Patty Cakes

It’s no wonder I’ve always had at least one friend sharing my name—Patricia was the third most popular female name the year I was born. It means noble, as does Pat, Patty, Patti, Patsy, Tricia, and Trish. It became necessary over the years to identify my friends by other than patrician appellations.

First there was Kindergarten Patty. We got in trouble for giggling during nap time. Imagine that. We went on to discover Barbie, the Beatles, and boys. But she moved away and faded into the Patty Archives. As did Patty Hojo, who lived down the street, and High School Patty, who shared nearly every class with me.

“Hi, Patti, I’m Patty,” bubbled a freckled and bespeckled strawberry blonde on the first day of college. A decade later she and her young family moved to Colorado, so she is, of course, Colorado Patty.

Not to be confused with Alaska Patty, who really did live in Alaska even though we made our acquaintancein New Orleans. She and Colorado Patty have much in common, yet they’ve never met. Emotionally strong and physically resourceful, they have survived bears, mountain lions, and nasty husbands. Each divorced her first mate and went on to quash predictions that she would wither without him. Each is a skilled seamstress, wears glasses, and has reddish hair—though Alaska Patty now colors hers in rainbow shades. They both love henna, and they both love me. To them I am La Pat, as in Louisiana.

In New Orleans there were several others. Trish and I worked with disabled athletes. Pohnpei Pat left New Orleans to live in the South Pacific, from which she brought me peppercorns. Super Bowl Patty and I created outfits to wear to a Super Bowl, of course. We pranced around the French Quarter the night before the game to collect autographs.

“Are you a football player,” Patty would cajole to a well-proportioned athlete as she handed him a felt marker, “Or just built like one?” We got a lot of signatures with that line.

A friend once introduced himself as “Pat” because, he joked, the name was requisite to inclusion in my circle. In feigned shock he asked my friend Mary. “What? Your name’s not Pat?”

“I’m Mary Pat,” she grinned in response. So to her, I’m Pat Mary.

And to Patrice, the youngest sister of a lifelong friend, I’m “Me Walsh.” That’s what she called me when, at two years old, she made the association between her nickname, Patty, and me.

A couple of Patricias are noteworthy. I shopped with one at the Junior League in New Orleans, and the other at Lee Andersen’s factory outlet in Maryland. That Patricia and I share the same birthday, but that’s another story.

Of course, there have been several male Pats (one of whom has a daughter Patty), a few Patricks, and one Paddy.

Then there are the Pat Walshes.

Walsh is a common Irish surname, exported to Ireland from Wales by the British during and after the 12th century Norman invasion. It is the fourth most common surname in Ireland, and the 265th most common in the United States. The Walsh crest features a red chevron, three arrow heads, a swan that has been pricked by an arrow, and an inscription that translates to wounded but not dead. Ah, we endure.

I once lived in a house where a Pat Walsh lived upstairs. She had an exciting life. In those days, we depended on telephone books and directory assistance to find people. I was listed and she wasn’t.

“Pat,” one male caller confided, “I had a great time last night.”

I reluctantly explained that since I hadn’t, he had the right name but the wrong babe. Another called to ask if I was all ready for a trip in the morning. When I asked where are were going, he was confused.

“To Newport.”

As much as I love that seaside city of mansions and rose-bushed trails, I had to pass.

I never met Pat Walsh, the actor, Irish historian, human rights activist, professional poker player, thermodynamics scientist, or author of The Crowfield Curse. That, by the way, is a middle-grade medieval fantasy that I happened upon in a library. I had to read it just to see my name in print. It was a highly entertaining frolic, unlike How to Castrate a Bull by Dave Hit and co-authored by—you guessed it—Pat Walsh. Or the adventures of Pat Walsh, the protagonist in a thriller series by James Lawrence.

But I did get a bit part in a mystery surrounding a cochon de lait (i.e., pig roast) at Fontainebleau State Park in Louisiana. When I received an invitation to it, I called the unknown host to explain the error. He cheerfully noted that since I had received the invitation, I was therefore invited. I went with a friend and had a ball—but no pig.

Another Pat Walsh was a consultant who showed up at my office in Virginia. We ran into each other in a restaurant a few years later, where first there was the eye contact, then recognition, then simultaneous fingers pointing, gun-style to proclaim in unison, “Pat Walsh!”

Of course, throughout the country, there are those with my name who are pursued by bill collectors and spurned lovers. I won’t divulge those details, but oh, if I could!

I would so love to have a Patty Party and serve Patty Cakes.