Moxie Gardiner - A West Side Girl in the Big Wide World

Memories of the Historic Buffalo Blizzard of 1977

For the first time in American history, the President declared a “federal disaster” to address the devastating impacts of a winter storm.

The Arctic blast we’ve experienced this past week brought back vivid memories of another late January event 49 years ago, when Buffalo was in the midst of one of the worst blizzards—and worst winters—in its history. The city is no stranger to heavy snows, but this 1977 storm was notable for a number of reasons, among them, 70-mph winds, 18-foot snow drifts, wind chills of −60 °F, and sadly, the deaths of nearly 30 people, some buried in their cars. Those of us who lived through the thing will never forget it.

*When the blizzard hit, there was already five feet of hard-packed snow on the ground. Note the top of the car in the lower right corner.* *Photos © Moxie Gardiner.*

I remember distinctly how the storm unfolded. It began on a sunny Friday morning when most Buffalonians were at work. It had been a tough winter up to that point, with temperatures well below average since November, and snow every day from Christmas until January 28^th when the real blizzard began. Normally Buffalo’s plowing equipment can easily handle the average snowfall, but with more than five feet of hard-packed snow already on the ground, the machines were overmatched. Many side streets were already impassable when the storm hit.

*Abandoned cars were a major problem, hampering both motorists trying to get home, and later, snowplows.*

I was sitting at my typewriter at the North Buffalo Rocket newspaper that morning when one of my co-workers came in and told the boss, “I just got a call from my sister in Michigan. She says this storm is a really bad one, and we should head home now. Otherwise, we might not get home.” Fortunately the boss, who also happened to be my father, took the hint. He sent all the employees home, cleared off our car, and drove to the YMCA to pick up my mother and siblings.

Within what seemed like minutes, the weather turned from clear skies to ominous grey clouds, then a tsunami of white blanketed everything at once. The temperature plummeted to zero and the wind howled. I remember the snow falling faster than my father could brush it off the car. Around noon, the whole family left North Buffalo for what was typically a 15-minute drive home to the West Side. We didn’t make it home for nearly five hours, and we were among the fortunate ones.

We were driving south on Delaware Avenue, a four-lane major road that on this day quickly narrowed to only one lane open in each direction. We hadn’t gone far when we came to a complete stop. The car in front of us was spinning out in the deepening snow and blocking all southbound traffic. My father got out of our car to help others push the stalled vehicle out of the way. When he got back in our car, he was covered in snow from head to foot, ice had formed around his eyes and nose, and the skin on his face was a vivid red. Many times on the way home we would have to stop the car to push someone out of the way or clear the snow from our windshield so my father could see. At one point we drove over the median strip to the other side of the road to get around abandoned cars. We were all frightened.

*For days afterwards, merchants relied on foot traffic, and struggled to clear a path to their doors.*

We made it to the Roc-Mar Bowling Alley on Grant and Amherst Streets, where we went inside to warm up and assess the situation. My father stood at the door, watching the storm intensify, trying to decide what to do. Eventually, he saw a city bus heading down Grant Street. Dad decided if the bus could make it so could we, so we jumped back into the station wagon and followed it. It was slow going but we eventually made it all the way home.

For the next four days the storm raged. An estimated 13,000 people were trapped in buildings downtown, some not making it home for several days.[1] For the first time in American history, the President (Jimmy Carter held the office then) declared a “federal disaster” to address the devastating impacts of a winter storm. The National Guard was called in to assist with snow-clearing efforts, as was the Army Corps of Engineers, and later, Army airborne troops, the Air Force, and the Marines. Schools were closed for more than a week.

*A travel ban closed Grant Street for nearly a week.*

I remember venturing out after the storm was finally over and tripping over something metal. It was the top of a stop sign. The snow mounds were so high and cement-hard you walked on the top of them like a mountain range. We were snowbound for nearly a week, but we were lucky. We had heat and food, and the pipes in our house never froze.

The storm’s legacy lives on in another way, I have to add. In the soon-to-be-published, second book of my Buffalo trilogy, the main character, Cosi McCarthy, will become infamous as a result of the Blizzard of ’77. How does that happen? I won’t say more—you’ll have to read the book to find out!

As always, I would love to hear about your memories of the storm in the comments 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, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel, and she is currently working on Book Two in the trilogy.

[1] For a comprehensive recap of the storm, see the Wikipedia article (link below) that cites numerous articles and books written about this historic blizzard. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blizzard_of_1977

Bird Counting: A Christmas Tradition That Saves Lives (Really)

And a metaphor for counting your blessings instead of your losses and disappointments.

*A downy woodpecker searching for bark beetles. All photos © Moxie Gardiner*.

As I grow older, I am learning that holidays can be painful reminders of what we once had and have lost — if we let them. I recently found myself pointlessly wading into this mental morass, despite the unfolding of a brisk, sunny day. I eventually shook it off, reminding myself that dwelling in the past is like diving for a lost wedding ring in the deepest part of the ocean. You’ll never be able to retrieve it, and you’ll waste a lot of energy trying.

So I decided the way out of my funk was to focus on the future and establish some new holiday traditions. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon a Christmas activity that I had known nothing about, but that has taken place every year since 1900! It is the National Audubon Society’s annual Christmas Bird Count. Intrigued, I signed up to participate as soon as I read about it.

*Fellow birders searching for the elusive Carolina wren.*

According to the Audubon Society’s website,[1] the count was the brainchild of a man named Frank Chapman. Chapman decided to come up with an alternative to the “side hunts” that were very popular at the time, whereby teams of hunters would compete on Christmas day to see who could shoot the most birds and other wildlife. The Audubon Society, a relatively new organization at the beginning of the 20th century, decided to popularize the idea of counting birds instead of hunting them, and has conducted this data-gathering event—which now spans all of the Americas—for the past 125 years.[2]

*The many ponds at the research center provided ample opportunity to spot ducks, geese, and other waterfowl.*

It was still pitch dark when I awoke at 6 am on December 21^st, quickly bundling up to brave the predawn chill. The count was to begin shortly after the sun rose, when the birds would be most active. I joined a small group of birders on the grounds of the US Geological Survey’s Science Center in Leetown, WV, an expansive wooded property replete with the ponds and cold-water springs that are essential to the fish and aquatic research conducted there, and are also ideal for bird watching.

Most of the birders in our merry band were equipped with powerful binoculars and bird call identification apps on their phones, but I had only the zoom lens on my trusty Canon camera. I wanted not only to document the birds we spotted, but also to bring back my own memories of the entire experience (and to blog about it). I was not disappointed.

*Hard to tell this is a bluebird from the front, but you can’t mistake its iridescent blue back.*

Our small group walked close to three miles that morning and manually recorded a total of 41 different types of birds (not numbers of birds—we saw at least 100 Canada geese alone). I got a chance to see a belted kingfisher for the first time, and to capture a photo of a yellow-bellied sapsucker. Mostly I wandered around filled with awe, marveling at the peaceful landscape, the blending of bird songs, and the detailed birding knowledge of the group leaders. I felt privileged to be in the company of fellow travelers who take seriously the importance of protecting all of God’s creatures.

*In this photo, the yellow-bellied sapsucker is likely eating berries,* *though it prefers sap.*

As I drove back from Leetown, I reflected upon why this experience was so meaningful to me. Yes, it was a full immersion in a beautiful, natural setting, but I also appreciated the annual bird count’s premise that counting the living is much more important than counting the dead. For me it is the Christmas equivalent of counting your blessings instead of your losses and disappointments. It is a tradition I plan to embrace for years to come.

Did you establish any new holiday traditions this year? Did any involve nature? I would love to read your comments in the section below!

[1] https://www.audubon.org/community-science/christmas-bird-count/history-christmas-bird-count

[2] According to the National Audubon Society, over 62,000 volunteers participate in each year’s count, contributing to the longest-running database in ornithology.

The Special Joys of Sisterhood Weekends

There never seemed enough time at family gatherings for the three of us to have the “chick-chats” we had once dearly loved.

Growing up, I had the remarkable experience of being the eldest of eight children. The four that followed me in sequence were all brothers, and for nearly half of my childhood, I was the lone female child in a house full of testosterone.

*Home for the holidays in Buffalo, where the dream of “sisterhood weekends” was born.*

You can imagine then, why I was so elated when I learned that child number six was a girl, as was child number seven. The age gap between me and them proved to be a bonus, as we bypassed the usual sibling rivalries. When I started dating boys, for example, they were still playing with dolls and stuffed animals.

Despite the age difference, with ten of us living in a small house, we three sisters shared a bedroom for many years. I loved to read the girls stories, play the latest hits on the transistor radio, teach them new dance steps, and watch them watch me while I put on makeup. I like to think that I was a role model of sorts, or at least, that they got a sense of what life might be like when they reached my ripe old age.

*Florida in winter was a favorite destination.*

I left home at 18 for college and never returned (everyone in the family was kind of relieved; they had more elbow room, not to mention more time in the only bathroom). And although I missed everyone in the family, I especially missed my two little sisters. It was an ache that would stay with me long after I was married and had a family of my own.

The strong bonds that form among sisters are legendary, of course. The stuff of great songs, movies, and literature—everything from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, to “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge. Like others, our shared history led us three to form relationships that are complex, empathetic, and sometimes emotionally charged. But I always knew that when things went awry, my sisters would always be the first ones there for me.

*Sharing street food in Central Park, NYC.*

So one day, back in the early 1990s, when all three of us were back home for the holidays, we started talking about getting together more frequently, outside of the larger family gatherings. By that time we had husbands, and jobs, and children, and lived in three different cities. There never seemed enough time at family gatherings for the three of us to have the “chick-chats” we had once dearly loved. We agreed that we would try to carve out a long weekend, at least once a year, for just the three of us to be together again.

*In the Gulf of Mexico listening to a marine biologist.*

And so over the years, we’ve traveled to many different places—New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington DC, Miami, Hilton Head, and Savannah, to name a few. Florida was often a destination in the winter months, and places like Toronto and Niagara-on-the-Lake, when it was warm.

We went on yoga retreats and luxuriated in spas. We played instruments in a music video (“Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”) at Disneyworld’s Pleasure Island, pretending to be an all-girl rock band. At the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas, we went up the Mayan Temple to the “Leap of Faith,” a 60-foot water slide with a terrifying drop through a shark-infested lagoon. We took a less terrifying boat ride in the Gulf of Mexico with a marine biologist, who taught us what life was really like beneath the waves.

*Sometimes, when our children were infants, they got to come along.*

Although the destinations were interesting and the adventures were fun, it was the late-night talks that made these experiences memorable. Although we three are very different people having led very diverse lives, when we come together we are like children again, sharing things we aren’t willing to share with anyone else. That level of trust only comes after years of openness, honesty, and emotional support.

*Thirty-five years later we still get together, this year at the Mohonk Nature Preserve in New York.*

All three of us keep a box full of photos that memorialize our many sisterhood weekends, because they have meant so much to us. Some have said that love among sisters is the “greatest love of all” because of its emotional depth. So ladies, if you have a sister, hold her close and spend as much time with her as you can. These rare moments of togetherness are priceless, and worth whatever effort it takes to make them happen.

A Remembrance, in the Grand Canyon of the East

Our main objective was to hike the Gorge Trail in Letchworth State Park, to the three major waterfalls that are the highlight of this stunning place.

On a recent bright September morning, I along with seven friends who first met in college many years ago, drove together to Letchworth State Park in upstate New York, to bid a final farewell to a ninth friend, who passed away this year.

It is always a challenge to determine the best way to honor someone whom you remember as funny, outgoing, and full of life. Cliff was a real character, the kind of guy who would definitely not want a solemn and reverent remembrance as the coda to his final chapter. He was a rugby player, after all. I think we made the right decision in selecting this glorious park as the place to celebrate his life. Its exquisite natural beauty served as a balm that soothed the pain of our loss.

*Letchworth is known at the “Grand Canyon of the East” for the gorges carved by the Genesee River.* *All photos are ©* Moxie Gardiner.

The park was first home to the Seneca Nation, and much later, the private estate of William Pryor Letchworth. To his credit, the wealthy industrialist preserved much of the natural flora and fauna of his surroundings, and eventually bequeathed his thousand-acre estate to the state of New York as a public park. The government, over time, further developed it into the 14,000 acre park it is today. It has become known as “The Grand Canyon of the East” because the swiftly flowing Genesee River has carved a wide gorge, as deep as 550 feet in some places, through the 17 miles of the long, narrow park.

*There are spectacular views (and photo ops) from many of the hiking trails.*

*Well over 100 steps down to see the falls was not so bad, but coming back up…!*

As it turned out, the timing of this memorial meant my friends and I were at the park just before the “leaf-peeping” season began. The place was not crowded that day, but for those who might be planning a visit, we learned that in 2025, Letchworth was voted — for the second time — “best state park in the United States” by USA Today. Letchworth now sees over a million visitors each year, so if you would like to enjoy a peaceful hike through this park, plan your visit accordingly.

We began our visit at the pretty, well-appointed Visitor Center to pick up a map, study the trails, and decide where we would begin our hike.[1] If we had intended to spend more time there, we could have visited the Letchworth history museum, the Glen Iris Inn, or the Council Grounds where a long house built by the Senecas still stands. There are also opportunities for hiking, biking, kayaking, horse-back riding, and even hot-air ballooning, but those would need to wait for a different kind of visit.

*The ever-flowing waters of spectacular Middle Falls.*

Our main objective was to hike the Gorge Trail to the three major waterfalls that are the highlight of this stunning park. Waterfalls have long been a symbol of eternal life, with their constant flow of life-affirming waters and endless rejuvenation. What better way to remind ourselves of the cycle of life at a time of personal bereavement? At many points along the way, we reminisced about Cliff.

When we finally reached the falls, we were not disappointed. Although the path was steep in places, and we oldsters needed to rest from time to time, the ability to stand near each of these falls as they thundered far below us, was breathtaking and worth the effort. After our hike we drove to several more scenic overlooks, and at one of them, someone noticed a sign that had our friend’s first name on it. We decided it was a message from him, telling us we had done the right thing by coming here.

Afterwards, I reflected on this unique way to honor a friend’s memory, and decided that it is something that ought to be done more often. I hope when it is my time, my friends and family will take a long walk through a natural setting, and know that I am there, and that I am with them.

Have you ever visited Letchworth State Park? Have you ever honored a friend’s memory in this way? I would love to read your thoughts in the comment section, below.

[1] For more information on Letchworth State Park, visit https://letchworthpark.com/

Reliving Our European Dream—in Buffalo, New York?

Where would you rather spend the month of August? In Europe or Buffalo?

*A sidewalk cafe and bookstore in Elmwood Village.*

For much of my adult life, I dreamed of living in Europe—the land of fairy tale castles, good wines, and unhealthy pastries. In 2009, the dream became a reality.

That year I had the unexpected good fortune to be selected for a job in Brussels, the cosmopolitan capital of Belgium as well as headquarters of NATO and the European Union. For three years, my husband and I lived in an apartment in the heart of the city, within walking distance of museums, monuments, cafes, open-air markets, and across from a beautiful park where I could walk my dog, people-watch and get an ice cream cone for my troubles. On weekends we would take the time to savor everything that is wonderful about living in a European city, from early-morning cappuccinos and buttery croissants, to an endless choice of dining options and evening strolls around an urban lake.

*European apartment buildings have lovely flower boxes.*

The only problem: the assignment was over in three years. Knowing up-front that our European idyll was to be short-lived, we made the most of every day. We left in 2012 with plenty of wonderful memories, a vow to return to Europe, and a hope to perhaps live there again someday.

Fast forward to January 2025, and our planning session for the year ahead. Having retired in the relative isolation of rural West Virginia, we considered going back to Europe to reclaim the lifestyle we enjoyed there, but remembered the nightmare of the last time we traveled overseas. We, along with a thousand other unhappy folks, waited for hours to clear Belgian passport control, came down with a nasty bug a couple days later, and spent the rest of the trip in bed. My husband, lucky fellow, who was returning a day ahead of me, had his flight cancelled at boarding, and got to enjoy a second long wait at customs. The trauma lingered, obviously, but so did our desire for city living. What to do? Rent an apartment in Buffalo instead!

Buffalo vs Brussels??

How can the two compare, you might wonder. Well, if you’re not from Buffalo that’s understandable, but Buffalo today is a different town than the one known primarily for snow and wings. Zillow named Buffalo the hottest real estate market in the US for 2025, and one of its fastest growing neighborhoods, lying right in the center of the city, is called Elmwood Village.

I had heard that this area had been transformed since I went to college nearby, so I decided to rent an upstairs apartment smack in the heart of the Village with a front porch overlooking the neighborhood. At the beginning of August I settled in, and looked forward to spending the rest of that lovely summer month exploring what was new in the city of my birth.

The first thing that struck me was how similar the experience was to the one we had in Brussels. Within walking distance of the apartment were restaurants for every taste and budget, from upscale to take-out—many with tables and chairs for dining al fresco (Buffalonians, like Europeans, make the most of nice weather). In less than 10 minutes, I could walk to a bank, the food co-op, a pet store, a bookstore, several cafes with great coffee, a bakery and an ice cream shop. Every Saturday morning was a walk to the farmers’ market two blocks away, to buy flowers for the week and fresh vegetables. (The only difference was the market in Brussels had an outdoor oyster and champagne bar, open for breakfast).

In less than 20 minutes, I could walk to elegant Delaware Park. Designed by renowned architect Frederick Law Olmsted in the late 1800s, and much like his Central Park in New York City, Delaware Park is the living, breathing heart of Buffalo proper. In the course of an evening walk, I watched a performance of Shakespeare in the Park, couples have wedding pictures taken by the lovely rose garden, stopped by several food truck vendors, and watched young people playing everything from corn hole to bongo drums.

In the middle of the park lies beautiful Hoyt Lake, surrounded by weeping willows and boat rental houses. Across the street from the park is the AKG art museum with its world famous masterpieces. (Why wait in endless lines at the Louvre?) On the other side of the lake is the Buffalo History Museum, a neoclassical structure reminiscent of the Greek Parthenon, and a remnant of the 1900 Pan-American Exposition which Buffalo hosted.

*Beautiful landscaped mansions line Buffalo’s parkways.*

And to my great delight, all over Elmwood Village (and indeed most of Buffalo) are amazing flower gardens. Every home along the beautiful Olmsted-designed parkways are gorgeously landscaped, and even some of the smaller homes fill their limited space with exuberant plantings. My husband always loved the window boxes in Europe filled with flowers. The apartment buildings in Elmwood Village have those too. Within a month, I felt like I had a European living experience all over again.

*One of Elmwood Village’s lovely flower gardens.*

Once of the nicest things? Thanks to “earth-friendly” decomposable dog poop bags and bins, every park and parkway is remarkably free of those smelly little piles, despite the fact that this is a very dog-friendly neighborhood. Buffalo’s definitely got Europe beat when it comes to dealing with pup-poop – the sidewalks and walking paths of Paris and Brussels were sometimes virtual minefields.

*My favorite *allée*, in the Parc du Cinquantenaire in Brussels.*

I’m sure I’ll return to Europe, maybe even soon, but in the meantime I’m happy to know that I can enjoy a “European experience” in Buffalo, just a few hours’ drive away. Where would you rather spend the month of August? In Europe or Buffalo? Please share your views in the comments below!

Why Chautauqua is the Summer Camp that Soothes the Soul

The people who visit the Chautauqua Institution are there to seek solace, and turn their minds away from a troubled world.

Although I grew up in Buffalo, I was only vaguely familiar with the Chautauqua Institution and the world- renowned summer gathering that happens less than 90 minutes south of my hometown. Until recently that is. Now that I have gone to “CHQ” as it’s known, for two years in a row, I think I may be hooked forever.

*Lewis Miller, one of the early founders of the Chautauqua Movement and father-in-law of Thomas Edison, built this cottage as the family’s summer residence.* (All photos © Moxie Gardiner)

The Chautauqua Institution celebrated its 150th birthday last year, an idea born of necessity. Three similar American institutions—the camp meeting, the Lyceum, and the American Sunday School—had all declined in popularity by the start of the Civil War. Archivist and historian Jon Schmitz argues that after that terrible conflict had ended, many were searching for ways to cobble the country back together, and the Chautauqua Movement was born. Chautauqua, he says, was “a growing country’s admission of its need for education, culture, and moral improvement. In other words, it was a perfect American expression of what America wasn’t.”[1]

*Authors’ Hour is a popular part of the writing program at CHQ.*

Over the years, CHQ went through many evolutions, and at times was on the brink of collapse, particularly after the stock market crash of 1929. But donors who believed in its mission raised enough money for the Institution to survive. Today CHQ is thriving, offering a slate of recreational activities, cultural events, lectures, classes, and celebrity speakers to over 100,000 visitors during its summer program.

Last year I came for a day to do an Authors’ Hour reading. This year I stayed a week, primarily to attend a writer’s workshop, but learned while I was on campus, that CHQ offered many other things of interest to me. I went on nature tours with the Bird, Tree and Garden Club and visited a number of the 119 named gardens on the grounds. I toured several historical sights and took a ride on the steamboat, The Chautauqua Belle. I swam in Chautauqua Lake, went “forest bathing,” and listened to symphonies from the privacy of my hotel balcony.

*There are a number of rain gardens on the Chautauqua grounds. A naturalist explains their purpose to our group.*

I talked to a number of other visitors and learned that they came back year after year, and for many different reasons. Some liked the focus on religion and theology. Others liked to discuss contemporary issues. My sister, a writer who is currently focused on historical places in Western New York, came to investigate its well preserved buildings and its archives.

*The Chautauqua Belle is an authentic steam wheeler, one of five left in the US.*

As one of the early founders, Methodist Minister John Vincent understood, “It is one thing to attract people by offering them what they want, but Chautauqua keeps people coming back because it gives them what they need.[2] I wasn’t sure I understood what that meant until I fully immersed myself in the Chautauqua experience. What I learned is that with time, opportunity, and the encouragement of others, I was able to give my creativity and intellectual curiosity free reign. I was always on the go and learned a great deal, but at the same time, oddly enough, I was at peace.

*George Saunders, far left, best-selling author of* Lincoln at the Bardo, *answers questions about an opera based on his book.*

With few exceptions, the people who visit the Chautauqua Institution are there to seek solace, and turn their minds away from a troubled world. If Chautauqua was created to heal the wounds of war and the divide that existed among Americans at that time, then perhaps, more than ever, it is the kind of place we Americans really need today.

There is great value in slowing down and thinking deeply, in having conversations with a diverse set of people, and in learning new things at every age. I think we need more summer camps like this in our country.

Do you? Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.

*The Chautauqua Osprey, created completely from recycled plastics, is a symbol of Chautauqua’s commitment to a healthy environment.*

[1] From the booklet, CHAUTAUQUAWhat? A Short History of a Place and an Idea, page 3, by Jon Schmitz. Published in 2024 for the Institution’s 150^th anniversary.

[2] Same booklet. Page 20.

For more information on the Chautauqua Institutions see https://www.chq.org/.

Experiencing the Magic of an Appalachian Bog

I’m not sure I can remember a time when I felt more attuned to the natural world than I did in that bog.

*Exploring a hidden bog in the Appalachian highlands. All photos ©* *Moxie Gardiner.*

This past weekend, I had the good fortune to attend a three-day master naturalist conference in Canaan Valley, West Virginia. This spectacular setting, an upland plateau deep in the Appalachian Mountains, is noteworthy for being one of the largest wetland areas of its type in the southern and central Appalachian region. It is a dreamscape for naturalists seeking to observe unique flora and fauna more often found in Canada than in the warmer mid-Atlantic states.

My purpose, however, was to explore a new way of thinking about nature that I’ve only recently discovered. In a nutshell, I need to think of myself not as a naturalist, or master naturalist. I am nature.

When I first read this sentiment in a poem, it took me a minute to wrap my head around it.[1] The philosophical concept expressed was that nature is not something to be simply observed and appreciated, like a lovely display in a living museum. Rather, we humans are an essential part of the natural world, just like all the green and growing things around us.

*Listening mindfully, one can hear the music of the tiny streams meandering through the bog.*

This suggests that we should have a stronger attachment to birds, trees and insects than to the man-made devices we depend on today. Yet ask the average person to distinguish the song of the white-throated sparrow from that of the chickadee, the maple tree from an oak, or a damselfly from a dragonfly, and they will probably not be able to tell you. Why? Possibly because they feel no connection to these things, and have no interest in learning how to distinguish them. The point of that poem was that unless we feel we are a part of the natural world, we won’t care about it as much as we need to—that is, as if our lives depend on it.

I decided to explore this idea of helping humans feel they are an intrinsic part of the natural order, after taking one of my favorite classes this weekend: “Nature Journaling By Sensing the Natural World,” taught by artist and storyteller Linda Durrett. Linda taught us a helpful method for making connections with nature by using all our senses (including our “sixth” sense) but in reverse order. We began by sitting quietly with our eyes closed for a good length of time and just listening. This was followed by (with eyes still closed) smelling, touching, tasting, and feeling the energy of what was around us.

*Walking in a bog can be treacherous. We pulled more than one person out of the muck.*

It was only after we had explored as much as we could with our eyes closed, that we opened them, and went from focusing on the big picture (the landscape) to the tiny things we needed to get down on the ground to see. For me the experience was enlightening, and I learned a great deal while rooted to the same spot for an hour.

I decided to use this approach the next morning when we visited a hidden bog far off the beaten path. Aside from our small group, there were no other people around. By listening first with my eyes closed, I heard the music of the bog—the squishy sound of the wet sphagnum moss beneath our feet, the tiny streams that gurgled through, the whir of insects on the wing, and the songs of the birds who feast on them. The bog smelled wet and earthy and felt like walking on foam pillows. The energy of the bog was alive, but hushed and secretive. Above the surface, all was calm and peaceful, but below our feet the earth moved and shifted with restless vigor.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a wide open space, seemingly devoid of biological diversity. But when I crouched close to the boggy mounds, I discovered a whole tiny world of plants that have thrived in such places for eons.

*There at my feet lay a tiny world of prehistoric wonder.*

*The tiny drosera, commonly known as sundew, is a darling carnivorous plant!*

I’m not sure I can remember a time when I felt more attuned to nature than I did in that bog, and I attribute that to Linda Durrett’s methodology. I felt an almost prehistoric connection, a feeling my ancestors might have had 300,000 years ago when they entered such a place.

It’s funny how, despite our ability to find information about anyone and anything in an instant, we still have so much to learn about the things that are most elemental and real. Try this approach of immersing yourself in the natural world. I think you’ll feel at home there.

Do you have a favorite spot where you feel at one with the natural world? I would love to hear your stories, in the comment section below.

[1] I did an internet search but I cannot find the poem, or I would add the link here. However, if you would like to read some lovely poems which embrace the same sentiment, read Poems of Earth and Spirit, by Kai Siedenburg at https:/ournatureconnection.com.

Finding Inspiration on the Shores of Lake Erie

This summer, I will find a comfortable piece of driftwood and sit and stare at the water for a while.

There is a beach on Lake Erie, not too far south of Buffalo, where I go every summer to write, to think, and to walk my dog. The beach shall go unnamed because it is private, and because the residents don’t really want anyone else to know it is there. It does not have a boardwalk, concession stands, or cabanas. What it does have is sand and rocks and long stretches of emptiness.

*Both Zippy and I love an empty beach. All photos © Moxie Gardiner*.

Although summer is not officially here, around Memorial Day I like to firm up my plans for the warmer months. In the process of filling up the calendar with trips, tours, reunions, and classes (and, reluctantly, medical appointments), I decided to push all that to the side and focus on the one, all-important period in July, when I will return to the beach and focus again on the trilogy I’m writing.

As May comes to a close, I will wrap up the initial draft of the second book in the series. Once I do, I’ll need time to let it sit and percolate for a while, probably for the rest of June. In July, I will come back to the draft, and begin the serious business of rewriting it.

I know of no better place to let the book settle in than on the shores of Lake Erie. Why? Because it is quiet and there are few distractions? Yes, but there is more to it than that, and it is a question worth pondering.

*Who wouldn’t be inspired by a Lake Erie sunset?*

Part of the answer, I believe, is that I take great inspiration from this ancient lake, which has been with us for eons, and over time, has transformed in significant ways, much like the protagonist in a book. Like the best of stories, the lake is deep, sometimes opaque, and it hides many secrets beneath its surface, some of which eventually will be revealed, while others will continue to mystify. And like complex characters, the lake has many moods. One minute it is calm and placid, and then, with little warning, it is a furious monster, waves pounding the shore, tossing boats, and spitting sand into the wind. Yes, the lake is a metaphor for the mercurial nature of life and the precarious world all living things inhabit.

The other reason I go to the lake when I am writing is that it churns up many memories. Lake Erie has been in my life since I was a young child. My grandparents, my parents, and then my husband and I, rented cottages near Point Breeze for many decades. When I sit now on the empty beach, idyllic scenes from my past roll by, from the days of building sand castles with my brothers, to flirting with boys as a teenager, to later teaching my own sons how to swim and skip rocks across the glassy surface.

Bad memories of the beach are rare, but as a writer I remind myself to remember and embrace those as well. One recollection that has stayed with me for many years was the time my six-year-old brother decided to try out our new raft—the blow-up, rectangular kind you could sleep on. He was happily floating in the shallows when a sudden storm came up. The raft began moving rapidly with the wind and current, and away from shore. I happened to look up—our group was packing and getting ready to leave—when I spotted him, too far from shore to get off and wade back. I could see his face and knew he was panicking.

I am a strong swimmer, but I had to make a choice. Run down the beach and try to get ahead of the raft, or get in the water quickly and try to swim to him in time? What if I made the wrong choice? I tried to judge how fast he was moving. I split the difference, running and then swimming, and thankfully, reached him before he had been pulled out much farther by the current. My heart was in my mouth as I pushed and pulled the raft to shore. What if he had fallen off in the turbulent water? What would it feel like to lose my baby brother, and in front of my eyes? I had nightmares about it for years.

*These ancient rocks have often been assaulted by violent storms which can come up on the lake without warning.* *We would sit on rocks like these when we were kids, and let the waves batter us during the storm.*

Anyone who has read Virgin Snow will now recognize where the inspiration for one of the more tragic scenes comes from, the accidental death of a sibling. Yes, the beach brings memories of summer love, the sounds of the waves, and the smells of suntan lotion and evening campfires. But it is also a reminder that even summer, with all its life-affirming qualities, has its share of heartbreak.

So this summer, I will find a comfortable piece of driftwood and sit and stare at the water for a while. I will ponder the vagaries of life, and what insights I might want to share with my readers. With any luck, I will finish my revisions to Book Two and publish it before the end of the year. If that happens, you can give a good deal of credit to a solitary stay on a quiet, Lake Erie beach.

*A perfect place to sit and contemplate.*

A question for my Western New York readers: what are your most compelling memories of Lake Erie, either good or bad? And for others, is there a body of water that has played an important role in your life? If so, please share your stories in the comment section, below.

To learn more about the first book in the trilogy, Virgin Snow, check out these comments from readers. https://moxiegardiner.com/feedback-from-virgin-snow-readers/

For more information on the fascinating history of Lake Erie, check out https://www.greatlakesnow.org/2024/03/from-the-ice-age-to-now-a-lake-erie-timeline/

Do People Still Read Physical Books? You Betcha!

This was my first street festival where books, and the readers who love them, were the main attraction.

*My little corner of the book festival. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.*

Twenty years ago, we began hearing predictions that people would stop reading physical books. Following on the heels of of audio books on cassette tapes and CDs, the internet and smart phones brought about e-readers and digital publishing. In an age of easily available 24/7 connectivity, serious readers and writers worried that the handy paperback, not to mention 300-page hardcover books, would go the way of the extinct dodo bird.

As both a writer of novels and a reader of assorted genres, I couldn’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t be able to open a new book, smell the delicious scent of fresh ink on paper, feel the texture of a glossy cover, and hear the rustle of pages as I closed it, finished for the night. Although I might be able to get the same book content through electronic means, to me it would feel like sensory deprivation.

Thankfully, those early predictions have not yet come to pass, and last Sunday my hopes were buoyed further by my experience at the Kensington Day of the Book Festival. For those unfamiliar with this event (as I was before this year), a little history. A northern suburb of the Nation’s capital, Kensington is a small Maryland town with a population of just over 2,000. The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad train still rolls slowly by every so often, and families still walk along its three-block main street, browsing antique shops and dining at family-owned restaurants.

*The young, the old, and even canine friends came to enjoy the festival.*

But on one day each year, as many as 10,000 people descend on this small town for the Kensington Day of the Book Festival, a phenomenal literary celebration that features authors, poets, cookbook writers, artists, musicians, and most importantly, book readers! The event is the brainchild of Elisenda Sola-Sole, the owner of the Kensington Row Bookshop. Eli hails from Barcelona, Spain where a tradition of exchanging books on the feast of Sant Jordi has roots dating back to the 1920s. Accordingly, both Sant Jordi (Saint George) and the legendary dragon he slew, are symbols of the Kensington book festival.

*Despite the wind, this author and I connected over our Sicilian heritage.*

Although the festival officially runs from 11 am until 4 pm, by 10 o’clock the street was alive with activity. There was a loud buzz of expectancy as we set up tables and books and chatted with fellow authors. Before the festival officially kicked off, early buyers were at the tables, hoping to snatch copies of books they were afraid would sell out. By 11 am there was a crush of visitors, with readers crowding every tent and book table, kids dancing to the music of an old-fashioned band, and lines forming at each of the food trucks.

Throughout the day, despite a ferocious wind that frequently blew bookmarks and posters down the narrow street, book lovers turned out in record numbers. What thrilled me most though, was that the crowd ranged in age from babes in carriages to those who began reading when the first “perfect bound” books hit the market many decades ago.

*Young readers mulling over which book to buy.*

Judging by what I saw, those who say the young no longer read, are quite wrong. Buyers in their teens, twenties and thirties appeared at many tables, searching for books ranging from self-help to science fiction, true crime and “romantasy.” Some of the best sellers were children’s picture books, designed for young parents and “future” readers.

I have been to a number of street festivals in my life, some with a focus on food, others on arts and crafts, and still others on music. But this was my first festival where books, and the readers who love them, were the main attraction.

Shortly after my novel was published, I wrote a love letter to all who read books, not just because we writers need them, but because people who read books tend to have the wisdom, vocabulary, critical reasoning skills, and empathy to make the world a better place. I was delighted to meet so many of these special people when they stopped to chat at my table and peruse my book.[1] Despite all the polls that suggest people are reading fewer books today, the Day of the Book Festival gave me great hope that we still have many book readers among us, and will have, for generations to come.[2]

Do you still buy or read physical books? What prompts you to do so, when there are many other alternatives? I would love to hear your views in the comments, below.

[1] For the full article see https://moxiegardiner.com/2023/12/31/a-letter-of-gratitude-to-those-who-read-books/

[2] For more details on the Kensington Day of the Book Festival, see https://www.dayofthebook.com/

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.

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