I’ve only admitted to good friends, for example, that I go to sleep every night with a football between my arms. Even then, I backpedal by justifying myself—describing the football, how it’s a plush pillow, yet true football size, how it’s not that I’m a closeted football fan. I’ve never been to a pro football game, although I’ve watched some occasionally on TV.  

The dull details are that when I sleep on my side, my football is perfect, snugly support for shoulder and ribs, particularly when they’re achy. 

 As I ponder other twists in my personality, my brain lets loose a flood of unconventional eccentricities woven into the fabric of who I am.  

Lately, I’ve revived my enthusiasm for Calpis, a soft drink I first tasted in Iwakuni, Japan, in the late ’70s. I recently read that a Japanese woman named Tomiko Itooka, the world’s oldest living person until she died at 116 last December, is reported to have loved Calpis. (This was in her obituary, not an ad.) 

In North America, it’s called Calpico, so it won’t be confused with piss. I rather liked the Calpis name, but what can you do? It reminds me of Japan and brings a smile. Calpico/Calpis is made by culturing skim milk with lactic acid bacteria and quite a bit of sugar. No carbonation. I buy it at Daiso stores up and down the West Coast. 

Another quirk—the chicken in my purse. The ho-hum specifics? She’s only three inches tall, an inch in girth (including wings), made of rubber, so no bird flu risk. She’s a goof-luck charm. I popped her out of my purse to sit on my desk while I write this daring exposé. 

My chicken is a peculiar breed, hatched by a Seattle novelty store. In 2018, Archie McPhee’s became home to the world-famous Rubber Chicken Museum, testimony to the history of rubber fowl. 

Rubber chickens aren’t alive, however, and maybe because mine occupies the bottom of my purse, I’ve neglected to give her a name. 

Oscar, on the other hand, is full of life. At least he was the last time I visited him, albeit his lifespan is only a few years. I kick myself for not getting to see him more often at the medical imaging facility he calls home. I discovered that, without an appointment, I’m not the only person who shows up expressly to visit Oscar the fish.  

The first time Oscar and I met, he swam across his fish tank to greet me. As I tipped my head, he tipped his, too. His big, soulful, dark eyes reminded me of an old boyfriend, but I digress.  

When I gently scratched the outside of his large tank, Oscar pressed his whole belly up against the glass as though he could feel my touch! All the while, pretty little fish flitted about the tank like a colorful ersatz backdrop, but steered clear of the connection between Oscar and me.  

It’s worth getting close and personal with fish tanks in waiting rooms. A receptionist told me Oscar is a pufferfish, but rarely puffs up. Maybe one day I might see that, but I’m content that I can flirt with a fish.  

I admit to other odd habits. My sock drawer, for example, is sometimes so full, I have trouble closing it. This harks back to a time in the early 1980s when I first moved West and couldn’t find a job. About all I could afford as a pick-me-up was a pair of socks. 

I was walking along a street one day when a fellow on the top level of a tall parking garage hung over the edge and shouted down to me. 

  “Nice socks!” he exclaimed. I looked up and smiled.  

Since then, socks continue to lift my spirits. Here’s a tip: When you want a closer look at someone’s true self, forget underwear. Check out his or her sock drawer. 

I can laugh at my many unconventional ways, good habits, bad ones, and how some might change as I age. I’m aware of all the joys and absurdities vital to who I am. That’s what I call my authentic self.    

Annie Culver developed a knack for unearthing oddball characters and improbable events as a staff writer for various newspapers. In the early 90s, she went to work for websites where she wrote sassy essays aimed at women. In recent years, she morphed into a writer for several universities in the Northwest. She retired in 2016, yet still enjoys freelancing. 

How to Be Authentic: Simone de Beauvoir and the Quest for Fulfillment

The post Rubber Chickens and Other Quirks That Make Me, Me appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

“Grandparenting isn’t a parent redo—that ship has sailed,” Coffield says. “You already had your shot to parent, but grandparenting is an entirely new gig.” 

The founder of The Culinary CureTM, Coffield, 66, has been in the women’s culinary wellness space for two decades. A chef since her college days, Coffield had a catering company for many years. She switched her focus to food as medicine when her mom’s cancer came back in 2009. Coffield also developed healthy subscription meal plans for high-performing athletes and executives—this was way before Blue Apron. Most recently, she coached women going through midlife changes to energize their lives.  

About a year ago, when she became a grandparent for the second time, Coffield shared a video on Instagram that catapulted her in a new direction.  

“I posted a video of me picking up a baby, holding a baby, sitting down on the floor, and standing up without using my hands,” Coffield says. “I talked about the importance of being fit for grandparenting, and the Instagram reel went viral.” 

It now has 1.2 million views, one of six or seven of hers in the millions of views category. 

“It struck a chord with women who hadn’t been motivated to get fit and be healthy,” she said. “Women tend to put everybody else first, but when you put self-care in the context of being a better grandparent, it’s a different story.” 

According to Coffield, active grandparents are more capable—they have more mobility, stability, flexibility, and strength—and are more in-demand as you become a helpful contributor to your children and their families. Being fit—physically, emotionally, and psychologically—will not only help you to grandparent better but also it will help you age better.  

It’s a game changer for grandparents and Coffield’s career.  

“Parents are overwhelmed and stressed out,” she explains. “When we can show up as a helpful support system, it changes our relationship with our kids and in turn gives us more access to the grandchildren.” 

“Your kids don’t want your advice—they can get all the parenting advice they need in two seconds on the internet—they want your help,” she continues. “This is a new job with a new job description and a new boss.”  

Coffield created the Active Grandparenting 101 training program, an online course with videos, worksheets, and resources on wellness, exercise, communication, tech, and family activities and recipes. She is, after all, still a chef. She also put together an Active Grandparenting Cookbook, and, twice a year, runs a virtual 21-day active grandparenting wellness reset. Hydration is a huge part of her platform. 

“Hydration affects your sleep, your mood, and your energy,” she explains. “If you can’t get hydrated, you’re going to have a hard time because you won’t have the muscle pliability that it takes to get up and down off the floor 50 times a day.” 

On Grandfluencing 

A year ago, Coffield’s email got a ton of new subscribers. Her Instagram, which went from 20,000 to 215,000 engaged followers, also blew up. Her audience likes that she is a real person, who understands their struggles and challenges.  

“There’s a big learning curve for embracing modern grandparenting, but grandparents—especially grandmothers—want this information,” she explains. “What’s really interesting is for this demographic on Instagram, a lot of these accounts are private. Most of these women are on Instagram for information.” 

Since the kids of GenXers and Baby Boomers are getting married later and having kids later, her followers are becoming grandparents later.  

“Since they’re older when becoming grandparents for the first time, people are highly motivated to get healthy and get in shape,” she says. “That way, they have more years to spend with this new, delightful human that’s just come into their lives.” 

For third act-ers who’ve got something to say and want to develop an Instagram following, Coffield suggests starting with a good mindset. Social media can make you feel bad, when you compare yourself—and your follower count—with other people. 

“I was on Instagram for a solid decade, working really hard to reach my audience, so I could share incredible value,” Coffield recalls. “I bet I had 3,500 posts on my Instagram, not including my live videos and my stories, so I’m no overnight success. I worked hard for a long time before ever getting noticed.” 

If you decide to go on social media, Coffield believes it’s vital to really know who you’re talking to—you can’t talk to everyone—and to understand who will resonate with your message, if you can. 

“Before Active Grandparenting, I was using Instagram to talk about how women could use fasting as a tool to live younger, longer, and better,” she recalls. “I had a whole angle with reverse fasting because I don’t think anybody should go through the whole day without eating. I got a little traction with that and then a lot of traction with the grandparenting angle.” 

Coffield is a perfect example of niching down. 

“When I went from targeting women over 50 to active grandparents, suddenly I was resonating with my demographics,” she says. “Suddenly all those people who I worked so hard to create messaging for could hear me because now I was speaking their language.”  

Coffield’s friend, a meditation specialist, had a message too broad for her to get any traction. Once she niched down and focused on how to use meditation to combat the stress of artificial intelligence, she noticed a vast improvement. 

“You can’t speak to the masses, you have to speak to your narrow margin of people,” Coffield says. “When you do that, it’s easier for them to find you.” 

Then, of course, you need to put yourself out there. For most people, that’s the biggest stumbling block. 

“Whether it’s becoming a social media influencer or losing five pounds, the first step is to decide to do it,” Coffield says. “Then, you tell everybody, so you can’t back out … and you figure it out.” 

When Coffield first went on Instagram, her children were horrified. “They’re like, ‘Mom, you can’t say that, you can’t do that on Instagram,’” she recalls. “And I’m like, ‘Well, why not?’ I just did it and learned along the way.” 

Part of being a social media influencer, at any age, is becoming a brand. Coffield says to take a good photo—even a selfie—and make sure it’s distinctive.  

“Pick some colors you like that pop on your little avatar and create a good bio,” she says. “People who want to follow you need to know why and what you are offering.” 

For instance, Coffield’s Instagram is @KristenCoffield, and you can tell from her bio what she does and who she serves. She offers a free hydration training, so people can take action right away. And her posts and videos offer value on her expertise. 

“The biggest mistake that people make on social media is not educating their followers or people who just find them on who they are,” she says.  

“People are on Instagram either to be entertained or to gain knowledge, so decide what it is you’re doing and do it,” Coffield continues. “Don’t be shy about letting people know how you can help them and don’t be shy about self-promotion—that is what Instagram is. It’s truly a marketing tool.” 

You Are Never Too Old 

Whether it’s a new endeavor or a social media persona, don’t limit yourself. It’s never too late to try something new.  

“First of all, every day is a miracle that you get to wake up and have another day,” Coffield says. “You can just wake up tomorrow and decide to be the next Grandma Moses of painting.” 

Coffield believes the best time to decide to do something new is first thing in the morning. She has her own powerful, 15-minute routine. 

“The first thing I do when I wake up in those first seconds is I acknowledge that I am awake,” she explains. “I take a deep breath and I flip the switch from my subconscious unconscious mind into my conscious mind where the first thoughts that I feed my mind are positive. 

“I think about all the exciting opportunities for my day.” 

Whatever you feed your mind and body is so powerful. Positive thoughts lead to good things. The opposite is also true.  

“Let’s say, your alarm goes off, but you go back to sleep. Now you’re late,” she says. “Next thing, the shampoo bottle drops on your toe, then you run into the kitchen and spill coffee. You get in your car and it seems like you hit every red light,” she says. “That day is not going to get better because you set into motion the negative.” 

When you flip the switch and feed your mind positivity—affirmations, positive self-talk—those thoughts become your reality.  

“More people smile at you in a store, the person in front of you in line buys you a cup of coffee, you get a parking meter that’s already got money on it, you hit all the green lights,” Coffield says. “That’s how it works.”  

You’re never too old. It’s never too late. 

“Life is not linear, it’s circular,” Coffield says. “Every day, when you wake up, it’s the beginning of the circle. The mistake we make is thinking it’s linear and we’re running out of time instead of seeing it as circular and that every day is a fresh start.” 

Debra Eckerling is a freelance writer, goal-strategist, workshop leader, and award-winning author and podcaster. The creator of The DEB Method for Goal-Setting Simplified, Eckerling hosts the GoalChat and Taste Buds with Deb podcasts and is the author of Your Goal Guide and 52 Secrets for Goal-Setting and Goal-Getting. 

Exploring the Evolving Role of Grandparents

Dear Grandparents: Don’t Let Go

Be a Part of It

The post Kristen Coffield—Champion of Active Grandparenting appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Wait! Holy crap! Who is that? 

I stand before the full-length glass in my stretched-out beige bra and Costco underwear staring back at the reflection of someone I barely recognize. The laugh lines and creases that are inevitable with long living are deeply etched in my face.  

I glance at my arms. Between the scabs created by my thin onion skin that rips when merely touching anything and the dark bruises of blood underneath, I could be mistaken as the loser in an altercation with an unfriendly cactus or the victim of careless curb mishap. My eyes scroll down to the crepey skin on my thighs. The torture of working out at the gym is like pissing in the wind. I could be spending Taco Tuesdays, Wild Wednesdays, and Fast Food Fridays with friends, savoring salty margaritas, french fries, and exercising my mouth.  

I have lost the appealing look of youth—tight, fresh, glowing. 

Behind me I glimpse at the 8×10 photo in the contemporary lucite frame on my husband’s nightstand. It was taken around our engagement more than 50 years ago. My dark glossy shoulder length hair was fashionably flipped. My smile conveyed a happy positive vibe. We were ready to start our life together and creating a family. The best was ahead of us. 

In my humble opinion, I was cute!  

That is not to be confused with pretty. I would never have been mistaken for the “fairest of them all.” Cuteness was often confused with being small (short).  

When I was a kid, Dad called me his “Russian shot-putter” due to my short stature and stocky thighs. My thick almost black head of hair framed my face like a helmet. My Energizer Bunny battery and cheery disposition never wore down.  

Mine was the happy childhood of a rule follower, a goody-two shoes. An easy kid, I was more apt to cry than defy.  

During my teenage years, my perceived cuteness was tested as I went through the various stages of puberty. My ponytail reached to the middle of my back, and I begged Mom to let me cut it into the current fashion statement, the brush-up. In hindsight, it was ugly.  

I viewed life from the fringes during college in the 1960s. Hippies advocated free love and were bold war protesters. My choice of drugs was the Beatles and the Beach Boys. I cruised along in a fog, on the sidelines of critical issues like Vietnam and the fight for civil rights. The cute kid floated. 

While employed in my first “real” grown-up job, I met the love of my life, who was tall in my eyes and broad in girth. He was a warrior, who had returned from service overseas. He made me feel protected and cute! 

That was then…. 

Over the decades I morphed from a butterfly to a caterpillar 

The change began subtly. One day crow’s feet appeared at the corners of my eyes, highlighted by gray strands of hair that sprung from my temples.  

To fight the inevitable, the makers of hair dye, serums, tweezers, concealers, along with manicurists, colorists, and personal trainers, all benefited.  

Spanx held me in, Miracle bras held me up. But it was a losing battle. 

At each annual check-up I cringed as the nurse announced my shrinking height. At full height I alleged to be 5’.  That was now history. 

The cute little girl had turned into the little old lady. 

My friends were in the same boat—the Titanic that had hit an iceberg. We all had the same gripes, aches and pains, sleepless nights, the same failing bodies.  

Inside I clung to my former self-image. I vowed to keep up the façade though my body showed wear and tear, and my energy had dwindled.  

We chased our youth.  We biked, hiked, played tennis and Pickleball, went to concerts, and traveled.  

Recently we took a trip overseas. Seniors were sprinkled in the group of travelers that ranged from middle age upward though everyone appeared to be a decade or so younger and at least seven feet tall.  

Mentally I was confident we would fit in and could keep pace demonstrating that age is just a number.  

One day while standing behind the giants, trying to see and hear the tour guide, a man barely qualified for an AARP card took me by the arm guiding me through the group to the front. I smiled appreciatively. He continued to escort me over the next couple of days, so I was always in front of the group. 

“Hey, thanks. It is nice to be able to see what’s happening,” I said with a smile after the second day. Without hesitation, he responded, “Aww, you remind me of my grandmother. You’re so cute.” 

Stunned, under my breath I murmured a very ungrandmotherly, “f**k you!”   

But to be civil, I refrained from expressing my real thoughts and responded with a snide remark, “Seriously? I could be offended.” 

Okay, the “kid” was in his mid-50s. I am in my late 70s. His mother—MAYBE! But his grandmother? I couldn’t stop thinking about how I must appear to others.   

Truth be told (TBT as the younger generation says),  

Honesty IS reflected in that mirror on the wall.  

This little old lady needs to face reality…and take “you’re so cute” anyway I can get it. 

Suzi Schultz Gold is a native of San Diego, California, who has a restless and entrepreneurial spirit. She retired after exploring many careers including: marketing, education, travel, always searching for her passion. During the past few years she has found joy and a creative outlet writing “slice of life” essays. Her essays are a source of self-entertainment that she hopes others will enjoy. 

That’s What Life is, Isn’t It?

Cope with Change Using the Rearview Mirror

Hair’s the Thing

The post Truth Be Told appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

“Yes, my real name is Douglas Irving,” Ernie said via email. “It’s pretty ridiculous but here goes. When I was young, I had strawberry blonde hair and freckles. Down the block there was another kid, a couple years older than me who also had red hair and freckles. His name was Ernie. For whatever reason they started calling me Ernie Two and it just stuck at the time.” Douglas/Ernie decided he liked it. “My family calls me Douglas, but the rest of the world calls me Ernie.” 

Douglas, a fine name, to be sure. But I have to say it doesn’t fit Ernie Sapiro nearly as well as Ernie.  

As a photographer, Sapiro has a knack for putting people at ease. He’s not opposed to artsy techniques, but his focus is on capturing his subject’s soul. Sapiro has photographed several 3rd Act Magazine covers and in them you can see that when he says “soul,” he’s talking about the exuberant, joyful core of a person. Nothing dark and stormy here. The cover of singer/songwriter/musician LeRoy Bell is one of his favorites. I happen to love the one of track star Madonna Hanna.  

Photography has not been his lifelong calling. It is Ernie Sapiro’s own third act. He began his adult life as a guitar player in a number of iconic Northwest rock bands, including Uncle Cookie, the Moberlys, The Lonesome City Kings, and the Cowboys. His day job, for 30 years, was with Red Robin, the beloved Seattle burger restaurant that grew into a national chain. “I started as a janitor and left as a vice president,” Sapiro said. When he left, “about a dozen years ago,” there were 450 Red Robins across the country. Many of them had been opened by Sapiro himself. After Red Robin, he worked for Restaurants Unlimited for a few years. And then he was done and ready for his third act. 

Sapiro’s father, Scotty Sapiro, was a photographer—first in New York and then in Seattle. The family moved across the country when Ernie was nine. Scotty Sapiro’s clients eventually included Rainier Beer, Nordstrom and Eddie Bauer. Ernie loved hanging out in his dad’s studio, even though he did not ever imagine, until he retired from the restaurant world, that he would someday follow in Scotty Sapiro’s footsteps. 

 But he remembers his father’s best bit of advice: When you’re looking through the viewfinder, “Look for something that you haven’t seen.” Ernie’s expanded version: “It’s like jazz. You start in one place and wind up somewhere else.” 

But, as with jazz, you have to know what you’re doing. You have to practice. And study. All of which Sapiro embraced enthusiastically. “I’m—what’s that great word—an auto-didact.” A lifelong learner. Though he “never questioned his ability to frame a shot”—thanks to all he had learned from watching his father—Sapiro took lots of classes. He studied digital photography and photo editing, and he also enrolled in seminars on how to run a successful freelance business. He shot “anything and everything,” often for free in his very first years, including school portraits, family portraits and weddings. He took pictures for the Seattle Storm WNBA team, the Seattle Thunderbirds hockey team, bands and musicians. His corporate clients include T-Mobile, Southwest Airlines, Starbucks, and the SAFE Boats International boat-building company.  

My own favorite from the Ernie Sapiro archives is a series of photos of Pacific Northwest Ballet’s then-principal dancer Maria Chapman dancing on the lunch counter at the Athenian Restaurant in the Pike Place Market. “There was no money involved,” Sapiro said. “I did it for my own amusement. Nothing more.” Sapiro’s sister Dana had a long career as a ballet dancer and dancers have always been among his favorite subjects. Along with musicians, naturally. 

In 2015, Sapiro had an idea. What if he shot portraits of musicians—lots of musicians; some famous, some not—then enlarged and hung them in a huge space and threw a massive party for everyone involved? The goal would be to celebrate the musicians. Profits from picture sales would be donated to MusiCares. Sapiro’s friend, TV personality Nancy Guppy (Almost Live and Art Zone), signed on to produce and find funding for what became Musician: a Portrait Project. The supersized photos (30 x 34) were hung, unframed, in the spacious Union Stables Building, which once was an actual stable, housing the horses that pulled Seattle’s streetcars and firetrucks. Subjects ranged across the decades, from Merrilee Rush (“Angel in the Morning”) to jazz legend Bill Frisell to Susan Silver, the former manager of Alice in Chains, Soundgarden and The Screaming Trees.  

Sapiro lights up when he talks about Musician. It was everything he loves—music, photography, capturing the souls of creative people. Throwing a big party. Not being afraid to “keep the child-playfulness in what we do as adults,” to do the personal creative work that allows you to experiment without worrying about making money or pleasing a client.  

Not that he has anything against having clients. “I’m not rich,” Sapiro said. Retiring “doesn’t even come up” when he looks ahead a few years, or several. Sapiro is 69, his wife Cathy is 65 and works as a human resources business partner for KING 5 TV. He and Cathy have two children, Tucker, 36, and Tess, 34, and one grandchild, Callum.  

It’s Callum, born in 2024, who just might get him to slow down. A little. Because, if you ask Ernie Sapiro what really matters, he will tell you: “You better have some fun. You better love. Run freely. Play freely. And don’t be afraid to be ridiculous and crazy.”   

Ann Hedreen is an author (Her Beautiful Brain), teacher of memoir writing, and filmmaker. Hedreen` and her husband, Rustin Thompson, own White Noise Productions and have made more than 150 short films and several feature documentaries together, including Quick Brown Fox: An Alzheimer’s Story. She is currently at work on a book of essays and is a regular contributor to 3rd Act Magazine, writing about topics including conscious aging, retirement, mindfulness, and health. 

Make Your Own Kind of Music

The post Ernie Sapiro: Don’t Be Afraid to Play, Work and (Occasionally) Be Ridiculous appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

    My younger brother who stepped out of time before me. Since I can no longer measure myself against him, it makes him seem older in a way. Who can be older than someone absorbed by time? Someone who has transcended time? 

    the lagoon water 

   brother drowned in 

  also gone 

  “We were graduates,” I’d joke, “of the University of Sylvia and Jack.” 

  The Hirschfield’s were a strangely paired Jewish couple in the West Bronx. She was kind, outgoing, deeply religious. She worked as a bookkeeper. He was a hotel maintenance man, who related to all of us as strangers. More like a boarder than a father, he’d come home from work, greet no one, go directly to his room. 

  Paternal abandonment forged a bond between Aryeh and I. We’d fantasize about rafting like a couple of Huck Finn’s to some fatherless refuge somewhere. Our bond, however, yielded to the stresses of clashing personalities, family dynamics. 

   Aryeh was blessed with mom’s outgoing nature, with her gift of drawing people to him. I was, sad to say, his polar opposite. A dark-spirited loner like Dad, I put people off. (If the old man noticed, he kept it to himself.) 

    The death of family patriarch, Moses Joseph, a Hasid whose extreme orthodoxy rubbed off on Aryeh, pushed our relationship to the edge. I’d be on my way to the park on the Sabbath with bat and ball, when he’d run up behind me, shouting, “God will punish you!” A little Jewish Taliban, who, happily, did not grow up to be a big Jewish Taliban. In fact, he became, in later years, a distinctly open-minded Jewish Renewal rabbi in Oregon (in his study were pictures of Groucho Marx and Ramana Maharshi), a member of Rabbis for Peace.   

    In our teens, there was a cultural shift. We became art house movie-goers, thrilled by Ingmar Bergman and Vittorio De Sica. We especially loved Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, forever enacting the chess game between death and the crusader, intoning death’s few chiseled lines in English with Swedish accents that made both of us howl.   

   I miss the laughter of brothers that rose up, it seemed, from the floorboards of our shared bedroom. It closed over the fissures in our relationship, as did our serious talks about Kafka. The suffering of a son permanently estranged from his father. Our story. 

    It might have been wiser to talk about the alienation of brothers. For when the laughter ended, when our Kafka conversations ceased, my envy of his popularity (reborn after his long season of fanaticism) returned, along with his justified anger over his big brother’s absence of affirmation. 

    Old age is when we all go for our PhDs in reflection. What a brother is, first of all, is an eruption in time. My first memory is of the day program I went to with my cousin Ruthie, at whose house I was staying when my mother was off giving birth to Aryeh. 

   At her day care, a dark passageway was constructed against a wall curtained at both ends. We were made to walk through it. Though not normally afraid of the dark, the journey filled me with a primal fear.  

    Only years later did I realize that that liminal journey in space contained my dread that time was now altered, shadowed by a tiny stranger’s birth. I’d no longer monopolize time. I was condemned to share it. 

    Like many brothers, we shared it poorly. Like many brothers, we eventually shared it at a distance. In his late teens, he discovered drugs and relocated to San Francisco. I discovered writing and remained in New York for a while, before heading off to South America to find something exotic to write about. We both drifted, but not toward each other. 

    I awake nights thinking of him. Where, in the unfathomable emptiness that we take to be death, has his spirit found a home? Or is it wandering still? Or am I the one who is still wandering, inwardly and outwardly, from my home to the river, from one haiku to another, toward some elusive center? 

    It is second nature for an octogenarian to fixate on his losses, having had so many of them. With Aryeh, it was what was lost before his death that haunts me. We would meet on occasion over the years. He’d come in for periodic visits that became frequent when our mother was failing. Or I’d make occasional visits out to the West Coast, where he was working through the various stages of his rabbinical career. Visits that were often intended as pilgrimages of reconciliation. 

    When we remembered to take deep breaths, there was sharing. Mainly, a mutual interest in the broken state of the world that somehow did not include our relationship. We’d discuss the race question. We couldn’t escape the awareness, even as children, that those hollowed out corpses in striped suits could have been us. Emmett Till, the black 14-year-old Chicago boy lynched in Mississippi in 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white woman, was a victim we could easily identify with. A more complicated identity, especially for Aryeh, were the Palestinians. A rabbi, he was at times prone to giving Israel the benefits of doubts I did not have. But his ability to try to see the occupation through Palestinian eyes when he traveled to the West Bank I held in high regard, as it meant extending himself far more than I had to as a secular progressive Jew. 

    I keep searching for him in all the old places where his voice can be found, where thoughts were momentarily shared, but never a life shared. 

    Once, when he was stoned, he said, “I feel like the donkey chasing the carrot. Sometimes I get close. But the carrot is always beyond my reach.” 

    Chasing after the dead Aryeh is a little like that. The feeling sometimes of getting close. But never close enough.  

    These words. My skinny candles. Lighted. Doused. Lighted again. 

Robert Hirschfield is a New York-based writer and poet. He has spent much of the last five years writing and assembling poems about his mother’s Alzheimer’s. In 2019, Presa Press published a volume of his poems, The Road to Canaan. His work has appeared in Parabola, Tricycle, Spirituality & Health, Sojourners, The Moth (Ireland), Tears in The Fence (UK) and other publications.     

Reflections on the Good Life

How Will You be Remembered?

Moving Closer to Your Family

The post Searching for Aryeh: An Old Man’s Journey appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Since moving to Seattle from New York City in 2017, 86-year-old abstract painter Elinore Bucholtz has had solo shows at Joe Bar on Capitol Hill, Caffe Ladro in Edmonds, Fresh Flours Bakery on Beacon Hill, and Equinox Studios in Georgetown. Capitol Hill Art Walk showed her work at Chophouse Row, Starbucks, Ada’s Technical Books and Cafe, and Roy Street Coffee & Tea. Last year alone, her paintings have been displayed at Capitol Hill’s Kismet Salon & Spa, she was featured on the Capitol Hill Seattle Blog and in Northwest Prime Time, and she was named Seattle Refined Artist of the Week. 

Not bad for a former New York City public school teacher who started painting after retiring at age 56 and enrolling in workshops at the Art Students League of New York. 

Born in British Palestine in 1938, Bucholtz and her father Samuel, mother Rena, and older sister Edna experienced a harrowing, three-month journey emigrating to America During World War II. “The United States government thought that German general Erwin Rommel was coming through the desert to take over,” she explains. “They told us to get out as fast as we could.” 

According to Bucholtz’s late father, her mother’s stomachache prevented passage on the first available ship—a lucky break in hindsight, considering the ship was bombed and sank. Instead, the family booked a boat out of Port Said, Egypt, traveling first by train some 450 miles to Cairo when she was two years old and then another 125 miles to Port Said. 

“My father told me the station was bombed as our train left Cairo,” she adds. Her family sailed on three different ships—skirting open ocean combat and rough weather, according to Samuel—before arriving at Ellis Island. “My father said he held me up to see the Statue of Liberty, but I don’t remember that.” 

Her family lived in New York for a few years before moving to Arizona and eventually settling in California. Bucholtz majored in English and American Literature at the University of California Los Angeles and moved to New York City, where she taught junior high school English for 25 years. 

Bucholtz moved to Seattle to be closer to her son, Sam, and daughter-in-law, Ireland. Her two-bedroom Capitol Hill apartment serves as her residence and painting studio, while a storage unit in Seattle holds roughly 250 original paintings. She recently shared some insights into her experiences in life and art. 

“New York had everything I wanted.” 

“I was 23 when I moved to New York in 1961. It had everything I wanted—opera, concerts, museums, and Broadway. I found a Manhattan studio apartment I could afford. My first job was [teaching English at a junior high school]in Queens. I took several buses and subways to get to work. I was late every day. After a few years, I found a job teaching at a junior high school in Manhattan, closer to home.” 

“I never dreamed of making art before I retired. I didn’t even doodle.” 

“When I retired, I asked myself what I enjoyed doing. I enjoyed visiting New York City’s art museums and seeing other artists’ work. So, I decided to try it myself and I got hooked. I’ve been painting for 30 years. I never dreamed of making art before I retired. I couldn’t draw anything when I was young. I didn’t even doodle.” 

“Color and shape were enough.” 

“My early paintings were representational and figurative. I painted people and objects. I haven’t done those in years. A couple of years into taking workshops at the Art Students League of New York, I was tired of drawing or painting leaves, trees, or fruit. I tried abstract painting, just shapes and colors, which worked for me. I was very comfortable with it. Color and shape were enough for me.” 

“My paintings dance or sing.” 

“I think of my art in terms of ‘abstract lyricism.’ My paintings have motion—almost like they dance or sing—rather than just sitting there. Today, all my work is abstract. I use acrylic on canvas because it dries quickly and I can paint over it if I make a mistake.” 

“[Art] just happens.” 

“I met a young man who asked me how I came up with ideas for what to paint. I couldn’t say because I take a brush, put paint on the canvas, and then see where I should go. It’s not anything I work out ahead of time. It just happens. On the other hand, my paintings are much freer than I’ve seen other people do. Maybe that’s because I didn’t go to a formal art school.” 

“A psychic told me I would live to be 105 years old. Who knows?” 

“At one point, I had an operation, and my son, Sam, who had moved to Seattle many years before, came to New York. He told me he wanted to take me back to Seattle with him. He works hard and I couldn’t expect him to go back to New York every time I had a health issue. My son and daughter-in-law live about a block away. I usually paint the first half of the day before I go out for a walk in the afternoon. I had friends over for ice cream cake on my 86th birthday last November. I went to a psychic once and they told me I would live to be 105 years old. Who knows?” 

Seattle journalist Todd Matthews has written for more than two dozen print and online publications in the past 25 years. His work is collected online at wahmee.com. 

Be a Part of It

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Long, beautiful hair! 

Shining, gleaming, 

Streaming, flaxen, waxen. 

Give me down to there (Hair!) 

Shoulder-length or longer (Hair!) 

Here, baby, there, mama, 

Everywhere, daddy daddy, 

Hair! 

—From the musical Hair 

“There’s something mystical about hair,” muses 80-year-old, pony-tailed Michael Hagen. He cites different traditions around the world, from covering hair entirely to shaving it off. “And look at Samson and Delilah. Hair plays a big part in the way we see ourselves and others.” 

It certainly does, and for many, age-related changes in our hair may not be an easy transition. “We are all neurotic about our hair,” says, with a laugh, stylist Josephine Morales, 59, owner of Seattle’s E*Clips Hair Studio. With decades of experience dealing with both the timid and the bold, her basic advice is, “work with what you have and own it.” 

That doesn’t necessarily mean going au naturale. “Unless genetically blessed, hair can get thinner as each strand loses volume. Coloring hair changes the structure so it makes it appear fuller,” she says. “I recommend going half a shade lighter than what you usually have and gradually go from there.” 

There are those who aren’t ready to change and might never be. Sandra Driscoll, 74, started dyeing her hair in her 60s to keep the color she was born with, a medium warm brown. “I simply like how I look with the color in my hair,” she says. “Clearly, I’m not doing it to fool anyone. I think I just look better with color around my face. Yes, it is expensive to maintain but I’d rather cut back elsewhere than go gray.” 

Beyond color, how short or long to go can be another difficult decision. Morales suggests a very close cut for men with thinning hair rather than hanging on to a fringe or going for the comb-over. For women, “a shorter version of what you usually have will make it look thicker. Long hair can get stringy and flyaway.” 

Of course, there are exceptions. Meryl Nelson, 72, has almost never cut her hair, except for a brief fling as a teen when she trimmed it to “look like Patty Duke.” With sleek white hair to her waist, she goes for a conservative trim occasionally, but that’s it. While Nelson enjoys the gift of great hair, it’s also a hit with her grandchildren. “They like to brush it and braid it, put clips in it,” she says. “And for me, it’s like getting a great massage.” As for the convention of shorter hair on older women, it’s just not an issue. “I’m not against anything, it’s not about counterculture. It’s just who I am.” 

That can’t be said for Michael Hagen. His long, wavy white hair is very much a statement. “I’m not exactly your 9-to-5 guy,” he notes. As a young man, and conscientious objector against the Vietnam War, Hagen joined his generational tribe in growing long hair, a departure from his farming community roots. 

“My mother was a beautician. I remember the ladies would come to our house and get their perms. The men all had short hair and wore hats,” Hagen says. “Every summer, I’d get a buzz cut and a new pair of tennis shoes. By fall, the hair was back, and my shoes were worn out.” In high school, he went with the latest fashion—buzz cuts (aka pig shaves), flattops, and crewcuts. 

Then the ‘60s hit and his hair has been long ever since. Having grown a bit thin on top, Hagen now sports a dapper black beret. “People sometimes ask me, are you a poet? An artist? It’s just become my signature look.” 

His partner, Terry Hudgens, was once a towheaded kid. At 75, she’s now all silver and shine with an elegant bob. “I’ve never dyed it,” she says. “I’ve had this style for the last 20 or 30 years.” Change came nonetheless when Hudgens was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2019. “I decided that saving my hair was really important to me so I opted for cooling cap therapy.” Used during cancer treatments, the cap reduces hair loss by circulating cold liquid to the scalp, which in turn constricts blood vessels so that hair follicles take up less of the chemo drugs. “Those treatments saved my hair,” says Hudgens. “It was bad enough having cancer. I didn’t want to go bald as well. It was expensive but keeping my hair was more important.” An unexpected surprise—her hair is now thicker than before. 

With so many options available these days, it might be time to have a little fun with whatever is up top—pink stripe, a spikey cut, or maybe, like the song says, grow it “down to there.” Observes Meryl Nelson, owner of the long, lustrous locks: “As you get older, it’s a wonderful time to do whatever you want to do. Let it go and just see what happens.” 

Connie McDougall is a former news reporter and current freelance writer of nonfiction and personal essays. A lifelong student and proud English major, she has pursued lessons in flying, scuba diving, tai chi, Spanish, meditation, hiking, and Zumba.  

Hair’s the Thing

Forging A Hip New Showcase for Artists Over 50

The post Crowning Glory: Making Peace with Our Hair (Or Lack Thereof) appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

When the roles and achievements that once defined us—career, parenthood, physical vitality—transform, fade or disappear, we often feel disoriented and bereft. Without defining identities, our sense of self is eroded and we flounder. But loss of self can also be an opportunity to discover a deeper, more fluid mode of being. 

I have experienced a number of crises of identity as I have aged. I was 50 when my 20-year career with PBS came to an end. I did not handle this transition well. To my surprise, my sense of self-worth was intimately tied to my professional status. The loss of a career identity, and the year-long search for another job, eroded my confidence and thrust me into a deep depression. I eventually landed another job with AARP and regained my confidence. But I realized that my sense of self needed some adjustments.   

My sense of identity continues to be tested as I age.   

I’m acutely aware that physical changes have forced me to abandon or dramatically curtail a number of cherished identities. Over the years, I’ve prided myself in my use of my body, as an athlete, a dancer, a performer, a slapstick comedian, a musician. But, two Achilles surgeries, arthritis pain, bouts of trigger finger, and degeneration in my lower spine have forced me to abandon or seriously curtail those activities.  

I’ve handled those late-life transitions more effectively than I did during my period of unemployment. I learned that those activities did not “define” me and their loss did not diminish my value as a human being. The cliche that when one door closes, another opens, proved true. I’ve been able to replace younger pursuits with new areas of passion. I’ve started painting, for example, and producing podcasts.  

So, one effective strategy for coping with disruptions to my sense of self has been to cultivate new identities. I’ve replaced obsolete identities with new ones, better suited to my current reality. I’m no longer an athlete, I am now a painter. I’m no longer a stage performer, I’ve become a podcast performer. 

There is another strategy that I have been exploring, one that takes a radically different approach to the challenge. Rather than focus on reinventing myself, I’ve begun to question whether a strong self is necessary at all. Will a strong sense of self actually help me to flourish as I age or will it be a hindrance? I’m beginning to believe that old age will be easier and more enjoyable if I abandon any attachment to self at all and simply learn to be.  

As many of you will recognize, my thinking has been highly influenced by contemplative philosophies, particularly Buddhism and Zen, that promote the idea of no-self. I can’t possibly do justice to the philosophy of no-self in this short essay, but I can highlight a couple of points that make a great deal of sense to me. When the Buddhists make mysterious claims that the self is an illusion, I think they are suggesting that our concepts of self are illusory.  

Concepts are fabrications of our mind that attempt to describe and reify one aspect of who we were at some time in the past. Fixed ideas of self cannot possibly capture the complexity and fluidity of our full being. Our true self (if “true” is the right word) only emerges in the moment.  

When we appreciate this insight, we pay less attention to thoughts that tend to distort reality and pay deeper attention to what is really happening, which is often quite miraculous and wonderful. Yes, my back hurts and the world has gone crazy, but I am alive, the sun is warm on my face, my grandchildren greet me with hugs.  

I also find it helpful to describe the Buddhist philosophy as “no-EGO” rather than “no-self.” The encouragement to let go of the self suggest that we will be happier and better people if we escape our own egocentric self-interests. When we hold too tightly to fixed identities, our view of the world becomes myopic, woefully incomplete and, therefore, distorted.   

The exploration of no-self can lead to a radical reorientation of mental priorities. By clearing away mental clutter it offers better access to direct experience. When I stop relying on restrictive concepts of self, I can begin to interact more honestly with who I am right now, for better or worse.  

When I can free myself from ideas about how old age should be, I give myself the opportunity to let old age reveal itself as it actually is. The concept of no-self encourages a humility that connects me more deeply to the fundamental currents of life. I recognize more clearly the dynamic truth that my life is part of an endless process of transformation that cycles through birth, growth, decay, death, decomposition, and then renewal.   

This insight isn’t about my achieving some exalted spiritual state—it’s about stripping away illusions and mental constructs to reveal a deeper truth. To name a rose is to know only the concept of a rose. But, to really know a rose we need to discard labels and assumptions and simply open ourselves to the unique experience of a single blossom. And, in that blossom the wonder of life is revealed.  

English philosopher Douglas Harding has expressed the idea this way: 

“As something, I am merely that thing. As no-thing, I am all things.”  

The gift of this reframed perspective is the ease it brings to daily living. I can spend less energy resisting what should be and more time relaxing into an intimate relationship with what is. The simple act of smelling a rose can deepen my connection to the fullness of life’s great unfolding. And through that connection I can find greater peace with the aging process and gratitude for the chance to experience this gift of life.   

Michael C. Patterson had an early career in the theater, then worked at PBS, developing programs and systems to support the educational mission of public television. Patterson ran the Staying Sharp brain health program for AARP, then founded MINDRAMP to continue to promote physical well-being and mental flourishing for older adults. He currently explores these topics on his MINDRAMP Podcast and his Synapse newsletter. His website is www.mindramp.org.

Rise and Shine — What Gets You Going?

The post TO REALLY KNOW A ROSE (The liberation of ‘no-self’)  appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

He has late-stage Alzheimer’s. He cannot walk, feed himself, toilet himself, bathe or brush his teeth. He cannot catch a ball or clap his hands or understand directions. He has little to no understandable speech. But he communicates with a smile and facial expressions and he can follow one direction—he can kiss. 

One day a baby and mom were visiting at the residence where David lives in memory care. When I brought David over, he was mesmerized, and his smile widened. And David, who could barely speak, said “That’s a baby!” I decided then that I would find babies to visit with him. 

While searching for babies I came across an article describing the use of weighted life-like dolls for dementia patients. David now has his doll, and he perks up with her—engaging, smiling, and kissing her. Other residents, entranced by the doll as well, sometimes “kidnap” her and she has to be rescued. 

Finding real babies was difficult. I wrote, phoned, texted, and visited infant care centers, graduate student housing, and mommy-and-me support groups. I described the joy that seeing babies gave David and asked for their help in recruiting babies.  

But, when I took my search closer to home, I found my neighborhood has several events that bring families together. At a street party I met a young couple and their baby, 12 months old. I told them about David and asked if they would be willing to visit. To coordinate the timing of the visit, we took nap schedules into account, both the baby’s and David’s. 

I met a second baby on a walk with a friend. We noticed a young man taking a baby out of a car. I nudged my friend asking her if I should ask him about visiting David. As she said “why not?” I broached the idea of visiting David and, before I could get the words out, he emphatically said “Yes” explaining that he looked for opportunities to bring people joy. 

The parents of these two babies had no experience knowing anyone with Alzheimer’s. I have been so touched and warmed by their responsiveness. 

The third baby is a young toddler, the daughter of my private caregiver. 

The visits range from ½-hour to an hour, every four to six weeks. Upon seeing the babies, David lights up with smiles. Even with his significant decline David responds with joy. We end when either David or the baby is fatigued. 

Lastly, I was so focused on having babies visit David that it did not enter my mind to have David visit babies. It is now spring and the weather is warm and sunny. David’s caregiver and I wheel David to the adjacent university housing playground where, like magic, between 3 and 3:30 p.m. babies and toddlers appear, to David’s delight. He was nonstop smiles during our last outing. 

David, pre-Alzheimer’s, often engaged with babies by making funny faces. He was a gifted portrait artist, a very witty cartoonist, and a well admired jurist and author of judicial curriculum. 

I cannot stop Alzheimer’s. It is a terrible feeling to be so helpless and powerless in the face of this disease. But I can make life better for him and finding babies for David has done just that. 

Phyllis Rothman is a licensed clinical social worker, retired from private practice in Beverly Hills after decades of practice.  

Judge David M. Rothman was a respected jurist at the Los Angeles County Superior Court. He is the original author of the gold standard reference work about judicial ethics, the 791-page California Judicial Conduct Handbook. Judge Rothman spent much of his career training and teaching ethics and courtroom skills to other judges. He recently passed away at age 87. 

Nutrition and Dementia or Alzheimers

The Four C’s of Alzheimers

The post Babies and Alzheimer’s appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Throughout our lives, we conform to social norms regarding dress, often without realizing it. From childhood to adulthood, we adjust our clothing choices to align with those of our families, peers and society. This may mean discarding unwanted clothing and buying new to keep up with fashion trends. Or adjusting what we wear so that we feel we fit in. Some may recall the panic felt when showing up at a social event either over or underdressed.  

Clothing can serve as a signifier, communicating financial status, social class, and group affiliation. The style of dress detailed in 1980’s The Official Preppy Handbook by Lisa Birnbach, (whether taken seriously or not), provided a blueprint for dressing in a way that implied membership in an elite social class. Similarly, an earlier book, Dress for Success by John T. Malloy, taught individuals to dress in ways that enhanced their professional image.  

For generations now, T-shirts and caps have functioned as modern badges of identity, broadcasting political beliefs, social movements, or personal affiliations. What we wear often tells others more about us than we realize—or intend. 

By the time we reach our later years, conformity should no longer concern us. There comes a time when the constraints of fashion and societal standards loosen, allowing for true self-expression. It is then that we can embrace nonconformity, to wear what makes us feel authentic rather than what others expect. However, given this freedom, clothing can often still be a mask of sorts—something we can use to hide behind, to shield our true selves from view. 

Our goal should be the embracing of originality, much like the fashion legend Iris Apfel who recently died at the age of 102. Known for her daring, avant-garde clothing choices, she defied the notions of how older women should dress, thus demonstrating that personal style is an act of self-expression.  

For many years, I made retreats at the Trappist monastery in Kentucky where the monks wear simple brown robes, except when their work requires more practical attire. Inspired by their example, I adopted a similar approach during my seminary years, wearing only plain gray or black shirts and trousers. This practice was surprisingly liberating as I no longer had to decide what to wear each morning. Like the monks, I found that this simplicity helped me focus more on my inner life rather than my outward appearance.       

A darker side of fashion is its inherent classism. Designer labels function as status symbols, signaling wealth and exclusivity. This practice reinforces social hierarchies and can make fashion feel exclusionary rather than expressive.  

 Also to be considered are the environmental costs of the production of clothing and the fact that most of our apparel is made overseas by women and children, often in harsh working conditions. Additionally, it is difficult to resell, recycle, or repurpose clothing and fabric, which means much of it ends up in landfills or is incinerated.  

 There is also a spiritual dimension to clothing and identity. We are called to be true to ourselves, to resist the temptation of judging our insides by others’ outsides. Fashion often makes us compare ourselves to others, valuing our clothes over our true selves. 

 Ultimately, clothing choices prompt deeper questions: Who am I? How do I want to feel in my clothes? How do I want to appear when I leave the house for day? The answers shape not just what we wear but how we live. Even as I reflect on my own choices, I recognize that clothing is both personal and profoundly social.  

When all is said and done, our goal should be to wear what makes us feel most like ourselves, free from the expectations of others. Our attire should reflect how we want to present ourselves to our community and to the world, even if it’s unusual or out of the ordinary.  

Stephen Sinclair holds a Master of Divinity from Meadville Lombard Theological School in Chicago and is an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister. He’s been a pastor and chaplain in a number of churches and hospitals in the U.S., and has worked with the homeless. He lives in Seattle.  

Dress for Delight – Self-Expression Never Goes Out of Style

Taking Off Our Masks

The post Claiming Our Personal Style as an Act of Self Expression appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.