Death of the Wintergarden

I lost her fairly recently, so speaking of her is like rubbing salt into the wound. She was a majestic glass vessel that housed not only my earliest memories but also seven thousand trees at one time. Her name was Wintergarden. She stood seven stories tall in the heart of the city of Niagara Falls.

The first time I met her I was four years old. I stood in the entranceway gazing up in awe through tree branches at various levels of exclusive balconies that could only be reached by metal spiraling stairs. The greenery hid the visibility of the steel cables that made the stairs appear as though they were suspended in midair.

Stepping-stones and concrete stairs led the way to secret paths past various tropical plants, flowers and cacti. There were glass elevators that took you to the peek of the seventh story exposing kissing lovers. The canopy barely provided them privacy at such heights.

Several birds had made their home there and I remember wondering how they got in and if they knew that they were inside even though there were an abundance of trees. You could feel the warmth of the sun and watch the clouds pass by overhead.

Not only was the Wintergarden a great place to play hide and seek, but she was also a time capsule for several milestones in my life. She became home to my first kiss, my first chorus concert and the first wedding I had ever been in. My son took his first steps there and she was the first place I would take family members visiting from out of state.

The Wintergarden became a magical quiet retreat for me. It was the only place in Western New York that was springtime all year round. She was also the only place you could enjoy a picnic during a snowstorm or hear the merry chirp of birds in January.

My favorite retreat was found in the far left corner where a large pond had been built. There were slate stepping-stones making a path through the pond to a concrete island in the center. On either side of that were levels of rocks that created two foamy waterfalls. The babbling waters filled the atmosphere with the sounds of faint whispers. This was a wonderful place for meditation that was only occasionally interrupted by a tourist passing through.

The birth of a casino is what ultimately caused her death. A travel and tourism project headed by the Seneca Indians, and she wasn't part of their dream. She was not the type of entertainment that the Casino clientele would demand, so they scalped her and then gouged in deeper to destroy her roots. She still stands to this day, but without a soul.

Learn more about this author, Alexis Stone.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

---

Add your voice

Know something about Reflections: Appreciating winter?
We want to hear your view. Write now!