I have a friend named Omar who paints houses. He also happens to have only one arm. He fell out of a tree when he was a child in his native Honduras, and his family didn’t have the money to have it fixed. Gangrene set in, and he had it amputated above the elbow. The first time we met him he was carrying a ladder under his left arm and a can of paint in his left hand. He wore no prosthesis where his right arm had been, but he was walking down the street smiling, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
I have always admired Omar for his tenacity and cheerful demeanor, but my respect for him has recently gone up several notches. Last Thursday, I fell and broke my right wrist and now have the use of only one hand. Believe me, it is a humbling experience, especially at Christmas time.
Everything is harder. Try rolling pie crust with one hand!
Think about it. Wrapping gifts with one hand? Very difficult. Rolling out cookie dough or pie crust? Impossible. Cutting anything harder than butter? Forget it. Writing Christmas cards? Opening jars of jelly and jam? Putting frosting on the cake? Peeling a Clementine? Cracking a walnut? Even unwrapping Christmas gifts isn’t easy. I might have started feeling sorry for myself if I didn’t have a role model like my friend, Omar the painter.
So I set about learning how to do things with my left hand. Basic hygiene was a priority. I figured out how to put the toothpaste on the toothbrush while holding the end of the brush in my teeth. I figured out how to squirt the exact amount of shampoo on my head without looking. Writing was the next hurdle. Typing with just my left hand is slow, but I’m getting used to it, and I discovered I could write my blog using voice recognition technology on my iPad. It also helps to have an angel for a husband who is there to cook and drive me places, since I won’t be doing those things by myself for a while.
With a few days of practice, I’ve already gotten better at writing with my left hand!
The best thing to come out of this experience is the dawning recognition of how lucky I am to be of sound mind and (somewhat) sound body at my age. I am glad I had this reminder of how quickly life can change in an instant, and the importance of so many things we take for granted.
This Christmas, I will raise an eggnog toast with my good left hand to Omar, and to all the people who face far more serious challenges every day with more grace and dignity than I will ever have. And if you see a clumsy lady trying to shovel snow with just her left hand, that might be me.
As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to my ancestors for the many ways they shaped my life.
Dear Great and Great-great Grandparents,
We never had a chance to get to know each other, but I wish we had. What I wouldn’t give to hear in your own words why you left your homes in Ireland and Sicily to come to the United States and settle in Buffalo. I wonder if the reality of living in a crowded city, so unlike your rural farms, met your expectations. I wonder if you ever missed home.
Friends and family are everything in Montemaggiore Belsito, Sicily, my grandmother’s ancestral homeland. All blog photos by Moxie Gardiner
Recently, I went back to the ancestral homelands. I learned that your lives in Sicily and Ireland as poor tenant farmers were very hard. Both islands had a tempestuous relationship with the faraway central government, and people like you sometimes felt forgotten or deliberately taken advantage of by those in authority. You came to trust only your community and family, and followed them to the Irish and Sicilian enclaves in the US, in search of work and a better life. You held on to the old traditions and your native tongue because they gave you a sense of security. You were proud to be Americans, but reluctant to let go of your heritage, and because of you I can empathize with the many who want to come here someday.
Stop in any Irish pub and you’ll find songs, laughter, a pint of Guinness, and born storytellers like me.
You would be happy to know that you have many, many descendants in the
US, and for the most part we are thriving. Some of us have started businesses,
others teach, still others serve their country or community. Many of us still
cling to the old traditions: we make cuccidati cookies for Christmas, eat
pasta con sarde at St. Joseph’s Tables, and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.
I think you would be pleased to know we have no problem embracing both cultures
as our own.
It wasn’t until I went to Ireland and Sicily in October, and walked
where you walked, smelled the sea-scented air, learned about your history, and
rubbed elbows with the people who stayed behind, that I began to feel a real
connection with you and understand where I fit in the long procession of humanity
that comes and goes here on earth. Yes, DNA tests can tell us a lot about our
biological and genealogical makeup, about inherited skills and traits, and
physical characteristics. But what you bequeathed to me couldn’t be discerned
through a DNA test alone.
Nestled in the mountains of northern Sicily is the charming town of Valledolmo, birthplace of my great grandfather.
A DNA test couldn’t tell me why certain smells, sounds, and sights
evoke powerful emotions in me. Why 20 years ago, when I drove through a valley
between two mountains in West Virginia, I knew I needed to build a home
there. As soon as I rounded a steep
mountain curve and saw the small village of Valledolmo, Sicily, I knew why West
Virginia spoke to me, even though I grew up in a city.
The wild northern coast of Ireland, home to my Irish ancestors.
In Sicily, they still bake bread like my Nonna used to bake.
When I saw the wild coast of County Donegal and the cliffs that march right up to the sea, I understood why I was attracted to the jagged rocks along Lake Erie instead of the comfort of the beach. When a baker delivered fresh bread to a home in Montemaggiore Belsito, I understood why the smell of it can still make my knees buckle. And when I hear the sad songs of the Celtic harp, I now know why I feel a tug at my heart, a longing for a home that exists deep in my temporal lobe, where memory and imagination sit side by side.
Sunsets over the beautiful northern coast of Sicily speak to me of home.
Gratitude is the foundation of a happy life.
By visiting your homelands, I learned what you passed along to me is more than genetic traits, more than culture and tradition. My emotional make up, personality, artistic inclinations, even some of my bad behaviors, may have come from you. Is it possible that my imagination is drawing these conclusions? Sure. But I prefer to think my soul knows what it knows.
As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to you, dear ancestors, for the many ways that you shaped my life when you set sail for the United States. Thanks to your courage, I have a good life.
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.
October 30th brings back memories of Mom putting the finishing touches on our homemade Halloween costumes, and us kids looking at the sky, waiting for it to grow dark. As soon as we finished supper, we would run out the door with a large paper bag—24 hours before the actual Halloween trick-or-treating began. Funny thing is, the neighbors were ready for us.
This was known as “Beggar’s Night” in Buffalo, and I along with hundreds of other kids on the West Side looked forward to two full nights of trick-or-treating. It was only as an adult that I learned a) most people in the US have never heard of Beggar’s Night because it’s a regional thing, and b) it was established to allow younger children to have their own night of candy collecting before older kids prowled the neighborhoods, looking to get into mischief. Since we did not know this was the rationale, we trick-or-treated both nights and collected enough candy to open our own corner store.
We loved to go Trick-or-Treating on Beggar’s Night
Today, of course, Halloween no longer features kids draped in bed sheets with holes cut out for eyes or wearing plastic masks of their favorite monsters. Halloween has become a money maker. According to USA Today, American consumers spent some $9 billion on Halloween in 2018, with over $3 billion of that spent on costumes alone. A good portion of that money comes not from the pockets of parents with children, but from young adults in the 18-24 year-old age demographic. Party stores, bars, supermarkets, pumpkin farms, candy factories, and the gift card industry, all depend on Halloween to fatten their end-of-year coffers.
Monsters and superheroes were Halloween favorites
Which makes me wonder, how did we get from the Beggar’s Night and Halloween of my childhood, to the commercialized holiday that it is today? And how far did the Halloween we enjoyed deviate from the original holiday? It just so happens that I am in Ireland this Halloween, learning about the lives of my Irish ancestors. According to the “Irish Culture and Customs” website (see link below), the Irish invented Halloween.
Legend has it that the ancient Celts divided the year into
halves, one associated with the dark, the other with the light. The dark half
began when the sun set on November first, which they called Samhain. On Samhain,
the Celts would extinguish their fires and wait for the Druids to light the new
fire of the year. At the end of the ceremonies, participants would take home a
brand from the new fire to light their hearths anew. While many of the old Samhain traditions have died out in
Ireland, the lighting of bonfires has survived.
On Hallowe’en, the night before Samhain, Celtic families would feast on the bounty of the Autumn harvest. Children visited relatives and friends and were given apples and nuts. A favorite traditional fall dish, still popular in Ireland, is Colcannon, a mixture of potatoes, cabbage and scallions. Other traditional Hallowe’en dishes are stampy, a sweet cake; boxty, the savory version of stampy; apple cakes and barmbrack, which is a rich fruit bread.
Apples were traditionally a special treat on Halloween
Many traditions were brought by Irish immigrants to the US and adopted across the land. Jack O’Lantern, for example, was an Irish blacksmith, a lost soul doomed by the devil to roam the Earth with a hollowed out turnip lit by a burning coal ember. In the US, we continue this tradition with a hollowed out pumpkin. Druids disguised themselves to elude ghosts roaming the land on Hallowe’en night so they wouldn’t get carried away. Centuries later, the tradition of disguise continues.
Like all pagan rituals in Ireland, Samhain was frowned upon by the Catholic Church, and by the 13th century, although many of the old Samhain rituals remain as folk customs, November 1st had become a Christian holy day.
I look forward to spending the next couple of days with the Irish to see how many of the old traditions remain, as well as observe firsthand if there is any resemblance to the billion dollar holiday, known as Halloween in the US, in Ireland today. I will try to post some pictures, though Wifi connections are spotty here in the land of the ancient Druids. Stay tuned.
Do you celebrate Beggar’s Night? Halloween? All Saints Day? Or do you ignore them all? I would love to hear your comments.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer and gardener who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.
When I go home to Buffalo, I never pass up an opportunity to visit my old neighborhood on the Upper West Side. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.
Several times a year, I head home to Buffalo to visit friends and family and reconnect with my past. When I do, I never pass up an opportunity to visit my old neighborhood on the Upper West Side.
I still have friends there. Some live in the houses where they grew up, others remain in homes where they raised their children. Still others left when Buffalo hit its nadir in the late 1970s, only to return in the past 20 years as the city regained its footing.
Boarded-up Spark’s Dairy, circa 1970. Photo by Moxie Gardiner
Yes, the street where I grew up has changed. Our old house looks
smaller than I remember, and the length of our block, the one I raced down on
the way home from school, seems so much shorter. There isn’t an Italian grocery
store within walking distance, and my old elementary school and church,
Nativity of the Blessed Virgin May, closed its doors some years ago. But lest
you think I’m one of the old timers about to bemoan the loss of the West Side
of my youth, let me quickly say this:
I love the New West Side.
New residents of the West Side settle into work and school. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.
When I visit, I find a neighborhood just as lively and interesting as the one where I grew up. My old school, Nativity, is now owned by Catholic Charities, a social services organization which helps refugees resettle into new homes. The staff who work there teach English and assist the refugees in looking for jobs or starting micro-businesses. They provide services not all that different from Catholic Charities’ original mission back in 1910, when they helped Sicilians and other immigrants do the same. I’ve talked to the new students who attend classes at the old Nativity, and they are thrilled to be living in their new, my old, neighborhood.
Some of the front lawns on my street, once filled with crabgrass and opportunistic weeds, have been replaced with environmentally-friendly vegetable gardens—there is one next door to where I lived. Photo courtesy of Doreen Regan.
The old dairy has new life. Photo courtesy of Doreen Regan.
The abandoned dairy across the street is now a Bohemian-looking apartment building. The garbage-strewn “Triangle” as we called it, where 15th, Massachussetts, and West Utica streets meet, is now a pretty little garden with benches where dog walkers can sit.
Grant Street, where we shopped for everything from shoes to groceries, is vibrant again with old stores like Zarcone’s Meat Market being bought and run by a young couple named Moriarity who sell specialized cuts of locally raised meat. Next door to the meat market is the West Side Bazaar where you can stop in for lunch and sample food from many nations.
Remedy House, an upscale cafe, serves great coffee. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.
The new Five Points Bakery on Brayton Street. Photo by Moxie Gardiner
Two blocks down and two blocks over from where I lived is an up-and-coming area called Five Points. There is a fabulous bakery there, as well as a wine shop, garden shop, clothing store, and a café with really good coffee.
West Side flower garden. Photo courtesy of Maria Eley.
As a writer, I was thrilled to learn that every year, one of Buffalo’s “Reading Invasions” sets up in front of the Five Points Bakery, with people of all ages gathering to relax on chairs and blankets and read on the bakery’s lawn. (I want to go next year!)
And as a gardener, I am as proud as can be of the exquisite West Side gardens I saw on Buffalo’s Annual Garden Walk, reported to be the largest garden tour in North America. I tend to admire gardens wherever I travel, and the gardens I saw gracing the old Victorian homes that still dot the West Side are second to none.
The micro-business West Side Bazaar sells food and clothing from many nations. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.
No, this isn’t the West Side where I grew up, but as the late, great singer/songwriter Sam Cooke once observed, “Change is gonna come.” I have learned I can still love my old West Side and embrace the new. I can choose to focus on the crime, empty lots, and blighted houses that still exist in pockets, or I can shift my lens to the new immigrants, recent college grads, and young couples buying first homes, who imbue the new West Side with an energy and enthusiasm business investors and entrepreneurs are beginning to notice. It’s just a matter of time before the West Side is the best side, once again.
What do you love about the place where you grew up? Has it changed with the times? I would love to read and respond to your comments!
Moxie Gardiner is a writer and gardener who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.
I am headed to Valledolmo and Montemaggiore Belsito in Sicily, to learn more about my great grandparents.
In October, I along with countless others will head to
Sicily in search of my roots. The recent popularity of DNA testing has spurred
renewed interest in finding one’s ancestors, and I decided that this year, I too,
would walk in the footsteps of my forebears on a journey of self-discovery.
Hah. For me, that was easier said than done. The first challenge
was figuring out where to go.
You see, like many people born in the melting pot that is, and was, the West Side of Buffalo, I am of mixed heritage. My paternal grandmother, a full-blooded Sicilian, was a significant influence in my early life so naturally I gravitated to Sicily.
Some were scandalized when my Sicilian grandmother married my Irish grandfather!
But what about my other ancestors? My Sicilian grandma married an Irishman. My maternal grandfather was born in Hungary. His parents were born in Switzerland and my grandmother’s people were German. The DNA tests also showed some surprises, like ancestors from France, England, and even Northern Africa, (not all that surprising if you know the history and geography of Sicily). Therefore, if I were a dog, I’d be what they call a “mixed breed,” or less politely, a “mutt.”
Grandpa John was born in Hungary
What’s a girl to do? I’d run out of money before I’d be able
to take that kind of ancestry tour.
Which made me wonder, what are we really looking for when we search our roots? What is it we think we’ll
learn? Certainly, it would be helpful to know if we have a predisposition
toward certain illnesses or behaviors. For example, is my anxiety something
prompted by today’s environment, or is it simply part of my genealogical
makeup?
For many, I believe an ancestry quest is something more
profound. It is an attempt to answer that essential, existential question—who am
I—to know where you came from, and who gave you the characteristics that
distinguish you from billions of others, that make you unique. How rewarding it
is to find your place on a family tree that is part of humanity’s great forest.
Furthermore, we gardeners know that the strength and health of a plant’s roots
are essential to its ability to thrive.
I solved my personal dilemma by focusing this upcoming trip
on the homelands of my father’s people—Sicily and Ireland—two small islands
surrounded by vast, daunting seas. I want to learn something about why so many tempted
fate and left, and if they found what they were seeking. I hope to find
long-lost relatives who will help me understand.
Great Grandparents Elisabeth and Anton were Swiss
I know that all my ancestors who came from disparate lands
to settle in Buffalo did have things in common. They came from impoverished
circumstances in hopes of making a better life for themselves and their
children. And like many immigrants, they were met with suspicion and
intolerance from the people who arrived before them. The English resented the Germans,
the Germans disliked the Irish, and the Irish despised the Sicilians. We
sometimes forget that prejudice exists within races, as much as it does between
them.
Great-great Grandma Mary was born in Ireland during the famine
It is an indisputable fact that we are a nation of immigrants. Immigrants learn that how warmly they are welcomed in their new home is a matter of timing and numbers. In our 200- plus-years of history as a nation, the US has accommodated great waves of poor immigrants many times. They came unskilled, spoke little if any English, and often required government assistance. Many times as a nation we have feared there were too many of them. However, we need to remember that immigrants also bring something our country, any country, always needs: an infusion of new blood, strong backs, determination, ambition, and dreams. Just like our ancestors.
Our vet once told us that dogs with “hybrid vigor” live the
longest, healthiest lives. Armed with new DNA research, I am joyfully embracing
my mixed heritage, my chance at longevity, and my future opportunities to travel
to all the homes of my immigrant ancestors, to pay homage to those who made me,
uniquely me.
Have you taken a DNA test yet? If so, why did you take it
and what were you hoping to find? I would love to know where my readers stand.
Please send me your stories! I promise to include them in the comments.
Last summer, I wrote about The Healing Garden hidden behind the main building of Buffalo’s Botanical Gardens. I was fascinated to learn that hospitals are creating these gardens everywhere, now that medical science has proven nature reduces stress in both hospital patients and staff. Unfortunately, one of our close friends was diagnosed with cancer, so I decided to turn a section of our property into a place where our friend could sit and relax after treatments, and soak up the sights, sounds, and smells of nature.
My healing garden in March 2019. All photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner
After doing some research, I learned that true healing gardens combine three important elements: green vegetation, flowers, and water. I also discovered Shinrin-yoku, a Japanese term that means “taking in the forest atmosphere” or “forest bathing.” It was developed in the 1980s and has become a cornerstone of preventive health care and healing in Japanese medicine. The premise is that simply by being in nature, you connect with it through all five senses of sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch. I embraced these principles and built the healing garden around them, beginning in early March of this year.
My healing garden in late June 2019
I felt it was important to create the garden against a wooded backdrop of trees and shrubs where birds, butterflies, bees, and other wildlife would feel protected as they visited the garden. Scientific studies have found that many trees give off organic compounds that support our “natural killer” cells, part of our immune system’s way of fighting cancer.
Eastern tiger swallowtails cover the butterfly bush
Coneflowers, marigolds, asters, and black-eyed susans are scattered among the garden plantings to add color and to feed the birds. Hummingbird feeders are tucked in a separate corner to make sure our smallest avian guests have nourishment too.
We added fish to the small pond. The frogs came on their own. Hummingbirds are territorial and like to eat aloneHyssop attracts a variety of pollinators
I carved out one small section for an herb garden. It includes not only culinary herbs like basil, thyme, rosemary, chives, oregano and sage, it also incorporates medicinal herbs like bee balm, lemon balm, feverfew, and echinachea. Lavender, mint, and roses all have curative properties, but I wanted them in the garden for their intoxicating scents.
The herb garden. Yes, there is parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme!Bees love the bee balm!
In the photos, you’ll also notice a few “unnatural” things added strictly for the comfort of the human visitor. A hot tub hidden in a back corner. Wind chimes. Solar powered lights along gravel paths (for different sounds and sights in the evenings). A bench with deep cushions.
The chimes provide a pleasant sound while one soaks in the hidden hot tub.The fountain mimics the sound of a babbling brook, and is lit for nighttime enjoyment.
Could you create a smaller, less complicated healing garden
if you had limited space? Absolutely. A shady tree, some ferns, a few flowers,
and a bird bath would be enough.
Can you spot the spicebush swallowtail butterfly enjoying the nectar?
At this point you might ask, does it actually work? I offer two observations. First, my friend with cancer, who visited the garden several times, is in remission (no, I have no hard evidence to prove the connection, but I want to believe it helped). Second, though I am beleaguered more by stress than illness at the moment, I know I have reaped the benefits of full immersion in this natural setting. It calms me, centers me, heightens my senses, jump starts my creativity, and sharpens my intuition. I think it helps me as a writer too.
If you sit quietly, the creatures will come to you
So I ask, what could be more cathartic, or inspiring, than bathing in the stillness and beauty of a hydrangea bush in full flower? To sit and fully appreciate the magnificence of those dazzling white orbs nestled in a bed of soothing green? I settle near them and close my eyes, and hear the bird song, the wind chimes, the burbling fountain, and the gentle breeze rustling the boughs of the pine trees above me. I connect with the rhythms of the natural world. And I am at peace.
“Everybody needs beauty…places to play in and pray in where nature may heal and cheer and give strength to the body and soul alike.” ― John Muir
If you enjoyed this article, please leave me a comment. I would love to hear from you.
Friday was one of those beautiful June days, when the sun kisses the skin with just the right amount of warmth and gives the landscape sharp edges. When I was young, it was the kind of day that flung me out of the house and into the street as if I was attached to the end of a stretched rubber band.
In those days, 15th Street was so full of kids
you only had to step outside to find one of your favorite street games underway.
Hide & Seek, Red Rover, Cops & Robbers, Ringolevio, Duck-Duck-Goose,
Freeze Tag and the ever popular Kick the Can. If you had one of those 10-cent
pink balls from Woolworth’s you played 7up or Wheaties/Clapsies, taking turns bouncing
the ball off a brick wall. If you had a flat stone and some chalk, you played Hopscotch.
A piece of clothesline served as a jump rope.
Then: What could be more fun than a water main break on a hot summer day?
I was in the midst of this happy reverie, driving down a
suburban street chock-a-block with four bedroom houses separated by wide, green
yards, when I noticed something that struck me as odd.
Where were the children?
I began to scan the backyards as I passed, then the front porches, the expensive jungle gyms, the in-ground swimming pools. Not a child in sight. I drove by a baseball field, the bleachers filled not with parents, but with tall weeds. Next came an empty playground, the swings hanging forlornly, the ground covered with rubberized mulch. To protect whom, from what, I wondered. I finally saw someone on a bicycle, pedaling rapidly down a bike path, but she appeared to be about 30 and commuting home from work.
Now: Where are all the pickup games?
School is out, so what explains the absence of children playing outside on a beautiful summer’s day? Of course, times have changed since I played on 15th Street. Mothers work. Young children spend the day at summer camp or daycare. Even stay-at-home moms and dads bring their children to safe, supervised activities, because that’s where all the other children are. The kids old enough to stay home alone, if they do venture outside, are glued to their smart phones and iPads.
Where are the children?
There are any numbers of reasons why the all- day, unsupervised, unstructured play of the 15th Street crowd doesn’t exist in today’s world. It’s a shame though, because free play is what bound our neighborhood together, almost as family. We kids knew every parent on the street, just as they knew each of us. We loved the elderly woman who gave us cookies and Kool-Aid in the middle of a sweaty afternoon. We all feared the old man who lived alone and yelled at us when we hopped his fence.
Though we lived in the city, we knew our little patch of earth as intimately as we knew our shared secrets. Every crack in the sidewalk, dying elm, fire hydrant, street lamp, and abandoned building. We could name every swimming pool and playground within five miles because we rode our bikes to all of them. We could walk to the corner store and find the candy counter blindfolded, we’d done it so many times.
We were more than friends…we were family
My point is that we had a very physical and emotional connection with our external environment—our street, our neighborhood, our city—that doesn’t seem to exist for children today. It is the kind of connection made only with the freedom to explore, to discover on your own what is around you.
I am grateful that I lived at a time when we played, wild and free, and every minute of a golden summer day was lived to the fullest. However, as the poet Robert Frost observed, “Nothing gold can stay.” Except in our memories.
What do you remember about your childhood summers? Leave me a comment and I’ll be happy to share your stories!
Back in the day, there was an old joke that if one of your kids
didn’t look like the others, your husband ought to take a gander at the milkman.
The only thing worse than having one child look like the milkman, the joke
went, was having all of your children
look like him.[1] Yes,
milkmen had the reputation of being the Lotharios of their day.
You have to be of a certain age to remember when the milkman
was a regular fixture in the neighborhood. He would arrive at your house early
in the morning after Dad left for work and you left for school. You would only see
him in the summer months, walking toward the back porch with his large wooden milk
crate, and hear the clinking of the bottles as he pulled the empties out of your
family’s insulated milk box, and replaced them with cold, condensation-covered fresh
ones.
Because we had a large family, the milkman came to our house every other day and knew my mother well. My mother was a virtuous woman so the milkman jokes were always lost on me until recently, when I learned our milkman once mentioned to her that if she didn’t have enough money to pay the bill, there were other “alternatives.” Sheesh.
Only cream came in bottles this small!
As I thought about those days, my mind began to wander. Why did the milkmen suddenly disappear from the scene? And what happened to the dairy farms and the dairy plants they worked for? We had a thriving dairy plant—Spark’s—not far from where we lived on the West Side of Buffalo. Sadly, Spark’s closed in 1962, along with 30 or so other Erie County milk plants that shut their doors in the sixties. According to one report, 972 milk plants across New York state closed between 1960 and 1981.[2]
So what happened? Well, a number of things. First, supermarkets with refrigerated cases became ubiquitous. Second, mothers began to go to work. Third, many families got a second car and Mom could pick up milk on her way home from work while shopping for other groceries. Home delivery of milk became superfluous. Dairy farming also changed. According to one article I read[3], the farmers of the 1960s learned to farm during the Great Depression and operated on a “cash” basis. They didn’t encourage their sons and daughters to borrow money to continue the family farm, and many of their children went off to college, never to return to farming. Large, industrial scale dairy farms replaced small local dairies, and fewer local milk plants and delivery men were needed.
Boarded-up Spark’s Dairy, circa 1970.
Now home milk delivery is making a comeback. Increasingly skeptical of food processed by big corporations, people in many parts of the country are turning to local farms and dairies for “farm to table” staples. According to a New York Times article[4], a “milkman renaissance” is underway, with consumers apparently willing to pay a premium for a gallon of home-delivered milk. It remains to be seen whether the new “renaissance” milkman will earn the same scandalous reputation as the milkmen of the past. If so, swimming pool cleaners and pizza delivery guys may have some competition.
Do you remember the milkman? Send me your stories!
[1] Don’t ask me how often this occurred. There are no accurate statistics. But given the number of books written about this topic, I imagine it happened. In 2018, Anna Burns won the Man Booker Prize for her novel, Milkman, which explores this old trope.
When I was a child, I remember how on chilly mornings in
early spring, solitary figures armed with sharp knives and paper bags would
leave their West Side homes on a mission both secret and urgent. This clandestine
army would walk or drive along roads and parks, woods, fields, and empty lots, looking
for a plant that reminded them of Sicily. They were in search of wild gardoons,
sometimes called cardoons, garduna, even carduni, depending on where your
people were from. If you were lucky enough to find a good patch, you kept it
close to the vest, sharing the prized location only with your closest family
members.
Gardoons here in the US are not the same plant as in Sicily.
It is actually burdock, a close relative of the Italian cardoon, which tastes like
artichoke and looks and cooks a lot like celery. The long stringy stalks of the
wild gardoon must be peeled and boiled before its edible. Many dredge it in
eggs and breadcrumbs and fry it. Some even freeze it in its raw form, to make
sure there is some available to serve on the Feast of San Giuseppe (patron
saint of Sicily), in mid-March.[1]
My Sicilian grandmother also liked to cook dandelion greens,
particularly in spring when they were young and tender. Far more plentiful than
gardoons, they could be found in yards all over the West Side. While delicious simply
sautéed with olive oil and garlic, I remember eating them with scrambled eggs
and parmesan cheese. I’m not sure my grandmother knew this, but dandelion greens are a great source of vitamins A, C, E and K and contain
small amounts of B vitamins as well as several minerals.[2]
Not long ago, during one of our master
gardener conferences, we had an expert talk to us about foraging, also known as
“wildcrafting.” This is the ancient practice of searching for and harvesting
plants in their natural habitat for use in the kitchen or for medicinal purposes.
The expert talked about a growing movement in the US focused not only on the
benefits of foraging, but also the need to protect these valuable plants from
overharvesting, invasive species, and unfortunately in some cases, theft.[3]
A number of European countries host
similar movements. According to one such group, “Plants for a Future,” there
are over 20,000 species of edible plants in the world, but fewer than 20
species provide 90% of our food. They argue that the changing world climate
warrants a greater diversity of food sources, and encourage what they call
“woodland/forest gardening.”[4]
Wildcrafting enthusiasts, sensitive to the repercussions of overharvesting, recommend taking only the fruit, flowers or branches of wild plants, and leaving the living plant to replenish itself. If a whole plant must be taken, they suggest removing only a few plants and leaving the rest of the patch intact.[5]
In West Virginia, where we now spend many weekends, we hunt for wild delicacies in the Appalachian hills. Ramps—stinky wild leeks that taste like onions with a hint of garlic—grow in the woods, as do morels, a funny-looking mushroom that comes in both “black” and “blond” varieties. It is possible to find both ramps and morels at West Virginia farmer’s markets this time of year, but it is much more fun to find them on your own.
Much like the wild gardoon sites in urban Buffalo, the location of a ramp or morel patch in the hills of West Virginia is a closely guarded secret. It almost takes a sixth sense to discover your first one. So whenever I set out to find one, I channel the spirit of my ancestors, the first foragers I ever knew, on the West Side of Buffalo.
Have you or your loved ones ever foraged for food? Tell me about it! I would love to hear your stories.
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.
Buffalo Botanical Gardens, all photos by Moxie Gardiner
Last summer I visited an old friend: the Botanical Gardens
in the south of Buffalo. I’d had a tough year, with multiple loved ones
suffering a variety of serious illnesses, and I needed a respite from the
stress. My son and his girlfriend, knowing I’m a Master Gardener, suggested we
visit the Botanical Gardens and I readily agreed.
After wandering around the familiar rooms with their dazzling colors and earthy smells, I picked up a brochure that talked about a part of the gardens I hadn’t visited before, the Healing Garden. I had long been aware of the therapeutic effect working in the garden has had on me, but a separate, formal garden devoted to healing? Weren’t all gardens “healing” gardens?
Entrance to the Healing Garden
As it turns out, a great deal of research is underway into the connection between nature and healing. Many hospitals (including Mercy Hospital, one of the sponsors of the healing garden mentioned above) now realize that nature is an important factor in reducing patient as well as staff stress. They have begun to specifically design green spaces to improve health outcomes.
When I began my own research into this new trend, I learned that therapeutic gardens, healing gardens, medicinal gardens, herb gardens, and meditation gardens are all based on the same premise, i.e. nature as healer, but are often designed differently with a particular purpose in mind.
Therapeutic landscapes or gardens are designed to meet the needs
of a specific patient population. Our Master Gardener Demonstration Garden, for
example, has a therapeutic garden designed specifically for autistic children. Other
therapeutic gardens focus on “cut flowers,” used to help nursing home patients
design flower arrangements they can keep in their rooms. The purpose of these
gardens is the active and deliberate involvement of the patients.
Healing and meditation gardens, on the other hand, aim for passive involvement. They are places where anyone can come to take in the benefits of a soothing natural space. Veterans Affairs and the military, for example, are now seeking the advice of horticultural therapists to address Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Studies show that after a stressful event, images of nature have a calming effect. Healing and meditation gardens tend to combine elements found in nature: green vegetation, flowers, and water.
Elements of a healing garden
Medicinal and herb gardens focus on the qualities of certain plants integral to the development of modern medicine. The National Library of Medicine at NIH, for example, has a medicinal garden right on its grounds. Begun in 1976, the garden now features nearly 100 varieties of herbs, many of which have found new appreciation from doctors and herbalists alike.
St. John’s Wort in the healing garden
The Healing Garden I visited at the Buffalo Botanical Garden seemed to combine the best of healing and medicinal gardens. Tucked in a back corner of the property, I wandered alone among the bee balm, hyssop, and St. John’s Wort. The Secret Garden, a classic book by Frances Hodgson Burnett, immediately came to mind. I thought about the little orphaned heroine of the book and how having a secret green space of her own improved the quality of her life.
Gardens, with their natural rhythms of birth, life and death,
have inspired many writers to examine the deep spiritual connection we have
with nature, and to view our own mortality differently. As a gardener, I spend
many hours nurturing my plants, but I left the healing garden in Buffalo with a
new appreciation for how gardens nurture me. I plan to create my own healing
garden at home. I’ll keep you posted on its progress.
Future healing garden
Do you have a garden? I would love to hear your own stories of nature and nurture. Add a comment or write to me! Your email address is seen only by me and will not be made public.
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.
