Beggar’s Night

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.

Little kids dressing up for Halloween
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.

Halloween costumes
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.

Pinocchio costume
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.

https://www.irishcultureandcustoms.com/

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.

Change is Gonna Come

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.

photo of abandoned Spark's Dairy building
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.

family catching school bus
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.

vegetable garden replaces front lawn

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.

boho apartment building on Buffalo's west side
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.

Gardens in Buffalo are second to none.
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.

Root Bound

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.

Hydrangea Bathing

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 alone
Hyssop 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!
Bee balm
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.

Empty Playgrounds

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.

broken water main
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!

If Your Son Looked Like the Milkman

A thriving Spark’s Dairy circa 1958

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.

photo of abandoned Spark's Dairy building
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.

[2] There are interesting statistics on this. See https://dairymarkets.org/PubPod/Reference/Library/DIS.1982.pdf

[3] https://madison.com/business/decline-of-the-dairy-farm—-what-happened/article_fc7cb66f-c40a-585c-ac9c-71e279b8275e.html

[4] https://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/16/business/yourmoney/16milk.html

The Hunt for Gardoons

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.

[1] Never cooked gardoons? Here’s a great article in Smithsonian Magazine to get you started. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/what-heck-do-i-do-cardoon-180950301/

[2] For more on the benefits of eating dandelions, see https://sunwarrior.com/blogs/health-hub/11-health-benefits-of-dandelion-leaves-and-dandelion-root

[3] For more info on wildcrafting check out https://botanicalstudies.net/wildcrafting/

[4] See their website, https://pfaf.org/user/AboutUs.aspx

[5] For more information on “considerate foraging,” check out https://www.foragers-association.org.uk/index.php/principles-and-practice

Gardens That Heal

photo of Buffalo Botanical Gardens
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?

photo of healing garden in Buffalo
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
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, Buffalo Botanical Gardens
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.

What the World Needs Now Is…More Holidays!

Growing up in Buffalo, we had a Valentine’s Day tradition that, as far as I can tell, was unique to our family. During the day, we exchanged paper valentines with our classmates, but when it grew dark, our family would wait in breathless anticipation for the annual visit of “The Big Man.”

We would be sitting at the dining room table around 7 pm, pretending to do our homework, when the front door bell would ring. We would run, fling open the door, and find a chocolate heart lying there, with one of our names on it. While we scanned the street for movement, we’d hear a knock at our back door. We’d run and find another heart. This would continue with all eight of us running and screaming back and forth through the house, until each of us had a candy heart.

The Big Man loomed large in our family lore. We were told he had exceptionally long legs and could run like the wind. We pictured him wearing a dark fedora and a long black coat, moving silently in the shadows. Once, we got the bright idea to split up with some of us waiting at each door, but my mother warned us, “I’m told the Big Man is very shy. If you see him once, you’ll never see him again.” None of us was willing to take that chance.

When we grew older and met our sweethearts, we celebrated Valentine’s Day with red wine and roses, but none of us forgot about the Big Man. When we had children we carried on the tradition, and thankfully, our children promise to continue it with theirs. Traditions—especially the funny, idiosyncratic ones like the Big Man—are what bind us as a family, with a shared history and a sense of belonging.

Psychologists say that celebrating holidays and establishing family traditions is one of the most essential things we do as humans. If approached with the right spirit, holidays are opportunities to relax, share a meal, have a few laughs, and tell stories that connect one generation to the next. So if holidays and traditions are so important, why don’t we have more of them?

I decided, as one of my New Year’s resolutions, to celebrate more holidays this year, and invent some new traditions. No, I’m not looking for more opportunities to shop for gifts or take time off from work. What I have in mind is far simpler. In February, for example, I celebrated Candlemas, Chinese New Year, Valentine’s Day, and President’s Day. To celebrate, I pulled out the nice tablecloth and fancy napkins, used the good china and silverware, added candles and decorations, and designed a meal that reflected the significance of the holiday. Cherry pie for George Washington’s Birthday, for example.

My latest brainstorm is to incorporate a few literary holidays (I am a writer, after all) into my celebratory calendar. We’ll enjoy “Dr. Seuss Day” on March 2nd with my own creative version of “green eggs and ham.” On June 16th, James Joyce’s “Bloomsday,” we’ll rejoice with a trip to an Irish pub. On July 21st, we’ll celebrate Hemingway’s birthday with oysters, Pont-l’Évêque cheese, cold Sancerre, and a shot of rum for good measure. Of course, we will party on Hobbit Day, September 22nd (because hobbits know how to party) and on December 10th I shall bake a coconut cake (her favorite) in honor of Emily Dickenson’s birthday.

In the end, it doesn’t matter what you are celebrating. What matters is that you find things to celebrate, and remember to include others. Teach the young about the old traditions, and involve the old timers in creating new ones. Have fun. Take a break from the news, politics, and whatever other stresses you are dealing with day-to-day and enjoy yourself.

That’s what the world needs now. Fewer confrontations. More celebrations.

When the Yard Became a Skating Rink

Every January, my father would drag out our old stiff garden hose and turn it on until the backyard was flooded, moving the nozzle every so often to ensure the ice formed as evenly as possible. We didn’t have a Zamboni machine so the inevitable bumps and divots would form over tufts of grass and forgotten toys, but as soon as the ice was solid enough, we were hobbling out the door in our ice skates.

Word would spread quickly throughout our West Side neighborhood. Soon our yard was full of kids, some on skates, some just running and sliding over the ice in their rubber boots. A hockey game would start with old brooms and a ball. Mom would make mugs of hot cocoa with a marshmallow floating on top and offer a cup to whoever got cold.

When we were small, we wore double bladed “beginner skates,” lightweight things that would strap onto our boots. When we were good enough to graduate to “real” skates—the leather kind with a single blade—we felt like Hans Brinker, or in my case, his sister Gretel, after she won the famous canal race and the prized “silver skates.” On our homemade ice rink, we taught ourselves how to skate backwards, do a passable twirl, and come to a stop without falling. Later, when we were old enough to walk to the Front Park skating rink, those skills gave us an advantage when we played crack the whip or a cute boy would skate up and grab our mittened hand.

Thinking back, I acquired many useful skills on that childhood skating rink. I learned how to spot and maneuver around hidden obstacles. How to fall flat on my face, pick myself up, and keep on going like it never happened. How to make the most out of winter by thinking creatively and using what was at hand.   

Like many writers, I can’t help but think of winter and ice as a metaphor. Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Jack London, and more recently, George R.R. Martin of “Game of Thrones” fame, all wrote about winter from a range of perspectives. Some writers use ice to describe aloof personalities, others to signify the absence of love, still others as a destructive force not conducive to life, and winter as a season of death. A time to be feared.

Buffalonians, however, are a different breed. Wintry conditions comprise a good chunk of life in Buffalo, and I learned to think of winter, and the snow and ice that come with it, another way—as translucent, transforming, purifying, even spiritual. A calm respite before the boisterousness of spring.

I remember those first few steps on the ice, and how all five of my senses would snap awake. The shushing sound of blades on ice. The taste of snowflakes on my tongue. The metallic smell of freezing water and the sight of gorgeous patterns in the snow-rimmed ice. The exhilarating feel of the wind on my face as I rounded a turn and gathered speed. Winter was not “death” to us. It was a glorious time to be alive.

As I near the winter of my life, I try to remember that every season brings pleasure as well as hardship. I would like to embrace this new winter the way I did in my youth—as something with its own special beauty and opportunities for joy.