The Adventures of Jane, Marley and Cat

When the phone rings at 10:30 p.m. and the voice on the other end says, “This is Officer Gordon with the Spanish Fork Police Department”, you know it can’t be good.

I did a mental inventory of all the kids. Julia – France. Rob – Jail. John – Wyoming. Oops.. that left only Kjarsti.

“Apparently your daughter was driving and ran into a gas station.” Hmmm… daughter only 14, this really can’t be good. “No one was injured and the damage was minimal, but they left the scene of the accident.”

So, I finally got a hold of Kjarsti and told her to get her butt down to the SF Police Station and fill out an accident report. Apparently they decided not to charge her with Hit and Run but we don’t know exactly what her consequences will be.

As for me, the consequences will be a) grounding for life b) excessive chores and c) death and dismemberment. OK, not C. Rats.

Brent and I were laughing (if you can call it laughing at mindnight last night) that we did all kinds of things but here’s the key: We were never caught. If you recall, one of my very first entries on my blog was that my kids are Police Magnets. They need to know that if they so much as think of doing something wrong, they have about 30 seconds before they will get caught.

We are going to California tomorrow for a few days. I am going to put my feet in the ocean and think about peaceful things. I may never come home.

The other morning I awoke thinking about hydrangias. I never see a hydrangia without thinking of my maternal grandmother. She lived in a small home in Westwood, just below UCLA. The yard was fenced with a white picket fence and around the perimeter were huge hydrangias. They also had a pineapple guava tree, and to this day I love those little fruits. My maternal grandmother was my closets aly when I was growing up. My grandparents spoiled me rotten, and I always felt safe with them.

So, I thought, what flowers remind me of those I love dearly?

My paternal grandmother was an avid gardner. Her backyard, although not attractive by today’s standards, was a wonderland of pathways for a young girl. She loved to grow roses in her garden beds bordered by cement walkways. She gardened every day until about three days before she died. She wasn’t the warmest person in the world, but she loved me the best she could. So, I guess when I think of her, I think of rose bushes.

My mother learned to garden from her mother-in-law. And like most everything my mom did, it involved classes, preparing, planning, frequent trips to the nursery, and then enlisting all of us to assist her. She loved the flora of Southern California. One of her favorite plants was a sage brush that would flower with these velvety purple blossoms. She particularly loved picking them and creating exotic arrangements of the flowers from our garden.

Mom would also find these wonderful exotic flowers. At least they seemed exotic to me. Snip, snip would go the shears and out of stems and blossoms wonderful displays would emerge. One of my favorite of her flowers was the ranuncula. This delicate flower grew from the mysterious bulb, and although the flower never lasted long enough, the beauty of the symetrical petals intrigued me. I guess this flower is so much like Mom. Beautiful, symmetrical in her brilliant mathematical mind, and didn’t live long enough. Mom’s been gone now for seventeen years. I miss her.

For the record, I’d rather be canoodling with JD.