Category: Childhood memories

Empty Playgrounds

Friday was one of those beautiful June days, when the sun kisses the skin with just the right amount of warmth and gives the landscape sharp edges. When I was young, it was the kind of day that flung me out of the house and into the street as if I was attached to the end of a stretched rubber band.

In those days, 15th Street was so full of kids you only had to step outside to find one of your favorite street games underway. Hide & Seek, Red Rover, Cops & Robbers, Ringolevio, Duck-Duck-Goose, Freeze Tag and the ever popular Kick the Can. If you had one of those 10-cent pink balls from Woolworth’s you played 7up or Wheaties/Clapsies, taking turns bouncing the ball off a brick wall. If you had a flat stone and some chalk, you played Hopscotch. A piece of clothesline served as a jump rope.

broken water main
Then: What could be more fun than a water main break on a hot summer day?

I was in the midst of this happy reverie, driving down a suburban street chock-a-block with four bedroom houses separated by wide, green yards, when I noticed something that struck me as odd.

Where were the children?

I began to scan the backyards as I passed, then the front porches, the expensive jungle gyms, the in-ground swimming pools. Not a child in sight. I drove by a baseball field, the bleachers filled not with parents, but with tall weeds. Next came an empty playground, the swings hanging forlornly, the ground covered with rubberized mulch. To protect whom, from what, I wondered. I finally saw someone on a bicycle, pedaling rapidly down a bike path, but she appeared to be about 30 and commuting home from work.

Now: Where are all the pickup games?

School is out, so what explains the absence of children playing outside on a beautiful summer’s day? Of course, times have changed since I played on 15th Street. Mothers work. Young children spend the day at summer camp or daycare. Even stay-at-home moms and dads bring their children to safe, supervised activities, because that’s where all the other children are. The kids old enough to stay home alone, if they do venture outside, are glued to their smart phones and iPads.

Where are the children?

There are any numbers of reasons why the all- day, unsupervised, unstructured play of the 15th Street crowd doesn’t exist in today’s world. It’s a shame though, because free play is what bound our neighborhood together, almost as family. We kids knew every parent on the street, just as they knew each of us. We loved the elderly woman who gave us cookies and Kool-Aid in the middle of a sweaty afternoon. We all feared the old man who lived alone and yelled at us when we hopped his fence.

Though we lived in the city, we knew our little patch of earth as intimately as we knew our shared secrets. Every crack in the sidewalk, dying elm, fire hydrant, street lamp, and abandoned building. We could name every swimming pool and playground within five miles because we rode our bikes to all of them. We could walk to the corner store and find the candy counter blindfolded, we’d done it so many times.

We were more than friends…we were family

My point is that we had a very physical and emotional connection with our external environment—our street, our neighborhood, our city—that doesn’t seem to exist for children today. It is the kind of connection made only with the freedom to explore, to discover on your own what is around you.

I am grateful that I lived at a time when we played, wild and free, and every minute of a golden summer day was lived to the fullest. However, as the poet Robert Frost observed, “Nothing gold can stay.” Except in our memories.

What do you remember about your childhood summers? Leave me a comment and I’ll be happy to share your stories!

If Your Son Looked Like the Milkman

A thriving Spark’s Dairy circa 1958

Back in the day, there was an old joke that if one of your kids didn’t look like the others, your husband ought to take a gander at the milkman. The only thing worse than having one child look like the milkman, the joke went, was having all of your children look like him.[1] Yes, milkmen had the reputation of being the Lotharios of their day.

You have to be of a certain age to remember when the milkman was a regular fixture in the neighborhood. He would arrive at your house early in the morning after Dad left for work and you left for school. You would only see him in the summer months, walking toward the back porch with his large wooden milk crate, and hear the clinking of the bottles as he pulled the empties out of your family’s insulated milk box, and replaced them with cold, condensation-covered fresh ones.

Because we had a large family, the milkman came to our house every other day and knew my mother well. My mother was a virtuous woman so the milkman jokes were always lost on me until recently, when I learned our milkman once mentioned to her that if she didn’t have enough money to pay the bill, there were other “alternatives.” Sheesh.

Only cream came in bottles this small!

As I thought about those days, my mind began to wander. Why did the milkmen suddenly disappear from the scene? And what happened to the dairy farms and the dairy plants they worked for? We had a thriving dairy plant—Spark’s—not far from where we lived on the West Side of Buffalo. Sadly, Spark’s closed in 1962, along with 30 or so other Erie County milk plants that shut their doors in the sixties. According to one report, 972 milk plants across New York state closed between 1960 and 1981.[2]  

So what happened? Well, a number of things. First, supermarkets with refrigerated cases became ubiquitous. Second, mothers began to go to work. Third, many families got a second car and Mom could pick up milk on her way home from work while shopping for other groceries. Home delivery of milk became superfluous. Dairy farming also changed. According to one article I read[3], the farmers of the 1960s learned to farm during the Great Depression and operated on a “cash” basis. They didn’t encourage their sons and daughters to borrow money to continue the family farm, and many of their children went off to college, never to return to farming. Large, industrial scale dairy farms replaced small local dairies, and fewer local milk plants and delivery men were needed.

photo of abandoned Spark's Dairy building
Boarded-up Spark’s Dairy, circa 1970.

Now home milk delivery is making a comeback. Increasingly skeptical of food processed by big corporations, people in many parts of the country are turning to local farms and dairies for “farm to table” staples. According to a New York Times article[4], a “milkman renaissance” is underway, with consumers apparently willing to pay a premium for a gallon of home-delivered milk. It remains to be seen whether the new “renaissance” milkman will earn the same scandalous reputation as the milkmen of the past. If so, swimming pool cleaners and pizza delivery guys may have some competition.

Do you remember the milkman? Send me your stories!

[1] Don’t ask me how often this occurred. There are no accurate statistics. But given the number of books written about this topic, I imagine it happened. In 2018, Anna Burns won the Man Booker Prize for her novel, Milkman, which explores this old trope.

[2] There are interesting statistics on this. See https://dairymarkets.org/PubPod/Reference/Library/DIS.1982.pdf

[3] https://madison.com/business/decline-of-the-dairy-farm—-what-happened/article_fc7cb66f-c40a-585c-ac9c-71e279b8275e.html

[4] https://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/16/business/yourmoney/16milk.html

What the World Needs Now Is…More Holidays!

Growing up in Buffalo, we had a Valentine’s Day tradition that, as far as I can tell, was unique to our family. During the day, we exchanged paper valentines with our classmates, but when it grew dark, our family would wait in breathless anticipation for the annual visit of “The Big Man.”

We would be sitting at the dining room table around 7 pm, pretending to do our homework, when the front door bell would ring. We would run, fling open the door, and find a chocolate heart lying there, with one of our names on it. While we scanned the street for movement, we’d hear a knock at our back door. We’d run and find another heart. This would continue with all eight of us running and screaming back and forth through the house, until each of us had a candy heart.

The Big Man loomed large in our family lore. We were told he had exceptionally long legs and could run like the wind. We pictured him wearing a dark fedora and a long black coat, moving silently in the shadows. Once, we got the bright idea to split up with some of us waiting at each door, but my mother warned us, “I’m told the Big Man is very shy. If you see him once, you’ll never see him again.” None of us was willing to take that chance.

When we grew older and met our sweethearts, we celebrated Valentine’s Day with red wine and roses, but none of us forgot about the Big Man. When we had children we carried on the tradition, and thankfully, our children promise to continue it with theirs. Traditions—especially the funny, idiosyncratic ones like the Big Man—are what bind us as a family, with a shared history and a sense of belonging.

Psychologists say that celebrating holidays and establishing family traditions is one of the most essential things we do as humans. If approached with the right spirit, holidays are opportunities to relax, share a meal, have a few laughs, and tell stories that connect one generation to the next. So if holidays and traditions are so important, why don’t we have more of them?

I decided, as one of my New Year’s resolutions, to celebrate more holidays this year, and invent some new traditions. No, I’m not looking for more opportunities to shop for gifts or take time off from work. What I have in mind is far simpler. In February, for example, I celebrated Candlemas, Chinese New Year, Valentine’s Day, and President’s Day. To celebrate, I pulled out the nice tablecloth and fancy napkins, used the good china and silverware, added candles and decorations, and designed a meal that reflected the significance of the holiday. Cherry pie for George Washington’s Birthday, for example.

My latest brainstorm is to incorporate a few literary holidays (I am a writer, after all) into my celebratory calendar. We’ll enjoy “Dr. Seuss Day” on March 2nd with my own creative version of “green eggs and ham.” On June 16th, James Joyce’s “Bloomsday,” we’ll rejoice with a trip to an Irish pub. On July 21st, we’ll celebrate Hemingway’s birthday with oysters, Pont-l’Évêque cheese, cold Sancerre, and a shot of rum for good measure. Of course, we will party on Hobbit Day, September 22nd (because hobbits know how to party) and on December 10th I shall bake a coconut cake (her favorite) in honor of Emily Dickenson’s birthday.

In the end, it doesn’t matter what you are celebrating. What matters is that you find things to celebrate, and remember to include others. Teach the young about the old traditions, and involve the old timers in creating new ones. Have fun. Take a break from the news, politics, and whatever other stresses you are dealing with day-to-day and enjoy yourself.

That’s what the world needs now. Fewer confrontations. More celebrations.

When the Yard Became a Skating Rink

Every January, my father would drag out our old stiff garden hose and turn it on until the backyard was flooded, moving the nozzle every so often to ensure the ice formed as evenly as possible. We didn’t have a Zamboni machine so the inevitable bumps and divots would form over tufts of grass and forgotten toys, but as soon as the ice was solid enough, we were hobbling out the door in our ice skates.

Word would spread quickly throughout our West Side neighborhood. Soon our yard was full of kids, some on skates, some just running and sliding over the ice in their rubber boots. A hockey game would start with old brooms and a ball. Mom would make mugs of hot cocoa with a marshmallow floating on top and offer a cup to whoever got cold.

When we were small, we wore double bladed “beginner skates,” lightweight things that would strap onto our boots. When we were good enough to graduate to “real” skates—the leather kind with a single blade—we felt like Hans Brinker, or in my case, his sister Gretel, after she won the famous canal race and the prized “silver skates.” On our homemade ice rink, we taught ourselves how to skate backwards, do a passable twirl, and come to a stop without falling. Later, when we were old enough to walk to the Front Park skating rink, those skills gave us an advantage when we played crack the whip or a cute boy would skate up and grab our mittened hand.

Thinking back, I acquired many useful skills on that childhood skating rink. I learned how to spot and maneuver around hidden obstacles. How to fall flat on my face, pick myself up, and keep on going like it never happened. How to make the most out of winter by thinking creatively and using what was at hand.   

Like many writers, I can’t help but think of winter and ice as a metaphor. Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Jack London, and more recently, George R.R. Martin of “Game of Thrones” fame, all wrote about winter from a range of perspectives. Some writers use ice to describe aloof personalities, others to signify the absence of love, still others as a destructive force not conducive to life, and winter as a season of death. A time to be feared.

Buffalonians, however, are a different breed. Wintry conditions comprise a good chunk of life in Buffalo, and I learned to think of winter, and the snow and ice that come with it, another way—as translucent, transforming, purifying, even spiritual. A calm respite before the boisterousness of spring.

I remember those first few steps on the ice, and how all five of my senses would snap awake. The shushing sound of blades on ice. The taste of snowflakes on my tongue. The metallic smell of freezing water and the sight of gorgeous patterns in the snow-rimmed ice. The exhilarating feel of the wind on my face as I rounded a turn and gathered speed. Winter was not “death” to us. It was a glorious time to be alive.

As I near the winter of my life, I try to remember that every season brings pleasure as well as hardship. I would like to embrace this new winter the way I did in my youth—as something with its own special beauty and opportunities for joy.

It Bit Me on the Rocks of Lake Erie

Lake Erie shoreline. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.

Several readers have put the question to me: “Moxie, your website says ‘A West Side Girl in the Big Wide World.’ We’ve heard about your West Side experiences. What’s this ‘Big Wide World’ stuff?” Fair enough. Living on the West Side of Buffalo shaped the outline of who I am. The big wide world has certainly filled in the details.

Since I left Buffalo, I’ve lived in four US states and a foreign capital, visited 45 countries and all 50 states. My most recent adventures were in Africa, where among other things, I caught a leopard (on camera) that was stalking me in the dark. On my journeys I’ve seen extreme poverty and extraordinary wealth, spectacular scenic beauty and tragic wastelands, humanity at its best and at its worst. Always, I keep a journal.

As a writer, my job is to look for and contemplate universal truths. A recent question I’ve been pondering is, what prompts a person to leave the comfort of their home to travel? What are we seeking on our sojourns, especially now when one can “travel” anywhere without leaving the couch, courtesy of the Internet? I’m not talking about annual beach vacations or trips to visit friends and family over the holidays. I am talking about traveling to distant lands that are culturally unfamiliar, sometimes uncomfortable, and not without risk. These are the places that tend to attract me because I’m a sucker for unexpected experiences, for the serendipitous surprise.

I think I can trace the day I was first bitten by the travel bug to a place just 20 miles south of Buffalo. I was about 11 years old. Each summer, our family would pile into the station wagon and head to our rented cottage in Angola, NY and a windswept beach nearby called Point Breeze. This particular summer, my cousin and I were allowed to leave the family beach blanket and walk a half mile up the beach by ourselves to a rocky outcropping we grandly called “the sea cliffs.”

From a distance we could see the waves crashing over the slate rocks, and on stormy days the spray would leap 20 feet in the air. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, we thought, to sit on those rocks and get splashed by that wild spray? We hurried along the pebbly beach as fast as our flip-flops would take us. We scrambled up the hill, and as soon as our parents were safely out of sight, climbed carefully down the embankment to where water met rock. We sat and waited for the spray. To our disappointment, the waves had settled down and lapped gently at the rocks below us. We inched our way down further. The waves came up around our ankles, so we scooted down another foot, and waited.

Whether the wind shifted or it was simply the normal fluctuation of the waves, I’ll never know. But the next wave that hit came up over our heads. I’ll never forget the force of the water as it pulled us into the lake and the somersaults we turned as the water churned us below the rocks. We came up coughing and gasping for air. I looked at my cousin as we treaded water—and we started laughing hysterically. “Let’s do it again!” we both said and climbed back onto the rocks.

How did that prompt my love for travel and adventure? I learned that day about the adrenaline rush of exploration, of taking risks, the electricity of finding yourself in danger, and the thrill, afterwards, of being alive. Why, if I could survive this, I could survive anything! Sitting on those rocks I would let my mind wander to the Wide World of Sports and the cliff divers in Mexico, then on to climbing the Great Pyramids of Giza, Machu Picchu, perhaps even Mount Everest. My 11-year-old self decided that nothing would stop me from doing what I wanted to do, as long as I didn’t let fear get in the way.

Sure, there have been a few downsides. I’ve been injured, sick, lost, robbed, and harassed on my travels, and survived a few scary plane flights. I’ve had to flee more than one burning building, wear a flak jacket on a road favored by terrorists, and hold my breath when a bus driver did a u-turn in front of six lanes of oncoming traffic. But oh, the stories I could tell!

The big wide world is a fabulous place that provides grist for the writer, a classroom for the intellectually curious, and cultural and culinary immersion for us rank sensualists. Not least of all, it gives us a better appreciation of home and the things we sometimes take for granted.

Do you have an interest in travel, dear reader? Do you remember when you were first bitten by the travel bug? If so, drop me a line. If there is enough interest, I’ll add a few travel blogs to my website.

Chestnut Time at the Armory

One of my favorite memories growing up in Buffalo was the annual trip my brothers and I would take each fall to collect chestnuts at the Connecticut Street Armory. At least, we thought they were chestnuts.

Continue reading “Chestnut Time at the Armory”

Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes

Don’t let the name Gardiner fool you—I had a Sicilian grandmother. She and my grandfather lived on the West Side of Buffalo in an upstairs flat with three small bedrooms and one bath. They had eight children (and adopted two more) who were likewise highly accomplished in producing offspring, so I shared my grandparents with 35 other grandchildren. For us, my grandparents were the center of the universe, and Nonni, as we called her, was the sun. Continue reading “Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes”

Chlorine, Hot Tar, and Baby Oil

What is more evocative than the heady smells of summer—a freshly mowed lawn, meats on the grill, fat little funnel cakes frying at the fair? For me, however, the smells of summer will be tied forever to the summers of my youth, and the pungent aromas of the Massachusetts Swimming Pool.

Continue reading “Chlorine, Hot Tar, and Baby Oil”

The Buffalo I Have Lost and Found

I went back to my hometown this summer to visit family and friends, and to do research for my nearly completed novel, set in Buffalo during the late 1960s. As is so often the case when I write stories, I learn things about myself in the process that surprise me. I discovered, for example, that I still love Buffalo with a fierceness usually reserved for my fellow human beings. So I started to wonder, how is love for a place different from love for a person? Am I simply feeling an aching nostalgia, or am I feeling something deeper, more profound? Continue reading “The Buffalo I Have Lost and Found”