Moxie Gardiner - A West Side Girl in the Big Wide World

The Fruits (and Veggies) of Our Labor

There are few things in life more rewarding than growing your own food—harvesting, cooking, and eating it being the exceptions. Yet these elemental skills are sadly diminishing in our modern world, where processed and packaged food is inexpensive to buy or quick and easy to prepare. Even those aware of the health risks associated with “fast” foods must often rely on large supermarket chains for their fresh produce, much of it flown in or shipped from around the world, its provenance unknown. For many years, I was one of these people.

At the beginning of the pandemic, however, I, like many, wanted to try my hand at growing more of my own food. I had grown flowers and vegetables as a hobby years for years, but in the winter of 2020, I decided to try to increase the size and scale of our garden, and grow enough produce to sustain our needs in that department all year round. As “mostly” vegetarians (with occasional supplemental protein from dairy and canned fish), this seemed like a doable goal for us, as long as we had enough canning jars and freezer space. We knew we could get milk, yogurt, and cheese from a local dairy, and eggs from a neighbor who raises chickens. And of course, we would still need to rely on the grocery store for coffee, tea, flour, sugar, condiments, and other basic staples, but the goal was to reduce the number of trips.

*Our seedlings thrive in a sunny window in late winter and early spring.* *All photos by Moxie Gardiner.*

Inspired by a wonderful book by Barbara Kingsolver[1], we decided to try to grow enough varieties of fruits and vegetables to continually harvest fresh produce from March until November, and then dip into our larder for canned and frozen produce from December through February. That first year, the winter was mild enough that we were harvesting greens like mustard, Swiss chard, spinach, and collards through those months too. As soon as the temperatures began to warm in spring, we planted herbs in pots, along with a “salad bar” of lettuces and mixed greens, that thrived on our deck in the cooler months.

There were some spectacular failures, of course, but we learned. Plant garlic in October, not in spring. Be careful where you plant horseradish because it will multiply and take over the garden. Figure out how to deal with hornworms, cabbage moth caterpillars, flea beetles, and slugs or they will destroy your young plants faster than the deer, rabbits, and raccoons.

*Tomatillos were a new experiment this year.*

We also learned that August is the month when we will truly see the fruits of our labor, and we need to be prepared for it. After several months of warm, sunny weather, everything needs to be harvested at once. Corn, peppers, eggplant, basil, onions, cucumbers, tomatillos, okra, potatoes, beans, cabbage, carrots, beets, turnips, and tomatoes are all ripe for the picking. The challenge becomes how to deal with all this fresh food before it spoils.

We eat well at this time of year, no question, but it is not possible to consume enough to keep up with August’s bounty. So we spend time each morning talking about what needs to be used that day, what we might want to swap or give away, and what we need to preserve or freeze and save for winter. And like any good offspring of a Sicilian grandmother, my first priority is always the tomatoes.

We order a dozen different varieties of tomato seed (there are always some that do poorly) in late fall and plant them in seed trays under grow lights on the first of March. The seedlings are ready to go into the ground around mid-May, and the first cherry tomatoes are ready to harvest in mid-July. By August, all twelve varieties are producing, and we are inundated with tomatoes. I swap some peppers and tomatoes with neighbors, thus supplementing what we grow with what we do not. This year I got figs, Persian cucumbers, amaranth, and purple grape tomatoes, in exchange.

*We grow different varieties of tomatoes that range from small and sweet to large and meaty*. *They come in different colors too.*

*How convenient it is for peppers, eggplant, and tomatoes to be ready at the same time!*

August and September meals are centered around what comes fresh out of the garden that day. We go to our list of favorite recipes and decide whether to prepare salsa, gazpacho, salsa verde (with tomatillos), ratatouille, chili, okra gumbo, eggplant parmesan, tomato-vegetable juice, caprese salad, tomato & cucumber salad, or even simple tomato & mayo sandwiches.

Whatever doesn’t make it quickly to the plate or pot, we try to freeze or can. Tomato basil soup, vegetable soup, pizza sauce, and my favorite—Italian sauce like grandma used to make—are all good options for cold-weather dinners. Sometimes we simply freeze tomatoes whole to be used in future dishes. Many other vegetables, once cleaned and diced, also freeze well. One of our favorite new freezer techniques is to prepare pesto (we grow plenty of basil), freeze it in ice cube trays, and then throw all the frozen cubes in a baggie until its time to pull out one or two and make a nice pasta with pesto on a winter’s night.

Is it possible to eat the food you grow and preserve, year round? We think the answer is yes. We’ve been through three growing seasons since March 2020. Each year we learn something new (and still make mistakes!) and the harvest gets better. On less than an acre of land, we now grow and enjoy 40 different kinds of vegetables and 10 types of fruit.

Plus there are other benefits to consider: we know our produce is not only fresh but grown organically and pesticide free. There are fewer shopping trips (and stops at the gas station!) and we also have a new hobby that gives us plenty of exercise, fresh air, and healthy food. What could be better than that?

*Tours of the garden are available at a reasonable sum!*

Do you grow your own food and/or try to eat locally? Do you have any tips or techniques to pass along? I would love to hear from you in the comments below.

[1] For a wonderful book on “A Year of Food Life,” read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, published by HarperCollins in 2007.

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

The Open Hearts and Gardens of Western New York

*During the month of July, nearly 100 gardens in the greater Buffalo-Niagara region are open to visitors.*
*_{All photos by Moxie Gardiner}*

The front of the house was very pretty, the flower border a vivid mix of colors and textures. I was admiring the understated, whimsical touches that added visual interest, while I waited for my sister who went ahead to scope out the back yard. She reappeared, motioning excitedly. “Come on,” she said, “the yard is going to blow you away.”

She was right. I walked down a shaded alleyway, chock-a-block with hostas, ferns, and other shade-loving plants, that opened onto a winding path through something akin to a magic forest. I was immediately reminded of one of my favorite books as a child—A Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Each twist in the path revealed a new surprise: a Koi pond here, miniature shrubs there, and a kaleidoscopic mix of flowers tucked in everywhere.

*“And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles”* –Frances Hodgson Burnett.

My sister and I were embarked on our annual sojourn through the stunning gardens of Western New York. Last year I wrote about Buffalo’s internationally known Garden Walk, a free tour of some 400 homes in the densely-packed neighborhoods of the older part of the city, and the awe I felt as a fellow horticulturalist and former Buffalonian, seeing how these marvelous bits of heaven had transformed once-blighted areas.

*What could be more relaxing* *than sitting amidst this loveliness and watching the sunset over Lake Erie?*

This year, however, we decided to explore gardens in the greater Buffalo-Niagara region, focusing on small towns like Clarence, Eden, Hamburg, and Lake View. Every Thursday and Friday throughout the month of July, some 100 additional homeowners outside the city open their properties to visitors.

These tours, while just as rewarding as Buffalo’s Garden Walk, had a very different vibe. The properties were much larger on the whole, and the landscapes more extensive. In some gardens, we were the only visitors. We had room to maneuver and the owners had time to stroll with us and answer our questions.

Gardening on a large property requires a whole different skill set. On a small property, it is possible to (somewhat affordably) pack in a lot of colorful annuals amongst the perennials for a big splash of wall-to-wall color. In these larger plots, the growers must figure out how fill up the space without spending a fortune. Some chose to have a unifying theme or a central feature like a pond to build around, while others create a series of mini-gardens, each with their own individual identity. I was consistently impressed with the artistry, creativity, and uniqueness of each garden I visited (as well as the homeowner’s ability to somehow keep out the deer and rabbits).

*“Flowers always make people better, happier, and more helpful; they are sunshine, food and medicine for the soul.”* *– Luther Burbank*

What all the gardens had in common, however, was the warm and hospitable welcome we received from the people who owned them. They were only too happy to answer our questions and offer suggestions. Many provided bottled water and other nourishment for visitors on these free tours, which made me wonder, what makes gardeners some of the most generous, openhearted people on the planet?

*This passionflower was* *a crowd favorite.*

I recently read an article entitled, Do You Have the Personality Traits of a Gardener?[1] It listed as desirable attributes: appreciation of nature, patience, drive, creativity, curiosity, hope, expectation, and kindness. Throughout my tours of these private spaces and visits with those who tended them, I found all of these qualities in evidence. But I believe the article missed the most important trait—humility.

All gardeners quickly learn that no matter how many tips and tricks you learn, or how much money you spend, you will always encounter failures, and at times, disastrous ones. Mother Nature is an independent woman who refuses to be controlled, so we have to learn to work with the good and the bad she has to offer. We learn and adapt, and adapt again.

*He who plants a garden plants happiness. – Chinese proverb*

We have all been humbled at one time or another, and so when we, hand-in-hand with Mother Nature, achieve a measure of success, we want to celebrate, and if we are lucky, inspire the next generation of openhearted gardeners who will experience the joys and sorrows of a beautiful garden, and share it with others.

Are you a gardener? Do you have a favorite garden that inspires you, or better yet, brings you joy or peace? Please share your stories in the comments below!

*“When the world wearies and society fails to satisfy, there is always the garden.” – Minnie Aumonier*

[1] To find out if you’ve got what it takes to be a gardener, see https://theheartygarden.com/gardening-personality-traits/.

For more information on the gardens and to plan your trip for next year, check out

https://www.gardensbuffaloniagara.com/open-gardens-buffalo

Gimme That Summer Lovin’

It’s hard to underestimate the impact of the long Buffalo winters on young romance.

As you know, faithful readers, I love to reminisce about the summer days of my Buffalo childhood, filled with daily trips to the neighborhood swimming pool, games of kickball in the street, and popsicles on the front steps when the sun dipped low over the Niagara River. But this month I’ve decided to write about summer memories of a different time of life, unique to Buffalo only in their intensity.

I’m speaking here of summer love.

*Come summertime, even the neighbors begin to look interesting…*

Yes, these steamy affairs happen everywhere, but it is difficult to underestimate the impact of the long Buffalo winters on romance. Gazing upon a potential love interest dressed in a sweater, jeans, parka, gloves and the obligatory Buffalo Bills knit beanie, does not exactly send the heart aflutter. Come summertime though (defined by some Buffalonians as temperatures above 40 degrees Fahrenheit) the clothes come off and the city comes alive.

*“Gimme some skin” took on a whole new meaning* *in summer.*

After about eight months of cold and gray, summer seems to happen almost overnight. All activity moves outside and suddenly there are people everywhere. Seeing all that flesh after so many months of bundled up darkness makes the heart race, the palms sweat, the hormones jump, and, well, you know the rest.

When I was a young teenager, our social scene was at the Massachusetts Swimming Pool. We would bring our transistor radios, lay our towels by the pool, get the juices flowing listening to songs like “Wild Thing” by the Troggs and “Hello I Love You” by the Doors, and dream of being dunked by the hunky guys who actually had chest hair at age 15 (in our ethnic neighborhood, we were blessed with more than our fair share of these fine specimens). I swear that summertime smell of suntan lotion, chlorine, and warm concrete had an aphrodisiac effect on our young libidos. (If I could figure out a way to bottle that smell, wouldn’t I make a fortune?) Add to that the shirtless guys playing basketball next to the pool and there is little wonder summer “attractions” happened quickly, and frequently.

*Sometimes the flirting could get outrageous.*

Once in college, the mating scene moved to beach parties by the lake, picnics in Delaware Park, outdoor concerts, and when we reached legal drinking age, to any one of Buffalo’s many bars. If you had no luck by 4 am when the bars closed, you could always try again at a late-night food stop like the Mighty Taco (although the morning after might be even more embarrassing after a few bean burritos).

Yes, the summers are “hot” in Buffalo, but as songs, movies, and TV shows affirm, summer flings (the kind that “don’t mean a thing,” as they sing in “Grease”) are a phenomenon everywhere. So I wondered if there was something more than cold winters that prompt this, i.e., a scientific reason why people are so attracted to each other during the summer months.

*Didn’t the guy with the guitar always get the girls?*

It appears there is. Scientists say that when skin is exposed to more sunlight, our bodies produce dopamine, serotonin, and MSH (sometimes called the “happy hormones”). Warm weather apparently tells our mammalian bodies that our period of hibernation is over, to move outdoors, and as the blood quickens, to start searching for ways to sate our appetites. The visual stimulation of summer, of course, cannot be overlooked. Meeting someone on a beach in a bikini, or jogging shirtless and sweaty in the park, is more likely to lead to amorous arousal than working on a term paper in the cold Buff State library.

*Yes, you can find your forever love while riding mopeds together to the beach.*

Do summer romances ever last? Well, that depends. If you find that you are attracted to more than your love interest’s bronzed body, that you enjoy talking to each other as much as, um, other things, then yes, they can last. But until you see your summer sweetheart looking up at you lovingly, in that parka and Buffalo Bills cap while shoveling snow, I wouldn’t make any commitments.

Have you ever had a summer love? Did it last? I would love to hear from you in the comment section, below.

The Healing Powers of Nature

For those who might be seeking to deal with grief in a manner both healthy and spiritual, here are ways nature can help you ease the pain.

I almost decided not to write a blog this month. I have been weighed down by grief, both personal and collective, so profound that I’ve found it hard to find the spark of creativity it takes to write these short essays. But write I must, if for no other reason than to process through these feelings. I do not intend to delve into politics or policy solutions here. There are other venues for that.

*Forest bathing. Photos copyright @ Moxie Gardiner.*

I am not alone in my sadness, of course. There are families and extended families and friends of those families, grieving the loss of innocents murdered while grocery shopping, watching a movie in school, or having the misfortune to live in a city close to a war zone. There are times when my faith in humanity abandons me.

When that happens, I turn to nature for guidance on how the world should work. How to live life in harmony with my surroundings. How to evolve and adapt to new challenges. How to heal from whatever injuries or losses one might suffer. I cannot solve the problem of man’s inhumanity to man, but I can observe the natural world’s daily efforts to achieve beauty, balance, and peaceful co-existence.

This month my heart goes out to my fellow Buffalonians, both current and former, who are dealing with the ramifications of a senseless act we had hoped our beloved city would never have to endure. For those who might be seeking a way to deal with their grief in a manner that is both healthy and spiritual, here are 10 simple ways nature can help you ease the pain:

*Few sounds are more soothing than rain falling on puddles.*

Take a walk in the rain. A gentle rain is the world’s way of sharing its tears with you. Weep with it, and when the sky clears and the sun comes out, look for the rainbows.

Listen to the birds. Birds express themselves through song. Listen to the mournful tune of the white throated sparrow or the joyful sounds of the cardinal to help you come to terms with your own emotions.

Appreciate the pollinators. Pollinators like birds, bats, bees, and butterflies are key to the cycle of life. More than a third of all human food is the result of their hard work and determination. Watch them to be reminded of how focused activity can help distract a troubled mind.

Bathe in a forest. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku and believe that simply walking in a wooded setting can lower stress, lessen depression, and ease the sorrow related to grief. By inhaling oxygen and the other compounds released by trees and plants, one can reap the benefits of aromatherapy, for free.

Sit by the water. Grief, like water, ebbs and flows. Some days it will crash against you like the waves of Lake Erie, at other times it will murmur in the background like a sleepy creek. Find a good spot near your favorite body of water and contemplate its ever-changing sights and sounds.

Honor the beauty of flowers. Perhaps because we know their life is short and beauty fleeting, most people love flowers. Flowers in the wild, though, have a special purpose, attracting pollinators, removing toxins, absorbing carbon dioxide, and producing oxygen. Always stop and appreciate a wildflower in the full glory of its short but important life.

*The joy of watching life begin from a tiny seed.*

Watch something grow from seed. There is nothing quite so fulfilling as to watch life unfold from start to finish. Observe that when a plant dies, it leaves behind its seeds to begin life anew. Little in life, it reminds us, is final.

Stare at the stars. It helps to remember there are forces at work greater than ourselves, and that each of us have our time and place in the unfolding of the cosmos.

*Get low to the ground like a child and you’ll be surprised by what you see.* *Can you spot the spider?*

Observe nature with the eyes of a child. Look at the world around you as if for the first time. Get down on the ground, dig in the dirt, watch a bug crawl. If you have a child in your life to appreciate nature with, so much the better.

Never miss a sunset. I needn’t explain the symbolism of the dramatic splash of color that ends our days—or begins the next one. If time is the great healer of a grieving heart, getting from sunrise to sunset and back again is our primary goal, until the world makes sense again.

There is no need to travel to national parks or far off places to experience the healing power of nature. (Although if you do get that opportunity, take it). Most people can enjoy the benefits I describe within a long walk or short drive from their home. This summer, try one or all of the above. If you are grieving, I hope it helps you.

What do you appreciate about nature? Do you ever turn to the natural world for solace? I would love to hear your reaction to this piece, in the comments below.

Paying Homage to Poland, Pussy Willows, and Dyngus Day

People all over western New York are embracing the “spirit of Polonia,” even if for only a day.

Let me begin by saying that Poland has been on my mind lately. As I read news reports of millions of Ukrainians crossing the Polish border to escape the conflict with Russia, I cannot help but be impressed by how Poland, a relatively small country with about a tenth of the US’ population, has welcomed the refugees with open arms.[1] What is it about the Polish people, I wondered, that inspires this kind of largesse?

*Even a West Sider can appreciate pierogi.*

Growing up in a city like Buffalo, which once boasted one of the largest Polish communities in the world outside of Warsaw, I was familiar with Polish sausage and pierogi. But beyond Polish food, those of us who grew up on the Sicilian West Side when I did, knew little about our East Side neighbors. I decided that the next time I went back, I would explore “Old Polonia,” one of Buffalo’s “cities within a city,” to see what I could learn about the Polish diaspora, and I did so at a most opportune time—Easter weekend.

The place to begin, of course, is the historic Broadway Market at the crossroads of Old Polonia, on the Saturday before Easter.[2] The market, with its fresh produce and flowers, meat and deli counters, and distinctly Polish cultural products, has remained more or less the same as it was when it was established in 1888. At 8 am, the parking lot was already full, and we followed a cheerful but determined crowd down the escalator and into the heart of the teeming market.

The first thing I noticed were huge signs advertising Dyngus Day (more about that later) a uniquely Polish-American holiday held on the Monday after Easter. The second thing I noticed was a jostling mob, elbowing its way toward a certain deli counter. I was curious about what they were trying to buy. Pierogi? Kielbasa? No, they were trying to buy an Easter butter lamb before they all ran out. I watched a triumphant woman buy the last one from that vendor, while others walked away disappointed. It was not yet 8:30 am.

Freshly made butter lambs, I’ve come to find out, have become the centerpiece of many Easter dinner tables. According to Food and Wine magazine, the tradition originated in Central and Eastern Europe, and made its way to America with Catholic immigrants.[3] Apparently, Polish-Americans still call the butter lamb by its Polish name, baranek wielkanocny.

I followed my nose through the rest of the market, to stalls selling pierogi, kielbasa, czarnina soup and freshly grated horseradish. I chatted with a number of the proprietors, and asked about the crowns of colorful ribbons, red and white t-shirts, traditional Polish costumes, and “pussy willow passes” being sold in anticipation of Dyngus Day. “In Poland, do they always celebrate Dyngus Day on the Monday after Easter?” I asked one lady dressed in red and white from head to toe. She laughed. “I doubt anyone in Poland has ever heard of Dyngus Day. We invented it here in America, based on some very old Polish traditions.”

Dyngus Day, I’ve learned, celebrates the end of Lent, the Easter holiday, and the joy of the coming spring. It builds on an old tradition of farm boys in Poland who wanted to attract the attention of certain girls come springtime, and did so by sprinkling them with water and hitting them on the legs with pussy willows.[4] Pussy Willows and water are a central part of the Dyngus Day festivities today.

*Neither snow nor sleet can put a damper on the Dyngus Day parade. Photo courtesy of Steve Dlugosz* *and the Buffalo Rocket newspaper.*

According to organizers, Buffalo is now the official Dyngus Day capital of the World, and the Dyngus Day parade has become its main attraction. What began as a tribute to an old Polish tradition is now a huge event featuring polka dancing, bands, and authentic Polish food and drink, as well as the parade. Attendance in 2019 was estimated at over 100,000, making it one of the largest one-day ethnic festivals in North America.

Why, you might ask, are Polish-Americans embracing their roots and cultural heritage to a degree not seen since the late 1800s when thousands of Polish immigrants poured into places like Buffalo, hoping to work in the steel mills and slaughterhouses, and provide a fresh start for their families? And what did I learn about the Polish people that might explain why they have welcomed more than 2 million Ukrainians into their country with open arms, fed and clothed them, and helped them find jobs?

I was reminded that the Polish people have not forgotten what it is like to have their country occupied, to live as refugees, and to try to survive under terrible conditions. One Dyngus Day organizer, Eddy Dobosiewicz, writes that “the spirit of Polonia was and always will be at the forefront of humanity’s desire for freedom and liberty.” That “insatiable thirst for freedom,” he says, “is part of our Slavic DNA.”[5]

And so the Polish people, who deeply appreciate their freedom and those who helped them achieve it, pay it forward.

How wonderful it is that the celebration of Dyngus Day is spreading across western New York and indeed the rest of our country, and that people here are embracing the “spirit of Polonia,” even if for only a day. Are you Polish-American? What stories do you have to share? I would love to hear from you, in the comments below.

[1] According to npr.org, Poland enacted a law last month allowing Ukrainians to legally live and work in Poland for at least 18 months, with the option to extend. About a quarter of the refugees have already found jobs. See https://www.npr.org/2022/04/06/1090902301/ukraine-refugees-poland-krakow#:~:text=More%20than%202%20million%20Ukrainians,with%20the%20option%20to%20extend.

[2] FYI, there is now an “Old Polonia Trail” map that can be found online.

[3] https://www.foodandwine.com/news/easter-butter-lamb-meaning

[4] Everything you ever wanted to know about Dyngus Day can be found on dyngusday.com.

[5] Quoted from an “eddytorial” by Eddy Dobosiewicz in the Dyngus Day Guide.

The Wondrous World of Weird Museums

Do you believe in the “usefulness of useless knowledge”?

Did you know that the kazoo is the only musical instrument originally made in America? Are you aware that war reporter Ernie Pyle once noted that the Zippo Lighter is “the most coveted thing on the battlefield”? Or that Peter Cooper, founder of the Cooper Union in New York City and the oldest presidential candidate in history (he was 85) now has a landfill Superfund site in western New York named after him?

*Everything you ever wanted to know about kazoos is right there on the wall. All photos by Moxie Gardiner.*

Welcome to the world of odd facts and intriguing curiosities, a world that I, as a writer, love to explore. I enjoy learning obscure details, so much so that I have made a practice of visiting small, eclectic, and often overlooked museums all over the world.

It is true that I have explored the many halls of the Smithsonian; the great museums of London, New York, and Madrid; and the historic homes of many US presidents. But how many can say they have learned the fascinating factoids mentioned above in several quirky museums just outside of Buffalo?

*The Kazoo Factory: the place where every metal kazoo in the world is made.*

The Kazoo Factory and Gift Shop in the small town of Eden, NY, for example, established in 1907, has a wall of kazoo trivia right next to the 18 punch presses used to make kazoos of all shapes and sizes (it is the only metal kazoo factory in the world). Not only did I learn that there are some 15,000 kazoo bands in the United States, I was gobsmacked to find that a kazoo was used in Leonard Bernstein’s famous theater number composed for the dedication of the Kennedy Center!

Just south of Eden lies the small town of Langford, NY, home of the Langford Steam and Mechanical Exhibit, which showcases rail cars, tractors, and gas and steam engines from Buffalo’s industrial past. I was most intrigued by the wheel from the Peter Cooper Glue Factory of nearby Gowanda, NY which led me to do more research on Cooper and his mixed legacy.

*It is impossible to drive by the Langford Steam and Mechanical Exhibit without stopping to take a look. The flywheel from the Peter Cooper Glue Factory is front and center.*

*The Zippo Lighter museum has lots to offer the casual visitor as well as the collector.*

Continuing south, just below New York state’s southern border with Pennsylvania, is Bradford, home of the Zippo Lighter Factory and Museum. Unlike the more modest museums mentioned above, the Zippo Museum had the glamour and pizzazz (and gift shop) of a Hard Rock Café. Nonetheless, it was filled with well-curated displays and minutiae about the history of these lighters. Not only did I learn the role Zippo Lighters played on the battlefield, but also in classic movies, rock and roll (ever hear of the Zippo Encore Moment?) and Nascar races. I also got to see the famous Zippo clinic, where any malfunctioning Zippo lighter is fixed for free.

*No matter what the condition of your lighter, Zippo will fix it for free in its clinic.*

*Who* *hasn’t witnessed a sea of Zippo lighters calling for an encore from a favorite band?*

Yes, I am writer who revels in unusual details, but why, I asked myself, would others be attracted to these museums? Well, I have a few theories:

Museums like this appeal to our sense of whimsy, that is, our more childlike and playful nature. I had a lot of fun making my first kazoo (almost as much fun as the entire day I spent in the Strong National Museum of Play in Rochester, NY, as an adult!).
These museums provide an unusual perspective on history, allowing our creative brains to make connections among things seemingly unrelated (World War II and Zippo lighters, for example).
They are a mecca for collectors, hobbyists, and dealers. I read about a man in Scotland who owns over a 1,000 different Zippo lighters. I feel certain he has been to Bradford.
They are fodder for trivia buffs and those with insatiable intellectual curiosity, and
They are run and operated by people who are invariably welcoming and enthused about entertaining visitors. Their pride in their artifacts and displays is quite contagious, making for a very personal and enjoyable experience.

*Who wouldn’t have fun making their own kazoo?*

I am a fan of Abraham Flexner, author of a wonderful article that first appeared in Harper’s magazine in 1939 called the “Usefulness of Useless Knowledge,” recently republished as a book. In it, Flexner asks whether “our conception of what is useful [knowledge] may not have become too narrow to be adequate to the roaming and capricious possibilities of the human spirit.” Indeed. For those of us with roaming and capricious spirits, no knowledge is ever useless, or ever enough.

Do you have a fondness for the odd and unusual? Do you have a quirky little museum you’d like to recommend? Please share in the comments below!

*Next on my list of places to visit are the Jello Museum in Le Roy, NY, the Lilydale Museum of Spiritualism in Lilydale, NY, and the Penn Brad Oil Museum,* *south of Bradford, PA.*

I Got Slimed by a Whale (and Loved It)

I have been fascinated by whales since I read the Classics Illustrated comic book version of Moby Dick in the fourth grade. (I was rooting for the whale.) But for most of my life, wherever I went hoping to observe one of these magnificent marine mammals, they managed to elude me.

I went on a whale watching trip off the coast of Nova Scotia once, and saw—nothing. A similar experience in Alaska gave me a brief glimpse of a couple of humpbacks off in the distance, too far away to even snap a decent photo. I ventured off to Hawaii, Maine, Cape Cod, and British Columbia, hoping to hear the siren song of a whale, only to leave disappointed. “You can’t expect wild creatures to perform on cue,” the captains of the whale-watching tour ships would say.

*A friendly whale comes to say hello. Photo courtesy of B. Dadam*. *All other photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner.*

Imagine my euphoria then, when a whale came up to my Zodiac boat off the coast of Baja California Sur earlier this month, and allowed me to touch it, pat its head, and run my hand gently over its barnacles. It was a moment of pure bliss.

Allow me to explain. Every year between the months of January and April, over 20,000 California gray whales make the 5,000-mile journey from the frigid waters of the Bering Sea to the warm waters of Magdalena Bay off the coast of Mexico, to frolic, mate, and give birth to their young. Think of it as a kind of Mexican resort for whales.

*The barnacles on gray whales are host-specific, and not found on other whale species.*

Some fifty years ago, fishermen in the small “panga” boats that ply these waters began to notice that the whales seemed to enjoy interacting with people. I had heard tales of friendly whales from a friend at the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, but figured the chance of a face-to-face encounter with a whale was unlikely, given my past experience. Nonetheless, I was willing to try.

I did have a moment of introspection, however, before I signed up for this trip, sponsored by Washington & Lee University. Why, I asked myself, is the idea of a personal encounter with this wild, almost mythical creature so alluring? Is talking to the whales even the right thing to do? Wouldn’t this interaction make whales more trusting of people, when, given the dubious history of whaling, trust is perhaps not well-deserved?

When the opportunity to go on a National Geographic Expedition ship to commune with the whales arose, I could not pass it up. Not only was there a chance I would see a whale up close and personal, but I would also have the opportunity to discuss the whales and the behaviors I was observing with NatGeo photographers, naturalists, and undersea experts. I could learn some photography tips to boot.

*The whales would spy hop, raising their rostrum slowly out of the water, as if to sniff the air.*

I was not disappointed. The very first morning we went out in the pangas, we saw our first gray whales—lots of them. We saw whales showing off, “spy hopping” and doing their “Great White shark imitation,” and several came right alongside the boat. I reached for one, but missed by inches. I was elated, thinking that was as close as I would come.

Over the next several days we saw dozens of whales, to include mother whales with their darling, 2,000-pound newborn babies. The mothers were protective of their little ones, however, and kept their distance from our boats, much to our disappointment.

*Although a passable imitation of a Great White shark, this whale is actually showing us part of its tail.*

On the last trip of the last day, however, we headed out in Zodiac boats and hit the jackpot. A very friendly whale decided to hang out with us for quite a while.

She came up underneath our boat and gently rubbed her head along the bottom of it (she could have easily upended us, but she didn’t). She surfaced, deliberately poking her rostrum (nose) out of the water so we could touch her, and as I reached I nearly fell out of the boat. I ran my hand lovingly along her skin, which felt for the most part like a wet eggplant (as the NatGeo guides like to say) except for the barnacles. I lingered as long as I could. Connecting so intimately with this awe-inspiring cetacean was the thrill of a lifetime.

*Her skin felt like a smooth, wet eggplant.*

The whale seemed to be enjoying herself, and after a while, our guide said “we need to stop hogging the whale and let others have a turn.” He started the small engine and she turned, and by way of parting, sent up a huge geyser of water (called a whale blow). It quickly became obvious that it wasn’t just water. It was more like the whale was blowing its nose, sending up a spray filled with mucus and oil. My companions and I looked at each other and laughed. We were covered in slime and loving it.

*The whale seemed to like rubbing its head under the bottom of the Zodiac boat.*

*Many of us got to see a “whale blow,” up close and personal.*

What is it about interacting with a wild creature that makes it such a magical, memorable experience? Perhaps it is because we know these encounters require a great deal of trust between human and animal. It is hard to imagine why they would be drawn to us, and of what benefit it might be to them. Maybe we will never know and it is the mystery of it that captures our imagination. All I know is that my moment of personal connection with a whale was a great honor. I can only hope she felt the same.

Do you have a fondness for whales? Would you enjoy an experience like this? Have you had a similar experience with another wild creature? I would love to hear your stories in the comment section, 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.

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.

[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.

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