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Children of the River

We who grew up alongside the mighty Niagara know it as the artery that pulsed through our childhood. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.

Few people outside of Buffalo know much about the Niagara River, other than that it is interrupted by one of the seven natural wonders of the world, Niagara Falls.

Historians might cite the battles fought on and across the Niagara River during the War of 1812, or its later role as a section of the Underground Railroad. Politicians recognize it as an important international boundary, and geographers as part of the great watershed that connects two of the great lakes, Erie and Ontario. Boaters and daredevils are in awe of this river that flows north over the Falls at nearly 70 mph, preceded by some of the most dangerous rapids in the world.

The class VI rapids of the formidable Niagara River.
Photo: Library of Congress

Buffalonians, however, think of none of that. We who grew up alongside the Niagara know it as the artery that pulsed through our childhoods.

I lived not far from the place where Lake Erie narrows and the Niagara River begins. We often walked to the river to fish, and could easily make it to the Foot of Ferry Street or the river’s break wall in 20 minutes. Our Sunday family outings often ended at one of the parks along the river’s edge, where we could play and enjoy delicious Ted’s Hot Dogs in the summer, and ice skate in the winter. At night, we listened to the sand flies, newly hatched down by the river, pinging against our window screens.

*We often rode our bikes across the Peace Bridge and into Ontario without having to show ID. Photo courtesy of Dean Gallagher*

When we were teenagers and could ride our bikes some distance, we would say goodbye to Mom in the morning equipped with a brown bag lunch and a bathing suit, and ride over the Peace Bridge to Canada. The Baby Hole beach, with its treacherous currents, was right over the bridge, but we preferred Crescent Beach, where other teenagers tended to congregate. If we had the energy, we would ride the 14 miles to the Crystal Beach Amusement Park, and then back again, arriving home sunburned and late for supper.

As I grew older, the river sickened. Steel, petrochemical, and chemical industries had flourished along the river, thanks to the availability of cheap electricity from Niagara Falls and easy access to the Great Lakes. In the late 1970s, many of these plants pulled up stakes and left the area, leaving behind hazardous waste sites and contaminated waters. In 1978, a neighborhood near the Love Canal, just outside of Niagara Falls, learned that it was sitting above more than 20,000 tons of toxic industrial waste. Many residents fell ill and died.

By the late 1980s, the Niagara River was officially designated one of the “Great Lakes Areas of Concern,” and the people of Buffalo were warned not to eat fish caught in the river or swim in its waters. I remember all too well the fetid smell of rotting fish, the abandoned factories along the river’s edge, and the greasy film atop the water from industrial runoff. It felt as if the river itself had died.

*Old West Side friends come together to celebrate at new bars and restaurants along the river*. *Photo by Moxie Gardiner*

Today, however, the river is alive again. Restaurants, parks, and upscale apartment buildings have replaced the derelict structures along its shoreline, and Canalside, Buffalo’s revitalized terminus of the Erie Canal, has become a popular tourist destination. Recently, a dozen or so of my elementary school classmates got together at the River Grill, a popular outdoor spot where we could sit and swap stories about the old days while enjoying the river’s cool breeze.

One of Buffalo’s Paddle People enjoying the wildlife near Grand Island.
Photo courtesy of Dean Gallagher

Last summer, I joined the Buffalo Paddle People to kayak around Grand Island, a piece of land the size of Manhattan that splits the river in two. We glided along its banks and out to smaller islands, looking for nesting birds and other wildlife. Off in the distance, I could see the Buffalo skyline, gleaming in the setting sun. I let my fingers drag through the cold waters of the river and was instantly transported back to the days when I would gingerly step out into the same cold waters in my bathing suit, and feel the swift water pushing through my fingers and toes.

There is an old adage: “No man steps into the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.” As I paddled back to Grand Island’s green and healthy shore, these words deeply resonated with me. For as much as the river has changed, I have changed more.

One thing, though, has remained the same: I love this river and always will. The mighty Niagara still runs through me, and I now know that for many future generations, it will do the same.

Did you grow up loving a river? Leave me a comment, below. I look forward to hearing your stories.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer and gardener 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. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.

Strawberry Backs and Blackberry Fingers

As an inner city child, one of the things I looked forward to every summer was a trip to the countryside to pick berries.

As an inner city child, one of the things I looked forward to every summer was a trip to the countryside to pick berries. It was a simple, tactile pleasure enjoyed by my parents and their parents before them, each generation hunting and gathering in much the same way.

*We always had a contest among us kids to see who could find the biggest, juiciest strawberries.*
*All photos © Moxie Gardiner*.

Every June, we would make our annual trek to a strawberry patch in Brant, NY, not far from our cottage in Angola. We would spend hours going up and down the rows with our flimsy little wooden crates, looking for the biggest, juiciest strawberries. The aroma was heavenly—you could smell the warm strawberries as soon as you got out of the car—and no one seemed to mind if you popped one or two (or a dozen) in your mouth as you worked along the rows.

The sun warmed your back and turned it as red as the strawberries, particularly if you went picking in your bathing suit after a day at the beach. But on the farms not far from Lake Erie, there always seemed to be a nice, cool breeze to keep you going. That and visions of delights yet to come: strawberry shortcake, strawberry milkshakes, strawberries on ice cream, strawberries on cereal, and later, as we grew older, strawberry daiquiris! For the adults, “strawberry back” had a different meaning, after a few hours bending over the low-growing plants.

“*You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet/ Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it/ Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for/ Picking.”*
(All quotes are from Seamus Heaney’s poem “Blackberry-Picking”)

As summer wore on, the strawberry-gathering ritual was replaced by blackberry picking, a far more perilous adventure that took us to the wild places. While strawberries are a cultivated crop, blackberries and black raspberries, at least those of my youth, grew on steep hillsides and along country roads.

“*Then red ones inked up and that hunger*/ *Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots*“

Black raspberries are small and easier to pick, but the larger, plumper, tastier blackberries are protected by nasty thorns. You have to really love blackberries to go after those babies.

Our fingers got scratched and pricked and sometimes we ended up with poison ivy, but when we found a good patch full of ripe berries, we gathered and ate until our stomachs ached. Once found, their location became a jealously guarded secret, much like the wild gardoon patches in the heart of the city.

“*Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.*
*Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills*
*We trekked and picked until the cans were full,*“

“Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.”

One of my favorite Irish poets, Seamus Heaney, wrote about blackberry picking as a metaphor for childhood enthusiasms and disappointments. Like every Holy Grail of youth, the poem speaks to how once tasted, one will go to any lengths to obtain the succulent wild berries, and how, like so many fruits of summer and childhood, are far too quickly gone.

“*I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair*
*That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.*
*Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.*“

As I began to write this blog, I wondered, how many children, especially those living in cities today, are able to experience the fleeting joy of berry picking? I see from a quick online search that trips to pick-your-own strawberry farms are recommended as a healthy, outdoor activity for families with small children during this pandemic. However, I found no such encouragement for blackberry picking. Too much trouble, I suppose, in these days of triple-washed, packaged fruit, and in fairness, with encroaching development, wild blackberry patches are fewer and harder to find. But you can only truly know the deliciousness of a blackberry, I firmly believe, if you have, at least once, gone to the trouble of picking your own.

As an adult, I still enjoy harvesting berries, and unlike poor youthful Seamus, I’ve learned to eat only what I am able, and quickly freeze or preserve the rest as sauces, jams and jellies.

This preservation strikes me as a metaphor for life as well. Capture what you can of the “essence” of summer—and of youth—without trying to cling to something that cannot stay.

Do you have fond memories of berry-picking? Write to me and tell me your stories! I look forward to hearing from you.

Water in the Mouth

All I have to do is think about the authentic street food usually on offer at the Italian Festival—sfinge, cannoli, gardoons, zeppole, pizza bianca—and I begin to drool.

One of the things this monstrous thief, the COVID-19 pandemic, has robbed us of this year is Buffalo’s popular Italian Heritage Festival, usually held the third weekend in July when Buffalo is fully enjoying La Dolce Vita.

Dante Alighieri, one of Italy’s most famous sons, once said, “There is no greater pain than to recall happiness in times of misery.” I know what he means. I am feeling the pain in this miserable time of quarantines and lockdowns, recalling my many happy years attending the Italian Festival, and being transported back to a time and place that felt so much like the neighborhood where I grew up.

There is an Italian expression, avere l’acquolina in bocca, literally meaning to have water in the mouth. All I have to do is think about the authentic street food usually on offer at the Italian Festival—sfinge, cannoli, gardoons, zeppole, pizza bianca—and I begin to drool. Many of the vendors have been there for years, some for generations, making food the way my Sicilian grandmother did. But lest you get the impression that the festival is all about food, let me quickly add a little bit of history.

Most people from the Buffalo metropolitan area are familiar with the version of the festival that for many years was held on Hertel Avenue in North Buffalo, where it moved in the late 1980s along with many of the city’s Italians. After a couple of decades on Hertel, the festival expanded exponentially and outgrew the city streets. In 2018, the festival moved to Buffalo’s Outer Harbor, and again in 2019 to downtown Buffalo.

*St. Anthony is still the man at the heart of the Italian Festival.*

“The Buffalo Lawn Fete,” however, was actually born nearly 100 years ago at St. Anthony of Padua Church on the lower West Side. The Italian community founded the Saint Anthony of Padua Church Society back in 1891 when thousands of Italian immigrants were pouring in, and it quickly became the social and religious center of the city’s Italian population. The parish established the first Italian language school and priests said the mass in Italian. In 1921, the church’ held the first 12-day lawn fete centered on the “Festa di San Antonio,” which honored St. Anthony, beloved patron saint of the oppressed and poor.

*What could be better than eating food that tastes like Grandma’s for $3.00?*

Back in 1921, my ancestors were among the thousands of immigrants from the mountain villages of Sicily who had settled on the lower West Side. My grandmother and her family lived on Efner Street, within walking distance of St. Anthony’s, and I like to imagine her and her siblings waiting excitedly for the festival each year, walking to the church, enjoying the food, and meeting and greeting friends and relatives in Italian.

My first encounter with the Italian Festival was in 1976 when it was revived after a hiatus and held again on the West Side. A friend who was working at one of the booths (shucking clams if I remember correctly), encouraged me to walk the four blocks from my house to Connecticut Street to see what was on offer. The whole festival only took up a few blocks back then, and had a much homier feel. I fell in love with the food, the dancing, the music, and the language, and I’ve been going back for as many years as I can remember whenever I’m in Buffalo.

*Old Italian expression*:
***Chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire.***
No matter where you go or turn, you’ll always end up at home.
**—————————**

This year the plan was to transform Niagara Square into an Italian piazza, say the festival organizers. It was to be focused more on cultural traditions to introduce—or remind—people of the old ways. There was to be grape stomping, puppet shows, tarantella dancers and a procession carrying the statue of St. Anthony through downtown Buffalo. There was even going to be a genealogy booth, and I had looked forward to being fully immersed in the old West Side again.

No, I won’t be able to go the festival this summer and that makes me sad. But I have decided to search high and low until I find an Italian bakery that sells fresh, just filled cannoli in my new hometown. I will venture inside, wearing my mask, and buy half a dozen cannoli, just to console myself.

There is water in my mouth just thinking about it.

*Somewhere I will find a good Italian bakery this summer that makes authentic desserts, especially my all time favorite–cannoli.*
All photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner

Front Porch Summers

No one had air-conditioning, the windows were wide open, and there were no family secrets in the summertime.

Everyone has heard tales of the fearsome Buffalo winters, but few, other than those who live there, know the splendor of its summer days. And as glorious as the days might be, they are nothing compared to the magic of the city’s summer nights.

*We cooled off in the backyard until the*
*neighborhood pools were open.*

When I was growing up on Buffalo’s West Side, summer did not begin on Memorial Day. For us it began the day after school ended, usually around the third week in June when the weather turned from cool to mild. We would take our report cards to the Super Duper supermarket to get free tickets for rides at Crystal Beach, pull out our bikes and hose them down, and fill the kiddie pool in the backyard for good measure. Until we turned 10 we weren’t allowed to leave our block, so we made the best of what we had.

*On the hottest nights, we’d go down to the Niagara River with Dad to catch a cool breeze.*

We counted down the days until the neighborhood pool would open (usually as soon as the water warmed enough to avoid hypothermia) and satisfied ourselves with street games like Kick the Can and Red Rover. If we could scrounge up the money, we’d treat ourselves to trips to Ganci’s Groceries for a bag of Bugles and a baloney sandwich, to Pepe’s for a lemon ice, or wait until we heard the melody of Charlie’s Super Cones truck to buy a single twist of chocolate that tasted like velvet on the tongue.

*Our moms made sure we were all home for the summer evening ritual.*

At dusk, we would hear the mothers calling from their porches: “Jooo-eeee!” Carmel-lllooo!” in their peculiar singsong cadence. Children would run, breathless, up to their houses and leap onto their front porches before the streetlights came on, or suffer the consequences. All up and down the block families gathered on their porches, and the evening ritual celebrating the arrival of summer would begin.

My bisnonno loved to catch up
with the other Sicilian men.

It often started with the quick flare of a match and the winking red glow of a cigarette, as the parents sat back in their folding chairs. Cars would slow as they threaded their way down our one-way street to avoid hitting the dogs wandering out to do their business after dinner. On the porches, we would hear the older Sicilians punctuating their sentences in Italian, and the occasional clink as a bottle of homemade wine was poured into glasses.

We would sit on the steps, eating our popsicles,
and learn about the world through front porch osmosis.

Our family of 10 didn’t have enough chairs on the porch for everyone, so we kids usually sat on the front steps, eating popsicles Mom always kept in the freezer. Neighbors would drop by to visit and share neighborhood gossip and we sat, rapt, and soaked it all in. Everything was debated on those front porches—religion, politics, long hair styles, the Vietnam War. We learned about the place that we lived and the people we lived with, through front porch osmosis. No one had air-conditioning, the windows were wide open, and there were no family secrets in the summertime.

As we got older, we would sit on our friends’ front porches and huddle off to the side, listening to music on our transistor radios while sand flies from the river pinged against the window screens. We could smell what our friends had for dinner and hear the murmur of their favorite television show. We got to know which families treated each other well and which didn’t. We learned which houses to avoid after the sun went down.

All of my life, I have insisted that wherever I live, I must have a front porch. I still like to sit there on summer nights, listening to the birds and cicadas in the gloaming. But the sounds and smells of the country at night are different from those of the city. Now as I sit on my porch, I am more likely to hear the cry of an owl than a baby crying, and to smell the pungent smoke of a campfire than a puff from a Lucky Strike.

Our recent pandemic has made me appreciate the simple things in life, like sitting on a porch, surrounded by family and friends, trading stories and drinking ice tea. How I look forward to doing this again, if our luck holds out, this coming summer in Buffalo.

“It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer….Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days.”
―Anna Godbersen, *Bright Young Things*

Do you have fond memories of summer nights on the front porch? I would love to hear some of your childhood memories, particularly of your favorite place to listen and learn from grownup conversation. Leave me a comment please, and subscribe if you like my blog!

Small Victories

Back in 1943, nearly every yard on the West Side of Buffalo, no matter the size, became what was then called a Victory Garden. My mother and father both recall the vibrant, productive gardens that filled these small spaces, and remember doing what they could to contribute, though they were only small children when World War II broke out. Families across the country worked together to do their part by growing fresh fruit and vegetables on their own plot of land to support the war effort and supplement the rationed food supply.

My parents remember West Side gardens filled with everything from tomatoes and peppers to raspberry bushes, grapevines, and fruit trees. Some families planted gardens in empty lots, on rooftops, even in pots and sacks on front porches. People bought pressure cookers to can whatever produce they did not need to eat immediately, thus ensuring a ready supply of vitamin-packed fruits and veggies throughout the Buffalo winter.

*Herbs do very nicely in pots. Here we hav*e a mix of rosemary, oregano, thyme and chives. *All photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner.*

The Victory Garden movement actually began during World War I, when the government declared that the “Prevention of widespread starvation is the peacetime obligation of the United States. … The War Garden of 1918 must become the Victory Garden of 1919.” The idea was heralded again during World War II when US home, school, and community gardens produced an estimated 40 percent of the country’s fresh vegetables from something like 20 million Victory Gardens.

Now, as word spreads of possible long term disruptions in the food supply as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic, people are talking about them again, this time as Victory Over the Virus gardens. Using quarantine time to start an edible garden has apparently caught on.

*This large window box has been producing a continuous mix of salad greens since early March.*

“Like every seed company, we’ve had a huge uptick in sales,” said Nate Kleinman, in a recent New York Times article. “People seem to be preparing for some serious disruptions in the food supply. I’m not alone in feeling concerned with how this may go down,” he said.[1]

But many novices will likely learn, as they did in 1943, that growing an edible garden is more challenging than it seems. At our annual “Grow It Eat It” community event each year, Master Gardeners are often asked, “How do I get started? How much space will I need? What are easy crops to grow? What if I don’t have a yard? Can I grow food in containers?

This year, one of my responsibilities was to teach an Urban Gardening class on growing fruits, vegetables, and herbs in containers. Sadly, the class was cancelled, like so many things this spring, so I decided to use this blog to pass along a few tips for those who have small yards, or no yards, and want to try their hand at growing their own food.

*When the weather warms, I will plant tomatoes in this bed ringed with different types of garlic.*

For those who have a small yard, or have never cultivated the soil in their yard, raised beds are a great option. I have raised beds in two sizes: 4’x4’ and 4’x8’. Most hardware stores will cut 8 foot boards to the size you need. It is then a fairly simple matter of fastening the corners and filling the bed with a good mix of compost and garden soil sold in bags at the same stores.

*I’ve planted carrots, spinach, beets,*
*turnips and swiss chard in this 4’x4′ bed.*

To make the most of each raised bed, I plant things that are great “companion” plants. For example, my strawberry plants seem to love the peppers I plant with them each summer. In other beds, I plant a combination of root vegetables (like beets and carrots) with shallow rooted leafy greens (like spinach and swiss chard). Garlic and onions form the perimeter of many of my raised beds, not only because they are very compatible with plants like tomatoes and potatoes, but also because they ward off many pests.

If your growing space is limited to a deck or balcony, you can still grow edibles in a variety of containers. The key is to focus on plants that are appropriate for the size of your pots. Herbs do wonderfully well in pots and window boxes, as do all types of greens. Potatoes, beets, carrots and other root vegetable are easily grown in half whiskey barrels and even tomatoes (varieties like Bushsteak, Roma or Red Cherry do best) can be grown in large pots, provided they get at least six hours of full sun.

*Shallow rooted plants like swiss chard do well in a small window box.*

The most important elements of success, of course, are sunlight, water, and the right kind of growing medium. Regular garden soil is much too heavy for pots, and potting soils often do not have enough nutrients. The internet is chock full of information about the type of supplements each different fruit or vegetable requires. For example, instead of throwing my coffee grounds in the trash, I toss them on the soil of all my acid loving plants (like blueberries and tomatoes).

*Once these strawberries bloom, I will add hot peppers to this raised bed.*

There is an old adage, that “Gardening adds years to your life and life to your years.” If you have never planted an edible garden before, why not try it now? The important thing is to get started soon. Many types of vegetable seeds should be planted just after the last frost date in your area, if your garden is to reach full maturity this summer.

Edible gardening is not only an enjoyable pastime and hobby, it may become a necessity in the months to come. Are you planning your own “Victory Garden” this year? Please let my readers know in the comments below what you are planting and your tips for gardening success.

[1] See “Food Anxiety Brings Back Victory Gardens,” Tejal Rao, New York Times, March 25, 2020

Love in the Time of Coronavirus

How we react and how we behave over the coming months will define who we are, and how we will be remembered, long after we are gone.

“These are the times that try men’s souls,” said Thomas Paine about the crisis that confronted Americans in 1776. Today we face another crisis that will test us all as Americans, as individuals, and as global citizens. How we react and how we behave over the coming months will define who we are, and how we will be remembered, long after we are gone.

We do not know when, or if, the coronavirus will visit us personally, and if it does, whether or not we will survive it. This sobering thought has me laser-focused on what is truly important in life, and what I should let fall by the wayside.

*It is time to remember what is important in life.*

When it is my time, for what would I like to be remembered? I have taken inspiration from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who in his novel Love in the Time of Cholera, writes, “The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.” Love, he goes on to explain is “a state of grace, not the means to anything, but the alpha and omega, an end in itself.”

I decided that I would like to be remembered as someone who loved deeply. Not just someone who felt love, but someone able to express love without reservation. I realize though, that I, like many others, face a challenge. As more and more of us are isolated, stuck at home, unemployed, sick, bored, irritable, confrontational, and running out of resources, how do we find the inner strength to show our love? Especially at a distance?

*It is more important now than ever to show the love.*

Do you remember the poem, “Desiderata?” The poem expresses the need to strive for worthy ideals, and the word desiderata means, “things wanted or needed” to achieve that. In order to focus on my new, # 1 priority in life, I decided to compose my own desiderata, my own list of things I want or need to remember to be able to express my love. Perhaps some on my list will resonate with you.

*Remember to say: I love the music you make.*

Love thru Intimacy. Remember to love my spouse, and why I was attracted to him in the first place, especially when so much “togetherness” is getting on everyone’s last nerve. And although there is a good chance that nine months from now there will be a COVID-19 baby boom, I should always remember there is more to intimacy than sex. While we are quarantined, I need to remember that the unexpected loving touch (hugs, kisses, back scratches, picking lint off a sweater) often says more than words. Love notes left on the refrigerator, reminiscences over dinner, dreams of good things yet to come are more important now than ever. Remember to say how much I love the way he strums his mandolin each morning while I have coffee. Remember how important it is to still have fun together.

*Remember it is important, especially for the little ones, to have fun.*

Love thru Patience. Remember to love the little ones in my life by exercising infinite patience. Remember that they don’t show their stress and anxiety the way we do at times like this, but the stress is there. Remember to be the fun auntie who likes to play and tell stories. Forgive small transgressions. Listen to them with your full attention. Pause before you speak. Remember to take time to watch the littlest one learn to walk (via video chat) and remember to applaud her efforts loudly.

*Remember to keep in touch with my elders, especially now.*

Love thru Tenderness. Remember to treat my elders with gentleness. They are especially vulnerable at this time and I should do everything in my power to protect them and keep them safe, even if that means not seeing them as often as I’d like. Remember the elders in my neighborhood too, and shop or do for them what I can. Remember that not all seniors have access to the Internet so be sure to call and let them know I am thinking about them. Remember to offer words of encouragement to help them get through this.

*Remember to do what I can to help others from the safety of my home.*

Love thru Compassion. Remember how fortunate I am to be quarantined in a comfortable house with access to food and the things that I need, while many less fortunate souls have neither. Remember those who have lost their jobs and can’t buy groceries or pay the rent. Remember those who are still working every day, putting their lives on the line to keep us healthy and safe, and to do my part to help them protect themselves. Donate what I can to help those in need, and volunteer to help from home where possible.

*Remember my pets need to feel the love too.*

Love thru Kindness. Remember to be kind to my furry family members who are such a source of comfort during difficult times. As happy as my pets are to have me home, remember that they sense my stress and are affected. Remember to play with them, hold them, pet them, and buy them treats. Remember too, all the other living creatures who enjoy my protection, from the birds at the feeders, to the fish in the pond, to the lady bugs hatching inside my house. Remember they all have their place in the great circle of life.

*Remember to act silly to lighten the mood.*

Love thru Humor. Remember to take time to do a funny dance and make everyone laugh. Share the funny things I find online–movies, memes, videos, apps, and games. Laughter is a great tonic at times like this. Try to lighten the burden of those who are suffering from mental health issues now, ranging from anxiety, to depression, to substance abuse. Show them the love by listening and sharing good humor to lift their spirits.

*Remember to plant a garden that can help feed the neighborhood.*

Love thru Generosity. Remember to invest time now to be able to help others this summer. Create a Victory Garden that will produce more than enough to share with neighbors and others in my community. As a Master Gardener, remember to be generous not only with produce, but with offers of assistance, with gardening advice, and with compliments for the gardening efforts of others.

*Remember that all living things are connected in the Circle of Life.*

Love thru Respect. Remember to show my love for our planet, for nature, and for wildlife, by respecting its role in our well being. Be a good steward of the earth and remember to do the right things, even during this time of crisis. Remember that lack of such respect may lead to future crises.

Love thru Self-care. Remember to take care of myself. If my reserves are depleted, I will have little to give anyone else. Meditate, eat healthily, take breaks from the news and practice self care. Remember to walk to the creek and listen to the laughing waters. Give myself a spa night at home and bake some peanut butter cookies. If love is the alpha and omega, remember it also begins and ends right here.

How do you plan to show the love during the coronavirus crisis? I would love to hear your ideas, and add them into my own list of resolutions. Please leave a comment. And stay well. I love my readers too.

Swimming with Sea Lions

I have never been met by a Welcome Committee quite like this one. They seemed very glad to see us–a group of strangers–pulling up in our noisy zodiac boat. They responded to our presence by doing somersaults, waving their fins and popping their heads out of the water in greeting. Perhaps this is the thing that is most striking about the Galapagos Islands. The wildlife is remarkably unperturbed by human intrusions into their domain, and some, like the sea lions, even seem to enjoy it.

*Few of the wildlife seem bothered by our presence. All photos copyright by Moxie Gardiner.*

I first heard about the Galapagos Islands when I was a child and the Catholic Church was still wrestling with Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. (Catholic schools today, in the US and other countries, teach “evolutionary creationism” as part of their science curriculum.) What caught my youthful attention, however, was not the theological arguments of those times, but pictures in National Geographic magazine of the awesome Galapagos tortoises.

*Giant tortoises living the good life at the Charles Darwin Research Center*

The more I read and learned about how life developed on this isolated archipelago, the more I knew I wanted to go there. Not only were there spectacular volcanic eruptions creating new islands, and older ones sinking slowly into the sea, I wanted to see the strange and bizarre adaptions of mammals, birds, plants, and sealife unique to these islands, more than 600 miles away from any mainland.

*The Christmas iguana’s distinction is its unusual coloration.*

What might I learn about life on our planet, I wondered, and its future, from these survivors of a harsh and constantly changing environment? Would I come away with hope in my heart, or despair?

Let me say first that the Galapagos would probably not be your first choice for a luxury vacation or destination wedding. Most of the islands are part of Ecuador’s national park system and therefore highly restricted in terms of development. That said, it is possible to visit in relative comfort. We stayed on a cozy, 40-passenger cruise ship that docked 10 minutes or so from each island, and shuttled us from ship to shore by panga, the Ecuadorean word for zodiac boat.

*We traveled by panga from island to island.*

Blue-footed boobies have snazzy feet
and interesting mating rituals.

Each day we were able to hike across a different island, observing iguanas, colorful crabs, lizards, Darwin’s finches, frigate birds, and assorted boobies (blue-footed, red-footed, and Nazca boobies; not the other kind).

*Can you spot the green sea turtle swimming beneath us?*

We could kayak to remote cliffs and watch the mating rituals of the frigate birds, puffing out their red-feathered chests to attract females. We also had the opportunity to snorkel and see the incredible marine life that thrives below the surface of the clear, aquamarine waters. I will never forget swimming through enormous schools of colorful fish, while sea lions clowned around for our entertainment, and green sea turtles swam lazily by.

*The best snorkeling I’ve ever experienced!*

Most visitors only see the giant tortoises at the Charles Darwin Research Station on Santa Cruz, where the tortoises live in semi-retirement, their primary responsibility being to mate and have offspring. On the island of Espanola, however, lives a large 100-year-old male named Diego, known by locals as the gringo macho, or “playboy tortoise.” Before Diego was sent there as part of a tortoise breeding program, there were two males and 12 females on the island. Diego did his job, however, and reportedly fathered over 800 offspring. We looked for Diego when we were on Espanola, but he was apparently busy.[i]

A giant tortoise prowls the Charles Darwin research center. — *Nope. This is not Diego, the “playboy,” but another male giant tortoise.*

Did we see examples of “adaptation” and “natural selection” that Darwin observed during his voyage on the HMS Beagle? We certainly did. We saw cacti as large as trees (“gigantism”), birds with vivid coloring to attract mates (“natural selection”) and finches that developed different beaks (so they could more easily eat whatever was available, called “adaptation”). We saw the bones of creatures that did not, or could not, survive a recent El Nino and presumably other extreme weather events.

*The cactus finch developed a long, needle like beak to get access to food.*

Did I learn anything about the future of the human species from my visit to the Galapagos? Maybe. If we humans are resilient enough, or learn to more quickly adapt, we too might be able to withstand whatever harsh changes, global pandemics, or catastrophic conditions lie in our future. But are we that adaptable? That remains to be seen. Perhaps there is a “Diego” or two among us who will ensure the survival of our species, no matter what comes.

*Who knows what tomorrow may bring, to the Galapagos…or any of us?*

Have you ever visited the Galapagos, or had an interest in going there? Please comment and let me know what you think about this extraordinary archipelago. I would love to hear from you.

[i] For more details about the giant tortoises, see the many resources referenced in Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gal%C3%A1pagos_tortoise

In My Room

When I first heard the song “In My Room,” written by Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys in the early 1960’s, I knew exactly what he was talking about. As one of eight children, I desperately wanted a private space where I could be alone. When I reached the age of 16, I got my wish: my own room, or at least a corner of a room, that I could call my own.

I recently found this picture (above) of my teenage bedroom, decorated in a way that reflected my interests (and eccentricities) at that time. You’ll notice there are no posters of favorite bands or movie stars, no lava lamps or black light posters, no stereo, peace symbols or love beads, the typical accoutrements of teenagers in 1970 when this photo was taken.

*Some of my favorite teenage reading material All photos by Moxie Gardiner (except those obviously taken by her mother).*

Instead there is a campaign poster for Robert F. Kennedy, (although he’d been taken from us two years earlier). There’s also a poster for the musical “Hair,” an artifact from my first date. Next to the bed, where I could easily reach them, were my beloved books, ranging from literature to poetry to Nancy Drew mysteries, and everyone’s favorite bedside companion, The Sensuous Woman.

What hints do I see in these old photos of the person I was to become? At this age I was obviously still transitioning from child to adult. Witness the juxtaposition of the “7 up” sign on my wall along with the one for “Utica Club” beer. A Chanel perfume poster hints at a longing to be more mature and sophisticated, but the stuffed animals and Chatty Cathy doll on the bed suggest that the girl sleeping there was still clinging to childhood comforts.

*We lived in a neighborhood full of kids, but I often felt alone.*

What I remember of that time is that despite my many siblings, classmates, and a whole passel of neighborhood kids, I often felt alone. My interests and way of dress were odd (we didn’t have the money to invest in trends) and I was nerdy. I sometimes mixed my West Side slang with “big” words from classic literature, making for clumsy conversation. I indulged in off-color jokes and barbed witticisms, mostly to mask my insecurities. And like all teenagers, I was a bundle of contradictions–funny but sad, eloquent and profane, smart but clueless, daring and fearful.

*Life magazine opened my eyes to a world of possibilities.*

In my room, I could dream of being the person I wanted to be, not the person I was. I could be an Avenger like Emma Peel, a detective like Honey West, a poet like Emily Dickinson who wrote about the world she imagined from the seclusion of her room. I could work for a senator, attract handsome boys, and travel to the places I’d read about in Life magazine.

*My friend Ginny saw this photo and asked, “What were you writing while wearing that Martian headgear? Your first science fiction book?”*

I could dream of seeing the “Big Five” on safari in Africa and watch whales breaching in Alaska. I could walk among the giant tortoises in the Galapagos Islands and capture them, with my camera and typewriter, of course. In my room, all things were possible, as they should be when you are young.

This little exercise in nostalgia and self reflection has helped me understand today’s teenagers a little better. Now when I see them glued to their smartphones, I wonder if their favorite electronic device, like my room, serves as their safe haven. A place they can escape to and shut off a sometimes frightening reality. A place to be alone in the midst of others. A place to fire the imagination, and dream.

*I am doing things now I could only imagine back then. Sometimes dreams really do come true.*

Come to think of it, many in my peer group today are just as addicted to their phones as their kids and grand kids. Maybe the need for a private safe space never really goes away.

Were you an awkward teenager like me, or were you one of the cool kids? I would love to hear your take on teenage angst. Leave me a comment—I love to read them!

Merry One-armed Christmas!

I have a friend named Omar who paints houses. He also happens to have only one arm. He fell out of a tree when he was a child in his native Honduras, and his family didn’t have the money to have it fixed. Gangrene set in, and he had it amputated above the elbow. The first time we met him he was carrying a ladder under his left arm and a can of paint in his left hand. He wore no prosthesis where his right arm had been, but he was walking down the street smiling, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

I have always admired Omar for his tenacity and cheerful demeanor, but my respect for him has recently gone up several notches. Last Thursday, I fell and broke my right wrist and now have the use of only one hand. Believe me, it is a humbling experience, especially at Christmas time.

*Everything is harder. Try rolling pie crust with one hand!*

Think about it. Wrapping gifts with one hand? Very difficult. Rolling out cookie dough or pie crust? Impossible. Cutting anything harder than butter? Forget it. Writing Christmas cards? Opening jars of jelly and jam? Putting frosting on the cake? Peeling a Clementine? Cracking a walnut? Even unwrapping Christmas gifts isn’t easy. I might have started feeling sorry for myself if I didn’t have a role model like my friend, Omar the painter.

So I set about learning how to do things with my left hand. Basic hygiene was a priority. I figured out how to put the toothpaste on the toothbrush while holding the end of the brush in my teeth. I figured out how to squirt the exact amount of shampoo on my head without looking. Writing was the next hurdle. Typing with just my left hand is slow, but I’m getting used to it, and I discovered I could write my blog using voice recognition technology on my iPad. It also helps to have an angel for a husband who is there to cook and drive me places, since I won’t be doing those things by myself for a while.

*With a few days of practice, I’ve already gotten better at writing*
*with my left hand!*

The best thing to come out of this experience is the dawning recognition of how lucky I am to be of sound mind and (somewhat) sound body at my age. I am glad I had this reminder of how quickly life can change in an instant, and the importance of so many things we take for granted.

This Christmas, I will raise an eggnog toast with my good left hand to Omar, and to all the people who face far more serious challenges every day with more grace and dignity than I will ever have. And if you see a clumsy lady trying to shovel snow with just her left hand, that might be me.

Merry Christmas one and all!

What Your DNA Test Won’t Tell You

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to my ancestors for the many ways they shaped my life.

Dear Great and Great-great Grandparents,

We never had a chance to get to know each other, but I wish we had. What I wouldn’t give to hear in your own words why you left your homes in Ireland and Sicily to come to the United States and settle in Buffalo. I wonder if the reality of living in a crowded city, so unlike your rural farms, met your expectations. I wonder if you ever missed home.

*Friends and family are everything in Montemaggiore Belsito, Sicily,*
*my grandmother’s ancestral homeland. All blog photos by Moxie Gardiner*

Recently, I went back to the ancestral homelands. I learned that your lives in Sicily and Ireland as poor tenant farmers were very hard. Both islands had a tempestuous relationship with the faraway central government, and people like you sometimes felt forgotten or deliberately taken advantage of by those in authority. You came to trust only your community and family, and followed them to the Irish and Sicilian enclaves in the US, in search of work and a better life. You held on to the old traditions and your native tongue because they gave you a sense of security. You were proud to be Americans, but reluctant to let go of your heritage, and because of you I can empathize with the many who want to come here someday.

The Irish are born storytellers — *Stop in any Irish pub and you’ll find songs, laughter, a pint of Guinness, and born storytellers like me.*

You would be happy to know that you have many, many descendants in the US, and for the most part we are thriving. Some of us have started businesses, others teach, still others serve their country or community. Many of us still cling to the old traditions: we make cuccidati cookies for Christmas, eat pasta con sarde at St. Joseph’s Tables, and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. I think you would be pleased to know we have no problem embracing both cultures as our own.

It wasn’t until I went to Ireland and Sicily in October, and walked where you walked, smelled the sea-scented air, learned about your history, and rubbed elbows with the people who stayed behind, that I began to feel a real connection with you and understand where I fit in the long procession of humanity that comes and goes here on earth. Yes, DNA tests can tell us a lot about our biological and genealogical makeup, about inherited skills and traits, and physical characteristics. But what you bequeathed to me couldn’t be discerned through a DNA test alone.

*Nestled in the mountains of northern Sicily is the charming town of Valledolmo,*
*birthplace of my great grandfather.*

A DNA test couldn’t tell me why certain smells, sounds, and sights evoke powerful emotions in me. Why 20 years ago, when I drove through a valley between two mountains in West Virginia, I knew I needed to build a home there. As soon as I rounded a steep mountain curve and saw the small village of Valledolmo, Sicily, I knew why West Virginia spoke to me, even though I grew up in a city.

The wild northern coast of Ireland speaks to my heart — *The wild northern coast of Ireland, home to my Irish ancestors.*

The smell of Grandma's homemade bread brings back memories — *In Sicily, they still bake bread*
*like my Nonna used to bake.*

When I saw the wild coast of County Donegal and the cliffs that march right up to the sea, I understood why I was attracted to the jagged rocks along Lake Erie instead of the comfort of the beach. When a baker delivered fresh bread to a home in Montemaggiore Belsito, I understood why the smell of it can still make my knees buckle. And when I hear the sad songs of the Celtic harp, I now know why I feel a tug at my heart, a longing for a home that exists deep in my temporal lobe, where memory and imagination sit side by side.

Sunsets are memorable along Sicily's northern coast — *Sunsets over the beautiful northern coast of Sicily speak to me of home.*

A Sicilian man expresses his joy of life. — *Gratitude is the foundation of a happy life.*

By visiting your homelands, I learned what you passed along to me is more than genetic traits, more than culture and tradition. My emotional make up, personality, artistic inclinations, even some of my bad behaviors, may have come from you. Is it possible that my imagination is drawing these conclusions? Sure. But I prefer to think my soul knows what it knows.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to you, dear ancestors, for the many ways that you shaped my life when you set sail for the United States. Thanks to your courage, I have a good life.

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