As I stroll around the Nevin Center at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, my eye is drawn to a bed of bright, cheerful flowers that seem to beam with personality. Here, amidst the lush plantings, Zinnias and Gazanias bring their vivid colors to life, each bloom a tiny celebration of nature’s artistry. These flowers, from a family spanning two continents, share a surprising harmony that only the language of color and form could convey.
The Zinnias (family Asteraceae), little fireworks exploding in hues of yellow, red, pink, and orange. They belong to the daisy family, which includes many well-known wildflowers and ornamental plants. Native to the warm regions of Mexico and Central America, Zinnias were first documented by Dr. Johann Gottfried Zinn, an 18th-century German botanist. Dr. Zinn initially set out to study human anatomy, but he turned to botany after inheriting the job of garden inspector at the University of Göttingen. His study of these cheerful flowers was eventually immortalized when the genus was named in his honor. Every time I see a Zinnia, I think about Dr. Zinn’s unexpected journey into botany and how these resilient, sun-loving flowers carry on his legacy.
Growing alongside them are Gazanias (family Asteraceae as well), which, despite their similarity in form, come from an entirely different part of the world. These stunning blooms are native to South Africa, thriving under the intense African sun. Also known as “treasure flowers,” Gazanias have radiant, striped petals that look like they’ve been painted by hand, with shades of fiery orange and deep red. The name Gazania honors Theodorus Gaza, a 15th-century Greek scholar who translated many important botanical works from Greek into Latin. I can’t help but feel that these flowers, with their bold, jewel-toned colors, live up to the name “treasure,” each one a small gem in the landscape.
As I stand here, admiring these blooms, I’m struck by the way they bring a sense of vibrancy and warmth to the Nevin Center. Both Zinnias and Gazanias are sun-worshippers, thriving in full sunlight and well-drained soil, making them ideal for this bright spot. Their colors seem even more dazzling against the verdant greens of the surrounding plants, and they attract bees and butterflies, adding another layer of life to this already lively space.
In a way, the planting here feels like a dialogue between continents, with the Zinnias representing the New World and the Gazanias embodying the spirit of Africa. It’s a conversation that reminds me of the global heritage of our gardens, how each plant carries a story, a name, and a lineage across borders and centuries. Here at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, they’ve found a new home, far from where they first bloomed, but as vibrant as ever.
I leave the Nevin Center with a sense of joy and gratitude for these botanical ambassadors. Zinnias and Gazanias, each named for pioneers in botany, remind me that discovery often comes in unexpected forms, just as beauty does. They teach us to look closely, to celebrate color and form, and to appreciate the living history all around us.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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.
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.”
Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region
On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.
A Glimpse of the Familiar
At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.
I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.
The Resilience of a Traveler
The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.
I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.
The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.
Nature’s Balancing Act
As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.
Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.
I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.
The Fleeting Bloom
Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.
We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.
A Lesson from the Daylily
As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.
Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
As I waited during my wife’s physical therapy session, the connection between ancient healing traditions and modern medicine revealed a journey of resilience and hope.
Standing in the cool autumn sunlight, I find myself pacing beneath the sturdy Doric columns of this medical campus in Northeast Ithaca, waiting as Pam undergoes another session of physical therapy. The simplicity of the columns strikes me—clean, white, and unadorned. They hold up the building with a kind of timeless grace, a quiet reflection of ancient design.
The architecture of the Medical Office Campus of northeast Ithaca is graced by doric columns arrayed in a row forming a portico colonnade. The original Greek Doric columns were fluted, and had no base, dropping straight into the platform on which the temple or other building stood. The capital was a simple circular form, with some mouldings, under a square cushion that is very wide in early versions, but later more restrained. Here the form of the capital is mirrored in the base. 20 Arrowwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
Doric columns are symbols of strength and stability. In this moment, they remind me of the quiet resilience I’ve seen in Pam throughout her recovery. Each column, solid and unwavering, reflects the foundational principles that underpin both architecture and the healing arts. Just as these columns have withstood the passage of centuries, modern medicine, too, stands tall on the legacy of ancient knowledge.
As I lean against one of these pillars, I think about the deep connections between ancient civilizations and the medicine we practice today. The origins of healing reach back to the Egyptians, who understood anatomy with remarkable precision. They would have been familiar with the use of medicinal plants. It’s remarkable to think that the surgeries performed back then, basic as they were, have evolved into the complex procedures of modern times, procedures like the one that replaced Pam’s hip with the efficiency of a machine through the care of skilled hands.
10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
I look up at the sky, tracing the outline of the roof these columns support. The Greeks, with their reverence for observation, would have appreciated the rational design of this building. Hippocrates, the father of medicine, laid the groundwork for clinical observation, a method still used by the doctors caring for Pam. They probe, ask questions, and observe her movements, trying to decipher the hidden ailments within her body, much as the ancient physicians did centuries ago. It’s in this continuity that I find comfort—knowing that the doctors and physical therapists here are part of a long tradition, stretching back to Galen, who wrote about anatomy and physiology in ways that informed medical students for generations.
Modern medicine, like these columns, is a blend of the old and the new. Acupuncture, an ancient Chinese practice, is now commonly recommended for pain relief, a reminder that even today we rely on wisdom passed down through millennia. Pam’s therapists blend tradition with cutting-edge technology, using machines that track her progress and exercises that help her regain strength. Yet, at the heart of it, the human body heals the way it always has—with time, patience, and care.
As I walk the perimeter of the building, past patches of sunlight falling on the sidewalk, I’m struck by the parallels between the construction of this space and the body’s own repair. Both depend on a solid foundation. Roman innovations in public health, sanitation, and the idea of hospitals have shaped the spaces where we now seek healing. And here, in this modern medical facility, the connection to those roots feels tangible, much like the stones beneath my feet.
The name Aster comes from the Ancient Greek meaning “star”, referring to the shape of the flower head. ‘Aster’ species are used as food plants by the larvae of a number of Lepidoptera species. These asters grew wild on an otherwise landscaped medical campus. Found on an eaqrly autumn morning near 10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
Asters, blooming nearby, sway gently in the breeze. They too are resilient, much like Pam. Their purple blossoms remind me of the hope that pervades our journey. The columns stand as sentinels of a kind of knowledge that is both ancient and ever-evolving—a blend of science, history, and faith in the power of the human spirit to endure.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Crossing the footbridge in Stewart Park, I encountered the graceful yet invasive Flowering Rush. Its delicate beauty hides a deeper story about nature’s resilience, human impact, and the fragile balance of our ecosystems.
While crossing the suspension footbridge over Fall Creek in Stewart Park, there’s a sense of stepping into a world that’s more peaceful and attuned to nature. The bridge is familiar to me—a steady, quiet companion—but each visit feels new, as though the park has secrets it only reveals in small whispers. In this photograph the green steel beams rise like sentinels, standing tall against the backdrop of shifting autumn colors. Below, the water reflects the vibrant reds, golds, and greens of the trees, creating an illusion of depth that draws me in.
Footbridge to the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, Stewart Park, Ithaca, New York, October 2012
This past summer I stopped midway across, leaned against the railing, just listening. The creek moved slowly, like time itself decided to pause here for a while. That’s when I saw them: delicate pink blooms rising up from the water’s edge, their petals small and star-shaped, catching the light as they sway in the gentle breeze. There’s something striking about these plants—graceful, elegant, almost otherworldly in their simplicity. They reach up, as though trying to escape the confines of the water and the muddy banks.
My subsequent research revealed these to be Flowering Rush, or Butomus umbellatus. I often see them now, their soft pinks and slender leaves creating a quiet beauty that’s hard to ignore. They’re beautiful, but I have come to know they don’t belong here. This is one of those moments in nature that gives me pause—a reminder that not everything lovely is innocent.
Flowering Rush Growing in Fall Creek, Stewart Park, June 2024
Flowering Rush, a European import from centuries ago, was not meant to take root here. Brought to North America for ornamental ponds, its allure quickly became its danger. It spread, silently, like a secret carried on the wind, slowly overtaking the native species that have long called these waters home. And yet, standing here now, I cannot help but admire its tenacity, its quiet determination to thrive. Nature, in all its forms, has this incredible will to survive, even if that survival sometimes comes at a cost.
My mind drifts to the plant’s history. In its native lands Flowering Rush, or Grass Rush, was useful—its roots, though bitter, were harvested for food, and its fibrous stems woven into mats and ropes. How interesting that something as delicate as this has a rugged, practical side. This contradiction makes perfect sense when I think of the plant’s journey across continents, carried over oceans by human hands and curiosity. We are responsible for its presence here, and now, like so many other invasive species, it’s become a fixture of this landscape.
I think about the dual nature of this invasion. Flowering Rush is beautiful—there is no denying that. Its soft, pink flowers contrast sharply with the darker tones of the water and the dense green of the grasses that surround it. But its beauty masks a quiet destruction. It chokes out the native plants that once thrived here, altering the ecosystem in ways we cannot always see. I wonder what fish and aquatic life struggles beneath the surface, their food sources slowly disappearing. What birds find fewer insects and fewer safe places to nest?
And yet, is this plant a villain? Flowering rush is doing what it was meant to do—grow, spread, survive. That is what everything in nature does, after all. It does not have malice or intent; it just is. It is humans who have changed the balance, who introduced this species to a place where it didn’t belong, setting off a chain reaction we’re still trying to fully understand.
Today, as I walk across the bridge, heading toward the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, path ahead invites quiet reflection, the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves providing a peaceful soundtrack. But the Flowering Rush lingers in my mind. It reminds me of how interconnected everything is, how one small action—a plant brought from a distant land—can ripple out and affect entire ecosystems. It’s a lesson in responsibility for those willing to listen.
As I step into the sanctuary, the air feels lighter, filled with the sound of birds that dart between the trees. I think of the delicate balance of life here, and how easily it can be disrupted by the presence of something foreign, something invasive. Yet, there is a strange comfort in knowing that nature, for all its fragility, has its own resilience.
The Flowering Rush, with its roots deep in the muddy banks of Fall Creek, is a testament to that resilience. It may not belong here, but it has found a way to adapt, to make this place its home. And in that, I find both a warning and a kind of hope—hope that we, too, can learn to live more thoughtfully, more in tune with the world around us, before we upset the balance any further.
For now, though, I simply walk, grateful for the beauty around me, even if it comes with complications. Each step takes me deeper into this world, and I am reminded once again of the profound connection we have to the land, the water, the plants, and the creatures that share this space.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
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Amid the rolling hills and meadows of the Finger Lakes, Queen Anne’s Lace stands tall, its delicate white blooms weaving a tapestry of nature’s resilience and beauty. Discover the rich history, legends, and ecological importance behind this elegant wildflower.
In the Finger Lakes region of New York State, fields come alive with the delicate beauty of Queen Anne’s Lace—a wildflower that embodies nature’s elegance. Scientifically known as Daucus carota, its flowering umbels resemble intricate lace, lending poetic charm to the landscapes it graces. Beyond aesthetics, the history and mythology behind Queen Anne’s Lace, combined with its ecological importance and cultural significance, reveal a plant deeply intertwined with both nature and human culture.
The Name and Its Myths
The name Queen Anne’s Lace derives from English legend. According to the tale, Queen Anne, consort to King James I, was challenged to create lace as beautiful as the flower. While sewing, she pricked her finger, and a single drop of blood stained the lace—represented by the tiny purple floret at the center of many Queen Anne’s Lace blossoms. This intricate network of white flowers surrounding a central floret mirrors the lacework attributed to Queen Anne, giving the plant a royal and historic association.
Scientifically known as Daucus carota, Queen Anne’s Lace is also known by several other common names, including wild carrot and bird’s nest, the latter inspired by the way the flower head curls inward as the seeds begin to develop, resembling a nest. The flower is closely related to the cultivated carrot, and its roots, though much smaller and woodier, share the familiar carrot scent. In fact, Queen Anne’s Lace is considered the wild ancestor of the domestic carrot, with a lineage stretching back thousands of years.
In the meadows of the Brock-Harvey Forest Preserve, Queen Anne’s Lace thrives among the native flora, showcasing its delicate beauty. The function of the central dark florets of D. carota has been subject to debate since Charles Darwin speculated that they are a vestigial trait. It has been suggested that they have the adaptive function of mimicking insects, thus either discouraging herbivory, or attracting pollinators by indicating the presence of food or opportunities for mating. Research conducted in Portugal suggests that the dark central florets of Daucus carota mimic insects, attracting pollinators like the varied carpet beetle (Anthrenus verbasci). Inflorescences with more dark florets experienced increased visitation, indicating these florets may enhance pollination efficiency.
Queen Anne’s Lace in Finger Lakes Ecology
Beyond its rich mythology, Queen Anne’s Lace plays a significant role in the ecology of the Finger Lakes region. Throughout the expansive landscapes of the Finger Lakes, from lush meadows to roadsides, Queen Anne’s Lace stands tall, its delicate blossoms dotting the green with clusters of white. This wildflower can be observed in various stages of its life cycle, from budding umbels to the intricate ‘bird’s nest’ formation.
The fields around the Finger Lakes, often framed by rolling hills and ancient forests, offer the perfect habitat for Daucus carota. The plant thrives in well-drained soils and open sunlight, often outcompeting other flora. Its deep taproots, a characteristic inherited from its cultivated cousin, the carrot, allow it to flourish in the rocky soils of the region.
In these fields, Queen Anne’s Lace performs a vital ecological role. The plant attracts a variety of pollinators, including bees, butterflies, and beneficial insects like lacewings, which help to control aphid populations. The wide, flat umbels provide an ideal landing platform for these insects, who in turn pollinate the flowers, ensuring the plant’s continued spread.
A History of Use
The plant’s ecological importance is matched by its historical uses throughout human civilization. Queen Anne’s Lace has long been a part of human history, both for its beauty and for its practical applications. The plant’s medicinal uses stretch back to ancient times. The seeds and roots were used by the ancient Greeks and Romans as a natural remedy for a variety of ailments, including digestive issues and inflammation. The seeds, when chewed, were believed to prevent conception and were used as a natural form of birth control.
For Native American tribes in the Finger Lakes region, Queen Anne’s Lace was a valuable plant. The roots were often used in the preparation of poultices to treat minor wounds and skin irritations. Additionally, the seeds were used for their diuretic properties, often in teas to help with urinary tract issues. The plant’s close relation to the domestic carrot also meant that its roots could be used as food, though they required careful preparation due to their tough texture and strong flavor.
A Symbol of Resilience and Elegance
The symbolism of Queen Anne’s Lace is steeped in both the fragility and strength it represents. Like the lace it mimics, the flower appears delicate and ephemeral, yet it is a hardy species that thrives in even the most inhospitable conditions. Its deep taproot enables it to survive droughts and poor soil, symbolizing resilience and perseverance in the face of adversity.
In Cayuga County, near Fillmore Glen State Park in Moravia, New York State, farm fields are often adorned with the intricate blooms of Queen Anne’s Lace.
Each summer, the fields of the Finger Lakes burst forth with Queen Anne’s Lace, their towering stalks reaching upward, crowned with intricate blossoms that sway gently in the breeze. As the season progresses, the once-flat umbels curl inward, forming a tight bird’s nest—a final act of elegance before the plant disperses its seeds to ensure future generations.
In capturing the essence of this flower in photographs that accompany this essay, the delicate yet persistent nature of Queen Anne’s Lace is evident. Whether standing tall against a backdrop of green hills, or growing alongside weathered hay bales, Queen Anne’s Lace offers a moment of reflection on the intersection of beauty, history, and nature. Its quiet presence in the Finger Lakes is a reminder that even the smallest, most unassuming plants can carry with them deep histories, enduring stories, and a legacy of utility and elegance.
As golden hues of sunset bathe the rolling hills of the Finger Lakes, the ethereal silhouettes of Queen Anne’s Lace stand as a testament to the region’s natural splendor. Whether admired for its aesthetics, revered for its medicinal uses, or simply appreciated for its ecological role, Queen Anne’s Lace remains an iconic and beloved part of the Finger Lakes’ wildflower tapestry.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
In the final bloom of the season, a honeybee’s delicate dance with the Queen of the Night captures the fleeting beauty of nature’s cycles. Discover the profound connection between flower, bee, and life’s rhythms.
The Epiphyllum oxypetalum, commonly known as the Queen of the Night, is a remarkable plant. Native to Central America, this epiphyte is known for its large, fragrant flowers that bloom only once a year and last just for a single night. The fleeting nature of its bloom makes it a symbol of transience and beauty in many cultures. For me, this flower is a quiet, intimate connection to the rhythms of nature that play out around our home in Ithaca, New York.
The images you see include the last flower of the season, a white starburst of delicate petals encasing a universe of intricate details. As the day progresses, the flower remains open, revealing the next chapter in its life cycle—the possibility of forming fruit. This potential is entirely dependent on pollination, a process that is both beautifully simple and astonishingly complex.
A honeybee, a tiny yet essential participant in the grand scheme of things, hovers and lands delicately on the flower. In the first image, the bee appears tentative, exploring the outer fringes of the flower’s central structures. Its wings are still, as if it has just touched down after a careful, deliberate approach. The stamens, like a thousand arms extended in welcome, offer their pollen. Each grain of pollen is a promise, a potential seed, carried with the hope of propagation. The bee is the flower’s messenger, moving from one bloom to another, ensuring the continuity of life.
As I observe the bee’s actions through these photographs, I can’t help but reflect on the importance of these small creatures. Their work often goes unnoticed, yet without them, our ecosystems would collapse. The honeybee, in particular, has been a focus of concern in recent years due to declining populations, largely attributed to human activities. But here, in my garden, this bee is simply going about its day, unaware of the broader implications of its existence. It is focused on the task at hand, a model of mindfulness in action.
In the second and third images, the bee has moved deeper into the flower, its body now dusted with pollen. It is fully engaged in its work, undeterred by the enormity of its task. The pink style of the flower contrasts sharply with the white petals and the yellow stamens, creating a vibrant tableau of life. The bee’s body is now part of this scene, its presence both functional and aesthetic. It is not just a visitor; it is an integral part of the flower’s story.
The fourth and fifth images capture the culmination of the bee’s efforts. Having gathered what it came for, the bee is ready to move on, its job done here. The flower, too, has fulfilled its role for the season. The energy it expended to produce this magnificent bloom will now be directed towards forming fruit, provided that the pollination process is successful. If it is, this single flower will give rise to a new generation of plants, continuing the cycle of life.
But there is another, more personal layer to this story. This is the last flower of the season. It carries with it the weight of finality, the knowledge that soon the plant will rest, conserving its energy for the next year’s bloom. As I contemplate this, I am reminded of the cycles that govern not just plant life, but all life. There is a time for blooming, a time for fruiting, and a time for rest. Each phase is essential, each one a preparation for the next.
A bonus view of the honeybee in action
In allowing this flower to form fruit, I am participating, in a small way, in this cycle. We are stewards of the natural world, responsible for nurturing and preserving the life forms that share our planet. The honeybee, the flower, and I are all connected in this intricate web of life, each playing our part in the unfolding drama of existence.
These photographs are a meditation on life, a reminder of the beauty and fragility of the world around us. They capture a moment in time, brief encounters between a flower and a bee, but they also speak to something larger, something timeless. The Epiphyllum oxypetalum may bloom for just one night, but its impact, like that of the honeybee, reverberates far beyond that brief window. And in that, there is a profound lesson for all of us.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Discover the rich history and ecological significance of the American Basswood, a majestic tree that intertwines nature, culture, and human history. Uncover its beauty, versatility, and the fascinating pollinators that bring it to life.
As I strolled through the sun-dappled glade, my eyes were drawn to a magnificent tree standing sentinel at the edge of the clearing. Its broad canopy spread like a green umbrella, casting a generous shade over the picnic bench below. Intrigued by its commanding presence, I approached, eager to unravel the secrets of this arboreal giant. Little did I know that this encounter would lead me on a journey through history, etymology, and the myriad uses of the American Basswood.
This photograph features the growth pattern for which the Basswood is known. Buttermilk Falls State Park, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region.
The American Basswood, or Tilia americana, is a tree steeped in history and lore. Its name, “Basswood,” is derived from the word “bast,” referring to the inner bark of the tree, which is known for its fibrous and pliable nature. This etymology hints at the tree’s historical uses, which I would soon discover are as rich and varied as the foliage above me.
As I examined the leaves, I was struck by their heart-shaped form, a feature that has made the Basswood a symbol of love and romance in various cultures. The leaves were smooth and slightly serrated at the edges, with a deep green hue that seemed to capture the essence of summer. Hanging delicately from the branches were clusters of small, round buds, hinting at the tree’s flowering potential. These flowers, I would later learn, are not just beautiful but also aromatic, attracting bees and other pollinators with their sweet fragrance.
These are leaves from a branch broken by spring storms and fallen across the Finger Lakes Trail that follows the southern side of Treman Park above the South Rim Trail. Robert H. Treman New York State Park, Tompkins County, Ithaca. June 27, 2024
The history of the American Basswood in America is intertwined with the lives of indigenous peoples and early settlers. Native Americans valued the Basswood for its soft, easily worked wood and its inner bark, which they used to make ropes, mats, and other essential items. The tree’s wood, known for being lightweight and finely grained, was perfect for carving and crafting tools, utensils, and even ceremonial masks. This versatility made the Basswood an integral part of daily life and cultural practices.
With the arrival of European settlers, the uses of Basswood expanded. Settlers quickly recognized the tree’s potential, using its wood for a variety of applications. The soft, yet sturdy wood was ideal for making furniture, musical instruments, and even crates and boxes. Its workability and smooth finish made it a favorite among craftsmen and artisans. I imagined the hands of these early Americans, shaping and molding the wood, breathing life into their creations.
As I continued to explore the tree, I was drawn to the small, green fruits hanging from slender stems. These fruits, known as nutlets, are encased in a leafy bract that aids in their dispersal by wind. This ingenious natural design ensures the propagation of the species, allowing new generations of Basswoods to take root and flourish.
Curious about the tree’s name, I delved into its etymology and discovered an interesting linguistic journey. In England and Ireland, the Basswood is commonly referred to as the “Lime Tree.” This name does not relate to the citrus fruit tree but instead comes from the Old English word “Lind,” related to the German word “Linde.” Both terms historically referred to trees of the Tilia genus. Over time, “Lind” evolved into “Lime,” influenced by phonetic changes and regional dialects, solidifying the term “Lime Tree” for Tilia species in these regions. Despite sharing the same common name, the Tilia “Lime Tree” and the citrus “Lime Tree” belong to entirely different plant families.
The American Basswood’s significance extends beyond its practical uses. The tree has found a place in American culture and literature, often symbolizing strength, resilience, and longevity. Its towering presence and expansive canopy make it a popular choice for parks and public spaces, where it provides shade and beauty. I thought of the many people who must have sought refuge under its branches, finding solace and inspiration in its quiet strength.
In addition to its cultural and historical significance, the Basswood also plays a crucial ecological role. Its flowers are a vital source of nectar for bees, making it an essential component of local ecosystems. Beekeepers, in particular, value the Basswood for the high-quality honey produced from its nectar, known for its delicate flavor and aroma. The tree’s leaves and bark also provide habitat and food for various wildlife, contributing to the biodiversity of the area.
Pollination is a critical aspect of the American Basswood’s lifecycle, and a variety of insects are drawn to its fragrant, nectar-rich flowers. Honeybees (Apis mellifera) are among the most significant pollinators, their presence around the Basswood a testament to the tree’s importance in the ecosystem. These industrious bees not only gather nectar but also facilitate the pollination process, ensuring the production of seeds. Bumblebees (Bombus spp.) also play a crucial role, utilizing their unique buzz-pollination technique to effectively transfer pollen within the flowers.
These are leaves from a branch broken by spring storms and fallen across the Finger Lakes Trail that follows the southern side of Treman Park above the South Rim Trail. Robert H. Treman New York State Park, Tompkins County, Ithaca. June 27, 2024
Additionally, native bees such as sweat bees (Halictidae), mining bees (Andrenidae), and leafcutter bees (Megachilidae) are frequent visitors, drawn by the abundant nectar and pollen. Butterflies, while not as significant as bees, contribute to the pollination process, adding a touch of grace as they flutter from flower to flower. Moths, particularly those active in the evening, are another group of pollinators, their nocturnal activity complementing the daytime efforts of bees and butterflies. Hoverflies (Syrphidae), also known as flower flies, are attracted to the nectar and aid in the pollination, showcasing the diverse array of insects that rely on the Basswood.
Reflecting on my discovery, I realized the American Basswood is a living testament to the interconnectedness of nature and human history. Its presence in the landscape is a reminder of the many ways in which plants and trees shape our lives, providing resources, inspiration, and a connection to the natural world.
As I left the shade of the Basswood and continued my walk, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the opportunity to learn and connect with this remarkable tree. Its story is a reminder of the importance of preserving and cherishing the natural world, ensuring that future generations can continue to discover and appreciate the wonders of the American Basswood.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Discover the enchanting world of Epiphyllum, where the “Night Blooming Cereus” thrives without soil, capturing moisture and nutrients from the air. Explore its unique beauty and ecological significance. Read more to delve into this fascinating plant’s story.
The Epiphyllum genus, which includes my “Night Blooming Cereus,” consists of epiphytic plants. The term “epiphytic” comes from the Greek epi- (meaning “upon”) and phyton (meaning “plant”). Epiphytic plants, sometimes called “air plants,” do not root in soil. However, this term can be misleading, as many aquatic algae species are also epiphytes on other aquatic plants (seaweeds or aquatic angiosperms). Therefore, it’s essential not to confuse the genus root word “phyllum” (leaf) with the generic term “phytic” (plant), even though they share the common prefix “epi.” A plant can be epiphytic without being part of the Epiphyllum genus.
Double Blooms
These were captured with the Canon EOS 5D Mark IV dslr on a Manfrotto tripod.
An epiphyte is a plant or plant-like organism that grows on the surface of another plant, deriving its moisture and nutrients from the air, rain, or debris accumulating around it. The host plants on which epiphytes grow are called phorophytes. Unlike parasites, epiphytes use other plants merely for physical support and do not negatively impact the host. Epiphytes can also be called epibionts when growing on non-plant organisms. Common in both temperate zones (mosses, liverworts, lichens, algae) and the tropics (ferns, cacti, orchids, bromeliads), epiphytes enhance biodiversity and biomass in their ecosystems. They make excellent houseplants due to their minimal water and soil needs and create rich habitats for various organisms, including animals, fungi, bacteria, and myxomycetes.
Epiphytes are not connected to the soil and must source nutrients from fog, dew, rain, mist, and decomposing organic material. They have an advantage in the canopy, where they access more light and are less vulnerable to herbivores. Epiphytes also benefit animals that live in their water reservoirs, like some frogs and arthropods.
Epiphytes significantly affect their host’s microenvironment and the broader ecosystem. They hold water in the canopy, reducing soil water input, and create cooler, moister conditions, which can decrease the host plant’s water loss through transpiration. Non-vascular epiphytes, like lichens and mosses, are particularly efficient at rapid water uptake.
Join us on a captivating adventure at the Cayuga Nature Center’s Treetops Treehouse and the Finger Lakes Beekeepers Club Learning Apiary. Discover the wonders of the forest canopy, marvel at the intricate world of honeybees, and meet a tiny land snail that sparked the curiosity of two young explorers. Dive into a day filled with discovery, learning, and unforgettable moments in nature.
The morning air was crisp and filled with the promise of adventure as we set off for the Cayuga Nature Center, a hidden gem nestled in the heart of Ithaca. The destination: the Treetops Treehouse, a magical structure that promised an immersive experience in nature for me, my sister Diane and two grandsons, Sam and Rory.
As we approached the treehouse, the boys’ excitement was palpable. The Treetops Treehouse is a marvel of rustic architecture, a multi-level structure that blends seamlessly with the surrounding forest. It was designed to give visitors a bird’s-eye view of the forest canopy, allowing for a unique perspective on the local flora and fauna.
Exploring the Treetops
Upon arrival, we were greeted by the gentle rustle of leaves and the chorus of bird songs. The boys raced ahead, eager to explore the winding pathways and hidden nooks of the treehouse. The structure is constructed entirely of wood, with sturdy railings and wide platforms that offer panoramic views of the forest.
Capturing the moment inside Treetops
We were particularly fascinated by the various interpretive signs that explained the local ecosystem. We learned about the different species of trees, the birds that nested in the canopy, and the small mammals that scurried along the forest floor. It was a delight to sparked their curiosity of the natural world.
Discovering a Land Snail
Meadow Trail
Afterwards, walking along a meadow trail, Rory’s keen eyes spotted something unusual on the ground. Nestled among the fallen leaves was a small land snail, its delicate shell glistening in the dappled sunlight. The boys and I gathered around to observe this tiny marvel of nature.
The snail appeared to be from the genus Triodopsis or Neohelix, possibly Triodopsis albolabris or Neohelix albolabris, known for their white-lipped shells. These snails are common in moist, forested environments and play a crucial role in the ecosystem as decomposers. They feed on decaying plant material, helping to recycle nutrients back into the soil.
The Learning Apiary
Further along the meadow trail, we made our way to the Finger Lakes Beekeepers Club Learning Apiary. The apiary is a place of learning and discovery, where visitors can gain insight into the fascinating world of honeybees and beekeeping.
The apiary is composed of several beehives, each carefully maintained by members of the Beekeepers Club. We were careful to keep our distance from the electrified fence, protection against marauding bears and humans.
“ever-busy bees”
Wildflowers in Bloom
Narrow Leaved Sundrops
As we walked back from the apiary, the trail was lined with a vibrant display of wildflowers. The late spring bloom painted the landscape with splashes of color, from the golden yellows of evening primrose to the delicate whites of daisies.
Large Yellow Loosestrife
One particular cluster of bright yellow flowers caught our attention. It was the Lysimachia punctata, commonly known as yellow loosestrife. These star-shaped flowers grow in dense clusters and are a favorite among pollinators. The boys marveled at the intricate patterns and vibrant colors, adding another layer of wonder to our day.
Reflections on a Memorable Day
As the day drew to a close, we found a quiet spot to sit and reflect on our adventures. The boys were bubbling with stories to tell their parents—of the towering treehouse, the tiny snail, the bustling beehives, and the fields of wildflowers. It was a day filled with discovery and learning, one that brought us closer to nature and to each other.
The Cayuga Nature Center and the Finger Lakes Beekeepers Club Learning Apiary provided a perfect setting for an outing that was both educational and exhilarating. The experiences we shared will undoubtedly leave a lasting impression on Sam and Rory, nurturing their love for the natural world and the myriad forms of life that inhabit it.
Meadow View
As we packed up and headed home, the boys already began planning our next adventure. The allure of the natural world, with its endless mysteries and wonders, had woven its spell, and we were eager to explore more of what it had to offer.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 