Category: Nature

The Never-Ending Life of the Veggie Garden

I prefer not to think of the end of the summer growing season as the “death” of our vegetable garden, but as a transition into something new and different.

The last tenacious tomatoes clinging to the vine. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

Not long ago, I read a book called “A Farm Dies Once a Year” by Arlo Crawford. It’s a wonderful story about farming and family in south central Pennsylvania, not all that far from where I live now. I enjoyed the book and while I appreciate the cleverness of the title, I prefer not to think of the end of the summer growing season as the “death” of our vegetable garden, but as a transition into something new and different.

Colorful hot peppers will spice up our fall pots of chili.

Yes, the summer residents are leaving—the sun-kissed tomatoes, the sizzling hot peppers, the voluptuous eggplant and the cool cucumbers. All but the last of the berries are gone, the peaches have swum in their last cobbler and the apples have been squirreled away, awaiting their turn to be tucked under a lattice crust. The last of the overgrown zucchini will be made into a sweet bread and the yellow squash into a savory casserole. Many of these plants have already begun to go to seed, sprinkling the ground with next year’s volunteers.

Beautiful autumn-hued sunflowers brighten the fall garden.

October though, is the time when fall vegetables begin to shine. Pumpkin vines are covering every last bit of space between the raised beds, sending last bursts of energy to what looks like giant basketballs scattered across the grass. The cabbages are finally happy, after limping along during a hot, dry summer, and the beets and carrots and other root vegetables are substantial enough now to grace a soup or stew on a blustery autumn day. The sunflowers are still hanging in there, but I noticed the last of the bees are leaving and the birds are hovering, waiting to feast on sunflower seeds.

The Swiss chard really enjoys the cooler weather.

We will soon be digging up the sweet potatoes to store for the winter, joining the leeks, potatoes, onions, garlic and turnips in our cool basement bins. This was a spectacular year for butternut squash in our little corner of the world, and I can hardly wait to make my favorite spicy butternut-pumpkin soup in the months ahead.

It is also time to scatter seeds for vegetables that are hardy enough to winter over in Zone 7a. Several types of lettuce (which will survive the winter in a cold frame), mustard greens, and collards have already come up, covering the soil with an emerald blanket. The Swiss chard, spinach and celery are all mature enough now to survive even a heavy frost.

The mustard greens are seedlings now, but should be ready for Thanksgiving dinner.

In January, we will peruse the seed catalogues and dust off our seed trays, grow lights and bags of potting soil, and begin planting the new arrivals. We’ll nurture them along in the basement until spring, when the strongest of them can withstand the variations in temperature and begin providing us with nutritious produce as early as April.    

True, one could choose to think of the vegetable garden as dying every year, but I prefer not to think of life—any life—that way. It is simply life in a different form. Whether it is a rotting tree that feeds the plants and insects that surround it with nutrients, or the acorns that fall from the mighty oaks to feed the squirrels and grow tiny saplings—life is a never-ending cycle. Old life begets new life, and new life starts the wheel turning again. So goes the life of a garden, and so go you and I.

Do you have a vegetable garden? If so, has it taught you any philosophical lessons about the cycle of life, like it has me? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.  

The lettuce seedlings have just begun to sprout, and will grace our table throughout the winter months.

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.

Saving the Life of a Friend

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.

When I saw the small, still body lying on our deck, I feared the worst.

My hummingbird friend at his favorite feeder.
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.  

A moment of pure joy–the hummingbird in flight!

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.

Back at the feeder again.

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

Nature now provides the “heavy rotation” for me.

Lying by the pool on the warm cement, transistor radio nearby, listening to that summer’s hottest hits. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

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.

The perfect place to listen to the night symphony.

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.

Oh, the things you will hear on a moonlight walk through woods….
One thing you’ll come to know is the mournful melody of the barred owl. This one was looking in my window!

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 Magnificent Willows of Western New York

For centuries, poets, writers and philosophers have been inspired by weeping willow trees. So have I.

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!

Many a romance has begun in the willow’s hidden bower. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

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]

Willows thrive on the banks of rivers and ponds like this one near the Buffalo History Museum’s Japanese Garden.

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?

This past year, I planted my very own weeping willow by the pond for further inspiration.

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

Life in Buffalo—375 Million Years Ago

My uncle’s goal on these field trips was to teach us about paleontology…as well as something about life in Buffalo before the Buffalo Bills. (Photo of Eighteen Mile Creek by Doreen Regan)

Often we would find imprints of brachiopods in the shale, but sometimes we were lucky enough to find an intact specimen, like those above. Fossil photos by Moxie Gardiner.

I had the great good fortune to have a science teacher for an uncle. He loved his work and taught his nieces and nephews about the world at large as well as the part of it we lived in: about soils and rocks, the importance of the summer and winter solstices, and how to identify harmless snakes and move them without getting bitten, among other things.

He enjoyed taking us on field trips on his days off, and one of his favorite places to explore was Eighteen Mile Creek, a tributary of Lake Erie that meanders south of Buffalo, mostly through the town of Hamburg. As a science teacher in the Buffalo City Schools, Uncle Ed knew all the places where people were permitted to go fossil hunting. His goal on these trips was to teach us about paleontology, the study of fossilized plant and animal remains, as well as something about life in Western New York before the Buffalo Bills.

Inside the small round balls of pyrite a fossil could be found.

Eighteen Mile Creek is so-named because its waters flow into Lake Erie at a point 18 miles southwest of the former village of Black Rock, now a neighborhood on the western edge of Buffalo.[1]  I remember as a child clambering down the shale cliffs behind my uncle, into the gorge formed by the creek. While in places the cliffs rise 100 feet or more, the creek itself is wide but not very deep, a perfect place for wading on a hot summer day while we searched the cliffs for ancient life.

Crinoid stems are all that remain of an ancient sea flower.

My uncle had a knack for simplifying complex subjects in a way that made them meaningful for children. All of the fossilized creatures we would find in the layers of thin grey shale would be from the Paleozoic Era, he would tell us, and they lived not in the Great Lakes but in a body of water known as the Devonian Sea. Rather than have us try to memorize the Latin names of the fossils (what 11-year-old would remember athyris spiriferoides?), he would tell us the “common names” of what we were finding.

Trilobites were ancient crustaceans now found between the shale layers of Eighteen Mile Creek. We had to handle these very gently so as not to break them.

He described how at the bottom of the Devonian Sea lay a magnificent coral reef not unlike the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. The drab, grey fossils we were looking for—brachiopods, pyrite, crinoid stems, and the most sought after prize of all, trilobites—were once as colorful and beautiful as any ocean creatures we might see today. If we found one of these precious relics, he instructed, we were to wrap them carefully in newspaper and put them in a metal box, so as not to break the tiny creatures embedded in the fragile shale. We stuffed the harder, calcified fossils we found near the creek bed and lakeshore, into our pockets.

My uncle called theses bryozoans, Devonian plants with thin, flat branches.

I remember going home at the end of the day with our small treasures, my head filled with images of small marine animals clinging to rocks, and of plants waving their fronds at the bottom of a sea where I now walked. I still have those fossils, safely tucked away, wrapped in very old newspaper.

As an adult, I have since learned that the Great Lakes are a paleontologist’s dream, with fossils plentiful all along the vast shorelines, thanks to the glaciers that scoured them from the hardened Devonian sea bottom, and the waves that now deposit them on the beaches. I’ve also recently learned about a place called the Penn Dixie Fossil Park & Nature Reserve in Hamburg, on what was once part of the quarry of the Penn Dixie Cement Corporation. According to the Reserve’s website, it is ranked as the #1 fossil park in the U.S. and welcomes guests from around the world.[2]

The Fossil Park is temporarily closed until April 2023, but when it reopens, I plan to visit. I read that you can keep whatever fossils you find during your explorations. What better way to relive my childhood memories of a mind-expanding educational experience, and honor the memory of Uncle Ed, science teacher extraordinaire.

Have you ever looked for or found fossils on the beaches of the Great Lakes or along one of its tributaries like Eighteen Mile Creek? I would love to know if you share my interest in these small relics of the past, or if you have ever simply stumbled upon them. Please let me know in the comments below.

To this day I have no idea what this is, but I believe it is a fossil, not just a rock. It appears scaly, like an ancient fish. Any paleontologists or science teachers out there who can help me?

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] An excellent scientific and historical tome on the subject is Geology and Paleontology of Eighteen Mile Creek by Amadeus W. Grabau. This book, Grabau’s master’s thesis at MIT, was originally published in two volumes in 1898-1899, and has since been republished by the Hamburg Natural History Society. I have no idea if my uncle ever read this book, but I hope he did. He would have loved it.

[2] For more information about the fossil park, visit https://penndixie.org/fossil-hunting/

The Open Hearts and Gardens of Western New York

During the month of July, nearly 100 gardens in the greater Buffalo-Niagara region are open to visitors.
All photos by Moxie Gardiner

The front of the house was very pretty, the flower border a vivid mix of colors and textures. I was admiring the understated, whimsical touches that added visual interest, while I waited for my sister who went ahead to scope out the back yard. She reappeared, motioning excitedly. “Come on,” she said, “the yard is going to blow you away.”

She was right. I walked down a shaded alleyway, chock-a-block with hostas, ferns, and other shade-loving plants, that opened onto a winding path through something akin to a magic forest. I was immediately reminded of one of my favorite books as a child—A Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Each twist in the path revealed a new surprise: a Koi pond here, miniature shrubs there, and a kaleidoscopic mix of flowers tucked in everywhere.

“And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles” –Frances Hodgson Burnett.

My sister and I were embarked on our annual sojourn through the stunning gardens of Western New York.  Last year I wrote about Buffalo’s internationally known Garden Walk, a free tour of some 400 homes in the densely-packed neighborhoods of the older part of the city, and the awe I felt as a fellow horticulturalist and former Buffalonian, seeing how these marvelous bits of heaven had transformed once-blighted areas.

What could be more relaxing than sitting amidst this loveliness and watching the sunset over Lake Erie?

This year, however, we decided to explore gardens in the greater Buffalo-Niagara region, focusing on small towns like Clarence, Eden, Hamburg, and Lake View. Every Thursday and Friday throughout the month of July, some 100 additional homeowners outside the city open their properties to visitors.

These tours, while just as rewarding as Buffalo’s Garden Walk, had a very different vibe. The properties were much larger on the whole, and the landscapes more extensive. In some gardens, we were the only visitors. We had room to maneuver and the owners had time to stroll with us and answer our questions.

Gardening on a large property requires a whole different skill set. On a small property, it is possible to (somewhat affordably) pack in a lot of colorful annuals amongst the perennials for a big splash of wall-to-wall color. In these larger plots, the growers must figure out how fill up the space without spending a fortune. Some chose to have a unifying theme or a central feature like a pond to build around, while others create a series of mini-gardens, each with their own individual identity. I was consistently impressed with the artistry, creativity, and uniqueness of each garden I visited (as well as the homeowner’s ability to somehow keep out the deer and rabbits).

“Flowers always make people better, happier, and more helpful; they are sunshine, food and medicine for the soul.” – Luther Burbank

What all the gardens had in common, however, was the warm and hospitable welcome we received from the people who owned them. They were only too happy to answer our questions and offer suggestions. Many provided bottled water and other nourishment for visitors on these free tours, which made me wonder, what makes gardeners some of the most generous, openhearted people on the planet?

This passionflower was a crowd favorite.

I recently read an article entitled, Do You Have the Personality Traits of a Gardener?[1] It listed as desirable attributes: appreciation of nature, patience, drive, creativity, curiosity, hope, expectation, and kindness. Throughout my tours of these private spaces and visits with those who tended them, I found all of these qualities in evidence. But I believe the article missed the most important trait—humility.

All gardeners quickly learn that no matter how many tips and tricks you learn, or how much money you spend, you will always encounter failures, and at times, disastrous ones. Mother Nature is an independent woman who refuses to be controlled, so we have to learn to work with the good and the bad she has to offer. We learn and adapt, and adapt again.

He who plants a garden plants happiness. – Chinese proverb

We have all been humbled at one time or another, and so when we, hand-in-hand with Mother Nature, achieve a measure of success, we want to celebrate, and if we are lucky, inspire the next generation of openhearted gardeners who will experience the joys and sorrows of a beautiful garden, and share it with others.

Are you a gardener? Do you have a favorite garden that inspires you, or better yet, brings you joy or peace? Please share your stories in the comments below!   

“When the world wearies and society fails to satisfy, there is always the garden.” – Minnie Aumonier

[1] To find out if you’ve got what it takes to be a gardener, see https://theheartygarden.com/gardening-personality-traits/.

For more information on the gardens and to plan your trip for next year, check out

https://www.gardensbuffaloniagara.com/open-gardens-buffalo

The Healing Powers of Nature

For those who might be seeking to deal with grief in a manner both healthy and spiritual, here are ways nature can help you ease the pain.

I almost decided not to write a blog this month. I have been weighed down by grief, both personal and collective, so profound that I’ve found it hard to find the spark of creativity it takes to write these short essays. But write I must, if for no other reason than to process through these feelings. I do not intend to delve into politics or policy solutions here. There are other venues for that.

Forest bathing. Photos copyright @ Moxie Gardiner.

I am not alone in my sadness, of course. There are families and extended families and friends of those families, grieving the loss of innocents murdered while grocery shopping, watching a movie in school, or having the misfortune to live in a city close to a war zone. There are times when my faith in humanity abandons me.

When that happens, I turn to nature for guidance on how the world should work. How to live life in harmony with my surroundings. How to evolve and adapt to new challenges. How to heal from whatever injuries or losses one might suffer. I cannot solve the problem of man’s inhumanity to man, but I can observe the natural world’s daily efforts to achieve beauty, balance, and peaceful co-existence.

This month my heart goes out to my fellow Buffalonians, both current and former, who are dealing with the ramifications of a senseless act we had hoped our beloved city would never have to endure. For those who might be seeking a way to deal with their grief in a manner that is both healthy and spiritual, here are 10 simple ways nature can help you ease the pain:

Few sounds are more soothing than rain falling on puddles.

Take a walk in the rain. A gentle rain is the world’s way of sharing its tears with you. Weep with it, and when the sky clears and the sun comes out, look for the rainbows.

Listen to the birds. Birds express themselves through song. Listen to the mournful tune of the white throated sparrow or the joyful sounds of the cardinal to help you come to terms with your own emotions.

Appreciate the pollinators. Pollinators like birds, bats, bees, and butterflies are key to the cycle of life. More than a third of all human food is the result of  their hard work and determination. Watch them to be reminded of how focused activity can help distract a troubled mind.

Bathe in a forest. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku and believe that simply walking in a wooded setting can lower stress, lessen depression, and ease the sorrow related to grief. By inhaling oxygen and the other compounds released by trees and plants, one can reap the benefits of aromatherapy, for free.

Sit by the water. Grief, like water, ebbs and flows. Some days it will crash against you like the waves of Lake Erie, at other times it will murmur in the background like a sleepy creek. Find a good spot near your favorite body of water and contemplate its ever-changing sights and sounds.

Honor the beauty of flowers. Perhaps because we know their life is short and beauty fleeting, most people love flowers. Flowers in the wild, though, have a special purpose, attracting pollinators, removing toxins, absorbing carbon dioxide, and producing oxygen. Always stop and appreciate a wildflower in the full glory of its short but important life.

The joy of watching life begin from a tiny seed.

Watch something grow from seed. There is nothing quite so fulfilling as to watch life unfold from start to finish. Observe that when a plant dies, it leaves behind its seeds to begin life anew. Little in life, it reminds us, is final.

Stare at the stars. It helps to remember there are forces at work greater than ourselves, and that each of us have our time and place in the unfolding of the cosmos.

Get low to the ground like a child and you’ll be surprised by what you see. Can you spot the spider?

Observe nature with the eyes of a child. Look at the world around you as if for the first time. Get down on the ground, dig in the dirt, watch a bug crawl. If you have a child in your life to appreciate nature with, so much the better.

Never miss a sunset. I needn’t explain the symbolism of the dramatic splash of color that ends our days—or begins the next one. If time is the great healer of a grieving heart, getting from sunrise to sunset and back again is our primary goal, until the world makes sense again.

There is no need to travel to national parks or far off places to experience the healing power of nature. (Although if you do get that opportunity, take it). Most people can enjoy the benefits I describe within a long walk or short drive from their home. This summer, try one or all of the above. If you are grieving, I hope it helps you.

What do you appreciate about nature? Do you ever turn to the natural world for solace? I would love to hear your reaction to this piece, in the comments below.

Seeking wisdom from an ancient tree.

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.

I Got Slimed by a Whale (and Loved It)

I have been fascinated by whales since I read the Classics Illustrated comic book version of Moby Dick in the fourth grade. (I was rooting for the whale.) But for most of my life, wherever I went hoping to observe one of these magnificent marine mammals, they managed to elude me.

I went on a whale watching trip off the coast of Nova Scotia once, and saw—nothing. A similar experience in Alaska gave me a brief glimpse of a couple of humpbacks off in the distance, too far away to even snap a decent photo. I ventured off to Hawaii, Maine, Cape Cod, and British Columbia, hoping to hear the siren song of a whale, only to leave disappointed. “You can’t expect wild creatures to perform on cue,” the captains of the whale-watching tour ships would say.

A friendly whale comes to say hello. Photo courtesy of B. Dadam. All other photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner.

Imagine my euphoria then, when a whale came up to my Zodiac boat off the coast of Baja California Sur earlier this month, and allowed me to touch it, pat its head, and run my hand gently over its barnacles. It was a moment of pure bliss.

Allow me to explain. Every year between the months of January and April, over 20,000 California gray whales make the 5,000-mile journey from the frigid waters of the Bering Sea to the warm waters of Magdalena Bay off the coast of Mexico, to frolic, mate, and give birth to their young. Think of it as a kind of Mexican resort for whales.

The barnacles on gray whales are host-specific, and not found on other whale species.

Some fifty years ago, fishermen in the small “panga” boats that ply these waters began to notice that the whales seemed to enjoy interacting with people. I had heard tales of friendly whales from a friend at the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, but figured the chance of a face-to-face encounter with a whale was unlikely, given my past experience. Nonetheless, I was willing to try.

I did have a moment of introspection, however, before I signed up for this trip, sponsored by Washington & Lee University. Why, I asked myself, is the idea of a personal encounter with this wild, almost mythical creature so alluring? Is talking to the whales even the right thing to do? Wouldn’t this interaction make whales more trusting of people, when, given the dubious history of whaling, trust is perhaps not well-deserved?

When the opportunity to go on a National Geographic Expedition ship to commune with the whales arose, I could not pass it up. Not only was there a chance I would see a whale up close and personal, but I would also have the opportunity to discuss the whales and the behaviors I was observing with NatGeo photographers, naturalists, and undersea experts. I could learn some photography tips to boot.

The whales would spy hop, raising their rostrum slowly out of the water, as if to sniff the air.

I was not disappointed. The very first morning we went out in the pangas, we saw our first gray whales—lots of them. We saw whales showing off, “spy hopping” and doing their “Great White shark imitation,” and several came right alongside the boat. I reached for one, but missed by inches. I was elated, thinking that was as close as I would come.

Over the next several days we saw dozens of whales, to include mother whales with their darling, 2,000-pound newborn babies. The mothers were protective of their little ones, however, and kept their distance from our boats, much to our disappointment.

A tail of a whale.
Although a passable imitation of a Great White shark, this whale is actually showing us part of its tail.

On the last trip of the last day, however, we headed out in Zodiac boats and hit the jackpot. A very friendly whale decided to hang out with us for quite a while.

She came up underneath our boat and gently rubbed her head along the bottom of it (she could have easily upended us, but she didn’t). She surfaced, deliberately poking her rostrum (nose) out of the water so we could touch her, and as I reached I nearly fell out of the boat. I ran my hand lovingly along her skin, which felt for the most part like a wet eggplant (as the NatGeo guides like to say) except for the barnacles. I lingered as long as I could. Connecting so intimately with this awe-inspiring cetacean was the thrill of a lifetime.

Her skin felt like a smooth, wet eggplant.

The whale seemed to be enjoying herself, and after a while, our guide said “we need to stop hogging the whale and let others have a turn.” He started the small engine and she turned, and by way of parting, sent up a huge geyser of water (called a whale blow). It quickly became obvious that it wasn’t just water. It was more like the whale was blowing its nose, sending up a spray filled with mucus and oil. My companions and I looked at each other and laughed. We were covered in slime and loving it.

The whale seemed to like rubbing its head under the bottom of the Zodiac boat.
Many of us got to see a “whale blow,” up close and personal.

What is it about interacting with a wild creature that makes it such a magical, memorable experience? Perhaps it is because we know these encounters require a great deal of trust between human and animal. It is hard to imagine why they would be drawn to us, and of what benefit it might be to them. Maybe we will never know and it is the mystery of it that captures our imagination. All I know is that my moment of personal connection with a whale was a great honor. I can only hope she felt the same.

Do you have a fondness for whales? Would you enjoy an experience like this? Have you had a similar experience with another wild creature? I would love to hear your stories in the comment section, below.

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.

Islands without Cruise Ships

“Wow, look at the belly fat on this one!”

Up until that moment, I had not known that birds could have fat bellies, let alone that you can actually see the fat. Tom, the bird bander who was leading a team of researchers, showed me how, if you gently move their stomach feathers, you can see the fat and carefully assess the bird’s fitness for migration. It was one of many things I learned during an early morning field session on Kelleys Island, a tiny little naturalist’s paradise in the western part of Lake Erie.

Tom is in charge of weighing, banding, and assessing migratory birds on Kelleys Island under the auspices of the USGS and the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. This year the station was open to the public.

I have mentioned in the past that among the things I hold dear are islands that cruise ships do not visit. Don’t get me wrong. I understand the attraction of those islands and the cruise ships that visit them, but at this stage of my life they rarely provide me with what I need when I travel: the discovery and observation of beautiful things in our natural world. The islands I like tend to be quirky, self-contained little ecosystems where you can find rare and unusual flora and fauna. Who knew I only had to go as far as nearby Ohio to find such a place?

The “Shirley Irene” ferry brings passengers to Kelleys Island.

Although I’ve been visiting Lake Erie for many years, I recently discovered that the lake has 36 islands large enough to appear on a map. Only 15 of those are inhabited and Kelleys is one of them. The island’s population swells during the summer when most visitors take the ferry from Marblehead, Ohio and rent bikes or golf carts to tour the 4.4 square mile island. Less than 200 hardy souls live there through the winter, after the ferries stop running and only the most adventurous boats dare to make the trip across the wild and often frozen lake. At one time the island had been bustling with commerce. The Kelley brothers who bought it in the 1830s opened stone quarries and encouraged the planting of orchards and vineyards that thrived in the island’s soil and climate. Today though, with much of the industry gone, the land has been returned to Mother Nature.

I learned how to hold and release the birds in a way that minimizes stress.

Although a long-time member of the Audubon Society, I had never been to a migratory bird count before and was eager to learn all I could from Tom and Paula, the couple in charge of the station. Tom showed me how to hold a bird’s head gently between my two fingers and cradle its body in the palm of my hand, the way the bird banders do. I could feel the bird’s soft feathers and tiny heart beating in its chest. I released it, with its feet pointed down as Tom instructed, and off it flew, winging its way south for the winter. It was a magical moment.

Every year, hundreds of neotropical migratory birds stop on Kelleys to refuel on their way from Canada to points south. Thrushes, orioles, warblers, vireos, hummingbirds and many other passerine species are included in the bird count each spring and fall. The carefully preserved natural areas of the island provide the migrants with the insects they need to fuel up before their long flight.

Not only is Kelleys a bird lover’s mecca, it is home to a number of endangered species. There are signs, for example, pleading with people not to harm the Lake Erie water snake, a non-venomous reptile often found swimming along the shore. But perhaps the rarest plants and animals can be found on the “alvars,” unusual landforms that occur only in glaciated regions of the Northern Hemisphere. Although these areas appear barren, they are known to contain numerous distinctive plants and animals including rare and endangered species like the northern bog violet, spicebush, lady’s tresses and the blue leaf willow.

The alvars look barren but are home to rare species.
The Glacial Grooves Geological Preserves are the most famous in the world due to their large size.

The island is also a place of geological and archeological wonders. According to the Kelleys Island Audubon Club, the Glacial Grooves are the finest example of glacial scouring in North America and probably the world. Both the Grooves and the Eastern limestone quarry, at one time the bottom of the Devonian Sea, are now home to many fossils, including brachiopods, corals, gastropods, cephalopods and more.

Inscription Rock is believed to be a “message stone” carved by  the original Kelleys Islanders.

The Kelley brothers, of course, were not the first inhabitants of the island. The remains of at least two Native American villages were found near what is now called Inscription Rock. The Erie and Cat nations lived on the shores of Lake Erie and it is assumed they carved the rock, covered with ancient Indian pictographs.

The beaches on Kelleys Island are blissfully empty in the fall.

I grew up a city kid, but thanks to an uncle who was a science teacher, I developed a love of the natural world. Do you share my passion? If so, I highly recommend a trip to Kelleys Island, but go during the “shoulder” seasons of spring or fall, when the weather is still pleasant and the crowds are gone. I would love to hear your thoughts and comments about this, or other islands, in the comment section, below.

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.