Old Coot articles published in September, 2011

The Old Coot is in a fog.

Published September 7, 2011

Fall is here. It’s always a surprise. I think summer will go on forever. Then, I get up and walk to town and it’s all fogged in. Only slightly different than the fog I usually walk around in. The real one hides everything in a swirling mist. It’s the topic of morning conversation, “Boy, sure is foggy out there,” Linda and Chuck say in unison as I step up into Sam’s diner. Everyone agrees. We’re a sharp bunch, us old coots; we notice things like fog.

We don’t notice things like our pants are on inside out or that our lost glasses are perched on the top of our heads or that the guy we just greeted with, “Hi Bill,” is really Frank. No, we don’t notice those things, but we do notice fog. Fog is good. You can’t see the crabgrass through the haze; the lawn looks flawless. The east side of the house that looked like it needed repainting yesterday seems just fine on a foggy morning.

Fog is one of the best things about fall. There is nothing quite so serene as a flock of geese ascending from a river blanketed in fog. First, you hear the resounding honks, then, one by one, the geese rise in a wiggly Vee and fly off to warmer places. Old coots do the same thing, except their formation is on the southbound lane of Route 95, interspaced among a sea of tractor-trailers.

Some of my old coot brothers (and sisters) don’t notice the fog; they haven’t had their cataracts fixed yet. To them, a foggy morning is just like any other. It’s not good to put off getting the cloudy lenses replaced with new ones, and not for the obvious reasons like it’s impossible to drive at night or it’s hard to recognize people. I get why some old coots don’t deal with their cataracts. It’s the, “there is nothing out there I want to see” syndrome. It’s similar to the condition that stops old guys from buying hearing aids, or turning them on when they do. They don’t want to hear anything either. Especially someone telling them it’s time to trim those cornstalks growing out of the their ears. 

But, delaying the inevitable (cataract repair) is fraught with danger. The kind that takes place when you get home from the hospital and look in the mirror. First, you screech. Then you yell, “What the heck did they do to my face?”  When you turn around to ask your wife what’s going on, you get another shock, “Who are you?” you ask. No, it’s better to nip the problem in the bud and enjoy the real fog, the one that comes rolling in on a nippy morning and announces the arrival of fall.

A wet Old Coot comes to the surface.

Published September 21, 2011

It’s Day Six of the Great Flood of 2011 as I scribble this essay. Day Six of mopping, hauling, bagging, swabbing, cringing. Day six of spraying bleach-water on everything in sight, sloshing through muck, gassing up the generator and a dozen other tasks that I’ve spent years convincing my wife I was incapable of. Now, the jig is up. I’ll be stuck helping around the house for years to come. It will be very hard to reestablish my incompetency.

We didn‘t have it too bad, a full basement and six to seven and one-half inches on the first floor, depending on where you stand. The house is a little crooked and unlevel, just like me. No, we were lucky compared to a lot of people. Five years ago, in the “300 year” flood of 2006 (where did the time go?) I was a little ashamed to admit we didn’t get flooded at all. Not even a drop in the basement. It sounded like bragging. Now I feel the same way because so many people have it so much worse than we do. 

We came through it pretty good. No water, no gas, no power, but we had something special, the Ross Street Café, where Rich Watkins, his wife Rachael and all the special neighbors on the north end of Ross Street set up a makeshift cafeteria and served three squares a day to all the flood victims around the block. The food crew was incredible. Kathy and Rudy even delivered coffee and tea to our backdoor every morning. It sure made starting a new day of scrubbing and hauling a lot easier.

No, we didn’t have it bad at all. Except for the first day when Marcia and I, Diane Wu and Carol Cavataio were standing in our back yard waving our arms and the American flag to a low flying helicopter. The pilot inched closer and a minute later we were in a wind tunnel. Water flew up from our polluted swimming pool, a row of pines along the back property line bent over so far the tops touched the ground, our fence blew down, two pair of shutters skipped across the yard and we were blown every which way. It’s the last time I’m waving to a chopper pilot.

I blame the whole episode on Diane. I bet she gave the international distress signal without knowing it and the aviator came in for a look. What goes around comes around, to quote a tired and over used saying. It came around for Diane the next day. She went up and down the street complaining to everybody on the block that her bike was stolen. She had hosed it off, parked it in front of her house to dry and went back inside to continue sloshing, hauling, mopping and scrubbing. While she was gone, “Some son of a gun stole my bike!” That night at the Ross Street Café, she yelled, “Attention everyone! And, then made a loud and profound public admission. “My bike was NOT stolen! I rode it across the street to the Merrills and forgot I left it there. Nobody stole anything!” It made our day. We rolled on the floor (street) laughing. It’s just what we needed. I especially enjoyed it; for once, it wasn’t me.

The Old Coot can’t complain

Published September 28, 2011

Now, it’s really getting old, this flood thing. Especially for people that don’t have a home or one they can live in anytime soon. It’s put me out of business, the old coot business. Last month I could go around carping about things: the weather, politicians, new government rules, rude cell phone users, kids who don’t play outside. I look back at my files and see that I’ve written over 400 Old Coot essays, complaining, complaining, complaining.

Now, I can’t get anyone to listen. All I get is, “Shut up Old Coot! I don’t care if you have a problem with people in line at Dunkin Donuts that can’t make up their mind (the Um People) – or – electric hand dryers in public rest rooms that are so loud they are making you deaf – or – people who put a ladder up against their house to fix something and a year later it’s still there – or – lawn mowers that force you to squeeze the handle to keep it running.”

I’m finished. I’m out of business. That’s what I thought. Then, along came FEMA. I always wondered what they did to provide relief in a natural disaster. Now, I know. They provide comic relief, something to complain about, to chuckle at. A FEMA rep came to our house – a very nice and competent person, but she was saddled with the “process.” She had to measure every room and ask how many outlets. Then, she went upstairs to see if any of the rooms had radios, phones or TV’s. Why radios? Mine is in the car. It doesn’t matter; it’s the process.” On the way out, she turned and said, “You’ll hear from us in seven to ten days.”

See what I mean. That’s the lamest complaint I’ve ever made. The trouble is, too much good stuff happened after the flood: people rushed in to help, dry neighbors took in wet neighbors, strangers offered a hand (and ended up with a sore back), Taylor Garbage workers helped clean up on their own time, fire fighters and cops kept us safe, utility workers swarmed in and put in 16-hour days to get service restored, big companies and small businesses made incredible donations. It’s a spirit I’ve never witnessed. How do you launch an old coot complaint against that backdrop? I guess I’ll have to work hard to get back on track. In the meantime, all I can say is THANKS! Now, please stop being so nice, and give me something to complain about.