Dreaming of a View of Lake Erie

Is it any wonder that I long to return, this time to my own cottage with a view of my beloved lake?

The day after the last school bell rang and the warm winds of summer beckoned, my family would begin packing for our week at a rental cottage not far from a beach called Point Breeze. Our family of ten shared this four bedroom place with my aunt and uncle and six cousins, creating the kind of pandemonium only children can love. And as Buffalo city kids who spent eight months of the year wearing sweaters, we whined and paced like dogs in a boarding kennel until the day of departure for the beach finally arrived.

Oh, how we loved Point Breeze.
All photos copyright Moxie Gardiner.

Point Breeze would probably not make the list of the Most Beautiful Beaches in America. There is no soft white sand, no boardwalk or amusement park, no high rise apartments or cabanas to rent. Like all Lake Erie beaches, it was painfully rocky and filled with the unlovely debris of winter storms, prompting some families to come equipped with small rakes to clear a place before laying down their blanket and picnic basket.

Our feet got used to wading along the rocky shoreline.

Nonetheless, we loved it. We would dare each other to be the first one to dive into the cold lake, then hop out shivering to be wrapped in one of the many towels our mothers dutifully hauled with them. We would buy ice cream sandwiches at the nearby corner store and warm ourselves by a driftwood bonfire at night. When we got older, we would spend hours sitting on one of the lake’s many ragged outcroppings, letting the waves hit us and drag us into the water. Those hours along the shores of Lake Erie are among my fondest childhood memories.

Is it any wonder then, at this stage of my life, with the kids grown and a new appreciation for spending time with extended family, I would long to return to Lake Erie, this time in my own cottage with a view of my beloved lake?

Alas, it is not to be. At least for now.

There are certain spots along the lake where you can see both sunrises as well as sunsets.

When I began to look for a lake house last summer, little did I know that gazillions of other people had the same idea. Low mortgage rates, housing shortages, increasing opportunities to work remotely, more retirees looking for second homes, millions of Millennials simultaneously trying to buy first homes, people with stimulus money in their pockets, and an overheated stock market all combined to make this one of the worst times to buy real estate in history. Talk about the right idea at the wrong time!

A recent Buffalo News article[1] described the current Western New York housing market as follows:

  • There are nearly three times as many real estate agents as there are homes for sale.
  • The number of homes for sale is down 44% from a year ago
  • The median sale prices of homes sold over the past 12 months has jumped by 12% to an all-time high of $177,000 (still a bargain, comparatively speaking).
  • Sellers are consistently getting more than they’re asking for on each house. Real estate agents said it’s not unusual for buyers to offer $30,000 to $40,000 over asking, and still not win.
No sooner would I see a “For Sale” sign then a “Sold” sign would sit atop it, sometimes in less than a week.

It seems hard to believe that less than a decade ago, Buffalo’s Urban Homestead program was encouraging Buffalo residents to buy fixer-upper homes in the city for a dollar. So imagine my surprise when I waded into this frenzied market and learned that even if I bid on an old house—with no contingencies, no inspection, all cash, with an offer significantly over the asking price—I STILL wasn’t likely to get it. My real estate agent said she is working with clients who have lost out on seven or eight houses and are becoming desperate, making offers far above the appraisal price.

My wise old grandfather once told me that when the milkman tells you he has decided to invest in the stock market, it is time to get out. Do the opposite of what the crowd is doing, he said, and you’ll be all right. It has proven to be sage advice. So I will take a step back and put my dreams of a lake house on hold, hoping that the market will cool in our lifetime.

But will it? It’s anyone’s guess.

No one knows how long it will take home builders to get ahead of the current housing shortage, or how soon all the Millennials will have bought their first homes, or when current homeowners will no longer be reluctant to sell. I wish I knew how long mortgage rates will stay historically low, or the stock market will remain historically high, before inflation runs rampant and everything comes crashing down.

Maybe someday…

Unlike many others, I am in a position to wait and am willing to gamble that prices will come down sooner rather than later. How about you? Are you considering buying real estate right now, or are you, like me, willing to put your dream on hold for at least another summer or two?

I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Please share them 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.

Love, Heartache, and Transistor Radios

Like every generation of teenagers, we believed our music was far superior, truly unique, and more profound, than any music that came before it.

How many times have you heard it said: “Look at these kids today, always glued to their smart phones,” followed by frowns of adult disapproval?  Well, if we adults of a certain age are honest, we must admit that we were no different. The only difference is that the “iPhones” of our day were transistor radios.

It might be hard for those who never lived during a time when music wasn’t portable to imagine what that was like. The family radio was likely in your kitchen or living room, and you listened to your Mom & Dad’s music. (Or, when you listened to your music, they told you to “turn that darn thing down!”) Perhaps you learned your dance moves watching American Bandstand, Shindig, and Hullabaloo on your black and white TV, but you sure didn’t have anyone to dance with. Or maybe you scraped up enough money to buy some 45s, but most of us couldn’t afford that every time a new hit song came along.

The invention of the transistor radio meant we could take our music anywhere.

Then came the transistor radio and our young lives changed forever. For the first time, we could take our music wherever we went, listen to whatever radio station we wanted, and play the “darn thing” as loud as we wanted. Imagine our joy the first time we could dance on the beach with our friends, sing along to the “Top 40” on the school bus, and listen to our favorite DJ’s while riding our bikes.

WKBW was my favorite radio station. I listened to legendary Buffalo DJ’s like Sandy Beach in the morning, Danny Neaverth in the afternoon, and the dreamy Tommy Shannon in the evening. WKBW knew its young audience well, giving away free concert tickets, as well as thousands of hit singles and record albums, and funny, kitschy things like the rubber duck I won for saying “Peachy Sandy Beachy, lucky rubber ducky” three times without screwing it up.

One of WKBW’s “30 Klassics” albums.

The contests were fun, but it was the music of our day that kept our radios glued to our ears. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Kinks and other members of the “British Invasion” changed the face of rock and roll for us, while Motown bands like the Temptations and the Four Tops moved us with their beat. The Beach Boys’ surf music helped us party by the lake in the summer, and later The Doors’ psychedelic sound was the backdrop of dorm parties during Buffalo’s long, cold winters.

The music spoke to us in ways our parents, teachers and other adults could not. And like every generation of teenagers before and after ours, we believed our music was far superior, truly unique, and more profound, than any music that came before it.  

Our transistor radios had us dancing in the streets.

Which caused me to wonder: why does every generation think that the music they listened to as teenagers was the best ever? Was the music really that good, or did it just seem that good because we were highly impressionable teenagers? If so, why, so many years later, is it still the music that hits you in your emotional center like the smell of grandma’s warm bread? Why do we remember all the lyrics of those old songs decades later? And why do we know instantly, after hearing just three opening notes, what song we’re about to hear?  

Perhaps it is because popular music speaks to the issues most on teenagers’ minds. Love and heartache. Sex and romance. Friendship and betrayal. Rebellion. Popular music helps each generation form a unique identity, different from their parents’, and helps decode the mysteries and challenges they are facing at the time. To my teenage self, the lyrics written by John Lennon, Stephen Stills, Carole King, and Paul Simon sounded like the life lessons I needed to navigate the adult world. Every successful musical artist that has followed has figured this out.

Listening to the “Top 40” while sunning by the pool became our new favorite pastime.

Teenagers need their pop music more than anyone else. My little transistor radio was a constant companion during those years, and I relied on WKBW’s disc jockeys to keep me in touch with the hot sounds of the day. Today’s teenagers can listen to their favorite artists and songs any time they want, able to choose among thousands of options, but it seems like that freedom comes at the cost of having all your friends know your local station’s “heavy rotation playlist,” or the nationwide broadcast of the weekly Top 40 countdown.  

I would love to hear your thoughts on the music of your generation, and what it meant to you. And tell me, please, about the portable music device (Boom Box? Walkman? iPod?) that made a difference in your life. I look forward to reading your comments.  

Moxie Gardiner is a writer and gardener who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, went on a test flight 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.

Who Speaks for the Trees?

I lived through one of our nation’s most devastating tree pandemics–Dutch Elm Disease–and I hope I never witness another.

I admit to being a lifelong tree hugger.
Photo by Betty Wrightson.

When I was a young child in Buffalo, and the boundaries of my playtime world were defined by our city block, I developed an intimate relationship with all the trees that lined the curb and shaded our small backyard. Springtime meant the maple trees we climbed would release the “helicopters” that we’d split and wear on our noses. Fragrant lilacs would usher in Mother’s Day, and the blossoms on the cherry tree near the neighbor’s garage were the heralds of summer pies and pit-spitting contests.

The state tree of New York.

I miss those days, so this spring I visited the National Arboretum in Washington, DC, specifically to see the “Grove of Trees” and find the state tree of New York. After some searching I located a majestic sugar maple in a section of the grove where other maple varieties stood, and was instantly transported back to the old West Side and the beloved tree of my childhood.

A beautiful sugar maple specimen in full leaf at the National Arboretum.

Buffalo was once called the City of Trees. Like Washington, DC, it was carefully planned with a system of interconnected parks and parkways that planners hoped would counterbalance the rapidly expanding (and polluting) industries along the city’s waterfront. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Buffalo’s forestry division planted more than 300,000 trees in parks and along city streets.

Then disaster struck. First it was a pathogen known as Chestnut Blight that spread up and down the east coast at a rate of 24 miles a year. By the time I appeared on the scene, nearly all the mature American chestnut trees in Buffalo were dead. Not long after, Dutch Elm Disease began attacking the beautiful vase-shaped elm trees that lined the city’s most prestigious avenues, and by 1977, most of Buffalo’s American elms were doomed.[1]

The Japanese Zelkova, a member of the elm family, is a tougher urban tree now used for residential shade and street plantings. 

That, sadly, was not the end of the tree tragedies. Today, ash trees are under assault from the emerald ash borer and pine trees from pine wilt. A recent study suggests that nearly 25% of all tree deaths in the eastern US forests over the past 30 years were the result of insects and pathogens brought over from foreign countries. The economic losses from tree diseases are estimated to be higher than those from insects and fire combined.[2]

Having now lived through my first human pandemic, I began to wonder—who is looking out for our trees? Who is working on ways to prevent the next great American tree “pandemic”?

Scientists working on behalf of the National Arboretum and US Forest Service are dedicating their research to saving America’s trees.

Dr. Seuss invented a character called “the Lorax” who “speaks for the trees,” and in doing my research for this blog I found there are many real life “Loraxes.” There are forest pathologists and tree epidemiologists and research plant pathologists whose life’s work is to figure out how and why trees get sick and die. A quick look at the resumes of the scientists who work at the US National Arboretum, for example, gives a sense of the scope and importance of their work.[3]

Nothing says springtime quite like these beautiful flowering Fringe trees.

Much more interesting to me though, are recent findings that trees not only look out for themselves but for each other. According to a German forester by the name of Peter Wohlleben in his wonderful book, The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate, trees “talk” to each other (through electrical impulses) and they form communities. His research suggests that when planted alone and away from others, trees become weakened and more susceptible to disease. In a forest, where parent trees live with their offspring and nurture each other, they are stronger. Haven’t we learned that we are more resilient when we work together to solve problems?

I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.
Joyce Kilmer

Thankfully there are many who are aware of the dangers to our trees and are willing to step up. The American Chestnut Research and Restoration Project, for example, has set a goal of growing 10,000 blight-resistant American chestnuts trees over the next five years. Buffalo’s own Green Fund provides money for the WNY CommunitTREE Steward Project to educate residents on how to care for their own city trees. 

Let’s hope that one day, scientists, conservationists, and citizens alike will learn from the trees themselves, and working together, avert the next great American tree tragedy.

Are you concerned about our trees? Do you have a favorite tree story? I would love to hear from you 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 an interesting scientific perspective on these diseases, see https://www.srs.fs.usda.gov/pubs/ja/ja_schlarbaum002.htm

[2] For more information see https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2020/05/deadly-imports-one-us-forest-25-tree-deaths-caused-foreign-pests-and-disease

[3] See https://www.usna.usda.gov/science/our-scientists/

Buffalo’s Wabi-Sabi

Like old structures, it is the flaws and imperfections that tell our stories and make us interesting.

The Buffalo River now has launch platforms for kayakers. Photos by Moxie Gardiner.

After living in Europe for a while, I returned to Buffalo in the summer of 2013 eager to see what had changed in my absence. During that visit, one of my brothers encouraged me to go kayaking with him on the Buffalo River, a body of water so polluted in my youth that it actually burst into flames one cold January day. Never did I imagine that in my lifetime there would be places to rent and launch kayaks on a river that bisected the city’s industrial wasteland.

Dean Gallagher, founder of Buffalo Paddle People, organizes kayak trips past the city’s old grain elevators.

As we paddled, I gazed with interest at what was around me. The massive concrete grain elevators, loading docks, abandoned factories, and train tracks were all still there, untouched and undisturbed, the ghosts of Buffalo’s halcyon days as Queen City of the Great Lakes back in the 1800s. Drawing closer to shore, I could see that while the exterior structures remained unchanged, in many cases the interiors had new life.

What was happening here? I began to wonder if my hometown had embraced the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi while I was gone.

This interesting Buffalo Riverworks restaurant embraces the concept of wabi-sabi in its design.

Although a bit difficult even for the Japanese to explain, wabi-sabi is a philosophy that sees beauty in things as they are, however raw and untouched. A recent article in Japan’s SAKURA News explained that ‘wabi-sabi’ embraces the idea of aesthetic appreciation of aging, flaws, and the beauty of the effects of time and imperfections, concepts somewhat foreign to Western culture.

Cascading water and bright flowers soften the raw concrete of this outdoor restaurant.

I decided I wanted to see how much of Buffalo now reflected this aging, imperfect state. Back on shore, my brother took me on a tour of “Canalside” and Buffalo Riverworks, where some of the old factories and industrial buildings had been converted into new commercial enterprises. What I found were new establishments that not only left the damaged concrete and exposed rebar, but included them in the design.

Now that I was looking with new eyes, I found examples of this aesthetic throughout the city. The Pearl Street Grill and Brewery downtown is a fine example. The warehouse built in the 1840s, now a beautiful eating and drinking establishment, still retains the rough charm of its roots in the once-seedy Canal District.

Further uptown, the campus of the foreboding Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane now hosts the luxurious Hotel Henry, complete with fine dining and well-landscaped grounds. Next to the hotel sits the remaining derelict structures of the old hospital, part of the city’s sightseeing tour.

boho apartment building on Buffalo's west side
Photo courtesy of Doreen Regan.

Later, while visiting my former home on the West Side, I was most delighted to see that the old Sparks Dairy, for many years a burned out hulk, had been given new life as an apartment building. Rather than tear the structure down, once again the old exterior was preserved, giving the new dwelling a modern, urban edginess while remaining the recognizable landmark of my youth.

This serene setting outside the Buffalo History Museum in Delaware Park highlights another tenet of wabi-sabi, that the beauty and simplicity of nature needs little enhancement.

In his book, Wabi-sabi, The Art of Impermanence, Andrew Juniper notes that, “If an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi.”  Was what I was seeing in Buffalo an embrace of something like this ancient Japanese philosophy, or were there more mundane, economical reasons for preserving these structures? I do not know, but like anyone who was born and raised in Buffalo, these structures, aging but standing resolute our entire lives, remind us when we see them, that we are home.

Perhaps one day our Western eyes will also stop fixating on youth, and appreciate the beauty and serenity that comes with age in older people. Like old structures, it is the flaws and imperfections that tell our stories and make us interesting.  Do you have a favorite wabi-sabi building, place or design in Buffalo? Do you embrace the philosophy of wabi-sabi in your life? Tell me your stories in the comments below!

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

When the Saints Come Marching

The March celebrations honoring St. Patrick and St. Joseph couldn’t be more different.

The main feature of a St. Joseph’s Table is a beautiful altar with a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash.

Back in the day, when the cold and blustery Ides of March arrived in Buffalo, many of us would set about preparing for two things guaranteed to lift us out of our winter doldrums: St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day. The beloved patron saints of Ireland and Sicily were revered all over the city, especially in the old waterfront neighborhoods settled by Irish and Sicilian immigrants, like the West Side where I grew up.  

Leprechauns and their pots of gold are today’s symbols of St. Patrick’s Day.

Being of Irish and Sicilian heritage, our family celebrated both days. On the 17th of March, long before we were old enough to visit an Irish pub, Mom would make cupcakes with green frosting, and drop a little bit of green dye in our milk. We would stand in the cold for hours watching the St. Patrick’s Day parade downtown, and proudly wear our “Kiss Me I’m Irish” shamrock pins, hoping for a peck on the cheek.

Two days later it was “Viva San Giuseppe” and a trip to our Sicilian relatives who always hosted the extended family’s St. Joseph’s Table. My eyes would light up at the sight of all of my favorite Sicilian foods: pasta con sarde, pasta fazool, carciofi, caponata, alivi scacciati, and plenty of other meatless dishes (it falls in the middle of Lent). Best of all was the dessert table, where cannoli, sfinge, cuccidati and zeppole held pride of place.

Of all the wonderful Sicilian desserts, cannoli is my favorite!

Despite the abundance of food, St. Joseph’s Day strikes a more solemn, religious note than St. Patrick’s Day. At every St. Joseph’s Table there is a beautiful altar off to the side, decorated with flowers (usually lilies), lemons, and a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. The tradition of this shared celebration is that no one is to be turned away from the table. Typically a large family affair back then, today restaurants and churches host community-wide events.

Sadly, last year the pandemic limited our St. Joseph’s Table to just two.
It’s estimated that 13 million pints of Guinness will be consumed globally on St. Patrick’s Day.

There was a time, especially in Ireland, when St. Patrick’s Day also had more serious religious overtones, but like so many holidays today, it has been captured by the commercial food and beverage industry. Irish pubs all over the US are jam-packed with Irish and non-Irish, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, enjoying the music and revelry now most associated with the day. On the other hand, I’ve found you have to do some searching to find someone in the US setting a St. Joseph’s Table outside of the Sicilian enclaves in large cities.

So I began to ponder two things: why are the holidays of these two patron saints celebrated so differently in the US? And how does one get to be a patron saint anyways?

According to catholic.org, patron saints are “special protectors or guardians over areas of life.” They are often associated in some way with a particular region, profession, or family. St. Patrick, for example, was actually born in Britain in the 4th century, kidnapped and brought to Ireland at age 16, escaped back to Britain, became a priest, and returned to Ireland to bring Christianity to the Irish. St. Joseph, on the other hand, husband of the Virgin Mary, never visited Sicily as far as we know. But during a severe drought in the Middle Ages, the people of Sicily prayed to the saint and their prayers were answered with rain. The crops were saved and a feast has been prepared each year by grateful Sicilians and their descendants.

Perhaps the days are different because so many myths and legends surround St. Patrick (like the one about him driving out the snakes), or because the Irish are born storytellers and embellishers (think pinching leprechauns and pots of gold). Perhaps the Sicilians are simply a more serious people (certainly they are when it comes to food). Or maybe the Irish and Sicilian immigrants who came to this country celebrate their patron saints in a way that is simply a reflection of the things they loved most about their homeland, and they honor their saints accordingly.  What do you think?

Irish pubs will feature traditional Irish songs and merry-making on March 17th.

Will you be celebrating one of these holidays? Does your family do something special on that day? I would love to hear your stories so leave me a comment below!

When Nuns Ruled the Roost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Year of Living Differently

Goodbye 2020! What lessons did I learn from you to determine how I will live in 2021?

Like everyone else on the planet, I am glad to see 2020 come to an end.

But I have to admit, this past year has changed my life, at least in some ways, for the better. And while I know and appreciate that people are chomping at the bit to get back to “normal” in 2021, it is slowly dawning on me that some things will never return to the way they were. Perhaps they shouldn’t.   

This New Year’s Eve, I am looking at the lessons I learned by living differently in 2020, to determine how I will live in 2021. Here are 10 new habits I developed that will not change in the coming year:

  1. Paying more attention to the people I love: At the beginning of the pandemic, I awoke each day dreading the news that a loved one was ill or dying. I began to check in on everyone I knew, even people I hadn’t heard from in years. Once I confirmed they were fine, we laughed and joked and traded stories. It didn’t take long to realize there was nothing more important to me than being able to talk to the ones I love. It took a pandemic for me to permanently rearrange my priorities.
Checking in with loved ones is now the most important part of my day.

2. Shopping less often: We used go to the grocery store once or twice a week, sometimes more. Starting in March, we cut it back to once a month. We found we could easily manage with a well-stocked pantry of canned and dry foods, supplemented with perishables that could be frozen. We started buying reusable, rather than single-use products. When anticipated food shortages never happened, we were grateful. I will never take farm workers, grocery store cashiers, or delivery people for granted again.

The water was cold but refreshing in the DIY truck bed swimming pool.

3. My perception of looking good. This has been the year of no bra, no makeup, no perfume, and no haircuts—a year of grooming liberation! I learned people want to see you looking healthy on Zoom, not made-up like a L’Oréal commercial. I will rely on moisturizers and brisk walks to give me a nice virtual glow.

4. Learning to make new things: Stuck at home, we experimented with new foods, recipes, and ingredients. We learned to make everything from apple cinnamon crepes to seven grain bread and pickled okra. We made our own mail box, compost bin, raised beds, and home gym, giving us a much needed sense of accomplishment. We are now devoted DIY’ers.

Now that I’ve learned to make crepes, they will make a regular appearance on the menu.

5. Limiting who gets in my personal space: I miss hugging and kissing loved ones, but I intend to be more selective about who gets to enter my physical comfort zone in the future. Why not greet others with a wave, bow, curtsy, or two-fingered peace sign, rather than a handshake?  

6. Recognizing health as a luxury: Every morning that I could get out of bed, take a deep breath and feel my own cool forehead, I said a prayer of thanks. As the number of people who contracted the virus climbed into the millions, I was grateful for my doctors who sent us thoughtful email updates on the virus and conducted telehealth visits, and for all the scientists, researchers, EMTs, and hospital workers on the front lines. I will never take health care professionals for granted again.

We made these raised beds out of old barn wood; repurposing is our new mantra.

7. Paying attention to where the money goes: We live on a yearly budget now, and I was pleasantly surprised to see how little we spent by not traveling, going to restaurants, shopping, and paying for gas. This left more money at the end of the year to donate to charity and give gifts to loved ones.  

Using an old wheelbarrow for a grill, we enjoyed Friday night tailgate parties for two at home.

8. Planning more travel by motorcycle, car or RV: It is much easier to control who you sit next to that way! For the foreseeable future, we plan to spend our vacations traveling close to home and getting to know our own town, region, and state better. Family visits are at the top of the list, once it is safe to do so.

9. Working more productively from home: Employers are rethinking their investment in office space, as are school administrators in classrooms. We’ve learned that Zoom meetings and webinars cut costs, eliminate travel time, and reduce carbon emissions, among other things. As an introvert, I’m in my element working from home, but I’ve also learned how important it is to structure your day, have a dedicated workspace, and be disciplined in your work habits.

I learned I needed a dedicated office space and a daily planning calendar to stay focused.

10. Being prepared for whatever comes next: After 9/11, government agencies recommended that every family have an emergency plan, and I was very glad we had one, even if it wasn’t tailored specifically for a pandemic. We all learned some things this year about what to have on hand before the panic-buying and hoarding starts. Growing up in Buffalo, we always had extra milk and toilet paper around should the blizzards be worse than usual, but flour, yeast, and Lysol wipes? Who would have thunk it?

Did you develop new habits in 2020? Will you do things differently this coming year? I would love to hear your thoughts.

Whatever your plans are for 2021, I wish you all the best for a safe, happy, and healthy New Year!

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 Six Words of Gratitude

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

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

I am grateful for the Internet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Sogni Siciliani

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again.

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

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

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

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

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

Mount Etna looms over the city of Catania.

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

Montemaggiore Belsito, ancestral home of many Buffalonians, including my great-grandmother, sits high up in the Madonie Mountain range.
Fresh fruit is still plentiful at the markets in Palermo.

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

Cefalù is one of the prettiest beaches in Europe.

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

The Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista in the old city of Ragusa.
The iconic Valle dei Templi in Agrigento…
… and Agrigento’s unique goats.

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

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

Province registry offices were established in 1809, which means you can find your ancestors’ records in Valledolmo town hall archives as of that date. I was told that with the birth records of my great grandparents in hand, I could apply for dual citizenship!!
The last view of Sicily for many immigrants was this statue of a woman with empty arms at the port of Palermo. Perhaps they saw it as a symbol of letting go, of bidding farewell.
Our guides and translators, the wonderful Salvatore and Gaetano Mendola, made the trip to find my ancestors an extraordinary experience.

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

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.

Fish Fry Fridays

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.