About Patty
I am Patty to most and Pippa to a growing gaggle of grandchildren. There’s an Esq. at the tail of my name, though I’ve retired to pour myself full time into writing, music and art. This way, if there is an urn for my cremated remains, the inscription can say Time Well Spent.
I have three children. One produces songs I write until they are actually good. One writes better than anyone I know and tolerates a confidante role for my rantings. The youngest aint no baby now—she’s got her own baby boy and replaces knees on people like me who did a lot of Jane Fonda workouts in the ‘80s. There is a guy here in Maine who shares all these fabulous younger people with me—Ron to most, Buppa to the gaggle.
Like my crazy, beautiful Mom who is now a butterfly (she always liked to flit about), I am a perennial activist with fists up for the little guy. I march, write letters to editors, yell, and write protest songs. Now, no longer distracted by all the day jobs, I write in the attic of a cozy old home by the sea. What am I writing, you ask? I write Human Shields. Why, you ask? To extol unsung heroes and excoriate self-sung totalitarian thugs. Since it is a big, immersive, research laden opus of nonfiction, I take breaks to write other things, especially the sorts of things that generate discussion among people of good intent and great passion. More on this as my podcast emerges, which I hope becomes not so much “my” as “please come in and chat”.
There is a thing called cystic fibrosis that affects someone I love and gets my fists up often. It’s a mean disease that wants to wreck lungs. It’s an overturned hourglass with a witch screeching this is how much time you have, My Pretty. With the help of a ton of people, we’ve sort of shut that witch’s maw. The “ton of people” part is the point here. A recurring theme in Human Shields and much of my writing (and songs!) is that there are sine qua non heroes among us—people who are links in a chain to heroic success (think fire brigade bucket passer). In the part of my world that is cystic fibrosis, I see you, dear bucket passers. You are family, friends, people with CF, compassionate strangers who carve out precious time to help, then go home to your own struggles without a thought as to who will get credit for the final medical breakthrough. Each and every one of you is sine qua non to a larger, heroic tale.
The last thing I will share about me is that I am a gregarious introvert. Writing suits gregarious me—I consort, consult, share, gab, beg for information, grab coffee with, walk and talk with, social media with, and otherwise mingle amongst all sorts of cool people—readers, writers, musicians, neighbors, people who hurt, people who heal, people who help. Then, I get to attend to introvert me—I go back to my attic looking out at coastal Maine and looking in to collect my thoughts. Then, I look down at my notebook to jot about whatever I’ve been privileged to learn.