Third Act With Pattie

Tag: fiction

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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