Category Archives: Libraries

Words and Photos: Botanical Gardens

Wherever I travel, I enjoy spending a sunny morning or afternoon wandering through a botanical garden snapping photos of whatever catches my eye. I have visited memorable gardens in Canada, Bermuda, England and France. Over the years, I have taken an ever expanding collection flower photos.

One of my favorite gardens is on the West Coast of the United States. No passport required to make the trip. If you ever find yourself in the vicinity of San Marino, CA, setting aside time to go to the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens is a must.

The Huntington started out as a working ranch purchased by railroad tycoon, Henry E. Huntington in 1903. On their private estate, Henry and his wife, Arabella, assembled impressive art, book and botanical collections to create the library, museum and gardens that today are shared with the world. The photos I took at the Huntington have inspired this photo essay.

The roses were in bloom at the Huntington. With her camera in her hand, Clio Penrose strolled beneath the California sunshine savoring the rose-scented breeze and the bird-song that filled the garden. Following the winding path that led to a romantic stone temple, she admired the many varieties of roses, each carefully identified and labeled. As she moved from flower bed to arbor, she snapped photos of roses of all colors, red, yellow, pink and even a dusky purple shade she had never seen before.

Stopping to chat with one of the horticulturists, a petite older woman wearing round glasses and a floppy sunhat, Clio learned that the three acres contained 1,300 different types of roses that remained in bloom from March to late November.

“Wow, Hermione! I never realized there were so many kinds of roses,” Clio said, reading the name tag pinned to the collar of the other woman’s gauzy tunic.

“This garden was planted by the Huntingtons in 1908. Arabella loved roses and used many of the blooms grown here in her household flower arrangements,” Hermione explained. “Over the next century, the gardeners planted and developed a vast collection of cultivars. The rose family is the third largest plant family, you know. One of the newest varieties here is called ‘Huntington’s 100th.’ It has pale yellow and pink petals and an enchanting lemony scent. My colleagues created it for the Library’s centennial celebration.”

“That sounds lovely,” Clio said.

“You’ll find several beds dedicated to the 100th roses over near the Gallery of American Art.”

“I’ll definitely go find them,” Clio said. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head sweeping back her dark bangs and smiled. “The Huntington is such a beautiful place! Do you absolutely love working here?”

“I do.” Hermione nodded. “I’m originally from Vermont but came to California for college. I often think that if I had chosen the University of Vermont instead of UCLA, I never would have ended up here at the Huntington. That one decision led me to my dream job.”

The two women stood in contemplative silence. After a few moments, Clio settled her sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose and said, “Well, thank you for all the great information. I’m going to take a look at the 100th roses.”

Hermione waved her off in the direction of the art gallery. “Enjoy your day,” she said.

The delicate pink and yellow roses were Clio’s favorite. The combination of the pastel colors and the unique fragrance of the roses was enchanting. The horticulturalist was right.

Clio lingered by the rose beds for more than twenty minutes, taking photo after photo of the elegant blooms. She would love to plant some 100th roses in her home garden back in Maine.

At last, she put her camera in her blue plaid shoulder bag that matched her sundress. With one backward glance at Huntington’s 100ths, she made her way to the Rose Garden Tearoom. As she sipped a reviving cup of Earl Grey and snacked on scones slathered with clotted cream and apricot jam, Clio thought about Hermione’s story and the course of her own life.

She had happy memories of growing up on the Connecticut shoreline. She had enjoyed studying graphic design at Rhode Island School of Design and now owned a comfortable condominium in Portland, Maine where she ran her own freelance business.

Overall, she was content with her life. But where would she be now if she had ventured outside of New England for college or her first design job? What if she had chosen a different major like linguistics and studied abroad?

Was she destined to be a lifelong New Englander or could she have headed down a completely different road simply by altering a single decision?

The possibilities were fascinating!

No Place Like Home

This month, I enjoyed a three-day solo retreat to my hometown, Madison, CT. I stayed in a lovely, historic inn across the street from the library and half a block from my favorite bookstore. What an ideal location! During my stay, I had a grand time shopping, going to the cinema, visiting the library, walking on the beach and reminiscing with a lifelong friend while dining on excellent Asian cuisine. Of course, I took a lot of pictures. The selection of photos in the slideshow below have inspired my newest photo essay.

Happy Reading!

When she was a little girl, Kathryn Moore always looked forward to the family road trip to Connecticut. Instead of sending her to camp, Kat’s parents would take her to visit her grandmother in New England every summer. The drive from Delaware took hours, but Kat didn’t mind. She would stretch out in the backseat and read or play the license plate game with her father, while her mother drove their roomy station wagon. They would always stop for lunch at a clam shack on the northern tip of the Jersey shore and then walk on the beach before piling back into the car.

Upon reaching their destination, Kat’s grandmother would be waiting on the wide, shady porch of her nineteenth century house, a welcoming smile lighting up her elegant face. She lived in one of the historic homes across from the town green within walking distance of the cinema, the public library and the local bookstore. Kat would jump out of the car and run up the porch steps ready, for five weeks of fun in her Gram’s shoreline town. Mom and Dad would stay for a few days and then head back to Delaware, always returning at the end of the visit to pick her up.

Now, twenty years later, Kat lived in the top floor of the house across from the green. The old house had been turned into two condominiums, and she was lucky enough to purchase one of them when she landed a teaching job at the town’s elementary school. Her downstairs neighbor, a jolly woman named Flora, who was about ten years older than Kat, worked at the library down the street. They quickly became great friends.

On the Saturday after Labor Day, Kat, dressed in khaki capris and a pink polo shirt, relaxed barefooted in a cushioned wicker rocker on the wraparound porch with Flora, who sat cross legged on a matching couch. Panda, Flora’s tuxedo cat, perched on the wide porch railing purring in the afternoon sunshine. Two neighborhood children clattered by on their bicycles, and across the street the postman made his way along the block delivering mail.

As the two friends sipped chilled glasses of rosé and snacked on cheese and crackers, they talked about Kat’s first week of school in her new kindergarten classroom.

“I have just fifteen kids in my class, seven boys and eight girls. Believe it or not, they are all so sweet and well behaved,” Kat said. She laughed, crossing her fingers and added, “So far.”

Flora smiled and reached for a wheat cracker and slice of Brie. “Fifteen sounds like the perfect class size,” she said.

“By the way, they loved the story hour books you suggested, especially If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

“Happy to help,” Flora said, raising her cracker in a toast. “I’m glad the children are so delightful. What about your fellow teachers? Are you settling in with the faculty?”

“I think so. I’m having a bit of trouble remembering everyone’s name. The other kindergarten teacher, Ms. Hope, is great though. She wants to collaborate with me on projects our kids can do together, which is fantastic. I think she’ll be a good friend.” Kat set her wine glass down on the wicker table and clasped her hands under her chin. “And I really like the principal. She’s totally supportive.”

Flora nodded and flipped her long auburn braid over her shoulder. “Very good. Having a supportive boss is important. Our library director is wonderful. We’re both blessed to have jobs we like.”

“My Gram always said that enjoying your profession was the most important thing. I think she was right.”

“Do you think your grandmother’s spirit guided you back here?” Flora asked, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Here you are in her hometown, living in her house and starting a new career that seems perfect for you. It must be fate.”

“Could be,” Kat said thoughtfully. She leaned back and let her gaze wander, taking in the cozy porch and friendly neighborhood. “I have so many happy memories of my summers with my grandmother. I feel like I’ve come home.”

Boston: an enchanting travel destination

Boston is known as a city where every corner tells a story. It is steeped in history, culture, academia, sportsmanship, good food and stunning architecture. Throughout the decades as a Boston resident, I have collected an abundance of memories, happy stories written in the squares, avenues, parks, museums, libraries, ballparks and restaurants of the city. I feel blessed to make my home in such an enchanting travel destination. The photo essay inspired by pictures I have taken in Boston, tells the story of a bride who is quickly falling under the spell of Massachusetts’ capital.

Margot O’Reilly woke up in the elegant bridal suite at the Copley Plaza Hotel. Soft sunlight peeking through the partially opened curtains lit up the quiet room. She sat up and stretched, taking in the plush armchairs by the window, the gleaming mahogany bureaus, and the marble fireplace. Smiling to herself, she snuggled back underneath the luxurious bed coverings as happy memories drifted through her mind. Last night, she and Oliver were married at the Boston Public Library. Their friends and family all raved about the unique venue.

Last spring during her school vacation, when Margot and Oliver flew to Boston from Philadelphia to visit his family in West Roxbury and share the news of their engagement, they had spent an afternoon wandering around the Back Bay. At the library, she picked up a pamphlet advertising wedding options. As she read through the glossy booklet, she knew immediately that she had found the perfect place to get married. To her delight, last evening had been flawless. The ceremony and cocktails in the Courtyard were followed by dinner in Bates Hall Reading Room and dancing in the Abbey Room.

“Good morning, Mrs. O’Reilly,” Oliver said. Wrapped in one of the hotel’s waffle robes, he stepped out of the steamy bathroom and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. His hair was damp and he smelled of lemony soap and minty toothpaste. He had gotten up early to use the hotel’s gym.

Margot grinned at the sound of her new name. She had thought about hyphenating their last names, but Beauvilliers-O’Reilly had too many syllables. She wondered how long it would take her students to get used to her married name.

“Good morning, my darling husband,” she replied. She kissed him and went on, “If you could order us some breakfast, I’ll jump in the shower. We have a busy day ahead of us. Art in the morning and the Red Sox this afternoon.”

Oliver laughed. “The MFA and Fenway, two Boston icons.”

Margot climbed out of bed and walked over to the window. She opened the curtains revealing their view of the library and Copley Square. “It looks like a beautiful day. Perhaps we can fit in a walk through the Public Gardens and the Common.”

Oliver nodded and reached for the phone to call room service. “Margot,” he called after her as she disappeared into the bathroom. “It’s going to be a great day. I’m glad we decided to honeymoon in Boston.”

Margot poked her head through the doorway. “Me too. I love this city almost as much as I love you.”