The Old Coot got a package. Published 08/06/2025

 The Old Coot gets a package.

By Merlin Lessler

 I went out the door the other morning and noticed a package lying on the porch steps. I said to myself, “I wonder what I’ve ordered this time?” But it wasn’t for me; it was for the second-floor tenant. I was relieved; I didn’t remember ordering anything, but I never do since I order stuff online all the like time that I can’t get in a store. So, when it shows up; it’s a surprise!  

Our family hardly ever got a package when I was a kid in the 1950’s. We could buy anything we needed in town. If we couldn’t; we didn’t get it. My sister and I got a Christmas package every year from our aunt in New Haven, Connecticut. It always contained two pairs of knitted mittens. I still remember how cold my wrists felt when I wore them outside to sled ride, build snow forts, shovel the driveway and have snowball fights. The mittens just covered my hands, never making it to my wrists. Red wrists were with me through most of the winter.  

It didn’t cost very much to send a package back then. 1st class mail was three cents an ounce; it had been that since the 1930’s. A one-pound package cost less than fifty cents. Today it costs over $10. Even so, a package on the porch back then, really got a big, “Wow,” from us. A rare treat.  

An even rarer event back then, was a long-distance phone call. It was expensive! When our aunt in New Haven called, my mother immediately turned to me and told me to be quiet, “Shut up! This is a long-distance call!” I would run outside to brag to my friends that we had a long-distance call. It cost $3.70 for three minutes in 1950, a dollar more than the monthly bill for our “two-party” line. Now, a long-distance call is a no brainer since most cell phone plans include it for free.

That cheap cost to mail a package in the 1950’s doesn’t seem like such a big deal to me since I’m an Amazon Prime member, where postage is “free,” if you don’t count the annual membership cost. I rather not be a “Prime” member; I want to go to stores to buy things, but that option has virtually disappeared. Postage on Prime is “ho-hum,” just like a long distance phone call on my cell phone. I probably do too much of both!

The Old Coot ain't a real man. Published 7/30/2025 in NY papers.

 The Old Coot isn’t “real.”

By Merlin Lessler

Real men don’t cry, not when John Wayne was king anyhow. Maybe real men do cry once in a while, but they try not to. Here’s an acid test to see if you are a real man. “Do you cut a sandwich in half, or eat it whole with one hand?” Another one is, “Real men love hotdogs.” Someone might object, “Do you know what hot dogs are made of?” Real men say they don’t care; they like them. Fine dining for a real man is ordering a deluxe hamburger with all the fixings and double onions. Real men drink coffee, not lattes. Real men wear work boots, even with shorts. High fashion is wearing a pair of jeans with a Levis or Wrangler tag.

Meat is their go to health food. It makes perfect sense. Meat comes from animals that are vegetarians. For real men, a luxury vehicle is a four-door pickup truck. Real men don’t let on that they can play the piano or admit they like some of Taylor Swift’s songs. Real men never leave a partially, full glass of beer behind when they leave a bar. Old coots like me, like to pretend we are real men, but it’s hard to live up to the image when you go around with your shirt on inside out and a pair of glasses on top of your head asking if anyone has seen your glasses.

Real men don’t complain about things; they fix them. Old coots just complain. Real men live life in the present; old coots go on and on about the good old days. Especially the ones when they thought they were real men. Now we’re just plain old men, ordering hotdogs whenever we get the chance. With mustard, never ketchup. Ketchup goes on hamburgers. We used to think McDonald’s was crazy, putting both mustard and ketchup on a burger. We’d scrape off the mustard. Now, we don’t care; we’re not real men.

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot has 2 memory issues. Published July 23, 2025 in NY papers.

 The Old Coot has a double memory problem.

By Merlin Lessler

I have a pretty good memory (for an old coot). My big issue is coming up with the name of someone I haven’t seen for a while. Especially, if it’s been a long while. I tried to fix that issue some 20 years ago, by keeping a list of everyone I met, with a description to jog my memory - “Joe, the guy who is a close talker (gets right in your face when you have a conversation). Or “Sarah, the life coach from Ithaca who comes to coffee once or twice a year, eavesdrops on our conversation and chuckles.” That’s what my list of names looks like. I keep it in a notebook, but also on my cell phone in the pictures App. If I run into someone I haven’t seen for years, I fake it, “Hi Governor,” or “Hi Kid.” Then, the first chance I get, I look up their name while the encounter is fresh in mind.

The memory problem I’ve never solved has been with me all my adult life - remembering the name of someone I meet for the first time. They say their name; I say nice to meet you, and their name immediately flies out of my head. I have no idea if it was Lynn, Lisa or Laura. At best, I’ll remember the first letter of their name.   

I have another memory problem; it’s not in my head, it’s in my feet; in the things on my feet to be exact – sneakers with memory foam. Like a lot of old coots, I no longer have a spring in my step. My foot goes clunk, clunk, clunk. A splat with every step, making it more of an effort to walk than when I was younger. But, it’s not much of a problem with shoes made with a memory foam cushion. My stride approaches that of a normal person, just slower. I now have discovered that the memory foam is losing its memory - in two different pairs of sneakers. They are only a few years old, but memory senility has begun to set in. I’m left with a memory problem on top (in my head) and on the bottom (in my feet). The latter issue is easy to fix, buy new sneakers. I would like to, if only the memory on top would remind me.   

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

The Old Coot has street people friends. Published in NY on July 13, 2025

 The Old Coot has “Street People” friends.

By Merlin Lessler

I have “Street People” friends. I don’t know the names of most of them. You pass each other a few times, nod hello and progress to “Good morning, Nice day, isn’t it.” You don’t need to know each other’s name, their bio or anything else. You walk, and are happy to see they are still around. It’s a “hello and a comment,” type of encounter where you respect each other’s privacy beyond that.

These Street People Friends pop up all over the place. The contact is life-enriching. I have them in our village in New York where I reside much of the time; in our neighborhood in Florida, on the beach, in coffee shops and other places where repeated encounters take place.

One thing I noticed, early on in the Street People friendship world, was that young people don’t readily engage in this exchange, for the most part. They walk past as though you are invisible if you are a senior or a really old coot like me. It won’t change unless you force the issue, which my friend Scotty in Florida is a master at. He says he’s not satisfied until he reaches 50 greeting exchanges a day - “Hi” or “Good Morning” or whatever greeting is appropriate when he’s out walking, biking, jogging or at the beach surfing. It’s so easy, just do it and you can break the barrier between the young people’s world and the old coot world.

It's kind of amazing how many people you run into on a regular basis “on the street.” Move to a new town or neighborhood and walk or circulate on a semi-regular basis (coffee shops for me) and soon enough you won’t feel like a stranger. Just say, “Hi! How are you doing today?” and move on. You’ll never live in isolation again. You’ll have Street People friends.

The Old Coot slogs through wet lawn clumps. Published 07/09/2025 (Owego Pennysaver, Tioga County Courier)

 The Old Coot teaches etiquette.

By Merlin Lessler

This is Old Coot article # 1,138. It’s the first time I’ve written about lawn care etiquette. But the time has come.

Etiquette #1. I bring home chunks of wadded up, soggy, freshly mown grass about every time I take a stroll through town. From people who spew lawn clippings all over the sidewalk and leave them there! All it takes, is to run the mower down the sidewalk and back – Presto! No grass left to be tracked home by the rest of us.

Etiquette #2. Stop! Hold your horses for a few short moments when you are mowing anywhere near someone on the sidewalk. That rotating blade is a lethal, projectile launching machine. My neighbor had her shoulder blown apart from a piece of bone a dog left on the lawn; it was hurled from a mower her husband was operating thirty feet from her. Dog bone, rock, tree root, it could be anything hidden in the grass. The tip of that mower is a powerhouse, with a tip speed of 130 to 270 miles per hour. It’s a serious threat to someone walking by or a child playing in the yard. So, when someone is near, take a pause, stand still. You don’t even have to shut off your mower. Do the same thing with a leaf blower. You’ll almost always get a thank you wave from a sidewalk traveler.  

Etiquette # 3. Mow before your yard looks like a cow pasture. Enough said.

Etiquette #4. Every once in a while, take a look at those shrubs growing alongside your sidewalk, to see if the branches project into the walking space. If you don’t, they will infringe into the pedestrian lane. It’s no fun pawing through shrubs and branches and getting a slap in the face or a sharp stick in the eye. I’ve trimmed a few bushes that were out of control for months that the owner never did anything about. I’ve had one sharp stick in the eye; I don’t ever want to go through that again. And I don’t want to carry snippers with me when I take a walk.  

In summary, blow the grass off the sidewalk – stop when people are near – don’t create a cow pasture – trim the shrubs. It’s just plain, simple lawn care etiquette.  

Send comments or complaints to the paper, or to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is a bicycle rule breaker. Published in NY on July 2, 2025

 The Old Coot goes the wrong way.

By Merlin Lessler

 I first aired this confession nearly 15 years ago. Nothing has changed. I’m still a criminal! Still socially incorrect! A criminal, because I often ride my bike on the wrong side of the road or on the sidewalk. Socially incorrect, because I don’t wear a helmet. Half the pleasure of riding a bike is to be outside with nature, moseying along, enjoying the scenery with the wind blowing through your hair, or what’s left of it. I grew up in a helmetless world – climbing trees, playing football, baseball and yes, riding bikes and soap box racers down hills and through sharp curves without head protection. All kids did. Our mothers said good-bye as we charged out the back door to play and then added, “Watch your head.” And we did! We learned to duck; we learned to take the brunt of a fall on our shoulder, not our head. Besides, protecting one’s head is a survival instinct built into the human genetic code. It’s one of the reasons our species has survived for eons. 

 I often don’t ride with the flow of traffic as required by Section 1234 (A) of the NYS Vehicle and Traffic law. I ride facing traffic when the chances of a sneak attack from the rear by a distracted driver is likely. It’s criminal behavior today, but my whole generation was taught, to face traffic when walking or biking. And for good reason! You can see what’s coming and save your life. But bikers and in-line skaters are no longer allowed to do this in New York State. The authors of the vehicle and traffic law claim that bicycling and skating against traffic are the leading cause of crashes. Pure hogwash! Nearly all bicyclers and pedestrians hit by vehicles, get it from behind. These cockamamie laws and opinions come from state bureaucrats and legislators who haven’t ridden a bike along a public road in decades, if ever. Most of them grew up in New York City. Us outlaw bikers know better. Facing traffic saves lives. It’s the cyclists that follow the rules that get run down by errant drivers.

 My crowd of criminal and socially incorrect bicycle riders are easy to spot. We’re the people in street clothes, not spandex ballet outfits. We are bareheaded, making our way at a leisurely pace on inexpensive bikes, enjoying the fresh air, the scenery and low-level exercise on a vehicle that weighs three times as much as the helmeted speedsters on two wheels who pass us. They stop for red lights, even with no cars in sight. We look both ways and go through red lights. We ride on sidewalks when the road is too dangerous (mindful of pedestrians) and follow our survival instincts, rather than the vehicle and traffic laws. Join us in our civil disobedience. You’ll be a lot safer! And have more fun! (You don’t even have to be an old coot)

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot's ego is in Jeopardy. Published in Tioga Co. Courier and Owego Pennysaver. on June 25, 2025

 The Old Coot can’t get the answer, fast enough.

By Merlin Lessler

I don’t know if you’re a fan or not of “Jeopardy,” the quiz show where your answer has to be in the form of a question, but I am, to a degree. That rule was strictly adhered to; contestants often spit out the correct answer, but not in the form of a question; the response wasn’t accepted. The rule has gradually eroded over the years: the host will look at the responder in a questioning manner, giving them a second or two to realize their error, and to restate it the proper form.

All well and good, that format was a gimmick that worked. The show has been on the air since 1964 with a few gaps in that long string of time. I started watching it when Art Fleming was the host and it aired during the noon hour, when I was often at home for lunch. I could get a few dozen answers before a contestant beat me to the punch. Over time, the questions got harder, the contestants got smarter, and I got dumber and slower. I now rarely blurt out the correct answer before they do, and I do a lot of blurting, mostly in error.

My recollection reflex is compromised. The people on the show are just too quick, cheating me of the opportunity to puff up my ego. The only way I might have a chance of shouting out a correct answer before they spoil things for me, is to DVR  the show and when I watch it, pause it right after the question is asked, giving me a minute to dig a response out of the cobwebs in my brain. Then, forward the recording, to see if I was right.

I haven’t resorted to that solution yet. Maybe I never will. It just seems like too much of an effort. So, for now, I’ll sit back with a dunce cap on my head and call it a victory if I get one correct answer before the brainiacs cut me off at the pass.