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.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

I was visited in a dream last night by the Ghost of Christmas Past. He held my hand as we flew past my old church on the West Side, dropped some coins in the collection box, and paused to listen to the choir singing at midnight mass. On we went. Past AM&A’s department store. A “living” Nativity scene. Houses framed by fat colored lights that gave our old neighborhood a cheery glow. Then I was back under the family Christmas tree, opening a homemade stocking filled with walnuts, Hershey’s kisses, and an orange. Next to the tree was the doll of my dreams, Chatty Cathy, with a smile that showed off her two front teeth. Finally, we stopped at Nonni’s house where meatballs bobbed merrily in a sauce pot the size of a whiskey half barrel, and cuccidati and giuggiulena cookies were heaped on a platter and hidden away until dessert time.

Fortunately, I woke up before the Ghosts of Christmas Present and Christmas Yet to Come could take me on their ride. Both the present and future look pretty scary to me right now. But it got me thinking about Charles Dickens and his famous yuletide morality tale, “A Christmas Carol.” I thought about Ebenezer Scrooge and what he learned when he looked at his past, present and future, and how it horrified him.

The Ghost of Christmas Past showed Scrooge how the events of his life thus far had turned him into who he was—a stingy old curmudgeon loved by no one.  The Ghost of Christmas Present showed him how self-centered he was, blind to what was happening all around him, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come revealed how his life would turn out if he didn’t change his ways.

The most important thing Scrooge learned that night was that the future was mutable. Things could change. Outcomes, while possible, are not predetermined. By looking at his behavior and seeing its logical consequence—an unmourned death and a lonely grave—Scrooge decided to change. As a result, things improved for him and everyone whose lives he touched.

Upon reflection, what I learned during my growing up years and from all my Christmases past, is not only what‘s important on Christmas Day, but what is important in life. Family and friends. Sacrifice and kindness. Finding joy in doing good for others. But sadly, this isn’t what I see when I look around me today. We all see it: bullying, intolerance of the views of others, insensitive comments on social media. Inconsideration. Selfishness.

So I’ve looked at myself, as Scrooge was forced to do, and asked, what kind of person am I? Am I the kind of person I think I am and wish to be? Do I think of others first? Am I kind? Tolerant? Do I listen carefully and try to learn from others when they speak? Or do I mentally shut them off when their views are diametrically opposed to mine? If I can answer yes to any of these questions, I know the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come would tell me it’s time to clean up my act.

Christmas is a time of celebration, of the birth of a child, of love, and of giving to others. It is also a time to take stock and resolve to be better people in the new year. Scrooge was given a chance to turn his life around before it was too late. Let’s hope, collectively, we’re all so lucky.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all,

Moxie

It Bit Me on the Rocks of Lake Erie

Lake Erie shoreline. Photo by Moxie Gardiner.

Several readers have put the question to me: “Moxie, your website says ‘A West Side Girl in the Big Wide World.’ We’ve heard about your West Side experiences. What’s this ‘Big Wide World’ stuff?” Fair enough. Living on the West Side of Buffalo shaped the outline of who I am. The big wide world has certainly filled in the details.

Since I left Buffalo, I’ve lived in four US states and a foreign capital, visited 45 countries and all 50 states. My most recent adventures were in Africa, where among other things, I caught a leopard (on camera) that was stalking me in the dark. On my journeys I’ve seen extreme poverty and extraordinary wealth, spectacular scenic beauty and tragic wastelands, humanity at its best and at its worst. Always, I keep a journal.

As a writer, my job is to look for and contemplate universal truths. A recent question I’ve been pondering is, what prompts a person to leave the comfort of their home to travel? What are we seeking on our sojourns, especially now when one can “travel” anywhere without leaving the couch, courtesy of the Internet? I’m not talking about annual beach vacations or trips to visit friends and family over the holidays. I am talking about traveling to distant lands that are culturally unfamiliar, sometimes uncomfortable, and not without risk. These are the places that tend to attract me because I’m a sucker for unexpected experiences, for the serendipitous surprise.

I think I can trace the day I was first bitten by the travel bug to a place just 20 miles south of Buffalo. I was about 11 years old. Each summer, our family would pile into the station wagon and head to our rented cottage in Angola, NY and a windswept beach nearby called Point Breeze. This particular summer, my cousin and I were allowed to leave the family beach blanket and walk a half mile up the beach by ourselves to a rocky outcropping we grandly called “the sea cliffs.”

From a distance we could see the waves crashing over the slate rocks, and on stormy days the spray would leap 20 feet in the air. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, we thought, to sit on those rocks and get splashed by that wild spray? We hurried along the pebbly beach as fast as our flip-flops would take us. We scrambled up the hill, and as soon as our parents were safely out of sight, climbed carefully down the embankment to where water met rock. We sat and waited for the spray. To our disappointment, the waves had settled down and lapped gently at the rocks below us. We inched our way down further. The waves came up around our ankles, so we scooted down another foot, and waited.

Whether the wind shifted or it was simply the normal fluctuation of the waves, I’ll never know. But the next wave that hit came up over our heads. I’ll never forget the force of the water as it pulled us into the lake and the somersaults we turned as the water churned us below the rocks. We came up coughing and gasping for air. I looked at my cousin as we treaded water—and we started laughing hysterically. “Let’s do it again!” we both said and climbed back onto the rocks.

How did that prompt my love for travel and adventure? I learned that day about the adrenaline rush of exploration, of taking risks, the electricity of finding yourself in danger, and the thrill, afterwards, of being alive. Why, if I could survive this, I could survive anything! Sitting on those rocks I would let my mind wander to the Wide World of Sports and the cliff divers in Mexico, then on to climbing the Great Pyramids of Giza, Machu Picchu, perhaps even Mount Everest. My 11-year-old self decided that nothing would stop me from doing what I wanted to do, as long as I didn’t let fear get in the way.

Sure, there have been a few downsides. I’ve been injured, sick, lost, robbed, and harassed on my travels, and survived a few scary plane flights. I’ve had to flee more than one burning building, wear a flak jacket on a road favored by terrorists, and hold my breath when a bus driver did a u-turn in front of six lanes of oncoming traffic. But oh, the stories I could tell!

The big wide world is a fabulous place that provides grist for the writer, a classroom for the intellectually curious, and cultural and culinary immersion for us rank sensualists. Not least of all, it gives us a better appreciation of home and the things we sometimes take for granted.

Do you have an interest in travel, dear reader? Do you remember when you were first bitten by the travel bug? If so, drop me a line. If there is enough interest, I’ll add a few travel blogs to my website.

Chestnut Time at the Armory

One of my favorite memories growing up in Buffalo was the annual trip my brothers and I would take each fall to collect chestnuts at the Connecticut Street Armory. At least, we thought they were chestnuts.

Continue reading “Chestnut Time at the Armory”

Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes

Don’t let the name Gardiner fool you—I had a Sicilian grandmother. She and my grandfather lived on the West Side of Buffalo in an upstairs flat with three small bedrooms and one bath. They had eight children (and adopted two more) who were likewise highly accomplished in producing offspring, so I shared my grandparents with 35 other grandchildren. For us, my grandparents were the center of the universe, and Nonni, as we called her, was the sun. Continue reading “Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes”

So You Think You’d Like to Write a Book…

Four years ago, when I decided to write a novel set in Buffalo, I did the worst thing I could possibly do. I looked up “what it takes to write a novel” on the Internet. I did not find loads of encouragement. Continue reading “So You Think You’d Like to Write a Book…”