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.

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.

In this, my seventh decade of life, these worries periodically drift through my mind. Usually when a new ache in my body makes its presence known or I’m wondering if our investments will hold their value for another 20 years. 

I was slapped across the face with an answer in the summer when I had a chance to take a road trip. My trip, really, a spontaneous adventure, started harmlessly enough. An old friend and I decided to drive together to an out-of-town memorial for another longtime friend, Melissa. A fairly short jaunt, about four hours according to Google. A perfect, leisurely trip, packed with stops for useless calories. Visit some locales where my friend and I had once created memories with Melissa.  

Little did we know we’d have knock the rose-colored glasses knocked off our optimistic faces. Call it fate, call it bad luck, or that ever-present demon of aging individuals, weak memories.  

Both of us were well acquainted with Colorado’s twisting mountain roads. The cloudless summer day held not one threat of bad weather. No longer penniless students, we both had ample funds in pocket, the bank, and in credit. What could stop us?  

However, as a dedicated, determined worrywart, surely, I would find some threat to challenge me. I’ve never prided myself on being fearless. As a child, I was terrified of dogs, monster movies, kidnappers.  

When I was younger, a trip held ominous hints about getting lost, or breaking down on a mountain cliff, attacks by rabid bears or, my favorite, a sudden and unexpected stroke. But now I was an adult, infinitely more realistic about the slim chance of dangers and could tackle a short road trip with ease. Right? 

The only trait stronger than fear in my personality is my intense curiosity about how other people negotiate their passages through life. Maturity has affected this quality. As I gained experiences, I became less curious. By my current age, creature comforts weighed in more heavily than experiences, while the thrill of discovery subsided to a faint twinge of inquisitiveness.  

So the twin challenges of fear and vague curiosity motivated me. As my friend Cindi and I settled in our seats, a tremor of excitement filled the car. We both flicked out our phone maps and heard our disembodied hostesses greet us.  

We sailed along with no problems for about an hour and a half on a wide, clean, picturesque highway. Our goal was the small mountain community of Paonia. Evergreens and aspens undulated in a gentle breeze, while bright lemony and white wildflowers waved to us from benign meadows. The highway had no traffic jams; every driver was cordial. Yet somehow, we lagged behind our partner SUV, Melissa’s cousins. Finally, we noticed we’d lost sight of them. The other driver was more familiar with the route than we. We pulled into a wide, well-marked parking area near Copper Mountain resort, and called, agreeing to meet later at our destination. Then we set off down the road.  

What we didn’t realize is that I’d steered the car onto a completely different highway, the wrong one, a state highway that continued in the direction we’d been headed, south. But the interstate we needed swerved west at that point.  

Something about the road’s appearance made me uncertain. It was two-lane, the road bed was battered and worn. The farther we went, the more potholes we hit, and we spotted nary a gas station, café, or rest stop. Both our cellphone maps continued to show what we thought was the correct information. That’s because we could have circled the region and still reached our ultimate destination, Paonia. But we would totally miss our original guide in the other car and throw ourselves off-schedule by hours.  

Finally, I offered, “I think we went the wrong way.” We spotted a small town ahead that looked nothing like any of the towns I’d visited years gone by on my way to Paonia. An oncoming sign referred to a nearby town at a much higher elevation than was correct. The sign read “Leadville.” When I saw two girls walking down the street, I jumped out and asked, “Is this Leadville?” They confirmed my grievous error.  

Although I’d driven us off-track, off-schedule, and off-kilter, I masked my apprehensions. To make Cindi as nervous as I would do neither of us good. “Still early in the day,” I assured her. “No damage done.”  

That day, what was a four-hour drive became an eight-hour inconvenience. We missed the initial gathering of close friends and Melissa’s family for the memorial at the family ranch and winery, and almost lost our places at the burger cookout. Not all was lost. We swapped tales of our earlier visits to Melissa’s cousin and relatives over the years.  

Still ample time for our mini-vacation. The second day, in addition to the intimate, informal memorial, our trip was to include an outing in the town, a tour of wineries for which the area is noted. In fact, our host and hostess owned one of the wineries and graciously involved us in all the fun preparations for guests. However, our own personal Comedy of Errors continued as if Shakespeare himself were directing our holiday.  

I wanted to be dressed correctly for an exhilarating schedule while on the tour ourselves and becoming familiar with this beautiful, mountainous corner of Colorado. So I chose to dress in a favorite sweater, pulsing with good vibes.  

The day was sunny and clear. No guarantees about this continuing, for Colorado is notorious for its instantaneous, fickle weather, the very reason I carefully prepared for chills and winds by toting the gorgeous sweater. Heck, it even bore the word “Merci” in fancy lettering on the front. A perfect sentiment for my mood. Merci for friends, merci for excellent weather and wine, merci for simply being alive. Yes, I was missing my old friend, now gone, with whom I’d vacationed here several times years ago. But really, wasn’t that the whole reason for the trip? To recall good memories? 

Determined not to let one misalignment the prior day jinx our holiday, we participated enthusiastically in making refreshments, then trailed to local wineries to sample their wares. We learned about local specialties: Riesling, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir. We heard of the challenges of too much and too little rainfall, listened to a folk duo of familiar tunes, tasted cheeses, nuts, and sausages.  

Weather continued balmy, even sweltering. I had long before peeled off the sweater in favor of the simple tee-shirt I’d worn underneath. 

For the evening, we were ready to feast on homemade pizza, baked in an outdoor oven. The temperature had dropped and my sweater would be perfect. 

If only I could find it. Yes, somewhere it had disappeared. I remembered toting it to the car, then nothing. After searching the car with no results, I considered had I dropped it out of the car? Left it at a winery? Draped it over lawn furniture outside? No answers. 

The evening began with an intimate memorial ceremony next to the roaring mountain stream. Melissa’s son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter spoke briefly about how much they missed her and her love for these mountains. One person recited a favorite poem and another recalled a failed attempt to fish in the rapids. Then we raised a glass of wine or beer or soft drink to Melissa. 

Hour after hour passed that evening with no results for the missing sweater. I got more frantic. My husband had given the sweater to me the previous Christmas and he’d selected it completely on his own. My pointed, rude inquiries to all the guests at the festivities yielded no information. I braced myself to admit my failure to my husband when I returned home. 

The next day, our final day, we said goodbye to our old friends. We checked our maps several times and were convinced we had the correct route for this venture. Adding to our general feeling of optimism, I vaguely recalled stuffing something into a deep glove compartment in the car. I opened it and there it was—the missing sweater! Surely nothing could go wrong now. 

We made good time on our way to the final destination—Denver. The highway, yes, the correct one, wound over and around, up and down, as we tore through yet another fine day, old rock ‘n’ roll booming on the radio. “Me and Bobbie McGee,” “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” and, of course, “If You’re Goin’ to San Francisco.” Yet another thing Cindi and I had in common with our departed friend Melissa. After graduation from college, we’d packed our bags and took off for San Francisco, just in time for the Summer of Love. It missed us; we had to earn livings. 

In the midst of these heartwarming reminiscences, Cindi and I took a break for coffee and pastries. Back on the road, we resumed burning rubber. About an hour later, we decided to fill up the tank. That was when Cindi discovered her purse was missing. Standing by the pump, she reached for a credit card, only to realize she had none. Nor any money, driver’s license, cosmetics, tissues, or comb. Certainly not a purse or bag. Cell phone she had, safely tucked into a pocket. 

We froze and stared at one another. “Look in the car again,” I gasped. “Between the seats, under the luggage, in the far back.” 

“No, no, no,” moaned Cindi. “I think I left it in the last restaurant.” 

“Do you mean back 60 miles behind us?” 

“Yes. I remember hanging it over the headrest of the chair.” 

“Call them. Call them.” 

Thankfully, she remembered the name of the restaurant and also the waitress, who had a distinctive accent. We’d both agreed she was most pleasant and helpful. She continued by quickly advising Cindi the purse had been found and rescued from oblivion. It would be waiting for Cindi when we drove back 60 miles to collect it. 

Despite the extra detour back, some 140 minutes passed before we circled and pulled into my Denver townhouse. We achieved a kind of fatalistic joy as we reviewed lessons learned. Among them, we were not too old to have an adventure.  

I envisioned Melissa peeping over our shoulders and having a great time. I like to think of her cracking up in giggles as we made error after error, the way good friends always do.  

Most important, old friends present or remembered gift you with amazingly tender, warm feelings. Our trip had been a worthwhile pause in our normal routine. 

Today, I add this adventure to the list of reminiscences I hold dear. I may not travel to foreign climes at my advancing age, but I still can challenge myself, build friendships, and treasure memories, including a final one in the collection that had begun in high school with Melissa, 63 years prior.  

Bonnie McCune is a freelance writer with numerous credits in local, regional, and specialty publications for news and features. She is co-author of Recruiting and Managing Volunteers in Libraries (Neal-Schuman Publishers, 1995). She has written for Denver Woman, Sasee, 303 Magazine, Christian Science Monitor, and Denver Magazine.   

My Third Act – A Wine Escape

What We Hold Dear

Travel Like an Alaskan

The post TWO AGING LADIES ON THE LAM  appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Unfortunately, this day was different. After the mishap caused by juggling a handful of solicitations and the glass of fermented grapes, my emotions got the best of me. I was having a tough time practicing what I preached to those bright-eyed children.  

Early evening was my favorite time of the day. The calm and quiet was welcome after keeping order in the classroom of 30 wiggling bodies. But now, as the wine flowed into the grout, I mumbled more expletives and grabbed a wet towel to clean up the mess. “Damn it! What the f**k?” 

I never thought much about my use of unacceptable words said in anger, frustration, or humor. Didn’t we all do that? Years later when I became a mother, I tempered my use of profanity. No one wants to hear a five-year-old swear like a sailor, mimicking his parents. 

An occasional slip of the tongue by my husband or me in front of the children was always followed by, “Daddy (or Mommy) is bad! That’s a bad word. We shouldn’t say those words.”  And when the kids occasionally slipped, they were reprimanded with, “You know you are not supposed to say that. Sit here by yourself for a bit and think about it.” 

Outside influences by other kids, on TV shows, and social media countered all parental teaching by spouting those “dirty words” without hesitation. It took a conscientious effort to ensure the kids avoided watching profanity filled shows then blurting out something inappropriate on the playground—or to their parents.  

Now that the kids have left the sheltered conversations of their youth and are adults, we are free to say whatever we are comfortable expressing and in whatever company. We have friends and acquaintances whose natural conversation is peppered with vulgarity. Then there are those who righteously declare, “I never swear.”  

Who cares? I say, chill. If is not a personal slight, or offensive toward any religion, race, ethnic group, disability, or provokes violence, then “Save it for the important things” as my mom used to say. 

In my seasoned years, when the bloom on the flowers is fading, I find myself reacting to different offensive words. My definition of senior profanity includes different “dirty words.” Forget the F word, the C word, the B word, and all the others designated by letters of the alphabet.  

When we get together with friends, the conversation always heads down a path to gloominess. All roads seem to lead to physical health, or lack of it. There is no escaping. A simple question, “How was your trip?” can quickly segue into, “My stomach didn’t agree with the food, and I had diarrhea the entire time. I couldn’t wait to get home.” An equally friendly inquiry such as, “How is the golf game going?” might result in a description of an injury, physical therapy, aches and pains, and medication. There is no safe topic for us oldies that does not lead to the dark side. 

I wonder if we can somehow put a curse on these curse words? 

I propose that these irreverent words leading to depressing thoughts be avoided for the good of the aging. Keep the talk about surgery, obituaries, funerals, heart attacks, sleep apnea, incontinence, and any mention of doctor’s appointments OUT. Keep the pacemakers, titanium joints, and insulin patches undercover. 

I am aware that it is easy and natural for us oldies to fall down this rabbit hole. During our third act of life, we all have some issues … but who wants to hear them? 

Can we just stick to retelling old jokes? Can we discuss the Hunger Games even though our friends might think these refer to the skimpy meal served at a new restaurant in town? Can we throw a handful of beaded bracelets on our wrists and pretend we are Swifties? Can we brag about seeing the Barbie movie and say it was KENough?  

Maybe we could talk about sex, but I doubt there is anything we haven’t said in the past half-century. 

If the conversation doesn’t come naturally, let’s just talk about the weather. At least then we can all agree that the forecasters usually get it wrong, and we can hope for sunny days ahead. When all else fails and someone mentions one of the newly defined “dirty words,” I recommend giving them a time-out or opening another bottle of wine to share, and giving a toast to all of us for making it this far. 

Suzi Schultz Gold is a native of San Diego, California, as was her father. Her entrepreneurial spirit, along with inherited restlessness, has led her down many paths. Though she has relished stints in retail, education, marketing, and travel, change is what drives her. She continues to grow and in retirement is trying to live in the moment—writing, reading, traveling, spending time with her children and grandchildren, and looking for new ventures and experiences.  

Zoomers

Ten Ideas I’m Glad to Let Go Of

Dirty Old Women

The post Dirty Words appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Despite being in my late 70s, I’ve been giving some thought lately to getting into local politics. Nothing too big or high-falutin like mayor or anything like that, more like running for a spot on the school board or a parks and recreation committee. I considered a city council position but decided it was above my pay grade.

Truth be told, the notion of running for any position is more than a little daunting. I am not a politician at heart and for the most part, despise them. Then there is the issue of my experience … or the lack of it. In my 77 years, I have had just one go at running for office, which was 64 years ago. Perhaps you will understand my reluctance to re-enter the political arena after you read my recap of how it all went back in 1959.

“Moss For Boss”

That catchy little slogan was what I came up with for my election campaign when I had the harebrained idea to run for President of the Student Council in 8th grade. A ludicrous notion at best. Let’s be frank, everybody knows that, historically, this position as well as the vice president and other officers are routinely held by the school’s brightest students. The brainiacs. And, in a lot of cases, the nerds. Cool guys didn’t care about student council and stuff like that. They did other things like play sports, chase girls, and thought a “C” average was perfectly alright.

When I think back now, the only reason I can come up with for running was to see if I could win. Perhaps I needed affirmation of my popularity. Or maybe it was because I was the only poor student in a household with three siblings who got nothing but As and Bs. Motivation aside, I wanted to win the election. So, run I did.

Luckily, my sister Pam, a talented artist, helped make me some nice-looking campaign materials. I put up posters everywhere and handed out flyers to anyone who would take one. I felt pretty good about my chances. I had to give a speech and became more apoplectic each day thinking about it until I had an epiphany: It dawned on me that I was a pretty good piano player—why stand up there on the stage like everyone else and deliver some boring speech? Play the piano and sing your speech!

Having committed to this novel idea I searched for just the right popular song. It was 1959, and Bobby Darin’s “Mack the Knife” was at the top of the charts. The song’s structure seemed perfect for parody lyrics. Short, little bite-size phrases I could make work. The first four bars of the tune told the whole story—who I was and what I was doing.

Here they are:

(Think “Mack the Knife” melody as your read them):

Oh my name is

Larry Moss, kids.

And I’m running

For President.

I can’t remember the other lyrics, but it doesn’t matter anyway because content was not the issue here. Style was. The element of surprise, the unexpected… that’s what it was all about. The other candidates—all way better students and more presidential than me—didn’t have a chance. My so-called speech blew the student body away. I won by a landslide. It was a resounding victory of sizzle over substance. The classic triumph of entertainment over academia. And, simply, fun over seriousness.

However, the sh_t was about to hit the fan. My first Student Council meeting was a total disaster. It was an out-of-control free-for-all. A complete fiasco. Who knew about parliamentary procedure and things like that? Certainly not me. But that was about to change in a big way.

After my first council meeting, the two teacher sponsors asked me to stay and talk with them for a moment. One of the teachers, in a nice way, told me how a meeting should be run. The other teacher suggested I resign and let the Mensa-level vice president take over.

Even though I didn’t really give a hoot about being President of the Student Council, I was not about to quit. No way. We worked out a compromise and before the council’s second meeting, I was given books on Robert’s Rules of Order and Standard Parliamentary Procedure.

They also suggested I run out and buy So, You Were Elected, a primer for clueless, newly elected young officials like me. I took the advice and books to heart and with the help of a crib sheet I used in every meeting, I made it through my term without being impeached or recalled.

Being President inadvertently landed me in the October 8, 1960 edition of the popular Saturday Evening Post. Sociologist Peter Wyden had written a book called, Suburbia’s Coddled Kids, and the Post ran an excerpt in the magazine. One blurb described his book this way, “This thoughtful, witty, disturbing study of suburbia examines the citizens of tomorrow in their present role as coddled, babied, and overindulged children.” Hmmm.

Anyway, my hometown was chosen as one of the suburbs doing plenty of coddling. The magazine conducted a photo shoot, and I was photographed walking down a beautiful tree-lined street in Highland Park with some other kids. It was pretty cool to see my picture in a national magazine.

The following year, the school election committee established a new rule prohibiting candidates from leaving the stage, singing, or playing any musical instrument. So, while my time in politics was brief, I have a political legacy. Perhaps I should leave well enough alone.

Larry Moss is a retired advertising creative director and jazz piano player. He recently published a memoir about how playing the piano played such an important role in his life.

Grandfatherly Wisdom: Advice to Emery

My Third Act—And The Music Plays On

That’s What Life is, Isn’t It?

The post Run? Or Run Away?    appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

We rode—my boyfriend and I—in a bouncy, two-door Toyota, destined for Thanksgiving dinner in Racine, Wis.

He did the driving. I was busy balancing our contribution to the big dinner on my knees. There, covered in foil, was a warm 9-by 12-inch pan brimming with Cajun-style sweet potatoes smothered in butter, orange juice, and maple syrup. It was a recipe my old friend Jane Peterson, the daughter of our hosts Sylvia and Willy Quadracci, gave me years ago. I still make these sweet potatoes, especially for new opportunities to tell this story.

As we cruised our way from Milwaukee to Racine, the smell was divine. With Jane and Sylvia—two of the finest cooks I’ve ever known—in charge, we knew this would be a mouthwatering Thanksgiving feast. The Quadraccis owned and operated Willy’s Sentry Food Store in Racine from the 1950s to 1993. Jane and I became good friends when we worked for competing newspapers in Madison, Wis., in the 1970s.

Jane loved to cater and took that role on for about 20 years, dubbing it Anything But Plain Jane after she and husband Jim returned to Racine. So many people asked for her recipes that she was prodded into writing a homespun, spiral-bound cookbook named after her catering business.

Her dad’s vintage quote in the cookbook is priceless: “You know the Kennedys have better houses than we do, drive better cars than we do, and wear better clothes than we do, but they don’t eat any better than we do.” There’s also a picture of Jane and Sylvia, arms around each other’s shoulders with the caption: “Me and ‘My Inspiration.’”

All that expertise in the kitchen turned this particular Thanksgiving into a new adventure and an honor—to be embraced by the Quadracci family in their home on Turkey Day with all the trimmings.

As we neared their home, we left the highway and were on a side street. At first, I didn’t notice when we took a particularly sharp turn. Suddenly, my pants felt warmer than the pan on my knees. Then I realized my thighs were also quite damp. Soon I knew they were very sticky and slippery, too.

When we pulled up to the Quadracci homestead, I rolled my eyes and could not imagine how this would—uh—pan out. I did not want to announce to everyone that I had wet my pants with butter, orange juice, and maple syrup.

Levelheaded Jane and always unflappable Sylvia shrugged nonchalantly. Sylvia slipped me into the laundry room where I removed my pants and undies. She found me replacements from her closet and dresser, handed them my way and started the washer.

“Yours will be clean and dry by the time you’re ready to leave,” Sylvia reassured in her inimitable, matter-of-fact way as she tossed my syrupy duds in her washer.

If anybody had told me I’d be eating Thanksgiving dinner in Sylvia’s pants, I never would have believed it. Yet, there I was, a welcome guest in this warm and inviting home, wearing the pants and underwear of the hostess.

And what a terrific feast it was. Turkey, of course, along with several dishes from Jane’s cookbook: Shredded potatoes smothered in butter and whipping cream, holiday peas done up with dry sherry and almonds, and a rich, spicy and smooth pumpkin pie with pecan topping. Even those jostled sweet potatoes were a hit.

When we prepared to leave, I retreated again to the laundry room where I slipped into my toasty warm, fresh-from-the-dryer duds. I laughed all the way home. That is one of the pleasures of sharing an experience with the Quadraccis—lots of hearty laughs.

This Thanksgiving memory is the peak of what I call my shenanigans with Sylvia. Who would think I’d leave a lovely dinner feeling satiated, and have warm buns to boot!

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.

Footnotes:

—For her 90^th birthday, I sent Sylvia Quadracci remembrances of this and other shenanigans we shared over the years. She passed away just a few months later.

—Jane Peterson, who wrote the Anything But Plain Jane Cookbook, still has copies available. If interested, send $20 (which includes postage) along with your address to Jane Q. Peterson, 11692 N. Via de la Verbenita, Oro Valley, AZ 85737-7291.

More from Annie Culver:

Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini

My Not So Quick Response to a Quick Response Code (QR) Future

Pull Dates—What our refrigerators can tell us about ourselves.

The post Thanksgiving Shenanigans appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

I give up! For somebody who’s in her advancing years, I still struggle and strive to cling to society’s niceties, but what do you get? Embarrassment and mortification!

My writing career has afforded me a few privileges that maybe I otherwise wouldn’t have been exposed to. I mean, like the opportunity to interview ‘people in high places.” Hence, I’ve wondered and scrutinized them as to why THEY were selected and not the rest of us. Believe me, we’re the lucky ones, for under all that hoopla, I sometimes can sense in them a loneliness, a longing to still be like one of us.

Experts claim that fame and power is an addiction and, just like any drug, one keeps hungering for his next fix, but is never satisfied. No, thank you, but after what happened to me a few years ago, I still wished I could have faded into oblivion. Funny, but that’s exactly what happened on that horrifying night.

Now looking back, unfortunately, I was invited to a classy affair at a highly affluent country club. Trust me, what these members pay alone in yearly dues I could live on for a year—or two. Hey, come to think of it, I practically do! Well, for this once-in-a-lifetime event, I wanted to be decked out in something “extraordinary.” You know, be a real stand-out, my attire a real eye-catcher. (My dear readers, please hold that thought.) An off-the-rack dress would never do and why? Because for this “one moment in time,” I was going to pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. How pathetic is that? I thought to myself, I’ve been hanging around those celebrities too long, for I’ve always advocated for people to be real and true to themselves. For now though, I shoved my fervent beliefs aside and off I went to a fashion designer to have an original made. I pored over hundreds of fabrics and finally settled on a rich brocade with an ice-blue print on a buttercream background. I tell ya, Queen Elizabeth should have had such exquisite taste.

What I thought would be a magical evening finally arrived. With confidence and with more excitement than should be allotted for a woman my age or any age, I entered the “by invitation only” sanctuary. I don’t know what made me do a little twirl with what space the overflowing room allowed me, but in that very instant had I become living proof of that quote that summarizes what happens when people grow older—“Once a man, (woman) twice a little boy (girl).” It served me right that the halfway spin left me woozy, both from my exuberance and the possibility of my being the best-dressed female on the floor. Forget it. I was the best-dressed one in the room, so I sent up a quick prayer that I must remain modest and humble, like suddenly there would be a need? God give me strength, for right before my horrifying eyes, I saw it! And now I wasn’t quivering from excitement, I was trembling from mortification. Oh no, it couldn’t be! Certainly, my disbelieving eyes weren’t seeing what I THOUGHT I was seeing. How could the fates be so cruel? What unforgivable sin had I ever committed to deserve this? Well, I have pulled a few boners—the “stupid mistake” definition not the other one)  but I’ve never spent more than three minutes tops in the confessional, so how sinful could I really be? Just take a deep breath, I told myself, in and out, in and out, and when I plopped myself down on the rich brocade, overstuffed couch with an ice-blue print on a buttercream background, I completely disappeared! You guessed it, that damn couch was upholstered in the EXACT same material as my beautiful “original” gown! I wondered if I could sue both the designer and the upholsterer for mental anguish. What, fashion designers and couch upholsterers never check with one another? There oughta be a law. Did I have grounds to sue for mental anguish?

‘You’re better off staying put and not breathing,’ I told myself. ‘They’ll never see that you’re here.’ Tell me, what would you have thought had you walked into a formal affair and saw a reserved-looking man sitting on some horrified-looking older woman’s lap? Please keep it to yourself. Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?

Karen White-Walker is a published writer and playwright. Her stories have appeared in numerous newspapers and magazines, and eight of her plays have been produced. “I’m most comfortable writing articles about and for senior citizens,” she says, “because being one myself, I know of the trials, frustrations, and the feelings of accomplishment that make us who we are today—a feisty bunch!” If you want to read more of her light, humorous and uplifting articles, go to medium.com@karenwhitewalker and hit follower.

Read More by Karen White-Walker:

Pedaling in Rome Means Peddling in Pain

A Woman of Many Colors

The post Embarrassment and Mortification—Don’t Do This If You Wish to Be Noticed appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

The first time I eyeballed a QR (short for quick response) code, I tried to decipher it like a palm reader might. Maybe I should’ve thrown up my arms then, instead of riding out the evolution until now.

In those early days, I was fascinated that a little square code could take me places for useful information. One exception—the foolishness of restaurant QR codes once COVID became less threatening. Real menus enhance the experience of the full meal deal. The QR code was developed 30 years ago by a Japanese engineer who worked for a subsidiary of Toyota. His goal was to track auto parts in the assembly process.

Fast forward to 2024, when a group of befuddled folks in a parking area under a Seattle medical building are scrunching their noses, phones in hand, as they try to figure out why they need a QR code to register their vehicles before they can see a doctor. Some don’t even have a wireless connection beneath the building. Many give up and shrug, hop on elevators, and head upstairs to be met by medical receptionists who point to a computer so we can register our presence.

The computer prompts patients to insert drivers’ licenses and insurance cards. After that comes a screen boasting a litany of release forms that had been texted to my phone for advance check-in. Several were so long on legalese and small print that I chose not to address them.

Sheepishly, I ask for help from one of the uninterested receptionists. This is an eye doctor appointment. Why the fine print? One receptionist walks around to where I stand. He doesn’t read what’s on the computer, only gives me the gist of each subject area, then points to where I need to click to sign each one. What’s all this legal mumbo-jumbo I’d just signed?

By now I’m late for my appointment, even though I arrived at the building 20 minutes early. Good thing blood pressure checks aren’t part of eye exams.

I complain to my eye doctor—one I’ve seen at this location for nearly 20 years—about all the new tech insanity. His response?

“We’re trying to save on cost,” he says. “But when you leave, as long as you have a credit card, just veer to the left and someone will take your payment for parking.”

“How will they know how long I’ve been here?” I ask.

“They photograph your license plate when you come in,” he says.

“Then what’s up with QR code antics?”

He shrugs much like the rest of us did in the parking garage. Are businesses killing themselves with technology to cut costs? I thought QR codes were created to provide information, not to replace people.

“Can I pay less for parking given all the time I’ve been here?”

“Good luck with that,” the doc says with a chuckle as he leaves the examining room.

By the time I’ve gone through all the rigamarole, I’d been there well over two hours.

As suggested, I drive out to the left where I get a handwritten slip of paper for $11.99—a suspiciously odd amount for parking—from a woman in an exit booth. The gate goes up.

Wait, this tale has a glimmer of hope!

The next day, I’m able to grab a familiar card that opens a parking gate and cruise into a garage for yet another Seattle doc appointment, one with my primary care physician.

Big signs on the walls just inside the entrance beckon, “PARKING FOR SENIORS.” While there’s not always an empty spot, I luck out, slip into a senior space, and catch an elevator.

With numerous people working the clinic reception area, the wait is only a few minutes before an employee, standing or sitting, waves with a smile to come his or her way.

No long forms to sign and no computer interactions. They scan IDs. The conversation is animated and congenial. One of the seated receptionists is a hoot, with a work area decorated in playful slogans, greeting cards, and tchotchkes all in tune with the season. She’s such a crack-up, my fears about the loss of human connection in the not-too-distant future melts away. I even had low blood pressure that day.

When I depart, the man in the booth who takes my parking card says he heard the horrors of QR code parking nearby. We both grimace, then laugh, as he hands me a printed $8 receipt and then raises the gate.

On the drive home, I thought about Dinah Washington as I tried to hum “What a Diff’rence a Day Makes.”

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.

More by Annie Culver:

Pull Dates—What our refrigerators can tell us about ourselves.

Read My Lip Prints

Garage Sale Treasure Hunting

Garage Sale Treasure Hunting

The post My Not So Quick Response to a Quick Response Code (QR) Future appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

I loathe being considered a member of the “Baby Boomer” generation. It is a stupid, vapid, obnoxious label. The epithet should have been laid to rest decades ago. In addition, it has become a term of derision for the millennials and their cohorts. What we actually are is the first rock n’ rollers, or FRRs.

Baby Boomers describes our parents, not us. We were the boomed, they were the boomers. Thus, Baby Boomer is a tag better suited to them acknowledging the surge of births as servicemen and women returned home after World War II. The “Greatest Warrior” generation became the greatest baby makers, and they deserve the credit for both of these gargantuan accomplishments. It is time to award them the double title.

Others have said I am being picky about this. If you actually think that you are obviously not one of us. Baby Boomer ranks right up there with being called “The Cabbage Patch Kid” generation.

Rock ‘n roll and my generation grew up together, that is part of why we loved it so intensely. We were there at the beginning with Bill Haley and the Comets, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Buddy Holly, and Jerry Lee Lewis. Elvis, of course, was the original “King” but once he stopped shaking his hips and strayed into Las Vegas, he became a mere shadow of past royalty. We survived “The Day the Music Died” when we lost The Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, and Richie Valens in one plane crash. And we keep on “Rockin’ in The Free World” into our old age. In the beginning, it was just us and rock. This music became the equivalent of Native American drumming and chanting forming us into a tribe. For any newly emerging teenager in the 1950s, membership in the tribe required love of rock. We created each other. My childhood interest in baseball cards and plastic model cars dissolved Christmas morning in the fifth grade when I received a new hi-fi record player and two 45 RPM records by Buddy Holly and Jerry Lee. I was quite impressed that my parents even knew what to buy until a cousin revealed they had consulted him.

Rock n’ roll defined us. Every change in recording stars or music styles reverberated with likes and dislikes, allies and opponents, new tribes and old. But rock was ours, only ours. Adults were in charge of school, homework, food, chores, clothing, and all the other boring stuff. Rock was the only thing they did not control. When they loudly complained they could not understand the words, we considered that a good thing.

One Saturday afternoon I came home after hanging out with friends and found my father playing his new Perry Como album on my hi-fi. OMG, the sappiest of the sappy, the most old-fashioned of all, a sacrilege was being perpetrated. The words were perfectly understandable and utterly gross. I contained my horror, but was so afraid it would corrupt the sound that I washed the player with bleach as soon as he wasn’t looking.

Most of us have remained loyal to our music, especially Classic Rock, and expect to remain so no matter what succeeding generations create. We ignored disco as it came and went. Rap mostly revolted us before any of us listened. I explained to one of my sons who was partial to rap that Dylan’s, “Talkin’ World War III Blues,” was really the first rap song. He just rolled his eyes like I did when my father tried to get me to listen to Perry Como. The older generation could have their music and the younger generation can have theirs. Rock, real rock, is ours. My favorite invention of the later part of the 1990s were earbuds and headphones so my kids could listen in private and stop annoying me with it.

It seemed, briefly, that there was hope for a younger generation. Almost 10 years ago I was driving with my granddaughter who asked me if I’d ever heard of Bob Dylan or Neil Young, who she had listened to with a friend’s father and thought they were great. I almost drove off the road as I expressed my love for both musicians and her. For a long time, we had a relationship that revolved around music. Unfortunately, her favorites became something called dubstep or EDM (Electronic Dance Music). Both of which I hated. But that sort of makes the point. Rock is ours. If you like the music your grandfather listens to, it is a betrayal of your tribe. The
Gen-whatevers are mostly fine people and can enjoy their music as they please. But ROCK IS OURS. We were the first rock n’ rollers. We still are. I bet our BFF Keith Richards would agree.

C. Graham Campbell, PhD, is a 75-year-old late-blooming author. He has explored the human psyche and soul as a psychologist for more than 40 years in central Massachusetts. Now retired, he spends most of his time meditating, writing, and as a nature photographer. He freely admits that his work can get a tad snarky. 

The post The First Rock n’ Rollers appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.

Turns out her ecstasy came from finding the perfect place for her husband and herself to be buried. (They’re both very much alive, albeit in their 80s.)

The lilt in her voice had a giddiness about it. Somehow, as the two of them found their way through the many options, this tough undertaking shaped into a joyous glimpse of their hereafter.

They purchased their plots and gravestones at the same time because they wanted to be sure of the location as well as the way the headstones were crafted. Headstones bought at different times might mean they wouldn’t match, she said.

They also hoped to be buried near as many family members as possible, which meant one sad compromise. They’d be buried near a freeway—an artistic sacrifice they were willing to make.

“Uh, you won’t be able to hear the traffic noise,” I said.

“Those who visit us might, though,” she replied.

They decided they wanted to be buried in biodegradable baskets, but a body in a basket can only be unrefrigerated for six hours. That means caskets for their funerals, then transferring their bodies to the baskets for burial. And baskets? Unlike caskets, much deeper holes are required to protect baskets from animal invasions.

The palpable relief in her voice—to have all this plotted out, pun intended—was ethereal, but she shared a warning. Some men, she said, are very sensitive when it comes to discussions about death.

“I really am not afraid of death. My fear is living too long!” she said with a laugh, then added, “What are you two going to do, anyway?”

“We want to be cremated,” I told her.

“Cremated? Wonderful! Then your ashes could be buried in biodegradable boxes to rest on our baskets or what’s left of them. We’ll have room for three boxes of ashes on each basket. How cool that would be!”

That got me thinking. Although she and her husband are great friends, do we want our ashes down under on their baskets—or on anybody else’s, for that matter? Our parents, perhaps? Not in the cards for me. My father was cremated and his ashes were scattered from a plane over Lake Michigan. My mother is buried on a lovely plot that unfortunately is under the flight path to Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. I’ve only a few cousins and high school cronies left in the Chicago area. Most deceased members of Howie’s family are buried in Lewis County, Washington.

My friend’s delight to have so much planned ahead of time was contagious. How many urns or biodegradable boxes would we want? Before selecting the perfect urns, boxes, or settings for our ashes, I found online Mary Anne Vance, a savvy Seattle elder law attorney, who shares other options for these difficult decisions.

Some, for example, might want to consider organ donation or a Willed Body Program at a university to help educate medical professionals of the future.

Deciding about someone’s remains has political and environmental implications as well. Skipping the flame is a big part of that. Alkaline hydrolysis, sometimes called water cremation, has less environmental impact because it takes less energy and eliminates direct emissions of greenhouse gases or metals, Vance notes. She also mentions green burials that return bodies to natural burial grounds, such as one owned by White Eagle Memorial Preserve, a nonprofit in Goldendale, Wash.

Climate change has an urgency that continues to create new alternatives. A Seattle firm called Recompose is a licensed funeral home that does human composting to transform bodies into nutrient-rich soil to give to loved ones. Recompose even schedules both small, in-person and virtual guided tours, according to its website.

As a newspaper reporter in the 1970s, I wrote about a suggestion to purchase your own coffin—one with a flat top—when you’re young and healthy. Give it life as a living-room coffee table to help warm up to the notion of your own passing. Funeral directors I interviewed said there weren’t many requests for coffins without funerals, but they liked the idea.

Who would’ve fathomed that coffins might soon become relics of yesteryear?

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.

Read more of Annie Culver’s take on life’s absurdities here.

The post The (Burial) Plot Thickens appeared first on 3rd Act Magazine.