The Old Coot engineers a solution. Published 1/1/25

 The Old Coot engineers a solution.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m not an engineer. At least not with a four year degree. I’m missing some credit hours. But, I am an “engineer,” with a small “e.”  A lot of people are. Engineering is mostly a mindset, the ability to puzzle things out. A technical degree provides a deeper knowledge to work with; you need it to design a bridge or an electronic circuit. But for a lot of other tricky issues in life, you just need the engineering mind-set.

That’s a lot of blah, blah to get me to the point – My greatest engineering accomplishment! It took place four years ago when I had a severe reaction to the cholesterol medicine I’d been on for years. I started to lose strength in my arms and legs, and didn’t really notice until the day I had trouble getting up a single stair. It’s all behind me now, the cause determined and eliminated; my strength is back to normal. (An 82-year old normal)

When I was in that weakened state, I had to use the full spectrum of my engineering ability to deal with it. Especially if I fell or slipped to the ground. I became that “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” person. I slipped down several times, when I was out on my own getting into the car. Once it was the garbage man who picked me up. Another time, it was a nice couple in a grocery store parking lot. The last time, it was a guy in a pick-up truck. I changed my technique; I started backing into the car seat, instead of stepping up and in. Duh! Took me long enough to figure that one out. Some engineer!   

My real concern was getting off the floor at home. Even when my wife was with me we sometimes had to get a friend to help. We went to a physical therapy center to see if there was a technique we could use. We spent an hour going through a laundry list of commonly used techniques. Nothing worked. I was too weak. I was determined to come up with a solution. I spent one whole night in a recliner chair, straining my brain to find a solution. Thinking, dozing, dreaming. That’s when I made my greatest engineering feat. I had a plan.

Now, to try it out. I asked my wife to get a small cooler from the garage. She looked at me like I was nuts. I get that a lot. The cooler was narrow, 6 inches high when it was placed on its side. I got down on the floor; I still had enough arm strength to crawl over to it. I slid it next to a lounge chair in the living room and was strong enough to sit up on the floor and up on it. From there, I pushed up another six inches and sat on the chair. It was too low for me to gain my feet, but the chair next to it, on four inch risers, was not. I slid across the first chair and up onto the second. From there I got to my feet. I was so proud of myself. I’d regained my freedom. No more, “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” I could be left home alone; my wife got her freedom too. It was my greatest engineering feat ever!

The Old Coot needs a stunt-man double. Published 12/25/024

 The Old Coot needs a stunt man.

By Merlin Lessler

I was in the Daytona State College Phys/Ed locker room the other day. I swung my leg over the bench in front of my locker. I didn’t lift it high enough, and stumbled but caught myself before I could fall. That’s one of the problems of being an old coot – you make what seems like the same effort you always made to do something (picking up my leg, in this case) and the result isn’t the same as it once was. Hence, me stumbling over the locker room bench.

Things like that don’t go unnoticed. Jeff, a fellow lap swimmer, said I looked like Kramer on Seinfeld, who is always stumbling around making some spectacular staggers. He wondered out loud if Kramer used a stunt double on the show. (He didn’t according to Google) Jeff’s comment got me thinking. That’s what I need, a stunt double. To get me safely through the day. Doing ordinary things that I’m no longer adept at. – Like stepping over something without tripping. My day would go so much smoother and be anxiety free. Like when I swing my leg over the back wheel to get off my bicycle; it sometimes catches on the tire and sends me reeling in a backwards stumble. I’ve only fallen once doing this and that was more than ten years ago when I was a young old coot. Since then, I take great care getting off my bike, but if I had a stunt double, I could hop off with ease.

I could pop up and out of the swimming pool, save myself the trouble of sloshing to the stairs at the other end of the pool. My double could climb a step ladder to change a light bulb in an overhead fixture. Or, reach down to pick up a quarter off the ground. Old coots like me drop stuff all the time, not just money. I could employ a stunt man on a full time basis to bend down and pick things up.

My wife would love it if he stood in for me when I have coffee with the boys or dine on a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Then I wouldn’t come home wearing a shirt splattered with stains. But I like Italian food too much to use a stand-in. You can only go so far with this stunt double stuff.       

 

 

The Old Coot and cardboard boxes equal's fun. (Published December 11, 2024)

 The Old Coot + a cardboard box = fun.

By Merlin Lessler

 

A recent “Family Circus” comic strip pictured 2 kids and a dog hanging around a huge cardboard box. The caption said, “Mommy got a new washer, and we got a new clubhouse.” It reminded me of the day my mother got her new AUTOMATIC washing machine; it was in the early 1950’s. It was a big day at our house. That dinged up old ringer washer was moved aside, and a sparkling new Maytag took its place; it was connected to the faucets in the nearby stationary sink that she used to soak clothes in to start her usual cleaning process. My mother didn’t trust the new machine that hid what it was doing under the lid, so she continued to soak everything before loading it into the Maytag. She even continued to use the scrub board and bar of yellow soap to remove the grass stains on the knees of my jeans, which we called dungarees in those days. Jeans were what girls wore.

 

My sister and I garnered the box and turned it into a club house. My friend, Woody, and I added a “No girls allowed,” sign on the flap and took possession. First, in the basement and then outside. We used it to slide down the steep, snow covered hill in my backyard. Cardboard was quite durable in those days, much more rugged than it is now. That box stayed intact for weeks, getting soggy, but maintaining its size and shape as it dried out on the back porch, awaiting the next snowfall.

 

Eventually, we cut it into 4 pieces, giving us 4 sleds so some neighborhood kids could join us. It didn’t take much to entertain kids in those pre-TV days. We spent most of our free time outside. Through snow, sleet, rain and the dark of night. We would have made excellent postal carriers.

 

Those old cardboard boxes added to our supply of toys shared in the neighborhood: stilts, pogo sticks, trikes & bikes, sleds, balls, bats & gloves and roller skates. If we didn’t have the right equipment, we borrowed it, sometimes without asking. It was a bonanza era for cardboard boxes; ringer washers were replaced by automatics, old gas stoves with new electric ones and ice boxes replaced by electric refrigerators. The recycling was handled by us kids, using, and wearing out all those boxes. We cut the scraps into small squares and fastened them to the fender braces on our bikes with a clothes pin to make a motorized sound. Sociologists should refer to the span of time between the end of World War ll and the 1960’s as the cardboard box era. I’m so glad I was there.

 

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The Old Coot likes knobs and switches. Published November 4, 2024 - Tioga County Courier

 The Old Coot cheers the change.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s been 20+ years in the coming, but knobs, sliders, switches and other physical controls are making a comeback in automobile design. If you’re less than 30 years old, you’ll wonder what I’m talking about. Let me explain. You could once control most functions behind the wheel, blindfolded. Want more heat? Reach over to the slider switch and move it to the right.  Need the fan to blow harder? Turn the knob next to the slider switch. You didn’t have to see it. You could feel it. No touch screen to distract you from keeping your eyes on the road.

Those screens cause more accidents than cell phones. That’s my take anyhow. It’s the same thing with household appliances. Printed circuit boards and touch screens dominate the landscape. I can’t even change the clock on our Samsung range without downloading an App and connecting to the brain (artificial intelligence) inside the unit. I won’t get into our washing machine. Another nightmare that decides I can’t change water temperature in a preset mode. I’m too stupid to be allowed that freedom. A/I has pushed my wants aside.

Get in a strange car? Good luck finding out how to control things. Every smart screen is different and uses symbols that are old coot, un-friendly. I can’t even get it right on an elevator when I try to press the “shut the door” button. Car manuals are now used more than ever. I guess you can read it while driving. Not any more dangerous than reaching over and drilling down through a menu on a touch screen. A screen that is getting bigger and bigger and probably will eventually replace the windshield entirely. Pushing us further into a virtual world.  

All is not lost. Some auto manufacturers have figured out that touch screens aren’t cutting edge anymore. Tesla and VW are leading the pack, and starting to add knobs and switches for commonly used functions. They had to hire designers that didn’t grow up playing video games and using touch screens. They hired some old coots to guide them to a new/old future. A safer one!

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The Old Coot reads in pieces. Published in New York, November 27, 2024

 The Old Coot reads in chunks.

By Merlin Lessler 

I started re-reading a book that I first read in 2018 – “The Shipping News,” by E. Annie Proulx. A nice read! 9.9 on a 1 to 10 scale. I learned many years ago, I could re-read a book after five years and most of it would seem new, as though I never read it.

This re-read was especially nice since the binding came apart and the book split into six sections. I like that. I could shove a section into my back pocket and pull it out whenever I had time to kill. I read four sections when I was in Florida and the last two, in New York. I loved that I didn’t have to lug a 337 page book in my, always too full carry on, when I flew home. 

I’d love it if publishers would get a little innovative, and put out some books that break into manageable sections. Easy to hold over your head in a hammock or a recliner, unlike one of James Michner’s or Stephen King’s 900 pagers. King got innovative in 1996 and published “The Green Mile” in sections, releasing a new 100 page pocket book every month for six months. He was writing it as he went along, not even knowing himself how it was going to end. For half a year, he wrote and then published. The first five sections were about 100 pages long, the last, 140 pages. What a great way to read a story. I recently re-read it, 28 years later, this time with the image and sound of Tom Hanks voice, who starred in the movie. What a delight. I was on a river cruise on the Rhine and stuck a section in my pocket to read whenever the tour guide overdid the blah, blah.

I’m a reader, hard and soft covers, new and used, Kindle books and once in a while an audio book. The best one of that ilk was, “Pontoon,” a novel of Lake Wobegon, read by the author, Garrison Keillor. What a treat. All well and good, but the section books are the most convenient to carry around. I think I’ll start buying cheap, used books and break them into sections I can roll up and carry in my back pocket. I can get away with doing that, because I’m an Old Coot, which allows me a lot of freedom to do my own thing. Like the Hippies from the generation I grew up in.

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The Old Coot is more than sorry. Article # 1105 Published in New York State 11/20/2024

 The Old Coot is sorry (and thankful).

By Merlin Lessler

 One of the downsides of being an old coot, is that you have to apologize. All the time! I spill stuff, just not on myself, but on my surroundings and people within range. Or, when I forget to be someplace or do something, like dropping a letter in the mailbox at the post office in a timely manner, instead of driving it around for three days. Or worse, I talk too much about the good old days and the stuff I used to do. Like that afternoon in my 30’s when I finally was able to run a mile in six minutes. (My one and only time, and it nearly killed me). Yet, I’m still inserting it into conversations fifty years later.  

After a while you discover that just saying, “I’m sorry,” doesn’t quite do the job with the person you insulted, spilled something on or otherwise offended. You say, “I’m sorry.” They frown at you and say, “Whatever!” You need a follow up to your lame, “I’m sorry.” I learned the lesson the hard way. It was at a reception my company was holding for a U.S. senator. I spilled a glass of red wine down the front of his immaculate bright white shirt. Our CEO was next to him when the accident occurred, glaring at me while I apologized profusely. The senator turned to him and said, “Give the kid a break; somebody hit his elbow.” (A lie.) Bottom line. I didn’t get fired. A good thing! I had two daughters in college, another in high school and one in middle school. That’s when I learned to say, “Thank you for your forgiveness.” Now, I add it whenever I say, “I’m sorry.”   

 One thing I don’t ever have to apologize for is being late. I’m early! All old coots are early. And not just for early bird specials. We’re early for everything. Have you ever been in a doctor’s office waiting room and overheard the receptionist say, “I’m sorry sir, your appointment is tomorrow. Now, that’s really early. But not as embarrassing as when we show up at a party where the invitation said it starts at seven o’clock. We show up a few minutes before seven. And get, “Oh you’re here already? Come in. Jane is in the shower, and I have to go to the store to pick up some ice.” That’s when I parade out an, “I’m sorry,” (And then stupidly add, “Do you mind if I open this bottle of white wine.”)

 You would think we’d learn to come late, the polite way, like everyone else. But we can’t do it. It’s not in our DNA. I suggest you tell old coot invitees a later time than everyone else. That will avoid an uncomfortable encounter for both of you.

If these comments offend you in some way, “I’m sorry.” Plus, the rest of the junk I

recommended saying.

The Old Coot shuns the Blah Blah. Published November 13, 2024

 The Old Coot has the blahs.

By merlin lessler

 I was lucky enough to have been in the Netherlands last month. I still call it Holland – you know: the Little Dutch Boy, his finger in the dike, tulips, wooden shoes, windmills. That’s the extent of my knowledge of the Netherlands. Or was. Now, I know a lot more. I took a guided tour in an area of a dozen or so antique windmills, one or two restored to working order, the remainder just sitting idle. A beautiful landscape image.

The trouble started when we crossed a bridge leading to Windmill Lane. There were about twenty of us in the group. Walkie-talkies hanging on a strap around our necks, ear buds jammed into our ears and a tour guide talking. Talking, talking, talking – while we stood in the middle of the bridge, frozen in time, learning all the intricacies of windmills. I call it “blah, blah.” I wanted to move, to get to the windmills. So, I drifted ahead, crossed the bridge, ducked into the combination gift shop, snack bar at the far side of the canal where the pathway to the windmills started. Then, I walked back to the group to interrupt the blah, blah and tell the guide I was moving on. I loved the look of surprise on the faces of our two tour friends, Laarnie and Elaine.

It was a look I’d see a lot of over the next few days. Every time I moved away from the group and gave my patented, blah, blah hand signal. Again and again, in towns along the route we traveled in a long boat on the Rhine River. I learned years ago, to slip away from guides who overload tourists with trivial information. I wish they’d just hit the high notes and let us see, and examine, the subject of their blah, blah lecture. The first time I executed this strategy I was on a tour at the Sistine Chapel in Rome. The guide kept the group “locked up” in front of a signpost in a courtyard outside the building. I lasted five minutes; then my wife and I snuck away and into a long entrance hallway lined with exquisite sculptures and paintings leading to the chapel proper.

We looked at everything and then strolled back to the group held captive by the tour guide, just then starting toward the hall. I was there to see things; I could Google the blah, blah, later. I’m now a well-seasoned blah, blah avoider. It’s a skill that also comes in handy at cocktail parties and other gatherings when you get stuck next to a human, blah, blah windmill. Thanks to the mother/daughter team of Laarnie and Elaine our journey was a fun one. But enough blah, blah from me. I’ll stop right here, and let you look at the rest of the newspaper.    

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