Category: Family

On Being Thankful

A garden, migrating geese, an unexpected balloon and flowers opening after dark remind me that gratitude begins by noticing the extraordinary within ordinary life.

MichaelStephenWills13 Comments

There are times when gratitude arrives not as a grand revelation but quietly, almost unnoticed. It can begin by looking out a window, walking through a garden, hearing the calls of birds overhead, or watching something unexpected drift across an otherwise familiar sky. My video is made of such moments. It is a collection of things close at hand, yet when gathered together and accompanied by music, they become something more: a reminder of how extraordinarily rich an ordinary life can be.

I have much to be thankful for.

I am thankful, first, for home, a place on Earth intimately known to me. The opening views of the garden convey that sense wonderfully. There are great white clusters of hydrangea against deep green foliage, scattered pink blossoms, lawn, trees and the familiar boundaries of a yard. None of it is monumental. That is exactly the point. These are not the Alps or some distant wilderness. They are the landscape of everyday life, made beautiful by familiarity, care and the changing seasons.

A garden teaches gratitude because nothing in it remains still. Flowers arrive, flourish and disappear. Leaves that emerge with the almost translucent green of spring deepen through summer and eventually blaze red before falling. Brilliant red foliage is particularly striking, it carries within it both beauty and departure. Autumn diminishes and completes summer.

And then there are those remarkable white flowers opening in darkness—the extravagant, almost otherworldly blossoms of the night-blooming cactus. They seem fashioned from moonlight: long, narrow petals radiating from their centers, magnificent for such a brief interval. Their fleeting existence makes them more precious. To witness one requires being present at the right moment.

Perhaps that is true of much of life.

I am thankful that I have retained the impulse to notice.

There is a considerable difference between seeing something and noticing it. The world is filled with people who look at flowers, birds and skies every day without really seeing them. Curiosity changes that. It makes a flock of geese more than birds crossing the sky. they form their wavering lines beneath pale blue heavens shared with our moon. They are travelers following routes far older than our roads, houses or cities. Their passage reminds me that my home is part of a much larger landscape and that the seasons unfolding in my yard belong to rhythms extending across a continent.

I am thankful for the ability to look upward.

The balloon drifting above the neighborhood makes that thought almost literal. Suddenly an ordinary sky contains a great yellow, red and blue vessel, sometimes distant among the trees, sometimes passing wonderfully close overhead. We see the basket beneath it and the people aboard—human beings temporarily liberated from the ground, carried through the same air in which the geese travel.

There is something optimistic about a hot-air balloon. It accomplishes wonderfully nothing particularly urgent. It rises because people still want to know what the world looks like from somewhere else. Its presence in the video celebrates imagination, adventure and the persistence of wonder.

Yet gratitude also grows downward, into the earth.

The images of lush plants growing in raised beds and then harvested in abundance speak of another kind of wealth. Food does not simply appear. A seed becomes roots and leaves; sunlight is captured; water rises through stems; soil gives up minerals; human hands tend what is growing. Eventually the garden gives something back. To harvest food from plants one has watched develop is to participate, however modestly, in one of humanity’s oldest relationships with the living world.

I am thankful for that abundance—not abundance measured by possessions, but by experiences.

The sculpture of the young boy and girl quietly sharing a book adds a different note. Amid flowers, birds, harvests and skies is an image of companionship. Two figures sit close together, absorbed in the same story. It suggests affection, learning, intimacy and the pleasure of sharing something with another person. A life becomes immeasurably richer when its experiences are not ours alone.

That may be the deepest source of gratitude: the people with whom life has been shared. Family and friends give meaning to places and memories. A garden is more than plants when someone has walked through it with us. A meal is more than food when others sit at the table. A photograph becomes more valuable when it preserves something we want another person—or another generation—to see.

The music running through the video strengthens this sense of reflection. It does not demand attention so much as give the images emotional space. As the photographs succeed one another, the music turns observation into remembrance. The effect is almost like leafing through an album while realizing that the apparently unrelated pictures are chapters of the same story.

And perhaps that is why I find the video inspirational.

None of its subjects needs to be spectacular to matter. A flower opens. Geese cross the sky. Vegetables grow. Leaves turn red. Two children read together. A balloon unexpectedly floats over the neighborhood. Hydrangeas bloom beside a fence.

Meanwhile, time passes.

That last fact could make these images melancholy, but I do not think it does. Their transience is precisely what gives them value. Gratitude does not require pretending that beautiful things last forever. It comes from understanding that they do not—and loving them anyway.

I am thankful for the years behind me: for places visited, things learned, people loved, photographs made and memories accumulated. But I am equally thankful that the world still contains things capable of surprising me. There are still flowers I want to examine more closely, birds whose journeys I want to understand, stars I want to find through a telescope, landscapes I want to photograph, stories I want to tell, and mornings when I do not yet know what will appear outside my window.

That may be one of life’s greatest gifts: there is still something to look forward to.

The world does not owe us another summer, another migration overhead, another flower opening after dark, or another unexpected balloon sailing across a blue September sky. When such moments come, the proper response is not merely to record them.

It is to recognize them.

And to be thankful.

Click me to visit Michael Stephen Wills Online Finger Lakes Gallery.

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Holding Out, A Day Off, and Nice to See You: Seward Johnson and the Quiet Theater of Time

A selection of photographs from our January 2019 visit to McKee Botanical Gardens, Vero Beach, Indian River County, Florida

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

Seward Johnson’s figures have a way of surprising us, they seem to have been waiting for us all along. They stand on sidewalks, lean into ordinary errands, pause in gestures we recognize before we understand why. In Holding Out, A Day Off, and Nice to See You, the artist gives us not heroes, saints, or rulers, but people caught in the small ceremonies of daily life: carrying groceries, taking a pause, greeting another human being. They are bronze, yet they seem to breathe the air of our own passing afternoons. Our grandson’s first impression of Nice to See You was, “How often do they wash his clothes?”

Johnson, born in New Jersey in 1930, became known for life-size painted bronze figures that bring art out of the museum and into public space. His Celebrating the Familiar series does exactly what the title promises. It asks us to look again at what we normally overlook. A person resting. A woman burdened with bags. A meeting on the street. These are not dramatic events, yet they are the substance from which a life is made.

That may be why these sculptures move me. They are comic, playful at first glance. One expects the figure to turn, shift weight, apologize for blocking the way. But the longer I look, the more the humor gives way to tenderness. Johnson’s realism is emotional as well as technical. Postures are caught before the sentence, the hand before the reply, the pause before someone walks away.

Holding Out suggests the labor of ordinary devotion. The figure carries the evidence of errands, appetite, domestic obligation, perhaps generosity. Groceries are never merely groceries. They are meals not yet cooked, tables not yet set, bodies cared for, conversations expected. To carry food home is to participate in one of the oldest forms of love. There is fatigue in such a pose, but also purpose. The sculpture reminds me how much of family life is carried without ceremony.

“Holding Out”

A Day Off speaks in a different key. A day off is supposed to be freedom, yet even leisure has its burden. Time, once unstructured, can feel strangely precious. We plan to rest, then discover that rest asks something of us: the courage to stop, to let the world proceed without our supervision. Johnson’s figure becomes a meditation on the fragile privilege of an unclaimed hour. The sculpture seems to ask whether we know how to receive such a gift when it comes.

J
“A Day Off”

Then there is Nice to See You, a title so simple it nearly disappears into politeness. Yet those four words contain an entire philosophy of relationship. To say “nice to see you” is to acknowledge absence, survival, return. It may be said casually on a sidewalk, but beneath it lies the deeper knowledge that people do vanish from our daily routes. Friends move away. Children grow into distant schedules. Parents and grandparents become memories. Even neighbors, once familiar as weather, can pass out of our lives without a formal goodbye, not to be returned by a simple cleaning of the glass.

“Nice to See You”

The greeting matters because time has been at work between meetings. The person we see again is never exactly the one we last saw. Nor are we the same person doing the seeing. Every reunion, however ordinary, is also a small reckoning with change.

That is the quiet power of Johnson’s public art. His figures appear fixed, but they make us aware of motion: our own. We walk around them. We photograph them. We return years later and find them unchanged, while we have altered in ways both visible and hidden. Bronze preserves the gesture; life revises the viewer.

In this way, the sculptures become companions in memory. They do not explain relationships; they stage them. They show that affection often lives in errands, pauses, greetings, and shared streets. A life together is rarely made of grand declarations. More often it is made of carrying, waiting, recognizing, and returning.

Perhaps that is why these works linger after the first amusement fades. They restore dignity to the unmonumental. They suggest that the passing of time is not only loss, but accumulation. The grocery bag, the free afternoon, the familiar greeting—each becomes a vessel. Each holds what we have given, received, forgotten, and remembered.

Johnson’s people stand still, but they point us toward movement: toward the next errand, the next meeting, the next chance to say, with more feeling than the phrase usually carries, “Nice to see you.”

Click me to visit Michael Stephen Wills Online Finger Lakes Gallery.

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Flowering Quince on West Hill: A Legacy in Coral

Legacy flowering quince on Ithaca’s West Hill blooms in coral-pink spring light, joining family memory, Asian origins, garden ecology, and enduring beauty.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

In early spring, before the trees have fully committed themselves to leaf, flowering quince makes its announcement with a theatrical confidence. Against the dark lacework of spruce, bare twigs, old fencing, and the still-waking ground of Ithaca’s West Hill, the blossoms appear like embers held in suspension: coral-pink petals gathered around bright yellow stamens. My photographs, taken in April 2023 and 2026, capture a living inheritance—one planted by Charles and Betty Sprinkle and still answering the calendar long after the original hands that set it in place have passed from the daily life of the garden.

Flowering quince belongs to the genus Chaenomeles, in the rose family, Rosaceae. It is related not only to roses, but also to apples, pears, hawthorns, cherries, and true quince. The common name can be confusing: flowering quince is not the same as the orchard quince, Cydonia oblonga, grown primarily for its large aromatic fruit. Botanists separated Chaenomeles from Cydonia in the nineteenth century, partly on floral and fruit-anatomy differences; in ordinary garden terms, Chaenomeles is the ornamental, early-blooming shrub, while Cydonia is the more familiar fruiting quince tree.

The plant in these photographs is the old-fashioned flowering quinces commonly planted around mid-century homes—possibly Chaenomeles speciosa, one of its cultivars, or a hybrid involving C. speciosa and C. japonica. C. speciosa is native to China, Tibet, and Myanmar, while C. japonica is native to Japan and South Korea; many garden forms have been selected or hybridized for flower color, compactness, and bloom density. The soft rose-pink color here suggests one of the pink-flowered ornamental selections rather than the scarlet-orange forms often illustrated in plant guides.

Its structure is as important as its bloom. Flowering quince is typically a dense, twiggy, deciduous shrub, often with tangled or spiny branches. That architecture is visible in the photographs: a weave of dark stems, new leaves, and blossoms occupying the middle layer of the garden, neither groundcover nor tree, but a persistent shrub-wall of spring. In older plantings, such shrubs can become almost sculptural, their branches accumulating years of pruning, browsing, weather, and recovery. The thorns, absent in our planting, are part of some quince varietys defensive character and can explain its frequent use as a barrier hedge or boundary planting.

Ecologically, flowering quince is most valuable because of its timing. It blooms very early—often late March into April in temperate gardens—when many woody plants are still dormant and early insects are beginning to forage. Its open, bowl-shaped flowers present pollen accessibly, and the golden stamens in these images show why bees and other early pollinators may visit. In a cold-spring landscape like Ithaca, a shrub that blooms before the canopy closes and before herbaceous growth thickens can become a small seasonal resource station. The plant is not native to New York, so it does not occupy the same ecological role as serviceberry, spicebush, willow, or native cherries; nevertheless, in a settled garden, it participates in the spring economy of nectar, pollen, shelter, and fruit.

After bloom, flowering quince may produce hard, yellow-green, apple-like fruits. These can be too hard and tart to enjoy raw, but they have traditionally been used in preserves, jellies, and cooked preparations, much like true quince. We have yet to enjoy the fruits of this plant in this way.

The success of our quince in Ithaca is not surprising. Flowering quince is notably tough: tolerant of cold winters, urban edges, clay or loam soils, and partial shade, though it blooms best with good sun. The shrubs prefer reasonably well-drained, slightly acidic to neutral soils and may object to strongly alkaline conditions. On West Hill, where our home holds layered plantings of conifers, shrubs, fences, paths, and family memory, it fits the vernacular garden perfectly—durable, somewhat unruly, generous in season, and never entirely domesticated.

What my photographs gather in their emotional force is the contrast between delicacy and persistence. Each blossom looks temporary, almost papery, the petals thin enough to hold sunlight. Yet the shrub itself is a survivor. It has endured winters, dry spells, shade competition, pruning, neglect, and the ordinary upheavals of family life. Charles and Betty Sprinkle planted it for beauty and simple spring pleasure. Decades later, it continues to bloom on their behalf.

In that sense, flowering quince is a fitting legacy plant. It does not ask for ceremony. It returns by season rather than by command. One April afternoon it is just bare stems and swelling buds; another, it becomes a spray of coral lights beneath the evergreens. Its flowers open into the cool air of Ithaca, briefly bright, then gone—yet the shrub remains, holding memory in wood, root, and bloom.

Click me to visit Michael Stephen Wills Online Finger Lakes Gallery.

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Memories of Valentine’s Day: Family Beginnings and a Lifetime of Shared Journeys

A Valentine’s Day reflection spanning childhood, family, and partnership—where a homemade cake, a living room, and an ocean voyage reveal love’s enduring thread.

MichaelStephenWills16 Comments

Our culture insists that Valentine’s Day is about hearts and chocolates, about gestures that can be wrapped, written, or eaten. My memories tell a longer and more intricate story. Valentine’s Day is thread that runs through decades—binding childhood, family, and shared journeys into a single, evolving narrative.

An early Valentine’s Day memory of mine is anchored in a living room at 107 Deepdale Parkway in Albertson, New York. It is 1959. The room is familiar and ordinary, yet in memory it glows with a particular warmth. My sister Theresa is two, Christine is four, and I am five. We are gathered together, small figures in a modest suburban home, unaware that this fleeting domestic moment will outlast nearly everything else in the room. What I remember most is not an event, but a feeling: the sense of being held within something stable and loving, a family rhythm that proved enduring.

Theresa (2), Michael (5), Christine (4) in the livingroom of 107 Deepdale Parkway, Albertson, New York on Valentines Day 1959

As the years passed, Valentine’s Day shifted its shape, as it does for everyone. Childhood gave way to adolescence, and later to adulthood, when the holiday began to carry expectations and interpretations shaped by romance and partnership. Yet even then, my earliest associations lingered beneath the surface. Valentine’s Day was was beyond an exchange between two people; it was about continuity, about the quiet reassurance that one was part of a larger story.

A part of our celebration this Valentine’s Day cake—chocolate, homemade, and unapologetically generous.  Baked by my wife, Pamela, whose acts of care often expressed themselves through the kitchen. The cake was not elaborate by modern standards, but it does not need to be. Its value lay in what it represented: time taken, effort given, and love made tangible. Long after the plates are washed, the memory of that cake remains inseparable from the idea of Valentine’s Day itself. Love, I learned early, could be simple, nourishing, and shared.

Chocolate Valentines Day cake by Pamela Wills

That understanding deepened over time, especially through my life with Pam. One Valentine’s Day memory stands apart not for its extravagance, but for its improbability. Pam and I found ourselves aboard the Oceania ship “Regatta”, sailing the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Chile. The vastness of the water, the steady rhythm of the ship, and the sense of being suspended between sky and sea created a striking contrast to the small living room of my childhood. Yet the emotional register was remarkably similar. Once again, Valentine’s Day was marked not by spectacle, but by presence.

The following day we reached Puerto Montt, a port city framed by water and volcanoes. The journey itself became a metaphor for the way love matures. Where childhood love had been rooted in home and routine, this later expression unfolded through shared experience and mutual trust. Standing on the deck together, watching the coastline emerge, I was struck by how Valentine’s Day had come to encompasses where we had been and where we were going.

Pam and I aboard the Oceania Regatta sailing the Pacific Ocean off Chile. The following day we reached Puerto Montt.

In that sense, Valentine’s Day functions much like memory itself. It selects certain moments and holds them fast, allowing others to fade. A cake, three young children in a living room, two partners standing together on the open sea. These are not scenes one could have predicted would endure, yet they do, because they are threaded with care, attention, and shared time.

Now, looking back across the span of years, I understand Valentine’s Day as a recurring prompt that asks us to remember where love first took root, how it was tended, and how it has carried us forward. The details change, but the essence remains remarkably constant.

In the end, Valentine’s Day does not demand grand gestures or perfect words. It asks only that we recognize the quiet continuity of love as it moves through our lives—sometimes in a childhood living room, sometimes on the open ocean, always leaving its mark in ways we only fully understand in retrospect.

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Celebrating Community at Dryden Dairy Days Parade

Experience the joy of small-town tradition as three generations celebrate cows, community, and colorful floats at the 2025 Dryden Dairy Day Parade in upstate New York.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

On a glorious Saturday morning—June 14, 2025—the small village of Dryden, New York, once again came alive with one of its most beloved traditions: the Dairy Day Parade. I had the joy of attending this year’s festivities with my daughter-in-law, Jennifer, and my two grandsons, Sam and Rory. We set up along Main Street, folding chair ready and anticipation high, surrounded by a growing crowd of families, neighbors, and out-of-town visitors drawn by the charm of this time-honored event.

Dryden Dairy Day, first held in 1980, has long celebrated the area’s agricultural roots—particularly the dairy farms that once dotted the Finger Lakes region in greater number. Though the rural landscape has changed, the community spirit endures, embodied each year in this cheerful, inclusive parade. And what a parade it was.

Sam and Rory, who started out quietly nestled together in a red camp chair, quickly leaned forward in excitement as the opening marchers passed. Veterans in pressed blue shirts and caps bore the flags solemnly, stepping to the rhythm of distant drumbeats. The boys gladly collected candy thrown to the crowd by the paraders.

Then came the color and music—floats festooned with balloons, hay bales, streamers, and, of course, cows. The Jerry Dell Farm float, labeled “LegenDAIRY Superheroes,” stole the show with its red metal rails, a large cutout Holstein suspended in mid-leap, and enthusiastic kids handing out “Got Milk?” flyers. The float’s theme—half play, half tribute—offered a nod to the hardworking farmers past and present who’ve kept local dairies running despite national challenges.

Behind them, children waved from trailers turned farmyard dioramas. In one, rabbits and baby chicks nestled on pastel blankets inside red and gray wagons, drawing audible “awws” from the crowd. Another float featured kids feeding baby goats from white pails, an irresistible scene that reminded us of the joys of hands-on farm life.

Marching groups followed, each bringing their own spark. A contingent from Tompkins Cortland Community College, all in matching green shirts, smiled and waved. Their banner and cheetah logo brought cheers from alumni in the crowd. Girl Scouts from Troop 427 of Golden Meadows brought peace signs, love hearts, and Girl Scout green to life as they passed, handing out candy and smiles with equal generosity.

We clapped for the “Wreaths Across America” semi-truck—a rolling tribute to fallen soldiers. Its stars-and-stripes exterior and the wreath-emblazoned motto “Remember. Honor. Teach.” was a solemn visual counterpoint to the general jubilation, grounding us in gratitude amid celebration.

One of the most magical sights for Sam and Rory came next: a medieval knight on horseback, gleaming in armor, carrying a long lance. This was no Renaissance Fair actor but a local reenactor embodying chivalry and pageantry for the kids. Rory, eyes wide, whispered, “Is that a real knight?” and I nodded with a smile. The horse, a proud palomino with flowing mane, trotted as regally as any steed from storybooks.

At one point, we found ourselves surrounded by people wearing cow-print headbands and passing out themed goodies—a detail that would feel odd anywhere else but felt perfectly at home here. Even the Girl Scouts managed to mix tradition with whimsy, some donning glittering horns and cow ears for the occasion.

I selectively captured photos, while Jen and the boys soaked in the sights and sounds: the distant whinny of ponies, the rustle of candy wrappers on the pavement. Parades like this are entertainment and intergenerational bridges, connecting the past with the present, the seasoned farmer with the wide-eyed child, and the local with the visitor.

As the parade wound down and the last float passed, we lingered a while longer. The boys were still buzzing with excitement, eager to share their favorite parts—“the knight!” said Rory, “the baby goats!” said Sam. For me, the most treasured moment was watching my grandsons engage so deeply with the richness of local heritage, waving to friends in the parade feeling part of something bigger than themselves.

Dryden Dairy Day reminds us that community is people lining the street on a Saturday morning. It’s floats handmade with care. It’s generations walking side by side—and sometimes sitting in the same chair—laughing, learning, and loving the place they call home.

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Exploring Art with Toddlers: A Day at Johnson Museum

In October 2017, a family visit to the Johnson Museum of Art enriched bonds through art appreciation and nature exploration with toddler Sam.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

On a crisp October morning in 2017, I was on the cusp of retirement with leisure time to explored the Johnson Museum of Art at Cornell University, with my grandson Sam and his grandmother, Pam, my wife. We were attending a “Let’s Look Baby” event—a wonderful opportunity to introduce young children to art and the world around them. Sam was a toddler at the time, curious and full of energy, and I was eager to share this moment of discovery with him.

The day started on the museum’s upper level, where expansive windows offered breathtaking views of Ithaca, Cayuga Lake, and the surrounding hills. I lifted Sam so he could take it all in, his little hands gripping my arm as he gazed out at the vibrant autumn landscape while Pam captured the moment. The trees were in early stages of autumn—fiery reds, golden yellows, and rich browns—while Cayuga Lake shimmered in the distance, its deep blue surface reflecting the clear October sky. Sam pointed out toward the horizon; his eyes wide with curiosity. I told him about the lake, the hills, and the valley, trying to capture the beauty of it all in words simple enough for him to understand.

The architecture of the Johnson Museum itself framed the experience perfectly. Designed by I.M. Pei, the building’s clean, modern lines allowed the landscape to take center stage. Standing there with Sam, I felt a profound sense of gratitude—for the view, for the moment, and most of all, for the chance to share it with Sam.

Looking southwest over Cornell University and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. West Hill is to the right. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

As part of the event, we explored the museum’s galleries, moving from one exhibit to the next. The “Let’s Look Baby” program was designed with young children in mind, blending art appreciation with sensory exploration. While Sam was too young to fully grasp the meaning behind the pieces, he was fascinated by the vibrant colors and the textures of the displays. At one point, we stopped by a ceramic vase. Its elegant curves caught Sam’s attention, and I used the moment to talk to him about shapes and forms, pointing out how it was similar to the roundness of a pumpkin or the arc of a rainbow.

Looking South / Southwest over Cornell University and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. Ithaca College is to the left on South Hill. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

Throughout the visit, I found myself narrating the world to Sam, drawing connections between what we saw in the museum and the beauty of the natural world outside. It reminded me how much there is to learn and how much joy there is in teaching, even if the lessons are as simple as noticing the colors of leaves or the shape of a cloud.

Looking southwest over Cornell University’s Lib Hill and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. West Hill is to the right. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

We returned to the large windows overlooking Ithaca more than once. From there, I pointed out the landmarks of the city—downtown Ithaca with its steeples, the rolling hills, and the peaceful expanse of Cayuga Lake stretching toward the horizon. Sam listened quietly, his small fingers pointing to whatever caught his attention. I wondered what he was thinking, but I knew this experience, even if he wouldn’t remember it fully, was shaping his view of the world.

Looking to the North / Northwest over Cornell University and Cayuga Heights to Cayuga Lake. West Hill is to the far left. Along the southern lake shore is Stewart Park, the lighthouse, New York State Marina and Cass Park. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

The day wasn’t just about what we saw—it was about the connection we shared. Holding Sam in my arms, I felt the simple, deep joy of being present in the moment. This was a chance to see the world through his eyes, to notice the details I might otherwise overlook, and to marvel at the way something as simple as a vase or a view could spark his curiosity.

Looking to the North / Northwest over Cornell University and Cayuga Heights to Cayuga Lake. West Hill is to the far left. Along the southern lake shore is Stewart Park, the lighthouse, New York State Marina and Cass Park. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

As the October sun swept over the landscape, casting warm golden light, we left the museum. Sam was getting sleepy, his little head resting on my shoulder Pam and I shared a quiet contentment. That day at the Johnson Museum is a memory to treasure, a reminder of the beauty in both art and the natural world, and most importantly, the joy of sharing it with someone you love.

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Capturing Punta del Este: A Morning of Candid Moments

A photographer captures candid moments in Punta del Este, celebrating the city’s vibrant life and juxtaposition of modernity and tradition.

MichaelStephenWills10 Comments

The morning sunlight bathed Punta del Este in a soft, golden glow we rode in a tour bus with large, clean windows along the streets near Punta de las Salinas, my camera Canon dslr at ready, with a Canon EF 70-300 f/4-5.6 L IS USM lens. This was the perfect time of day for street photography—the light was forgiving, and the people were starting their routines. There’s something magical about candid moments, the kind you can only find when the subjects are unaware they’re being watched. It’s these fleeting, authentic snippets of life that draw me to photography.

I came across the Centro de Información Turística, a modest but bustling hub for visitors. A man in a bright turquoise tank top walked briskly past, talking animatedly into his phone. He was a splash of vibrant color against the clean, white facade of the building, his movement so dynamic that I couldn’t resist snapping a photo. The contrast of his modern, casual style against the timeless architecture behind him captured the essence of Punta del Este—a place where history and the contemporary coexist seamlessly.

Candid shots of people at their leisure in and around Great Britain Square of Punta del Este. Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay

We were headed to the shoreline for the sound of the waves and the refreshing scent of salt in the air. There, on a low stone wall, an older man in neon green shorts leaned back, exercising his arms. His weathered face was relaxed, a picture of contentment. Behind him, the ocean swirled and crashed against the rocks, and I marveled at how effortlessly this simple scene captured the spirit of life in this coastal city—a balance between the energy of the waves and human moments.

Further down the walkway, a group of people strolled leisurely, their conversations punctuated by laughter. One couple caught my eye—an older man in sunglasses walking beside a woman in a bright red sweater. The warmth between them was palpable, the kind of comfort that comes with years spent together. I raised my camera and framed them against the endless blue horizon. The waves rolled in behind them, their rhythm a perfect counterpoint to the couple’s measured pace. It was a reminder that even in a world that feels transient, some things remain steady and enduring.

Crossing the road, I noticed a young family out for a walk. The parents, both casually dressed, pushed a stroller with a little boy inside. The child’s curiosity was evident as he leaned forward, his tiny hands gripping the sides of the stroller as if ready to leap out and explore the world. The scene felt timeless—youthful energy, familial love, and the sense of new beginnings. It was an image I knew I had to capture, a slice of life that would resonate universally.

Progressing to our destination, we passed a small exercise area, where two women worked out on bright green outdoor machines. Their movements were deliberate, their focus unwavering. One wore a vivid orange top, her energy radiating even from a distance, while the other in teal moved with a more relaxed rhythm. The scene was a perfect metaphor for the city itself—a blend of activity and leisure, where people embraced life at their own pace.

We passed a row of homes and modern apartments facing the ocean. One balcony caught my attention—a young woman stood there, brushing her hair as the breeze played with it. She seemed lost in thought, gazing out at the sea, her solitude a sharp contrast to the bustling streets below. The light hit her at just the right angle, turning her into a silhouette against the backdrop of glass and steel. I clicked the shutter—a quiet moment amid the city’s liveliness.

Further along, another balcony revealed two women sitting at a small table, sharing what looked like breakfast. They were deep in conversation, their gestures animated as they leaned toward one another. The table was set simply, with two cups and a plate of food, but the scene exuded warmth and connection. It reminded me that even in a city known for its glamour and style, the real beauty lies in these intimate, unguarded moments.

As I reviewed the images on my camera, I felt a sense of satisfaction. Punta del Este had revealed itself in layers that morning—a city of contrasts and harmonies, where every street and every person seemed to have a story to tell. Through my lens, I had tried to capture not just the people, but the rhythm of life here, the interplay of light and shadow, motion and stillness, solitude and togetherness. And as the sun climbed higher in the sky, I knew I had witnessed something special—an ordinary morning made extraordinary by the people who lived it.

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Celebrating God’s Love This Christmas

Merry Christmas

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

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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From Ground to Sky: A Reflective Climb

Experiencing joy and memory.

MichaelStephenWills9 Comments

Here, on the playground,
the morning stretches wide—
a sky so blue it swallows you whole.
And you, a small figure, climbing
the red pillar, moving hand over hand
up the ropes that knot and twist
like veins, like lifelines.

I watch from below,
the ground a familiar place
where footsteps fall and scatter—
but you, you are ascending,
breath held in the still air.
Nothing is simple in this moment,
yet everything is—

the cord that bends beneath you,
the thrill in your chest,
the boots pressed firm against braided paths.

If I could speak, if words were clear as the day,
I’d tell you how these small victories—
climbing high, standing above—
are etched into the bones of memory.
Someday, you’ll look back and wonder
at the web of ropes,
the pillar red against autumn’s burn,
and the vastness that carried you up,
into light, into air,

where fear gave way to joy,
and the sky leaned close,
just to watch you rise.

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Exploring Lime Hollow: Nature Walks with My Grandsons

Enjoy a memorable visit to Lime Hollow Nature Preserve by a grandfather and his grandsons, exploring nature, observing wildlife, and connecting through shared experiences, fostering curiosity and appreciation for the environment.

MichaelStephenWills4 Comments

The October sunlight was gentle as we entered Lime Hollow Nature Preserve from Gracie Road, my grandsons, Sam and Rory, bursting with excitement beside me. Sam, the eldest, took the lead, confidently striding ahead along the Sunset Trail while Rory, his younger brother, stayed close to my side, his eyes wide with wonder at the forest around us.

Descent to the Pond


The trail wound through the woods, dappled with the golds and reds of early autumn. Sam spotted a squirrel darting between trees, and Rory pointed to the sky, “Look, Grandpa, a woodpecker!” I smiled at their enthusiasm, feeling grateful for these moments of connection to nature and family.

We descended toward the pond via the Pond View Trail, the sound of trickling water drawing us closer. As we approached, the landscape opened up, revealing the calm, reflective surface of the water, bordered by reeds swaying in the light breeze. I remembered bringing the boys here last spring, how different the pond looked then—brimming with life as frogs leapt from the banks and dragonflies zipped across the water’s surface. Today, the scene was quieter, but no less magical.

Rory, ever the adventurer, crouched by the pond’s edge, watching for frogs. Sam, too, paused to observe but soon grew restless, his curiosity pushing him onward. “Come on, Grandpa! Let’s see what’s next!” His voice echoed through the trees as he darted back onto the trail, Rory quick to follow.

Encounter with the Giant Fungus


The path led us deeper into the forest, and soon we turned onto the Brookside Trail, which merged with the High Ridge Trail. Here, the air grew cooler under the dense canopy of trees, and the forest floor softened beneath our feet with layers of leaves. It was then that we stumbled upon the most magnificent sight of the day: an enormous bracket fungus, its wide, layered shelves clinging to the trunk a hoary snag.

Rory gasped in delight, running over to inspect it more closely. “Look how big it is!” he exclaimed, his small hands hovering just above its ridged surface. Sam, never one to be outdone, knelt beside it, carefully touching the spongy layers. “It’s a staircase for squirrels,” he said, grinning up at me.

Turkey Tail bracket fungus (Trametes versicolor) is a common wood decay fungus found on dead and decaying hardwoods. Named for its concentric, colorful bands resembling a turkey’s tail, it plays a vital role in forest ecosystems by breaking down lignin, facilitating nutrient recycling. It’s also valued for its medicinal properties. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, Cortland County, New York State. Finger Lakes Regions

As I watched them, I couldn’t help but think back to all the times I had wandered these trails alone before they were born. Now, these woods had become a classroom for them—full of discoveries that sparked their curiosity and wonder. It was a beautiful moment of generational connection, this passing on of my love for the natural world to Sam and Rory.

Fascinating Beech Tree Roots


On the way out, we took the Brookside / Pond View / Sunset trails once again, but this time, this intricate network of roots from a massive beech tree fascinated us. The roots twisted and coiled across the path like veins, in our imaginations the gnarled shapes snagged our feet. Sam, ever the explorer, stepped cautiously along the roots, balancing himself as if walking a tightrope. Rory followed suit, his giggles filling the air.

An American beech (Fagus grandifolia). These trees are quite common in northeastern forests.
The beech tree is known for its smooth smooth, gray bark, which can become marked with scars or etchings as the tree ages. Additionally, its leaves are typically dark green, with serrated edges, and turn yellow to bronze in the fall, often staying on the tree through winter. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, New York State

“These roots are older than us,” I told them. “Beech trees can live for hundreds of years. Just think, this tree has seen many more seasons than we ever will.”

Sam’s eyes widened at the thought, while Rory gave the tree a gentle pat, as if to thank it for its wisdom. I marveled at how something as simple as a root system could captivate their imaginations and bring the lesson of time and growth to life.

Reminiscing on the Chicago Bog

In the 1830’s there was a village named Chicago along Gracie Road, which gives it the name we have today. The Chicago Bog is home to many carnivorous plants, including sundew, the pitcher plant, and more. The deepest depth of the bog is about 7.2 ft. The bog is along the Phillips Memorial Trail, which can be found on Gracie Road. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, New York


As we walked, my mind wandered back to a visit we had made to the Chicago Bog just a year before. I remembered the day clearly—how we had trekked through the wetland on a warm June afternoon, the ground soft beneath our feet, alive with the buzzing of insects and the vibrant green of new growth.

The chalk-fronted corporal (Ladona julia) is a skimmer dragonfly found in the northern United States and southern Canada.
Juveniles of both sexes are light reddish brown, with white shoulder stripes and a black stripe down the middle of the abdomen. As they mature, males develop a white pruinescence on the top of the thorax and at the base of the abdomen, while the rest of the abdomen turns black. Females become almost uniformly dark brown, with a dusting of gray pruinescence near the base of the abdomen; a few develop the same color pattern as the males.
Chalk-fronted corporals often perch horizontally on the ground or on floating objects in the water, flying up to take prey from the air. They are gregarious for dragonflies, and are commonly seen perching in groups. They readily approach humans to feed on the mosquitoes and biting flies that humans attract.

It was there, by the edge of the bog, that we had encountered a dragonfly, a Chalk-fronted Corporal, resting on a fallen log. Its dark, iridescent wings shimmered in the sunlight, and Sam had been mesmerized by its delicate beauty. He had asked so many questions that day—about how dragonflies flew, what they ate, and where they lived. I had done my best to answer, but truth be told, I learned as much as he did in that moment.

Nearby, a meadow of buttercups had stretched out before us, their yellow blooms dancing in the breeze. Rory had run through them, his laughter ringing out as he tried to catch a butterfly that flitted between the flowers. The memory of that field of gold still brought a smile to my face as we made our way through Lime Hollow today.

A Day to Remember


As we neared the end of our hike, the afternoon light filtering through the trees, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. These outings with Sam and Rory had become more than just walks in the woods—they were opportunities to share, to learn, and to make memories that I knew would last a lifetime.

“Grandpa, can we come back?” Rory asked, his face flushed with excitement.

“Of course,” I said, smiling. “We’ll always have time for another adventure.”