Celebrations - Moxie Gardiner

What is More Precious than a Lifelong Friend?

I was overlooking an essential ingredient in a long and happy life—the love and support of friends.

*What a joy to reconnect with friends from elementary school!*

Last January 1st, when I realized that I would (if lucky) complete my seventh decade of life this year, I began to contemplate, as many who have reached this ripe old age are wont do, what it has all meant. Considering the arc of one’s own life is not an easy task, so I decided to reflect first on those things that are and have been most important to me, to try to determine if I have developed the right values and led a worthy life.

I have had the great good fortune to have the world’s best husband and two loving sons and a daughter-in-law. I have a large and fun-loving extended family and several doting pets. I was given a number of amazing career opportunities, have traveled the world, and am in relatively good health. At this stage of my life, I am very much in tune with the natural world and enjoy the harmonies of the stars, the seas, and the four seasons. All of these things have been important to me, and have contributed to my longevity. But I realized, as I thought long and hard about it, that I was overlooking an essential ingredient in a long and happy life—the love and support of friends.

*My college friends and I found this mountain retreat a far cry from our Buffalo State dormitory!*

I have to admit—I haven’t always been the best of friends. There were years when I was so focused on being a good daughter, sister, wife, and mother, on my career, my community, and social obligations, I neglected my friendships. Sure, I’d send a yearly birthday or Christmas card, and catch up via an occasional lunch or dinner. But as I grew older, I learned that there were pivotal events in the lives of my friends that I had completely missed. Thinking about it now makes me very sad.

So, when making my New Year’s Resolutions for 2024, I resolved to make it “The Year of Reconnecting With Old Friends.”

*What better place to celebrate a milestone birthday than Italy with a limoncello spritz!*

I made a lifelong friend on the first day of kindergarten. We were four years old. As our mothers walked us to school, they said, “You girls hold hands,” and metaphorically speaking, over all these years, we’ve never let go. This year, I asked my first “BFF” as they say today, if she would like to travel to Italy to celebrate our 70th birthdays together. She said yes, and on the day we were making our way through a crushing crowd of thousands at St. Peter’s Square in Rome, we locked arms so we wouldn’t get separated. Oh, how it brought me right back to that fall day, 65 years ago.

*Visiting a Monet art exhibit with my artist friend.*

Another friend, whom I met as a teenager, once begged her family to let me live with them at a particularly difficult time in my life. They welcomed me in and I never forgot their kindness, or hers. I invited her to come stay with me the week before our mutual birthdays this year, and treated her to all the things I knew she enjoyed in life—art, nature, good food. We sat on my porch and reminisced, and I was pleasantly surprised by the things she remembered that I had forgotten.

*Trip to the Big Apple with a friend from the Bronx.*

And that, I realized, is the very best thing about reconnecting with old friends. They help fill in the blanks of your personal narrative, your life’s story. Your friends are the people who knew you from the time you were silly, stupid and immature until you grew older and (somewhat) wiser. These are friends who made me laugh until I cried, and at times, cried with me until I laughed. I am fortunate to still have friends from every stage of my life—schoolmates, neighbors, work colleagues, and fellow writers, readers, and travelers. They are the ones who show up to celebrate my successes, and grieve with me my losses. In some ways, they are the people who know me better than I know myself.

*Cruising the Danube with one of my favorite traveling buddies.*

This year I honored these friendships in every way I could think of, from group lunches to reunion picnics, book club gatherings, mountain retreats, and trips abroad. And in each case my old friends embraced me with open arms, rekindling connections that are more priceless to me than any birthday gift I could possibly imagine.

*Nothing like reconnecting with a friend who knows how to bake a cake like this!*

Yesterday, my yoga instructor asked us to think about, “Who you really are. Get rid of the traditional labels and think about the real you. And if you are not now the real you, think of who you want the real you to be.”

I’ve thought about that a lot since she said it. I know now who I want to be, and I hope I’ve earned the right to be called “a true friend.” If I indeed merit that sobriquet, then I know I have lived a worthy life.

Do you have a lifelong friend or friends? What have they meant to you and how have they shaped your life? Have you made it a priority to reconnect with them? I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

“Snow Sausages,” a Christmas Story of Love and Loss, December 1968

Family traditions are an important element of the Christmas holiday season, and the old West Side of Buffalo had some unique ones.

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.

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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?

I have to wonder why the holiday is no longer popular in more Buffalo communities.

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 30^th) 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.

Little kids dressing up for Halloween — *We loved Trick-or-Treating on Beggar’s Night.*

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.

Pinocchio costume — *Apples used to be a special treat on Halloween*.

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.

Homemade Halloween costumes — *Mom made our costumes back then.*

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.

A Buffalo Christmas to Remember

Everyone in my hometown of Buffalo, NY will have a story to tell about the “bombogenesis” blizzard that hit the city late this December, just as many of its native sons and daughters were traveling home to be with family for the Christmas holidays. I was one of those making the journey.

*We walked through knee-deep snow to check on an elderly neighbor when we saw no lights in his house for two days. Thankfully, he was fine. All photos in this blog by Moxie Gardiner.*

Fortunately, my story, unlike that of some others, is not a tragic one. As I write this the death toll in Erie County stands at 39 and may continue to climb as government workers and ordinary citizens uncover cars and homes buried in snow. Many residences lost power and heat for days, while temperatures outside dropped into the single digits (with wind chills plummeting to levels too low to contemplate as the winds raged between 70-80 mph). There are tales of first-responders trapped in their vehicles in whiteout conditions while attempting to assist those with medical emergencies, and of people becoming disoriented in the snow and dying within close proximity of their homes.

*Gale force winds weren’t going to stop this Bills fan from flying his flag on Christmas Eve.*

Inevitably, some of the stories coming out now are political, complete with finger-pointing, second-guessing, and blame-casting. I will let the news organizations sort all that out. Certainly, it is important after being hit with the “storm of the century” that all concerned take a retrospective look at what could be done better next time. But I want to go on record with my story because I’m sure it’s representative of how ordinary people cope and come together in the face of an extraordinary disaster.

Buffalo is no stranger to winter storms, but this one was surprising in its ferocity. I was in my car, heading north into the city early Friday morning, December 23^rd, somewhat reassured by updates from my son that conditions were “not that bad” where he was. Between 8 am and 9 am the temperature dropped rapidly and the winds began to rattle my car as I drove along Lake Shore Road, with large waves visibly crashing at water’s edge. Large branches were cracking and falling off trees, and when I reached the Thruway, I began to see jackknifed tractor trailers and cars that had skidded off the road. Rain turned to swirling snow in minutes. I said a prayer and got off the highway as soon as possible. I made it to my son’s house 20 minutes before the mandatory driving ban went into effect.

What was supposed to be a brief visit with family for dinner on Christmas Eve, and the opening of presents on Christmas morning, turned into an unanticipated five-day stay. Six of us had to figure out how to peacefully co-exist in a house with two bedrooms and one bathroom. There was no possibility that the food ordered for the holiday festivities could be picked up or delivered, so we made the most of the groceries and beverages we had. My son’s fiancé had wanted us all to shelter under one roof, and I will be forever grateful for her insistence that we gather in their new home to take care of each other.

*We woke to beautiful sunshine on Christmas morning. The storm was over and the clean-up could begin.*

*Those who had neighbors with snow blowers were the lucky ones.*

All through the blizzard my son would go out and start our cars so the batteries wouldn’t die, clear snow from heating vents and exhaust pipes, and check on neighbors. The young woman across the street was due to deliver her baby any day and we were prepared to assist with the delivery if she was unable to get to the hospital. We checked on an elderly neighbor next door to make sure he had enough food and his heat was working. When the storm was over, we paid a local company to plow the driveways of several nearby homes.

*Others relied on a team with snow shovels to help dig them out.*

Buffalo is known as “The City of Good Neighbors” and stories of Good Samaritans helping others were abundant throughout Erie County, the hardest hit area in New York state. We were worried about my elderly father who was home alone in Clarence during the storm and unreachable by car, but a neighbor he barely knew knocked on the door, fixed his broken thermostat, cleared enough snow for my Dad’s dog to get out and do her business, and brought him meatloaf for dinner. Thanks to this stranger, we could all breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that my Dad had someone to turn to in an emergency.

The Buffalo Bills’ win on Christmas Eve brightened everyone’s spirits, and as the sun rose on Christmas morning I got to see a three-year-old open her presents amid squeals of delight and repeated thanks to Santa and Rudolph for making it through the storm. Four generations of my new family came together under trying circumstances to celebrate Christmas with kindness, generosity, patience, and good cheer. No doubt the story of the Christmas blizzard of 2022 will be shared with many future generations, and in our case it will be told with a deep sense of gratitude that our winter’s tale had a happy ending.

*There is nothing more precious than the face of a three-year-old on Christmas morning.*

Do you have a story you would like to share about the winter storm of Christmas 2022? Good or bad, please share. We’ll be telling these stories for years to come because, like the famous Blizzard of 1977, this was one for the record books.

*The clean-up will take time. Some are counting on this weekend’s rain and warm weather to wash away large mounds of snow.*

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. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.

Paying Homage to Poland, Pussy Willows, and Dyngus Day

People all over western New York are embracing the “spirit of Polonia,” even if for only a day.

Let me begin by saying that Poland has been on my mind lately. As I read news reports of millions of Ukrainians crossing the Polish border to escape the conflict with Russia, I cannot help but be impressed by how Poland, a relatively small country with about a tenth of the US’ population, has welcomed the refugees with open arms.[1] What is it about the Polish people, I wondered, that inspires this kind of largesse?

*Even a West Sider can appreciate pierogi.*

Growing up in a city like Buffalo, which once boasted one of the largest Polish communities in the world outside of Warsaw, I was familiar with Polish sausage and pierogi. But beyond Polish food, those of us who grew up on the Sicilian West Side when I did, knew little about our East Side neighbors. I decided that the next time I went back, I would explore “Old Polonia,” one of Buffalo’s “cities within a city,” to see what I could learn about the Polish diaspora, and I did so at a most opportune time—Easter weekend.

The place to begin, of course, is the historic Broadway Market at the crossroads of Old Polonia, on the Saturday before Easter.[2] The market, with its fresh produce and flowers, meat and deli counters, and distinctly Polish cultural products, has remained more or less the same as it was when it was established in 1888. At 8 am, the parking lot was already full, and we followed a cheerful but determined crowd down the escalator and into the heart of the teeming market.

The first thing I noticed were huge signs advertising Dyngus Day (more about that later) a uniquely Polish-American holiday held on the Monday after Easter. The second thing I noticed was a jostling mob, elbowing its way toward a certain deli counter. I was curious about what they were trying to buy. Pierogi? Kielbasa? No, they were trying to buy an Easter butter lamb before they all ran out. I watched a triumphant woman buy the last one from that vendor, while others walked away disappointed. It was not yet 8:30 am.

Freshly made butter lambs, I’ve come to find out, have become the centerpiece of many Easter dinner tables. According to Food and Wine magazine, the tradition originated in Central and Eastern Europe, and made its way to America with Catholic immigrants.[3] Apparently, Polish-Americans still call the butter lamb by its Polish name, baranek wielkanocny.

I followed my nose through the rest of the market, to stalls selling pierogi, kielbasa, czarnina soup and freshly grated horseradish. I chatted with a number of the proprietors, and asked about the crowns of colorful ribbons, red and white t-shirts, traditional Polish costumes, and “pussy willow passes” being sold in anticipation of Dyngus Day. “In Poland, do they always celebrate Dyngus Day on the Monday after Easter?” I asked one lady dressed in red and white from head to toe. She laughed. “I doubt anyone in Poland has ever heard of Dyngus Day. We invented it here in America, based on some very old Polish traditions.”

Dyngus Day, I’ve learned, celebrates the end of Lent, the Easter holiday, and the joy of the coming spring. It builds on an old tradition of farm boys in Poland who wanted to attract the attention of certain girls come springtime, and did so by sprinkling them with water and hitting them on the legs with pussy willows.[4] Pussy Willows and water are a central part of the Dyngus Day festivities today.

*Neither snow nor sleet can put a damper on the Dyngus Day parade. Photo courtesy of Steve Dlugosz* *and the Buffalo Rocket newspaper.*

According to organizers, Buffalo is now the official Dyngus Day capital of the World, and the Dyngus Day parade has become its main attraction. What began as a tribute to an old Polish tradition is now a huge event featuring polka dancing, bands, and authentic Polish food and drink, as well as the parade. Attendance in 2019 was estimated at over 100,000, making it one of the largest one-day ethnic festivals in North America.

Why, you might ask, are Polish-Americans embracing their roots and cultural heritage to a degree not seen since the late 1800s when thousands of Polish immigrants poured into places like Buffalo, hoping to work in the steel mills and slaughterhouses, and provide a fresh start for their families? And what did I learn about the Polish people that might explain why they have welcomed more than 2 million Ukrainians into their country with open arms, fed and clothed them, and helped them find jobs?

I was reminded that the Polish people have not forgotten what it is like to have their country occupied, to live as refugees, and to try to survive under terrible conditions. One Dyngus Day organizer, Eddy Dobosiewicz, writes that “the spirit of Polonia was and always will be at the forefront of humanity’s desire for freedom and liberty.” That “insatiable thirst for freedom,” he says, “is part of our Slavic DNA.”[5]

And so the Polish people, who deeply appreciate their freedom and those who helped them achieve it, pay it forward.

How wonderful it is that the celebration of Dyngus Day is spreading across western New York and indeed the rest of our country, and that people here are embracing the “spirit of Polonia,” even if for only a day. Are you Polish-American? What stories do you have to share? I would love to hear from you, 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. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.

[1] According to npr.org, Poland enacted a law last month allowing Ukrainians to legally live and work in Poland for at least 18 months, with the option to extend. About a quarter of the refugees have already found jobs. See https://www.npr.org/2022/04/06/1090902301/ukraine-refugees-poland-krakow#:~:text=More%20than%202%20million%20Ukrainians,with%20the%20option%20to%20extend.

[2] FYI, there is now an “Old Polonia Trail” map that can be found online.

[3] https://www.foodandwine.com/news/easter-butter-lamb-meaning

[4] Everything you ever wanted to know about Dyngus Day can be found on dyngusday.com.

[5] Quoted from an “eddytorial” by Eddy Dobosiewicz in the Dyngus Day Guide.

Merry West Side Christmas

Grandma was happiest surrounded by loved ones on Christmas.

This will be a difficult Christmas for me and my family, so permit me to indulge in a nostalgia trip, back to a happier time. I’ve had many wonderful Christmases at various stages of my life, but this year my elder relatives are on my mind, as are the wonderful traditions and memories that may be lost when they pass on. So this month’s blog will reflect on a typical West Side Christmas when I was growing up.

*It was no doubt a lot of work for Grandma, but there was nothing we loved more than being at her house on Christmas.*

I suspect that our traditions were similar to those of many West Side families, especially if your Grandmother was Sicilian. The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas were a frenzy of cookie baking, house cleaning, gift-wrapping, and shopping at the Italian corner stores and butchers. Grandma often took me with her to buy preparations for the Christmas meal, and as a reward, I got a tiny box of nougat candy called torrone which I can taste in my mind to this day.

After school, Santa was on Channel 4 with his helper, Forgetful the Elf, and we kids would hold our breaths, hoping that Santa would read aloud one of the letters we sent him. My parents hung “The Chart” every year, a record of each child’s daily behavior, and some of us prayed that neither Santa nor his elves would see it, at least until after he left our gifts.

As Christmas drew nearer, I would walk with my brothers and sisters to either Woolworth’s or Kresge’s 5 and 10 cent store on Grant Street to buy gifts with our meager allowance. It was mandatory that everyone receive a gift, no matter how little money you had to spend. Rubber balls, paper dolls, chalk, and strips of caps for cap guns were among the affordable items.

*I’m sure Santa cringed when he saw our family coming.*

Once a year, of course, we would make our annual trip downtown to marvel at AM&A’s animated Christmas display, and to visit Santa. The downtown visit also included our once-a-year trip to a restaurant, usually the IHOP, where we got to eat breakfast for dinner, and put napkins in our laps like fancy people.

We went to church every Sunday during Advent, abstained from eating meat, and went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve when we were older (some neighbors were home grilling sausage just after midnight, to break the meatless fast). But when we were young, Christmas Eve was the night that we put up our un-decorated Christmas tree, hung our stockings, and went to bed early, only to lie awake most of the night, listening for the sound of reindeer landing on the roof and the rustle of Santa coming down the chimney.

*It seems that we often had White Christmases back in the day, and waited impatiently for Dad to clean the snow off the car before we headed to Grandma’s.*

*Santa often stayed up until the wee hours, putting toys, trains, and games together.*

At first light on Christmas morning, we would line up on the stairs according to age (as the oldest, I was always last). When my father gave the signal, we rushed down to see our now decorated tree, and what Santa had brought us. It was a mad, happy, chaotic scene of searching for gifts, opening boxes, and playing with our new acquisitions. Our stockings were always filled with walnuts in the shell, an orange (a Sicilian tradition) and a handful of Hershey’s Kisses.

*There would be platters of homemade giuggiulena, pizzelles, butterballs, and other Italian cookies, but my favorites were always the figgy cuccidati.*

Sometime in the early afternoon, we would head over to my grandparents’ small apartment where an enormous assortment of gifts sat on the living room couch, one for each of her children and grandchildren. Grandma always had a huge pot of sauce on the stove that you could smell coming up the stairs, freshly baked bread, and some sort of pasta, enough to feed all 30 or so family members who lived in the area. Sometimes Grandma would make homemade ravioli, and line the sheets of fresh pasta on towels in her bedroom to dry before filling them on Christmas morning.

*I remember the year Grandma gave me my favorite doll, Cream Puff.*

How I loved these family gatherings with all these wild and crazy relatives! We would dance, sing, joke, tease, eat, and eat some more. Always, my youngest aunt would organize us children to put on a Christmas play or pageant for the adults. It was never exactly up to Broadway standards, but Grandma always pretended to love it.

*This was what Christmas was all about–having fun and being with family.*

Those were the years when my large extended family was short on cash but long on love, and we had no worries about crowding all those people into a tiny apartment. It was all about being together. This is what I will miss most about Christmas this year; homemade comfort food, hugs, and an abundance of love. I want the younger generations, many of whom are also having a difficult time this year, to know more about our family and its traditions, to carry them on, and to know that it’s possible that one day we can have Christmases like this once again.

Merry Christmas to the thousands of you who have read my blogs and given me wonderful feedback in your comments. Virtual hugs to all of you, along with my sincere hope for a happy, healthy 2022.

Love to all, Moxie

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.

When the Saints Come Marching

The March celebrations honoring St. Patrick and St. Joseph couldn’t be more different.

The main feature of a St. Joseph’s Table is a beautiful altar with a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash.

Back in the day, when the cold and blustery Ides of March arrived in Buffalo, many of us would set about preparing for two things guaranteed to lift us out of our winter doldrums: St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day. The beloved patron saints of Ireland and Sicily were revered all over the city, especially in the old waterfront neighborhoods settled by Irish and Sicilian immigrants, like the West Side where I grew up.

*Leprechauns and their pots of gold are today’s symbols of St. Patrick’s Day.*

Being of Irish and Sicilian heritage, our family celebrated both days. On the 17^th of March, long before we were old enough to visit an Irish pub, Mom would make cupcakes with green frosting, and drop a little bit of green dye in our milk. We would stand in the cold for hours watching the St. Patrick’s Day parade downtown, and proudly wear our “Kiss Me I’m Irish” shamrock pins, hoping for a peck on the cheek.

Two days later it was “Viva San Giuseppe” and a trip to our Sicilian relatives who always hosted the extended family’s St. Joseph’s Table. My eyes would light up at the sight of all of my favorite Sicilian foods: pasta con sarde, pasta fazool, carciofi, caponata, alivi scacciati, and plenty of other meatless dishes (it falls in the middle of Lent). Best of all was the dessert table, where cannoli, sfinge, cuccidati and zeppole held pride of place.

*Of all the wonderful Sicilian desserts, cannoli is my favorite!*

Despite the abundance of food, St. Joseph’s Day strikes a more solemn, religious note than St. Patrick’s Day. At every St. Joseph’s Table there is a beautiful altar off to the side, decorated with flowers (usually lilies), lemons, and a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. The tradition of this shared celebration is that no one is to be turned away from the table. Typically a large family affair back then, today restaurants and churches host community-wide events.

*Sadly, last year the pandemic limited our St. Joseph’s Table to just two.*

*It’s estimated that 13 million pints of Guinness will be consumed globally on St. Patrick’s Day.*

There was a time, especially in Ireland, when St. Patrick’s Day also had more serious religious overtones, but like so many holidays today, it has been captured by the commercial food and beverage industry. Irish pubs all over the US are jam-packed with Irish and non-Irish, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, enjoying the music and revelry now most associated with the day. On the other hand, I’ve found you have to do some searching to find someone in the US setting a St. Joseph’s Table outside of the Sicilian enclaves in large cities.

So I began to ponder two things: why are the holidays of these two patron saints celebrated so differently in the US? And how does one get to be a patron saint anyways?

According to catholic.org, patron saints are “special protectors or guardians over areas of life.” They are often associated in some way with a particular region, profession, or family. St. Patrick, for example, was actually born in Britain in the 4^th century, kidnapped and brought to Ireland at age 16, escaped back to Britain, became a priest, and returned to Ireland to bring Christianity to the Irish. St. Joseph, on the other hand, husband of the Virgin Mary, never visited Sicily as far as we know. But during a severe drought in the Middle Ages, the people of Sicily prayed to the saint and their prayers were answered with rain. The crops were saved and a feast has been prepared each year by grateful Sicilians and their descendants.

Perhaps the days are different because so many myths and legends surround St. Patrick (like the one about him driving out the snakes), or because the Irish are born storytellers and embellishers (think pinching leprechauns and pots of gold). Perhaps the Sicilians are simply a more serious people (certainly they are when it comes to food). Or maybe the Irish and Sicilian immigrants who came to this country celebrate their patron saints in a way that is simply a reflection of the things they loved most about their homeland, and they honor their saints accordingly. What do you think?

*Irish pubs will feature traditional Irish songs and merry-making on March 17th.*

Will you be celebrating one of these holidays? Does your family do something special on that day? I would love to hear your stories so leave me a comment below!

My Six Words of Gratitude

If I had to say what I am thankful for in 2020, my six words would be these: I am grateful for the Internet.

Recently the New York Times issued a challenge to its readers to “Tell Us What You’re Thankful for, in Six Words.” While I’m not big on entering contests or competing for space in big city newspapers, the challenge did get me thinking. If I had to say what I am thankful for in 2020, my six words would be these:

I am grateful for the Internet.

*Virtual meetings are now a daily occurrence, allowing people to work and attend school from the comfort of their homes.*

Now, before you shake your head and stop reading, hear me out. I realize that some see the Internet (or the worldwide web, if you prefer) as more a curse than a blessing, and I am certainly grateful for many other things: my family, my health, what I have left of my mental faculties, the roof over my head, and food on the table, to name a few.

But as a person who was alive before the invention of the Internet, and well before most of the world had access to it, I believe it is the single greatest invention of my lifetime. During this crazy past year, I don’t know if I could have lived (literally) without it.

All of the things I mentioned above, from familial relationships to the food on my table, have been greatly influenced by the Internet. Here are some examples from just the past year:

When one of my parents became seriously ill during the pandemic, our family gathered via frequent video chats to get updates on her condition.
When I had a severe bout of asthma last spring, I was able to get the prescriptions I needed after a telehealth visit with my doctor.
I had access to current reporting on the status of the pandemic in my county, state, the US, the world, at any time of day or night from multiple accredited sources.
I was able to confirm online that my election ballot had been received and processed.
I listened to soothing, meditative music online whenever I was stressed.
I read books online and met with my Book Club via Zoom.
Whenever I wanted to learn how to build a compost bin, clean out my wood stove, build a raised bed, learn how to grow sweet potatoes, or prune an apple tree, I watched free step-by-step video instructions on how to do it.
I made hundreds of new friends on social media and reconnected with many old friends.
When it became obvious there would be only two of us at the Thanksgiving table this year, I found recipes online for scaled down versions of all my holiday favorites, and,
Whenever I wrote one of these blogs, I did all my research online and posted these essays on my very own website, viewed in countries all over the world.

*I’ve gotten valuable tips from the Smithsonian’s free garden webinars.*

*I still exercise daily, thanks to my favorite online instructors.*

*I can watch my favorite movies or TV shows anytime, anyplace.*

Could we have survived the past year without the Internet? Possibly. But I can tell you, having lived in the dark ages before the Internet, that everything happens so much faster now because we are all connected. Information travels at speeds that were unfathomable in 1983, back when the “network of networks” was first created, and while there are downsides to this technology, like cyber bullying and rumor mongering, there are plenty of upsides as well. Each of us has the ability to use it for good or ill.

So this Thanksgiving, I will say a prayer of thanks to the dozens of scientists, engineers, and programmers who made the “information superhighway” accessible to me and you.

How about you? What are you thankful for this Thanksgiving? Please leave a comment—I’d love to hear from you!

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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