Whenever I travel to Los Angeles, my trip is not complete without spending a glorious afternoon at The Huntington. This remarkable research library established by businessman and financier, Henry E. Huntington, is surrounded by 12 singular botanical gardens. A scenic stroll through the sublime Chinese, Japanese, and Australian landscapes, as well as the Rose, Camellia and Shakespeare gardens must be followed by a visit to at least one of the extraordinary art galleries on the property.  Huntington was a discerning collector of British, French and American art. Of course, the gift shop and the Rose Garden Tea Room are also not to be missed. I took this photo in the Huntington’s Rose Garden and later wrote the accompanying essay.

The Huntington Botanical Gardens, 1990. (Photo by L. LeVasseur)

The roses nod and whisper among themselves of candlelit dinners, weddings and moonlit strolls, as the mellow breeze meanders through the sun-drenched garden.  The soft June air is filled with a hypnotic floral perfume.  In a riot of reds, yellows and pinks, the delicate blossoms cling to the stone wall surrounding a thatched bungalow. A tiny, red bud stretches its furled petals to the cerulean sky.

A buxom, vigorous woman dressed in a faded, cotton sundress and carrying a pair of secateurs, moves briskly through the garden.  She hums a bit of Mozart as she  gathers the sweetest blossoms, placing them carefully in her wicker basket.   With a gentle hand she snips the new rosebud from the vine.

The gardner carries the roses to the end of her winding, dusty lane where she has set up a roadside stand.  Arranging the flowers in bright, hand-painted vases, she places the baby rosebud within a bouquet of elegant pink blooms.  Sitting in the shade of the ancient oaks lining the country road, she waits patiently for  someone to stop and purchase the roses she has tended so lovingly.  She hopes to share their beauty with someone special.