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/

The Songs of Summer You Won’t Find on YouTube

Nature now provides the “heavy rotation” for me.

Lying by the pool on the warm cement, transistor radio nearby, listening to that summer’s hottest hits. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

There are a number of iconic songs from my teenage years that will forever form the soundtrack of summer for me. “Hot Town Summer in the City,” by The Lovin’ Spoonful, “Hello, I Love You,” by The Doors, “In the Summertime,” by Mungo Jerry, and later, “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper and “Margaritaville,” by Jimmy Buffett. Everyone at the pool had their favorites, and in those days you could go to the pay phone hanging on the wall, invest a dime to call the radio station, and ask the DJ to put “your” song into the rotation so you and your friends would be sure to hear it while the warm sun kissed your skin, poolside.

I am no longer urban, nor a kid, and like all things in life, the songs of summer for me have changed. I live in the country now, and while my ear is still attentive to new music, it is not for the type found on YouTube or Spotify. Nature now provides the “heavy rotation” for me.

It starts with the “dawn chorus” just before the sun begins to peek over the mountain.[1] Robins are the first and loudest to sing in the pre-dawn, followed at first light by a host of others—chickadees, sparrows, wood thrushes, cardinals and warblers among them. Off in the distance crows call to each other while a woodpecker drums a steady beat on a hollow tree. When I take my morning walk, I no longer hear the splashes of children in a swimming pool, but the play of water over the rocks in Sleepy Creek and the rustle of leaves in the sycamore trees.

The perfect place to listen to the night symphony.

As lovely as nature’s morning sounds can be, my favorite is its night music, which I have only recently come to understand and appreciate. The evening symphony begins with the melancholy calls of the barred owls, followed closely by the bass notes of the bullfrogs in the pond, and the plinking of the moths against the porch lights.

Oh, the things you will hear on a moonlight walk through woods….
One thing you’ll come to know is the mournful melody of the barred owl. This one was looking in my window!

One of my favorite field trips while working on my Master Naturalist certification, was a moonlight walk through a nature preserve to learn to differentiate the songs of the many singing insects. I used to think that the insect I was listening to at night was the cricket, but soon learned that grasshoppers, katydids, and cicadas all add their voices to the nocturnal serenade, and each species contributes its own unique sound. As if to complete each evening concert, fireflies light up the stage with their flashing strobes.       

As we grow older, our tastes and sensibilities change, as do the sounds that now sit comfortably in our ears. Yes, I still love those iconic songs of the ’60s and ‘70s and enjoy them when I take my occasional walks down memory lane. But now, in my ongoing quest for peace and serenity, I turn to the birds, the bees, and the singing insects to move my soul, instead of my feet.

What songs or sounds do you consider to be the hallmarks of summer? Please share 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 at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] If you have never heard the sound of the dawn chorus, check out this video on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePCG8xt158s

The Tragedy and the Beauty of Eastern Europe

A trip through Eastern Europe reminds us of how lucky we Americans really are.

Beautiful Budapest, Hungary at night. All photos copyright Moxie Gardiner.

I have just returned from a river cruise through five countries in Eastern Europe: Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria and Romania. Admittedly, these countries are probably not the destinations of most Americans traveling to Europe. Of those who do choose to sail the beautiful Danube River, most probably head northwest from Budapest to enjoy seeing the castles and vineyards of southern Germany, and the strudels and waltzes of Austria, which are familiar to many people through popular music and culture. Think The Sound of Music movie, and Strauss’ The Blue Danube Waltz. I decided to go in the opposite direction.

Nana hosting us for lunch in her pretty
Croatian home.

I confess that up until recently, I had been guilty of the temptation to see popular places. I’ve traveled extensively through Western Europe, where I am familiar with the languages and the culture of the European Union. EU countries have made it easy to cross borders and most are members of the Eurozone, using a single monetary unit—the euro.

Not so in Eastern Europe, where only one of the five countries I visited (Croatia) is a Eurozone member that uses the euro in its financial transactions. The other four still use the same currency[1] they have been using for well over a century (although most merchants are happy to take your American dollars or euros). Each country we visited has its own language and two (Serbia and Bulgaria) even use a different alphabet (Cyrillic), making it a challenge to read a street sign or a map.

We were quite surprised when the Crown Prince and Princess of Serbia came out to greet us.

I realize now, however, that overlooking these countries in the past was a mistake. First, they have a long and fascinating history. Our traveling group toured several archeological sites, and learned about the various cultures that were thriving along the Danube many thousands of years ago, some predating the building of the pyramids in Egypt. Because of their strategic location, these countries were fought over many times, and became part of several empires–the Roman, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, and Russian– all of which which influenced their cultures.

Belogradchik Rocks in Bulgaria, with the Balkan Mountains in the distance.

Second, Europe’s East is as beautiful as any other region I have seen on that continent—topographically diverse, and gifted with both fertile soil and scenic landscapes. From the snow-capped mountains of Romania to the golden sands of Bulgaria’s Black Sea beaches, Eastern Europe has a lot to offer. As our ship glided down the Danube, we passed by modern cities, small picturesque towns, wooded hillsides, and spectacular gorges.

Bucharest, Romania is now a vibrant, modern city.

Third, the capital cities we visited—Budapest, Belgrade, and Bucharest—seem to be thriving. One guide in Bucharest told me unemployment is less than one percent, and they are eager for young Romanians, who have moved away to work in other European countries, to return now that there is so much more opportunity back home.

Everyone we met on our journey was warm and friendly, from the royal family in Serbia to the kindly Croatian woman who hosted lunch for a small group of us in her village home.

Buildings on the streets of Vukovar, Croatia still show remnants of the shelling during the “homeland war.”

Yet for all the positives one can list about this part of Europe, it is impossible to ignore the scars of more than a century of conflict, foreign occupation, and the crippling effects of a communist economic system. In each country we saw memorials to the dead who fought in two horrific world wars, which were followed by Soviet occupation, the dissolution of Yugoslavia, and afterwards the conflict in the Balkans they refer to as the “Homeland Wars.” Crumbling Soviet-era buildings still dot the landscape, although they are largely abandoned and covered with graffiti.

That said, it is all the more important, I believe, to visit these countries, to celebrate their resilience and ability to move forward after such adversity, especially as yet another conflict in neighboring Ukraine threatens the tranquility of the European continent. Traveling reminds me once again how fortunate I have been to have lived at a time, and in a country, where we have been blessed with relative peace and prosperity. A trip through Eastern Europe reminds us of how lucky we Americans really are.

Remains of a town on the banks of the Danube 9,000 years ago at the Lepenski Vir archeological site. For more information on the site visit: https://www.serbia.com/visit-serbia/cultural-attractions/archaeological-sites/lepenski-vir-the-oldest-urban-settlement-in-europe/

Have you ever traveled to any of the countries in Eastern Europe? Or, perhaps you have lived there and can offer your own views on this part of the world. Please share 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 at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices chair yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] For those interested in details, the currency in each of these countries is as follows: Hungary (the forint), Serbia (the dinar), Bulgaria (the lev) and Romania (the lei).

The Magnificent Willows of Western New York

For centuries, poets, writers and philosophers have been inspired by weeping willow trees. So have I.

I love all trees. Horse chestnuts, hackberries, hickories and hornbeams. Oak trees, pine trees, palm trees, even family trees. But my favorite of all the arboreal sentinels, the evocative one that brings back childhood memories of summer picnics, warm breezes, and first kisses under its lovely, curtain-like fronds, is salix babylonica, commonly known as the weeping willow.

For centuries, poets, writers and philosophers have been inspired by willow trees, as have I. [1] William Makepeace Thackeray, a 19th poet and author of Vanity Fair, wrote an ode about its appeal as a trysting place for lovers, entitled “The Willow-Tree.”

Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful;
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter,
No one was there—ah me!
No one to meet her!

Many a romance has begun in the willow’s hidden bower. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

But it isn’t love alone that this unusual looking tree evokes. The tiny, cascading leaves are thought to resemble falling tears, and so the tree is sometimes associated with melancholy and sadness, even death. Unsurprisingly, specimens can be found in Buffalo’s Forest Lawn and other cemeteries. There is also the tragic story of some 300 soldiers who died of illness during the War of 1812 in a place not far from Buffalo’s Delaware Park, and buried in shallow graves. A Dr. Daniel Chapin, who lived nearby, is said to have later reburied the men and marked the spot with willow trees.[2]

Willows thrive on the banks of rivers and ponds like this one near the Buffalo History Museum’s Japanese Garden.

Today, weeping willows can be found throughout Buffalo’s beautifully landscaped park system. Intrigued by the mysteries of the weeping willow, I am always on the lookout for one, and was therefore overjoyed to discover two enormous specimens swaying over Hoyt Lake on a recent visit to Delaware Park. I assumed, based on their size, that they had to be hundreds of years old. But after some research I have since learned that weeping willows grow rapidly, and unfortunately, only live for about 65 years.

Which begged the question why, if they are so comparatively short-lived, have I seen so many willow trees throughout the parks, meadows, cemeteries, and along the waterways of Western New York?

This past year, I planted my very own weeping willow by the pond for further inspiration.

It turns out that this part of the state provides the ideal habitat for weeping willows, thanks to its proximity to the Great Lakes and plenty of lake-effect moisture. These trees love damp environments and can consume up to 100 gallons of water a day, so I expect they will be a feature of the Western New York landscape for many centuries to come.

Does the weeping willow have the same emotional impact on you that it has on me? What memories does it conjure—happiness, sadness, or fond memories of secret dalliances under its enchanting boughs? Please share 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 at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1]  His poem also inspired a chapter in my novel, Virgin Snow.

[2] For more information about this tragic event, see 300 bodies in Delaware Park: The War of 1812 | Features | buffalospree.com

While My Garden Gently Sleeps

It is right about this time of year—the end of February—that I start to get the garden itch.

It is right about this time of year—the end of February—that I start to get the garden itch. The days are still short and cold, and I find myself no longer appreciating the stark beauty of winter’s muted palette. I yearn for bright green things, and trips to the botanical garden and the occasional orchid show are helpful, but not sufficient.

This month’s blog is for my gardener friends who feel the same sense of longing and restless anticipation when they see their plots and raised beds under a blanket of snow, and the time for planting seems so far away. This year, my husband and I decided to try something different to overcome the February blues.

Only a gardener knows the joy of watching a seed turn into a tiny plant. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

Usually we follow the advice of the Old Farmer’s Almanac and our local extension service and begin planting seeds indoors in mid-February or early March (here in the mid-Atlantic the last frost date is May 1st). Sound guidance that has worked, for the most part, for the past 20 years.

Each shelf has its own grow light, allowing for multiple trays in a small space.

But this winter, we decided, we needed to see green and growing things much earlier, and began our 2024 garden season in January. An additional benefit, we reasoned, would be that by the time spring rolled around, the seedlings would be much more mature than those we’ve put in the ground in the past.

At the end of December, we went through our inventory of leftover seeds from the past couple of years, ordered new seeds and planted—in January–those we expected to take a long time to germinate and grow to a healthy size. We also planted seeds for vegetables that prefer cooler weather, and for perennial flowers that typically take their sweet time growing to a transplantable size.

More than enough hot pepper plants, just in case we lose a few….

This approach, of course, is not without its risks. Some of the downsides of sowing seeds indoors too early, are weak and spindly seedlings from insufficient light, plants that are root bound from being potted too long, insect infestations resulting from overcrowding, and—when it’s time to finally put the mature plants in the ground—transplant shock.

To mitigate these dangers, we’ve invested in heating mats, grow lights, seed-starting mix, and many bags of potting soil. And the investment we hope will really pay off was completed last fall when we turned our screened porch into a giant cold frame (complete with removable, corrugated plastic polycarbonate sheets blocking all the screens). This will allow us to harden off hundreds of seedlings long before being transplanted outside.

Cool weather plants like cabbage, leeks and lettuce are already hardening off on the “cold frame” porch.

By February 1st, we had leeks, shallots, onions, Swiss chard, lettuce, cabbage, eggplant, and all kinds of peppers growing well and big enough to repot. Eight different types of flower seedlings joined them under the grow lights. Over the next couple of weeks, we will begin to plants seeds for our tender summer annuals like tomatoes, squash, and herbs. Our philosophy is, if we plant a lot and only 50 percent survive, we’re still well ahead of the game.

Cosmos and zinnia flowers flank a row of healthy eggplant seedlings.

It remains to be seen how well this new strategy will work. But even if many of these young plants do not survive until growing season, we will have had months of enjoying the sight of these emerald green little darlings while our garden sleeps and is replenished by winter rains and snow. That is victory enough.

Are you a gardener? Do you have any tips for getting through the winter months without the garden blues? If so, please share 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 at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices chair yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

Everything You Wanted to Know About the Infant of Prague

So ubiquitous was the Infant of Prague statue in West Side homes that as a child, I assumed every house in the world had one.

Some readers (mostly non-Catholics) have expressed curiosity about the references in my recent novel, Virgin Snow, to a type of statue known as “the Infant of Prague.” In the story, one of the characters decides to open a shop in her garage where she will create and sell beautiful garments for people to dress their statues, which represent Jesus as a child.

This scene was inspired by an actual Infant of Prague shop operated for years by a woman named Lena in a store front on Buffalo’s West Side. Many was the day that I walked by the window to check out Lena’s new garments, which changed in both color and style along with the Catholic liturgical seasons.

The crown on the head of the statue symbolizes Christ as king. All photos by Moxie Gardiner

So ubiquitous was the Infant of Prague statue in West Side homes that as a child, I assumed every house in the world had one. It did not occur to me that others might not, until I actually went to Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic, for a conference. I was traveling with a colleague who asked if we could stop in one of the souvenir shops as we walked back toward our hotel at the end of the day. She said she was hoping to find a small statue made famous by the city. “You mean the Infant of Prague, right?” I asked. She looked at me strangely.

“No,” she said. “I want to buy a statue of the Golem of Prague.” Now I looked at her strangely, as I had never heard of the Golem. So we walked to the Christmas Market on Wenceslas Square (it was early December) and, over a glass of hot Glühwein, we began to tell each other what we knew of these religious figures and their history.

As she began to ask questions, I very quickly realized that despite the number of times I had seen the statue I was familiar with, I didn’t know much about the Infant of Prague. “Why do they call it an infant?” she asked after I described the statue. I didn’t have a very good answer. “Why fancy robes? Why a crown? And what,” she asked finally, “did Jesus have to do with Prague?”

I had my own questions for her about the Golem, a mythical man created out of clay. “He is an important part of Jewish legend,” she said. “But he’s not as elegant as your little king.”

The globe symbolizes Christ’s worldly domain.

Years later, while doing research for my novel, I found answers to many of my friend’s questions. No, the Infant of Prague is not a baby, but a representation of Christ as a child. No, the statue does not have its origins in Prague. According to the website of “The League of the Miraculous Infant Jesus of Prague,” the statue was a royal wedding gift given by a Spanish Princess to her Austrian royal cousin in the 1500s, and later donated to a group of Carmelite friars in Prague. The robes, crown and miniature globe symbolize the “world-wide kingship” of the Christ Child.[1]

Green signifies “ordinary” days in the liturgical calendar. Note, however, the fine gold brocade.

According to that website, many miracles have occurred through “intercession to the Divine Infant.” During one conflict, it says, all the children of the city were taken to the Church for protection, and by praying to the Infant, they were all saved.

I have since learned that there is a similar story about the Golem. [2]  A certain Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague in the 1500s was said to have made a powerful living creature out of mud which he called the Golem, a kind of combination man-monster whose purpose was to defend the Jewish community from violent attacks. Since that time, the Golem has been a popular figure with both Jews and non-Jews. According to several websites, plays, novels, movies, musicals and even a ballet have drawn on the tale of the Golem, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, a visitor to Prague can even take a “Golem tour” by exploring various locations in the Jewish Quarter.

When I think back to my visit to Prague, I’ll always remember our mutual surprise when my friend and I discovered we were talking about two different religious statues, and then learning how different the two were—one of the Christ child dressed as a king, the other of a towering man made of clay. What strikes me now though, is their similarities. People of many religious traditions who have felt powerless and persecuted at times throughout history understandably turn to the divine or the mystical for salvation, represented by symbols such as these.

I am curious to know how many of my readers had religious statues in their homes while growing up, or were told stories and legends that embraced the sacred, the mystical or the divine. I would also love to know if religion still plays an important role in your life. Please share your 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 at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices chair yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] For much more information on the history of the Infant of Prague go to: https://www.ewtn.com/catholicism/library/history-of-the-infant-jesus-of-prague-1329

[2] For additional info on the Golem go to: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/golem/