In November 2003, at fifty and traveling Arizona with my son Sean, I returned to the University of Arizona for my first Homecoming since graduating in 1975. I’d made the freshman cheerleading squad my first year in Tucson, and when the alumni invitation arrived, I couldn’t resist.
At the cheer alumni reception on November 7, the room felt instantly familiar—handshakes, stories, and a current squad packed with scholars as well as athletes. I mentioned to advisor Phoebe Chalk that I hoped to photograph the parade. “The squad already had photographers”, she said, so I planned to work from the sidelines.
I came prepared the next day with a Sony Cybershot F828. It was “Sony’s flagship prosumer digital camera” at the time. It worked well that day, the variable lens was especially helpful.
At the staging site, I solved access with a simple ask. I approached UA President Peter Likins, explained I wanted to photograph the cheerleaders, and he nodded, made a quick call, and waved me on. The team recognized me from the evening before, and I fell in step with them at the head of the procession
As we passed the Flandrau Science Center and crossed Cherry Avenue, a stunt group set quickly: bases J. Justin VandenBerg, Ricardo Abud (captain), and Robert Scoby with flyer Taylor Hendrickson. They launched her high for a full flip and clean catch. I caught the moment of collective focus—an image I call Mind.
We progressed until the stunt group reset. This time I framed the instant of takeoff—limbs aligned like clockwork—I call this image Aerialists.
The next flyer to launch was Kristen Ortega, here standing on the shoulders of her partner.
In front of the review stand, flyer Kristen Ortega rose into a poised extension and flight returned safely to the same three pairs of hands. Grace is the image title.
The rest of the parade streamed past in a blur of alumni, bands, and banners. Afterward, a squad member took a picture of me with the team—two eras in one frame. The cheers change; the spirit doesn’t.
The Auburn St. Patrick’s Day Parade showcased vibrant traditions through bagpipers, dancers, and community spirit, celebrating Irish heritage and unity in a poignant, lively procession.
The streets of Auburn, New York, were alive with the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day. A crisp breeze carried the sound of bagpipes through the neighborhood, stirring both nostalgia and excitement. I stood on the curb, camera in hand, ready to capture the essence of what is proudly proclaimed as “New York’s Shortest St. Patrick’s Day Parade.”
Leading the procession was a lone bagpiper, his presence commanding attention. Clad in a traditional kilt, he marched with precision, his fingers skillfully pressing the chanter, producing the unmistakable droning melody. The contrast of his black uniform against the white socks and flashes of green was striking. His gaze was fixed forward, unwavering, as he walked past modest houses adorned with shamrocks and green decorations. A woman standing nearby lifted her phone to capture the moment, mirroring my own effort to preserve the memory.
Just behind him, a group of proud marchers advanced, their sashes boldly displaying the colors of the Irish flag. Some leaned on walking sticks, a testament to age and tradition converging on this special day. They carried a banner that read: “New York’s Shortest St. Patrick’s Day Parade – Auburn – Ancient Order of Hibernians.” The crowd lining the sidewalks clapped and cheered as the parade, though brief, filled the street with a warmth that defied the cool March air.
The energy of the parade was contagious. A group of Irish dancers followed, their synchronized steps punctuated by the rhythmic clap of their hard shoes on pavement. The young girls, dressed in intricately designed Celtic-inspired outfits, smiled through the motions, their faces reflecting both discipline and joy. Alongside them, women in matching athletic gear clapped along, encouraging the younger dancers while swaying to the lively music.
Green was everywhere—on scarves, hats, jackets, and even the leggings of a young girl who skipped along with excitement. Onlookers wore festive attire, their laughter and conversations blending into the celebratory atmosphere. Irish pride radiated from the participants and the community that gathered to watch, reinforcing the deep cultural roots that have anchored this parade in tradition.
For all its brevity, the Auburn St. Patrick’s Day Parade carried a weight of significance. It was not about grand floats or large crowds; it was about honoring heritage, embracing camaraderie, and keeping alive a tradition that linked the past with the present. As the final marchers passed and the echoes of the bagpipes faded, I took a final look through my camera lens. I had captured moments of pride, joy, and unity—a testament to the enduring legacy of the Irish spirit in this small but vibrant celebration.
For best experience view video in YouTube
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As the year draws to a close, our home is filled with the glow of lights, the shimmer of cherished ornaments, and the spirit of the season. Each decoration holds a memory, from angels watching over us to the Nativity scene that reminds us of the humble birth of Christ, our Savior.
This Christmas, we celebrate the greatest gift of all: God’s love made manifest through the birth of Jesus Christ. May the peace of His presence fill your hearts and homes, bringing comfort, joy, and hope that transcends all seasons.
As we gather with loved ones, let us remember the message of the angels: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.”
From our family to yours, may this holy season be a time of deep gratitude, boundless love, and renewed faith in the light that shines in the darkness.
Pam’s Christmas Decorations 2024
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The air was soddenly warm that Thanksgiving morning in 2023, carrying a foreboding of climate change. Standing on the grounds of Ithaca High School, I couldn’t help but feel the incongruity of the unseasonable warmth. The annual “Turkey Trot” was unfolding around me, an event filled with cheerful camaraderie, yet beneath the surface of this tradition, the world itself seemed to whisper a warning. My attention drifted from the runners to the ground, where fallen leaves painted a story that echoed this uneasy tension.
The ginkgo leaves, their vibrant golden hues glowing against the damp grass, seemed almost out of place in the humid air. Ginkgos are ancient survivors, trees that have witnessed millennia of change, yet even they now face a future shaped by the rapid pace of human disruption. Their fan-like shapes, so delicate and timeless, carried an irony—symbols of endurance scattered on a landscape where the seasons no longer held the predictability they once did. That morning, their luminous beauty felt like a quiet plea, a reminder of nature’s fragility in the face of human indifference.
As a spectator of the 2023 “Turkey Trot” on Thanksgiving Day I found these Ginko and Sycamore leaves at Ithaca High School, Ithaca, Tompkins County New York. Finger Lakes Region
Among them, the sycamore leaves lay darker and more rugged, their broader forms curled and weathered by the elements. The sycamore is a resilient tree, often thriving in difficult conditions, yet its leaves bore a somber note against the warmth of the day. Together, the ginkgo and sycamore leaves formed a poignant tableau—a meeting of strength and delicacy, both subject to the same unrelenting forces of change. As I stood there, the leaves seemed to whisper their own story, a testament to survival amidst an increasingly uncertain world.
Ginko Leaves and Honey Locust Pods, Stewart Park on a December 2023 afternoon
The Turkey Trot unfolded with its usual energy—children dashed ahead with gleeful abandon, adults paced themselves in cheerful determination, and older participants moved with quiet dignity. The warmth seemed to amplify the human vibrancy of the event, yet it also cast a shadow of dissonance. This race, this celebration of resilience and community, was happening against the backdrop of a world in flux. The warmth of the morning was a reminder that even cherished traditions like this might one day feel the strain of climate shifts.
I crouched to capture the leaves in a photograph, drawn by their interplay of color and form. The ginkgo leaves glimmered like gold coins scattered across the ground, while the sycamore leaves added a depth and weight that anchored the scene. Together, they reminded me of the cyclical nature of life, the beauty and decay that coexist within the same space. Yet this year, the warmth in the air added an unsettling layer to the story. These leaves, so central to the rhythm of seasons, were now falling in a world where those rhythms seemed increasingly disrupted.
Bare Ginko tree with leaf pattern, Stewart Park on a December afternoon 2023
As the sunlight broke through the clouds, it illuminated the edges of the ginkgo leaves, making them shimmer with an almost otherworldly light. I lingered in that moment, feeling the weight of its quiet truth: life is fleeting, but its beauty endures in the connections we foster and the memories we hold. That Thanksgiving, the humid warmth of the air reminded me that we live in a time of profound change, yet even amid uncertainty, there is still wonder to be found beneath our feet. It is a wonder worth preserving.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I step into Cascadilla Gorge from the Linn Street entrance, I’m greeted by the soft rustling of leaves and the constant, soothing rush of water. The air this Halloween Day is warm, the autumn colors vibrant against the cool blue sky. I know Cascadilla Gorge is part of the Cornell Botanical Gardens, but the immediate beauty of this natural sanctuary makes it easy to forget I’m still within the city limits of Ithaca. The sounds of the gorge draw me in, as if whispering there’s more to see, more to explore. With a deep breath, I begin my journey up the trail, eager to discover what lies ahead.
Just a short way in, I notice the First Church of Christ, Scientist perched on the corner of University Avenue and Cascadilla Park Road. The architecture of the church is both quaint and elegant, with its light-colored facade framed by dark trim and roof. Surrounded by foliage, it feels like the church belongs here, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks. The sight of this historic building nestled so close to the gorge reminds me that this wild and ancient place is woven into the fabric of Ithaca’s community life.
I move further along the trail, and the terrain begins to shift. Fallen leaves create a golden carpet along the path, their crisp shapes overlapping like nature’s confetti celebrating the season. Each step crunches underfoot, adding my own rhythm to the symphony of sounds. The trees overhead are a kaleidoscope of colors—deep golds, fiery oranges, and the occasional flash of red from Virginia Creeper vines (Parthenocissus quinquefolia). Together, the trees create a canopy that filters sunlight, casting dappled patterns on the gorge walls. It’s an ever-changing play of light and shadow, one moment bright and the next subdued, adding a layer of magic to the experience.
As I follow the trail upward, the gorge narrows, and I find myself surrounded by towering walls of rock. Here, layers of siltstone and shale formed more than 300 hundred million years ago are exposed, a testament to the forces of water and time that carved this place across mere millennia of recent geologic time. The rock formations are fascinating, with the water flowing over them in gentle cascades, finding every groove and crevice. There’s something humbling about standing in a place shaped by forces so much larger and older than myself. I pause, letting the rush of water and the stillness of stone fill my senses.
Along the way, I come across an interpretive sign provided by the Cornell Botanical Gardens. They tell the story of Cascadilla Gorge, how it was formed from the bedrock of sandstone and shale that eroded from mountains to the east, in the Devonian era when an ancient inland sea covered the region. The signs also introduce Robert H. Treman, a philanthropist who saw the beauty and educational value of the gorge. Thanks to him and the efforts of many, this natural wonder is preserved for all to experience. Knowing this adds depth to my walk; it’s a reminder that places like this exist not only by chance but because people cared enough to protect them.
The sandstone staircases along the trail are a marvel in themselves. Some sections are steep, winding up the gorge in a series of steps that seem to have been placed with precision, blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. The steps are covered with leaves now, making each ascent feel a bit like climbing through a fairy-tale forest. The chains along the path provide a comforting grip, especially as I climb higher. I look back and see how far I’ve come, the creek below winding its way over rocks and around bends, each step a small journey of its own.
I pass several small waterfalls, each one unique in its character. Some are gentle trickles, while others pour over the rocks with more force, their sound reverberating off the gorge walls. I stop frequently, entranced by the way the water carves its path, eternally moving, adapting, wearing down even the hardest stone. Leaves float down from above, landing in the creek and swirling in miniature whirlpools before being carried downstream. It’s mesmerizing to watch nature at work in such a quiet, persistent way.
Further up the gorge, the views open up, and I can see the layers of rock descending in terraces, each level a little cascade of its own. I watch as the water flows across these steps, catching the light as it moves—a silvery ribbon winding through the golden autumn landscape. The tranquility of the scene is meditative. Around me, the trees stand as silent witnesses, their branches bare in places but still adorned with clusters of leaves clinging through the last days of fall.
Finally, I reach one of the larger waterfalls, framed by a graceful stone arch bridge that crosses high above. The scene is something out of a painting. Water pours over the rocks, gathering in pools below before spilling onward. I pause on the bridge, looking down at the gorge below and the trail I’ve followed, grateful for the journey.
Along the way, artists are positioned along the path, each lost in the beauty of Cascadilla Gorge. They stand or sit in quiet reverie, brushes or pencils in hand, capturing the gorge’s unique character. Some focus on the play of light over the water’s surface, while others seem intent on the rugged details of the rock formations. Their presence adds a contemplative depth to the scene; it’s as if each artist has uncovered a hidden aspect of the gorge that I have overlooked in my journey upward.
I slow my pace to take it all in, appreciating how the artists interpret this natural wonder through their own eyes. Their canvases reveal layers of colors that shift as the sun filters through the leaves, casting vibrant golds and subtle greens on the cascading water. The scene feels almost collaborative—nature and human hand creating art together, each reflection of the gorge as unique as the individual capturing it. I’m tempted to pause beside them, to see how they choose to frame the towering walls, the stone bridge arching above the water, and the gentle curves of the creek as it meanders downstream. I can imagine each artist’s work holding a different piece of this place, like fragments of a memory.
Bridge View looking up Cascadilla CreekBridge View looking back the way I came
As I continue, the sound of rushing water grows louder, drawing me towards another cascade that tumbles in steps down the gorge. The rocks are layered in angular formations, giving the water a zigzagging path to follow. Leaves are scattered across the stones, their colors—yellows, browns, and the occasional splash of red—standing out against the dark, wet rock. There’s a timelessness here, a feeling that this scene has remained unchanged for centuries, save for the shifting leaves and the ever-present flow of the creek. The thought makes me feel like a small part of something much larger, a guest in an ancient place shaped by nature’s slow, steady hand.
The path narrows again, following the edge of the creek where the water has worn smooth channels into the stone.
Moving forward, the trail climbs steeply, and I find myself surrounded by tall rock faces on either side. The walls are layered and weathered, a geological history book open to the forces that shaped this land. It’s humbling to see how this place puts everything into perspective, how it reminds us of our place in the natural world.
Columns of sedimentary rock
Ahead, the path becomes more rugged, the air feels cooler here, shaded by the gorge’s high walls, and the sounds of the city are long gone, replaced by the steady rhythm of water and the drift of leaves. The layers of ancient limestone that form these towering walls give shape to our landscape and ecosystem. As rainwater falls and seeps through the porous rock, the limestone raises the pH of the water, neutralizing its natural acidity. This subtle alchemy nurtures the flora and fauna, fostering a unique biome that thrives in the gorge. The artists fade from view as I move further into the solitude of the trail, but their presence lingers in my mind. Each turn of the path reveals another scene worthy of capturing, another moment that seems to call out for remembrance.
Looking back toward the way I came
The trail steepens, and I press onward, the sound of the water intensifying as I near a grand waterfall framed by the impressive stone steps leading up to the College Avenue Stone Arch. Each step is littered with leaves, their colors vivid against the worn stone—golds, russets, and the occasional brilliant red, like embers scattered along my path. The waterfall beside me spills down in steady streams, each cascade creating rivulets that catch the light as they flow downward.
The gorge walls rise sharply on either side, embracing the path in rugged layers that tell stories of geological time. I feel as if I’m climbing a passage through history itself. These rocks, these trees, the very water carving its way through the stone—all have been here far longer than I can fathom, shaped by forces beyond my understanding. There’s a certain thrill in being among such enduring elements, a reminder of how small and fleeting we are in the face of nature’s grandeur.
Reaching the next tier of the trail, I pause to take in the sight of the massive stone arch spanning the gorge above. The bridge is a striking feature, its wide arch perfectly framing the sky and the last vibrant colors of autumn. It feels like a gateway, a fitting culmination to the journey. Standing beneath it, I’m struck by how well it harmonizes with the gorge, the careful craftsmanship of its stonework complementing the rough beauty of the surrounding cliffs.
The sunlight flows around the arch, illuminating the leaves that cling to the branches above, casting a warm glow over the scene. I feel a sense of reverence here, a quiet acknowledgment of both human artistry and the relentless beauty of nature.
I paused to capture this video of the moment.
Sights and Sounds of Autumn
The final ascent is graced by a bench where a stone plaque catches my eye. It’s a tribute, etched with words that resonate in this place: “Joy to all we love the best, love to thee, our fair Cornell.” A gift from a family whose lives intertwined with Cornell, it serves as a reminder of the deep connections people have to this landscape, to the university, and to the memories rooted in these trails and gorges. I pause, reflecting on my own connection to this path, which has taken me through an ever-unfolding tapestry of nature and history.
The last stretch of steps is leaf blanketed, their shapes and colors a beautiful final mosaic before I emerge from the shaded coolness of the gorge. The sun filters down through the thinning trees, illuminating the stone buildings of the Cornell campus that peek through the branches ahead. With each step, I feel the transition, moving from the curated wildness of Cascadilla Gorge and its trail to the structured beauty of the university grounds.
Myron Taylor Hall, Cornell Law School from the gorge.
As I reach the top, the Schwartz Center for the Performing Arts comes into view, its modern architecture a contrast to the ancient rocks I’ve left behind. Here, in this space where art, education, and nature converge, I take a last look back into the gorge and a journey, a gem in the heart of the Finger Lakes, a place that holds stories, both old and new, and invites every visitor to become a part of them.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
During my walk around the Cascadilla Gorge rim, I found myself drawn to small, intricate details of the city, details that tell stories of the town’s rich past and its lively present. Ithaca’s history felt close, touchable, woven into each corner and each unique encountered feature.
This sign in front of the former Post Office on Aurora Street marked the founding of the Town of Ithaca in 1821. Standing there, I imagined the early days of the town, its growth and change over the decades, all captured in a few lines on a sign beneath the green, now lightly browned leaves. The sign, a quiet guardian of Ithaca’s origins, holding a reminder of how the town started from the nearby Town of Ulysses and grew into the community it is today.
Climbing Buffalo Stret, above me was a brick doorway, framed by red ivy climbing toward the top. The arched doorway, with its rich wood and surrounding vines, as though it fell from a storybook. The dark bricks contrasted with the soft greens and reds of the foliage, giving the building a personality—stoic yet welcoming, suggesting secrets held within its walls. There was a warmth to the old architecture, a tangible connection to the hands that crafted it.
A metal plaque dedicated to Simeon De Witt, the surveyor-general, stood amidst the yellow autumn leaves. Weathered with age, the sign seemed to fade into the colors of the season. De Witt played a pivotal role in shaping both New York State and Ithaca itself; as the surveyor-general during and after the Revolutionary War, he was responsible for mapping much of New York, shaping towns, and setting the stage for westward expansion. A visionary in his own right, De Witt saw Ithaca’s potential as a town and became one of its founding figures. The juxtaposition of the modern-day hustle of the town with this nearly forgotten tribute spoke to the layers of history that live here, often unnoticed. Here was a reminder of a man who helped lay the literal groundwork for the state, his legacy now largely a quiet one, tucked among the turning leaves.
Exploring Dewitt Place, I came across a staircase leading up to a house, decorated for Halloween. Pumpkins with carved faces sat proudly on each step, their grins adding a playful spirit to the scene. Bright red shrubs framed the path, a bold contrast against the deep gray siding of the house. Here, past met present, with the timeless ritual of Halloween adding a touch of whimsy to the historic porch.
Nearby, I noticed a vine-covered wall where vibrant red leaves cascaded down toward the stone base. The color was striking—a reminder that, even as autumn wanes, nature’s palette reaches its most intense. The bright red vines against the textured gray stone created an almost painterly effect, as if nature itself had brushed the wall with strokes of crimson.
A lush patch of ornamental grass along Cascadilla Park Road caught my eye, standing out among the other plants with its vibrant green leaves. The grass retained a fresh, lively color, unfazed by the autumnal transition around it. Its dense, narrow blades added an unexpected texture to the scene, a unique counterpoint to the fiery fall foliage nearby. This little patch of green seemed to bring its own charm to the autumn landscape, a reminder of the botanical diversity that characterizes Ithaca.
Lastly, I came across a carefully constructed stone wall. The stones were stacked with precision, weathered yet sturdy, each rock fitting neatly into the next. The craftsmanship spoke of a time when walls were built to last, their durability a testament to the hands that built them and the care given to each detail.
These small, unique details—signs, doorways, decorations, plants—combined to give a fuller picture of Ithaca. The town’s essence felt wrapped up in these seemingly simple features, each contributing a layer to Ithaca’s story, rich with history and imbued with a present-day warmth that invites exploration and appreciation.
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A few days before Halloween, I found myself on the rim of Cascadilla Gorge, Ithaca’s autumnal crown jewel. The air had that crisp October quality, each breath carrying a hint of the colder days to come yet still tempered by the lingering warmth of early fall. A breeze carried a scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a rich, organic aroma that signaled the turning of the seasons. The path beneath my feet was a tapestry of fallen leaves—russet, gold, and burnt orange—a natural carpet leading me through a world suspended between vibrancy and rest.
Golden Canopy over Buffalo Street Sidewalk
Continuing up Buffalo Street, I marveled at the trees, their branches thick with yellow and gold leaves, creating a canopy above. The leaves shivered with every gust, whispering the ancient secrets of the forest. The air was infused with the sweet, woody fragrance of maple and oak, mingling with the faint scent of chimney smoke from nearby houses. The sunlight filtered through, casting a dappled pattern on the sidewalk, a fleeting mosaic as the leaves danced in the wind. A sense of impermanence struck me; soon, these leaves would be gone, leaving bare branches silhouetted against a winter sky.
Scene from Dewitt Place toward South Hill and Ithaca College
Crossing the Stewart Avenue bridge, the Cascadilla Gorge came into view, a steep wall of stratified rock layers standing guard over the gently flowing stream below. The contrast between stone and foliage was breathtaking—the hard, unyielding rock juxtaposed with the softness of leaves in full autumnal bloom. The earthy scent of wet stone mixed with the crisp aroma of the flowing water, creating a sensory tapestry unique to the gorge. The colors seemed to intensify against the gray and brown of the cliff, each leaf like a brushstroke on nature’s canvas, celebrating the season’s final flourish before surrendering to winter.
Below footpath along the gorge rim, the creek wound through, its banks littered with leaves that had completed their journey from branch to earth. They floated on the water’s surface, spinning gently in the current as though reluctant to leave this last dance. The sound of the water was a steady undercurrent, soothing and rhythmic, as it tumbled over stones and carved its way through the gorge. I paused to watch, entranced by the way water and rock, ephemeral and eternal, seemed to coexist in a kind of harmony.
I stopped at a lookout point and surveyed the town sprawled out below, nestled amidst the fiery colors of the surrounding hills. The architecture of Ithaca’s buildings peeked through the trees, each roof and spire framed by the season’s palette. This was a town embraced by nature; its rhythm dictated as much by the seasons as by human hands. The sight stirred a sense of gratitude within me; here was a place that reminded you to slow down and observe, to notice the subtle shifts in light, in color, in the way a single gust of wind could change a landscape.
I continued along the rim, passing a small waterfall that spilled over the rocks with a quiet insistence. The water had carved smooth pathways in the stone, evidence of its long journey and persistent power. The sunlight hit the spray just right, casting a fleeting rainbow that shimmered and then disappeared as I moved. I felt a sense of companionship with the water—both of us moving forward, shaped by the paths we traverse, yet always adapting to whatever lay ahead.
The last part of the trail led me through a dense thicket of trees, their branches hanging low, forming a natural archway. The air was heavy with the musky scent of fallen leaves and the spicy aroma of pine needles underfoot. Here, the light was softer, muted by the thick canopy overhead. The quietness enveloped me, broken only by the occasional rustle of a squirrel in the leaves or the distant caw of a crow. It was the kind of silence that feels sacred, where each sound, no matter how small, becomes profound.
Entering Cascadilla Gorge from Linn Street
Emerging from the shaded path, I took one last look back at the gorge. The scene was both familiar and new—a blend of natural beauty and the nostalgia of seasons past. I felt a sense of peace, grounded by the cycles of the earth, by the ebb and flow of life around me. In this moment, on the brink of Halloween, the world felt both hauntingly beautiful and reassuringly steadfast, a reminder that even as the leaves fall and the days grow shorter, there is a promise of renewal in the quiet persistence of nature.
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Explore the enchanting world of the Horse Chestnut, its vibrant spring blossoms, and its rich tapestry of historical and ecological significance, as I wander the slopes above Cayuga Lake on a serene Mother’s Day.
On a serene Mother’s Day in 2024, I found myself walking the slopes above Cayuga Lake, embraced by the spring warmth and the vibrant blossoms of the Horse Chestnut tree (Aesculus hippocastanum). This moment was a seasonal celebration and a deep dive into the botanical and cultural tapestry that this majestic tree weaves.
The Botanical Brilliance of the Horse Chestnut
The Horse Chestnut tree, with its robust stature and radiant floral displays, is a sight to behold, a study in botanical survival and adaptation. Originally native to a small area in the Pindus Mountains mixed forests and the Balkan mixed forests of Southeast Europe, this tree has traversed continents and histories to root itself into diverse landscapes, including the fertile grounds above Cayuga Lake.
Each spring, the Horse Chestnut’s candle-like flower spikes, scientifically known as ‘panicles’, burst forth in a shower of whites and subtle pinks, each petal marked distinctively with a blotch of yellow or red. These blooms are structured to attract a variety of pollinators, playing a crucial role in the local ecological narrative by supporting biodiversity.
Historical Uses and Cultural Significance
The journey of the Horse Chestnut tree from its native lands to the Americas is a tale of practicality and reverence. Native Americans, prior to the arrival of European settlers, were keen observers of their environment but may not have had a direct historical use for the Horse Chestnut, as it was introduced later. However, the European settlers quickly discovered the tree’s multiple uses. The wood, known for its softness and workability, was used to make furniture and boxes, while the bark found its place in the tanning industry due to its rich tannin content.
Most notably, the seeds of the Horse Chestnut were ground and used as a form of laundry detergent and to treat various ailments, a testament to the tree’s utility in pioneering life. This aspect of the Horse Chestnut highlights a broader theme of how both Native Americans and European settlers utilized natural resources for survival and economic purposes, blending the lines between utility and conservation.
A Reflection on the Natural History and Ecology
As I strolled beneath the boughs heavy with spring’s bounty, the historical echoes of the Horse Chestnut’s uses merged with the present chorus of birds nesting in its branches. The tree’s role extends beyond human uses; it is a vital component of the local ecosystems. The dense canopy provides shelter and the flowers feed pollinators, which in turn support the broader food web.
Environmental factors, particularly those influenced by climate change, pose challenges to the Horse Chestnut. Issues such as leaf blotch and the conker tree moth threaten its health and longevity. Observing the Horse Chestnut’s current vibrancy, I am reminded of the resilience and adaptability that this species has demonstrated over centuries.
Conclusion: A Legacy Continues
As the day drew to a close and the sun cast long shadows over Cayuga Lake, the Horse Chestnut stood as a botanical specimen, a living monument to natural history and human ingenuity. The tree’s story is a powerful reminder of our intertwined destinies with the plant kingdom—how plants shape our cultures, sustain our environments, and continue to amaze with their ecological and aesthetic contributions.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
After 2 pm check in we interrupted unpacking for a sundown beach walk, IPhones and Sony Alpha 700 camera in hand on the last evening of 2019. There is a business on A1A, the main road through town, advertising “beach weddings” and “elopements.” Here, using the 18 – 200 mm f3.5-6.2 lens, I spied this grouping of a mature couple holding hands, minister in attendance, for a wedding ceremony witnessed by young adult children on the right, parents (?) left. The groom’s shorts contrast with the bride’s white gown.
Sunlight, low in the western sky, was perfect for mirror-like reflections in the retreating surf.
A given of the Atlantic beach is the late afternoon light, best for capturing figures against the ocean.
Written below the high tide mark, a message inscribed, impermanent in spite of the deep cuts.
I have practice framing sunsets against beach development. Cannot complain as we enjoy our beach side condo.
A slide show of these images.
Mature Love / Beach VowsCruise Ships Depart Cape Canaveral Late AfternoonTo Each His Own PassionSurf CastingBlack Skimmer Going His Own WayGull ReflectionLast Sunset of 2019Messages in the Sand Washed Away Twice Daily at High Tide
Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
To continue my posting “Climb Hill of Tara” my first submission of three Hill of Tara photographs to Getty Istock had two of the photographs returned for revision.
A statue of Saint Patrick fittingly welcomes visitors to the Hill of Tara, County Meath, Ireland. This statue of cast concrete was an existing statue donated by the Sisters of Charity, moved from an existing installation to the Hill of Tara in the year 2000 AD. The creator is anonymous, the is no plaque or other attribution on or around the statue.
The original statue was erected on the summit of the Hill of Tara shortly after Catholic emancipation in 1829, commemorated the events of 433AD when St. Patrick lit a bonfire on the nearby hill of Slane on the eve of Easter Sunday.
Lighting such a fire was contrary to the pagan laws of the time which dictated that the first fire lit that night be in Tara. Observing St. Patrick’s bonfire from afar, the chief druid of the ancient Gaelic capital predicted that if the flame were not extinguished that night, Christianity would never be extinguished in Ireland. The saint’s bonfire continued burning and the next morning, Easter Sunday, St. Patrick entered Tara to convert the king and his followers to Christianity.
For the fenced statue of Saint Patrick the revieweR wrote:
Please provide a full description for the work of art featured in this image. Include the artist, date of creation, location, etc. Works of art created by someone other than yourself must be free of copyright protection to be considered. If this work of art is indeed under copyright protection, a property release signed by the copyright holder will need to be provided.
Hmmmm….What I do while capturing a photograph of a statue is take photos of any plaque, sign, whatever to acquire the name of the creator, how it came to be there, community connections. There was nothing around the statue nor the very informative Office of Public Works placards at the entrance. I was proud to submit the statue photograph, as it turned out so well, and hoped for the best.
Last week, I put in a query to Ireland’s Office of Public Works (OPW), the agency responsible for the Hill of Tara, and did not receive a response when, for other queries, they were helpful. This Saturday and Monday mornings, several hours of internet research revealed this history.
The original statue was placed on Tara sometime after the 1829 Catholic emancipation. It was molded concrete, created by Thomas Curry of Navan at his own expense to honor the connection of Saint Patrick to Tara.
The OPW removed Curry’s statue 1992 for repair of a century of wear. During the removal the statue was damaged beyond repair and, afterwards, was further damaged by vandals who decapitated and used it for target practice.
Initially, the OWP decided not to replace Saint Patrick citing the “pagan” nature of the place. After an angry meeting of local people at the Skryne Parish Hall. In this meeting the local Rathfeigh Historical Society formed the “Committee to Restore St. Patrick to Tara.” In turn, pressure was put on Michael D. Higgins, Minister for Arts, Culture and the Gaeltacht (and the OPW). It was decided a new statue was to be created, based on a competition, and instead of it former place at the hill summit (called Rath na Rí), it was to be near the entrance, outside the Interpretative Center, to offer a Céad Míle Fáilte to visitors and be seen on departure.
The outcome was the competition winner was rejected by locals. The winning entry, by sculptor Annette Hennessy, did not follow competition rules that specified the statue incorporate traditional features to include shamrocks, harp, miter, a crozier and, perhaps, fleeing snakes. Hennessy’s design was of a shaven headed teenage boy in a short (“mini-skirt”) kilt, a handbag-shaped bell in hand. She agreed hers was “not a traditional style statue” saying it “acknowledges our Pagan Celtic history.”
The rejection included a statement from Dr. Leo Curran, chairman of the Rathfeigh Historical Society, “We agreed that most of the monuments in Tara are from the pre-Christian era, but St. Patrick should be at the uppermost layer, representing Christian tradition extinguishing paganism.”
By this time, a new government and minister were in place. The decision was made to search Ireland to find a suitable, existing, replacement statue. By 2000 the present statue, donated by the Sisters of Charity, was in place at the Hill of Tara entrance.
At the end of this post I provide the two references from my internet research and from which many facts and all the quotes were used here. I concluded the statue author was anonymous without copyright protection and submitted a revised image description, attaching a copy of my research.
What happened to my IStock photograph of Saint Patrick on the Hill of Tara? Getty accepted my application, published the photo and it is one of my top downloads, and earners.
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 