Like the river for which it’s named, Ginger Strand’s Inventing Niagara begins gradually, channeling mighty historical forces before branching off, gathering speed and turbulence before plunging in a breathtaking spectacle—only to rise again, light, airy, and refreshing as mist.

Nobody believes me when I tell about the time I flew on my snow shovel. Well, my cousin Bobby does. Sort of. He says it was more of a levitation than flying. I guess he’s right. Standing out there leaning against the shovel, I felt my legs lift right up from the ground. I held the wooden handle tight with the shovel stuck in the snow. I looked back over my shoulder and, sure enough, my legs were floating like flags blowing in the wind. Then I ran into the house to tell Mom, “I flew on my snow shovel!” She was busy making a racket in the kitchen. She stopped for a minute and said “Oh you did!” in that tone grown-ups use when kids try to tell them something that seems too silly. She went back to mixing cookies, mumbling oven directions under her breath.

Literary Buffalo, presented by Just Buffalo