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The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

I was visited in a dream last night by the Ghost of Christmas Past. He held my hand as we flew past my old church on the West Side, dropped some coins in the collection box, and paused to listen to the choir singing at midnight mass. On we went. Past AM&A’s department store. A “living” Nativity scene. Houses framed by fat colored lights that gave our old neighborhood a cheery glow. Then I was back under the family Christmas tree, opening a homemade stocking filled with walnuts, Hershey’s kisses, and an orange. Next to the tree was the doll of my dreams, Chatty Cathy, with a smile that showed off her two front teeth. Finally, we stopped at Nonni’s house where meatballs bobbed merrily in a sauce pot the size of a whiskey half barrel, and cuccidati and giuggiulena cookies were heaped on a platter and hidden away until dessert time.

Fortunately, I woke up before the Ghosts of Christmas Present and Christmas Yet to Come could take me on their ride. Both the present and future look pretty scary to me right now. But it got me thinking about Charles Dickens and his famous yuletide morality tale, “A Christmas Carol.” I thought about Ebenezer Scrooge and what he learned when he looked at his past, present and future, and how it horrified him.

The Ghost of Christmas Past showed Scrooge how the events of his life thus far had turned him into who he was—a stingy old curmudgeon loved by no one.  The Ghost of Christmas Present showed him how self-centered he was, blind to what was happening all around him, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come revealed how his life would turn out if he didn’t change his ways.

The most important thing Scrooge learned that night was that the future was mutable. Things could change. Outcomes, while possible, are not predetermined. By looking at his behavior and seeing its logical consequence—an unmourned death and a lonely grave—Scrooge decided to change. As a result, things improved for him and everyone whose lives he touched.

Upon reflection, what I learned during my growing up years and from all my Christmases past, is not only what‘s important on Christmas Day, but what is important in life. Family and friends. Sacrifice and kindness. Finding joy in doing good for others. But sadly, this isn’t what I see when I look around me today. We all see it: bullying, intolerance of the views of others, insensitive comments on social media. Inconsideration. Selfishness.

So I’ve looked at myself, as Scrooge was forced to do, and asked, what kind of person am I? Am I the kind of person I think I am and wish to be? Do I think of others first? Am I kind? Tolerant? Do I listen carefully and try to learn from others when they speak? Or do I mentally shut them off when their views are diametrically opposed to mine? If I can answer yes to any of these questions, I know the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come would tell me it’s time to clean up my act.

Christmas is a time of celebration, of the birth of a child, of love, and of giving to others. It is also a time to take stock and resolve to be better people in the new year. Scrooge was given a chance to turn his life around before it was too late. Let’s hope, collectively, we’re all so lucky.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all,

Moxie

It Bit Me on the Rocks of Lake Erie

Lake Erie shoreline. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.

Several readers have put the question to me: “Moxie, your website says ‘A West Side Girl in the Big Wide World.’ We’ve heard about your West Side experiences. What’s this ‘Big Wide World’ stuff?” Fair enough. Living on the West Side of Buffalo shaped the outline of who I am. The big wide world has certainly filled in the details.

Since I left Buffalo, I’ve lived in four US states and a foreign capital, visited 45 countries and all 50 states. My most recent adventures were in Africa, where among other things, I caught a leopard (on camera) that was stalking me in the dark. On my journeys I’ve seen extreme poverty and extraordinary wealth, spectacular scenic beauty and tragic wastelands, humanity at its best and at its worst. Always, I keep a journal.

As a writer, my job is to look for and contemplate universal truths. A recent question I’ve been pondering is, what prompts a person to leave the comfort of their home to travel? What are we seeking on our sojourns, especially now when one can “travel” anywhere without leaving the couch, courtesy of the Internet? I’m not talking about annual beach vacations or trips to visit friends and family over the holidays. I am talking about traveling to distant lands that are culturally unfamiliar, sometimes uncomfortable, and not without risk. These are the places that tend to attract me because I’m a sucker for unexpected experiences, for the serendipitous surprise.

I think I can trace the day I was first bitten by the travel bug to a place just 20 miles south of Buffalo. I was about 11 years old. Each summer, our family would pile into the station wagon and head to our rented cottage in Angola, NY and a windswept beach nearby called Point Breeze. This particular summer, my cousin and I were allowed to leave the family beach blanket and walk a half mile up the beach by ourselves to a rocky outcropping we grandly called “the sea cliffs.”

From a distance we could see the waves crashing over the slate rocks, and on stormy days the spray would leap 20 feet in the air. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, we thought, to sit on those rocks and get splashed by that wild spray? We hurried along the pebbly beach as fast as our flip-flops would take us. We scrambled up the hill, and as soon as our parents were safely out of sight, climbed carefully down the embankment to where water met rock. We sat and waited for the spray. To our disappointment, the waves had settled down and lapped gently at the rocks below us. We inched our way down further. The waves came up around our ankles, so we scooted down another foot, and waited.

Whether the wind shifted or it was simply the normal fluctuation of the waves, I’ll never know. But the next wave that hit came up over our heads. I’ll never forget the force of the water as it pulled us into the lake and the somersaults we turned as the water churned us below the rocks. We came up coughing and gasping for air. I looked at my cousin as we treaded water—and we started laughing hysterically. “Let’s do it again!” we both said and climbed back onto the rocks.

How did that prompt my love for travel and adventure? I learned that day about the adrenaline rush of exploration, of taking risks, the electricity of finding yourself in danger, and the thrill, afterwards, of being alive. Why, if I could survive this, I could survive anything! Sitting on those rocks I would let my mind wander to the Wide World of Sports and the cliff divers in Mexico, then on to climbing the Great Pyramids of Giza, Machu Picchu, perhaps even Mount Everest. My 11-year-old self decided that nothing would stop me from doing what I wanted to do, as long as I didn’t let fear get in the way.

Sure, there have been a few downsides. I’ve been injured, sick, lost, robbed, and harassed on my travels, and survived a few scary plane flights. I’ve had to flee more than one burning building, wear a flak jacket on a road favored by terrorists, and hold my breath when a bus driver did a u-turn in front of six lanes of oncoming traffic. But oh, the stories I could tell!

The big wide world is a fabulous place that provides grist for the writer, a classroom for the intellectually curious, and cultural and culinary immersion for us rank sensualists. Not least of all, it gives us a better appreciation of home and the things we sometimes take for granted.

Do you have an interest in travel, dear reader? Do you remember when you were first bitten by the travel bug? If so, drop me a line. If there is enough interest, I’ll add a few travel blogs to my website.

Chestnut Time at the Armory

One of my favorite memories growing up in Buffalo was the annual trip my brothers and I would take each fall to collect chestnuts at the Connecticut Street Armory. At least, we thought they were chestnuts.

Continue reading “Chestnut Time at the Armory”

Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes

Don’t let the name Gardiner fool you—I had a Sicilian grandmother. She and my grandfather lived on the West Side of Buffalo in an upstairs flat with three small bedrooms and one bath. They had eight children (and adopted two more) who were likewise highly accomplished in producing offspring, so I shared my grandparents with 35 other grandchildren. For us, my grandparents were the center of the universe, and Nonni, as we called her, was the sun. Continue reading “Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes”

So You Think You’d Like to Write a Book…

Four years ago, when I decided to write a novel set in Buffalo, I did the worst thing I could possibly do. I looked up “what it takes to write a novel” on the Internet. I did not find loads of encouragement. Continue reading “So You Think You’d Like to Write a Book…”

Chlorine, Hot Tar, and Baby Oil

What is more evocative than the heady smells of summer—a freshly mowed lawn, meats on the grill, fat little funnel cakes frying at the fair? For me, however, the smells of summer will be tied forever to the summers of my youth, and the pungent aromas of the Massachusetts Swimming Pool.

Continue reading “Chlorine, Hot Tar, and Baby Oil”

The Buffalo I Have Lost and Found

I went back to my hometown this summer to visit family and friends, and to do research for my nearly completed novel, set in Buffalo during the late 1960s. As is so often the case when I write stories, I learn things about myself in the process that surprise me. I discovered, for example, that I still love Buffalo with a fierceness usually reserved for my fellow human beings. So I started to wonder, how is love for a place different from love for a person? Am I simply feeling an aching nostalgia, or am I feeling something deeper, more profound? Continue reading “The Buffalo I Have Lost and Found”

What I Learned About Writing from a Tomato

I am a gardener. And I’m a writer. So naturally, every day from 9 to 5, I am wracked with guilt and mild self-loathing. When I am outside in the garden, I feel guilty that I am not at my desk, butt-in-chair, working on my next blog or novel. When I’m at my desk, I wonder what kind of idiot willingly sits in a dark basement on a beautiful gardening day. Continue reading “What I Learned About Writing from a Tomato”

Let Me Introduce Myself

Please call me Moxie.

No, it’s not the name I was given at birth. It was bestowed upon me late one night after a drinking contest in a bar…but that’s a story for another day. Suffice it to say it is the name I prefer to be called.

Here are a few things you should know about me before you decide whether it is worth taking the time to read my blog. I’m a writer and a dreamer. A Master Gardener and a schemer. I like the smell of warm wood and the sound of insects in the evening. I like island nations that cruise lines don’t visit, and the underbellies of airplanes when they fly over the setting sun. I cry when I hear music played in a minor key, or the song of the white-throated sparrow. I love cannoli, limoncello, and snow.

At one point in my life I wrote over 100 speeches. At another I published dozens of magazine articles. I never look at any of them, but I do enjoy perusing the 27 personal journals I have tucked away in an old steamer trunk. Most recently, I’ve written a novel about growing up on the West Side of Buffalo. Unfortunately, it makes me homesick every time I read it.

So reader, beware. My mind flits about like a honeybee in early spring, so there is no telling what I might blog about. I will try my best not to waste your time.