Third Act With Pattie

Category: Wandering Thoughts

  • Happy Mother’s Day

    Happy Mother’s Day

    Yesterday my cousin and I were talking about our mothers.

    Which is something we’ve done, in one form or another, our entire lives.

    Our dads were brothers.
    Our moms were the daughters-in-law who became great friends.

    Her mother was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She pierced my ears the old-fashioned way — behind my father’s back — which honestly only added to her glamour. I wanted to be just like her.

    My mother was five feet tall, fearless, and completely uninterested in suffering fools politely. She did not believe in saying the “proper” thing if the truthful thing was available. My cousin wanted to be like her.

    Then life did what life sometimes does.

    My aunt died when we were teenagers, and for a while my mother tried to help fill that impossible space. But grief is heavy. Life is messy. And nobody really knows how to carry all of it perfectly.

    My cousin eventually went to live with our aunt — our dads’ sister. The aunt who ruled the brothers, cooked enough food for an army, and somehow made everybody feel welcome exactly as they were. Her house was the original “come as you are” zone… with a side of unsolicited honesty.

    We both wanted to be like her too.

    Yesterday’s conversation covered all of it: admiration, conflict, exasperation, laughter, misunderstandings, and finally the thing you usually only learn when you’re older yourself…

    None of them were perfect.
    But every one of them loved us the best way they knew how.

    And honestly? That turns out to matter more than getting everything right.

    So today, on Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about all the women who step into the gaps life creates — mothers, aunts, grandmothers, sisters, cousins, friends, and all the women who somehow become family even when they didn’t start that way.

    We are who we are because you showed up.

    Even when you were tired.
    Even when you were winging it.
    Even when we didn’t appreciate it until years later.

    Happy Mother’s Day to the women who loved us through it anyway.

  • 🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    I would first like the record to reflect that the parents left me behind.

    Again.

    Discarded while they wandered off on what I assume was a completely unnecessary vacation involving restaurants that don’t allow dogs and beds that probably weren’t even properly covered in fur.

    I think it’s important to report the facts.

    The parents insist on calling the place they leave me “the farm.”

    First of all…

    it is NOT a farm.

    The way the parents say it, you’d think we were out there being free-range harvested.

    Frankly, their branding is terrible.

    This place is so much better than a farm.

    We call it:
    being on campus.

    Because this place was very clearly designed specifically for dogs.

    Finally.

    Someone with vision.

    We have our own house.

    Not a kennel.
    Not a shed.
    Not one of those sad little concrete situations where everyone slowly loses the will to live.

    There are fields and meadows, and woodsy areas, and…

    A HOUSE.

    A big house.
    Like two-legged people houses.

    Except cleaner and emotionally better regulated.

    There are leather couches.
    A fireplace.
    A kitchen.

    Of course, we have staff to prepare the meals because none of us have thumbs…               and frankly that feels like a design flaw we should address as a species.

    There are also outdoor recreation areas, structured activities, enrichment programs, leadership development, and ongoing educational opportunities.

    Mama calls it “training.”

    That is adorable.

    This is higher education.

    I arrived fully prepared to carry the burden of abandonment with dignity, restraint, and just enough sadness to make everyone uncomfortable.

    Emotional discipline is important.

    Instead…

    The Boxer was there.

    Tiny White Floof had already positioned herself on the couch like a tiny retired queen judging the entire campus.

    Mr. Golden Retriever Class President was once again running around greeting everyone like an unpaid cruise director fueled entirely by optimism.

    Then there was the doodle.

    There is always a doodle.

    This one looked like he had consumed three energy drinks and half a motivational podcast before breakfast.

    Honestly, things escalated quickly.

    There was running.
    There was training.
    There were organized social activities.

    At one point, I became so involved in campus life that I briefly forgot I had parents.

    In my defense, there was a lot going on.

    The faculty did not help matters.

    Apparently I was “a very good girl.”

    Repeatedly.

    Frankly, I found the entire thing manipulative.

    Effective.
    But manipulative.

    Time moves differently on campus.  

    One minute you’re being abandoned by your family.

    The next minute you’re supervising outdoor activities and helping maintain doodle stability.

    Then suddenly it was time to go home.

    Apparently, Mama expected some sort of emotional reunion scene when she returned.

    Probably tears.

    Possibly dramatic whining.

    Maybe me launching myself into her arms while soft music played in the background.

    Honestly, she may have built the whole thing up in her head.

    Instead, I was outside managing a rapidly escalating doodle situation.

    Frankly, the campus was one poorly timed squirrel away from complete disorder.

    It was not an appropriate moment for emotional reunions.

    Plus, I have my pride.

    Now to be clear…

    I DID miss them.

    Usually during brief quiet moments between activities.

    Or when nobody was actively throwing something.

    But overall, I adjusted extremely well to campus life.

    Mama always tells people:
    “Sassy LOVES going to the farm!”

    This is an outrageous oversimplification.

    What I love is:
    structure,
    leadership opportunities,
    my friends,
    and whatever magical system they have in place that results in twenty dogs behaving better than one Daddy trying to grill hamburgers.

    Also naps in the sun.

    I love those too.

    By the time they got me home, I was exhausted in the deeply satisfying way one becomes exhausted after a successful semester away.

    I slept the entire evening.

    At one point Mama checked to make sure I was still breathing..

    which honestly felt over-dramatic.

    Then the next morning, Mama casually used the word “campus” in conversation, and I would like it officially noted that I was standing at the front door with one toy, two emotional support tennis balls, and complete emotional readiness before she finished the sentence.

    Purely precautionary.

    Leadership is a responsibility, not a hobby

    — Sassy 🐾

    Off the record…

    Hey girl…

    I know your parents left you while they went somewhere with my parents.

    I wish you’d been at my campus this weekend. We could’ve used another very good girl.

    Did your weekend get this wild too?

  • 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

  • Not Today Gravity

    Not Today Gravity

    Hubby and I are on a weekend trip with friends.

    Yes, I know.

    We are in the middle of managing two houses, packing one, moving into another, and generally living in a state best described as “controlled chaos.”

    So naturally…
    we ran away for the weekend to make life easier.

    Solid plan. No notes.

    It’s day one, and I’ve already gathered material.

    Because if there is one thing I bring to any trip—besides snacks and mild sarcasm—it’s my lifelong commitment to falling.

    Not metaphorically.

    Physically.
    Spectacularly.
    With range.

    I am what you might call… an expert faller.

    Trip-over-air, fall-on-my-face, recover-like-nothing-happened kind of faller.

    I have fallen a lot. In some truly bizarre ways.
    And somehow? The worst of it has been scratches, bruises… and my pride.

    Olympic-level.

    Gold medal. No question.

    Now, let’s talk about the equipment I’m working with.

    I am under five feet tall.
    A grandiose height that I reached… in seventh grade.

    Short arms.
    Tiny hands.
    Little bitty feet.

    Song in your head? Welcome to my daily life.

    And then Mother Nature said, “You know what would really tie this together?”

    And added… hips, thighs, and a center of gravity that… gets involved.

    So essentially…

    I am built like a Tyrannosaurus rex – better hair, worse balance.

    So the falling?

    Not a phase.
    A lifestyle.

    My first truly memorable public humiliation was at sixteen.

    I was attempting—keyword attempting—to walk into a golf pro shop.

    My tiny foot caught the door ledge. Maybe. And I launched myself headfirst into the building like I’d been fired out of a cannon.

    As I scrambled up, praying no one noticed, an older “gentleman” announced:

    “Some people. You can dress ’em up, but you just can’t carry ’em anywhere.”

    I did what any strong, confident teenage girl would do.

    I went and sat in the car while everyone else played golf…and sat there red-faced sucking back tears.

    Injury report:
    One bruised ego. No physical damage.

    Future me: gravity gets the fall. Not the tears.

    Then there was the pregnancy fall.

    Very pregnant.
    Waddling laps in the mall like that baby and I were in negotiations.

    No slippery floor.
    No misstep.
    No warning.

    Just… boom.

    Flat on my backside.

    A crowd gathered immediately, because nothing draws attention like a pregnant woman hitting the ground in public.

    And without missing a beat, I told them:

    “The baby kicked really hard and startled me.”

    That child stayed put for three more weeks.

    Coincidence?
    I think not.

    And so it went.

    Decades of falls.

    Fast. Slow. Heels. Flats. Paying attention. Not paying attention.

    Didn’t matter.

    Gravity and I have a relationship.

    At some point, I stopped fighting it.

    I started leaning into the fall—literally.

    Roll with it. Break it. Pop back up.

    Smile like I meant to do that.

    By the time I met Hubby, I was already competing at an elite level.

    Now that I’m older, people like to blame my age.

    Or the chemo.

    Or “just being careful.”

    Do I correct them and explain that I am structurally designed like a top-heavy dinosaur with trust issues?

    No.

    I let people believe what makes them comfortable. I’m considerate like that.

    My last official fall was two months ago.

    Senior Walk at prom.

    Sidewalk.
    Crowd of parents.
    Maximum audience.

    One minute I’m walking…
    the next minute I’m not.

    Down.

    Concrete.

    Hands and knees took the hit.

    No injuries.

    Absolute perfection.

    Gold medal performance.

    And then…

    today happened.

    We were walking down a crowded sidewalk in a new town.

    Cute shops.
    People everywhere.
    Hanging baskets of flowers that looked like they had their own Instagram manager.

    I was being careful. Focused. Aware.

    I saw it.

    A bright red fire hydrant. Directly in my path.

    At the exact same moment… I saw the flowers hanging above.

    So I told myself:
    “Stop. Look at the flowers.”

    And my brain said:
    “Great idea.”

    And my feet said:
    “We’re gonna keep going.”

    I walked directly into the fire hydrant.

    Full commitment. No hesitation.

    Sharp hit to the thighs. Momentum forward.

    And then…

    something miraculous happened.

    I teetered. I rocked.

    Time slowed.

    I could feel the fall coming— the familiar, inevitable descent into another gold medal moment.

    And then…

    I DID NOT FALL.

    At least 1,999 absolutely committed falls flashed before my eyes – like a highlight reel… career highlights.

    And somehow…

    I stuck the landing. Nailed it.

    For the first time in sixty-nine years…

    I almost fell—

    and didn’t.

    Now, I could tell you this is about balance.

    Or growth. Or awareness. Or aging gracefully.

    But let’s not get carried away.

    I’m choosing to believe it’s the shoes.

    Barefoot shoes.

    Not wisdom.
    Not evolution.
    Not inner peace.

    Footwear.

    So here’s what I know:

    I have spent a lifetime falling.

    Getting up.
    Laughing it off.
    Pretending I meant to do that.

    But today?

    I didn’t fall.

    Which means one of two things:

    Either I have finally evolved…

    or this is just the setup
    for the most spectacular, career-ending, gold-medal, slow-motion fall
    of my entire life.

    Honestly?

    Based on my track record…

    I’d stay tuned.

    -Pattie

    P.S.

    As I was writing this, Hubby – very lovingly, of course -asked if I included:

    The fall in Nashville.
    The fall in Key West.
    The fall in the airport.
    The fall in—well, everywhere.

    I told him I’m writing a blog.

    Not War and Peace.

    Subscribe so you’ll know when it’s a fall… and when it’s not. Apparently, that matters now.