Family Ties

Does anyone really have a clue what we’re doing? Like REALLY? Honestly?

Okay… if you answered yes… WHY is that what we’re SUPPOSED to be doing?

Who decided life has to fit into one tiny little mold? What works for one person doesn’t always work for another. We all think differently. We all have different hopes, dreams, fears, goals, and reasons for getting out of bed in the morning. We laugh at different things. We love different people.

And honestly… I think that’s what makes this world so damn amazing.

DIVERSITY is what makes life interesting.

One of my favorite things in the world is talking to people and hearing their stories. Even people I’ve known my entire life will suddenly tell me something I’ve never heard before, and I learn something completely new about an old friend.

Life is weird like that.

My dad lost another one of his older sisters this last week. It’s hard watching my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents slowly leave us. This whole getting old thing… it makes it REAL.

I remember being a little girl watching my dad lose his parents.

I was only two years old when my Grandma Patton passed away, so my memories are few and fuzzy. But the ones I have… they’re warm.

That’s the best word I have for her.

Warm.

Full of love.

She gave the BEST hugs.

I can still *almost* hear her voice. It’s faded over the years, but I swear sometimes I still hear her saying,

*”Heather, come here and sit with me. We can have a snack together.”*

I’d climb up on her lap, and we’d eat giant marshmallows together.

I was OBSESSED with her cookie jar collection.

Now Grandpa Patton…

I remember EVERYTHING.

That man was ornery. Full of fire. Goofy one minute and serious the next.

My very first butt spanking came from Grandpa… with a fly swatter.

AND IT WASN’T EVEN MY FAULT, PEEPS.

It was my cousin Rich’s fault!

Rich told Grandpa “No.”

He wasn’t done playing Nintendo.

Let’s just say… being trapped between the closet door, the desk, my cousin, Grandpa, and that damn fly swatter…

I learned Rich’s lesson for him.

You didn’t tell Grandpa no.

You didn’t tell Grandpa SHIT.

You did what Grandpa said… POST HASTE.

Now I’d like to think I inherited my love of scaring people from him.

That old fart used to hide inside the linen closet.

He’d crack the door open just enough so when someone walked by and pushed it shut, it’d slowly creep back open.

The closet did that all the time… so you NEVER knew if Grandpa was actually in there.

If you ignored it…

BAM!

He’d explode out of that closet and scare the absolute life out of you.

Or—and somehow this was even worse—that GROWN MAN would turn off the bathroom lights, hide inside the shower, and WAIT for someone to come in to pee.

HE WAS A MENACE.

I’d give just about anything for one more one of those long Grandpa hugs…

One more kiss on the top of my head…

Or to hear him sitting outside whittling a piece of wood while whistling some tune only he knew.

Ahhh…

Memories.

My grandparents had ELEVEN children.

ELEVEN.

Can you imagine raising eleven kids in the 1950s and 60s on a farmer’s budget?

Now imagine trying to do that today.

Saints.

Absolute saints.

My three keep me on my toes. I cannot even begin to imagine eleven.

My dad was the baby.

The youngest.

Spoiled rotten.

A pain in the butt…

And he knows it.

The other day, I sat in the back of the funeral home because I wasn’t feeling well and wanted an easy escape if I needed one.

From where I was sitting, I watched my family from behind.

I found myself remembering every funeral we’d gathered for before this one.

That funeral home used to be PACKED.

Standing room only.

Now…

We barely filled one side of the room.

I don’t know if it’s because we’ve simply lost so many people… or because the people who used to hold this family together are gone now, and life has carried everyone in different directions.

As I sat there, I was scrolling through old family pictures with my kids, telling them who everyone was.

“This is your great aunt…”

“That’s your great grandpa…”

“Oh my gosh… look how young everyone was.”

And that’s when it hit me.

Grandpa and Grandma have to be so unbelievably proud.

Wherever they are…

They have to be looking down at this giant family they started and smiling.

They planted something so much bigger than themselves.

They built a family rooted in love, hard work, laughter, stubbornness, forgiveness, and showing up when it mattered.

That kind of legacy can’t be measured in money.

It’s measured in generations.

In stories.

In memories.

In people.

Sure, we don’t all gather like we used to.

Life gets busy.

People move.

Time keeps marching forward whether we’re ready or not.

But no matter how much time passes…

No matter how many last names change…

No matter how far apart we all end up living…

We’re still family.

Whether we like it or not…

We’ve all got that Patton blood running through our veins.

And I couldn’t be prouder to say that Charles and Helen Patton were my grandparents.

They did one hell of a job.

Not because they raised Ten living children.

Not because life was easy.

But because they built a family whose love has outlived them.

That’s a legacy worth remembering.