Third Act With Pattie

Tag: travel

  • Thirty-Five Guests and Inappropriate Hinges

    Hubby’s oldest child, Senior S’kiddle to me,  is getting married next month.

    In our excitement, we offered our lake home as the location for the rehearsal dinner. A low country boil for 35 people.

    A “casual” outdoor affair.

    I am learning that “casual” is a word that leaves out a great deal of information.

    Like how many people with power tools will need to invade your house and your sanity before “casual” begins.

    When we made the offer, we had not even fully moved in. There were still boxes to unpack and plenty of improvements we had put on the back burner when this was just our weekend place.

    Apparently, the back burner has now been turned up to HIGH.

    First, we needed a shop.

    You might reasonably wonder what a shop has to do with a rehearsal dinner.

    In our case? Everything.

    The contents of the old shop were taking up space in the house and around the grounds.  

    All that stuff needed somewhere to live that wasn’t where our guests were going to eat. 

    Preferably somewhere that made this look like a lake home instead of a junkyard.

    The tree guys cleared the trees that were narrowing the driveway and taking up the space we needed for parking.

    The next crew put in drainage and a retaining wall so the future shop wouldn’t float away.

    The concrete guys broke up the cracked concrete and poured newer, better, bigger concrete for the shop and extra parking.

    Then… nothing

    A quiet week or two while the concrete cured.

    Have you ever waited for concrete to reach the proper degree of concreteness?

    There is not much to report.

    I looked at it.

    It looked pretty concrete to me.

    Apparently, it needed to be more concrete.

    I waited some more.

    When it was finally baked to perfection, the shop builders arrived.

    Then the electricians.

    Then the insulation guys.

    Then the air-conditioning guys.

    And finally, hubby and I could move all the stuff into the shop.

    Mostly hubby.

    I helped as much as I could.

    Well, as much as I was asked to.

    It seems that at four foot nothing, with T-rex arms, I am not the first choice for the heavy-lifting team.

    But the stuff was finally out of the way.

    We were making progress.

    Sassy, however, was having a terrible time.

    Every arrival brought another round of barking, crying, and hiding.

    Strangers in the driveway. Strangers around the house. Strangers making loud noises.

    And just when one group left, another arrived.

    As far as Sassy was concerned, we had developed a serious security problem, and Management kept letting it in.

    Of all of us, she has enjoyed this process the least.

    I’m fairly certain she is keeping a list of trespassers for the police report she intends to file.

    Management will be named as an accomplice. 

    Meanwhile, the inside of the house was getting attention, too.

    New wiring downstairs and an absolutely fabulous new mirror in the master bath brought more guys.

    Plumbing issues brought more guys.

    Even the shower doors required their own special guy.

    Between all of this, hubby was not so quietly replacing the kitchen cabinet doors because the hinges were on the outside.  And the knobs were turned the wrong way.

    I did not know that was such a faux pas.

    Apparently, we had been living with inappropriate hinges and sideways knobs.

    Thankfully, that situation has been addressed before company arrives.

    Once the shop was finished and filled, work began on the retaining wall around the house.

    But first, a tree stump had to come out and the rose bushes had to move.

    Then we discovered that the original garden area had been filled with plastic, metal, and assorted other things instead of proper fill dirt.

    That was a surprise.

    Not a good surprise, like finding money in a coat pocket.

    But not a dead body, either.

    Somewhere in between.

    So there was more digging, proper drainage, and actual dirt.

    No plants yet.

    We will get to that ourselves.

    There was also the beautiful stairway hubby built from the house to the dock. That deserves a post of its own, so I won’t give too much away here.

    But between those stairs and last year’s deck repairs, we had a lot of raw wood.

    Enter the painters.

    The boss of this crew is a woman – the first female craftsperson in our parade of arrivals.

    She and her assistant made all that raw wood look like it belonged in a magazine.

    Sassy still wants them prosecuted, but I would hire them again.

    Once everything was properly stained, we looked up and realized some tree limbs hanging over the deck needed to be cut.

    Of course we did.

    So those guys came.

    Sassy filed another complaint.

    Once she recovered from the sky falling down.

    Finally,  the original concrete guys returned to tackle the broken concrete on the lake side of the house.

    In just a few days, they replaced the crooked, cracked mess with a beautiful paver patio.

    The kind of patio where one would entertain guests.

    Casually.

    Those few days, however, felt like years.

    Jackhammers do not improve with prolonged exposure.

    Somewhere in all of this, I had cataract surgery.

    I am now two weeks out, and despite all my misgivings, it went very well.

    For the first few days, I could see nothing but light out of that eye.

    I don’t know what made me think I would come out with immediate 20/20 vision, but apparently I was planning a miracle.

    Still, in the grand scheme of our current life, the surgery has been a mere blip.

    Which is quite a statement, considering how much worrying I did beforehand.

    Next week, someone is coming to rescreen the screened-in porch.

    Then hubby and I can do the planting.

    And the power washing.

    And whatever else we discover needs doing before 35 people arrive for this casual event.

    Hubby has a two-page list.

    So if I haven’t been writing much, now you know why.

    Every time I think we’re finished, hubby checks his list.

    Apparently, we are not finished.

    We are happy that we get to be such a big part of  Senior S’kiddle‘s wedding.

    We look forward to having everyone here to celebrate the bride and groom and this new chapter in their lives.

    I admit that a wedding deadline has done wonders for the home-improvement schedule.

    By the time everyone arrives, the tools will be gone and the plants will be planted.

    Sassy will be away on campus, which is probably best for everyone’s criminal record.

    And if someone looks around and says, “What a lovely place for a casual little get-together,” I will smile.

    But I may need a margarita first.

    Who am I kidding? I already need a margarita.

    -Pattie

  • The View From Here

    The View From Here

    I recently spent a few days relaxing at the beach.

    And somewhere between the dunes and the ocean…

    I realized something.

    The beach isn’t what changed.

    I did.

    When I picture the perfect beach,

    I think of peaceful joy.

    The beautiful view.

    The sound of the waves.

    Sea birds gliding overhead.

    Cool water on my feet.

    Then reality showed up.

    If getting to the beach requires hiking through the dunes…

    it’s too far.

    If the walk back to the restroom requires prior planning…

    we’ve crossed the line from vacation to endurance event.

    If cars are driving up and down the beach…

    it’s too trafficky.

    If I have to carry my own refreshments…

    I will not be refreshed.

    If it’s raining…

    it’s too wet.

    If it’s sunny…

    it’s too hot.

    If everyone around me is laughing, splashing, and having the best day ever…

    it’s too loud.

    And if all of those things happen on the same beach…

    I’m going back to the hotel.

    And somewhere between the ocean…

    and the hotel…

    I realized something.

    I just love the version of the beach that comes with

    a big beach umbrella,

    comfortable lounge chairs,

    someone wandering by every so often asking,

    “Would you like another drink?”

    “Can I bring you lunch?”

    and absolutely no requirement that I earn the view.

    Apparently…

    my idea of the perfect beach changed

    right along with me.

    These days,

    ‘m less “beach person”…

    and more “beach resort person.”

    And honestly…

    I’m okay with that.

    After surviving cancer twice,

    I’m learning that choosing the comfrotable chair

    isn’t giving up.

    Sometimes…

    it’s simply self-care.

    And I have a feeling

    we could all use

    a little more of that.

    -Pattie

    P.S. Tell me about your perfect beach day. What does it absolutely have to include?

  • The Wisdom of Shade

    The Wisdom of Shade

    I used to be a hunter.

    And now I am a gatherer.

    At least as it applies to amusement parks.

    I think it’s because I’m getting older.

    I’d like to blame something else.

    But aging has no alibi.

    Plan a trip to X 

    to see Y

    and flawlessly execute the plan.

    I found the game,

    and then I took it down.

    Hunt complete.

    The young people amusementing themselves with us

    are still hunters.

    Each day they planned the big game of the day,

    And set out to capture the death-defying roller coaster of choice.

    The ROC. 

    Their logic was not to hunt in the picked-over concrete forest

    but to seek out the untouched land. 

    Getting to the game before the other hunters was urgent.

    And of course it was always the furthest away.

    Being reasonably responsible people,

    Hubby and I did not buy fast passes for six.

    And for the same reason,

    we stayed at a three bedroom four-and-a-half bath VRBO

    instead of one of the park hotels offering early entry.

    We learned a long time ago:

    no matter how many people you pack into a hotel room,

    there is only one bathroom per room.

    And one bathroom divided by six people

    equals misery for five at any given moment.

    So: no early entry, no fast pass.

    The hunters still wanted to beat the crowd.

    The death march began the very instant

    our feet hit the parking lot pavement.

    The mission was to walk as fast as we could

    on the pre-determined straightest path to the ROC.

    No sightseeing.

    No people watching.

    No dilly-dallying.

    Not even a bathroom stop,

    if the hunters had their way.

    But mine is a 69-year-old post-chemo bladder.

    It always gets its way. 

    None of them are under 5’8″.

    They are young and fit,

    with powerful slender legs

     and long, easy strides.

    They were hunting with passion.

    I was none of those things.

    So I raced along,

    double-stepping as fast as my little feet –

    including the injured big toe –

    would carry me.

    That first death march

    my watch clocked a mile and a half

    before we reached the hunting ground.

    And that was in the smaller park.

    I arrived exhausted,

    sweating profusely,

    and to be honest – pretty put off.

    (Southern for: not at all pleased.)

    The rest of the day was a remake of that first death march,

    ride after ride after ride.

    Hunters hunt.

    That’s what they do.

    Their hunting went on.

    My thrill did not.

    Without  their big game to direct my focus,

    I started looking around for what would entertain me.

    I realized what I wanted was to

    enjoy a cool breeze,

    watch the little kids’ shining faces

    getting their pictures made with in-character characters,

    sit and have a drink in the shade,

    admire the beautiful scenery, and

    smell the metaphorical roses.

    I had become a gatherer.

    I was torn, to be sure.

    I wanted the S’kiddles to have a great time.

    And while I knew a great time,

    in the hunter’s sense,

    wasn’t going to happen for me,

    I didn’t want the death marches to become the death of me.

    So instead of chasing their ROC,

    I let the pack go on ahead of me.

    With two men over 6’5″,

    they were pretty easy to use as landmarks.

    And I looked around as I walked.

    I saw things I’d had no idea were there.

    A bathroom, up the hill to the right.

    A water bottle refill station, just to the left.

    A Starbucks, tucked into a cute little alcove up ahead.

    None of it was their ROC.

    All of it was exactly what I needed.

    I used to search for the ROC

    looking neither left nor right,

    and hunt it down.

    Now I was noticing shade.

    Hunters hunt.

    Gatherers gather.

    And it turns out,

    somewhere around mile two of a death march,

    gathering looks a lot more like wisdom than giving up.

    -Pattie

  • Happy Father’s Day

    Happy Father’s Day

    A few weeks ago, somewhere around hour two of standing in the sun at Amusement Park Hades, watching grown children argue about whether the ride was worth the wait, I looked over and there was Hubby. Same sun. Same noise. Same bad knees. Not going anywhere.

    He’s a fixer of almost everything — not the car, but the leaky faucet, the tiled shower, the furniture he’s built for his girls with his own two hands. He’s remodeled most of this house himself. And when he annoys the heck out of us, which he does, it’s usually because he’s fixing something we didn’t ask him to fix, including our feelings. “I’m just trying to take care of you,” he says, like that explains everything.

    It does, actually.

    That’s what the good ones do. Daddys. Grandpas. Husbands. Brothers. Uncles. Friends. Each one fixing something, carrying something, showing up in his own particular way. None of them perfect. All of them trying, because they love us.

    So on this Father’s Day: thank you. For fixing things. For taking care of us, whether we asked or not.

    You knew better too.

    -Pattie

  • I Miss That Woman

    I Miss That Woman

    One of the great lies of modern technology is that we can no longer get lost.

    We have GPS.

    We have smartphones.

    We have interactive maps.

    We have little blue dots that tell us exactly where we are.

    And yet, over the course of five days at Universal Studios, I was lost so often that I began to suspect my little blue dot was just making things up.

    The problem, as it turns out, is that theme parks apparently believe maps should be viewed on screens approximately the size of a saltine cracker.

    I used to be the person who got us where we needed to go.

    Although directionally challenged, I could read maps. Paper maps. Solid maps where the top was the top and the bottom was the bottom. Maps that did not suddenly rotate because I shifted my weight or turned my body fifteen degrees to the left.

    Maps where you could look at the route and say, “I need to turn right here.”

    Or, “I better turn left there.”

    Not arrows that changed direction on the whim of the gods.

    As a single mom, I took my two children on adventures all over the place.

    I studied maps before we left home.

    I highlighted routes.

    I planned for confusing intersections.

    I took them to amusement parks, water parks, state parks, and places we had never seen before.

    We didn’t get lost.

    And perhaps more importantly, we didn’t ask for directions.

    I miss that woman.

    The woman with the highlighted map.

    The woman who trusted herself.

    The woman who could look at a route and know where she was going.

    Now?

    Now I am standing in a theme park holding a saltine cracker with a battery.

    Trying to determine whether the tiny arrow is pointing where I need to go or whether it has once again decided that True North is the most important information in my life.

    As if I routinely navigate by the stars.

    As if Lewis and Clark are waiting on me.

    As if anybody other than Eagle Scouts knows where True North is at any given moment.

    And because life enjoys piling on, I can’t see worth a damn out of the eye that needs cataract surgery.

    A weakness for another day.

    If I enlarge the map, I lose where I’m going.

    If I shrink the map, I lose where I am.

    And somewhere between those two settings lies the exact point where I begin questioning all my life choices.

    One afternoon of our Universal adventure, I was happily settled in Celestial Park.

    Soft music.

    Shade.

    Air conditioning.

    Comfortable seating with actual backs.

    Civilized beverages served in actual glass glasses.

    In other words, paradise.

    Then came the text.

    “Come meet us at Mead Hall.”

    Simple enough.

    Except Mead Hall was in the Isle of Berk.

    But I was not.

    And the app, despite being connected to celestial satellites orbiting the earth, seemed unwilling to share that information in a useful manner.

    I zoomed.

    I swiped.

    I rotated.

    I squinted.

    I tried again.

    At one point I was no longer certain whether the map was lost or I was.

    Finally, I found an information booth.

    And there, like a gift from heaven itself, was a paper map.

    A solid map.

    A trustworthy map.

    A map that stayed still.

    Within seconds, I had figured out exactly where I needed to go.

    But then something happened that bothered me more than being lost.

    I asked anyway.

    Not because I didn’t know.

    Because I wasn’t sure I trusted myself.

    When did that happen? 

    The employee confirmed what I already thought.

    I was right.

    Confirmation that I had become the unconfident woman.

    Eventually I found the portal to Berk.

    I could see the giant tower thing ahead of me.

    The roads split left and right.

    The app was no help.

    The signs were questionable.

    My confidence was fading.

    I chose a direction.

    Then another.

    Then another.

    At one point I found myself sitting on a rock trying very hard not to cry over a theme park map.

    Which is not a sentence I ever expected to write.

    About then, Hubby texted.

    “Where are you?”

    Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting on a rock, would I?

    I didn’t send that response.

    I told him I was sitting under a sign that said:

    LOST ELDER. HAVE PITY.

    A few minutes later I finally asked another stranger for help.

    Again.

    And eventually I made it.

    Exhausted.

    Frustrated.

    Relieved.

    And more emotional than the situation probably warranted.

    Because the truth is, this wasn’t really about finding Mead Hall.

    It wasn’t even about the map.

    It was about confidence.

    I used to be the person who found the way.

    The map reader.

    The route planner.

    The woman with the highlighted atlas riding shotgun.

    Now I’m the person who asks strangers for directions.

    And I hate that.

    Or maybe I hate what I think it says about me.

    Because the truth is, I did find my way.

    I found the information booth.

    I found the paper map.

    I found the right bridge eventually.

    I even found Hubby.

    Maybe the problem isn’t that I can no longer find my way.

    Maybe the problem is that I’ve spent so much of my life believing strength meant never needing help that every request for directions feels like failure.

    And maybe, four months shy of seventy, after a year that included cancer, chemo, cataracts, and a Universal Studios app apparently designed by squirrels, that’s a lesson worth learning.

    Even if I’d still rather have a paper map.

    One story down. Several margaritas to go.

    -Pattie

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