I have a friend named Omar who paints houses. He also happens to have only one arm. He fell out of a tree when he was a child in his native Honduras, and his family didn’t have the money to have it fixed. Gangrene set in, and he had it amputated above the elbow. The first time we met him he was carrying a ladder under his left arm and a can of paint in his left hand. He wore no prosthesis where his right arm had been, but he was walking down the street smiling, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
I have always admired Omar for his tenacity and cheerful demeanor, but my respect for him has recently gone up several notches. Last Thursday, I fell and broke my right wrist and now have the use of only one hand. Believe me, it is a humbling experience, especially at Christmas time.
Everything is harder. Try rolling pie crust with one hand!
Think about it. Wrapping gifts with one hand? Very difficult. Rolling out cookie dough or pie crust? Impossible. Cutting anything harder than butter? Forget it. Writing Christmas cards? Opening jars of jelly and jam? Putting frosting on the cake? Peeling a Clementine? Cracking a walnut? Even unwrapping Christmas gifts isn’t easy. I might have started feeling sorry for myself if I didn’t have a role model like my friend, Omar the painter.
So I set about learning how to do things with my left hand. Basic hygiene was a priority. I figured out how to put the toothpaste on the toothbrush while holding the end of the brush in my teeth. I figured out how to squirt the exact amount of shampoo on my head without looking. Writing was the next hurdle. Typing with just my left hand is slow, but I’m getting used to it, and I discovered I could write my blog using voice recognition technology on my iPad. It also helps to have an angel for a husband who is there to cook and drive me places, since I won’t be doing those things by myself for a while.
With a few days of practice, I’ve already gotten better at writing with my left hand!
The best thing to come out of this experience is the dawning recognition of how lucky I am to be of sound mind and (somewhat) sound body at my age. I am glad I had this reminder of how quickly life can change in an instant, and the importance of so many things we take for granted.
This Christmas, I will raise an eggnog toast with my good left hand to Omar, and to all the people who face far more serious challenges every day with more grace and dignity than I will ever have. And if you see a clumsy lady trying to shovel snow with just her left hand, that might be me.
When I go home to Buffalo, I never pass up an opportunity to visit my old neighborhood on the Upper West Side. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.
Several times a year, I head home to Buffalo to visit friends and family and reconnect with my past. When I do, I never pass up an opportunity to visit my old neighborhood on the Upper West Side.
I still have friends there. Some live in the houses where they grew up, others remain in homes where they raised their children. Still others left when Buffalo hit its nadir in the late 1970s, only to return in the past 20 years as the city regained its footing.
Boarded-up Spark’s Dairy, circa 1970. Photo by Moxie Gardiner
Yes, the street where I grew up has changed. Our old house looks
smaller than I remember, and the length of our block, the one I raced down on
the way home from school, seems so much shorter. There isn’t an Italian grocery
store within walking distance, and my old elementary school and church,
Nativity of the Blessed Virgin May, closed its doors some years ago. But lest
you think I’m one of the old timers about to bemoan the loss of the West Side
of my youth, let me quickly say this:
I love the New West Side.
New residents of the West Side settle into work and school. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.
When I visit, I find a neighborhood just as lively and interesting as the one where I grew up. My old school, Nativity, is now owned by Catholic Charities, a social services organization which helps refugees resettle into new homes. The staff who work there teach English and assist the refugees in looking for jobs or starting micro-businesses. They provide services not all that different from Catholic Charities’ original mission back in 1910, when they helped Sicilians and other immigrants do the same. I’ve talked to the new students who attend classes at the old Nativity, and they are thrilled to be living in their new, my old, neighborhood.
Some of the front lawns on my street, once filled with crabgrass and opportunistic weeds, have been replaced with environmentally-friendly vegetable gardens—there is one next door to where I lived. Photo courtesy of Doreen Regan.
The old dairy has new life. Photo courtesy of Doreen Regan.
The abandoned dairy across the street is now a Bohemian-looking apartment building. The garbage-strewn “Triangle” as we called it, where 15th, Massachussetts, and West Utica streets meet, is now a pretty little garden with benches where dog walkers can sit.
Grant Street, where we shopped for everything from shoes to groceries, is vibrant again with old stores like Zarcone’s Meat Market being bought and run by a young couple named Moriarity who sell specialized cuts of locally raised meat. Next door to the meat market is the West Side Bazaar where you can stop in for lunch and sample food from many nations.
Remedy House, an upscale cafe, serves great coffee. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.
The new Five Points Bakery on Brayton Street. Photo by Moxie Gardiner
Two blocks down and two blocks over from where I lived is an up-and-coming area called Five Points. There is a fabulous bakery there, as well as a wine shop, garden shop, clothing store, and a café with really good coffee.
West Side flower garden. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.
As a writer, I was thrilled to learn that every year, one of Buffalo’s “Reading Invasions” sets up in front of the Five Points Bakery, with people of all ages gathering to relax on chairs and blankets and read on the bakery’s lawn. (I want to go next year!)
And as a gardener, I am as proud as can be of the exquisite West Side gardens I saw on Buffalo’s Annual Garden Walk, reported to be the largest garden tour in North America. I tend to admire gardens wherever I travel, and the gardens I saw gracing the old Victorian homes that still dot the West Side are second to none.
The micro-business West Side Bazaar sells food and clothing from many nations. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.
No, this isn’t the West Side where I grew up, but as the late, great singer/songwriter Sam Cooke once observed, “Change is gonna come.” I have learned I can still love my old West Side and embrace the new. I can choose to focus on the crime, empty lots, and blighted houses that still exist in pockets, or I can shift my lens to the new immigrants, recent college grads, and young couples buying first homes, who imbue the new West Side with an energy and enthusiasm business investors and entrepreneurs are beginning to notice. It’s just a matter of time before the West Side is the best side, once again.
What do you love about the place where you grew up? Has it changed with the times? I would love to read and respond to 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, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.
I am headed to Valledolmo and Montemaggiore Belsito in Sicily, to learn more about my great grandparents.
In October, I along with countless others will head to
Sicily in search of my roots. The recent popularity of DNA testing has spurred
renewed interest in finding one’s ancestors, and I decided that this year, I too,
would walk in the footsteps of my forebears on a journey of self-discovery.
Hah. For me, that was easier said than done. The first challenge
was figuring out where to go.
You see, like many people born in the melting pot that is, and was, the West Side of Buffalo, I am of mixed heritage. My paternal grandmother, a full-blooded Sicilian, was a significant influence in my early life so naturally I gravitated to Sicily.
Some were scandalized when my Sicilian grandmother married my Irish grandfather!
But what about my other ancestors? My Sicilian grandma married an Irishman. My maternal grandfather was born in Hungary. His parents were born in Switzerland and my grandmother’s people were German. The DNA tests also showed some surprises, like ancestors from France, England, and even Northern Africa, (not all that surprising if you know the history and geography of Sicily). Therefore, if I were a dog, I’d be what they call a “mixed breed,” or less politely, a “mutt.”
Grandpa John was born in Hungary
What’s a girl to do? I’d run out of money before I’d be able
to take that kind of ancestry tour.
Which made me wonder, what are we really looking for when we search our roots? What is it we think we’ll
learn? Certainly, it would be helpful to know if we have a predisposition
toward certain illnesses or behaviors. For example, is my anxiety something
prompted by today’s environment, or is it simply part of my genealogical
makeup?
For many, I believe an ancestry quest is something more
profound. It is an attempt to answer that essential, existential question—who am
I—to know where you came from, and who gave you the characteristics that
distinguish you from billions of others, that make you unique. How rewarding it
is to find your place on a family tree that is part of humanity’s great forest.
Furthermore, we gardeners know that the strength and health of a plant’s roots
are essential to its ability to thrive.
I solved my personal dilemma by focusing this upcoming trip
on the homelands of my father’s people—Sicily and Ireland—two small islands
surrounded by vast, daunting seas. I want to learn something about why so many tempted
fate and left, and if they found what they were seeking. I hope to find
long-lost relatives who will help me understand.
Great Grandparents Elisabeth and Anton were Swiss
I know that all my ancestors who came from disparate lands
to settle in Buffalo did have things in common. They came from impoverished
circumstances in hopes of making a better life for themselves and their
children. And like many immigrants, they were met with suspicion and
intolerance from the people who arrived before them. The English resented the Germans,
the Germans disliked the Irish, and the Irish despised the Sicilians. We
sometimes forget that prejudice exists within races, as much as it does between
them.
Great-great Grandma Mary was born in Ireland during the famine
It is an indisputable fact that we are a nation of immigrants. Immigrants learn that how warmly they are welcomed in their new home is a matter of timing and numbers. In our 200- plus-years of history as a nation, the US has accommodated great waves of poor immigrants many times. They came unskilled, spoke little if any English, and often required government assistance. Many times as a nation we have feared there were too many of them. However, we need to remember that immigrants also bring something our country, any country, always needs: an infusion of new blood, strong backs, determination, ambition, and dreams. Just like our ancestors.
Our vet once told us that dogs with “hybrid vigor” live the
longest, healthiest lives. Armed with new DNA research, I am joyfully embracing
my mixed heritage, my chance at longevity, and my future opportunities to travel
to all the homes of my immigrant ancestors, to pay homage to those who made me,
uniquely me.
Have you taken a DNA test yet? If so, why did you take it
and what were you hoping to find? I would love to know where my readers stand.
Please send me your stories! I promise to include them in the comments.
Four years ago, when I decided to write a novel set in Buffalo, I did the worst thing I could possibly do. I looked up “what it takes to write a novel” on the Internet. I did not find loads of encouragement. Continue reading “So You Think You’d Like to Write a Book…”
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”
I am a gardener. And I’m a writer. So naturally, every day from 9 to 5, I am wracked with guilt and mild self-loathing. When I am outside in the garden, I feel guilty that I am not at my desk, butt-in-chair, working on my next blog or novel. When I’m at my desk, I wonder what kind of idiot willingly sits in a dark basement on a beautiful gardening day. Continue reading “What I Learned About Writing from a Tomato”
No, it’s not the name I was given at birth. It was bestowed upon me late one night after a drinking contest in a bar…but that’s a story for another day. Suffice it to say it is the name I prefer to be called.
Here are a few things you should know about me before you decide whether it is worth taking the time to read my blog. I’m a writer and a dreamer. A Master Gardener and a schemer. I like the smell of warm wood and the sound of insects in the evening. I like island nations that cruise lines don’t visit, and the underbellies of airplanes when they fly over the setting sun. I cry when I hear music played in a minor key, or the song of the white-throated sparrow. I love cannoli, limoncello, and snow.
At one point in my life I wrote over 100 speeches. At another I published dozens of magazine articles. I never look at any of them, but I do enjoy perusing the 27 personal journals I have tucked away in an old steamer trunk. Most recently, I’ve written a novel about growing up on the West Side of Buffalo. Unfortunately, it makes me homesick every time I read it.
So reader, beware. My mind flits about like a honeybee in early spring, so there is no telling what I might blog about. I will try my best not to waste your time.
