Third Act With Pattie

Category: 🚣 Lake Life

Living full time at the lake — kayaking, watching the water, dealing with geese, and enjoying the quiet moments.

  • My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

    My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

    I call myself a quilter.

    In the interest of full disclosure…
    I haven’t touched my sewing machine in at least ten months.

    And considering the fact that I own enough fabric to insulate a small village…
    that feels a little ridiculous.

    First it was cancer,
    then it was recovery,
    then it was the Great Retirement Delusion.

    The phase where we allegedly “slowed down,” despite the fact that I now spend half my life trying to remember where I put things I packed myself.

    We have moved so many 27-gallon bins full of sewing room stuff that if they were filled with water,

    I’d have a hot tub.

    But I don’t.

    I have fabric and notions and tools and machines and enough sewing-room chaos

    that if I did have a hot tub,

    I’d probably be too exhausted to climb into it.

    And even though I’m currently buried alive under “moving a sewing room,”

    something unexpected has happened.

    Every time I open another bin,

    I stumble into an old idea,

    an old project,

    or a version of myself who used to make things just because she wanted to.

    Tiny scraps from a shooting star quilt I made during the phase where I believed sewing together 1.5 x 2-inch pieces would somehow make me a “real quilter” instead of just giving me neck pain and eye strain.

    A ruler I’ve used so much the numbers are wearing off,

    which feels judgmental at this point.

    Half a bundle of fat quarters that instantly brings back a last-minute Christmas table runner…

    and a weekend where I stayed up until 2 a.m.,

    insisting I was “almost done”

    like a woman with absolutely no prior experience being me.

    A box full of blocks for a quilt I adored while cutting…

    and completely hated by block five of assembly.

    And somewhere between hauling bins, untangling extension cords, and wondering why all seventeen pairs of my fabric scissors disappear simultaneously like they’re part of an organized crime ring…

    my brain skipped right past “you should really get organized” and went straight to:

    What can I make now?

    Not what should I donate.
    Not what should I finish.
    Not what responsible adults would do in this situation.

    What can I make now!

    And then it hit me…

    my sewing room wasn’t just fabric storage

    it was where my creativity had quietly been waiting for me.

    Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling until it came back.

    Not the pressure to make something impressive.
    Not the giant complicated projects that require seventeen fabrics and a level of math I refuse to acknowledge publicly.

    Just the spark.

    That little twitch in your brain that looks at fabric and immediately starts making terribly wonderful decisions.

    The sudden belief that this might be the project where I lose myself in the creating for a while… and somehow find pieces of myself again in the process.

    And after ten months of surviving, recovering, relocating, downsizing, upsizing, and wandering around looking for things I packed myself…

    that tiny creative spark feels a lot less like “coming home” and a lot more like trouble.

    The good kind.

    The kind that ends with fabric all over the table, thread stuck to your shirt, twenty-seven browser tabs open for “inspiration,” and a completely irrational conviction that your entire happiness depends on finding one more shade of teal.

    And honestly?
    I think I’m finally ready for that again.

    So come sit by me.

    We’ll dig through fabric, make wildly questionable project decisions, and lie to ourselves about only starting one new quilt.

    Some traditions are worth preserving.

    – Pattie

  • Lake Music

    Rain

    tap tap tapping

    on the metal roof

    Wind whipping

    through the trees

    Water rushing

    everywhere

    The lake makes its own music

  • I Owe That Stick an Apology

    I Owe That Stick an Apology

    A few days ago, I told you all about the snake…
    OK – the stick.

    Apparently that was just the rehearsal.

    So yes. It was not a snake.
    I overreacted.
    I do that sometimes.

    But never—never—in my wildest, most dramatic, slightly exaggerated imagination
    did I expect to be corrected that quickly.

    Today, hubby and I had just made it back to the lake after a highly glamorous “load random stuff into the truck at the city house” excursion.

    We pull in.
    Park the truck.
    I hop out to throw away our mobile lunch trash like the productive, responsible adult I occasionally pretend to be.

    I round the corner to the back of the house…

    …and there it is.

    Coiled.
    Right by the garbage can.
    Just sitting there… waiting… for me.

    A snake.
    A real snake.
    A big, fat, long, brown snake.

    And I did what any calm, measured, rational woman would do.

    I froze completely…
    and screamed at the exact same time:

    SNAKE! SNAKE! SNAKE!

    Hubby?
    Near the truck. No response.

    Middle S’kiddle and friend?
    On the deck. No response.

    Neighbors?
    On their porch. Watching the lake. Living their best lives.
    Also no response.

    Excuse me.

    Still frozen in place—because apparently my body chose statue mode over survival mode—
    I tried again, hissing out:

    S—N—A—K—E!

    Nothing.
    Not a twitch.
    Not a “what’s wrong?”
    Not even a courtesy head turn.

    At this point, it became painfully clear…

    I was now the woman who cried wolf.
    Except the wolf was now very clearly a REAL SNAKE.
    And I had no credibility left.

    So I yelled again, something along the lines of:

    “Everybody in this cove can hear me screaming SNAKE and y’all are just going to ignore me?!”

    Which felt fair.
    And accurate.
    And possibly a little loud.

    Eventually, hubby wandered over—casually—like I had called him to admire a sunset.

    Middle S’kiddle came closer too.

    And when I said, with urgency and dignity,
    “It’s a SNAKE,”

    they both did that little backward step.

    Oh NOW we’re listening.

    Good.

    Now that I had their attention I explained- very clearly— that this was not a stick situation.

    This was a real, actual, confirmed snake,
    and it had slithered itself right behind the Herbie-Kerbie on wheels… like it lived there.

    Still… skepticism.

    Because apparently once you misidentify a stick one time, your word is forever suspect.

    So now their doing a full investigation.
    Everyone has to come see it with their own eyes.
    Like a jury viewing evidence.

    Meanwhile, I have not moved.
    Not an inch.
    Still yelling some version of “snake” on a loop.

    And then…

    Hubby sees it.

    Pauses.

    And says the words that restored my dignity:

    “Yeah… that is a snake.”

    WELL.
    I’LL.
    BE.

    From there, hubby did what all good hubbies do.

    He handled the situation.

    Efficiently.
    Heroically.
    Without me having to participate in any way whatsoever.

    Which is exactly how I like my wildlife encounters resolved.

    So yes.

    I confused a stick for a snake.

    And then I spotted an actual snake…

    and was ignored by everyone within shouting distance.

    I would like the record to reflect:

    I was right the second time.

    Which is the one that mattered.

    Pull up a chair… just not near the trash can.

    -Pattie

  • My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

    My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

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  • I Confess… I Did This To Myself

    I Confess… I Did This To Myself

    Turns out “retired together” is not the same retirement.

    I’ve made mistakes before.

    Big ones.

    But none of them stared me in the face all day.

    Okay… I may have pushed my husband to retire.

    I did this to myself.

    Completely.

    I’ve been retired – well, semi-retired – for over a year now.

    By semi-retired, I mean I work from home… in my pajamas… on my own schedule.

    It’s a very civilized system.

    I earn a little extra money when I feel like it.

    And when I don’t feel like it – I simply don’t.

    During the last two months of chemo, I took exactly zero assignments.

    Turns out chemo brain and legal drafting are not a winning combination.

    But overall, I’ve really enjoyed this semi-retired lifestyle (minus the chemo option.)

    So much, in fact, that I decided my husband needed to retire too.

    He was terribly stressed out.

    Which is understandable.

    A wife on chemo and a fast-paced, time-draining job he loved would give any man gray hair at an alarming rate.

    If the man had hair.

    Mine does not.

    So in the way that good wives often do, I patiently helped him realize that it was completely his own idea to leave the rat race and come home to enjoy the good life.

    And for the first few days?

    It was lovely.

    I would walk past him sleeping in his chair in the middle of the afternoon and smile.

    Look at him, finally resting.

    What a thoughtful wife I am.

    Then he woke up.

    After a few days of rest and observation, he apparently came to the conclusion that I had somehow lost the ability to perform basic household tasks without his expert insight into:

    • best practices
    • improved efficiency
    • and the optimal dishwasher loading strategy

    In fairness, he really was just trying to help.

    No one asked him to.

    But still.

    Turns out “retired together” is not the same retirement.

    This guidance was provided daily.

    Sometimes hourly.

    Occasionally continuously.

    Clearly, I needed to fix this.

    So, being the supportive wife that I am,

    I once again helped him arrive at a brilliant idea that was entirely his own.

    He needed a different version of semi-retirement.

    One where he could apply all those negotiation skills and efficiency strategies somewhere other than my kitchen.

    Once he came up with that idea on his own, he really ran with it.

    He did research.

    He made a proposal.

    He negotiated terms.

    And just like that, he created a position that allows him to work:

    from home
    in his pajamas
    on his own schedule

    What a genius.

    He does have to go to the work site one day a week.

    And I’m not saying I look forward to those days…

    …but I have noticed the coffee tastes better,

    the lake looks calmer,

    and retirement feels a lot more like mine again.

    If you’re still smiling, come back and stay awhile.

    Pull up a chair on the deck. We’ll raise a glass – or two.

    –Pattie

    The water’s sparkling, the dog has opinions… and this Third Act is just getting started.