I remember the day years ago when we drove Dad to Carmel to see his old Army buddy for the first time since I’d been about three. We held back at the driveway to let Dad walk on ahead of us.
The man saw our car and quickly came out the door to greet us.
I got to see the moment when the two men laid eyes on each other, a mixture of recognition that was delayed just that one slight millisecond–and the unspoken sudden shock at each other’s aging and thus their own in their joy as they threw their arms around each other. It had been so long.
Dad’s buddy’s career was as a producer of the Hanna Barbara cartoons.
So maybe that’s a small part of why I so like this place: it reminds me of Dad’s friend.
Someone has finally bought the Flintstone house. Someone with the money and the will to preserve it and the hillside it’s built into, someone who walked in the door and fell in love at first sight, someone with a keen sense of whimsy.
Someone who’s added fifteen-foot dinosaurs, cartoon mushroom sculptures and Fred himself, with more to come. Because she can, and why not?
I’ve seen it at a distance driving by and had wondered, and those pictures are a treat.
I love that the original architect got to see his masterpiece being loved all over again.