Magnolia

May 1992

We drove to Claremont for a wedding on the campus of Pomona College.  We were looking for the Seaver House, the new Office of Alumni Relations and a popular event site.  It is named for a family whose philanthropic foundation has blessed the college for decades.

We parked, got out of the car, stared across the street; and we were confused.  We double-checked the directions on the wedding invitation, and we did a double-take.  The address was correct; but what was perched on the site was NOT what had stood forever at that address on the northwest corner of College and Bonita Avenues.

The Claremont Inn had been the haunt of generations of parents, alumni and other visitors who came to visit the college and the town.  She was an historic, dark, shingle-sided, sprawling, ramshackle dowager.  Students also camped there when the dorms were overbooked, and my wife had been one of those students who were affectionately known as the “INNmates.”  There was a feeling of melancholy because that old familiar aging empress was gone.  Gutted and erased to make way for the new.     

And the new was completely unexpected.  There was not a contemporary edifice of steel and glass.  Instead there loomed before us something even better, something delightful, something magical.  There had risen another dowager, but better dressed, jewel-breasted and resplendent.  She had wide front steps leading up to a grand wrap-around porch.  She owned every imaginable period example of woodworking, leaded glass and architecture.  She stood three stories tall and voluptuous.  A Victorian beauty.

I was in shock, but not just because of her beauty or because she had replaced the INN.  I was in shock because I knew her.  We met many years before, but not in Claremont. 

Circa 1953

Christmas is coming, and my mother is turning our house into a showplace for her art. Mom is an interior decorator/designer with great hands and an eye for color and tremendous energy.  She can take a hunk of ribbon — and this and that — and create Holiday Magic.

To this end she is sending me a few blocks away to pick magnolia leaves from the tree in the yard of her friend, Miss Seaver. She throws a market bag and a pair of snips in the basket of my bike and gives me a little map. 

“Wait a second, Mom, you’re sending me to the busiest intersection in Pomona.  There aren’t any houses down there.”

“Just follow the map and check the address.  You’ll find it.”

I hop on my balloon-tired cruiser and head out.  As I approach the intersection of Holt and Garey, I am remembering what is there.  On one corner is the big Baptist Church; on another, a bank; on another, a motel; and finally, a gas station.  And just as I am thinking my mom has lost it, I look up and there she is, set way back from the sidewalk, like she is hiding.  You cannot see the Chevron behind the massive hedge that borders the property, but you can hear the ding-ding announcing the arrival of customers as they drive over the warning strip at the pumps.    

I stare in awe at this magnificent house. It is a mansion, a wonder, a storybook castle.  By the hedge is an enormous tree, not big enough to shade the whole house, but close.  I assume that this is the afore-mentioned magnolia tree.  Park my bike, take my bag and clippers, walk up the broad steps and ring the bell.  It is answered by an elderly lady.  I ask for Miss Seaver, and she replies, “I am Miss Seaver.”  Expecting a younger woman with the title of “Miss,” I stammer.  My mom will later explain that Miss Seaver is still living in the family home, and she is the sister of one of my mother’s friends in the Pomona High School Class of 1922.

She smiles warmly at my gaffe and invites me in.  I stare and gawk and ask about everything.  She gives me a tour, patiently answers my questions and offers a glass of lemonade.  We sit and sip in the parlor.  There are huge high ceilings, and glaring shafts of light shine through the tall sash windows. 

It is time to pick some leaves, so we go back out to the front yard.  She has already placed a stepladder up against the tree and steadies it as I fill my bag with treasure.  Even as a kid I could appreciate Mom’s eagerness.  Up close these leaves are magnificent, 15-16 inches long, with dark green glossy tops and velvet on the underside.

At other Christmases I will return to that house with fudge from my mom, and Miss Seaver will offer conversation and something to eat or drink.  I believe she appreciates the visitor, and I am taken in by her hospitality and the visions of a house like no other I had ever seen before, or since.  Until… 

1992

After Miss Seaver passed away, the family made a bequest of the house to the college.  It was a complicated undertaking.  The house had to be surgically sawn in two, very carefully loaded on two separate mega trucks, and slowly transported from downtown Pomona to nearby Claremont.  She was put down on the site where the INN had stood, and there she was lovingly and painstakingly stitched back together.

Mom and I had a moment.  As we walked arm in arm up those broad steps and onto the porch and into the house, we reminisced about many things:  my first visit to this grand empress, magnolia leaves, the gentleness and kindness of Miss Seaver and Christmases past.  As we explored the house, we marveled at the largesse of the Family Seaver.  Over the years they underwrote many projects, including a stunning science building and a state-of-the-art theater.

However, their kindest gift was their house.  This gift was especially meaningful because she was not just their house.  She was much more than that.  She was lemonade and tall windows and magnolia leaves and Christmas fudge and the kindness and dignity of her owner. She was their home.

The Seaver home is now the Seaver House.