Childhood memories - Moxie Gardiner

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!

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.

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!

When Nuns Ruled the Roost

If you went to Catholic school in the ‘60s or ‘70s, the word “nun” undoubtedly conjures up strong emotions.

Mention the word “nun”[1] to someone who grew up in the Catholic school system, particularly before Vatican II changed everything, and you’re likely to get a strong, visceral reaction ranging from fear and loathing, to worshipful admiration. Boys in particular seem to have ended up on the wrong side of that equation, and stories abound of physical and psychological abuse at the hands of nuns. Girls have their own stories, about nuns cutting their hair if their bangs were too long, or sending them home if their skirts were too short. There is even a word for an irrational fear of nuns—sphenisciphobia—which is, interestingly, the same word for an irrational fear of penguins.

*Many nuns came to the classroom having no experience with children, particularly boys.* Photo by Museums Victoria on Unsplash

As the product of 13 years of Catholic school education, I have my own stories to tell. A brother locked in the basement of a convent and forgotten for hours. Another whacked in the side of the head with a wooden pointer. And despite my reputation as a “teacher’s pet,” I once felt the slap of a ruler on my own six-year-old palms. My parents, like many other devout Catholics, were conflicted about how to react to this treatment of their children. Many seemed as afraid of the nuns as we were.

Which leads me to wonder, why did these women, devoted to God and works of charity, behave this way? Why did the nuns of yesteryear become the stuff of legends and Hollywood horror films?

Nuns play an important role in my novel-in-progress. My young heroine is coerced into becoming a nun at a time when the life of Catholic “women religious” was in a state of upheaval. So I decided to do more research on these fascinating and mysterious women, and by stepping back, I gained an interesting perspective:

*Nuns lived a life circumscribed*
*by discipline and prayer.*
Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash

First, let’s remember that corporal punishment was an acceptable form of child-rearing in those days. Many kids in our West Side neighborhood were knocked around by parents, coaches, and scout leaders, and no one thought much of it.
Second, some women were forced to become nuns, by parents or by circumstances, and some, no doubt, grew disillusioned and embittered over time. Most of the abuse I remember came from older nuns.
Third, many nuns came to the classroom having no experience with children, particularly boys. They entered the convent at a young age, and lived a life of strict discipline and prayer surrounded by other nuns. Few had the education and training teachers have today.
Finally, the classroom was the only place these teaching nuns had any real authority. Until the Second Vatican Council completed its work in 1965, men made all the major decisions in the Catholic Church, including rules and regulations governing these women. Some resentment may have spilled over into their treatment of young male students.[2]

You can also draw your own conclusions about how grouchy one might become without any meaningful contact with the opposite sex. None of this justifies abusive behavior, of course, but it does explain why some nuns were lovely, inspirational human beings, and others were simply mean.

Nuns today no longer have the reputation they once did, in part because their numbers have significantly dwindled (from a high of 180,000 in 1965 to just over 44,000 today), in part because the sisterhood changed dramatically after Vatican II, and in part because religious orders are now attracting millennials who are different from their predecessors. Nuns now have college degrees and religious career choices no longer limited to teaching and nursing. Today they can become, among other things, dieticians, historic building preservation experts, affordable housing experts, and hospital ethics board members. And following in the footsteps of nuns who became “radicalized” post Vatican II, they are politically active and often work with immigrant families, support asylum seekers, and participate in peaceful demonstrations.[3]

*Young millennial nuns have many more career choices today.* Photo by hp koch on Unsplash

Nuns, it turns out, both then and today, are not all that different from the rest of us. They have the same desire to live a life of purpose and meaning, and the same human foibles. It was a nun who instilled in me a lifelong love of words, literature, and writing, and I am forever grateful for the way she shaped my mind and my destiny. She also helped me get over the searing memory of that first grade nun who “ruled” my trembling little hands.

Do you have a memorable “nun” story? I would love to hear your comments!

[1] Many people use the words “nun” and “sister” interchangeably, but technically speaking it was the “sisters” who taught in schools. Nuns traditionally live more cloistered lives. I am taking the liberty of using the colloquial “nun” in this blog because it is the more familiar term.

[2] For an interesting take on the impact of Vatican II on women religious, as well as statistics on their numbers then and now, see “IN EXODUS OF NUNS, FEW TURN BACK,” https://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-xpm-1986-03-24-8601210920-story.html

[3] For a fascinating look at the nuns of today see https://www.thelily.com/the-unexpected-life-of-a-millennial-nun/

My Six Words of Gratitude

If I had to say what I am thankful for in 2020, my six words would be these: I am grateful for the Internet.

Recently the New York Times issued a challenge to its readers to “Tell Us What You’re Thankful for, in Six Words.” While I’m not big on entering contests or competing for space in big city newspapers, the challenge did get me thinking. If I had to say what I am thankful for in 2020, my six words would be these:

I am grateful for the Internet.

*Virtual meetings are now a daily occurrence, allowing people to work and attend school from the comfort of their homes.*

Now, before you shake your head and stop reading, hear me out. I realize that some see the Internet (or the worldwide web, if you prefer) as more a curse than a blessing, and I am certainly grateful for many other things: my family, my health, what I have left of my mental faculties, the roof over my head, and food on the table, to name a few.

But as a person who was alive before the invention of the Internet, and well before most of the world had access to it, I believe it is the single greatest invention of my lifetime. During this crazy past year, I don’t know if I could have lived (literally) without it.

All of the things I mentioned above, from familial relationships to the food on my table, have been greatly influenced by the Internet. Here are some examples from just the past year:

When one of my parents became seriously ill during the pandemic, our family gathered via frequent video chats to get updates on her condition.
When I had a severe bout of asthma last spring, I was able to get the prescriptions I needed after a telehealth visit with my doctor.
I had access to current reporting on the status of the pandemic in my county, state, the US, the world, at any time of day or night from multiple accredited sources.
I was able to confirm online that my election ballot had been received and processed.
I listened to soothing, meditative music online whenever I was stressed.
I read books online and met with my Book Club via Zoom.
Whenever I wanted to learn how to build a compost bin, clean out my wood stove, build a raised bed, learn how to grow sweet potatoes, or prune an apple tree, I watched free step-by-step video instructions on how to do it.
I made hundreds of new friends on social media and reconnected with many old friends.
When it became obvious there would be only two of us at the Thanksgiving table this year, I found recipes online for scaled down versions of all my holiday favorites, and,
Whenever I wrote one of these blogs, I did all my research online and posted these essays on my very own website, viewed in countries all over the world.

*I’ve gotten valuable tips from the Smithsonian’s free garden webinars.*

*I still exercise daily, thanks to my favorite online instructors.*

*I can watch my favorite movies or TV shows anytime, anyplace.*

Could we have survived the past year without the Internet? Possibly. But I can tell you, having lived in the dark ages before the Internet, that everything happens so much faster now because we are all connected. Information travels at speeds that were unfathomable in 1983, back when the “network of networks” was first created, and while there are downsides to this technology, like cyber bullying and rumor mongering, there are plenty of upsides as well. Each of us has the ability to use it for good or ill.

So this Thanksgiving, I will say a prayer of thanks to the dozens of scientists, engineers, and programmers who made the “information superhighway” accessible to me and you.

How about you? What are you thankful for this Thanksgiving? Please leave a comment—I’d love to hear from you!

Sogni Siciliani

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again.

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

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

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

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

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

*Mount Etna looms over the city of Catania.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*The iconic Valle dei Templi in Agrigento…*

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fish Fry Fridays

Why is the fish fry so popular in a town where beef on ‘weck, Sahlen’s hot dogs, and chicken wings suggest a distinct predilection for meat?

When I first moved to the mid-Atlantic region, my family from Buffalo came to visit and asked where we might go out to dinner. “It’s Friday,” they said. “Where’s the best fish fry around here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, scratching my head. “I’ve never seen a sign for one.” I called all the seafood and family restaurants in the area, but no one had ever heard of a fish fry, let alone served one. One uppity guy, who probably thought fish was meant only for sushi, said, “Fried fish? Don’t you know how unhealthy that is?” I hung up the phone and gave my relatives the bad news. No fish fries on Friday here. They shook their heads. “What kind of a place is this anyway?” asked my aunt.

*Buffalonians love their fish fries. “It might be because we live near the great lakes where fish are plentiful,” says Buffalo native Dorothy Gallagher.*
*Photo by Moxie Gardiner.*

That experience led me to the sad (but ultimately false) conclusion that only restaurants in the Western New York area serve fish fries on Friday. When I lived in Buffalo, you couldn’t swing a double-dutch jump rope without hitting a restaurant that served a complete fish fry dinner, not only during Lent, as you might expect, but every Friday throughout the year. I had assumed it was the same everywhere.

The Ship N’ Shore restaurant’s fish fry is always on the menu.
It comes with a side of coleslaw and fried apples.

So why, I wondered, did the fish fry become so popular in a town where roast beef on ‘weck, Sahlen’s hot dogs, and our world famous chicken wings, suggest a distinct predilection for meat? The answer is simple: Buffalo is home to lots of Catholics.

For over a thousand years, Christians abstained from eating meat and meat products on Fridays (Good Friday being the day Jesus was crucified) as well as on many religious holidays. So strictly did Catholics adhere to this practice that a desperate McDonald’s franchise owner in Cincinnati is said to have invented the Filet-O-Fish sandwich because he had such a hard time selling burgers on Friday.

*Hoak’s on the Lake Erie shore south of Buffalo has been serving fish fries for over 70 years, every day of the week, every month of the year.*
*Photo by Moxie Gardiner.*

According to Brian Fagan, a professor emeritus of archaeology at the University of California, Santa Barbara, in his book, Fish on Friday: Feasting, Fasting, and the Discovery of the New World, Catholicism’s fish fasting days directly contributed to the growth of the global fishing industry, so much so that after Vatican II loosened the rules, the price of fish, according to one economic analysis, took a nose dive.

Despite my discouraging efforts to find a fish fry in my new hometown, it turns out that there are many places in the US where a fish fry can still be found. They are particularly popular in the Northeast and Midwest, where Catholics of German, Polish, Irish, and Italian descent abound. I’ve since learned that there are fish fries in the South, but they are different. Usually they are social gatherings in large halls where flounder, bream or catfish are battered in corn meal and buttermilk, and served with a side of hush puppies or cheesy grits.

*In Buffalo, you can find fish fry dinners everywhere–bars, restaurants, VFW halls, churches, community centers, and volunteer fire departments.*
*Photo by Moxie Gardiner.*

I happened to be in Buffalo recently on a Friday night and was eager to see how the fish fry was faring during the pandemic. I needn’t have worried. I was able to get one in a take-out container, complete with French fries, lemon slices, tartar sauce, macaroni salad, coleslaw, a dinner roll and butter, and in case I was still hungry, a slice of apple pie. In Buffalo, if you don’t serve a beer battered fish that hangs off both sides of the plate and comes with these obligatory side dishes, you will not see a repeat customer.

When I was growing up, the fish fries I remember took advantage of the plentiful perch found in Lake Erie. Today, there is a raging debate about which makes the better fish fry—Atlantic Ocean haddock or cod? Haddock is used in about 90% of all Buffalo fish fries today, according to a recent article in the Buffalo News, but to me the type of fish doesn’t matter. Finding a fish fry at all makes the Buffalonian in me smile.

Do you eat fish on Friday? Do you have a favorite fish fry place? Leave me a comment below!

Children of the River

We who grew up alongside the mighty Niagara know it as the artery that pulsed through our childhood. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.

Few people outside of Buffalo know much about the Niagara River, other than that it is interrupted by one of the seven natural wonders of the world, Niagara Falls.

Historians might cite the battles fought on and across the Niagara River during the War of 1812, or its later role as a section of the Underground Railroad. Politicians recognize it as an important international boundary, and geographers as part of the great watershed that connects two of the great lakes, Erie and Ontario. Boaters and daredevils are in awe of this river that flows north over the Falls at nearly 70 mph, preceded by some of the most dangerous rapids in the world.

The class VI rapids of the formidable Niagara River.
Photo: Library of Congress

Buffalonians, however, think of none of that. We who grew up alongside the Niagara know it as the artery that pulsed through our childhoods.

I lived not far from the place where Lake Erie narrows and the Niagara River begins. We often walked to the river to fish, and could easily make it to the Foot of Ferry Street or the river’s break wall in 20 minutes. Our Sunday family outings often ended at one of the parks along the river’s edge, where we could play and enjoy delicious Ted’s Hot Dogs in the summer, and ice skate in the winter. At night, we listened to the sand flies, newly hatched down by the river, pinging against our window screens.

*We often rode our bikes across the Peace Bridge and into Ontario without having to show ID. Photo courtesy of Dean Gallagher*

When we were teenagers and could ride our bikes some distance, we would say goodbye to Mom in the morning equipped with a brown bag lunch and a bathing suit, and ride over the Peace Bridge to Canada. The Baby Hole beach, with its treacherous currents, was right over the bridge, but we preferred Crescent Beach, where other teenagers tended to congregate. If we had the energy, we would ride the 14 miles to the Crystal Beach Amusement Park, and then back again, arriving home sunburned and late for supper.

As I grew older, the river sickened. Steel, petrochemical, and chemical industries had flourished along the river, thanks to the availability of cheap electricity from Niagara Falls and easy access to the Great Lakes. In the late 1970s, many of these plants pulled up stakes and left the area, leaving behind hazardous waste sites and contaminated waters. In 1978, a neighborhood near the Love Canal, just outside of Niagara Falls, learned that it was sitting above more than 20,000 tons of toxic industrial waste. Many residents fell ill and died.

By the late 1980s, the Niagara River was officially designated one of the “Great Lakes Areas of Concern,” and the people of Buffalo were warned not to eat fish caught in the river or swim in its waters. I remember all too well the fetid smell of rotting fish, the abandoned factories along the river’s edge, and the greasy film atop the water from industrial runoff. It felt as if the river itself had died.

*Old West Side friends come together to celebrate at new bars and restaurants along the river*. *Photo by Moxie Gardiner*

Today, however, the river is alive again. Restaurants, parks, and upscale apartment buildings have replaced the derelict structures along its shoreline, and Canalside, Buffalo’s revitalized terminus of the Erie Canal, has become a popular tourist destination. Recently, a dozen or so of my elementary school classmates got together at the River Grill, a popular outdoor spot where we could sit and swap stories about the old days while enjoying the river’s cool breeze.

One of Buffalo’s Paddle People enjoying the wildlife near Grand Island.
Photo courtesy of Dean Gallagher

Last summer, I joined the Buffalo Paddle People to kayak around Grand Island, a piece of land the size of Manhattan that splits the river in two. We glided along its banks and out to smaller islands, looking for nesting birds and other wildlife. Off in the distance, I could see the Buffalo skyline, gleaming in the setting sun. I let my fingers drag through the cold waters of the river and was instantly transported back to the days when I would gingerly step out into the same cold waters in my bathing suit, and feel the swift water pushing through my fingers and toes.

There is an old adage: “No man steps into the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.” As I paddled back to Grand Island’s green and healthy shore, these words deeply resonated with me. For as much as the river has changed, I have changed more.

One thing, though, has remained the same: I love this river and always will. The mighty Niagara still runs through me, and I now know that for many future generations, it will do the same.

Did you grow up loving a river? Leave me a comment, below. I look forward to hearing your stories.

Strawberry Backs and Blackberry Fingers

As an inner city child, one of the things I looked forward to every summer was a trip to the countryside to pick berries.

As an inner city child, one of the things I looked forward to every summer was a trip to the countryside to pick berries. It was a simple, tactile pleasure enjoyed by my parents and their parents before them, each generation hunting and gathering in much the same way.

*We always had a contest among us kids to see who could find the biggest, juiciest strawberries.*
*All photos © Moxie Gardiner*.

Every June, we would make our annual trek to a strawberry patch in Brant, NY, not far from our cottage in Angola. We would spend hours going up and down the rows with our flimsy little wooden crates, looking for the biggest, juiciest strawberries. The aroma was heavenly—you could smell the warm strawberries as soon as you got out of the car—and no one seemed to mind if you popped one or two (or a dozen) in your mouth as you worked along the rows.

The sun warmed your back and turned it as red as the strawberries, particularly if you went picking in your bathing suit after a day at the beach. But on the farms not far from Lake Erie, there always seemed to be a nice, cool breeze to keep you going. That and visions of delights yet to come: strawberry shortcake, strawberry milkshakes, strawberries on ice cream, strawberries on cereal, and later, as we grew older, strawberry daiquiris! For the adults, “strawberry back” had a different meaning, after a few hours bending over the low-growing plants.

“*You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet/ Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it/ Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for/ Picking.”*
(All quotes are from Seamus Heaney’s poem “Blackberry-Picking”)

As summer wore on, the strawberry-gathering ritual was replaced by blackberry picking, a far more perilous adventure that took us to the wild places. While strawberries are a cultivated crop, blackberries and black raspberries, at least those of my youth, grew on steep hillsides and along country roads.

“*Then red ones inked up and that hunger*/ *Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots*“

Black raspberries are small and easier to pick, but the larger, plumper, tastier blackberries are protected by nasty thorns. You have to really love blackberries to go after those babies.

Our fingers got scratched and pricked and sometimes we ended up with poison ivy, but when we found a good patch full of ripe berries, we gathered and ate until our stomachs ached. Once found, their location became a jealously guarded secret, much like the wild gardoon patches in the heart of the city.

“*Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.*
*Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills*
*We trekked and picked until the cans were full,*“

“Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.”

One of my favorite Irish poets, Seamus Heaney, wrote about blackberry picking as a metaphor for childhood enthusiasms and disappointments. Like every Holy Grail of youth, the poem speaks to how once tasted, one will go to any lengths to obtain the succulent wild berries, and how, like so many fruits of summer and childhood, are far too quickly gone.

“*I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair*
*That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.*
*Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.*“

As I began to write this blog, I wondered, how many children, especially those living in cities today, are able to experience the fleeting joy of berry picking? I see from a quick online search that trips to pick-your-own strawberry farms are recommended as a healthy, outdoor activity for families with small children during this pandemic. However, I found no such encouragement for blackberry picking. Too much trouble, I suppose, in these days of triple-washed, packaged fruit, and in fairness, with encroaching development, wild blackberry patches are fewer and harder to find. But you can only truly know the deliciousness of a blackberry, I firmly believe, if you have, at least once, gone to the trouble of picking your own.

As an adult, I still enjoy harvesting berries, and unlike poor youthful Seamus, I’ve learned to eat only what I am able, and quickly freeze or preserve the rest as sauces, jams and jellies.

This preservation strikes me as a metaphor for life as well. Capture what you can of the “essence” of summer—and of youth—without trying to cling to something that cannot stay.

Do you have fond memories of berry-picking? Write to me and tell me your stories! I look forward to hearing from you.

Water in the Mouth

All I have to do is think about the authentic street food usually on offer at the Italian Festival—sfinge, cannoli, gardoons, zeppole, pizza bianca—and I begin to drool.

One of the things this monstrous thief, the COVID-19 pandemic, has robbed us of this year is Buffalo’s popular Italian Heritage Festival, usually held the third weekend in July when Buffalo is fully enjoying La Dolce Vita.

Dante Alighieri, one of Italy’s most famous sons, once said, “There is no greater pain than to recall happiness in times of misery.” I know what he means. I am feeling the pain in this miserable time of quarantines and lockdowns, recalling my many happy years attending the Italian Festival, and being transported back to a time and place that felt so much like the neighborhood where I grew up.

There is an Italian expression, avere l’acquolina in bocca, literally meaning to have water in the mouth. All I have to do is think about the authentic street food usually on offer at the Italian Festival—sfinge, cannoli, gardoons, zeppole, pizza bianca—and I begin to drool. Many of the vendors have been there for years, some for generations, making food the way my Sicilian grandmother did. But lest you get the impression that the festival is all about food, let me quickly add a little bit of history.

Most people from the Buffalo metropolitan area are familiar with the version of the festival that for many years was held on Hertel Avenue in North Buffalo, where it moved in the late 1980s along with many of the city’s Italians. After a couple of decades on Hertel, the festival expanded exponentially and outgrew the city streets. In 2018, the festival moved to Buffalo’s Outer Harbor, and again in 2019 to downtown Buffalo.

*St. Anthony is still the man at the heart of the Italian Festival.*

“The Buffalo Lawn Fete,” however, was actually born nearly 100 years ago at St. Anthony of Padua Church on the lower West Side. The Italian community founded the Saint Anthony of Padua Church Society back in 1891 when thousands of Italian immigrants were pouring in, and it quickly became the social and religious center of the city’s Italian population. The parish established the first Italian language school and priests said the mass in Italian. In 1921, the church’ held the first 12-day lawn fete centered on the “Festa di San Antonio,” which honored St. Anthony, beloved patron saint of the oppressed and poor.

*What could be better than eating food that tastes like Grandma’s for $3.00?*

Back in 1921, my ancestors were among the thousands of immigrants from the mountain villages of Sicily who had settled on the lower West Side. My grandmother and her family lived on Efner Street, within walking distance of St. Anthony’s, and I like to imagine her and her siblings waiting excitedly for the festival each year, walking to the church, enjoying the food, and meeting and greeting friends and relatives in Italian.

My first encounter with the Italian Festival was in 1976 when it was revived after a hiatus and held again on the West Side. A friend who was working at one of the booths (shucking clams if I remember correctly), encouraged me to walk the four blocks from my house to Connecticut Street to see what was on offer. The whole festival only took up a few blocks back then, and had a much homier feel. I fell in love with the food, the dancing, the music, and the language, and I’ve been going back for as many years as I can remember whenever I’m in Buffalo.

*Old Italian expression*:
***Chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire.***
No matter where you go or turn, you’ll always end up at home.
**—————————**

This year the plan was to transform Niagara Square into an Italian piazza, say the festival organizers. It was to be focused more on cultural traditions to introduce—or remind—people of the old ways. There was to be grape stomping, puppet shows, tarantella dancers and a procession carrying the statue of St. Anthony through downtown Buffalo. There was even going to be a genealogy booth, and I had looked forward to being fully immersed in the old West Side again.

No, I won’t be able to go the festival this summer and that makes me sad. But I have decided to search high and low until I find an Italian bakery that sells fresh, just filled cannoli in my new hometown. I will venture inside, wearing my mask, and buy half a dozen cannoli, just to console myself.

There is water in my mouth just thinking about it.

*Somewhere I will find a good Italian bakery this summer that makes authentic desserts, especially my all time favorite–cannoli.*
All photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner

Front Porch Summers

No one had air-conditioning, the windows were wide open, and there were no family secrets in the summertime.

Everyone has heard tales of the fearsome Buffalo winters, but few, other than those who live there, know the splendor of its summer days. And as glorious as the days might be, they are nothing compared to the magic of the city’s summer nights.

*We cooled off in the backyard until the*
*neighborhood pools were open.*

When I was growing up on Buffalo’s West Side, summer did not begin on Memorial Day. For us it began the day after school ended, usually around the third week in June when the weather turned from cool to mild. We would take our report cards to the Super Duper supermarket to get free tickets for rides at Crystal Beach, pull out our bikes and hose them down, and fill the kiddie pool in the backyard for good measure. Until we turned 10 we weren’t allowed to leave our block, so we made the best of what we had.

*On the hottest nights, we’d go down to the Niagara River with Dad to catch a cool breeze.*

We counted down the days until the neighborhood pool would open (usually as soon as the water warmed enough to avoid hypothermia) and satisfied ourselves with street games like Kick the Can and Red Rover. If we could scrounge up the money, we’d treat ourselves to trips to Ganci’s Groceries for a bag of Bugles and a baloney sandwich, to Pepe’s for a lemon ice, or wait until we heard the melody of Charlie’s Super Cones truck to buy a single twist of chocolate that tasted like velvet on the tongue.

*Our moms made sure we were all home for the summer evening ritual.*

At dusk, we would hear the mothers calling from their porches: “Jooo-eeee!” Carmel-lllooo!” in their peculiar singsong cadence. Children would run, breathless, up to their houses and leap onto their front porches before the streetlights came on, or suffer the consequences. All up and down the block families gathered on their porches, and the evening ritual celebrating the arrival of summer would begin.

My bisnonno loved to catch up
with the other Sicilian men.

It often started with the quick flare of a match and the winking red glow of a cigarette, as the parents sat back in their folding chairs. Cars would slow as they threaded their way down our one-way street to avoid hitting the dogs wandering out to do their business after dinner. On the porches, we would hear the older Sicilians punctuating their sentences in Italian, and the occasional clink as a bottle of homemade wine was poured into glasses.

We would sit on the steps, eating our popsicles,
and learn about the world through front porch osmosis.

Our family of 10 didn’t have enough chairs on the porch for everyone, so we kids usually sat on the front steps, eating popsicles Mom always kept in the freezer. Neighbors would drop by to visit and share neighborhood gossip and we sat, rapt, and soaked it all in. Everything was debated on those front porches—religion, politics, long hair styles, the Vietnam War. We learned about the place that we lived and the people we lived with, through front porch osmosis. No one had air-conditioning, the windows were wide open, and there were no family secrets in the summertime.

As we got older, we would sit on our friends’ front porches and huddle off to the side, listening to music on our transistor radios while sand flies from the river pinged against the window screens. We could smell what our friends had for dinner and hear the murmur of their favorite television show. We got to know which families treated each other well and which didn’t. We learned which houses to avoid after the sun went down.

All of my life, I have insisted that wherever I live, I must have a front porch. I still like to sit there on summer nights, listening to the birds and cicadas in the gloaming. But the sounds and smells of the country at night are different from those of the city. Now as I sit on my porch, I am more likely to hear the cry of an owl than a baby crying, and to smell the pungent smoke of a campfire than a puff from a Lucky Strike.

Our recent pandemic has made me appreciate the simple things in life, like sitting on a porch, surrounded by family and friends, trading stories and drinking ice tea. How I look forward to doing this again, if our luck holds out, this coming summer in Buffalo.

“It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer….Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days.”
―Anna Godbersen, *Bright Young Things*

Do you have fond memories of summer nights on the front porch? I would love to hear some of your childhood memories, particularly of your favorite place to listen and learn from grownup conversation. Leave me a comment please, and subscribe if you like my blog!

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