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.

The last little butter lamb to go…

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?

Scenes from the Broadway Market

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.  

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.

[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.

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.

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.

A tail of a whale.
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 6th grade who told me, after seeing all “A’s” on my report card, “No guy will ever want to go out with you”). We all wore the same boring black uniforms, so no one got to be “cool,” based on how they dressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry West Side Christmas

Grandma was happiest surrounded by loved ones on Christmas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It seems that we often had White Christmases back in the day, and waited impatiently for Dad to clean the snow off the car before we headed to Grandma’s.
Santa often stayed up until the wee hours, putting toys, trains, and games together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love to all, Moxie

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.

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.

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 Dog Chapel

Have you ever lost a beloved pet and wished for a place to grieve?

On a leafy hill near the shire of St. Johnsbury in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, is a unique place of silent reflection and remembrance. Known as the Dog Chapel, it is one of several buildings on Dog Mountain celebrating man’s best friend.

Canine companions can enjoy a swim in the pond, surrounded by autumnal beauty.
Dogs are free to roam on Dog Mountain.

The brainchild of the late folk artist and author Stephen Huneck and his wife Gwen, Dog Mountain is a 150-acre woodland playground for dogs and their people, complete with swimming ponds, trails, an agility course, wildflower meadows, and beautiful vistas. Dogs are encouraged to romp unleashed wherever they wish, and as the website for Dog Mountain proclaims, “Dogs are not just welcome here, they are cherished.”[1]

Huneck’s artwork and his books are on display at the Art Gallery on Dog Mountain, but though I found the gallery intriguing, my primary destination was the chapel.

Created in 2000, the Dog Chapel was introduced to the world as a “symbol of peace, love and remembrance.” But in the 20 years since, it has been transformed by thousands of visitors into a living memorial, where grief for a beloved pet can be fully expressed without embarrassment. I wanted to be among that number.

Huneck’s whimsical folk art is displayed throughout the art gallery.

My story also starts in the year 2000, when my children and I found a bag of eight newborn puppies, thrown into an empty dog food bag and tossed into the woods. We were all crying, along with the puppies, when we brought the bag home to show my husband, and soon learned upon calling our vet, that they were not likely to survive the night unless we acted as a substitute for their missing mother. This meant, among other things, maintaining their body temperature by keeping them near milk jugs filled with warm water, feeding them with an eye dropper, and regularly wiping their hind ends with wet cotton balls (who knew mother dogs did this?) to get them to go potty. It was like taking care of octuplets.

We lost two of them early on, but six survived their first eight weeks. When they reached an adoptable age we faced a terrible dilemma: which of the six were we willing to give up? We had each bonded to one or more of them, and after days of deliberation and more tears, we finally reached a decision. We would keep them all.

I could fill this page with stories about what it is like to raise two children, three cats, and six dogs (which necessitated a move to a bigger house, naturally) but I will simply say that I would not change a minute of it. Many a night, after a long, difficult day at work, I would lay down on the floor and let myself be covered in dog snuggles and kisses. They provided me with plenty of exercise (walking six at once proved an impossibility), scared away more than one would-be intruder, and filled my life with unconditional love, as well as laughter.

The walls of Dog Chapel are covered from floor to ceiling with tributes to beloved pets.

Anyone who has ever loved a dog will tell you how unfair it is that their lives are so much shorter than ours. Imagine then, the serious downside of loving six dogs born at the same time with the same genetic history. Our six all passed away over the space of three years, and when the last one died in my arms at the ripe old age of 15, I could not focus or concentrate. I doubted I would ever overcome this monumental sense of loss, and feared I would never love another dog again.

So when I read about the Dog Chapel, I knew it was a place I needed to go. Once inside the quiet chapel, I was both stunned and overwhelmed. Every wall from floor to ceiling was covered with photos and heart-wrenching letters, and I felt I was in the middle of a vortex of anguish and love. I started to read one and stopped because the tears started flowing, and I noticed the people in the pews around me were crying too. I was openly weeping when I wrote my words of love for my six, a tribute to their bravery and resilience in overcoming significant odds, and realized that at last I had found an outlet for my sorrow. When I left, I felt at peace.

I have a new dog now, left to me by a neighbor who passed away and wanted his beloved pet to go to a good home where she would be well-loved. She has reminded me of everything I love about dogs–from their loyalty and fierce protectiveness, to their ball-chasing enthusiasm and devious ways of letting you know they don’t like being left at home alone (mine throws our clothes all over the house).

I will never forget the six dog babies who left a great hole in my heart, but the Dog Chapel helped me heal. I am ready now, to love and cherish this new one.

Have you ever lost a beloved pet and longed for a way to honor their memory? Do you have a dog now who makes you happy to wake up every day? I would love to hear 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.

[1] For more information about Dog Mountain see the official website at https://www.dogmt.com/Dog-Mountain.html.

Islands without Cruise Ships

“Wow, look at the belly fat on this one!”

Up until that moment, I had not known that birds could have fat bellies, let alone that you can actually see the fat. Tom, the bird bander who was leading a team of researchers, showed me how, if you gently move their stomach feathers, you can see the fat and carefully assess the bird’s fitness for migration. It was one of many things I learned during an early morning field session on Kelleys Island, a tiny little naturalist’s paradise in the western part of Lake Erie.

Tom is in charge of weighing, banding, and assessing migratory birds on Kelleys Island under the auspices of the USGS and the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. This year the station was open to the public.

I have mentioned in the past that among the things I hold dear are islands that cruise ships do not visit. Don’t get me wrong. I understand the attraction of those islands and the cruise ships that visit them, but at this stage of my life they rarely provide me with what I need when I travel: the discovery and observation of beautiful things in our natural world. The islands I like tend to be quirky, self-contained little ecosystems where you can find rare and unusual flora and fauna. Who knew I only had to go as far as nearby Ohio to find such a place?

The “Shirley Irene” ferry brings passengers to Kelleys Island.

Although I’ve been visiting Lake Erie for many years, I recently discovered that the lake has 36 islands large enough to appear on a map. Only 15 of those are inhabited and Kelleys is one of them. The island’s population swells during the summer when most visitors take the ferry from Marblehead, Ohio and rent bikes or golf carts to tour the 4.4 square mile island. Less than 200 hardy souls live there through the winter, after the ferries stop running and only the most adventurous boats dare to make the trip across the wild and often frozen lake. At one time the island had been bustling with commerce. The Kelley brothers who bought it in the 1830s opened stone quarries and encouraged the planting of orchards and vineyards that thrived in the island’s soil and climate. Today though, with much of the industry gone, the land has been returned to Mother Nature.

I learned how to hold and release the birds in a way that minimizes stress.

Although a long-time member of the Audubon Society, I had never been to a migratory bird count before and was eager to learn all I could from Tom and Paula, the couple in charge of the station. Tom showed me how to hold a bird’s head gently between my two fingers and cradle its body in the palm of my hand, the way the bird banders do. I could feel the bird’s soft feathers and tiny heart beating in its chest. I released it, with its feet pointed down as Tom instructed, and off it flew, winging its way south for the winter. It was a magical moment.

Every year, hundreds of neotropical migratory birds stop on Kelleys to refuel on their way from Canada to points south. Thrushes, orioles, warblers, vireos, hummingbirds and many other passerine species are included in the bird count each spring and fall. The carefully preserved natural areas of the island provide the migrants with the insects they need to fuel up before their long flight.

Not only is Kelleys a bird lover’s mecca, it is home to a number of endangered species. There are signs, for example, pleading with people not to harm the Lake Erie water snake, a non-venomous reptile often found swimming along the shore. But perhaps the rarest plants and animals can be found on the “alvars,” unusual landforms that occur only in glaciated regions of the Northern Hemisphere. Although these areas appear barren, they are known to contain numerous distinctive plants and animals including rare and endangered species like the northern bog violet, spicebush, lady’s tresses and the blue leaf willow.

The alvars look barren but are home to rare species.
The Glacial Grooves Geological Preserves are the most famous in the world due to their large size.

The island is also a place of geological and archeological wonders. According to the Kelleys Island Audubon Club, the Glacial Grooves are the finest example of glacial scouring in North America and probably the world. Both the Grooves and the Eastern limestone quarry, at one time the bottom of the Devonian Sea, are now home to many fossils, including brachiopods, corals, gastropods, cephalopods and more.

Inscription Rock is believed to be a “message stone” carved by  the original Kelleys Islanders.

The Kelley brothers, of course, were not the first inhabitants of the island. The remains of at least two Native American villages were found near what is now called Inscription Rock. The Erie and Cat nations lived on the shores of Lake Erie and it is assumed they carved the rock, covered with ancient Indian pictographs.

The beaches on Kelleys Island are blissfully empty in the fall.

I grew up a city kid, but thanks to an uncle who was a science teacher, I developed a love of the natural world. Do you share my passion? If so, I highly recommend a trip to Kelleys Island, but go during the “shoulder” seasons of spring or fall, when the weather is still pleasant and the crowds are gone. I would love to hear your thoughts and comments about this, or other islands, 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.

“A City within a Park”

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

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

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

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

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

Olmsted believed city dwellers need green spaces like this in South Park, for physical and mental wellbeing.
I was thrilled to see that the old stone statues still guard the gates of the Buffalo Zoo in Delaware Park.

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

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

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

One of my favorite spots in Cazenovia Park.
The wading pool in Martin Luther King, Jr. park is reportedly one of the largest in the country
The minnow pools at Riverside Park are now rock gardens surrounded by flowers.

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

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

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

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

Plenty of baseball games at Cazenovia Park.
The cannons at Front Park reflect Buffalo’s role in military history.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A walk in Delaware Park can literally make your day.
There is fun for young and old on Hoyt Lake in Delaware Park.
A serene spot for meditation in Martin Luther King, Jr. Park.

The Bodacious Gardens of Buffalo

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

Typical West Side lawns, back in the day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.