Childhood memories - Moxie Gardiner

The Special Joys of Sisterhood Weekends

There never seemed enough time at family gatherings for the three of us to have the “chick-chats” we had once dearly loved.

Growing up, I had the remarkable experience of being the eldest of eight children. The four that followed me in sequence were all brothers, and for nearly half of my childhood, I was the lone female child in a house full of testosterone.

*Home for the holidays in Buffalo, where the dream of “sisterhood weekends” was born.*

You can imagine then, why I was so elated when I learned that child number six was a girl, as was child number seven. The age gap between me and them proved to be a bonus, as we bypassed the usual sibling rivalries. When I started dating boys, for example, they were still playing with dolls and stuffed animals.

Despite the age difference, with ten of us living in a small house, we three sisters shared a bedroom for many years. I loved to read the girls stories, play the latest hits on the transistor radio, teach them new dance steps, and watch them watch me while I put on makeup. I like to think that I was a role model of sorts, or at least, that they got a sense of what life might be like when they reached my ripe old age.

*Florida in winter was a favorite destination.*

I left home at 18 for college and never returned (everyone in the family was kind of relieved; they had more elbow room, not to mention more time in the only bathroom). And although I missed everyone in the family, I especially missed my two little sisters. It was an ache that would stay with me long after I was married and had a family of my own.

The strong bonds that form among sisters are legendary, of course. The stuff of great songs, movies, and literature—everything from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, to “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge. Like others, our shared history led us three to form relationships that are complex, empathetic, and sometimes emotionally charged. But I always knew that when things went awry, my sisters would always be the first ones there for me.

*Sharing street food in Central Park, NYC.*

So one day, back in the early 1990s, when all three of us were back home for the holidays, we started talking about getting together more frequently, outside of the larger family gatherings. By that time we had husbands, and jobs, and children, and lived in three different cities. There never seemed enough time at family gatherings for the three of us to have the “chick-chats” we had once dearly loved. We agreed that we would try to carve out a long weekend, at least once a year, for just the three of us to be together again.

*In the Gulf of Mexico listening to a marine biologist.*

And so over the years, we’ve traveled to many different places—New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington DC, Miami, Hilton Head, and Savannah, to name a few. Florida was often a destination in the winter months, and places like Toronto and Niagara-on-the-Lake, when it was warm.

We went on yoga retreats and luxuriated in spas. We played instruments in a music video (“Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”) at Disneyworld’s Pleasure Island, pretending to be an all-girl rock band. At the Atlantis resort in the Bahamas, we went up the Mayan Temple to the “Leap of Faith,” a 60-foot water slide with a terrifying drop through a shark-infested lagoon. We took a less terrifying boat ride in the Gulf of Mexico with a marine biologist, who taught us what life was really like beneath the waves.

*Sometimes, when our children were infants, they got to come along.*

Although the destinations were interesting and the adventures were fun, it was the late-night talks that made these experiences memorable. Although we three are very different people having led very diverse lives, when we come together we are like children again, sharing things we aren’t willing to share with anyone else. That level of trust only comes after years of openness, honesty, and emotional support.

*Thirty-five years later we still get together, this year at the Mohonk Nature Preserve in New York.*

All three of us keep a box full of photos that memorialize our many sisterhood weekends, because they have meant so much to us. Some have said that love among sisters is the “greatest love of all” because of its emotional depth. So ladies, if you have a sister, hold her close and spend as much time with her as you can. These rare moments of togetherness are priceless, and worth whatever effort it takes to make them happen.

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

Finding Inspiration on the Shores of Lake Erie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*A perfect place to sit and contemplate.*

A question for my Western New York readers: what are your most compelling memories of Lake Erie, either good or bad? And for others, is there a body of water that has played an important role in your life? If so, please share your stories in the comment section, below.

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

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

Why “La Famiglia e Tutto” (Family is Everything)

Sicilians have a saying—La Famiglia e Tutto (Family is Everything)—and they live by what they say.

Last Saturday, I had the opportunity to speak to a lively group of people at the Centro Culturale Italiano (Italian Cultural Center) in Buffalo, NY. Ostensibly, folks came to hear me read from and talk about my novel, Virgin Snow, the setting of which is on the largely Sicilian (at the time) West Side of Buffalo in the late 1960s and 1970s.

One benefit of being an author is being able to share with readers such things as one’s motivation for writing and inspiration for particular characters and scenes. While I did indeed offer the audience some behind-the-scenes details, I had a hunch that it would be far more interesting for all of us to hear from folks in this diverse gathering, which ranged in age from 29 to 90, and learn about how and why the book connected with their lives and experiences.

*Everyone in the room seemed to enjoy talking about Buffalo back in the day.*

To facilitate this wider discussion, I decided to read a short passage from the novel, then let the audience share how the behavior of the characters and the themes explored in the story resonated with them. What followed, to my delight, was a wide-ranging and sometimes emotional discussion about what it was like to grow up in Buffalo at that time, in that neighborhood, and in that cultural environment.

I began by asking the audience how many of them grew up on the West Side, were of Sicilian or Italian heritage, and were raised in the Catholic religion. Nearly everyone raised their hand. So we talked about Saint Joseph’s Day and the bountiful tables of Sicilian foods prepared from scratch, about the changing role of the Catholic Church in family life, and we reminisced about neighborhood swimming pools, family-run grocery stores, and significant historical events of that time, like the riots in Buffalo (as well as across the country), the Vietnam War and the moon landing.

But the discussion seemed to always return to the idea of “family.” Sicilians have a saying—La Famiglia e Tutto (Family is Everything)—and they live by what they say. Everyone I knew on the West Side back then had family living nearby and they gathered frequently, especially on Sundays.

Both the audience and I laughed at the stories being told about Sicilian fathers and uncles giving prospective boyfriends the third degree, and Sicilian aunts trying to outdo each other with their cooking. Many at the event nodded knowingly when hearing about a widowed Sicilian mother who was struggling financially but too proud to go on welfare, and who never failed to put her family above all else.

*The West Side circa 1970. Yes, some left because of the weather or economics, but others stayed.*

I had also asked at the beginning of the talk, how many in the audience had left Buffalo during the tumultuous period in the late 1970s and early 1980s when the city endured bad weather, economic hardships and high unemployment, and how many had stayed. It turned out to be about half and half. Some of those who had left had only recently returned, in part because Buffalo is once again a vibrant and affordable city. But several noted they had come back home to Buffalo during the city’s darkest of times, just to be close to family again.

*The Italian Cultural Center has a number of interesting displays depicting family life among Sicilian immigrants and their descendants.*

What I took from these conversations is the sense that career opportunities and warmer weather might have lured some away, but in the end it was la famiglia that brought people back to Buffalo. And not simply family obligations like aging parents or help needed in the family business, but a sense of needing to belong to a close community again.

Few things in life bring more joy than shared holiday traditions, familiar comfort foods, family outings, and the retelling of old stories that never fail to bring laughter, no matter how many times they are told. Those of us who have left our familiar surroundings for a time know what it feels like to lose these things, and how wonderful it is to have them back again.

*The cafe at the center offers fresh cappuccino and other Italian delights. It’s worth a visit!*

Are you someone who left your hometown, only to return again later? If so, what brought you back? Or are you someone who stayed put, and if so, what kept you there? I would love to hear your stories as well!

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

What is More Precious than a Lifelong Friend?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Joys and Anxieties of “Stresstember”

I recently learned that September is a month of great trepidation for some people.

Have you ever stopped to consider how freighted with importance the month of September is?

Yes, it is the month of the Autumnal Equinox, the pivot point from summer to fall. Those of us in tune with nature begin to see changes in the world around us—the turning of the first leaves, mass migrations of birds and butterflies, the quieting of cicadas and katydids at night, fewer snakes.

But it is also the month when some of the most important transitions in our lives occur. A time of new beginnings that fill some with excitement, and others with dread. Some are so stressed out by the changes this month brings that psychology experts have dubbed it “Stresstember.”

*Fresh new uniforms on the first day of school.*

As a child, I looked forward to September with great anticipation. I loved the week or so that presaged the return to class—the buying of notebooks, pencils, and erasers—and, from time to time, a new school uniform and shoes. This was followed by the careful cutting of brown shopping bags to cover our new books, and new haircuts to keep us neat and tidy as well. But most of all, I looked forward to the return to school itself, because, I must admit, I loved it.

The biggest academic transitions, of course, did bring some trepidation. The first day of kindergarten was frightening because, back in the day, you said goodbye to Mom for the first time. But you relaxed when you made your first school friends, sang little songs together, and learned to read. School was fun!

*In high school there was more than just reading, and writing and ‘rithmatic.*

Then there was the first day of high school, a bewildering place where books were kept in lockers instead of your desk, and you moved from classroom to classroom and teacher to teacher instead of staying in one place. But once this new routine was mastered, your mind was introduced to a whole array of new topics—literature, chemistry, trigonometry, languages—and you were introduced to cool new friends.

The first day of college was also a tectonic shift in your young life—you moved in with strangers and had to make your own important decisions on classes and schedules and majors. Not only did you have to move from classroom to classroom, but from building to building. Making your way from one part of campus to another in time for class, was a life-lesson in logistics, organization, mapping and time management. Learning how to balance study time with party time was essential to developing the work-life balance that would serve us well (or not) for the rest of our lives.

*Who could forget their first day on a college campus?*

I recently learned, though, that September is a month of great anxiety for some people. They face the prospect of a new school, new teachers, new classmates, mountains of homework, and challenging new courses—with genuine fear, not excitement. Rather than see school as an opportunity to learn and make lifelong friends, they see school as a place where they fear they may experience failure, bullying, or ostracism.

Being a young student during the pandemic was an experience few of us who are long past school age can even imagine. We are only beginning to understand the psychological damage it did to these children, as well as how it may have affected their social skills. Some are still having problems in school—academically, socially, and psychologically.

Some parents also approach September anxiously, having sent their children off to school—from the first day of kindergarten to the first day of college—with more worries than pride. Knowing that your child is fearful about going back to school, feeling they won’t fit in or do well academically, presents a serious dilemma for parents, especially those that work full time. Some parents choose homeschooling to address these issues, which presents its own set of challenges each fall.

And then of course, there is the reminder, for those of us who lived through it, of the events of September 11, 2001. Like the Kennedy assassination, and for older generations, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the terrorist attacks on New York City and Washington have left an indelible scar on our psyches. On every beautiful, sunny morning in September, I cannot help but remember how similarly that fateful day began. September 11^th, for me, will always be a day of remembrance.

But I cannot let it cloud the other joys of September. As a gardener now, September is our big harvest month, when the last ripe tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, okra, celery and onions fill our larder. Pumpkins are growing fat on the vine, apples are bending the boughs on the trees, and soon we’ll be digging up sweet potatoes to store for the winter.

I am determined to enjoy the month of September with all its transitions, and all the memories it brings with it. I hope you will too.

Do you look forward to the month of September? Please share with us why, or why not, in the comments, below.

Everything You Wanted to Know About the Infant of Prague

So ubiquitous was the Infant of Prague statue in West Side homes that as a child, I assumed every house in the world had one.

Some readers (mostly non-Catholics) have expressed curiosity about the references in my recent novel, Virgin Snow, to a type of statue known as “the Infant of Prague.” In the story, one of the characters decides to open a shop in her garage where she will create and sell beautiful garments for people to dress their statues, which represent Jesus as a child.

This scene was inspired by an actual Infant of Prague shop operated for years by a woman named Lena in a store front on Buffalo’s West Side. Many was the day that I walked by the window to check out Lena’s new garments, which changed in both color and style along with the Catholic liturgical seasons.

*The crown on the head of the statue symbolizes Christ as king. All photos by Moxie Gardiner*

So ubiquitous was the Infant of Prague statue in West Side homes that as a child, I assumed every house in the world had one. It did not occur to me that others might not, until I actually went to Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic, for a conference. I was traveling with a colleague who asked if we could stop in one of the souvenir shops as we walked back toward our hotel at the end of the day. She said she was hoping to find a small statue made famous by the city. “You mean the Infant of Prague, right?” I asked. She looked at me strangely.

“No,” she said. “I want to buy a statue of the Golem of Prague.” Now I looked at her strangely, as I had never heard of the Golem. So we walked to the Christmas Market on Wenceslas Square (it was early December) and, over a glass of hot Glühwein, we began to tell each other what we knew of these religious figures and their history.

As she began to ask questions, I very quickly realized that despite the number of times I had seen the statue I was familiar with, I didn’t know much about the Infant of Prague. “Why do they call it an infant?” she asked after I described the statue. I didn’t have a very good answer. “Why fancy robes? Why a crown? And what,” she asked finally, “did Jesus have to do with Prague?”

I had my own questions for her about the Golem, a mythical man created out of clay. “He is an important part of Jewish legend,” she said. “But he’s not as elegant as your little king.”

*The globe symbolizes Christ’s worldly domain.*

Years later, while doing research for my novel, I found answers to many of my friend’s questions. No, the Infant of Prague is not a baby, but a representation of Christ as a child. No, the statue does not have its origins in Prague. According to the website of “The League of the Miraculous Infant Jesus of Prague,” the statue was a royal wedding gift given by a Spanish Princess to her Austrian royal cousin in the 1500s, and later donated to a group of Carmelite friars in Prague. The robes, crown and miniature globe symbolize the “world-wide kingship” of the Christ Child.[1]

*Green signifies “ordinary” days in the liturgical calendar. Note, however, the fine gold brocade.*

According to that website, many miracles have occurred through “intercession to the Divine Infant.” During one conflict, it says, all the children of the city were taken to the Church for protection, and by praying to the Infant, they were all saved.

I have since learned that there is a similar story about the Golem. [2] A certain Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague in the 1500s was said to have made a powerful living creature out of mud which he called the Golem, a kind of combination man-monster whose purpose was to defend the Jewish community from violent attacks. Since that time, the Golem has been a popular figure with both Jews and non-Jews. According to several websites, plays, novels, movies, musicals and even a ballet have drawn on the tale of the Golem, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, a visitor to Prague can even take a “Golem tour” by exploring various locations in the Jewish Quarter.

When I think back to my visit to Prague, I’ll always remember our mutual surprise when my friend and I discovered we were talking about two different religious statues, and then learning how different the two were—one of the Christ child dressed as a king, the other of a towering man made of clay. What strikes me now though, is their similarities. People of many religious traditions who have felt powerless and persecuted at times throughout history understandably turn to the divine or the mystical for salvation, represented by symbols such as these.

I am curious to know how many of my readers had religious statues in their homes while growing up, or were told stories and legends that embraced the sacred, the mystical or the divine. I would also love to know if religion still plays an important role in your life. Please share your comments, below!

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

[1] For much more information on the history of the Infant of Prague go to: https://www.ewtn.com/catholicism/library/history-of-the-infant-jesus-of-prague-1329

[2] For additional info on the Golem go to: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/golem/

“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.

*************************************************

Do you have memories of a Christmas like this one, or family rituals you would like to share? If so, please do so in the comments below.

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

Whatever Happened to Beggar’s Night?

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

Long ago, deep in a West Side neighborhood where every house, on every block, was home to a passel of children, Beggar’s Night (October 30^th) was something to behold. Legions of small monsters, ghosts, and superheroes knocked on the doors of neighbors, sometimes blocks away, in search of candy. Those of us who lived there at that time brought large brown shopping bags to collect our loot, and didn’t come home until the bag was getting too heavy to carry.

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

A little research suggests that the tradition started back in the late 1930s when city fathers wanted to give the younger children a safer alternative to the hell-raising and vandalizing that was a significant part of Halloween at that time. No one ever told us this was the plan, so we happily went out trick-or-treating both nights, usually in homemade costumes made by our very thrifty and clever mom.

It seems that nowadays Beggar’s Night, for the most part, has gone the way of Michaelmas and Festivus—a holiday still celebrated, but only by a devoted few. In Buffalo, two communities—Kaisertown and Lovejoy—still carry on the tradition with gusto. They even have their own Facebook page providing updates on some of the best places to get candy. Beggar’s Night is also still a very big thing in Central Ohio, with the Mid-Ohio Regional Planning Commission organizing Beggar’s Night activities for the region.

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

As a now mature adult, I have to wonder why the holiday is no longer popular in more Buffalo communities, especially if the whole idea is to have a separate, safer night for the younger children. Maybe it’s because communities are no longer experiencing the rowdyism that used to be the hallmark of Halloween. Or, perhaps homeowners got tired of answering the door and shelling out candy two nights in a row.

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

Or maybe it’s because Halloween night itself is now big business, and no longer just for kids. Adults are expected to shell out over $4 billion for costumes this year and 32% of them will either go to a Halloween party or throw one of their own. Even pets are getting in on the act, with Americans expecting to spend some $700 million on costumes for their fur babies.

This year I will be trick-or-treating for the first time in a long time, now that I have a four-year-old in my life. I will be curious to see how kid-friendly Halloween is these days, and determine for myself whether or not Beggar’s Night should regain its rightful place in the list of US holidays to be celebrated.

Did you celebrate Beggar’s Night in your neighborhood? Please share your stories in the comments below!

The Power of Childhood Memories

It is possible to step back into a childlike state of wonder, if and when we choose to do so.

*Glen Park was a great place for a family outing*. *My cousin Jimmy took me on the scary rides.*

One of my happiest memories as a small child growing up in Buffalo was our family’s summer trips to Glen Park in suburban Williamsville, NY. At the time, Glen Park was not the quiet green space it is today. It was a small amusement park, with kiddie rides and carnival games, and if memory serves me right, a miniature zoo with real goats clambering over the rocks near the park’s waterfall!

My favorite ride was the carousel. The sound of the organ music was the first thing you heard upon entering the park, and when you turned the corner and saw the lights, the colors, and the life-sized animals chasing each other as the whole, wild menagerie went round and round, you were mesmerized. My brothers and I would run to get in line, impatiently waiting for the gate to open, so we could grab the biggest, most realistic-looking horse. Even Mom and Dad would join us on the ride, holding the smallest of us secure in the saddle, while the rest of us bobbed confidently up and down.

*The Herschell Carrousel Factory Museum in North Tonawanda, New York. All photos by Moxie Gardiner.*

Imagine my delight then, when I discovered the Herschell Carrousel Factory Museum this summer in North Tonawanda, a small city located halfway between Buffalo and Niagara Falls. One of the first things you see upon entering the museum is the spectacular “1916 Allan Herschell Number 1 Special Carrousel.” Little did I know before visiting that North Tonawanda was once one of the largest carousel-producing cities in the US. (Fun fact: you can spell “carousel” several ways.)

*Who can forget the day you were finally tall enough to ride the rides by yourself?*

I came to ride the “horses,” but decided first to check out the museum itself, to learn, I hoped, a bit more about how these marvelous merry-go-rounds are made. I visited the carving floor and the painting room and learned about the skills that carvers had to develop during their journey from apprentice to master.

But as I made my way through the museum, I was surprised to discover how instrumental Herschell’s factories were in the growth of the American amusement industry at the turn of the century. They produced all kinds of “kiddie” rides, from small roller coasters to miniature trains to bumper cars, and the factories were among the largest producers of automatic organ music in the country. Some of the rides made by the Herschell companies found their way into another one of my favorite amusement parks—Crystal Beach—just across the river in Ontario, Canada.

I did not realize until I visited the museum how those early amusement park experiences—with all the joy and excitement they inspired—could have a similar effect on me as an adult today. Most of us have scores of memorable experiences throughout our lives, especially when we’ve reached a certain age. Why then, do childhood memories hold such a special place in our temporal lobes? Why are these memories so predominant that they tend to blot out the negative experiences that most assuredly occurred during those tender years?

*The Little Dipper was one of the rides that made its way to Crystal Beach, along with the “Dodgem,” later known as bumper cars.*

*What would a carousel be without melodious organ music as accompaniment?*

I have been reminded of this phenomenon from the comments I’ve received about my recently published novel, Virgin Snow, and some of the blogs I’ve written. Many people who grew up in Buffalo remember their childhood as “the very best of times.” A great deal of psychological research confirms that we recall more positive than negative memories as we age, and that this so-called “positivity bias” has beneficial effects on our personal well-being and even our behavior towards others.[1]

That might explain why, even though I was the only customer in the museum that afternoon, I paid my wooden token and took a spin, alone, on the carousel. I rode King Billy, the biggest and baddest white horse, closed my eyes, and was transported back to a summer evening in Glen Park when my feet barely touched the stirrups. For five glorious minutes I was there, and felt those old feelings again.

I left the museum with a smile on my face, a bounce in my step, and a magnet for the refrigerator that features a photo of the carousel. It serves as a reminder to me that it is possible to step back into a childlike state of wonder, if and when we choose to do so, and that memories are not only good for us, but good for those we share them with.

What are some of your favorite childhood memories, of amusement parks or other things? Please share in the comments below.

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

[1] For an interesting analysis of positivity bias see Our Memories Become More Positive With Age | Psychology Today

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!

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.

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