Traveling - Moxie Gardiner

The Wondrous World of Weird Museums

Do you believe in the “usefulness of useless knowledge”?

Did you know that the kazoo is the only musical instrument originally made in America? Are you aware that war reporter Ernie Pyle once noted that the Zippo Lighter is “the most coveted thing on the battlefield”? Or that Peter Cooper, founder of the Cooper Union in New York City and the oldest presidential candidate in history (he was 85) now has a landfill Superfund site in western New York named after him?

*Everything you ever wanted to know about kazoos is right there on the wall. All photos by Moxie Gardiner.*

Welcome to the world of odd facts and intriguing curiosities, a world that I, as a writer, love to explore. I enjoy learning obscure details, so much so that I have made a practice of visiting small, eclectic, and often overlooked museums all over the world.

It is true that I have explored the many halls of the Smithsonian; the great museums of London, New York, and Madrid; and the historic homes of many US presidents. But how many can say they have learned the fascinating factoids mentioned above in several quirky museums just outside of Buffalo?

*The Kazoo Factory: the place where every metal kazoo in the world is made.*

The Kazoo Factory and Gift Shop in the small town of Eden, NY, for example, established in 1907, has a wall of kazoo trivia right next to the 18 punch presses used to make kazoos of all shapes and sizes (it is the only metal kazoo factory in the world). Not only did I learn that there are some 15,000 kazoo bands in the United States, I was gobsmacked to find that a kazoo was used in Leonard Bernstein’s famous theater number composed for the dedication of the Kennedy Center!

Just south of Eden lies the small town of Langford, NY, home of the Langford Steam and Mechanical Exhibit, which showcases rail cars, tractors, and gas and steam engines from Buffalo’s industrial past. I was most intrigued by the wheel from the Peter Cooper Glue Factory of nearby Gowanda, NY which led me to do more research on Cooper and his mixed legacy.

*It is impossible to drive by the Langford Steam and Mechanical Exhibit without stopping to take a look. The flywheel from the Peter Cooper Glue Factory is front and center.*

*The Zippo Lighter museum has lots to offer the casual visitor as well as the collector.*

Continuing south, just below New York state’s southern border with Pennsylvania, is Bradford, home of the Zippo Lighter Factory and Museum. Unlike the more modest museums mentioned above, the Zippo Museum had the glamour and pizzazz (and gift shop) of a Hard Rock Café. Nonetheless, it was filled with well-curated displays and minutiae about the history of these lighters. Not only did I learn the role Zippo Lighters played on the battlefield, but also in classic movies, rock and roll (ever hear of the Zippo Encore Moment?) and Nascar races. I also got to see the famous Zippo clinic, where any malfunctioning Zippo lighter is fixed for free.

*No matter what the condition of your lighter, Zippo will fix it for free in its clinic.*

*Who* *hasn’t witnessed a sea of Zippo lighters calling for an encore from a favorite band?*

Yes, I am writer who revels in unusual details, but why, I asked myself, would others be attracted to these museums? Well, I have a few theories:

Museums like this appeal to our sense of whimsy, that is, our more childlike and playful nature. I had a lot of fun making my first kazoo (almost as much fun as the entire day I spent in the Strong National Museum of Play in Rochester, NY, as an adult!).
These museums provide an unusual perspective on history, allowing our creative brains to make connections among things seemingly unrelated (World War II and Zippo lighters, for example).
They are a mecca for collectors, hobbyists, and dealers. I read about a man in Scotland who owns over a 1,000 different Zippo lighters. I feel certain he has been to Bradford.
They are fodder for trivia buffs and those with insatiable intellectual curiosity, and
They are run and operated by people who are invariably welcoming and enthused about entertaining visitors. Their pride in their artifacts and displays is quite contagious, making for a very personal and enjoyable experience.

*Who wouldn’t have fun making their own kazoo?*

I am a fan of Abraham Flexner, author of a wonderful article that first appeared in Harper’s magazine in 1939 called the “Usefulness of Useless Knowledge,” recently republished as a book. In it, Flexner asks whether “our conception of what is useful [knowledge] may not have become too narrow to be adequate to the roaming and capricious possibilities of the human spirit.” Indeed. For those of us with roaming and capricious spirits, no knowledge is ever useless, or ever enough.

Do you have a fondness for the odd and unusual? Do you have a quirky little museum you’d like to recommend? Please share in the comments below!

*Next on my list of places to visit are the Jello Museum in Le Roy, NY, the Lilydale Museum of Spiritualism in Lilydale, NY, and the Penn Brad Oil Museum,* *south of Bradford, PA.*

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

I Got Slimed by a Whale (and Loved It)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Her skin felt like a smooth, wet eggplant.*

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

*The whale seemed to like rubbing its head under the bottom of the Zodiac boat.*

*Many of us got to see a “whale blow,” up close and personal.*

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

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

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

The Dog Chapel

Have you ever lost a beloved pet and wished for a place to grieve?

On a leafy hill near the shire of St. Johnsbury in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, is a unique place of silent reflection and remembrance. Known as the Dog Chapel, it is one of several buildings on Dog Mountain celebrating man’s best friend.

*Canine companions can enjoy a swim in the pond, surrounded by autumnal beauty.*

*Dogs are free to roam on Dog Mountain.*

The brainchild of the late folk artist and author Stephen Huneck and his wife Gwen, Dog Mountain is a 150-acre woodland playground for dogs and their people, complete with swimming ponds, trails, an agility course, wildflower meadows, and beautiful vistas. Dogs are encouraged to romp unleashed wherever they wish, and as the website for Dog Mountain proclaims, “Dogs are not just welcome here, they are cherished.”[1]

Huneck’s artwork and his books are on display at the Art Gallery on Dog Mountain, but though I found the gallery intriguing, my primary destination was the chapel.

Created in 2000, the Dog Chapel was introduced to the world as a “symbol of peace, love and remembrance.” But in the 20 years since, it has been transformed by thousands of visitors into a living memorial, where grief for a beloved pet can be fully expressed without embarrassment. I wanted to be among that number.

*Huneck’s whimsical folk art is displayed throughout the art gallery.*

My story also starts in the year 2000, when my children and I found a bag of eight newborn puppies, thrown into an empty dog food bag and tossed into the woods. We were all crying, along with the puppies, when we brought the bag home to show my husband, and soon learned upon calling our vet, that they were not likely to survive the night unless we acted as a substitute for their missing mother. This meant, among other things, maintaining their body temperature by keeping them near milk jugs filled with warm water, feeding them with an eye dropper, and regularly wiping their hind ends with wet cotton balls (who knew mother dogs did this?) to get them to go potty. It was like taking care of octuplets.

We lost two of them early on, but six survived their first eight weeks. When they reached an adoptable age we faced a terrible dilemma: which of the six were we willing to give up? We had each bonded to one or more of them, and after days of deliberation and more tears, we finally reached a decision. We would keep them all.

I could fill this page with stories about what it is like to raise two children, three cats, and six dogs (which necessitated a move to a bigger house, naturally) but I will simply say that I would not change a minute of it. Many a night, after a long, difficult day at work, I would lay down on the floor and let myself be covered in dog snuggles and kisses. They provided me with plenty of exercise (walking six at once proved an impossibility), scared away more than one would-be intruder, and filled my life with unconditional love, as well as laughter.

*The walls of Dog Chapel are covered from floor to ceiling with tributes to beloved pets.*

Anyone who has ever loved a dog will tell you how unfair it is that their lives are so much shorter than ours. Imagine then, the serious downside of loving six dogs born at the same time with the same genetic history. Our six all passed away over the space of three years, and when the last one died in my arms at the ripe old age of 15, I could not focus or concentrate. I doubted I would ever overcome this monumental sense of loss, and feared I would never love another dog again.

So when I read about the Dog Chapel, I knew it was a place I needed to go. Once inside the quiet chapel, I was both stunned and overwhelmed. Every wall from floor to ceiling was covered with photos and heart-wrenching letters, and I felt I was in the middle of a vortex of anguish and love. I started to read one and stopped because the tears started flowing, and I noticed the people in the pews around me were crying too. I was openly weeping when I wrote my words of love for my six, a tribute to their bravery and resilience in overcoming significant odds, and realized that at last I had found an outlet for my sorrow. When I left, I felt at peace.

I have a new dog now, left to me by a neighbor who passed away and wanted his beloved pet to go to a good home where she would be well-loved. She has reminded me of everything I love about dogs–from their loyalty and fierce protectiveness, to their ball-chasing enthusiasm and devious ways of letting you know they don’t like being left at home alone (mine throws our clothes all over the house).

I will never forget the six dog babies who left a great hole in my heart, but the Dog Chapel helped me heal. I am ready now, to love and cherish this new one.

Have you ever lost a beloved pet and longed for a way to honor their memory? Do you have a dog now who makes you happy to wake up every day? I would love to hear your stories in the comments, below.

[1] For more information about Dog Mountain see the official website at https://www.dogmt.com/Dog-Mountain.html.

Islands without Cruise Ships

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*The alvars look barren but are home to rare species.*

*The Glacial Grooves Geological Preserves are the most famous in the world due to their large size.*

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Sogni Siciliani

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again.

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again. In my sleep I could smell the oranges ripening on the trees; see the snug little villages in the dips between the mountains; hear the neighbors calling to each other from their windows, the familiar cadence like a song from my youth.

*Punta Secca, made famous by the TV series “Inspector Montalbano.” All photos in this essay by Moxie Gardiner.*

It was just a year ago this month that I ventured across the Atlantic to visit the home of my Sicilian ancestors. It is warm in Sicily in October, warm enough to see beach goers in the waters off Punta Secca down south as well as Cefalù in the north. The street vendors in Palermo are still selling lace parasols to tourists in October, not to keep dry from the rain, but to block the unrelenting sun.

*Valledolmo is where my great grandfather was born, worked in the fields, and left for America at age 21.*

It is said that a man named Frank Barone wrote to folks in his hometown of Valledolmo, Sicily in the 1880s, encouraging them to join him in Buffalo, New York. Over the years, some eight thousand Valledolmesi reportedly followed his lead and many settled on the West Side where they owned grocery stores or worked in factories along the waterfront, and went to church at St. Anthony’s where priests conducted mass in the Sicilian dialect.

*Mount Etna looms over the city of Catania.*

Many thousands from other small towns in Sicily—Montemaggiore Belsito, Serradifalco, and Villalunga to name a few—made their way down the mountains to the port cities of Palermo and Catania, and eventually found their way to Western New York as well.

*Montemaggiore Belsito, ancestral home of many Buffalonians, including my great-grandmother, sits high up in the Madonie Mountain range*.

*Fresh fruit is still plentiful at the markets in Palermo.*

Some Sicilian immigrants traveled south of Buffalo, to Fredonia, Dunkirk and the small towns and farmland along the Lake Erie shore that probably reminded them more of home. Sicilian families that did settle in crowded Buffalo neighborhoods would often travel to these towns and villages in the summer, to pick fruits and vegetables alongside relatives with a plot of land in places like North Collins and Silver Creek.

*Cefalù* *is one of the prettiest beaches in Europe.*

What a shock it must have been for my great-grandparents, along with thousands of others who fled Sicily, to experience their first October in Buffalo. Only a few tenacious oaks are typically holding their leaves at the end of October, and I remember more than one Halloween when I wore a winter coat and rubber boots beneath my costume.

The *Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista in the old city of Ragusa.*

*The iconic Valle dei Templi in Agrigento…*

For those who are descendants of these brave Sicilian immigrants and have never had the good fortune to visit Sicily, I offer you these photos for a taste of what your ancestors left behind—a place with few jobs and opportunities, but also a place of great natural beauty and charm.

For those who have visited, I hope you will join me in dreaming of a future time when we can celebrate our heritage in sunny Sicily once again.

*Province registry offices were established in 1809, which means you can find your ancestors’ records in Valledolmo town hall archives as of that date.* *I was told that with the birth records of my great grandparents in hand, I could apply for dual citizenship!!*

*The last view of Sicily for many immigrants was this statue of a woman with empty arms at the port of Palermo. Perhaps they saw it as a symbol of letting go, of bidding farewell.*

*Our guides and translators, the wonderful Salvatore and Gaetano Mendola, made the trip to find my ancestors an extraordinary experience.*

Do you have ancestors in Sicily? Where are they from? I would love to hear your stories, especially if you have visited or want to visit soon.

Swimming with Sea Lions

I have never been met by a Welcome Committee quite like this one. They seemed very glad to see us–a group of strangers–pulling up in our noisy zodiac boat. They responded to our presence by doing somersaults, waving their fins and popping their heads out of the water in greeting. Perhaps this is the thing that is most striking about the Galapagos Islands. The wildlife is remarkably unperturbed by human intrusions into their domain, and some, like the sea lions, even seem to enjoy it.

*Few of the wildlife seem bothered by our presence. All photos copyright by Moxie Gardiner.*

I first heard about the Galapagos Islands when I was a child and the Catholic Church was still wrestling with Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. (Catholic schools today, in the US and other countries, teach “evolutionary creationism” as part of their science curriculum.) What caught my youthful attention, however, was not the theological arguments of those times, but pictures in National Geographic magazine of the awesome Galapagos tortoises.

*Giant tortoises living the good life at the Charles Darwin Research Center*

The more I read and learned about how life developed on this isolated archipelago, the more I knew I wanted to go there. Not only were there spectacular volcanic eruptions creating new islands, and older ones sinking slowly into the sea, I wanted to see the strange and bizarre adaptions of mammals, birds, plants, and sealife unique to these islands, more than 600 miles away from any mainland.

*The Christmas iguana’s distinction is its unusual coloration.*

What might I learn about life on our planet, I wondered, and its future, from these survivors of a harsh and constantly changing environment? Would I come away with hope in my heart, or despair?

Let me say first that the Galapagos would probably not be your first choice for a luxury vacation or destination wedding. Most of the islands are part of Ecuador’s national park system and therefore highly restricted in terms of development. That said, it is possible to visit in relative comfort. We stayed on a cozy, 40-passenger cruise ship that docked 10 minutes or so from each island, and shuttled us from ship to shore by panga, the Ecuadorean word for zodiac boat.

*We traveled by panga from island to island.*

Blue-footed boobies have snazzy feet
and interesting mating rituals.

Each day we were able to hike across a different island, observing iguanas, colorful crabs, lizards, Darwin’s finches, frigate birds, and assorted boobies (blue-footed, red-footed, and Nazca boobies; not the other kind).

*Can you spot the green sea turtle swimming beneath us?*

We could kayak to remote cliffs and watch the mating rituals of the frigate birds, puffing out their red-feathered chests to attract females. We also had the opportunity to snorkel and see the incredible marine life that thrives below the surface of the clear, aquamarine waters. I will never forget swimming through enormous schools of colorful fish, while sea lions clowned around for our entertainment, and green sea turtles swam lazily by.

*The best snorkeling I’ve ever experienced!*

Most visitors only see the giant tortoises at the Charles Darwin Research Station on Santa Cruz, where the tortoises live in semi-retirement, their primary responsibility being to mate and have offspring. On the island of Espanola, however, lives a large 100-year-old male named Diego, known by locals as the gringo macho, or “playboy tortoise.” Before Diego was sent there as part of a tortoise breeding program, there were two males and 12 females on the island. Diego did his job, however, and reportedly fathered over 800 offspring. We looked for Diego when we were on Espanola, but he was apparently busy.[i]

A giant tortoise prowls the Charles Darwin research center. — *Nope. This is not Diego, the “playboy,” but another male giant tortoise.*

Did we see examples of “adaptation” and “natural selection” that Darwin observed during his voyage on the HMS Beagle? We certainly did. We saw cacti as large as trees (“gigantism”), birds with vivid coloring to attract mates (“natural selection”) and finches that developed different beaks (so they could more easily eat whatever was available, called “adaptation”). We saw the bones of creatures that did not, or could not, survive a recent El Nino and presumably other extreme weather events.

*The cactus finch developed a long, needle like beak to get access to food.*

Did I learn anything about the future of the human species from my visit to the Galapagos? Maybe. If we humans are resilient enough, or learn to more quickly adapt, we too might be able to withstand whatever harsh changes, global pandemics, or catastrophic conditions lie in our future. But are we that adaptable? That remains to be seen. Perhaps there is a “Diego” or two among us who will ensure the survival of our species, no matter what comes.

*Who knows what tomorrow may bring, to the Galapagos…or any of us?*

Have you ever visited the Galapagos, or had an interest in going there? Please comment and let me know what you think about this extraordinary archipelago. I would love to hear from you.

[i] For more details about the giant tortoises, see the many resources referenced in Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gal%C3%A1pagos_tortoise

In My Room

When I first heard the song “In My Room,” written by Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys in the early 1960’s, I knew exactly what he was talking about. As one of eight children, I desperately wanted a private space where I could be alone. When I reached the age of 16, I got my wish: my own room, or at least a corner of a room, that I could call my own.

I recently found this picture (above) of my teenage bedroom, decorated in a way that reflected my interests (and eccentricities) at that time. You’ll notice there are no posters of favorite bands or movie stars, no lava lamps or black light posters, no stereo, peace symbols or love beads, the typical accoutrements of teenagers in 1970 when this photo was taken.

*Some of my favorite teenage reading material All photos by Moxie Gardiner (except those obviously taken by her mother).*

Instead there is a campaign poster for Robert F. Kennedy, (although he’d been taken from us two years earlier). There’s also a poster for the musical “Hair,” an artifact from my first date. Next to the bed, where I could easily reach them, were my beloved books, ranging from literature to poetry to Nancy Drew mysteries, and everyone’s favorite bedside companion, The Sensuous Woman.

What hints do I see in these old photos of the person I was to become? At this age I was obviously still transitioning from child to adult. Witness the juxtaposition of the “7 up” sign on my wall along with the one for “Utica Club” beer. A Chanel perfume poster hints at a longing to be more mature and sophisticated, but the stuffed animals and Chatty Cathy doll on the bed suggest that the girl sleeping there was still clinging to childhood comforts.

*We lived in a neighborhood full of kids, but I often felt alone.*

What I remember of that time is that despite my many siblings, classmates, and a whole passel of neighborhood kids, I often felt alone. My interests and way of dress were odd (we didn’t have the money to invest in trends) and I was nerdy. I sometimes mixed my West Side slang with “big” words from classic literature, making for clumsy conversation. I indulged in off-color jokes and barbed witticisms, mostly to mask my insecurities. And like all teenagers, I was a bundle of contradictions–funny but sad, eloquent and profane, smart but clueless, daring and fearful.

*Life magazine opened my eyes to a world of possibilities.*

In my room, I could dream of being the person I wanted to be, not the person I was. I could be an Avenger like Emma Peel, a detective like Honey West, a poet like Emily Dickinson who wrote about the world she imagined from the seclusion of her room. I could work for a senator, attract handsome boys, and travel to the places I’d read about in Life magazine.

*My friend Ginny saw this photo and asked, “What were you writing while wearing that Martian headgear? Your first science fiction book?”*

I could dream of seeing the “Big Five” on safari in Africa and watch whales breaching in Alaska. I could walk among the giant tortoises in the Galapagos Islands and capture them, with my camera and typewriter, of course. In my room, all things were possible, as they should be when you are young.

This little exercise in nostalgia and self reflection has helped me understand today’s teenagers a little better. Now when I see them glued to their smartphones, I wonder if their favorite electronic device, like my room, serves as their safe haven. A place they can escape to and shut off a sometimes frightening reality. A place to be alone in the midst of others. A place to fire the imagination, and dream.

*I am doing things now I could only imagine back then. Sometimes dreams really do come true.*

Come to think of it, many in my peer group today are just as addicted to their phones as their kids and grand kids. Maybe the need for a private safe space never really goes away.

Were you an awkward teenager like me, or were you one of the cool kids? I would love to hear your take on teenage angst. Leave me a comment—I love to read them!

What Your DNA Test Won’t Tell You

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to my ancestors for the many ways they shaped my life.

Dear Great and Great-great Grandparents,

We never had a chance to get to know each other, but I wish we had. What I wouldn’t give to hear in your own words why you left your homes in Ireland and Sicily to come to the United States and settle in Buffalo. I wonder if the reality of living in a crowded city, so unlike your rural farms, met your expectations. I wonder if you ever missed home.

*Friends and family are everything in Montemaggiore Belsito, Sicily,*
*my grandmother’s ancestral homeland. All blog photos by Moxie Gardiner*

Recently, I went back to the ancestral homelands. I learned that your lives in Sicily and Ireland as poor tenant farmers were very hard. Both islands had a tempestuous relationship with the faraway central government, and people like you sometimes felt forgotten or deliberately taken advantage of by those in authority. You came to trust only your community and family, and followed them to the Irish and Sicilian enclaves in the US, in search of work and a better life. You held on to the old traditions and your native tongue because they gave you a sense of security. You were proud to be Americans, but reluctant to let go of your heritage, and because of you I can empathize with the many who want to come here someday.

The Irish are born storytellers — *Stop in any Irish pub and you’ll find songs, laughter, a pint of Guinness, and born storytellers like me.*

You would be happy to know that you have many, many descendants in the US, and for the most part we are thriving. Some of us have started businesses, others teach, still others serve their country or community. Many of us still cling to the old traditions: we make cuccidati cookies for Christmas, eat pasta con sarde at St. Joseph’s Tables, and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. I think you would be pleased to know we have no problem embracing both cultures as our own.

It wasn’t until I went to Ireland and Sicily in October, and walked where you walked, smelled the sea-scented air, learned about your history, and rubbed elbows with the people who stayed behind, that I began to feel a real connection with you and understand where I fit in the long procession of humanity that comes and goes here on earth. Yes, DNA tests can tell us a lot about our biological and genealogical makeup, about inherited skills and traits, and physical characteristics. But what you bequeathed to me couldn’t be discerned through a DNA test alone.

*Nestled in the mountains of northern Sicily is the charming town of Valledolmo,*
*birthplace of my great grandfather.*

A DNA test couldn’t tell me why certain smells, sounds, and sights evoke powerful emotions in me. Why 20 years ago, when I drove through a valley between two mountains in West Virginia, I knew I needed to build a home there. As soon as I rounded a steep mountain curve and saw the small village of Valledolmo, Sicily, I knew why West Virginia spoke to me, even though I grew up in a city.

The wild northern coast of Ireland speaks to my heart — *The wild northern coast of Ireland, home to my Irish ancestors.*

The smell of Grandma's homemade bread brings back memories — *In Sicily, they still bake bread*
*like my Nonna used to bake.*

When I saw the wild coast of County Donegal and the cliffs that march right up to the sea, I understood why I was attracted to the jagged rocks along Lake Erie instead of the comfort of the beach. When a baker delivered fresh bread to a home in Montemaggiore Belsito, I understood why the smell of it can still make my knees buckle. And when I hear the sad songs of the Celtic harp, I now know why I feel a tug at my heart, a longing for a home that exists deep in my temporal lobe, where memory and imagination sit side by side.

Sunsets are memorable along Sicily's northern coast — *Sunsets over the beautiful northern coast of Sicily speak to me of home.*

A Sicilian man expresses his joy of life. — *Gratitude is the foundation of a happy life.*

By visiting your homelands, I learned what you passed along to me is more than genetic traits, more than culture and tradition. My emotional make up, personality, artistic inclinations, even some of my bad behaviors, may have come from you. Is it possible that my imagination is drawing these conclusions? Sure. But I prefer to think my soul knows what it knows.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to you, dear ancestors, for the many ways that you shaped my life when you set sail for the United States. Thanks to your courage, I have a good life.

Beggar’s Night

October 30^th brings back memories of Mom putting the finishing touches on our homemade Halloween costumes, and us kids looking at the sky, waiting for it to grow dark. As soon as we finished supper, we would run out the door with a large paper bag—24 hours before the actual Halloween trick-or-treating began. Funny thing is, the neighbors were ready for us.

This was known as “Beggar’s Night” in Buffalo, and I along with hundreds of other kids on the West Side looked forward to two full nights of trick-or-treating. It was only as an adult that I learned a) most people in the US have never heard of Beggar’s Night because it’s a regional thing, and b) it was established to allow younger children to have their own night of candy collecting before older kids prowled the neighborhoods, looking to get into mischief. Since we did not know this was the rationale, we trick-or-treated both nights and collected enough candy to open our own corner store.

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

Today, of course, Halloween no longer features kids draped in bed sheets with holes cut out for eyes or wearing plastic masks of their favorite monsters. Halloween has become a money maker. According to USA Today, American consumers spent some $9 billion on Halloween in 2018, with over $3 billion of that spent on costumes alone. A good portion of that money comes not from the pockets of parents with children, but from young adults in the 18-24 year-old age demographic. Party stores, bars, supermarkets, pumpkin farms, candy factories, and the gift card industry, all depend on Halloween to fatten their end-of-year coffers.

Halloween costumes — Monsters and superheroes were Halloween favorites

Which makes me wonder, how did we get from the Beggar’s Night and Halloween of my childhood, to the commercialized holiday that it is today? And how far did the Halloween we enjoyed deviate from the original holiday? It just so happens that I am in Ireland this Halloween, learning about the lives of my Irish ancestors. According to the “Irish Culture and Customs” website (see link below), the Irish invented Halloween.

Legend has it that the ancient Celts divided the year into halves, one associated with the dark, the other with the light. The dark half began when the sun set on November first, which they called Samhain. On Samhain, the Celts would extinguish their fires and wait for the Druids to light the new fire of the year. At the end of the ceremonies, participants would take home a brand from the new fire to light their hearths anew. While many of the old Samhain traditions have died out in Ireland, the lighting of bonfires has survived.

On Hallowe’en, the night before Samhain, Celtic families would feast on the bounty of the Autumn harvest. Children visited relatives and friends and were given apples and nuts. A favorite traditional fall dish, still popular in Ireland, is Colcannon, a mixture of potatoes, cabbage and scallions. Other traditional Hallowe’en dishes are stampy, a sweet cake; boxty, the savory version of stampy; apple cakes and barmbrack, which is a rich fruit bread.

Pinocchio costume — Apples were traditionally a special treat on Halloween

Many traditions were brought by Irish immigrants to the US and adopted across the land. Jack O’Lantern, for example, was an Irish blacksmith, a lost soul doomed by the devil to roam the Earth with a hollowed out turnip lit by a burning coal ember. In the US, we continue this tradition with a hollowed out pumpkin. Druids disguised themselves to elude ghosts roaming the land on Hallowe’en night so they wouldn’t get carried away. Centuries later, the tradition of disguise continues.

Like all pagan rituals in Ireland, Samhain was frowned upon by the Catholic Church, and by the 13th century, although many of the old Samhain rituals remain as folk customs, November 1st had become a Christian holy day.

I look forward to spending the next couple of days with the Irish to see how many of the old traditions remain, as well as observe firsthand if there is any resemblance to the billion dollar holiday, known as Halloween in the US, in Ireland today. I will try to post some pictures, though Wifi connections are spotty here in the land of the ancient Druids. Stay tuned.

Do you celebrate Beggar’s Night? Halloween? All Saints Day? Or do you ignore them all? I would love to hear your comments.

https://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/

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