the third degree, and Sicilian aunts trying to outdo each other with their cooking. Many at the event nodded knowingly when hearing about a widowed Sicilian mother who was struggling financially but too proud to go on welfare, and who never failed to put her family above all else.

The West Side circa 1970. Yes, some left because of the weather or economics, but others stayed.


I had also asked at the beginning of the talk, how many in the audience had left Buffalo during the tumultuous period in the late 1970s and early 1980s when the city endured bad weather, economic hardships and high unemployment, and how many had stayed. It turned out to be about half and half. Some of those who had left had only recently returned, in part because Buffalo is once again a vibrant and affordable city. But several noted they had come back home to Buffalo during the city’s darkest of times, just to be close to family again.

The Italian Cultural Center has a number of interesting displays depicting family life among Sicilian immigrants and their descendants.

What I took from these conversations is the sense that career opportunities and warmer weather might have lured some away, but in the end it was la famiglia that brought people back to Buffalo. And not simply family obligations like aging parents or help needed in the family business, but a sense of needing to belong to a close community again.

Few things in life bring more joy than shared holiday traditions, familiar comfort foods, family outings, and the retelling of old stories that never fail to bring laughter, no matter how many times they are told. Those of us who have left our familiar surroundings for a time know what it feels like to lose these things, and how wonderful it is to have them back again.

The cafe at the center offers fresh cappuccino and other Italian delights. It’s worth a visit!

Are you someone who left your hometown, only to return again later? If so, what brought you back? Or are you someone who stayed put, and if so, what kept you there? I would love to hear your stories as well!

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.


What is More Precious than a Lifelong Friend?

I was overlooking an essential ingredient in a long and happy life—the love and support of friends.

What a joy to reconnect with friends from elementary school!

Last January 1st, when I realized that I would (if lucky) complete my seventh decade of life this year, I began to contemplate, as many who have reached this ripe old age are wont do, what it has all meant. Considering the arc of one’s own life is not an easy task, so I decided to reflect first on those things that are and have been most important to me, to try to determine if I have developed the right values and led a worthy life.

I have had the great good fortune to have the world’s best husband and two loving sons and a daughter-in-law. I have a large and fun-loving extended family and several doting pets. I was given a number of amazing career opportunities, have traveled the world, and am in relatively good health. At this stage of my life, I am very much in tune with the natural world and enjoy the harmonies of the stars, the seas, and the four seasons. All of these things have been important to me, and have contributed to my longevity. But I realized, as I thought long and hard about it, that I was overlooking an essential ingredient in a long and happy life—the love and support of friends.

My college friends and I found this mountain retreat a far cry from our Buffalo State dormitory!


I have to admit—I haven’t always been the best of friends. There were years when I was so focused on being a good daughter, sister, wife, and mother, on my career, my community, and social obligations, I neglected my friendships. Sure, I’d send a yearly birthday or Christmas card, and catch up via an occasional lunch or dinner. But as I grew older, I learned that there were pivotal events in the lives of my friends that I had completely missed. Thinking about it now makes me very sad.

So, when making my New Year’s Resolutions for 2024, I resolved to make it “The Year of Reconnecting With Old Friends.”

What better place to celebrate a milestone birthday than Italy with a limoncello spritz!


I made a lifelong friend on the first day of kindergarten. We were four years old. As our mothers walked us to school, they said, “You girls hold hands,” and metaphorically speaking, over all these years, we’ve never let go. This year, I asked my first “BFF” as they say today, if she would like to travel to Italy to celebrate our 70th birthdays together. She said yes, and on the day we were making our way through a crushing crowd of thousands at St. Peter’s Square in Rome, we locked arms so we wouldn’t get separated. Oh, how it brought me right back to that fall day, 65 years ago.

Visiting a Monet art exhibit with my artist friend.


Another friend, whom I met as a teenager, once begged her family to let me live with them at a particularly difficult time in my life. They welcomed me in and I never forgot their kindness, or hers. I invited her to come stay with me the week before our mutual birthdays this year, and treated her to all the things I knew she enjoyed in life—art, nature, good food. We sat on my porch and reminisced, and I was pleasantly surprised by the things she remembered that I had forgotten.

Trip to the Big Apple with a friend from the Bronx.


And that, I realized, is the very best thing about reconnecting with old friends. They help fill in the blanks of your personal narrative, your life’s story. Your friends are the people who knew you from the time you were silly, stupid and immature until you grew older and (somewhat) wiser. These are friends who made me laugh until I cried, and at times, cried with me until I laughed. I am fortunate to still have friends from every stage of my life—schoolmates, neighbors, work colleagues, and fellow writers, readers, and travelers. They are the ones who show up to celebrate my successes, and grieve with me my losses. In some ways, they are the people who know me better than I know myself.

Cruising the Danube with one of my favorite traveling buddies.


This year I honored these friendships in every way I could think of, from group lunches to reunion picnics, book club gatherings, mountain retreats, and trips abroad. And in each case my old friends embraced me with open arms, rekindling connections that are more priceless to me than any birthday gift I could possibly imagine.

Nothing like reconnecting with a friend who knows how to bake a cake like this!


Yesterday, my yoga instructor asked us to think about, “Who you really are. Get rid of the traditional labels and think about the real you. And if you are not now the real you, think of who you want the real you to be.”

I’ve thought about that a lot since she said it. I know now who I want to be, and I hope I’ve earned the right to be called “a true friend.” If I indeed merit that sobriquet, then I know I have lived a worthy life.

Do you have a lifelong friend or friends? What have they meant to you and how have they shaped your life? Have you made it a priority to reconnect with them? I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

The Never-Ending Life of the Veggie Garden

I prefer not to think of the end of the summer growing season as the “death” of our vegetable garden, but as a transition into something new and different.

The last tenacious tomatoes clinging to the vine. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

Not long ago, I read a book called “A Farm Dies Once a Year” by Arlo Crawford. It’s a wonderful story about farming and family in south central Pennsylvania, not all that far from where I live now. I enjoyed the book and while I appreciate the cleverness of the title, I prefer not to think of the end of the summer growing season as the “death” of our vegetable garden, but as a transition into something new and different.

Colorful hot peppers will spice up our fall pots of chili.

Yes, the summer residents are leaving—the sun-kissed tomatoes, the sizzling hot peppers, the voluptuous eggplant and the cool cucumbers. All but the last of the berries are gone, the peaches have swum in their last cobbler and the apples have been squirreled away, awaiting their turn to be tucked under a lattice crust. The last of the overgrown zucchini will be made into a sweet bread and the yellow squash into a savory casserole. Many of these plants have already begun to go to seed, sprinkling the ground with next year’s volunteers.

Beautiful autumn-hued sunflowers brighten the fall garden.

October though, is the time when fall vegetables begin to shine. Pumpkin vines are covering every last bit of space between the raised beds, sending last bursts of energy to what looks like giant basketballs scattered across the grass. The cabbages are finally happy, after limping along during a hot, dry summer, and the beets and carrots and other root vegetables are substantial enough now to grace a soup or stew on a blustery autumn day. The sunflowers are still hanging in there, but I noticed the last of the bees are leaving and the birds are hovering, waiting to feast on sunflower seeds.

The Swiss chard really enjoys the cooler weather.

We will soon be digging up the sweet potatoes to store for the winter, joining the leeks, potatoes, onions, garlic and turnips in our cool basement bins. This was a spectacular year for butternut squash in our little corner of the world, and I can hardly wait to make my favorite spicy butternut-pumpkin soup in the months ahead.

It is also time to scatter seeds for vegetables that are hardy enough to winter over in Zone 7a. Several types of lettuce (which will survive the winter in a cold frame), mustard greens, and collards have already come up, covering the soil with an emerald blanket. The Swiss chard, spinach and celery are all mature enough now to survive even a heavy frost.

The mustard greens are seedlings now, but should be ready for Thanksgiving dinner.

In January, we will peruse the seed catalogues and dust off our seed trays, grow lights and bags of potting soil, and begin planting the new arrivals. We’ll nurture them along in the basement until spring, when the strongest of them can withstand the variations in temperature and begin providing us with nutritious produce as early as April.    

True, one could choose to think of the vegetable garden as dying every year, but I prefer not to think of life—any life—that way. It is simply life in a different form. Whether it is a rotting tree that feeds the plants and insects that surround it with nutrients, or the acorns that fall from the mighty oaks to feed the squirrels and grow tiny saplings—life is a never-ending cycle. Old life begets new life, and new life starts the wheel turning again. So goes the life of a garden, and so go you and I.

Do you have a vegetable garden? If so, has it taught you any philosophical lessons about the cycle of life, like it has me? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.  

The lettuce seedlings have just begun to sprout, and will grace our table throughout the winter months.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

The Joys and Anxieties of “Stresstember”

I recently learned that September is a month of great trepidation for some people.

Have you ever stopped to consider how freighted with importance the month of September is?

Yes, it is the month of the Autumnal Equinox, the pivot point from summer to fall. Those of us in tune with nature begin to see changes in the world around us—the turning of the first leaves, mass migrations of birds and butterflies, the quieting of cicadas and katydids at night, fewer snakes.

But it is also the month when some of the most important transitions in our lives occur. A time of new beginnings that fill some with excitement, and others with dread. Some are so stressed out by the changes this month brings that psychology experts have dubbed it “Stresstember.”

Fresh new uniforms on the first day of school.

As a child, I looked forward to September with great anticipation. I loved the week or so that presaged the return to class—the buying of notebooks, pencils, and erasers—and, from time to time, a new school uniform and shoes. This was followed by the careful cutting of brown shopping bags to cover our new books, and new haircuts to keep us neat and tidy as well. But most of all, I looked forward to the return to school itself, because, I must admit, I loved it.

The biggest academic transitions, of course, did bring some trepidation. The first day of kindergarten was frightening because, back in the day, you said goodbye to Mom for the first time. But you relaxed when you made your first school friends, sang little songs together, and learned to read. School was fun!

In high school there was more than just reading, and writing and ‘rithmatic.

Then there was the first day of high school, a bewildering place where books were kept in lockers instead of your desk, and you moved from classroom to classroom and teacher to teacher instead of staying in one place. But once this new routine was mastered, your mind was introduced to a whole array of new topics—literature, chemistry, trigonometry, languages—and you were introduced to cool new friends.

The first day of college was also a tectonic shift in your young life—you moved in with strangers and had to make your own important decisions on classes and schedules and majors. Not only did you have to move from classroom to classroom, but from building to building. Making your way from one part of campus to another in time for class, was a life-lesson in logistics, organization, mapping and time management. Learning how to balance study time with party time was essential to developing the work-life balance that would serve us well (or not) for the rest of our lives.

Who could forget their first day on a college campus?

I recently learned, though, that September is a month of great anxiety for some people. They face the prospect of a new school, new teachers, new classmates, mountains of homework, and challenging new courses—with genuine fear, not excitement. Rather than see school as an opportunity to learn and make lifelong friends, they see school as a place where they fear they may experience failure, bullying, or ostracism.

Being a young student during the pandemic was an experience few of us who are long past school age can even imagine. We are only beginning to understand the psychological damage it did to these children, as well as how it may have affected their social skills. Some are still having problems in school—academically, socially, and psychologically.

Some parents also approach September anxiously, having sent their children off to school—from the first day of kindergarten to the first day of college—with more worries than pride. Knowing that your child is fearful about going back to school, feeling they won’t fit in or do well academically, presents a serious dilemma for parents, especially those that work full time. Some parents choose homeschooling to address these issues, which presents its own set of challenges each fall.

And then of course, there is the reminder, for those of us who lived through it, of the events of September 11, 2001. Like the Kennedy assassination, and for older generations, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the terrorist attacks on New York City and Washington have left an indelible scar on our psyches. On every beautiful, sunny morning in September, I cannot help but remember how similarly that fateful day began. September 11th, for me, will always be a day of remembrance.

But I cannot let it cloud the other joys of September. As a gardener now, September is our big harvest month, when the last ripe tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, okra, celery and onions fill our larder. Pumpkins are growing fat on the vine, apples are bending the boughs on the trees, and soon we’ll be digging up sweet potatoes to store for the winter.  

I am determined to enjoy the month of September with all its transitions, and all the memories it brings with it. I hope you will too.

Do you look forward to the month of September? Please share with us why, or why not, in the comments, below.

Fingy Conners, Wild Bill Donovan, and the “Irish” First Ward

On my most recent trip back to Buffalo, I decided to take a walking tour through a different part of the city.

I often write about the West Side of Buffalo and the neighborhood where I spent my formative years. It was a tight-knit, working class part of the city where my Sicilian grandmother’s relatives could speak their native language and feel at home. But on my most recent trip back to Buffalo, I decided to take a walking tour through a different part of the city, where the ancestors of my Irish grandfather most likely worked on the docks, in the factories, or shoveled grain into silos along the shores of Lake Erie.

Grain silos still form the backdrop of Buffalo’s Old First Ward. Photos © Moxie Gardiner.

People unfamiliar with the city’s history are surprised to learn that Buffalo was once the eighth-largest metropolis in the US, and the sixth-largest port, according to Donna, our Explore Buffalo tour guide. Before the 90-minute tour was over, she would explain why the “Old First Ward,” or OFW, as this neighborhood is called, was at one time a commercial hub of global significance and the birthplace of colorful characters who would leave their mark on US history.

Many residents still proudly display their Irish roots.

The first wave of Irish immigrants that transformed this part of Buffalo came to help build the Erie Canal in the early 1800s, and the second wave arrived during and after the great potato famine in Ireland in the 1840s and ‘50s. By 1855, there were some 10,000 Irish immigrants in Buffalo, the majority of them living in slums near the lake and canal. The neighborhood became known as “the Irish First Ward” for a time because of its predominantly Irish population.

The grain elevators, invented here in Buffalo in the 1840s, provided plenty of work for Ireland’s transplanted manual laborers, as did other industries that sprang up along the Erie Canal—at that time an essential conduit from America’s “bread basket” in the Midwest, to the fast-growing cities along the East Coast. Once the St. Lawrence Seaway and the interstate highway system were developed, however, the canal lost its importance, as did the industries that once thrived along Lake Erie’s shores, and the Old First Ward declined.

Some of the neighborhood’s older homes are a stone’s throw from the waterfront.

As I was happy to learn on the tour, though, the neighborhood is making a comeback and now has a reputation as one of the “hippest” places to live in Buffalo. Interestingly, the area still proudly embraces its industrial legacy. Thirteen of the original 33 grain silos still loom over the modest houses (two of the silos are still operating) while repurposed factories dot the neighborhood.

The Barcalo Building, like other old factories, has been repurposed.

One such factory, housed in the Barcalo Building, was known throughout Buffalo as the place where the Barcalounger chair was manufactured. Less well known is the building’s reputation as the birthplace of the coffee break, mint ice cream, the mattress spring, and the fake snow that comes out of a spray can… according to Donna. The building is now home to a contemporary art gallery and luxury apartments.

Back in the day, the OFW was almost as famous for its bars and taverns as it was for its industries. According to an 1893 article in the Buffalo Express, there were 2,300 saloons in Buffalo, including Swannie House, built in the 1880s, which still operates today. Gene McCarthy’s Tavern and Old First Ward Brewing, where refreshments were available at the end of our tour, has been operating here for over 50 years.

The Swannie House has been serving residents of the OFW since the 1880s.

Some of the taverns found in this neighborhood were part of the “saloon boss system,” where waterfront jobs were controlled by bar owners. Native son “Fingy” Conners (legend has it he lost a thumb after a childhood dare) was one such boss, who reportedly gave jobs only to those who rented his rooms and drank his booze. Fingy went on to become a prosperous businessman and one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Buffalo.[1]

Donna the tour guide told us tales of other OFW men who went on to become nationally and even internationally known, including “Wild Bill” Donovan, who headed the Office of Strategic Services (which later became the CIA) during Word War II.[2] Tim Russert, host of NBC’s “Meet the Press” was also from the Old First Ward, as was popular Buffalo mayor Jimmy Griffin, and Michael Shea, developer of Buffalo’s most opulent entertainment venues.  Shea was one of the first men in the US to start a vaudeville house, and his theater in downtown Buffalo is still thriving, hosting sold-out Broadway shows throughout the year.

Kayak launches, pop-up dining, and coffee shops are bringing new money into the old neighborhood.

As my group finished up our walking tour on Hamburg Street, I took note of a new “Waterfront Memories and More” museum that Donna said provides historical artifacts and photos from locals. As it was closed when we got there, I will have to come back on another trip. Who knows? I may get lucky and find a photo of one of my Irish ancestors, shoveling grain into one of the massive silos.

Have you ever lived in, or visited, the Old First Ward of Buffalo? What were your impressions of it, then and now? I would love to read your comments, in the section below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] For more info on Fingy Conners, see this interesting book trailer by Richard Sullivan on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64aec3GzbHU&t=230s

[2] For more information on Donovan’s Buffalo beginnings, see https://buffaloah.com/h/bohen/don.html

Saving the Life of a Friend

I sang to the bird, told it not to fear the unknown, and that it was OK to let go of life, whenever it was time.

When I saw the small, still body lying on our deck, I feared the worst.

My hummingbird friend at his favorite feeder.
All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

The tiny hummingbird had visited our feeders every day, so I knew him well. I would hear him before I saw him, a loud buzz next to my ear, zzz-zzz, then gone in a flash, until he reappeared at the feeder, poised in mid-air for a quick sip.

Sometimes a second male would appear, and our hummingbird was always ready for battle. Hummingbirds are very territorial, fiercely protective of any food source they can count on, unlike the flowers that might be blooming one day and gone the next. Our hummingbird was not about to let an interloper horn in on a grubstake he believed was his alone.

I will never know what misfortune had befallen him that afternoon. We have a large picture window that had previously led to the demise of a beautiful goldfinch we found lying on our deck with a broken neck, the imprint of its beak still in the window glass. Or maybe the other male hummingbird had tried to eliminate his competition once and for all.

Sadly, I bent to scoop up my little friend with a dustpan, as I had the hapless goldfinch, and to my surprise I noticed the faintest flutter in its chest. The bird was not moving though, and did not react when I stroked its brilliant, ruby-colored chest feathers. I assumed it had a broken neck, and it was only a matter of time before it passed away.

I’ve known people who would have told me at this point, that the decent thing, the humane thing, would be to put the tiny creature out of its misery. But right or wrong, I knew I was not capable of taking its life, so I spoke to it and told it I would make the end of its life as comfortable as possible.

I made a small nest of fresh green leaves and gently laid the bird in the center. I had never been this close to a hummingbird before. I could see the iridescence of its emerald feathers, the ruby color at its throat, its needle-like beak, and the tiny slits where its closed eyes were. I sang to the bird, told it not to fear the unknown, and that it was OK to let go of life, whenever it was time. Words I had spoken before, and hoped they had provided some comfort.

Then it blinked! I was so overjoyed I started to cry. I knew then it was still alive and had just been stunned, probably from hitting the window. I watched him, me barely breathing, as he rolled onto his stomach and sat for a moment, looking at me. “Go,” I said, “and remember me.” A moment later, he launched, heading straight up in the air. Then he pivoted horizontally, and in a flash was gone.  

A moment of pure joy–the hummingbird in flight!

I see him back at the feeder nearly every day, with no signs of the trauma he endured one summer afternoon. No sign that he recognizes me either, or appreciates my concern for his well being. He simply goes on being what he is, one of the world’s most beautiful, fascinating creatures.

Back at the feeder again.

For me, the fact that he lived was enough. How I wish I could have saved every friend that I’ve lost, but I could not. What I have learned though, over my many years of life, is to always be there for your friends, to the very end if possible. Just in case.

I would love for you to share your stories in the comment section below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

For further information on male hummingbird territoriality visit https://www.allaboutbirds.org/news/why-do-hummingbirds-fight-so-much/