Childhood memories - Moxie Gardiner

The Hullabaloo over Same-Sex Schools

The benefits of going to a single-gender high school can’t be proven scientifically, but I can attest to my own experience.

I am a product of an all-girls high school, and compared to the co-ed schools I attended, I believe it was the best educational experience of my life.

That’s why I was surprised to hear how much controversy is swirling about these days, over whether single-gender schools do more harm than good. Back in the day, if you went to one of Buffalo’s Catholic elementary schools (most private schools were Catholic back then) you typically went on to attend a Catholic high school, and most Catholic high schools at that time were single sex. Parents, as far as I can remember, never questioned whether that was good or bad, so why all the hullabaloo today?

Single-sex education existed long before I went to school, dating back to at least the 1800s. My school, Mount Saint Joseph Academy, was actually established as a boarding school for girls in 1891. In the 1970s, when attitudes about same-sex schooling began to change, “The Mount” as we called it, began to admit boys. Less than 20 years later, the high school closed due to declining enrollment.

Today the controversy is not only over private, single-sex schools, but public ones. In early December, concepts for the proposed Shirley Chisholm School of Leadership for Young Women and the Barack Obama Leadership Academy for Young Men were presented to the Buffalo school board. Advocates argued that studies have shown that single-gender schools “help deter negative behaviors while limiting distractions and raising the competence and self-esteem levels of male and female students alike.”[1]

Opponents of single-sex education, however, argue that separating children by gender is sexist, leads to gender stereotyping, and offers no proven benefit. According to an article in The Atlantic magazine, a meta-analysis of 184 studies covering 1.6 million students from 21 countries indicates that “any purported benefits to single-sex education over coeducation, when looking at well-designed, controlled studies, are nonexistent to minimal.” [2]

OK, maybe the benefits of going to an all-girls high school can’t be proven scientifically, but I can attest to my own experience. Back when I went to school, educational and career expectations for teenage boys and girls were very different. For example, when you took the anonymized Kuder Occupational test in your senior year, the results were listed in two different columns. If you were a male, it said, you were most likely to be successful in these careers (for me, journalist, biologist, psychiatrist). The second column of careers, based on the exact same scores, were completely different if you were a female. I would probably have become a teacher or a nurse if I’d paid any attention to it. (I didn’t.)

The school I attended operated on the principle that girls could become whatever they wanted, if they worked hard enough. Even back then, my fellow Mounties and I were determined to get into good colleges. We took advanced placement courses and studied calculus, physics, and macroeconomics. We held leadership positions on the Student Council, Model UN, and debate team. We learned to have confidence in our abilities, to set ambitious goals, to speak boldly in the classroom, and expect others to listen to us.

No one was ever embarrassed about being too nerdy (I remember the boy in 6^th grade who told me, after seeing all “A’s” on my report card, “No guy will ever want to go out with you”). We all wore the same boring black uniforms, so no one got to be “cool,” based on how they dressed.

Most importantly, we developed deep, intellectual, and lasting relationships with other girls, rather than investing all our energy in fleeting high school romances. I am told that boys had similar experiences in same-sex schools, often forging lifelong relationships with their peers.

I keep in touch with high school friends to this day, despite the geographical distance between us. If there is anything I learned from the ongoing isolation of the pandemic years, it is that true friendships are of far greater value than any college degrees I earned, or career successes I enjoyed.

Perhaps times have changed to the point where this old educational model is no longer appropriate, thus the raging debate. This year, my fellow Mounties and I hope to celebrate our Class of ’72 milestone reunion. We’ve heard from classmates living as far away as Sweden that they hope to attend. I am eager to hear whether their views of the benefits of our type of education are similar to mine. I’d be surprised if they weren’t.

Did you ever attend a single-gender school? Were your experiences good, bad, or indifferent? I would love to hear your views on this, in the comments 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.

[1] https://buffalonews.com/news/local/single-sex-academies-could-debut-in-buffalo-public-school-district-as-early-as-2023/article_f39443f2-589b-11ec-b29f-37515f890d36.html

[2] https://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/03/the-never-ending-controversy-over-all-girls-education/284508/#:~:text=The%20Never-Ending%20Controversy%20Over%20All-Girls%20Education%20It%27s%20extremely,said%20she%20would%20never%20attend%20an%20all-girls%20school.

Merry West Side Christmas

Grandma was happiest surrounded by loved ones on Christmas.

This will be a difficult Christmas for me and my family, so permit me to indulge in a nostalgia trip, back to a happier time. I’ve had many wonderful Christmases at various stages of my life, but this year my elder relatives are on my mind, as are the wonderful traditions and memories that may be lost when they pass on. So this month’s blog will reflect on a typical West Side Christmas when I was growing up.

*It was no doubt a lot of work for Grandma, but there was nothing we loved more than being at her house on Christmas.*

I suspect that our traditions were similar to those of many West Side families, especially if your Grandmother was Sicilian. The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas were a frenzy of cookie baking, house cleaning, gift-wrapping, and shopping at the Italian corner stores and butchers. Grandma often took me with her to buy preparations for the Christmas meal, and as a reward, I got a tiny box of nougat candy called torrone which I can taste in my mind to this day.

After school, Santa was on Channel 4 with his helper, Forgetful the Elf, and we kids would hold our breaths, hoping that Santa would read aloud one of the letters we sent him. My parents hung “The Chart” every year, a record of each child’s daily behavior, and some of us prayed that neither Santa nor his elves would see it, at least until after he left our gifts.

As Christmas drew nearer, I would walk with my brothers and sisters to either Woolworth’s or Kresge’s 5 and 10 cent store on Grant Street to buy gifts with our meager allowance. It was mandatory that everyone receive a gift, no matter how little money you had to spend. Rubber balls, paper dolls, chalk, and strips of caps for cap guns were among the affordable items.

*I’m sure Santa cringed when he saw our family coming.*

Once a year, of course, we would make our annual trip downtown to marvel at AM&A’s animated Christmas display, and to visit Santa. The downtown visit also included our once-a-year trip to a restaurant, usually the IHOP, where we got to eat breakfast for dinner, and put napkins in our laps like fancy people.

We went to church every Sunday during Advent, abstained from eating meat, and went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve when we were older (some neighbors were home grilling sausage just after midnight, to break the meatless fast). But when we were young, Christmas Eve was the night that we put up our un-decorated Christmas tree, hung our stockings, and went to bed early, only to lie awake most of the night, listening for the sound of reindeer landing on the roof and the rustle of Santa coming down the chimney.

*It seems that we often had White Christmases back in the day, and waited impatiently for Dad to clean the snow off the car before we headed to Grandma’s.*

*Santa often stayed up until the wee hours, putting toys, trains, and games together.*

At first light on Christmas morning, we would line up on the stairs according to age (as the oldest, I was always last). When my father gave the signal, we rushed down to see our now decorated tree, and what Santa had brought us. It was a mad, happy, chaotic scene of searching for gifts, opening boxes, and playing with our new acquisitions. Our stockings were always filled with walnuts in the shell, an orange (a Sicilian tradition) and a handful of Hershey’s Kisses.

*There would be platters of homemade giuggiulena, pizzelles, butterballs, and other Italian cookies, but my favorites were always the figgy cuccidati.*

Sometime in the early afternoon, we would head over to my grandparents’ small apartment where an enormous assortment of gifts sat on the living room couch, one for each of her children and grandchildren. Grandma always had a huge pot of sauce on the stove that you could smell coming up the stairs, freshly baked bread, and some sort of pasta, enough to feed all 30 or so family members who lived in the area. Sometimes Grandma would make homemade ravioli, and line the sheets of fresh pasta on towels in her bedroom to dry before filling them on Christmas morning.

*I remember the year Grandma gave me my favorite doll, Cream Puff.*

How I loved these family gatherings with all these wild and crazy relatives! We would dance, sing, joke, tease, eat, and eat some more. Always, my youngest aunt would organize us children to put on a Christmas play or pageant for the adults. It was never exactly up to Broadway standards, but Grandma always pretended to love it.

*This was what Christmas was all about–having fun and being with family.*

Those were the years when my large extended family was short on cash but long on love, and we had no worries about crowding all those people into a tiny apartment. It was all about being together. This is what I will miss most about Christmas this year; homemade comfort food, hugs, and an abundance of love. I want the younger generations, many of whom are also having a difficult time this year, to know more about our family and its traditions, to carry them on, and to know that it’s possible that one day we can have Christmases like this once again.

Merry Christmas to the thousands of you who have read my blogs and given me wonderful feedback in your comments. Virtual hugs to all of you, along with my sincere hope for a happy, healthy 2022.

Love to all, Moxie

My Mad Crush on Commander Tom

Alas, though Commander Tom was charming and kind to everyone, he never paid any attention to me, even when I won a giant Tootsie Roll.

I remember the day I got the letter from WKBW-TV. “We are indeed pleased to enclose your tickets to the Super Pal Club,” it read. I jumped around the house waving the letter and screaming as if I’d just won the lottery. I was going to be on television with the man of my dreams, Commander Tom!

*Yes, I still have the letter to this day.*

Every day after school, especially during the long, cold winter months in Buffalo, my siblings and I would gather in front of our TV to watch the Commander Tom Show. The theme song would play and there was the Commander, with his twinkling eyes, dazzling smile, cheeky sideburns, and perfectly coiffed hair, standing upright and resplendent in his red military uniform, talking to his sidekicks Bat Head and Super Mouth, and later, to his handmade hand puppets, Dustmop and Matty the Mod. My brothers waited impatiently for Commander Tom to quit talking and air “The Adventures of Superman,” but my 11-year-old self only had eyes for the handsome man in red. Imagine my rapture at the thought of meeting him in person!

I was not alone in having a preteen romantic crush, as five decades worth of Tiger Beat readers will attest. According to a recent survey, some 90 per cent of young adults have felt a strong attraction to a famous person at some point in their lives. As I thought back to this innocent time I began to wonder, why do people, especially young people, love to love celebrities? Are these fantasy romances healthy, or—as some parents worry today, unhealthy?

*I was thrilled to pieces to get an autographed (auto-penned?) photo of my hero.*

Back in the 1950s, Professors Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl were the first to describe the personal bond people feel with a favorite actor or talk show host as a “parasocial relationship.” More recently, Dr. Dara Greenwood, an associate professor of psychology at Vassar College, has written about how social media has heightened parasocial attachments. “We see certain celebrities in movies and TV shows…and with the advent of social media, we often have a seemingly direct pipeline into their personal ‘off screen’ lives,” she says.

Most of these “relationships” are harmless, but they can go too far. “Social media may make celebrities seem all the more accessible as potential romantic partners, and perhaps lead to increased frustration or disappointment when we can’t turn fantasy into reality.” On the other hand, “In my research, participants have identified qualities such as kindness, authenticity and humility as top reasons for their celebrity affinities,” Greenwood adds. “We do tend to gravitate towards media figures who are like us in certain respects – who reflect our own values or interests, whether actual or aspirational.”

I suspect Commander Tom was such a popular local celebrity because of these very qualities. WKBW-TV decided to capitalize on his ratings by creating the Super Pal Club for those of us who in today’s parlance would be called his “Super Fans.” This included most of the kids in my West Side neighborhood, as well as the rest of Buffalo and southern Ontario.

*Some of our Super Pal Club winnings, to include my giant Tootsie Roll.*

Like with many live TV shows of that era, “Super Pals” were randomly selected from the studio audience to compete in games of skill. I wanted so badly to have Commander Tom notice me that when the show’s producer scanned the audience for possible contestants, I jumped and waved my hands like a crazy person until I was selected. Alas, though Commander Tom was charming and kind to everyone, he never paid any special attention to me. Even the giant Tootsie Roll filled with candies that I won shooting baskets, failed to impress him.

Tom Jolls, aka Commander Tom, became even more well known as Buffalo’s most beloved weatherman until he retired in 1999. I learned recently that in 2019 he was inducted into the NY State Broadcasters Hall of Fame.

I, on the other hand, grew up and learned to be a little more selective about the men I became infatuated with. Unless the guy I was dating was kind, humble, authentic, and perfectly at ease when talking to hand puppets, I moved on. Thanks, Commander Tom!

Have you ever had a celebrity crush? More than one? Better yet, were you a member of the Super Pal Club? I would love to hear your stories in the comments below.

“A City within a Park”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*One of my favorite spots in Cazenovia Park.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Plenty of baseball games at Cazenovia Park.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bodacious Gardens of Buffalo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*A clever integration of lawn and stepping stones.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreaming of a View of Lake Erie

Is it any wonder that I long to return, this time to my own cottage with a view of my beloved lake?

The day after the last school bell rang and the warm winds of summer beckoned, my family would begin packing for our week at a rental cottage not far from a beach called Point Breeze. Our family of ten shared this four bedroom place with my aunt and uncle and six cousins, creating the kind of pandemonium only children can love. And as Buffalo city kids who spent eight months of the year wearing sweaters, we whined and paced like dogs in a boarding kennel until the day of departure for the beach finally arrived.

*Oh, how we loved Point Breeze.*
_{All photos copyright Moxie Gardiner.}

Point Breeze would probably not make the list of the Most Beautiful Beaches in America. There is no soft white sand, no boardwalk or amusement park, no high rise apartments or cabanas to rent. Like all Lake Erie beaches, it was painfully rocky and filled with the unlovely debris of winter storms, prompting some families to come equipped with small rakes to clear a place before laying down their blanket and picnic basket.

*Our feet got used to wading along the rocky shoreline.*

Nonetheless, we loved it. We would dare each other to be the first one to dive into the cold lake, then hop out shivering to be wrapped in one of the many towels our mothers dutifully hauled with them. We would buy ice cream sandwiches at the nearby corner store and warm ourselves by a driftwood bonfire at night. When we got older, we would spend hours sitting on one of the lake’s many ragged outcroppings, letting the waves hit us and drag us into the water. Those hours along the shores of Lake Erie are among my fondest childhood memories.

Is it any wonder then, at this stage of my life, with the kids grown and a new appreciation for spending time with extended family, I would long to return to Lake Erie, this time in my own cottage with a view of my beloved lake?

Alas, it is not to be. At least for now.

*There are certain spots along the lake where you can see both sunrises as well as sunsets.*

When I began to look for a lake house last summer, little did I know that gazillions of other people had the same idea. Low mortgage rates, housing shortages, increasing opportunities to work remotely, more retirees looking for second homes, millions of Millennials simultaneously trying to buy first homes, people with stimulus money in their pockets, and an overheated stock market all combined to make this one of the worst times to buy real estate in history. Talk about the right idea at the wrong time!

A recent Buffalo News article[1] described the current Western New York housing market as follows:

There are nearly three times as many real estate agents as there are homes for sale.
The number of homes for sale is down 44% from a year ago
The median sale prices of homes sold over the past 12 months has jumped by 12% to an all-time high of $177,000 (still a bargain, comparatively speaking).
Sellers are consistently getting more than they’re asking for on each house. Real estate agents said it’s not unusual for buyers to offer $30,000 to $40,000 over asking, and still not win.

*No sooner would I see a “For Sale” sign then a “Sold” sign would sit atop it, sometimes in less than a week.*

It seems hard to believe that less than a decade ago, Buffalo’s Urban Homestead program was encouraging Buffalo residents to buy fixer-upper homes in the city for a dollar. So imagine my surprise when I waded into this frenzied market and learned that even if I bid on an old house—with no contingencies, no inspection, all cash, with an offer significantly over the asking price—I STILL wasn’t likely to get it. My real estate agent said she is working with clients who have lost out on seven or eight houses and are becoming desperate, making offers far above the appraisal price.

My wise old grandfather once told me that when the milkman tells you he has decided to invest in the stock market, it is time to get out. Do the opposite of what the crowd is doing, he said, and you’ll be all right. It has proven to be sage advice. So I will take a step back and put my dreams of a lake house on hold, hoping that the market will cool in our lifetime.

But will it? It’s anyone’s guess.

No one knows how long it will take home builders to get ahead of the current housing shortage, or how soon all the Millennials will have bought their first homes, or when current homeowners will no longer be reluctant to sell. I wish I knew how long mortgage rates will stay historically low, or the stock market will remain historically high, before inflation runs rampant and everything comes crashing down.

Unlike many others, I am in a position to wait and am willing to gamble that prices will come down sooner rather than later. How about you? Are you considering buying real estate right now, or are you, like me, willing to put your dream on hold for at least another summer or two?

I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Please share them in the comments below!

_{[1] “Housing shortage hammers homebuyers,” Buffalo News, Jonathan D. Epstein, Apr 15 2021, Updated May 15 2021.}

Love, Heartache, and Transistor Radios

Like every generation of teenagers, we believed our music was far superior, truly unique, and more profound, than any music that came before it.

How many times have you heard it said: “Look at these kids today, always glued to their smart phones,” followed by frowns of adult disapproval? Well, if we adults of a certain age are honest, we must admit that we were no different. The only difference is that the “iPhones” of our day were transistor radios.

It might be hard for those who never lived during a time when music wasn’t portable to imagine what that was like. The family radio was likely in your kitchen or living room, and you listened to your Mom & Dad’s music. (Or, when you listened to your music, they told you to “turn that darn thing down!”) Perhaps you learned your dance moves watching American Bandstand, Shindig, and Hullabaloo on your black and white TV, but you sure didn’t have anyone to dance with. Or maybe you scraped up enough money to buy some 45s, but most of us couldn’t afford that every time a new hit song came along.

*The invention of the transistor radio meant we could take our music anywhere.*

Then came the transistor radio and our young lives changed forever. For the first time, we could take our music wherever we went, listen to whatever radio station we wanted, and play the “darn thing” as loud as we wanted. Imagine our joy the first time we could dance on the beach with our friends, sing along to the “Top 40” on the school bus, and listen to our favorite DJ’s while riding our bikes.

WKBW was my favorite radio station. I listened to legendary Buffalo DJ’s like Sandy Beach in the morning, Danny Neaverth in the afternoon, and the dreamy Tommy Shannon in the evening. WKBW knew its young audience well, giving away free concert tickets, as well as thousands of hit singles and record albums, and funny, kitschy things like the rubber duck I won for saying “Peachy Sandy Beachy, lucky rubber ducky” three times without screwing it up.

The contests were fun, but it was the music of our day that kept our radios glued to our ears. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Kinks and other members of the “British Invasion” changed the face of rock and roll for us, while Motown bands like the Temptations and the Four Tops moved us with their beat. The Beach Boys’ surf music helped us party by the lake in the summer, and later The Doors’ psychedelic sound was the backdrop of dorm parties during Buffalo’s long, cold winters.

The music spoke to us in ways our parents, teachers and other adults could not. And like every generation of teenagers before and after ours, we believed our music was far superior, truly unique, and more profound, than any music that came before it.

*Our transistor radios had us dancing in the streets.*

Which caused me to wonder: why does every generation think that the music they listened to as teenagers was the best ever? Was the music really that good, or did it just seem that good because we were highly impressionable teenagers? If so, why, so many years later, is it still the music that hits you in your emotional center like the smell of grandma’s warm bread? Why do we remember all the lyrics of those old songs decades later? And why do we know instantly, after hearing just three opening notes, what song we’re about to hear?

Perhaps it is because popular music speaks to the issues most on teenagers’ minds. Love and heartache. Sex and romance. Friendship and betrayal. Rebellion. Popular music helps each generation form a unique identity, different from their parents’, and helps decode the mysteries and challenges they are facing at the time. To my teenage self, the lyrics written by John Lennon, Stephen Stills, Carole King, and Paul Simon sounded like the life lessons I needed to navigate the adult world. Every successful musical artist that has followed has figured this out.

*Listening to the “Top 40” while sunning by the pool became our new favorite pastime.*

Teenagers need their pop music more than anyone else. My little transistor radio was a constant companion during those years, and I relied on WKBW’s disc jockeys to keep me in touch with the hot sounds of the day. Today’s teenagers can listen to their favorite artists and songs any time they want, able to choose among thousands of options, but it seems like that freedom comes at the cost of having all your friends know your local station’s “heavy rotation playlist,” or the nationwide broadcast of the weekly Top 40 countdown.

I would love to hear your thoughts on the music of your generation, and what it meant to you. And tell me, please, about the portable music device (Boom Box? Walkman? iPod?) that made a difference in your life. I look forward to reading your comments.

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, went on a test flight 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.

Who Speaks for the Trees?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buffalo’s Wabi-Sabi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the Saints Come Marching

The March celebrations honoring St. Patrick and St. Joseph couldn’t be more different.

The main feature of a St. Joseph’s Table is a beautiful altar with a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash.

Back in the day, when the cold and blustery Ides of March arrived in Buffalo, many of us would set about preparing for two things guaranteed to lift us out of our winter doldrums: St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day. The beloved patron saints of Ireland and Sicily were revered all over the city, especially in the old waterfront neighborhoods settled by Irish and Sicilian immigrants, like the West Side where I grew up.

*Leprechauns and their pots of gold are today’s symbols of St. Patrick’s Day.*

Being of Irish and Sicilian heritage, our family celebrated both days. On the 17^th of March, long before we were old enough to visit an Irish pub, Mom would make cupcakes with green frosting, and drop a little bit of green dye in our milk. We would stand in the cold for hours watching the St. Patrick’s Day parade downtown, and proudly wear our “Kiss Me I’m Irish” shamrock pins, hoping for a peck on the cheek.

Two days later it was “Viva San Giuseppe” and a trip to our Sicilian relatives who always hosted the extended family’s St. Joseph’s Table. My eyes would light up at the sight of all of my favorite Sicilian foods: pasta con sarde, pasta fazool, carciofi, caponata, alivi scacciati, and plenty of other meatless dishes (it falls in the middle of Lent). Best of all was the dessert table, where cannoli, sfinge, cuccidati and zeppole held pride of place.

*Of all the wonderful Sicilian desserts, cannoli is my favorite!*

Despite the abundance of food, St. Joseph’s Day strikes a more solemn, religious note than St. Patrick’s Day. At every St. Joseph’s Table there is a beautiful altar off to the side, decorated with flowers (usually lilies), lemons, and a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. The tradition of this shared celebration is that no one is to be turned away from the table. Typically a large family affair back then, today restaurants and churches host community-wide events.

*Sadly, last year the pandemic limited our St. Joseph’s Table to just two.*

*It’s estimated that 13 million pints of Guinness will be consumed globally on St. Patrick’s Day.*

There was a time, especially in Ireland, when St. Patrick’s Day also had more serious religious overtones, but like so many holidays today, it has been captured by the commercial food and beverage industry. Irish pubs all over the US are jam-packed with Irish and non-Irish, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, enjoying the music and revelry now most associated with the day. On the other hand, I’ve found you have to do some searching to find someone in the US setting a St. Joseph’s Table outside of the Sicilian enclaves in large cities.

So I began to ponder two things: why are the holidays of these two patron saints celebrated so differently in the US? And how does one get to be a patron saint anyways?

According to catholic.org, patron saints are “special protectors or guardians over areas of life.” They are often associated in some way with a particular region, profession, or family. St. Patrick, for example, was actually born in Britain in the 4^th century, kidnapped and brought to Ireland at age 16, escaped back to Britain, became a priest, and returned to Ireland to bring Christianity to the Irish. St. Joseph, on the other hand, husband of the Virgin Mary, never visited Sicily as far as we know. But during a severe drought in the Middle Ages, the people of Sicily prayed to the saint and their prayers were answered with rain. The crops were saved and a feast has been prepared each year by grateful Sicilians and their descendants.

Perhaps the days are different because so many myths and legends surround St. Patrick (like the one about him driving out the snakes), or because the Irish are born storytellers and embellishers (think pinching leprechauns and pots of gold). Perhaps the Sicilians are simply a more serious people (certainly they are when it comes to food). Or maybe the Irish and Sicilian immigrants who came to this country celebrate their patron saints in a way that is simply a reflection of the things they loved most about their homeland, and they honor their saints accordingly. What do you think?

*Irish pubs will feature traditional Irish songs and merry-making on March 17th.*

Will you be celebrating one of these holidays? Does your family do something special on that day? I would love to hear your stories so leave me a comment below!

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