Gamble Gardens

Gamble Garden Gazebo

     From time to time I get the hankering to set foot in new places. While browsing joblists I learned about Elizabeth Gamble's historic home and garden in Palo Alto. Ostensibly, I set out to inquire about a job in the gardens; however, soon enough my outing morphed into a field trip / opportunity to shoot some late summer outdoor scenes. After, consulting Google Maps, Gamble Garden's homepage, and VTA's route planner, I took Caltrain from Diridon Station in downtown San Jose to California Avenue in Palo Alto. After deboarding the train, I strolled past restaurants and cafes on California Avenue until I reached El Camino Real. At the intersection of California and El Camino Real about ten minutes later, I glanced at my phone to determine on which side of the street I should await the #22 Palo Alto bus northbound. Soon the #22 arrived and I kept my eyes peeled for Churchill. The bus driver stopped somewhere near Palo Alto High and I backtracked to Churchill having rung the bell too late for my intended stop. I walked down El Camino in the direction I had just come from past Palo Alto High and Stanford's playing fields and turned left at Churchill. I followed Churchill's shady lanes and handsome homes and gardens to Waverly. A small and modest sign announced Elizabeth Gamble Garden, though from the sign it is not readily apparent that the public is welcome into the house and on the grounds. I stared at the rather camouflaged sign and checked the house number, 1431 Waverly, then went up the front walk deliberating whether to climb the porch stairs but my feet took me left of the house through a shady glen into the gardens.

     There were some picnic tables and a bench tucked into a piney shade. An elderly man in light colored clothing rested in the redwood shade on a carved bench facing a frog fountain. In the noonday sun, the man shown brightly in his white shirt and his white hair stood out in the shadows. He sat still like a garden cat, but I felt he watched as I browsed the rows of tomatoes, kitchen herbs, regional collections and flowerbeds.

During my strolls up and down the planted rows a few joggers and a couple of dogwalkers made their jaunty way past me. I was soon drawn toward a sunny and colorful corner of dahlias and zinnias. These dahlias were showstoppers on this Labor Day weekend. They stood high in the northwest corner of the garden like petalled firecrackers. They were fat with many pointed tips in yellows, pinks, oranges, and reds- singing as though through their colors about the loving hands of volunteers ; these dahlias clearly

possess devotees of their own. Many hands evidently pitch in to prune, tend, and water these grounds. The caged tomatoes, pumpkins, dahlias, cosmos and anenomes all bespeak ongoing careful attention. When I looked back toward the benches they were suddenly empty. I soon spotted the man in white stooping over the dahlias, pruning them unhurriedly. He chucked the less than perfect specimens into a pot. These cast offs were worthy of a dining room table spread but they cluttered the more robust dahlias, and into the heap they went. I would have liked to have gathered up their softness in my arms. The man brought out the showiest individuals by clipping off the heads of their slightly bedraggled companions.

          Soon there was an orange flurry in the air. I watched a Monarch butterfly settle on a Japanese anemone.

I followed after the monarch trying to time my shutter clicks with the spread of her wings. The monarch rested in a sprawling clump of dill after dropping in on a frilly red zinnia.

After some trotting after the butterfly, I sat in the elderly gardener's bench and took in the gardens as a whole before leaving for the day. My butterfly was probably on the way to Santa Cruz or Pacific Grovel to hang with her kind for the winter sleep.