Third Act With Pattie

Author: pattiegrogg

  • It Was Never Just a Room

    It Was Never Just a Room

    I came home from the lake yesterday to do the thing I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

    Pack the quilting room.

    Although calling it a room has always been a bit generous.

    This was never just a room.
    It was where things were made and where thoughts made sense.

    It was a fully operational textile ecosystem.

    Two sewing machines.
    One coverstitch machine (because at some point I believed I hem things).
    A Moxie quilting machine on an eight-foot frame that requires its own zip code.

    Two tables.
    Four bookcases.
    Fabric. Notions. Needles. Pins. Books.

    And supplies.

    So many supplies.

    Not everything you could possibly need—
    because if it were everything, I would have had to stop buying things.
    And we all know that was never part of the plan.

    There are shelves of doohickeys.
    Tools I bought for one very specific purpose and then never saw again.
    Pegboards.
    Lights.
    More lights.

    A nightstand.
    (No idea.)

    One very comfortable chair that has supported both creativity and avoidance in equal measure.

    Also where I sat long enough for things to settle.

    Containers of fabric.
    Wall hangings.
    Half-finished projects that were absolutely going to change my life.

    Plants.
    Because nothing says “sharp rotary cutter” like watering schedules.

    And—

    a gun safe.

    Yes.
    A gun safe.

    Because apparently when you negotiate for an entire room of your own,
    there may be terms and conditions.

    Also… it’s the only place it fits.

    So there it sits.
    Right in the middle of all of it.

    Which really just proves the point—

    it was never just a room.

    So here I am…

    trying to pack.

    And every single thing I touch
    has something to say about it.

    This room always did that.
    It held onto things for me.

    There’s a vase filled with old thread—
    the kind you don’t use anymore
    but you also don’t throw away.

    Thread from my mother.

    Too old to trust.
    Too hers to toss.

    Only one still has a price on it.

    Fifteen cents.

    I don’t know what that equals today,
    but I know it equals
    put that back down.

    Then there’s the Shoney’s Big Boy doll—
    grinning like he remembers things I don’t.

    My Daddy worked at Shoney’s when I was little.
    Wore that same haircut.

    I can’t look at that ridiculous plastic head
    without seeing my Daddy.

    My mother’s cross-stitch hangs on the wall:

    “Not tonight dear… I’m stitching.”

    Which explains a lot.

    Next to it—

    “Girls just wanna have FUN-damental human rights.”

    And a crocheted Ruth Bader Ginsburg doll
    who looks like she’s about to file a dissenting opinion
    on how long this packing is taking.

    This room—

    was never just fabric and machines.

    It was time.
    It was people.
    It was where I came when I needed quiet… or wasn’t ready to answer questions.

    It was versions of me
    who thought I’d make clothes,
    be more organized,
    and finish what I started.

    (It’s also proof I have never met a piece of fabric I didn’t believe had potential.)

    And now I’m supposed to put it all in boxes.

    Like it’s just a room.

    But it isn’t.

    It never was.

    I think I knew that all along.

    Some things get packed. Some things come with me.

    And now…

    it’s packed. Stacked. Labeled.

    Ready to go to the lake.

    And I think –

    so am I.

    -Pattie

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

  • No One Seems Concerned But Me

    Y’all…

    I am not going to get worked up about this.

    I don’t have the energy.

    I have things to guard.
    The few things that are still here.

    Because strangers keep coming to the “city” house.

    They pull up.
    I hear them.
    I take my position.

    (Security is clearly a one-dog department.)

    I start the growl.

    Mama: “No, Sassy.”

    They walk up.
    They ring the bell.

    I bark. Stranger danger.

    Mama: “Quiet, Sassy.”

    I’m sorry—
    who exactly is handling security then?

    Because from where I’m standing,
    it is me.

    I understand that they don’t speak dog, but this isn’t advanced communication.

    This is intro-level dog.

    Growl = problem. Bark = bigger problem

    And yet –

    Daddy opens the door…

    …and lets them in.

    Just… invites the situation inside.

    Now these people walk around
    looking at my things.

    Things I have personally supervised for years.

    And then—

    they point…

    hand Daddy some paper…

    and suddenly it’s theirs.

    Gone.

    And apparently this is special “green” paper.

    Now I don’t know if you are aware,
    but dogs do not see colors the same way you do.

    So from where I’m standing—
    that is not green.

    That is just… paper.

    Paper you cannot eat.
    (Yes. I checked. More than once.)

    How is that paper is worth more
    than my belongings.

    Make that make sense.

    Because last time I carried something off,
    that was called a problem.

    But if a stranger does it
    and waves around their not-green paper—

    suddenly it’s fine.

    We’ve got a real loophole situation here.

    And this didn’t even start inside the house.

    First it was the yard.

    Daddy brought a bunch of things from his “extra house”
    and put them out there.

    I went to inspect.

    Tiny tables.
    Little Chairs.
    Mini beds.

    Mini beds.

    For… who exactly?

    Because I have never seen a mini person in this house.

    Not one.

    So I don’t know what Daddy has going on out there…
    but I have concerns.

    Serious concerns.

    And then people just came
    and took that stuff too.

    No questions.
    No approvals.
    No Sassy involvement whatsoever.

    So now here we are.

    Strangers in the house.
    Things disappearing.
    Paper changing hands.

    And me?

    I am guarding what’s left
    with very little patience
    and absolutely no trust in this system.

    Because clearly,
    no one seems concerned…

    but me.

    Sassy The Wonderdog.

    …

    Anyway.

    I don’t have time to keep explaining this.

    I’ve got a house to watch.

    And a section of the sectional to defend.

    Because I am a very good girl. 🐾


    — Sassy The Wonderdog 🐾

    Still waiting to be included in major decisions…

    Subscribe for updates.
    I will allow it. —Sassy

  • They Might Already Be Walking As Fast As They Can

    They Might Already Be Walking As Fast As They Can

    Notes from Life After the Bell

    I cannot count how many times I’ve been annoyed walking behind someone slow.

    You know the feeling—
    that boiling irritation when someone is in your way,
    moving at half your speed,
    and you’ve got somewhere to be.

    Today, my husband and I were in a store.
    (Perks of the Third Act—we can do that on a weekday now.)

    He picked up a heavy box.
    The kind that immediately says “we should have gotten a buggy.”

    But instead of putting it back down like a sensible person,
    he just… held it and looked at me.

    I did not ask questions.

    I went to get a buggy
    (which, if you’re not from the South, is a shopping cart).

    And I moved fast.
    Really fast.

    Faster than I’ve moved in months.

    And that’s when it hit me—

    I could breathe.
    I wasn’t unsteady.
    I wasn’t dizzy.

    I was just… walking.
    Like a normal person in a store, not someone wondering if the next step might take me down.

    And I was so grateful I could have cried.
    (I didn’t. Because… public.)

    The poisoning is leaving my body.
    I am clearly getting better.

    And then—because my brain likes to keep things interesting—
    another thought showed up.

    We have no idea why someone is moving slow.

    We don’t know if they are walking as fast as they possibly can.
    We don’t know what their body is dealing with –
    Or what it costs them just to be upright in that moment.

    But we get annoyed anyway.

    We assume they’re in the way.
    We assume they’re not paying attention.
    We assume we’re more important than whatever is slowing them down. And we all know how well assuming usually works out.

    I remember what it felt like
    to want to move faster
    and not be able to.

    To feel unsteady.
    To feel unsure.
    To feel like I was holding people up.

    It’s humbling.

    And… damn inconvenient, if I’m being honest.

    I hope I never forget it.

    Because the next time I’m stuck behind someone moving slow,
    I want to remember— they might already be walking as fast as they can.

    I remember what that feels like.

    And I don’t ever want to forget.

    —Pattie, moving a little slower (on purpose this time)

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

  • The Last S’kiddle Leaves the Nest

    The Last S’kiddle Leaves the Nest

    Last weekend, we helped Middle S’kiddle move into her first place.

    And just like that… our house got quieter in a way I wasn’t quite prepared for. Not empty.
    Not sad exactly. Just… different.

    What is a S’kiddle, you ask?

    Fair question.

    When my husband and I got married, we didn’t just bring two people into a house —
    we brought a whole collection of people into one life. He had three daughters — one in high school and two still in grade school.

    And I came with two grown children, their spouses… and my one and only granddaughter — who at fifteen already very clear about her place in my life and my heart.

    So there were a lot of personalities – and a lot of opinions. And, as it turns out, a real need for creative naming.

    In the beginning, like all raised-right Southern children, they called me Miss Pattie.

    Which was completely appropriate. But also a little much for everyday life… and the occasional tattling.

    Somewhere along the way – maybe when they realized I could be trusted to stay — Miss Pattie quietly shifted into S’Mom.

    (There may have been a trial period. I like to think I passed.)

    I loved S’Mom – but it did leave me with a naming problem.

    Because “stepdaughter” made me sound like the evil stepmother of fairytales, and “S’daughter” felt awkward.

    “S’kid” sounded like I was already annoyed with them…which, to be clear, would come later — just not yet.

    So with a little thought — and a healthy dose of mischief — we landed on S’kiddle. Like the candy, colorful, sweet, and each one a completely differend flavor.

    And once we said it out loud…that was it.

    So they became:

    Senior S’kiddle
    Middle S’kiddle
    and Liddle S’kiddle

    And somehow… those names stuck — and they remain S’kiddles to this day… and probably always will.

    Middle S’kiddle has lived with us full-time since graduation, but long before that, she was part of a life built across two homes, with four parents who all loved her in their own ways.

    That’s just how her story was written. And honestly… it worked.

    She is her father’s spitting image — practical and very determined. Her job is here, and so are her friends.

    Liddle S’kiddle, her mother’s mini-me – is planning to stay very close to her mama’s house for college – her story unfolding in a completely different way, but just as much her own.

    Neither S’kiddle has any interest in trading their lives for lake view and retirement wandering – especially with both of us home all the time.

    Which means…

    Middle S’kiddle will not be joining us full-time in the Third Act.

    And we will be missing our built-in voice of reason —
    and her daily recaps of life as she sees it… whether we agreed with her or not.

    But before any of that really had time to settle in…

    She had been moving things all week — carloads here, boxes there —
    so by the time the weekend rolled around, we were feeling pretty confident.

    Just the bedroom furniture. A dining room table and four chairs. Six blocks down the road.

    How hard could that be?

    Well … let me just say this:

    There is no such thing as “just a few things.” And there is definitely no such thing as a “quick move.” Even when it’s only six blocks.

    (Especially when it’s only six blocks, because apparently that gives you false confidence and bad judgment.)

    Because this wasn’t just helping her set up her new place. This was the last S’kiddle leaving our home.

    And here’s the part nobody really prepares you for:

    It doesn’t feel like a big, dramatic ending.

    There’s no music playing. No slow-motion goodbye. No moment where everyone stands still and says, “Well… this is it.”

    Instead, you carry a box, adjust a chair debate where the couch should go like its a life-altering decision… and somewhere in the middle of all that, life changes.

    She’s only six blocks away. We’ll see her all the time. Northing is really ending.

    And yet… everything is a little different now.

    Because this — this right here – is what the Third Act looks like.

    Not loud. Not dramatic.

    Just a quiet shift from raising a life… to watching it go live on its own.

    And the truth is…this moment doesn’t belong to just us.

    It belongs to all of the parents who helped shape her —in both of the families that became one.

    And honestly?

    She’s ready.

    (But I would like the record to reflect that having someone around who kept us grounded
    and occasionally made more sense than we did was very convenient…and will be deeply missed.)

    And just in case life felt like it was getting a little too quiet…

    Senior S’kiddle is getting married this fall.

    So I’m fairly certain this is not the end of the stories —
    just a brief pause before the chaos resumes.

    If you’re still smiling,
    pull up a chair on the deck…

    We’ll raise a glass,
    watch the water sparkle,

    and see what happens next.

    – Pattie

    🐾 Sassy Says

    Again… nobody asked me.

    I am really going to miss Middle S’kiddle.

    I like to mess with her and bark every time she comes home – like I don’t have any idea who is breaking into the house. She doesn’t realize i already know her car, her footsteps, and her smell without even looking.

    So she always comes in with hugs and love… to calm me down. (It works Every time.)

    I am a Wonderdog like that.

    She comes home at lunch with chicken most days. She eats on the couch — where I can properly supervise — and she always leaves a little bit behind.

    I know she does it on purpose.

    What exactly am I supposed to do now?

    Lower my standards?

    🐾🍗🍿

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

  • They Have Lost Their Doggone Minds Two Houses. Three People. Zero Good Decisions.

    They Have Lost Their Doggone Minds Two Houses. Three People. Zero Good Decisions.

    Y’all…
    it’s official.

    They have lost their doggone minds.
    Both. Of. Them. Completely.

    I heard them talking yesterday
    about leaving the lake house
    and going back to the city house.

    Excuse me??

    I was having an excellent time at the lake house.
    The weather was nice.
    The birds were active.
    The squirrels were bold.
    (A mistake on their part.)

    I had a full schedule.

    As usual…
    nobody asked me.

    Then I watched them carry out
    a whole bunch of stuff
    and load it into the truck.

    Seemed like a bad idea.

    I mean, we are supposed to be moving
    TO the lake house.

    Not… practicing leaving it.

    Mama and I drove back in the car.
    Daddy drove the truck.

    He got there first.
    Which is not surprising.

    Mama is a slower driver.
    Not bad…
    just… deeply committed to taking her time.

    We walk in the house
    and Daddy says:

    “We have to go back.”

    Mama and I just stared at him
    with wide open eyes.

    (I taught her that look. She’s improving.)

    Before either of us could respond,
    he says:

    “I left my wallet at the lake house… I think.”

    Sir ???

    We just got here.

    Mama and I looked at each other.

    I don’t know exactly what Mama was thinking,
    but I’m fairly certain
    it involved some words
    I do not use.

    Because,

    I am a very good girl.

    After a long discussion
    (where I was, once again, not consulted),
    they decided:

    We would stay the night
    and go back in the morning.

    Daddy said we had to leave early
    because of spring break.

    Spring break.

    You know who’s not on spring break?

    Me.

    I’m on “get in the car, Sassy.”

    Mama did not seem nearly as concerned
    about spring break
    as she was about her sanity.

    Next thing I know,
    it is not even light outside
    and I am being loaded into the car.

    Again.

    Let me explain something:

    It is a long, long, long ride
    for a dog.

    And since Mama had to drive,
    we took her car.

    Which means—

    Daddy sat in my seat.

    My seat.

    Without discussion.
    Without permission.

    I was moved
    to the back seat.

    The unacceptable seat.
    The seat where you cannot see out properly.
    The seat of poor life decisions.

    After a very long time,
    we got back to the lake.

    Mama let me out
    to “handle my business.”

    Which I did.
    Efficiently.
    Like a professional.

    We went upstairs,
    went inside…

    and then…

    we were there
    for about five minutes.

    Five. Minutes.

    I hadn’t even finished
    smushing down my bed.

    (Another thing humans do wrong—
    they just sit down
    without preparing the spot first.
    It’s chaos.)

    Daddy found his wallet.

    In the clothes hamper.

    In the pocket of his pants.

    …This is exactly why
    dogs do not wear pants.

    Or fully trust people who do.

    Then we went
    right back downstairs,
    right back into the car.

    Mama is now in my seat.
    I am once again
    in the terrible back seat.

    For another
    long, long, long ride.

    I did not ask
    to participate in this adventure.

    I could have stayed home
    on my section of the sectional.

    In peace.
    In dignity.

    But no.

    Nobody asked me.

    They never do.

    And that is exactly how I know…

    they have lost their doggone minds.

    🐾 Sassy the Wonderdog

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    I will allow it. —Sassy