Category: Nature

Bird Counting: A Christmas Tradition That Saves Lives (Really)

And a metaphor for counting your blessings instead of your losses and disappointments.

A downy woodpecker searching for bark beetles. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

As I grow older, I am learning that holidays can be painful reminders of what we once had and have lost — if we let them. I recently found myself pointlessly wading into this mental morass, despite the unfolding of a brisk, sunny day. I eventually shook it off, reminding myself that dwelling in the past is like diving for a lost wedding ring in the deepest part of the ocean. You’ll never be able to retrieve it, and you’ll waste a lot of energy trying.

So I decided the way out of my funk was to focus on the future and establish some new holiday traditions. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon a Christmas activity that I had known nothing about, but that has taken place every year since 1900! It is the National Audubon Society’s annual Christmas Bird Count. Intrigued, I signed up to participate as soon as I read about it.  

Fellow birders searching for the elusive Carolina wren.

According to the Audubon Society’s website,[1] the count was the brainchild of a man named Frank Chapman. Chapman decided to come up with an alternative to the “side hunts” that were very popular at the time, whereby teams of hunters would compete on Christmas day to see who could shoot the most birds and other wildlife. The Audubon Society, a relatively new organization at the beginning of the 20th century, decided to popularize the idea of counting birds instead of hunting them, and has conducted this data-gathering event—which now spans all of the Americas—for the past 125 years.[2]  

The many ponds at the research center provided ample opportunity to spot ducks, geese, and other waterfowl.

It was still pitch dark when I awoke at 6 am on December 21st, quickly bundling up to brave the predawn chill. The count was to begin shortly after the sun rose, when the birds would be most active. I joined a small group of birders on the grounds of the US Geological Survey’s Science Center in Leetown, WV, an expansive wooded property replete with the ponds and cold-water springs that are essential to the fish and aquatic research conducted there, and are also ideal for bird watching.

Most of the birders in our merry band were equipped with powerful binoculars and bird call identification apps on their phones, but I had only the zoom lens on my trusty Canon camera. I wanted not only to document the birds we spotted, but also to bring back my own memories of the entire experience (and to blog about it). I was not disappointed.

Hard to tell this is a bluebird from the front, but you can’t mistake its iridescent blue back.

Our small group walked close to three miles that morning and manually recorded a total of 41 different types of birds (not numbers of birds—we saw at least 100 Canada geese alone). I got a chance to see a belted kingfisher for the first time, and to capture a photo of a yellow-bellied sapsucker. Mostly I wandered around filled with awe, marveling at the peaceful landscape, the blending of bird songs, and the detailed birding knowledge of the group leaders. I felt privileged to be in the company of fellow travelers who take seriously the importance of protecting all of God’s creatures.  

In this photo, the yellow-bellied sapsucker is likely eating berries, though it prefers sap.

As I drove back from Leetown, I reflected upon why this experience was so meaningful to me. Yes, it was a full immersion in a beautiful, natural setting, but I also appreciated the annual bird count’s premise that counting the living is much more important than counting the dead. For me it is the Christmas equivalent of counting your blessings instead of your losses and disappointments. It is a tradition I plan to embrace for years to come.

Did you establish any new holiday traditions this year? Did any involve nature? I would love to read your comments in the section below!

[1] https://www.audubon.org/community-science/christmas-bird-count/history-christmas-bird-count

[2] According to the National Audubon Society, over 62,000 volunteers participate in each year’s count, contributing to the longest-running database in ornithology.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel, and she plans to publish Book Two in the trilogy in 2026.

A Remembrance, in the Grand Canyon of the East

Our main objective was to hike the Gorge Trail in Letchworth State Park, to the three major waterfalls that are the highlight of this stunning place.

On a recent bright September morning, I along with seven friends who first met in college many years ago, drove together to Letchworth State Park in upstate New York, to bid a final farewell to a ninth friend, who passed away this year.

It is always a challenge to determine the best way to honor someone whom you remember as funny, outgoing, and full of life. Cliff was a real character, the kind of guy who would definitely not want a solemn and reverent remembrance as the coda to his final chapter. He was a rugby player, after all. I think we made the right decision in selecting this glorious park as the place to celebrate his life. Its exquisite natural beauty served as a balm that soothed the pain of our loss.

Letchworth is known at the “Grand Canyon of the East” for the gorges carved by the Genesee River. All photos are © Moxie Gardiner.

The park was first home to the Seneca Nation, and much later, the private estate of William Pryor Letchworth. To his credit, the wealthy industrialist preserved much of the natural flora and fauna of his surroundings, and eventually bequeathed his thousand-acre estate to the state of New York as a public park. The government, over time, further developed it into the 14,000 acre park it is today. It has become known as “The Grand Canyon of the East” because the swiftly flowing Genesee River has carved a wide gorge, as deep as 550 feet in some places, through the 17 miles of the long, narrow park.

There are spectacular views (and photo ops) from many of the hiking trails.
Well over 100 steps down to see the falls was not so bad, but coming back up…!

As it turned out, the timing of this memorial meant my friends and I were at the park just before the “leaf-peeping” season began. The place was not crowded that day, but for those who might be planning a visit, we learned that in 2025, Letchworth was voted — for the second time — “best state park in the United States” by USA Today. Letchworth now sees over a million visitors each year, so if you would like to enjoy a peaceful hike through this park, plan your visit accordingly.    

We began our visit at the pretty, well-appointed Visitor Center to pick up a map, study the trails, and decide where we would begin our hike.[1] If we had intended to spend more time there, we could have visited the Letchworth history museum, the Glen Iris Inn, or the Council Grounds where a long house built by the Senecas still stands. There are also opportunities for hiking, biking, kayaking, horse-back riding, and even hot-air ballooning, but those would need to wait for a different kind of visit.

The ever-flowing waters of spectacular Middle Falls.

Our main objective was to hike the Gorge Trail to the three major waterfalls that are the highlight of this stunning park. Waterfalls have long been a symbol of eternal life, with their constant flow of life-affirming waters and endless rejuvenation. What better way to remind ourselves of the cycle of life at a time of personal bereavement? At many points along the way, we reminisced about Cliff.

What better place to say farewell?

When we finally reached the falls, we were not disappointed. Although the path was steep in places, and we oldsters needed to rest from time to time, the ability to stand near each of these falls as they thundered far below us, was breathtaking and worth the effort. After our hike we drove to several more scenic overlooks, and at one of them, someone noticed a sign that had our friend’s first name on it. We decided it was a message from him, telling us we had done the right thing by coming here.

Afterwards, I reflected on this unique way to honor a friend’s memory, and decided that it is something that ought to be done more often. I hope when it is my time, my friends and family will take a long walk through a natural setting, and know that I am there, and that I am with them.

Have you ever visited Letchworth State Park? Have you ever honored a friend’s memory in this way? I would love to read your thoughts in the comment section, below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel, and she is currently working on Book Two in the trilogy.

[1] For more information on Letchworth State Park, visit https://letchworthpark.com/

Why Chautauqua is the Summer Camp that Soothes the Soul

The people who visit the Chautauqua Institution are there to seek solace, and turn their minds away from a troubled world.

Although I grew up in Buffalo, I was only vaguely familiar with the Chautauqua Institution and the world- renowned summer gathering that happens less than 90 minutes south of my hometown. Until recently that is. Now that I have gone to “CHQ” as it’s known, for two years in a row, I think I may be hooked forever.

Lewis Miller, one of the early founders of the Chautauqua Movement and father-in-law of Thomas Edison, built this cottage as the family’s summer residence. (All photos © Moxie Gardiner)

The Chautauqua Institution celebrated its 150th birthday last year, an idea born of necessity. Three similar American institutions—the camp meeting, the Lyceum, and the American Sunday School—had all declined in popularity by the start of the Civil War. Archivist and historian Jon Schmitz argues that after that terrible conflict had ended, many were searching for ways to cobble the country back together, and the Chautauqua Movement was born. Chautauqua, he says, was “a growing country’s admission of its need for education, culture, and moral improvement. In other words, it was a perfect American expression of what America wasn’t.”[1]

Authors’ Hour is a popular part of the writing program at CHQ.

Over the years, CHQ went through many evolutions, and at times was on the brink of collapse, particularly after the stock market crash of 1929. But donors who believed in its mission raised enough money for the Institution to survive. Today CHQ is thriving, offering a slate of recreational activities, cultural events, lectures, classes, and celebrity speakers to over 100,000 visitors during its summer program.

Last year I came for a day to do an Authors’ Hour reading. This year I stayed a week, primarily to attend a writer’s workshop, but learned while I was on campus, that CHQ offered many other things of interest to me. I went on nature tours with the Bird, Tree and Garden Club and visited a number of the 119 named gardens on the grounds. I toured several historical sights and took a ride on the steamboat, The Chautauqua Belle. I swam in Chautauqua Lake, went “forest bathing,” and listened to symphonies from the privacy of my hotel balcony.

There are a number of rain gardens on the Chautauqua grounds. A naturalist explains their purpose to our group.

I talked to a number of other visitors and learned that they came back year after year, and for many different reasons. Some liked the focus on religion and theology. Others liked to discuss contemporary issues. My sister, a writer who is currently focused on historical places in Western New York, came to investigate its well preserved buildings and its archives.

The Chautauqua Belle is an authentic steam wheeler, one of five left in the US.

As one of the early founders, Methodist Minister John Vincent understood, “It is one thing to attract people by offering them what they want, but Chautauqua keeps people coming back because it gives them what they need.[2] I wasn’t sure I understood what that meant until I fully immersed myself in the Chautauqua experience. What I learned is that with time, opportunity, and the encouragement of others, I was able to give my creativity and intellectual curiosity free reign. I was always on the go and learned a great deal, but at the same time, oddly enough, I was at peace.    

George Saunders, far left, best-selling author of Lincoln at the Bardo, answers questions about an opera based on his book.

With few exceptions, the people who visit the Chautauqua Institution are there to seek solace, and turn their minds away from a troubled world. If Chautauqua was created to heal the wounds of war and the divide that existed among Americans at that time, then perhaps, more than ever, it is the kind of place we Americans really need today.  

There is great value in slowing down and thinking deeply, in having conversations with a diverse set of people, and in learning new things at every age. I think we need more summer camps like this in our country.

Do you? Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.

The Chautauqua Osprey, created completely from recycled plastics, is a symbol of Chautauqua’s commitment to a healthy environment.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel, and she is currently working on Book Two in the trilogy.

[1] From the booklet, CHAUTAUQUAWhat? A Short History of a Place and an Idea, page 3, by Jon Schmitz. Published in 2024 for the Institution’s 150th anniversary.

[2] Same booklet. Page 20.

For more information on the Chautauqua Institutions see https://www.chq.org/.

Experiencing the Magic of an Appalachian Bog

I’m not sure I can remember a time when I felt more attuned to the natural world than I did in that bog.

Exploring a hidden bog in the Appalachian highlands. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

This past weekend, I had the good fortune to attend a three-day master naturalist conference in Canaan Valley, West Virginia. This spectacular setting, an upland plateau deep in the Appalachian Mountains, is noteworthy for being one of the largest wetland areas of its type in the southern and central Appalachian region. It is a dreamscape for naturalists seeking to observe unique flora and fauna more often found in Canada than in the warmer mid-Atlantic states.

My purpose, however, was to explore a new way of thinking about nature that I’ve only recently discovered. In a nutshell, I need to think of myself not as a naturalist, or master naturalist. I am nature.

When I first read this sentiment in a poem, it took me a minute to wrap my head around it.[1] The philosophical concept expressed was that nature is not something to be simply observed and appreciated, like a lovely display in a living museum. Rather, we humans are an essential part of the natural world, just like all the green and growing things around us.

Listening mindfully, one can hear the music of the tiny streams meandering through the bog.

This suggests that we should have a stronger attachment to birds, trees and insects than to the man-made devices we depend on today. Yet ask the average person to distinguish the song of the white-throated sparrow from that of the chickadee, the maple tree from an oak, or a damselfly from a dragonfly, and they will probably not be able to tell you. Why? Possibly because they feel no connection to these things, and have no interest in learning how to distinguish them. The point of that poem was that unless we feel we are a part of the natural world, we won’t care about it as much as we need to—that is, as if our lives depend on it.

I decided to explore this idea of helping humans feel they are an intrinsic part of the natural order, after taking one of my favorite classes this weekend: “Nature Journaling By Sensing the Natural World,” taught by artist and storyteller Linda Durrett. Linda taught us a helpful method for making connections with nature by using all our senses (including our “sixth” sense) but in reverse order. We began by sitting quietly with our eyes closed for a good length of time and just listening. This was followed by (with eyes still closed) smelling, touching, tasting, and feeling the energy of what was around us.

Walking in a bog can be treacherous. We pulled more than one person out of the muck.

It was only after we had explored as much as we could with our eyes closed, that we opened them, and went from focusing on the big picture (the landscape) to the tiny things we needed to get down on the ground to see. For me the experience was enlightening, and I learned a great deal while rooted to the same spot for an hour.

Wild cranberries thrive in a bog.

I decided to use this approach the next morning when we visited a hidden bog far off the beaten path. Aside from our small group, there were no other people around. By listening first with my eyes closed, I heard the music of the bog—the squishy sound of the wet sphagnum moss beneath our feet, the tiny streams that gurgled through, the whir of insects on the wing, and the songs of the birds who feast on them. The bog smelled wet and earthy and felt like walking on foam pillows. The energy of the bog was alive, but hushed and secretive. Above the surface, all was calm and peaceful, but below our feet the earth moved and shifted with restless vigor.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a wide open space, seemingly devoid of biological diversity. But when I crouched close to the boggy mounds, I discovered a whole tiny world of plants that have thrived in such places for eons.

There at my feet lay a tiny world of prehistoric wonder.
The tiny drosera, commonly known as sundew, is a darling carnivorous plant!

I’m not sure I can remember a time when I felt more attuned to nature than I did in that bog, and I attribute that to Linda Durrett’s methodology. I felt an almost prehistoric connection, a feeling my ancestors might have had 300,000 years ago when they entered such a place.

It’s funny how, despite our ability to find information about anyone and anything in an instant, we still have so much to learn about the things that are most elemental and real. Try this approach of immersing yourself in the natural world. I think you’ll feel at home there.

Do you have a favorite spot where you feel at one with the natural world? I would love to hear 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, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] I did an internet search but I cannot find the poem, or I would add the link here. However, if you would like to read some lovely poems which embrace the same sentiment, read Poems of Earth and Spirit, by Kai Siedenburg at https:/ournatureconnection.com.  

Finding Inspiration on the Shores of Lake Erie

This summer, I will find a comfortable piece of driftwood and sit and stare at the water for a while.

There is a beach on Lake Erie, not too far south of Buffalo, where I go every summer to write, to think, and to walk my dog. The beach shall go unnamed because it is private, and because the residents don’t really want anyone else to know it is there. It does not have a boardwalk, concession stands, or cabanas. What it does have is sand and rocks and long stretches of emptiness.

Both Zippy and I love an empty beach. All photos © Moxie Gardiner.

Although summer is not officially here, around Memorial Day I like to firm up my plans for the warmer months. In the process of filling up the calendar with trips, tours, reunions, and classes (and, reluctantly, medical appointments), I decided to push all that to the side and focus on the one, all-important period in July, when I will return to the beach and focus again on the trilogy I’m writing.

As May comes to a close, I will wrap up the initial draft of the second book in the series. Once I do, I’ll need time to let it sit and percolate for a while, probably for the rest of June. In July, I will come back to the draft, and begin the serious business of rewriting it.

I know of no better place to let the book settle in than on the shores of Lake Erie. Why? Because it is quiet and there are few distractions? Yes, but there is more to it than that, and it is a question worth pondering.

Who wouldn’t be inspired by a Lake Erie sunset?

Part of the answer, I believe, is that I take great inspiration from this ancient lake, which has been with us for eons, and over time, has transformed in significant ways, much like the protagonist in a book. Like the best of stories, the lake is deep, sometimes opaque, and it hides many secrets beneath its surface, some of which eventually will be revealed, while others will continue to mystify. And like complex characters, the lake has many moods. One minute it is calm and placid, and then, with little warning, it is a furious monster, waves pounding the shore, tossing boats, and spitting sand into the wind. Yes, the lake is a metaphor for the mercurial nature of life and the precarious world all living things inhabit.

The other reason I go to the lake when I am writing is that it churns up many memories. Lake Erie has been in my life since I was a young child. My grandparents, my parents, and then my husband and I, rented cottages near Point Breeze for many decades. When I sit now on the empty beach, idyllic scenes from my past roll by, from the days of building sand castles with my brothers, to flirting with boys as a teenager, to later teaching my own sons how to swim and skip rocks across the glassy surface.

Bad memories of the beach are rare, but as a writer I remind myself to remember and embrace those as well. One recollection that has stayed with me for many years was the time my six-year-old brother decided to try out our new raft—the blow-up, rectangular kind you could sleep on. He was happily floating in the shallows when a sudden storm came up. The raft began moving rapidly with the wind and current, and away from shore. I happened to look up—our group was packing and getting ready to leave—when I spotted him, too far from shore to get off and wade back. I could see his face and knew he was panicking.

I am a strong swimmer, but I had to make a choice. Run down the beach and try to get ahead of the raft, or get in the water quickly and try to swim to him in time? What if I made the wrong choice? I tried to judge how fast he was moving. I split the difference, running and then swimming, and thankfully, reached him before he had been pulled out much farther by the current. My heart was in my mouth as I pushed and pulled the raft to shore. What if he had fallen off in the turbulent water? What would it feel like to lose my baby brother, and in front of my eyes? I had nightmares about it for years.

These ancient rocks have often been assaulted by violent storms which can come up on the lake without warning. We would sit on rocks like these when we were kids, and let the waves batter us during the storm.

Anyone who has read Virgin Snow will now recognize where the inspiration for one of the more tragic scenes comes from, the accidental death of a sibling. Yes, the beach brings memories of summer love, the sounds of the waves, and the smells of suntan lotion and evening campfires. But it is also a reminder that even summer, with all its life-affirming qualities, has its share of heartbreak.

So this summer, I will find a comfortable piece of driftwood and sit and stare at the water for a while. I will ponder the vagaries of life, and what insights I might want to share with my readers. With any luck, I will finish my revisions to Book Two and publish it before the end of the year. If that happens, you can give a good deal of credit to a solitary stay on a quiet, Lake Erie beach.

A perfect place to sit and contemplate.

A question for my Western New York readers: what are your most compelling memories of Lake Erie, either good or bad? And for others, is there a body of water that has played an important role in your life? If so, please 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, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

To learn more about the first book in the trilogy, Virgin Snow, check out these comments from readers. https://moxiegardiner.com/feedback-from-virgin-snow-readers/

For more information on the fascinating history of Lake Erie, check out https://www.greatlakesnow.org/2024/03/from-the-ice-age-to-now-a-lake-erie-timeline/

The Hidden Beauty of Spring Ephemerals in the Appalachians

Why is finding these small, delicate flowers so satisfying that I go looking for them every year?

Virginia Spring Beauties have a delicate pink stripe down the center of their white petals. Photos © Moxie Gardiner.

We have a cabin in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, deep inside an area of West Virginia called “Valley and Ridge” by geologists. The land undulates here in soft folds, like a rumpled baby’s blanket. The forests are still wild and unspoiled, and perpetually covered with dead fall and a thick mat of leaves.

A favorite springtime ritual here is to take an early morning hike in search of the earliest harbingers of the season—the wildflowers known as “spring ephemerals.” These small flowers usually bloom just after the last snow melt, but before the first cluster of leaves opens on the trees.

Who doesn’t love the rich purples of the ubiquitous spring violets?

These perennials are called “ephemeral” because they bloom and disappear quickly, then reappear the following spring almost to the day. They are most often found in rich, moist undisturbed woodlands, and rarely found elsewhere. They are impossible to cultivate because once they are moved, they quickly die.

Although it’s name sounds dangerous, the cutleaf toothwort is a dainty little flower.

As a new Master Naturalist, I was curious about why I was unable to carefully dig up one of these precious plants, and successfully move it to my wildflower garden. After doing a bit of research, I learned something quite interesting.

It turns out that wooded properties are ideal for something called myrmecochory, a fancy word for seed dispersal by ants. Ants are attracted to the seeds of spring ephemerals and carry them back to their nests, where the fatty appendages attached to the seeds are consumed by the young. The seeds themselves are discarded and thrown into a rich “trash heap” that stimulates germination of the seeds. Neither the ant colony nor the discarded seeds are ever far from each other, hence the same flowers pretty much grow in the same spot every year.

Hidden beneath the Spicebush forest along the banks of Sleepy Creek, is a cornucopia of spring ephemerals.
Mayapples are up along the creek but not yet blooming.

Knowing this, I was even more eager to begin my search this morning, and set off when the sun was at a low angle, reflecting off the merrily rolling creek. As I walked along the banks, I spotted the first bluets, mayapples, coltsfoot, Virginia spring beauties, tiny violets, and of course, dandelions. Bees buzzed about the pussywillow bush, where they were busy gathering the first nectar of the season.

Unspotted were the yellow trout lilies, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Dutchman’s breeches with their funny trouser-like flowers, or rue anemone with its feathery leaves—all of which are native to this part of the country. A few times we have found that most favored of West Virginian delicacies—morel mushrooms—nearby, but not today. The weather conditions have to be just right.

These bluets are so tiny they are easily overlooked on the forest floor.

As I wrapped up the search I asked myself, why is finding these small, delicate flowers so satisfying that I go looking for them every year? Is it because they are elusive and short-lived? Or is it because in a world of big, beautiful showy flowers, they are overlooked and unloved, which makes me love them more? Perhaps, like all hidden treasures, it is the search itself that makes the quest to find ephemerals so intriguing.

Over the next couple of months, spring will unfold in all its glory, with lilacs and cherry trees and daffodils and tulips covering the landscape in a wash of color. Let’s not forget to let our gaze fall downward, to take in the small beauties that lie at our feet. In a world with plenty of distractions, it is so easy to overlook the small but important stuff.

The bees had no problems finding the pussywillows as soon as they flowered.

What are the hallmarks of spring for you? Whether it is Easter Eggs, daffodils, or the first pitch on Opening Day, I’d love to hear from you, 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 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.

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