The Old Coot can buy it.
Published June 1, 2011
The buying techniques of men and women are very different! There, I’ve stepped into the abyss again, to try and explain yet another difference between men and women. In the 1950’s, pundits called it the battle of the sexes, in the 1970’s and 80’s we tried to blur the lines, to claim there weren’t any differences. Then the truth was trotted back out and we learned that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. So, I guess it’s safe for an old coot to make social commentary on the differences in the buying habits of men and women.
I don’t know much about the specifics of women’s shopping habits to tell the truth. I know it’s a continuous process, involves discounts, coupons and comparison-shopping. And, never is consummated until the price of an item is at the lowest point possible. “It would almost be a sin not to buy it!” The husband is never told how much something costs. He’s only told how much money was saved. It’s a technique that’s been perfected by women.
Men go a different route. They bring in poor “Uncle Fred,” their ace in the hole when buying an expensive item that they have no right to buy without a family conference. Most boats are bought this way. “Honey, now before you get mad, I didn’t buy the 26 foot cabin cruiser by myself, Uncle Fred went in on it with me!” What can she say? Uncle Fred is her favorite uncle. And to cinch the deal, the husband says, “I’m naming the boat after you!” The same thing happens with motor homes, cottages and hunting camps. They are always bought with Uncle Fred and named after their wives.
She’s never told that poor Uncle Fred was bullied into the joint purchase, and only gave in when his share was negotiated down to 1%. No, men never buy expensive items (cars excluded) without a partner. If it isn’t uncle Fred, it’s Jim-next-door. Jim-next-door is brought in on things that can be shared: a pool table, a 55 inch TV for the man cave in the garage, a lawn tractor, chain saw – anything that’s somewhat extravagant and seldom used. “I don’t know why you’re upset with the (log splitter, 40 foot ladder, lawn roller, you fill in the blank), I bought it with Jim-next-door.
The final straw in men’s buying techniques, is the schmooze that comes at the end of the purchase discussion. After the wife asks, “If Uncle Fred and Jim-next-door are in on all these purchases, why is everything in our garage?” Now comes the schmooze, at least when dealing with an Alpha Male purchaser, “Because their wives aren’t as hip as you, dear!”
The Old Coot can’t handle it!
Published June 8, 2011
This is one of those, “You know you’re an old coot if you (fill in the blank),” things. I had a battle with a shower faucet the other day. One of those joy stick doohickeys, where a single handle controls the temperature and flow rate. I can never get it to do what I want. When I try to nudge the water a tiny bit hotter, I scald myself. When I want to go the other way, a blast from the Arctic sends my heart into fibrillation. I know in theory how this mechanism should work: push forward for more force and to the right or left for hot or cold. Theory is wonderful. Real world is a disaster, for me anyhow.
I don’t know how long these things have been around. Probably decades. Alfred Modem invented the device before World War II. I’ve avoided them like the plague, but they’re all over the place. I wonder about the genesis. What was so bad about a separate cold and hot water knob? A set up where you had perfect temperature control. If the flow was a little on the hot side, you made a minor adjustment to either knob, that was it. You could even do it with your toe when the bath water started to cool down. When I try this with a joystick faucet, the temperature shoots all over the place. First, I push to the right and the water goes cold. I jerk the handle to the left to compensate and steam pours out. I’m OK at getting all hot or all cold, but the delicate balance of luke warm or semi-hot eludes me. I know I just need to push it a slight bit, a right-ish or left-ish maneuver but the “ish” part gets me every time.
It reminds me of when I was 14 and driving my father’s car back and forth in the driveway, never sure what gear I would get when I moved the shift lever. Every once in a while I had to run it around the block because I couldn’t find reverse. It’s the same with the joystick. I end up “going around the block.” I’m starting to get real concerned. These controls are all over the place, not just in sinks and showers. The kids that grew up playing video games (and parents who played with them) are now old enough to be making the design decisions for many products. They have put the joysticks on tractors, riding lawn mowers and a whole slew of devices. The steering wheel is being phased out, just like the two knob sink and shower faucet. Eventually, I’ll really be sunk. If I don’t get the “ish” part down pat before they put them in cars, I’ll end up like the Corvair, unsafe at any speed!
The Old Coot takes “dad” for a ride.
Published June 15, 2011
I took my father for a ride the other day. He died in 1970 but it doesn’t stop him from showing up every year around Father’s Day. To kid me about those ugly ties I gave him when I was a kid. He was the old coot then; now it’s my turn. He was a car nut. He was there when the Model T rolled into automobile showrooms across the country. He was an electronic and camera nut too. He grew up when electric lights and radios first started showing up in peoples’ houses. And, he spent his entire working life designing cameras. I like to show him all the new gadgets when he pops in for an update. This year I showed off the stuff in a modern car.
He was what the marketing people call an “early adopter” – a consumer who wants the latest thing on the market. He proved it in 1958. He bought an Edsel the day they went on sale. I think it was the automatic transmission controls in the center of the steering wheel that caught his attention. There were five push buttons in the hub, one for each gear: Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive and Low. It had a lot of other gadgets too: a power seat, a power antenna and a radio with a “seek” button. It could find any AM station within range. (There weren’t any FM stations, at least not where we lived.) The car didn’t have air conditioning. Very few did in this part of the country. A good heater was more important. It didn’t have power windows either. You could get them, but he was too thrifty (cheap) to indulge in such a luxury.
The Edsel didn’t have any gages. Just a speedometer. It had “idiot” lights instead. He hated them. Everybody did, but all the cars had them. It was Detroit’s, “We know best,” attitude that pawned off this technology on car buyers of the day. A light came on if your radiator was about to overheat or if the oil pressure dropped to a dangerous level. You didn’t get to monitor things in real time. You were treated like an “idiot,” incapable of monitoring the status of a running automobile.
As we drove along, I pointed out all the cool features on my state-of-the art automobile. I’ve got a gage for just about everything, a computer screen that tells me how many miles I can go before I need to fuel up and what my gas mileage is. Plus a lot more! He was startled when the door locks engaged as we started to move. And, then again when the wipers came on after we went through a puddle and a few drops of water splashed on the windshield.
I tried to distract him by focusing back on the neat gadgets on the dash. He was impressed at first, but little by little his perspective shifted to skepticism as he learned how much the car did on its own. When the GPS yelled, “Turn around! Go back!” he really became dismayed. I turned on the radio to play a Frank Sinatra CD, determined to win back his approval. He asked why the clock was off by an hour. I explained it was on standard time. Then, I confessed that I didn’t know how to set it without reading through the 63-page radio manual on my computer. He gave me a funny look. All of a sudden his 1958 Edsel didn’t seem so primitive, even with the idiot lights. At least he was in control. Next year I won’t try to show off so much. Maybe I’ll buy an ugly tie that says, “Happy Father’s Day!”
The Great Swamp War.
Published in The Binghamton Press, June 19, 2011
The “Great Swamp War” took place in the autumn of 1954. The fur flew in a hidden marsh on the south side of Binghamton. Woody (Sherwood) Walls and I stumbled onto (and almost into) the swamp by accident. We were exploring a dense woodlot in the area where MacArthur School now sits. The stand of trees was so thick that when we broke through we nearly tumbled into the murky, black water that collected in this low spot on its journey from the hills above Denton and Chadwick Roads to the Susquehanna River. For years we played sandlot football and baseball in the “Flats,” as we called this area between Vestal Avenue and the river. Archibald MacArthur donated the plot to the City for public use. He owned The Boston Store at one time; it became Fowlers, and is now Boscovs. An extensive complex of temporary veteran houses was also built on the site, stretching along the north side of Vestal Avenue, from Brookfield to Denton Roads. We never suspected a swamp lay hidden in the middle of the woodlot on the eastern end of the plot.
We were two surprised explorers when we broke through the undergrowth and saw the open expanse of water, hidden from us all our lives, all 11 years. A raft beckoned from the other side, so we worked our way to it along the muddy shoreline and hopped on. Water crept over the surface of the raft, soaking first, our sneakers (PF Flyers, of course) and then the bottom of our pant legs. The raft floated all right, but did it three inches below the surface of the water. If anyone had seen us on our maiden voyage, they might have thought they were witnessing a miracle, two boys walking on water. We maneuvered around the swamp, pushing the raft with poles. The water was only a foot or two deep. It was yet another perfect venue for two kids messing around in the 50’s. All the elements were right: water, woods and no adult supervision. The latter, was a major benefit of growing up in that era. Kids were allowed to explore their world. And we did! Nobody had to yell at us to go out and play. We had to be yelled at to come in.
Binghamton was a boomtown back then, busting at the seams. The veteran houses in the flats were temporary, but it took ten years for the building boom to catch up with the need. The structures weren’t razed until the mid fifties, a few years before Binghamton’s population peaked at 85,000. The boom gave us an endless supply of construction materials. We put them to good use, building tree huts, soapbox racers and now, an armada of rafts. A pile of scrap lumber was all we needed to improve on the seaworthiness of the raft that we’d gotten soaked on. A fresh pile lay next to a new house going up across the street from our partner in crime, Warren Brooks. Two nights later, it lay hidden in the woodlot next to the swamp.
We hammered and sawed and three crude looking rafts emerged. We pushed off from shore and transformed into Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn and Injun Jim. When that got old, we took turns being pirates attacking the Spanish Armada. It was a delightful ten days, but then word got out. Our secret swamp was discovered and confiscated by a gang of older kids from an adjacent neighborhood. But not without a fight. It was a battle to the death on the high seas. That’s what it seemed like. Actually, it was three eleven-year olds getting bumped into the water by some older kids with longer poles and stronger arms. We were banished; the swamp was theirs. We never signed a peace treaty, so every once in a while we snuck back, making sure the bullies were elsewhere. But it was never the same. Eventually, an even bigger bully came along, the State Highway Department. The trees were cut down; the swamp was drained and construction of the Vestal Parkway was started. Lew Caster lost his gas station at the bottom of Pennsylvania Avenue, the Red Robin Diner lost its visibility (eventually moving to Johnson City) and we lost our swamp. The parkway opened in November of 1956, forever changing the landscape and cutting off the Flats from the river. It’s just another reason why old coots like me, hate progress.
The Old Coot helps a new recruit.
Published June 22, 2011
I took a bike ride the other day. The Dave Franz quint-annual birthday ride (I had to look it up too; it means every five years). Dave turned 55 this year. I like to help youngsters through the aging milestones. I bet when Dave was 18 he never thought he’d be 55. But, time flies, and I was there to help him adjust to his inevitable march to old-cootdum. .
I was also there when he turned 50. We peddled out of the CVS parking lot on a 50-mile celebration ride, one mile for each year of his visit to planet earth. I made it to the edge of the parking lot. It was a little chilly and rain was in the forecast so I said goodbye and waved him on his way. He and his friend Bob kept going. This year I promised to stay till the end, the whole 55. The question was, “55 what?” Miles were out of the question. Oh sure, I probably could do it, but Dave would become so frustrated with my turtle-like pace he’d blow a gasket. Dave looked for an alternative measure, a coot-friendly measure. Then along came the Kentucky Derby, 10 furlongs, 1.25 miles. A light bulb when off in Dave’s head. Furlongs were the answer. “We’ll go 55 furlongs!” he exclaimed. “The old coot should be able to do that.”
So, we did! Dave and the old coot. Last Friday. The crowd assembled at Draper Park on Front Street. Both of them. We hopped on our bikes. Dave hopped; I lumbered awkwardly. We headed north on Route 96. I had as much trouble negotiating the intersection at Main and North as the big rigs do. I clipped the curb in front of Shear Paradise and then sailed through a red light by John’s Fine Foods. I wanted to show Dave first hand, that old coots don’t obey traffic laws. He was out of control: stopping for lights, giving hand signals when he turned right or left. It was embarrassing. The only hand signal old coots use can’t be discussed in a family-friendly paper. We use it when someone tries to cut us off.
I had trouble getting up the hill under the RR track, but I found a hidden reserve of energy when a big fracking tanker truck blasted his air horn, sending me to the summit in record time. We continued along Route 96 without further incident, crossed Turner’s Bridge and were about to pass Metro’s Restaurant when my bike veered into the parking lot. Dave, riding ahead, glanced back; a puzzled look crossed his face as I dismounted and headed for the door. I waved for him to follow me. He parked his bike, took off his helmet and joined me at the side entrance. I glanced down at his helmet and gave him a dirty look. Old coots don’t wear helmets! I turned to go in the door, but it was locked! Metro’s was closed. I was puzzled. It was a little after three, dinnertime for people my age. Early bird special time, anyhow. We knocked and knocked, hoping someone would let us in, but we finally had to give up.
We hopped on our bikes and grudgingly hit the road. The thought of an ice-cold adult beverage was the only thing that had kept me going. Now, I was in a funk. We still had 25 furlongs left. Dave was optimistic. He led the way north on Route 96 and turned onto Glen Mary Drive. Ten minutes later we pulled up to the Barleycorn. Our goal accomplished, all 55 furlongs, 1 for each of Dave’s 55 years. (6.875 miles in human terms) Dave was one step closer to becoming an old coot. He wanted to go into the Barleycorn to celebrate, but I begged off. I needed a nap.
The Old Coot had a bad spell.
Published June 29, 2011
The National Spelling Bee ended many weeks ago, but it’s taken me this long to get over it. A 14-year-old girl from Pennsylvania won by spelling a word I never heard of. A word nobody ever heard of: cymotrichous. It means - having wavy hair, as in, “You will know it’s Chris at the Elks flea market. She’s the cymotrichous vender selling decorated doll heads. The contest was carried on the ESPN sports channel, elevating it to the level of championship basketball or football. That’s a good thing, putting the spotlight on intellectual prowess for a change. But, for those of us who are spelling challenged, it just served to emphasize our lack of talent.
I can still remember my first spelling bee. It was in third grade. I was knocked out in the first round. “Spell city,” Mrs. White challenged, as I stood at my desk on the boy’s side of the room. I chuckled to myself, “She’s trying to trick me. She thinks I’ll capitalize it.” It was a cocky eight year old that boldly sounded out the letters in his head and then released them to the class, “City – C-I-T-E!” How else would one spell it? C-I-T followed by a long E. The laughter that erupted signaled my fate; I sat down knowing I’d spelled it wrong. I’d probably been in the cloakroom when Mrs. White taught us about words that sound like they end in E but really end in Y. I missed a lot of things while I was in the cloakroom doing time for a minor crime. Even more when I was sent out in the hall or to the principal’s office. I did better when my misdeeds placed me at the front of the room facing the black board. I could at least hear what was going on in class. I may have bombed out on the spelling bee, but the day wasn’t a total loss. I won the dodge ball game at recess.
The winner of the National Spelling Bee won $30,000 in cash, a $15,000 US savings bond, a $5,000 scholarship and other prizes. The winner in Mrs. White’s third grade class, Alex (Alexandra) Palmer, won the “ink” privilege, the first kid in class to use ink. Ours was an envious watch as Mrs. White presented her with a wooden pen point holder, a small round box of pen points, a blotter with a local insurance agency logo inscribed on it and a small wipe rag. Then, came the coup de grãce, she filled Alex’s ink well with black ink from a quart bottle with a snorkel filler on top. The inkwell was in the upper right corner of the desk; Alex was left-handed. She dribbled ink all over her paper on her first try. It pleased us losers to no end.
By the end of the year, we were all better spellers. And, we all were writing with ink. I came home every day with the proof: ink stained fingers and ink stained clothes. My test papers were covered with black blobs as well. But, I knew how to spell city. I even learned to spell the longest word in the English language – antidisestablishmentarianism. It’s slipped down the scale since then. Now it’s only the seventh longest word. A few kids in my 3rd grade class had wavy hair, but we never called them cymotrichous. We called them girls.
.
