Fingy Conners, Wild Bill Donovan, and the “Irish” First Ward
I often write about the West Side of Buffalo and the neighborhood where I spent my formative years. It was a tight-knit, working class part of the city where my Sicilian grandmother’s relatives could speak their native language and feel at home. But on my most recent trip back to Buffalo, I decided to take a walking tour through a different part of the city, where the ancestors of my Irish grandfather most likely worked on the docks, in the factories, or shoveled grain into silos along the shores of Lake Erie.
People unfamiliar with the city’s history are surprised to learn that Buffalo was once the eighth-largest metropolis in the US, and the sixth-largest port, according to Donna, our Explore Buffalo tour guide. Before the 90-minute tour was over, she would explain why the “Old First Ward,” or OFW, as this neighborhood is called, was at one time a commercial hub of global significance and the birthplace of colorful characters who would leave their mark on US history.
The first wave of Irish immigrants that transformed this part of Buffalo came to help build the Erie Canal in the early 1800s, and the second wave arrived during and after the great potato famine in Ireland in the 1840s and ‘50s. By 1855, there were some 10,000 Irish immigrants in Buffalo, the majority of them living in slums near the lake and canal. The neighborhood became known as “the Irish First Ward” for a time because of its predominantly Irish population.
The grain elevators, invented here in Buffalo in the 1840s, provided plenty of work for Ireland’s transplanted manual laborers, as did other industries that sprang up along the Erie Canal—at that time an essential conduit from America’s “bread basket” in the Midwest, to the fast-growing cities along the East Coast. Once the St. Lawrence Seaway and the interstate highway system were developed, however, the canal lost its importance, as did the industries that once thrived along Lake Erie’s shores, and the Old First Ward declined.
As I was happy to learn on the tour, though, the neighborhood is making a comeback and now has a reputation as one of the “hippest” places to live in Buffalo. Interestingly, the area still proudly embraces its industrial legacy. Thirteen of the original 33 grain silos still loom over the modest houses (two of the silos are still operating) while repurposed factories dot the neighborhood.
One such factory, housed in the Barcalo Building, was known throughout Buffalo as the place where the Barcalounger chair was manufactured. Less well known is the building’s reputation as the birthplace of the coffee break, mint ice cream, the mattress spring, and the fake snow that comes out of a spray can… according to Donna. The building is now home to a contemporary art gallery and luxury apartments.
Back in the day, the OFW was almost as famous for its bars and taverns as it was for its industries. According to an 1893 article in the Buffalo Express, there were 2,300 saloons in Buffalo, including Swannie House, built in the 1880s, which still operates today. Gene McCarthy’s Tavern and Old First Ward Brewing, where refreshments were available at the end of our tour, has been operating here for over 50 years.
Some of the taverns found in this neighborhood were part of the “saloon boss system,” where waterfront jobs were controlled by bar owners. Native son “Fingy” Conners (legend has it he lost a thumb after a childhood dare) was one such boss, who reportedly gave jobs only to those who rented his rooms and drank his booze. Fingy went on to become a prosperous businessman and one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Buffalo.[1]
Donna the tour guide told us tales of other OFW men who went on to become nationally and even internationally known, including “Wild Bill” Donovan, who headed the Office of Strategic Services (which later became the CIA) during Word War II.[2] Tim Russert, host of NBC’s “Meet the Press” was also from the Old First Ward, as was popular Buffalo mayor Jimmy Griffin, and Michael Shea, developer of Buffalo’s most opulent entertainment venues. Shea was one of the first men in the US to start a vaudeville house, and his theater in downtown Buffalo is still thriving, hosting sold-out Broadway shows throughout the year.
As my group finished up our walking tour on Hamburg Street, I took note of a new “Waterfront Memories and More” museum that Donna said provides historical artifacts and photos from locals. As it was closed when we got there, I will have to come back on another trip. Who knows? I may get lucky and find a photo of one of my Irish ancestors, shoveling grain into one of the massive silos.
Have you ever lived in, or visited, the Old First Ward of Buffalo? What were your impressions of it, then and now? I would love to read your comments, in the section below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
[1] For more info on Fingy Conners, see this interesting book trailer by Richard Sullivan on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64aec3GzbHU&t=230s
[2] For more information on Donovan’s Buffalo beginnings, see https://buffaloah.com/h/bohen/don.html
Saving the Life of a Friend
When I saw the small, still body lying on our deck, I feared the worst.
All photos © Moxie Gardiner.
The tiny hummingbird had visited our feeders every day, so I knew him well. I would hear him before I saw him, a loud buzz next to my ear, zzz-zzz, then gone in a flash, until he reappeared at the feeder, poised in mid-air for a quick sip.
Sometimes a second male would appear, and our hummingbird was always ready for battle. Hummingbirds are very territorial, fiercely protective of any food source they can count on, unlike the flowers that might be blooming one day and gone the next. Our hummingbird was not about to let an interloper horn in on a grubstake he believed was his alone.
I will never know what misfortune had befallen him that afternoon. We have a large picture window that had previously led to the demise of a beautiful goldfinch we found lying on our deck with a broken neck, the imprint of its beak still in the window glass. Or maybe the other male hummingbird had tried to eliminate his competition once and for all.
Sadly, I bent to scoop up my little friend with a dustpan, as I had the hapless goldfinch, and to my surprise I noticed the faintest flutter in its chest. The bird was not moving though, and did not react when I stroked its brilliant, ruby-colored chest feathers. I assumed it had a broken neck, and it was only a matter of time before it passed away.
I’ve known people who would have told me at this point, that the decent thing, the humane thing, would be to put the tiny creature out of its misery. But right or wrong, I knew I was not capable of taking its life, so I spoke to it and told it I would make the end of its life as comfortable as possible.
I made a small nest of fresh green leaves and gently laid the bird in the center. I had never been this close to a hummingbird before. I could see the iridescence of its emerald feathers, the ruby color at its throat, its needle-like beak, and the tiny slits where its closed eyes were. I sang to the bird, told it not to fear the unknown, and that it was OK to let go of life, whenever it was time. Words I had spoken before, and hoped they had provided some comfort.
Then it blinked! I was so overjoyed I started to cry. I knew then it was still alive and had just been stunned, probably from hitting the window. I watched him, me barely breathing, as he rolled onto his stomach and sat for a moment, looking at me. “Go,” I said, “and remember me.” A moment later, he launched, heading straight up in the air. Then he pivoted horizontally, and in a flash was gone.
I see him back at the feeder nearly every day, with no signs of the trauma he endured one summer afternoon. No sign that he recognizes me either, or appreciates my concern for his well being. He simply goes on being what he is, one of the world’s most beautiful, fascinating creatures.
For me, the fact that he lived was enough. How I wish I could have saved every friend that I’ve lost, but I could not. What I have learned though, over my many years of life, is to always be there for your friends, to the very end if possible. Just in case.
I would love for you to share your stories in the comment section below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
For further information on male hummingbird territoriality visit https://www.allaboutbirds.org/news/why-do-hummingbirds-fight-so-much/
The Songs of Summer You Won’t Find on YouTube
There are a number of iconic songs from my teenage years that will forever form the soundtrack of summer for me. “Hot Town Summer in the City,” by The Lovin’ Spoonful, “Hello, I Love You,” by The Doors, “In the Summertime,” by Mungo Jerry, and later, “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper and “Margaritaville,” by Jimmy Buffett. Everyone at the pool had their favorites, and in those days you could go to the pay phone hanging on the wall, invest a dime to call the radio station, and ask the DJ to put “your” song into the rotation so you and your friends would be sure to hear it while the warm sun kissed your skin, poolside.
I am no longer urban, nor a kid, and like all things in life, the songs of summer for me have changed. I live in the country now, and while my ear is still attentive to new music, it is not for the type found on YouTube or Spotify. Nature now provides the “heavy rotation” for me.
It starts with the “dawn chorus” just before the sun begins to peek over the mountain.[1] Robins are the first and loudest to sing in the pre-dawn, followed at first light by a host of others—chickadees, sparrows, wood thrushes, cardinals and warblers among them. Off in the distance crows call to each other while a woodpecker drums a steady beat on a hollow tree. When I take my morning walk, I no longer hear the splashes of children in a swimming pool, but the play of water over the rocks in Sleepy Creek and the rustle of leaves in the sycamore trees.
As lovely as nature’s morning sounds can be, my favorite is its night music, which I have only recently come to understand and appreciate. The evening symphony begins with the melancholy calls of the barred owls, followed closely by the bass notes of the bullfrogs in the pond, and the plinking of the moths against the porch lights.
One of my favorite field trips while working on my Master Naturalist certification, was a moonlight walk through a nature preserve to learn to differentiate the songs of the many singing insects. I used to think that the insect I was listening to at night was the cricket, but soon learned that grasshoppers, katydids, and cicadas all add their voices to the nocturnal serenade, and each species contributes its own unique sound. As if to complete each evening concert, fireflies light up the stage with their flashing strobes.
As we grow older, our tastes and sensibilities change, as do the sounds that now sit comfortably in our ears. Yes, I still love those iconic songs of the ’60s and ‘70s and enjoy them when I take my occasional walks down memory lane. But now, in my ongoing quest for peace and serenity, I turn to the birds, the bees, and the singing insects to move my soul, instead of my feet.
What songs or sounds do you consider to be the hallmarks of summer? Please share your thoughts in the comments below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
[1] If you have never heard the sound of the dawn chorus, check out this video on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePCG8xt158s
The Tragedy and the Beauty of Eastern Europe
I have just returned from a river cruise through five countries in Eastern Europe: Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria and Romania. Admittedly, these countries are probably not the destinations of most Americans traveling to Europe. Of those who do choose to sail the beautiful Danube River, most probably head northwest from Budapest to enjoy seeing the castles and vineyards of southern Germany, and the strudels and waltzes of Austria, which are familiar to many people through popular music and culture. Think The Sound of Music movie, and Strauss’ The Blue Danube Waltz. I decided to go in the opposite direction.
Croatian home.
I confess that up until recently, I had been guilty of the temptation to see popular places. I’ve traveled extensively through Western Europe, where I am familiar with the languages and the culture of the European Union. EU countries have made it easy to cross borders and most are members of the Eurozone, using a single monetary unit—the euro.
Not so in Eastern Europe, where only one of the five countries I visited (Croatia) is a Eurozone member that uses the euro in its financial transactions. The other four still use the same currency[1] they have been using for well over a century (although most merchants are happy to take your American dollars or euros). Each country we visited has its own language and two (Serbia and Bulgaria) even use a different alphabet (Cyrillic), making it a challenge to read a street sign or a map.
I realize now, however, that overlooking these countries in the past was a mistake. First, they have a long and fascinating history. Our traveling group toured several archeological sites, and learned about the various cultures that were thriving along the Danube many thousands of years ago, some predating the building of the pyramids in Egypt. Because of their strategic location, these countries were fought over many times, and became part of several empires–the Roman, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, and Russian– all of which which influenced their cultures.
Second, Europe’s East is as beautiful as any other region I have seen on that continent—topographically diverse, and gifted with both fertile soil and scenic landscapes. From the snow-capped mountains of Romania to the golden sands of Bulgaria’s Black Sea beaches, Eastern Europe has a lot to offer. As our ship glided down the Danube, we passed by modern cities, small picturesque towns, wooded hillsides, and spectacular gorges.
Third, the capital cities we visited—Budapest, Belgrade, and Bucharest—seem to be thriving. One guide in Bucharest told me unemployment is less than one percent, and they are eager for young Romanians, who have moved away to work in other European countries, to return now that there is so much more opportunity back home.
Everyone we met on our journey was warm and friendly, from the royal family in Serbia to the kindly Croatian woman who hosted lunch for a small group of us in her village home.
Yet for all the positives one can list about this part of Europe, it is impossible to ignore the scars of more than a century of conflict, foreign occupation, and the crippling effects of a communist economic system. In each country we saw memorials to the dead who fought in two horrific world wars, which were followed by Soviet occupation, the dissolution of Yugoslavia, and afterwards the conflict in the Balkans they refer to as the “Homeland Wars.” Crumbling Soviet-era buildings still dot the landscape, although they are largely abandoned and covered with graffiti.
That said, it is all the more important, I believe, to visit these countries, to celebrate their resilience and ability to move forward after such adversity, especially as yet another conflict in neighboring Ukraine threatens the tranquility of the European continent. Traveling reminds me once again how fortunate I have been to have lived at a time, and in a country, where we have been blessed with relative peace and prosperity. A trip through Eastern Europe reminds us of how lucky we Americans really are.
Have you ever traveled to any of the countries in Eastern Europe? Or, perhaps you have lived there and can offer your own views on this part of the world. Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices chair yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
[1] For those interested in details, the currency in each of these countries is as follows: Hungary (the forint), Serbia (the dinar), Bulgaria (the lev) and Romania (the lei).
The Magnificent Willows of Western New York
I love all trees. Horse chestnuts, hackberries, hickories and hornbeams. Oak trees, pine trees, palm trees, even family trees. But my favorite of all the arboreal sentinels, the evocative one that brings back childhood memories of summer picnics, warm breezes, and first kisses under its lovely, curtain-like fronds, is salix babylonica, commonly known as the weeping willow.
For centuries, poets, writers and philosophers have been inspired by willow trees, as have I. [1] William Makepeace Thackeray, a 19th poet and author of Vanity Fair, wrote an ode about its appeal as a trysting place for lovers, entitled “The Willow-Tree.”
Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful;
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter,
No one was there—ah me!
No one to meet her!
But it isn’t love alone that this unusual looking tree evokes. The tiny, cascading leaves are thought to resemble falling tears, and so the tree is sometimes associated with melancholy and sadness, even death. Unsurprisingly, specimens can be found in Buffalo’s Forest Lawn and other cemeteries. There is also the tragic story of some 300 soldiers who died of illness during the War of 1812 in a place not far from Buffalo’s Delaware Park, and buried in shallow graves. A Dr. Daniel Chapin, who lived nearby, is said to have later reburied the men and marked the spot with willow trees.[2]
Today, weeping willows can be found throughout Buffalo’s beautifully landscaped park system. Intrigued by the mysteries of the weeping willow, I am always on the lookout for one, and was therefore overjoyed to discover two enormous specimens swaying over Hoyt Lake on a recent visit to Delaware Park. I assumed, based on their size, that they had to be hundreds of years old. But after some research I have since learned that weeping willows grow rapidly, and unfortunately, only live for about 65 years.
Which begged the question why, if they are so comparatively short-lived, have I seen so many willow trees throughout the parks, meadows, cemeteries, and along the waterways of Western New York?
It turns out that this part of the state provides the ideal habitat for weeping willows, thanks to its proximity to the Great Lakes and plenty of lake-effect moisture. These trees love damp environments and can consume up to 100 gallons of water a day, so I expect they will be a feature of the Western New York landscape for many centuries to come.
Does the weeping willow have the same emotional impact on you that it has on me? What memories does it conjure—happiness, sadness, or fond memories of secret dalliances under its enchanting boughs? Please share your thoughts in the comments, below!
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
[1] His poem also inspired a chapter in my novel, Virgin Snow.
[2] For more information about this tragic event, see 300 bodies in Delaware Park: The War of 1812 | Features | buffalospree.com
While My Garden Gently Sleeps
It is right about this time of year—the end of February—that I start to get the garden itch. The days are still short and cold, and I find myself no longer appreciating the stark beauty of winter’s muted palette. I yearn for bright green things, and trips to the botanical garden and the occasional orchid show are helpful, but not sufficient.
This month’s blog is for my gardener friends who feel the same sense of longing and restless anticipation when they see their plots and raised beds under a blanket of snow, and the time for planting seems so far away. This year, my husband and I decided to try something different to overcome the February blues.
Usually we follow the advice of the Old Farmer’s Almanac and our local extension service and begin planting seeds indoors in mid-February or early March (here in the mid-Atlantic the last frost date is May 1st). Sound guidance that has worked, for the most part, for the past 20 years.
But this winter, we decided, we needed to see green and growing things much earlier, and began our 2024 garden season in January. An additional benefit, we reasoned, would be that by the time spring rolled around, the seedlings would be much more mature than those we’ve put in the ground in the past.
At the end of December, we went through our inventory of leftover seeds from the past couple of years, ordered new seeds and planted—in January–those we expected to take a long time to germinate and grow to a healthy size. We also planted seeds for vegetables that prefer cooler weather, and for perennial flowers that typically take their sweet time growing to a transplantable size.
This approach, of course, is not without its risks. Some of the downsides of sowing seeds indoors too early, are weak and spindly seedlings from insufficient light, plants that are root bound from being potted too long, insect infestations resulting from overcrowding, and—when it’s time to finally put the mature plants in the ground—transplant shock.
To mitigate these dangers, we’ve invested in heating mats, grow lights, seed-starting mix, and many bags of potting soil. And the investment we hope will really pay off was completed last fall when we turned our screened porch into a giant cold frame (complete with removable, corrugated plastic polycarbonate sheets blocking all the screens). This will allow us to harden off hundreds of seedlings long before being transplanted outside.
By February 1st, we had leeks, shallots, onions, Swiss chard, lettuce, cabbage, eggplant, and all kinds of peppers growing well and big enough to repot. Eight different types of flower seedlings joined them under the grow lights. Over the next couple of weeks, we will begin to plants seeds for our tender summer annuals like tomatoes, squash, and herbs. Our philosophy is, if we plant a lot and only 50 percent survive, we’re still well ahead of the game.
It remains to be seen how well this new strategy will work. But even if many of these young plants do not survive until growing season, we will have had months of enjoying the sight of these emerald green little darlings while our garden sleeps and is replenished by winter rains and snow. That is victory enough.
Are you a gardener? Do you have any tips for getting through the winter months without the garden blues? If so, please share in the comments below!
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices chair yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
Everything You Wanted to Know About the Infant of Prague
Some readers (mostly non-Catholics) have expressed curiosity about the references in my recent novel, Virgin Snow, to a type of statue known as “the Infant of Prague.” In the story, one of the characters decides to open a shop in her garage where she will create and sell beautiful garments for people to dress their statues, which represent Jesus as a child.
This scene was inspired by an actual Infant of Prague shop operated for years by a woman named Lena in a store front on Buffalo’s West Side. Many was the day that I walked by the window to check out Lena’s new garments, which changed in both color and style along with the Catholic liturgical seasons.
So ubiquitous was the Infant of Prague statue in West Side homes that as a child, I assumed every house in the world had one. It did not occur to me that others might not, until I actually went to Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic, for a conference. I was traveling with a colleague who asked if we could stop in one of the souvenir shops as we walked back toward our hotel at the end of the day. She said she was hoping to find a small statue made famous by the city. “You mean the Infant of Prague, right?” I asked. She looked at me strangely.
“No,” she said. “I want to buy a statue of the Golem of Prague.” Now I looked at her strangely, as I had never heard of the Golem. So we walked to the Christmas Market on Wenceslas Square (it was early December) and, over a glass of hot Glühwein, we began to tell each other what we knew of these religious figures and their history.
As she began to ask questions, I very quickly realized that despite the number of times I had seen the statue I was familiar with, I didn’t know much about the Infant of Prague. “Why do they call it an infant?” she asked after I described the statue. I didn’t have a very good answer. “Why fancy robes? Why a crown? And what,” she asked finally, “did Jesus have to do with Prague?”
I had my own questions for her about the Golem, a mythical man created out of clay. “He is an important part of Jewish legend,” she said. “But he’s not as elegant as your little king.”
Years later, while doing research for my novel, I found answers to many of my friend’s questions. No, the Infant of Prague is not a baby, but a representation of Christ as a child. No, the statue does not have its origins in Prague. According to the website of “The League of the Miraculous Infant Jesus of Prague,” the statue was a royal wedding gift given by a Spanish Princess to her Austrian royal cousin in the 1500s, and later donated to a group of Carmelite friars in Prague. The robes, crown and miniature globe symbolize the “world-wide kingship” of the Christ Child.[1]
According to that website, many miracles have occurred through “intercession to the Divine Infant.” During one conflict, it says, all the children of the city were taken to the Church for protection, and by praying to the Infant, they were all saved.
I have since learned that there is a similar story about the Golem. [2] A certain Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague in the 1500s was said to have made a powerful living creature out of mud which he called the Golem, a kind of combination man-monster whose purpose was to defend the Jewish community from violent attacks. Since that time, the Golem has been a popular figure with both Jews and non-Jews. According to several websites, plays, novels, movies, musicals and even a ballet have drawn on the tale of the Golem, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, a visitor to Prague can even take a “Golem tour” by exploring various locations in the Jewish Quarter.
When I think back to my visit to Prague, I’ll always remember our mutual surprise when my friend and I discovered we were talking about two different religious statues, and then learning how different the two were—one of the Christ child dressed as a king, the other of a towering man made of clay. What strikes me now though, is their similarities. People of many religious traditions who have felt powerless and persecuted at times throughout history understandably turn to the divine or the mystical for salvation, represented by symbols such as these.
I am curious to know how many of my readers had religious statues in their homes while growing up, or were told stories and legends that embraced the sacred, the mystical or the divine. I would also love to know if religion still plays an important role in your life. Please share your comments, below!
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices chair yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
[1] For much more information on the history of the Infant of Prague go to: https://www.ewtn.com/catholicism/library/history-of-the-infant-jesus-of-prague-1329
[2] For additional info on the Golem go to: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/golem/
A Letter of Gratitude to Those Who Read Books
Where would writers be without readers?
After the first of the New Year, I will begin in earnest to write my second novel. Today, as I contemplate the energy, creativity and mental stamina it will require to write another 100,000 words, the thing that propels me forward is the possibility that someone out there will read the book and hopefully get something out of it.
But I know that reading 100,000 words requires a lot of energy too. Unlike passively watching a TV show or movie, laughing at Instagram reels, or listening to a podcast while we apply our nail polish—reading is an active pursuit. It requires you to sit down, focus and commit precious time to immersing yourself in another world.
According to recent polls, the average American adult spends an average of just 15-20 minutes a day reading. Some of that time is spent perusing emails, texts, news headlines and social media feeds, rather than reading books. Many who spend a good part of their day reading for work or school turn to other forms of entertainment for relaxation.
One Gallup poll confirmed that Americans are reading an average of three fewer books a year (roughly a dozen per year) than they did five years ago. The decline is not because fewer Americans are reading, but because those who do—especially college graduates, women and older Americans—are reading less.
This development caught my attention because these three groups form the target audience for my novels. Expecting these folks to not only buy my books, but to sit down and read them when so many other things are competing for their attention, is a big ask. All I can do is remind my potential readers of the many benefits of reading books for entertainment, information, self-improvement and enjoyment—and hope for the best.
A major benefit, I would argue, is that reading books introduces people to new words and improves vocabulary better than any other medium. Books help us improve our concentration and cognitive skills like critical thinking, reasoning and analysis. Reading is brain exercise that requires vision and imagination. It may even help prevent Alzheimer’s in our later years.
A book is also a good friend to have if you’re lonely, stressed or even depressed. Studies have found that a nighttime routine of reading a book can help you sleep longer and better.
A good book also creates empathy. Diving into a novel about an unfamiliar group or culture can create understanding and connections. I hope, for example, that by reading Virgin Snow, people who did not grow up in Buffalo during that time and place will gain some insight into what life was like then, and why some of us turned out the way we did.
To those who still read a good book or two every month, I salute you. To those in Book Clubs who take the time to digest and discuss the books that they read–you have my deepest respect. You are the ones who will have the wisdom, the vocabulary, the critical reasoning and the empathy to make the world a better place. Yes, reading is good for you, but what you learn from reading is good for the rest of us too. And I for one, don’t know what I’d do without you, dear readers.
So thank you.
Do you read books? And if so, what kinds of books do you like to read? What benefits does reading provide you that I haven’t mentioned above? Please share your thoughts in the comments, below.
Did you buy a copy of Virgin Snow? If so, check to see if you made the gallery of readers at the Virgin Snow tab above, or search on the link below.
https://moxiegardiner.com/novel-in-progress/
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.
“Snow Sausages,” a Christmas Story of Love and Loss, December 1968
My recently published novel, Virgin Snow, includes the following vignette, which I have learned over the course of several book-signings and discussions has struck a chord with many readers. This story of a family holding onto its Christmas Eve rituals, while coping with a recent tragedy, is something I too have experienced, although much later in life. I share it here to remind us all that the holiday season, while joyful, can also be a time of sorrow for some, and there is no better time than Christmas to hold our loved ones close.
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On Christmas Eve, Cosi McCarthy and her older sister, Little Ange, dragged a half-frozen pine tree out of the trunk of their father’s old Ford Falcon, up the linoleum-covered stairs, and into their apartment, leaving a trail of melting snow and pine needles in their wake. Cosi was thrilled when her mother, Big Ange, said they could stay up past midnight to welcome Jesus’ birthday, grill some meat, and “break the fast” they had all been observing during Advent. At dinner, they had the traditional “feast of the seven fishes,” though all they could afford was pasta with canned clam sauce. “Seven clams on each plate,” said Big Ange. “Close enough,”
As the hour approached, neighbors began to drag out their charcoal grills. Later, after attending midnight mass, they would return to cook spicy Italian sausages to signal an end to the six-week fast. Cosi knew her parents, like others in the neighborhood, usually observed this ritual long after the children were in bed. This Christmas Eve, the first without her husband, Big Ange would let the girls participate.
Cosi decorated the tree with her mother while her little brother Nino slept, and Little Ange stood in the driveway, attempting to light the charcoal briquettes in the rusting grill. The snow was falling in big wet flakes, making the charcoal difficult to light.
“This is effing stupid, Mama” called Little Ange several times from the driveway.
Cosi, in her nightgown, winter coat, and rubber boots, came out with an umbrella. She held it over her sister while Little Ange squirted more lighter fluid and tried again. Before long, the coals were burning brightly. Big Ange came down with a string of sausages, bought earlier that day from Zarcone’s, then went back up to fry onions and green peppers while the girls stood under the umbrella and watched the meat sizzle.
The night seemed magical to Cosi. The softly falling snow, the companionable heat of the coals, and the delightful aroma wafting from the grill, wrapped her in a warm cocoon of love, neighborhood, and family. She stepped outside the umbrella, closed her eyes and let the flakes tickle her cheeks.
“Hey,” said Little Ange, looking at her watch. “It’s Christmas. Wanna smoke a joint to celebrate?”
“Are you crazy?” Cosi hissed.
Their mother appeared out of nowhere, holding a plate of warm rolls filled with the fried vegetables. Little Ange shot her sister a warning but Cosi knew better than to say anything. The snow slowed to a few flakes and Big Ange stuck the string of sausages with a long fork and neatly cut off two for each of them, nestling them carefully in the buns. She had also brought down three small glasses of Whiskey Sours, topped with maraschino cherries, and stood silently for a moment, looking at the glowing briquettes. She handed Cosi the plate of sausages, turned her face to the dark sky, and held up her glass.
“Salud,” said Big Ange, “and Merry Christmas, Johnny, wherever you are. Our little Cositina, you will be proud to know, is on her way to becoming a nun. Little Ange is, well, what you’d expect. Nino is doing OK and I am making a little money. We’re trying our best down here, so if you do see God, please ask him to make next year a better one for the McCarthy family.”
Little Ange drank her Whiskey Sour in one gulp, handed Cosi her sausages, and walked down the snowy street to smoke her Christmas joint.
Excerpted from the novel, “Virgin Snow” by Moxie Gardiner, NFB Publishing, copyright 2023. All rights reserved.
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Do you have memories of a Christmas like this one, or family rituals you would like to share? If so, please do so in the comments below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good Zumba routine on winter evenings . Virgin Snow is her first novel.
Whatever Happened to Beggar’s Night?
Long ago, deep in a West Side neighborhood where every house, on every block, was home to a passel of children, Beggar’s Night (October 30th) was something to behold. Legions of small monsters, ghosts, and superheroes knocked on the doors of neighbors, sometimes blocks away, in search of candy. Those of us who lived there at that time brought large brown shopping bags to collect our loot, and didn’t come home until the bag was getting too heavy to carry.
A little research suggests that the tradition started back in the late 1930s when city fathers wanted to give the younger children a safer alternative to the hell-raising and vandalizing that was a significant part of Halloween at that time. No one ever told us this was the plan, so we happily went out trick-or-treating both nights, usually in homemade costumes made by our very thrifty and clever mom.
It seems that nowadays Beggar’s Night, for the most part, has gone the way of Michaelmas and Festivus—a holiday still celebrated, but only by a devoted few. In Buffalo, two communities—Kaisertown and Lovejoy—still carry on the tradition with gusto. They even have their own Facebook page providing updates on some of the best places to get candy. Beggar’s Night is also still a very big thing in Central Ohio, with the Mid-Ohio Regional Planning Commission organizing Beggar’s Night activities for the region.
As a now mature adult, I have to wonder why the holiday is no longer popular in more Buffalo communities, especially if the whole idea is to have a separate, safer night for the younger children. Maybe it’s because communities are no longer experiencing the rowdyism that used to be the hallmark of Halloween. Or, perhaps homeowners got tired of answering the door and shelling out candy two nights in a row.
Or maybe it’s because Halloween night itself is now big business, and no longer just for kids. Adults are expected to shell out over $4 billion for costumes this year and 32% of them will either go to a Halloween party or throw one of their own. Even pets are getting in on the act, with Americans expecting to spend some $700 million on costumes for their fur babies.
This year I will be trick-or-treating for the first time in a long time, now that I have a four-year-old in my life. I will be curious to see how kid-friendly Halloween is these days, and determine for myself whether or not Beggar’s Night should regain its rightful place in the list of US holidays to be celebrated.
Did you celebrate Beggar’s Night in your neighborhood? Please share your stories in the comments below!
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows tomatoes, and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.