The Huntington by Laura Wilde
Light glinting on the pond,
From the parking entrance, through the curving lot, I walk beneath the trees’ green canopy while pink flowers fall from above. Pillars standing tall framing the entrance to what was once only a home to the Huntingtons. He wanted simple. She wanted extravagant. It became a vast labyrinth, so inviting to everyone. So many gardens, from one Koi pond to the next. Flowers abound among the lily pads and paths. Glowing blue green cactus in neat rows lay against the dark earth, the bright blue sky framing the giant pony tail palms. Chinese Gardens, light glinting on the pond, over the bridge and into the circular archway entering the Japanese garden, passed the bonsai tree and ancient boulders. On to the Children’s Garden through the small blue door, into the mist to play in the fountains. Around the corner through the Museum to the Huntington’s house, up the spiral staircase to view the paintings from Gainborough’s Blue Boy to Turner‘s ships. Sculptures, fine china and harpsichords, vases to flatware, riddle the walls and hallways. Into his study where old books abound, pausing by the chair where Huntington sat to read them. Back out on the lawn to the great statues on either side, the path winds around to the huge library where old secrets lay quietly inside, rows and rows of archived literature behind a great gate. Many glass cabinets holding Bronte to Chaucer, Gutenberg to Shakespeare; three hundred seventy five thousand books waiting for their turn in the rotation.
over the bridge and into the circular archway…
From the Huntington’s home to their library, weaving back through the Chinese and Japanese gardens and little eateries, their home is now available to all, a feeling of interlocking puzzle pieces complete the journey.