Old neighborhoods - Moxie Gardiner

Fingy Conners, Wild Bill Donovan, and the “Irish” First Ward

On my most recent trip back to Buffalo, I decided to take a walking tour through a different part of the city.

I often write about the West Side of Buffalo and the neighborhood where I spent my formative years. It was a tight-knit, working class part of the city where my Sicilian grandmother’s relatives could speak their native language and feel at home. But on my most recent trip back to Buffalo, I decided to take a walking tour through a different part of the city, where the ancestors of my Irish grandfather most likely worked on the docks, in the factories, or shoveled grain into silos along the shores of Lake Erie.

*Grain silos still form the backdrop of Buffalo’s Old First Ward. Photos © Moxie Gardiner.*

People unfamiliar with the city’s history are surprised to learn that Buffalo was once the eighth-largest metropolis in the US, and the sixth-largest port, according to Donna, our Explore Buffalo tour guide. Before the 90-minute tour was over, she would explain why the “Old First Ward,” or OFW, as this neighborhood is called, was at one time a commercial hub of global significance and the birthplace of colorful characters who would leave their mark on US history.

*Many residents still proudly display their Irish roots.*

The first wave of Irish immigrants that transformed this part of Buffalo came to help build the Erie Canal in the early 1800s, and the second wave arrived during and after the great potato famine in Ireland in the 1840s and ‘50s. By 1855, there were some 10,000 Irish immigrants in Buffalo, the majority of them living in slums near the lake and canal. The neighborhood became known as “the Irish First Ward” for a time because of its predominantly Irish population.

The grain elevators, invented here in Buffalo in the 1840s, provided plenty of work for Ireland’s transplanted manual laborers, as did other industries that sprang up along the Erie Canal—at that time an essential conduit from America’s “bread basket” in the Midwest, to the fast-growing cities along the East Coast. Once the St. Lawrence Seaway and the interstate highway system were developed, however, the canal lost its importance, as did the industries that once thrived along Lake Erie’s shores, and the Old First Ward declined.

*Some of the neighborhood’s older homes are a stone’s throw from the waterfront.*

As I was happy to learn on the tour, though, the neighborhood is making a comeback and now has a reputation as one of the “hippest” places to live in Buffalo. Interestingly, the area still proudly embraces its industrial legacy. Thirteen of the original 33 grain silos still loom over the modest houses (two of the silos are still operating) while repurposed factories dot the neighborhood.

*The Barcalo Building, like other old factories, has been repurposed.*

One such factory, housed in the Barcalo Building, was known throughout Buffalo as the place where the Barcalounger chair was manufactured. Less well known is the building’s reputation as the birthplace of the coffee break, mint ice cream, the mattress spring, and the fake snow that comes out of a spray can… according to Donna. The building is now home to a contemporary art gallery and luxury apartments.

Back in the day, the OFW was almost as famous for its bars and taverns as it was for its industries. According to an 1893 article in the Buffalo Express, there were 2,300 saloons in Buffalo, including Swannie House, built in the 1880s, which still operates today. Gene McCarthy’s Tavern and Old First Ward Brewing, where refreshments were available at the end of our tour, has been operating here for over 50 years.

*The Swannie House has been serving residents of the OFW since the 1880s.*

Some of the taverns found in this neighborhood were part of the “saloon boss system,” where waterfront jobs were controlled by bar owners. Native son “Fingy” Conners (legend has it he lost a thumb after a childhood dare) was one such boss, who reportedly gave jobs only to those who rented his rooms and drank his booze. Fingy went on to become a prosperous businessman and one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Buffalo.[1]

Donna the tour guide told us tales of other OFW men who went on to become nationally and even internationally known, including “Wild Bill” Donovan, who headed the Office of Strategic Services (which later became the CIA) during Word War II.[2] Tim Russert, host of NBC’s “Meet the Press” was also from the Old First Ward, as was popular Buffalo mayor Jimmy Griffin, and Michael Shea, developer of Buffalo’s most opulent entertainment venues. Shea was one of the first men in the US to start a vaudeville house, and his theater in downtown Buffalo is still thriving, hosting sold-out Broadway shows throughout the year.

*Kayak launches, pop-up dining, and coffee shops are bringing new money into the old neighborhood.*

As my group finished up our walking tour on Hamburg Street, I took note of a new “Waterfront Memories and More” museum that Donna said provides historical artifacts and photos from locals. As it was closed when we got there, I will have to come back on another trip. Who knows? I may get lucky and find a photo of one of my Irish ancestors, shoveling grain into one of the massive silos.

Have you ever lived in, or visited, the Old First Ward of Buffalo? What were your impressions of it, then and now? I would love to read your comments, in the section below.

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

[1] For more info on Fingy Conners, see this interesting book trailer by Richard Sullivan on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64aec3GzbHU&t=230s

[2] For more information on Donovan’s Buffalo beginnings, see https://buffaloah.com/h/bohen/don.html

“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.

Wax Lips, Licorice Sticks and an Homage to the Corner Store

One of the things I miss most when I return to Buffalo is the family-owned corner store.

*My grandparents owned one of these wonderful stores before I was born.*

One of the things I miss most when I return to Buffalo is something that is almost impossible to find—the once-ubiquitous, family-owned corner store.

I remember the delightful smell of these homey establishments, their worn wood floors emanating the aromas of the goods inside, their painted screen doors (with an ad for Sunbeam bread!) letting in the fresh summer air.

*Many corner stores were multigenerational, family-run affairs, like this one established by Florence and Frank Ganci in 1926.* *Photo courtesy of the Ganci Family.*

They were usually owned by industrious people who lived above them, behind them or somewhere nearby. You would often find the whole family busy sorting and stacking behind the scenes, while the owner worked the counter and knew every kid in the neighborhood.

Behind the counter lay boxes of penny candy and other small treats. Around the room, deep chests were filled with cold beverages and popsicles, and shelves were lined with an assortment of groceries meant for neighborhood mothers with little ones in tow.

*Nothing evokes memories of shopping with my Grandma* *like marinated olives, rosemary and…*

My first memories of going to a corner store on the West Side are with my Sicilian grandmother. At the time, many of the stores specialized in food that made the first- and second-generation Sicilians in our neighborhood feel at home.

While Grandma would stand at the counter ordering freshly butchered meat (including tripe or pig’s feet—ugh), I would watch the live babbaluci (snails) climb up the sides of the large barrels from which they were sold. I knew that if I behaved, she would reward me with a small box of torrone, a sweet white nougat treat, that forever imprinted the association of “corner store” and “candy” in my brain.

*Remember the excitement of opening your Mallo Cup and finding a 25 point coin?*

Once I was old enough to walk to school alone, I would stop at Mantione’s on the corner of 14^th and Hampshire with the nickel or dime I had earned for returning glass bottles.

I would stand in front of the counter debating which treasures I should buy—a pair of ruby red wax lips (that were utterly tasteless), a licorice stick (I preferred red, which isn’t really “licorice”), a pretzel from the cannister, a candy necklace, Nik-L-Nips in little wax bottles, or one of the large assortment of hard, soft and chewy candies, like peach stones and maple creams. The prefrontal cortex of my 8-year old brain agonized over this decision for 15 minutes while Mr. Mantione waited patiently behind the counter.

*How I loved those caramel creams (notice several are missing)!*

Fast-forward to teenaged summers at the Massachusetts Ave swimming pool and frequent stops at Ganci’s Grocery, a store and “super deli” right across from the pool. No longer a hesitant decision-maker, I would stride up to the counter, past the bottles of LaStrella bleach and bars of Fels-Naptha soap, and order a baloney bomber from Mr. Ganci, his son Frank or daughter Cathy, before running over to the pool. If I had enough money, I’d buy a chocolate-covered frozen banana for dessert (which would be devoured before I re-crossed the street).

*Ganci’s Super Deli had the best bombers and ribs in town back in the ’70s. Photo courtesy of Rick Ganci.*

They were hardly the healthy snacks parents buy and children are encouraged to eat today. But it wasn’t really about the food back then. It was all about the experience of learning to count your money (and your change, if there was any), making choices, interacting with adults in an environment outside the home, and enjoying whatever you bought with the little cash you had. It can truthfully be said that we did a lot of growing up in those stores.

I still like to patronize family-run grocery stores, but they are harder and harder to find. On the West Side back in the day, most kids could look out their bedroom window and see a neighborhood store down the street. Now they are a novelty—like Guercio’s on Grant Street—and run by a family’s second, third or fourth generation.

*What could be a more welcome sight in the aftermath of a blizzard, than to see the lights ablaze in Guercio’s, your friendly neighborhood store? Photo courtesy of the Guercio family.*

Whenever I go back to Buffalo, I still like to pay Guercio’s a visit. The food, the smells, the colorful produce, all transport me back to those trips with Grandma. The only thing missing is the barrel of babbalucci. I’m quite sure the snails are happier.

Do you have a memory of a favorite store from your childhood? How old were you when you were finally able to go there on your own? Please share your stories with me and my readers. We’d love to hear from you!

Publishing My West Side Story: It’s About to Get Real

Like every would-be author discovers, if writing a book isn’t difficult enough, the ordeal of trying to get it published tests all one’s powers of endurance.

Regular readers of my blogs will know that Buffalo and its people, history and culture are common themes in my writing. It was not until I left Buffalo that I realized how much I loved the city and the unforgettable inhabitants of the West Side where I grew up. Writing and thinking about them has given me greater insight into my own personal development, as well as respect for the city and the fundamental changes it has experienced.

But even as I faithfully posted these monthly blogs, I continued to write something else about Buffalo, something larger in scope and deeper in its contemplation of what it was like to grow up there, to go to school there, to live there. For the past five years (although it feels like a lifetime), I’ve been writing a novel set in the city where I was born.

Titled Virgin Snow, my fictional story is about a young West Side girl, coming of age against a backdrop of unraveling family secrets and the legacy of lies told to protect them. It is the late 1960s and the country is in turmoil, Buffalo is teetering on the precipice of economic collapse, and the teachings of the Catholic Church are coming under question. Faith in those who run the country and seemingly every aspect of society, is crumbling. Uncertain who or what to trust, 13-year-old Cosi McCarthy resists her domineering mother and eventually throws in her lot with a “radical” nun who serves as her mentor, a savvy black psychiatric patient who has been unfairly confined, a conscientious objector who looks like Jesus, and the young man she secretly loves—a Vietnam Vet grappling with his own demons.

Like every would-be author discovers, if writing a book isn’t difficult enough, the ordeal of trying to get it published tests all one’s powers of endurance. I tried the usual route and it was like flinging my manuscript into a black hole. So I decided to explore the regional publishing route and was lucky to discover NFB Publishing, a company based in Buffalo itself. I was elated when I received a response from the publisher, indicating the beta-reader who vetted my story really liked it, and they would be proud to publish my book.

I’ll keep all my blog readers apprised of the book’s progress. I’m told that paperback and e-book copies should be available as soon as this summer, and can be ordered online directly from NFB Publishing or from Amazon, IngramSpark and other online booksellers, as well as purchased in bookstores in the Buffalo area.

Once the book is out, I’ll be having some launch-related events and activities, particularly in the Buffalo area. It would be nice to sell a few copies as a result, but what I’m really looking forward to is sharing thoughts and conversations with readers about the things that formed the very fabric of our lives. I also hope to begin a conversation with readers unfamiliar with Buffalo, to immerse them in a world that has more to its credit than snow and “buffalo wings;” a city with an amazing history, incredible architecture, a beautiful waterfront, and interesting and diverse neighborhoods.

If you would like to learn more about Virgin Snow, please leave me comments in the section below. Once the book is published, look for a new space on this website for you to leave your comments and reactions to the book itself. As always, I look forward to hearing from you.

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.

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.

[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.

“A City within a Park”

I spent many childhood days in Buffalo’s city parks. Little did I know then they were designed by America’s first and greatest landscape architect.

*We loved to climb up and visit President Lincoln back then.*

In the mid-Atlantic region where I now live, August, not April, is “the cruelest month.” With routine temperatures in the ‘90s, oppressive humidity, and near-nightly thunderstorms that make the days wetter but not cooler, August is the time when everyone either stays inside or leaves town. It’s as if the earth is scolding us for our sins with its hot, fetid breath.

In the Buffalo of my youth, August, on the contrary, was my favorite month. It was that golden slice of time before school started; the last days at the neighborhood swimming pool and evenings sitting on the porch, listening for the familiar melody of the ice cream truck, calling us kids into the streets like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

Although we spent most August days within walking distance of our house, on weekends our parents would often load us into the car to visit one of Buffalo’s city parks, where we would scramble out to explore the Buffalo Zoo, climb on the statues in Delaware Park, or roll down the hills in Front Park. The parks gave us room to run, yell, and be as wild as children want to be in the waning days of summer.

*Olmsted believed city dwellers need green spaces like this in South Park, for physical and mental wellbeing.*

*I was thrilled to see that the old stone statues still guard the gates of the Buffalo Zoo in Delaware Park.*

I loved the parks, but little did I know at the time that they were carefully designed by America’s first and greatest landscape architect, Frederick Law Olmsted, a man most famously known for designing Central Park in New York City, and the grounds around the US Capitol in Washington, DC. However, his work in Buffalo – the first park and parkway system designed and built in the US – is considered by many to be his best.

*Oliver Hazard Perry maintains his vigil over the waters of Niagara from his perch in Front Park.*

Buffalo’s Olmsted Park System, created over 150 years ago, includes six major parks, multiple parkways, circles, and small spaces. Each park was to have a unique identity that defined its role in the overall system. Delaware Park, with its large lake and majestic trees, was envisioned as a peaceful natural environment. Front Park, with its majestic view of the Niagara River and Lake Erie, highlighted the water and its military and historical connections. Martin Luther King, Jr. Park (formerly Humboldt Park) was originally intended for public ceremonies, while South Park’s conservatory and botanical gardens emphasized the area’s native plants. Cazenovia’s lake-and-island system was to be surrounded by trees and grasslands, and Riverside’s formal gardens were originally situated along a series of shallow ponds known as the Minnow Pools.

*One of my favorite spots in Cazenovia Park.*

*The wading pool in Martin Luther King, Jr. park is reportedly one of the largest in the country*

*The minnow pools at Riverside Park are now rock gardens surrounded by flowers.*

By the time the 1970s rolled around, decades of neglect, lack of investment in urban centers, and insufficient city budgets left these beautiful parks in sad shape. Fortunately, a group of citizens organized the Friends of Olmsted Parks in 1978 to advocate for them, and in the decades since, the parks have slowly begun to recover.

Olmsted once said, “A park is a work of art, designed to produce certain effects upon the minds of men.” Never have his words been more prescient than during our current pandemic. According to the National Recreation and Parks Association, time spent in parks and green spaces can help individuals fight against mental health issues like depression, anxiety and stress, and enjoy the benefits associated with decreased health complaints, improved blood pressure and cholesterol levels, and a greater ability to face problems.

*Young and old enjoy a round of golf at South Park.*

Aware of this recent research, I decided to visit all six Olmsted parks this summer to see how they were faring, and observe whether Buffalo urbanites were out seeking the benefits of these natural environments during stressful times. I am pleased to report that all six parks were full of people, even though I visited most of them in the middle of a workday. There were ball games underway, kids running through wading pools, people of all ages walking dogs, sitting on benches, and paddling boats on Hoyt Lake. I have recently read that more than a million people are visiting Buffalo’s parks every year.

*Plenty of baseball games at Cazenovia Park.*

*The cannons at Front Park reflect Buffalo’s role in military history.*

Yes, there is more work to be done but the Buffalo Olmsted Parks Conservancy, charged with the management and operation of these parks since 2004, has developed a “Plan for the 21^st Century” to restore the parks to Olmsted’s original vision and complete the system originally conceived as a “city within a park.” The Conservancy says its goal is to restore the parks and parkways “in ways that respect their status as important neighborhood, regional, national, and international resources.”[1]

*The Buffalo Olmsted Parks Conservancy is working hard to improve the condition of the parks.*

Call me a wimp, but I spent more of the sweltering “dog days” of August inside my mid-Atlantic, air-conditioned house, than outside. I’m happy to know that in Buffalo, many people are following Olmsted’s advice, and doing otherwise.

Do you have a favorite Olmsted park? How are the parks in your neighborhood doing? I would love to hear your stories—past, present and future.

[1] You can find a copy of the detailed Plan for the 21^st Century at https://regional-institute.buffalo.edu/wp-content/uploads/sites/155/2020/11/The-Olmsted-City-TheSystemPlan2008-1.pdf

*A walk in Delaware Park can literally make your day.*

*There is fun for young and old on Hoyt Lake in Delaware Park.*

*A serene spot for meditation in Martin Luther King, Jr. Park.*

The Bodacious Gardens of Buffalo

When I was growing up on the West Side, little did I know that my crowded, urban neighborhood would one day host the biggest, most beautiful Garden Walk in America.

*Typical West Side lawns, back in the day.*

Long ago, when childhood meanderings were confined to exploring my city block, I knew every crack in the sidewalk, every pothole in the street, and every inch of what might be called grass on our pallet-sized lawn. I also knew which tiny West Side backyards hosted vegetable gardens, brimming with tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant, so Sicilian families could make their Sunday spaghetti sauce from scratch. But finding a flower garden in this urban hardscape was a rare and astonishing treat.

*Just one section of the Annual Buffalo Garden Walk, this showing the West Side ‘hood where I grew up. Note the number of houses on just this section of the tour alone.*

Though raised as a city girl, today I am interested in all things gardening, and everywhere I travel I seek out gardens, looking for tips and tricks to improve my own. So imagine my surprise when I went on my first Buffalo Garden Walk a few years ago, through the same crowded city streets of my youth, and found house after house with flowers spilling out of window boxes, former lawns, driveway strips, and sidewalk borders in a dizzying array of colors, shapes, and sizes—plots as healthy and beautiful as any found behind an English cottage or along Monet’s pond in France. Now in its 27^th year, Buffalo’s Garden Walk showcases more than 300 gardens on the West Side, and attracts some 65,000 visitors over a two-day period.

*Who would have imagined then, a front lawn could look like this?*

For those of you not from Buffalo, who know little about the city beyond its massive snowfalls and spicy chicken wings, it might surprise you to learn that Buffalo is now known for its greenspaces and gardens. Realizing this, I went to the Garden Walk this year with two questions in mind: why are flower gardens so unexpectedly lush and green in this cold weather (USDA Zone 6) urban environment, and what can I learn from Buffalo gardeners to improve my own?[1]

*The two-day Buffalo Garden Walk attracts thousands of visitors from around the country.*

Why are these gardens thriving? Well, here are my theories. As a northern city, Buffalo’s long summer days provide flowering plants with more daylight growing hours. Chilly temperatures in Buffalo last well into spring, allowing bad bugs and plant pathogens to remain dormant for longer periods. Summer temperatures, typically between 70-80 degrees, are ideal for most plants, especially annuals. Buffalo also has very good natural soil, typically fine to fine-loamy till, inherited from long ago glacial deposits, and its location, lying on the windward side of Lake Erie and the Niagara River, provides gardens with plenty of natural moisture throughout the year. Finally, after long, tough winters, Buffalo gardeners strive to make the most of their short growing season by devoting extraordinary time and energy to their gardens when warm weather finally arrives.

I now live in the mid-Atlantic region, an area with shorter, milder winters and hot, humid summers. What if anything did I learn from the Buffalo Garden Walk that I could apply to my own gardens?

*A clever integration of lawn and stepping stones.*

*Note the use of old household objects to create garden art.*

Recognize that gardens crowded into small spaces have high impact and give a visual impression of lushness and vitality. Make the most of any decent patch of soil you own.
Be unafraid of incorporating unusual things in your garden design for added interest. I loved the “recycled household objects” that were artistic elements in many of Buffalo’s gardens.
Make sure the hard structures surrounding your garden complement its beauty. This includes everything from garden sheds to stepping stones.
Use Milorganite (a product made from recycled wastewater) to deter deer, rabbits, and voles. It is organic and apparently highly effective.
Try the aesthetically and aromatically pleasing cocoa shell mulch many Buffalo gardeners use, both to suppress weeds and provide beneficial nutrients to the soil (just make sure your dogs don’t eat it).

Perhaps the most important lesson I took from the garden walk this year is that nothing transforms a neighborhood like beautiful gardens. Not only do they enhance the structural and architectural beauty of the old homes on the West Side (many built in the 1800s), they signal that this is again a neighborhood where people take pride in their homes and community. You can’t put a price on that.

*Even the smallest front lawn can* *be transformed into a thing of beauty*.

Have you ever gone on the Buffalo Garden Walk? What was your experience like? Do you have garden walks in your new hometown and how do they compare? I would love to hear from you!

[1] For a wonderful reference book on Buffalo’s gardens see Buffalo-Style Gardens by Jim Charlier and Sally Cunningham.

Who Speaks for the Trees?

I lived through one of our nation’s most devastating tree pandemics–Dutch Elm Disease–and I hope I never witness another.

*I admit to being a lifelong tree hugger.*
*Photo by Betty Wrightson.*

When I was a young child in Buffalo, and the boundaries of my playtime world were defined by our city block, I developed an intimate relationship with all the trees that lined the curb and shaded our small backyard. Springtime meant the maple trees we climbed would release the “helicopters” that we’d split and wear on our noses. Fragrant lilacs would usher in Mother’s Day, and the blossoms on the cherry tree near the neighbor’s garage were the heralds of summer pies and pit-spitting contests.

I miss those days, so this spring I visited the National Arboretum in Washington, DC, specifically to see the “Grove of Trees” and find the state tree of New York. After some searching I located a majestic sugar maple in a section of the grove where other maple varieties stood, and was instantly transported back to the old West Side and the beloved tree of my childhood.

*A beautiful sugar maple specimen in full leaf at the National Arboretum.*

Buffalo was once called the City of Trees. Like Washington, DC, it was carefully planned with a system of interconnected parks and parkways that planners hoped would counterbalance the rapidly expanding (and polluting) industries along the city’s waterfront. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Buffalo’s forestry division planted more than 300,000 trees in parks and along city streets.

Then disaster struck. First it was a pathogen known as Chestnut Blight that spread up and down the east coast at a rate of 24 miles a year. By the time I appeared on the scene, nearly all the mature American chestnut trees in Buffalo were dead. Not long after, Dutch Elm Disease began attacking the beautiful vase-shaped elm trees that lined the city’s most prestigious avenues, and by 1977, most of Buffalo’s American elms were doomed.[1]

*The Japanese Zelkova, a member of the elm family, is a tougher urban tree now used for residential shade and street plantings.*

That, sadly, was not the end of the tree tragedies. Today, ash trees are under assault from the emerald ash borer and pine trees from pine wilt. A recent study suggests that nearly 25% of all tree deaths in the eastern US forests over the past 30 years were the result of insects and pathogens brought over from foreign countries. The economic losses from tree diseases are estimated to be higher than those from insects and fire combined.[2]

Having now lived through my first human pandemic, I began to wonder—who is looking out for our trees? Who is working on ways to prevent the next great American tree “pandemic”?

*Scientists working on behalf of the National Arboretum and US Forest Service are dedicating their research to saving America’s trees.*

Dr. Seuss invented a character called “the Lorax” who “speaks for the trees,” and in doing my research for this blog I found there are many real life “Loraxes.” There are forest pathologists and tree epidemiologists and research plant pathologists whose life’s work is to figure out how and why trees get sick and die. A quick look at the resumes of the scientists who work at the US National Arboretum, for example, gives a sense of the scope and importance of their work.[3]

*Nothing says springtime quite like these beautiful flowering Fringe trees.*

Much more interesting to me though, are recent findings that trees not only look out for themselves but for each other. According to a German forester by the name of Peter Wohlleben in his wonderful book, The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate, trees “talk” to each other (through electrical impulses) and they form communities. His research suggests that when planted alone and away from others, trees become weakened and more susceptible to disease. In a forest, where parent trees live with their offspring and nurture each other, they are stronger. Haven’t we learned that we are more resilient when we work together to solve problems?

*I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree*.
Joyce Kilmer

Thankfully there are many who are aware of the dangers to our trees and are willing to step up. The American Chestnut Research and Restoration Project, for example, has set a goal of growing 10,000 blight-resistant American chestnuts trees over the next five years. Buffalo’s own Green Fund provides money for the WNY CommunitTREE Steward Project to educate residents on how to care for their own city trees.

Let’s hope that one day, scientists, conservationists, and citizens alike will learn from the trees themselves, and working together, avert the next great American tree tragedy.

Are you concerned about our trees? Do you have a favorite tree story? I would love to hear from you in the comments below!

[1] For an interesting scientific perspective on these diseases, see https://www.srs.fs.usda.gov/pubs/ja/ja_schlarbaum002.htm

[2] For more information see https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2020/05/deadly-imports-one-us-forest-25-tree-deaths-caused-foreign-pests-and-disease

[3] See https://www.usna.usda.gov/science/our-scientists/

Buffalo’s Wabi-Sabi

Like old structures, it is the flaws and imperfections that tell our stories and make us interesting.

*The Buffalo River now has launch platforms for kayakers.* *Photos by Moxie Gardiner.*

After living in Europe for a while, I returned to Buffalo in the summer of 2013 eager to see what had changed in my absence. During that visit, one of my brothers encouraged me to go kayaking with him on the Buffalo River, a body of water so polluted in my youth that it actually burst into flames one cold January day. Never did I imagine that in my lifetime there would be places to rent and launch kayaks on a river that bisected the city’s industrial wasteland.

*Dean Gallagher, founder of Buffalo Paddle People, organizes kayak trips past the city’s old grain elevators.*

As we paddled, I gazed with interest at what was around me. The massive concrete grain elevators, loading docks, abandoned factories, and train tracks were all still there, untouched and undisturbed, the ghosts of Buffalo’s halcyon days as Queen City of the Great Lakes back in the 1800s. Drawing closer to shore, I could see that while the exterior structures remained unchanged, in many cases the interiors had new life.

What was happening here? I began to wonder if my hometown had embraced the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi while I was gone.

*This interesting Buffalo Riverworks restaurant embraces the concept of wabi-sabi in its design.*

Although a bit difficult even for the Japanese to explain, wabi-sabi is a philosophy that sees beauty in things as they are, however raw and untouched. A recent article in Japan’s SAKURA News explained that ‘wabi-sabi’ embraces the idea of aesthetic appreciation of aging, flaws, and the beauty of the effects of time and imperfections, concepts somewhat foreign to Western culture.

*Cascading water and bright flowers soften the raw concrete of this outdoor restaurant.*

I decided I wanted to see how much of Buffalo now reflected this aging, imperfect state. Back on shore, my brother took me on a tour of “Canalside” and Buffalo Riverworks, where some of the old factories and industrial buildings had been converted into new commercial enterprises. What I found were new establishments that not only left the damaged concrete and exposed rebar, but included them in the design.

Now that I was looking with new eyes, I found examples of this aesthetic throughout the city. The Pearl Street Grill and Brewery downtown is a fine example. The warehouse built in the 1840s, now a beautiful eating and drinking establishment, still retains the rough charm of its roots in the once-seedy Canal District.

Further uptown, the campus of the foreboding Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane now hosts the luxurious Hotel Henry, complete with fine dining and well-landscaped grounds. Next to the hotel sits the remaining derelict structures of the old hospital, part of the city’s sightseeing tour.

boho apartment building on Buffalo's west side — *Photo courtesy of Doreen Regan.*

Later, while visiting my former home on the West Side, I was most delighted to see that the old Sparks Dairy, for many years a burned out hulk, had been given new life as an apartment building. Rather than tear the structure down, once again the old exterior was preserved, giving the new dwelling a modern, urban edginess while remaining the recognizable landmark of my youth.

This serene setting outside the Buffalo History Museum in Delaware Park highlights another tenet of wabi-sabi, that the beauty and simplicity of nature needs little enhancement.

In his book, Wabi-sabi, The Art of Impermanence, Andrew Juniper notes that, “If an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi.” Was what I was seeing in Buffalo an embrace of something like this ancient Japanese philosophy, or were there more mundane, economical reasons for preserving these structures? I do not know, but like anyone who was born and raised in Buffalo, these structures, aging but standing resolute our entire lives, remind us when we see them, that we are home.

Perhaps one day our Western eyes will also stop fixating on youth, and appreciate the beauty and serenity that comes with age in older people. Like old structures, it is the flaws and imperfections that tell our stories and make us interesting. Do you have a favorite wabi-sabi building, place or design in Buffalo? Do you embrace the philosophy of wabi-sabi in your life? Tell me your stories in the comments below!

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!

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