September articles

The Old Coot is a bird walker.

Published September 5, 2012

I went to the Ithaca Farmer’s Market the other day. It was an old coot heaven!  People - to watch. Prepared exotic food - to devour. Pricey organic produce - to wonder if it’s really organic, and if so, what’s the real difference. Shady spots with benches and picnic tables - to sit on and gawk from. Ducks floating by in the canal - to entertain the toddlers (and the old coots). Boats coming and going - to avoid the heavy traffic and shortage of parking spaces that makes it a challenge to get there in a car.

But, it’s worth it, even with the traffic and limited parking. It’s a 19^th century atmosphere. Relaxed and mellow, especially when the three-piece combo starts to play a series of old standards. Kids and dogs weave through the crowds, getting pats on the head and scratches behind the ears (the dogs, that is). Young couples and old couples put their petty bickering on ice and soak up the ambiance in pure joy.
Even the old coots, scattered here and there, are well mannered and refrain from sharing their medical histories and their “way things were in the good old days” rants. A few of the braver ones even strut their stuff in an impulsive fox trot across the open space in front of the music makers. I saw one toss a $5 bill into a straw hat next to the trumpet player. An extravagant gesture, almost unheard of from an old coot who probably started his music appreciation by slipping a nickel into a juke box and pressing the G-5 button to hear the strains of the pop hit of the day, Mule Train. At least that’s the one I picked out when my father took me to the diner on a Saturday morning.

On the way home we stopped by the AACA Tioga Region car show on Elm Street, behind what used to be the old middle school, which once was the new high school. This is recycling at its best. The car show is another old coot heaven. It takes you back to a time when you could tell one brand from another, one year from another. There is no mistaking a 1955 Chevy for a 1958 Edsel. Nowadays, most of the cars look alike. I can’t tell a Camray from a Mercedes. Though I do know the difference between a Mini Cooper and a VW Beatle. But, the rest all look alike, all the sedans and all the SUV’s. The car show has been around for 27 years. It’s an old timer itself. We walked the rows and looked at the beautiful old classics. A few were for sale, a dangerous thing for this impulsive old coot.

But, it ended well. We didn’t drive out in the 57 Chevy convertible we were gawking at. We walked away carrying a birdhouse attached to the handle of an antique, three pronged pitchfork. Just what I needed, a portable bird residence. What a sight I’ll be! An old coot walking through town, carrying a pitchfork with a bird house on top and a bunch of baby robins peeking out, begging for a worm.

 

The old coot won’t bless you.

Published September 12, 2012

So there you are, in line at the grocery store with a group of strangers when the guy in front of you sneezes. Not one of those little muffled “chooos” but a full blast, sonic boom, “AHH-CHOO!” So, what do you do? Ignore it? Pretend you didn’t hear anything? Or, plunge in headfirst and say, “Bless you,” or, “Gesundheit (which you might think means the same thing, but if you look it up in a German/English dictionary you’ll find out it means Health). Most of us just stand there, uncomfortable, with stupid scenarios rolling through our heads, “Maybe he’ll be offended if I acknowledge it, after all it’s just an old superstition, from an age when people thought your soul left your body when you sneezed. They said, “Bless you,” so the devil wouldn’t grab it before it could get back in. How many people still believe that? Or, even know that’s why the,” Bless you,” tradition was started.  

I bet not many. Yet, we continue to say, “Bless you” or “Gesundheit” right and left, especially during the cold and flu season. Except in line at the grocery store. Sometimes the sneezer will take the pressure off and say, “Oh, excuse me! These darn allergies. Then the line settles back into a comfort zone. Someone might even reply, “I know what you mean. Mine have been acting up too.” A social crisis has been avoided.

Old coots take a different view. We’re masters at being in uncomfortable public situations. In fact, people in line at the grocery store don’t care if we sneeze; they just don’t want us to turn to them and start talking. “Oh, you’ve got Wheaties. When I was a kid they cost 26 cents a box. Do you have a coupon for that can of beans? It’s 50 cents off if you do. I can’t eat them any more, not since I had my gallbladder out. That was one year to the day after my knee surgery. The timing was good; I’d just gotten my Medicare card. It doesn’t cover dental, you know. I had to pay for these choppers out of my own pocket.” Oh yes, a little sneeze in line is nothing compared to bumping into one of my kind at the grocery store.

Fortunately, there is a solution to the sneeze predicament. It aired on a Seinfeld episode, the one where Jerry and Elaine decided it was better, and nicer, to say, “You’re so good looking,” when someone sneezed. I tried it in line at the grocery store. The woman who sneezed gave me a dirty look and told the clerk to hurry up and check her out. That’s what an old coot gets for being polite!

 

The Old Coot got in trouble with the “E” word.

Published September 19, 2012

I had trouble with the “E” word this week. It’s just another of those old coot ailments. “Hi Laura,” I said at the Rotary picnic where my “E” word problem arose. “What last name are you going by now that you’re married? Is it Spencer or is it ????” That’s the “E” word I couldn’t pull out of the cobwebs in my brain. I tried. “Ebbers, Eschler, Elliker?” But in the end, I couldn’t come up with it. She watched me with a big grin on her face as I muttered a parade of “E” names. “Come on. You can do it,” she laughed. You officiated at our wedding and got it right.” But I couldn’t come up with Eberly. She had to tell me.

I had an excuse. I know a lot of people with “E” names. It’s a real challenge when I need to recall one. Especially with my OCM affliction (old coot memory). In addition to Eberly, I have Elliker, Ebbers, Eschler and Eklor, English, Ellis, Elwood, Eckstrom and Eldridge stashed in the “E” file in my brain. My own last name is jammed in there too, even though it starts with an “L. When I meet someone I concentrate so hard on trying to get their name (which never works, by the way) that I slur my name and it comes out as Essler instead of Lessler.

Elliker, Eklor, Eschler, Ebbers, Eberly and Essler. They’re all the same to me. Besides, if you’re packing a Medicare card in your wallet, you shouldn’t be required to remember last names. I can handle first names (most of the time). I’ve set the bar low; I give myself a pat on the back if I get the first letter in someone’s name right. To be forced to stretch for a last name is asking way too much. Names swirl in my head, making them hard to grab. And, when the pressure is on, my mind goes blank. My first experience with a blank state of mind, not counting pop quizzes in high school, came when I was in my early 40’s and should have had a fully functioning mind. I was on the phone with a sales rep who asked me my address. The BLANK hit me! “Just a minute,” I said, putting down the phone and running out the front door to get the house number.

It shook me to the core. Until a friend said, “Oh, that’s nothing. I went blank last week when the clerk in the post office asked me my name! It took me a minute of staring at the wanted posters to come up with it.” So, last week it was an “E” word that gave me trouble; next week another letter will come to the front of the “can’t remember it” line. If you see me around town saying, “Hi Governor,” or “Howdy madam,” or “How you doing kiddo,” you’ll know I’m in the throws of a bad “letter” day. Just say, “Hi Essler,” and I’ll be on my way.

 

The Old Coot is a fashion plate

September 26, 2012

I bought a T-shirt on vacation this summer. And, not one of those $10 ones from a souvenir shop. I bought mine at a snooty restaurant in Martha’s Vineyard, the kind of place that doesn’t like old coots in their formal dining room. It’s not something they say out loud, but us old coots know from the look they give us when we stumble in the front door. I knew my place; I skipped past the maitre d’ guarding the dining room and went directly to the bar area, plopping down on a leather stool next to a group of locals, or islanders as they call themselves. They stick together and look down on tourists. I discovered that “off-islanders” (tourists) are lower on their social scale than old coots. And, there I was, both an old coot and an off-islander. I put my head down and searched the menu for a hamburger. I had to settle for a blackened, tuna wrap. This wasn’t a hamburger joint. (The tuna thing turned out to be better than a hamburger; I have so much to learn.)

The bartender was wearing a green T-shirt with the restaurant’s logo imprinted on the front. My wife, who had been trying to get me to buy a new T-shirt for days said, “Why don’t you get one?” She’s got this crazy idea that the ones I wear need to be replaced just because they date back to the Reagan presidency. I checked out the bartender’s shirt every time he walked past. I liked it. It looked great on him and had the main feature I look for, but rarely find on a modern T-shirt, sleeves that come down to the elbow. The short-arm style of modern T-shirts look OK on the muscled biceps of young guys, but when you’re an old coot with arms as skinny as chicken legs, you want a longer sleeve. The bartender’s was perfect, so I asked him to get me one out of the glass display case at the end of the bar. He pulled out an X-large and added twenty-five dollars to my bill.

Then I did something smart. For a change. I broke the old coot code and I tried it on. The sleeves were only two inches long, nothing like the bartender’s. I handed it back, explaining my chicken-leg arms situation and asked him to take it off my tab. He signaled for the manager, as people often due when dealing with me. He came right over. I explained the problem.  He looked at my shirt and then at the bartenders. “You’re right!” he said. “It must be from a different batch. How can I make this right?”

Ten minutes later I walked out of the place wearing Derek’s T-shirt. (The bartender and I were on a first name basis by then). He sported a brand new one. The short-short sleeves looked just fine on him. He didn’t have chicken-leg arms. He will someday. When he’s an old coot like me. Then, he’ll probably want his shirt back.  

 

SAugust 2012 articles

The Old Coot is a stranger here.

Published August 1, 2012

 

I rode my bicycle through the school grounds the other day. It was a bright and sunny, Saturday afternoon. The swings behind the elementary school were empty, the basketball court too. All seven tennis courts sat silent. I took a few laps around the perimeter fence and found two fuzzy balls, but still no people. A lone woman was working the quarter mile track in the football stadium, passing empty stands and silent public address speakers.

 

The baseball field nearby told a different tale. Two dozen boys of summer hurled hard balls and swung metal bats, the clanks echoing off the hills. Their uniforms matched and professional umpires made the calls. A pick-up game this was not. It was an organized event, as are most athletic activities these days.

 

I crossed the creek to a cluster of baseball diamonds in what was once a productive cornfield. Silence was all it produced this day. No, “Go team go!” from the stands. No, “Come on pitcher; get that batter!” from the outfield. It was a baseball graveyard this warm sunny afternoon.

 

My next stop was the swimming pool. “Surely,” I thought, “It will be crowded. A place to beat the heat.” But no! The “maximum capacity” listed on a sign by the door was not an issue today. Less than a dozen swimmer’s arms broke the surface. The story was the same on the practice soccer and lacrosse fields. No one was to be seen! A chill ran down my spine; perspiration broke across my forehead. Had I entered the Twilight Zone? Was Rod Serling about to introduce a new episode? One, where an old coot was in his basement when a neutron bomb vaporized the populace in a tiny upstate village?

 

I pedaled hard and I pedaled fast, racing along the dyke bordering the creek toward a chorus of cheers and jeers, boos and yeas. The girls of summer were slugging soft balls on two Little League fields. The other three stood empty. Parents and siblings were scattered here and there. In the stands and in the shade. The score was kept, the statistics too. For this was an organized outing, not like when we grew up, me and you.

 

Through the “Flats” I rode. My head in a puzzle. No hose was used to squirt a friend – No rope was jumped to a cadenced chant. The skates sat silent, the trikes and scooters too. For this was a ghost town I did not know. Then I looked up. And saw the answer! A giant metallic snake had taken over our town. It slunk along the pole line and probed its way into every house. Trapping the kids, and exiling an old coot in a strange new land. Then I remembered, I better get home. The Lawrence Welk reruns were on at four.

 

The Old Coot can outrun a bear?

Published August 8, 2012

 

The phone rang the other day. It was a call from a reader just starting life as an old coot. He told me he spent the entire day playing golf with his shirt on inside out. None of his buddies said a word. He thought he heard a few snickers when he walked to the tee, especially when the group behind caught up and waited for his foursome to hit their drives. The chuckling was even louder when he stopped by the clubhouse for lunch. The waitress acted a little strange too. He didn’t find out about his shirt until he got home; his wife spotted it in a second. He couldn’t believe his friends never said a word.

 

But he’s wrong. His friends did say a word, a lot of words. All day long! It’s just that he wasn’t within earshot when they did. They also were behind him pointing to his shirt whenever they came across anyone on the course. They practically burst a gut laughing when the waitress came to the table and one of the group pointed to his “inside-out” fashion statement and then gave her the shush signal. That’s what old coots do when a member of the elder tribe shows a weakness, any weakness: can’t remember a name, sports a new piece of medical apparatus (neck brace, cast, bandage), adds a new gimp to his walking style, gets mad at the car, kicks a tire and breaks a toe. We don’t strive to “Be all you can be” like that old US Army recruiting ad. We strive to be next to an old guy doing something foolish.

 

It’s kind of like the old joke; where a guy bends down to tie his sneaker when a bear comes down the path toward him. His buddy tells him not to bother. “You can’t outrun a bear.” But, he keeps on tying and replies, “I know; I just have to outrun you!” Us old coots just have to outrun one of our own. We spend all our energy and craftiness trying to be next to a bungler worse than us.  We love it when the guy next-door mows through his wife’s flowerbed. Or, when we run into an old schoolmate who doesn’t remember our name and doesn’t dare ask what it is because we remembered his. We walk away knowing he’ll drive himself nuts for days and days trying to dig it out of the mush inside his skull. We never tell a buddy his zipper is down, his lost glasses are on top of his head, a cop is coming down the street toward his car parked in a tow away zone. It’s not mean. It’s just the law of the “old coot” jungle. I often find myself in the inside-out shirt guy’s shoes. It’s not a nice place to be.

 

I was there just the other day. On the porch roof scraping paint. I’m not supposed to go on the roof when I’m home alone. Not after last fall when I knocked the ladder down and was stranded up there. But, there I was again, this time with a paint scraper in one hand and the hose to a shop vac in the other. I never saw it coming. An angry horde of wasps flew at my face. One got me just below the eye; hitting me with a blinding, burning pain. What a sight, an old coot on a roof, arms flailing, a shop vac hose in one hand and a putty knife in the other. A mother passed by, pushing her little boy in a stroller. He squirmed around and yelled to her, “ Mommy, Mommy! Look at that man dancing on the roof with a black snake!” She turned in my direction and then started running down the sidewalk as fast as she could. She said something that I could only partially make out. Something about a crazy old coot. I didn’t outrun the bear that day.

 

The Old Coot strings himself along.

Published August 15, 2012

 

This really sounds archaic, almost childish, but people used to tie a string around their finger to help them remember something: “Don’t forget to get milk on your way home.” – “Today is Ted’s birthday!” Or, in my case, an old coot’s case, “Don’t forget to stop boring everyone in town with your bellyaching about how bad things are these days and how great they were in the good old days.”

 

When was the last time you saw someone with a string around their finger? Metal rods through their noses? Sure, you see that all the time. Fish hooks in their eyebrows? Yes indeed. Studs piercing their tongues? You bet. But a string tied to someone’s finger. Now, that would be downright freakish! Of course, back in the “string around your finger” days we didn’t have a lot to remember. (Here comes an old coot trip down memory lane) Life was simpler back then. Especially for a kid. Adults had their world. Kids had theirs. There weren’t any soccer moms. Mom’s role in sports (dad’s too) was to say, “Go out and play!”

 

The rest of it was up to us. Drive you to practice? To the playground? “Are you kidding me? You’ve got feet, walk! Peddle! Skate!” We added two variations in my neighborhood. We traveled to the school playground on stilts and pogo sticks. It took us as long to get there as it did to play when we finally made it. Need a new baseball because the cover came off?  - “No! Get the friction tape and wrap what’s left of the ball in it.” Crack the bat because you hit it on the label? (Only wooden bats were available then) “Tape it!”

 

What to do after supper?  Mom knew. “Do the dishes! – What’ll it be? Wash or dry?”  Then what? We didn’t have TV back then. We had a thing called “You figure it out.” Read a book. Listen to the radio and play Monopoly or checkers or War. It was simple for mom and dad. And a good thing! They were plenty busy providing food and shelter for us. Too busy to bother with our boredom. They let our creative juices do that. And, we did figure it out. We didn’t need help then; and, now that we are old men and women, we don’t need help now. We’ll find our way; a string on our finger will get us by. I just hope the price of twine doesn’t go up. I use a whole ball every week!

 

 

The old coot is a guest?

Published August 22, 2012

 

I was in McDonald’s the other morning. Standing with a clump of old coots, gawking at the dollar breakfast menu. We won’t buy one of their $4.78 meal packages; we’re too cheap! So, we buy five things from the dollar menu and somehow convince ourselves that we’ve beaten the system. One of the workers looked out from her command post and made an announcement, “I can help the next guest over here.” GUEST? We’re guests? I was confused. I’m a “guest” at the Holiday Inn, where they let me stay overnight and sleep in their bed. I don’t even have to make it when I get up. I’m a “guest” at my sister-in-law’s house in Florida, where I mooch a room until she leaves a Day’s Inn discount coupon and a map of how to get there on the nightstand. But, not at Mac Donald’s. I’m a customer there, not a guest. Not unless I come in carrying my sleeping bag. Then, I might be a guest.

 

I’m sure the servers, workers, co-workers, hostesses, or whatever the people who work at McDonald’s are required to call themselves, hate to say, “May I help the next guest?” It has to be part of a corporate marketing campaign. “We want you to treat our customers like you’d treat a guest in your house.” But, instead of investing in the training and the supervision it would take to treat us like guests, they just force the employees to call us guests. Corporate bullies, that’s what they are, plain and simple. None are worse than the bunch of old dinosaurs that run the golf course where the Masters Tournament is played every year. They force the TV announcers and news reporters to refer to the fans that come to see the tournament as PATRONS. As in,” There is a large crowd of patrons in the gallery waiting for Tiger to tee off.” Patrons? Not at any golf tournament I’ve ever been to. Beer guzzling, hot dog eating gawkers is more like it!  

 

A lot of corporations do this. They come up with a slogan or some superficial gimmick, force it on the employees and expect customers to believe it. Subaru brags that their cars are “built with love.” If you buy that, you need to repeat 9^th grade Health Class.  When I was growing up, G.E. told us, “Progress is our most important product.” No more. Now they claim that GE is “Imagination at Work.”  I guess they want us to imagine we’re not really paying over $1,000 for a refrigerator. Nike says, “Just do it!” (But, make sure it’s in a pair of our $290.00, Hyperdunk – SportPack sneakers). IBM kept it simple for years. “Think” was their thing. Now, they are done thinking. They call them selves the “On Demand Business.” What does that mean? (I guess we’re supposed to think about it.)

 

I shouldn’t complain, especially about McDonalds. I should be thankful. The clerk could have leaned over the counter and said to the clump of old coots gazing at the cheapskate menu, “I can help the next, opinionated, wrinkle faced, bald guy, wearing giant glasses and shorts that are too short with yellow knee socks and black wing tips over here.”

 

The Old Coot grew up in the dumb generation.

Published August 29, 2012

 

I was in Martha’s Vineyard last month. I’m as surprised as you are! That this exclusive resort island would allow an old coot like me to invade its turf. But it was easy. A ferryboat ticket was all it took. I spent my mornings at the harbor in Edgartown. There is nothing like sitting on the dock in the early hours of the day. The waves gently lap the pilings, the boats rock with the beat. Shore birds perch on piers and sea ducks weave through the trash carelessly tossed into the drink by uppity tourists. Sleepy bankers, lawyers and stock peddlers stumble out of BMW’s, Jaguar’s and Audi’s, and head for the charter boats. A line of upright fishing poles stands at attention to greet them.  Well used, old boats with names that reflect the owner’s point of view on life: Splendid, Tenacious and my favorite, My-Old-Lady. The Wall Street titans, decked out in Armani shorts, Chap’s shirts and 300 dollar boat shoes are greeted by local boys, sailors and fishermen alike, smoking Camels and sporting jeans, work boots and stained T-shirts, one with an inscription, “Will trade wife for boat.”

 

It’s the meeting of two tribes: the blue-collar clan that makes things work and the white-collar clan that reaps most of the fruit. Hands are shaken. Grips made strong from swinging hammers and turning wrenches are matched with grips firmed up from grasping tennis racquets and swinging Arnold Palmer golf clubs. Money changes hands and off they go. Their craft sends back a wake that rocks the tethered vessels in a goodbye wave. Uniformed waitresses sit passive, killing time before their 8 A.M. shift in the Yacht Club, catching a few precious rays before they spend the day under manmade light. An old coot sits to my left, in knee socks and sandals, reading the Wall Street Journal and saying, “Howdy,” to every passerby.

 

A father came by one morning, pushing two kids in a double stroller, a two-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl. He was wearing a pair of gray sweat pants rolled up to his knees, sandals, a sixty dollar T-shirt and drinking diet ice tea from a leather ensconced water bottle. His skin was alabaster white, the sun having never penetrated the layers of sunscreen he religiously lathered on every morning. A group of ducks floated into view. I expected him to say, “Look at the ducks!” But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Melissa, can you count how many ducks there are?” “Tree!” she answered. “No, count again,” he replied. “Two?” she said this time, trying to please her mentor. “Right; you’re a good counter Melissa.”

 

But he was wrong. There were three ducks. He couldn’t see the one peeking out from behind the pier. She did. So, he just taught his daughter how to count wrong. We have such a hard time these days, letting kids be kids. We have to make sure they can count, say the alphabet, write their name and otherwise be prepared for kindergarten. We were lucky, my generation. We were brought up dumb. We learned all the stuff in school that today’s kids know before they get there. And, we stayed dumb. We didn’t learn to read until first grade, had no homework until seventh grade and took college courses in college, not high school.

 

We were allowed to be kids. We were school dumb, but life smart. We knew how to climb trees and build forts in the branches, to ride a bicycle sitting backwards on the handlebars, catch tadpoles and raise them into frogs, to make and shoot sling shots and get a yo-yo to spin long enough to “rock the baby” and “walk the dog.” We learned how to get a drink from a hose without blowing out our brains. The hard way! We explored the world in person, not via an electronic device. We were lucky; we grew up dumb.

 

 

 

 

 

Old Coot articles published in July, 2012

The old coot lights up.

Published July 4, 2012

My check engine light came on the other day. I did the usual; I ignored it, hoping it would go out on its own. But, it didn’t. So, I went into action; I checked the gas cap to see if it was tight. That didn’t do anything. I had one trick left, disconnect the battery, wait a minute or two and then reconnect it. Sometimes that works. But, instead of getting that drastic, I went on the Internet to see if I could learn why a check engine light might turn on. It didn’t help. The list was 17-pages long. I gave up, got out the roll of black electrical tape and covered it up.

I don’t know who invented the check engine light. If I did, I’d get in line with the rest of the people who want to punch her in the nose (more about blaming it on a “her” later). It would be a long line. 193 million drivers are behind the wheel, according to the latest government estimates, and every single one has been victimized by their check engine light. It’s just plain blackmail, designed by the auto manufacturers to get us into their repair shops. It’s a lot like having a new baby in the house. It cries and you go into a panic. “What’s wrong?” The list of possibilities is about as long as the 17 pages of reasons a check engine light comes on. Wet diaper? – rash? – gas bubble? – colic? – hungry? – earache? It could be anything. Eventually we become skilled parents and can distinguish between a wet diaper cry and a gas bubble cry. Not so with a check engine light; we never get skilled at figuring out what it means.

The only thing more baffling, at least for us old coots, is a check-wife-light. It’s not a light, not really; it’s a look that sends a coldness across the room. “What?” we naively ask, knowing it’s something we did, or didn’t do, said or didn’t say, or didn’t say right like when asked how she looks in the blue dress and we say, “Great! It doesn’t make you look as hippy as the red one.” Sometimes it’s not doing or saying something stupid. Sometimes it’s simply not noticing something. When the check-wife-light is on we glance around the room in a clueless panic and spot a new pair of drapes. “Those new drapes look great! They go perfect with the couch.” The check-wife-light doesn’t go out. Later, we learn that the “new” drapes have been hanging there for nearly a year. It’s why I’m sure the check engine light was invented by a woman. It operates on the same principle as the check-wife light. Now, I’m going to get those looks and feel a coldness everywhere I go. But, at least I’ll know why. I shot off my big mouth again!

The Old Coot is wrapped up.

Published July 11, 2012

Here we go again. More nagging from the nanny police. This time it comes from the Center for Biobehavioral Health at the Research Institute at Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio. (Wow, that’s a mouthful.) Researchers at the hospital studied reams of data on the National Electronic Surveillance System and discovered that over the last 20 years, 43,378 children were treated for injuries caused by falling with sippy cups, pacifiers or baby bottles in their mouths. They want us to take away those dangerous devices the minute little Bobby or Susie stands up and starts to waddle across the room.

It’s not a law. Not yet! But, these things always start slow, with advice or a recommendation. Eventually, the politicians get involved and pass a law. In this case, a “sippy-cup” law. It’s what they do to solve a problem. Make it against the law! The next time you take your kid to the E.R. with a split lip you can expect to get a, “Tsk, Tsk,” from the medical staff. Maybe a visit from a social worker.

Human nature is often the target of the nanny police. They try to change it with laws and regulations. Most of the toddlers I’ve been around put things in their mouth. Every thing they get their hands on. Give them a wooden block and they stick it in their mouth. Take away the big bad three: sippy-cups, baby bottles and binkies and the accident rate won’t change. The only thing that will change, is the thing in their mouth at the time of their fall. And, toddlers fall all the time. It’s how they learn to control their balance. They get pretty good, pretty fast, and without advice from a federal entity with a name longer than the declaration of independence. And, without a new law to save kids from “so-called” inept parenting. People have raised kids for eons without help from the nanny police. That’s what grandparents are for!

You probably think I’m over reacting to an innocent study of toddler injuries. That I’m overdoing it by predicting a future with tough sippy cup laws. Maybe so. But, my fear goes deeper. If those same researchers shift their focus to old coots, they’ll come after me. We fall down a lot too.  Not with sippy cups in our mouths, but it won’t matter. We’ll find ourselves encased in bubble wrap and tied to our rocking chairs. Ultimately, the bubble wrap will cover our mouths, to stop us from telling everyone what wrong with the world and how much better it was in the good old days.

 

A toothless future ahead for the old coot.

Published July 18, 2012.

I took inventory the other day; I counted my teeth. It’s something you need to do every once in a while when you’re an old coot. I had 32 teeth when I turned twenty-one. Four were wisdom teeth, though I had no wisdom at the time, just the teeth). Now, I’m down to twenty-five. And, I’m not a hockey player or a fighter. My last tooth-jarring scuffle came when I was twelve years old. It took place at YMCA’s Camp Arrowhead on what is now a private lake near Little Meadows, Pennsylvania. A big kid was shoving around my friend Woody so I jumped in, pushed him aside and told him to stop. He beat the stuffing out of me.

I didn’t lose any teeth, just a load of pride and an inkling that my perceived prowess was suspect. Something I proved beyond doubt over the next several years. I had watched too many cowboy and Indian movies, where the good guy (most notably Roy Rogers) could beat up a gang of bad guys with one hand tied behind his back. I thought I was just like him. It was a hard road to the truth.  

No, the demise of my toothful grin was not the result of violence. It started with my wisdom teeth; they became impacted one at a time over a twenty-year stretch. When the last one left me I was in my forties and more concerned about a vision problem than a tooth problem. I couldn’t read the paper; my arms weren’t long enough anymore. So there I was, well into a second mid life crisis (my first came at age 30), half blind and down to 28 teeth. Twenty-eight isn’t bad. It’s an even number, fourteen on the top, fourteen on the bottom, one over the other so they function as designed.

But then along came the old coot roulette wheel. It spins and spins. One day it lands on the sore knee space, another day on the aching back slot. Then the cataract spot. The wheel keeps spinning and eventually lands on the broken tooth space. An absent-minded crunch on an unpopped popcorn kernel breaks off the back quadrant of a molar. You get it fixed. You get the speech that all medical personnel deliver to you at the end of every visit. “You have to expect this at your age.”

Now you’re paranoid. Afraid that one misplaced chew will put you back in the dentist’s chair. Time passes and you forget. The roulette wheel comes back to the broken tooth space. You do it again. This time on a Sugar Daddy. It should be against the law to sell Sugar Daddies to old coots. We should be asked for proof of age, and turned away if we’re over 60. The tooth is beyond repair, so you have it pulled. Then it happens again! And, again! Oh sure, multi-thousand dollar root canals and crowns could save them, for a while (maybe, no guarantees). But old coots are cheap .So, now I’m down to twenty-five and still counting. But, I’ve finally figured out why they call it a TOOTH-brush and not a TEETH-brush. Because, eventually that’s all I’ll need. An old coot with one tooth!

The Old Coot gives a darn!

Published July 25, 2012

I learned how to sew when I was eight years old, at a summer school craft class. We made stuffed animals and learned sewing basics: how to thread a needle, how to tie a knot so the stitches stayed put, and the difference between a running stitch and an overcast stitch. My mother improved my knowledge and let me mess around with her sewing machine. She hated it because it wasn’t a Singer; I suppose she hoped I’d wreck it so she could finally get one.

But, I didn’t wreck it. I took it apart and put it back together again. Then I knew how it worked, sort of. Off I went on a sewing binge. My aptitude got a full test when I was in Junior High School. Pegged pants were the rage, tapered at the bottom so tight you could barely get you foot in. I couldn’t get my mother or father to spring for a tailor to alter my pants. They considered the fashion a ridiculous waste of money, so I dusted off the sewing machine and went to town. I pegged my own pants. Unfortunately, I didn’t achieve a gradual taper from the waist to the pant cuff like a real tailor would. My version had the alteration start at the knee and go straight down to the bottom. I’d crafted a perfect pair of riding pants.

I wore them to school. The bottom looked cool, nice and tight like it should. The puffy upper section was quite a sight. I spent the entire day with my arms at my side, hiding the puff. That was the end of my fashion design career. I stuck to sewing basics. Now that my mother knew I could sew, she handed me her sewing basket whenever I complained of a missing button or a rip that needed to be sewn up. She made it a morality issue, “You don’t want someone to do something for you that you can do for yourself do you?”  So, I sewed my way through childhood. I even mastered the use of a darning egg and the stitching pattern that would hold up to the pressure of a toe striving for freedom. It was an era where people darned socks instead of throwing them away.

I hated repairing socks. All that weaving back and forth, over and over again, was too much. Now, I know a short cut. Sixty years too late. I learned it from John Vanderzyde, a Canadian citizen who emigrated from Holland a few years after World War II. He was a teenager, fishing in a stream when thousands of German paratroopers dropped out of the sky and occupied his homeland. After the war there weren’t any jobs, so he migrated to Canada. I met him in Florida this past winter, and was invited to his 84^th birthday party.  “Darn socks with a darning egg?” he said to me, and then revealed his secret. “I buy knee high, tube socks and when the toe pokes through, I cut off the end and sew it straight across. When my socks have been repaired so many times that they turn into ankle socks, I throw them away. EH!” (And, I think I’m an old coot! I’ve got so much to learn!)

 

Articles Published in June, 2012

The Old Coot goes high tech.

Published June 6, 2012 

It was one of those typical old coot gatherings. The kind where someone takes 10 minutes to tell a 2 minute story because he insists on getting the names right. It’s a conversation loaded with, “What was that guy’s name”? – “Darn, it’s right on the tip of my tongue!” – “I know it like I know my own name!” Not that the name has any bearing on the story, nobody knows the person, still, he insists on fishing for the name in the dark recesses of his mind.  

Finally, one of the younger (not really an old coot yet) guys had enough and yelled, “Tell the darn story!” The story teller, let’s call him Ray, said, “I can’t remember anything anymore. When I go from my shop to the house to get something or do something, I forget why I’m there. I have to retrace my steps and hope it will jog my memory. Rick Arnold, another (not an old coot yet guy) told Ray he needs a voice-activated tape recorder, “When you leave your shop, whisper into it, ‘Get the scotch tape.’ Then, play it back when you get there!” 

What a great idea! Us old coots go around mumbling to ourselves anyway, no one would notice that it’s a tape recorder we’re talking into. But, they would notice that we don’t say, “What did I come in here for?” anymore. Our wives would love it, like when we are headed out to the store and ask if she wants us to pick up something. She could say, “Come back over here,” and then activate the tape recorder with, “Pick up a jar of black olives, the 10 ounce size. And don’t forget to use the coupon!”

All of a sudden we’d be pretty sharp. A lot more productive too. No more trips back to the kitchen to figure out what on earth we were going into the living room for. No more, walking around with the mail in our pockets, wondering why our bills always have a late charge on them. And, the library would be thrilled to start getting their books back on time. It would help with the name problem too, the ones that come to us an hour after we leave a story telling session and we’ve gone our separate ways – five old guys walking around town muttering to themselves, going through the alphabet to come up with the name they searched for in vain. When it comes to them, they can speak it into the tape recorder and file it with the other names they have trouble remembering.  

It’s a great plan, as long as we remember where we put the recorder, and the storage space can handle the volume. Our capacity for forgetting the names of people and places is limitless.

The Old Coot offers advice to the “two-name” people.

Published June 13, 2012 

“What’s in a name?” That’s a question posed in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Apparently nothing, Juliet concluded, “"That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."But, she was wrong! A person by any other name does not smell as sweet, so to speak. Take Robert, for example. Robert is Bobby when his mom yells out the kitchen window, “Bobby, come on in, it’s time for dinner.” He’s Robert when she has to tell him to do his homework for the third time. But, it changes drastically when she uses his middle name, like when she discovers his brand new, grass stained pants wadded up under his bed. He’s not Bobby. He’s not Robert. He’s Robert Charles Anderson, as in, “ROBERT CHARLES ANDERSON, come up to your room this minute!”

Even he knows he’s not a rose, not when his mom uses his middle name. He’s Bad Bobby now, not a sweet smelling flower. It’s the real reason we have middle names. So, we’ll know how much trouble we’re in. Some people, not many, don’t have middle names. They escape the horror of being summoned by all three names. It’s not the same when mom says, “Robert Anderson, come here this minute!” (You need a middle name to get the full measure of how much trouble you’re in.)

People who work in a corporate environment don’t like co-workers who only have two names. They had an easier time growing up, never having faced the full wrath of an angry mother. In addition, they throw off the symmetry on routing slips, the ones where memos and reading materials are routed through the department using a rectangular slip of paper stapled to the top, with everyone’s initials listed in a column. A two-name person messes up the alignment - JHR, MWL, IMS, PK, JMR, RET, WCL. That “PK” in the middle throws the whole thing out of kilter. We’re resentful of him. “He wasn’t brought up right.” How could he be, having never having been summoned with a three-word name? “Come here this minute, Paul Komar,” let PK off easy.

Two-name people aren’t even aware that they live a privileged life and mess up things for the rest of us. It’s not just routing slips; they throw off the alignment in telephone directories and organization charts. Nobody says it out loud, but three-name people never really trust people who are middle-name challenged. If you are one, and just making your way out into the world, take some advice from an old coot. Get yourself a middle name. It will help you succeed in the corporate world. When you pick one out, ask your mother to summon you using all three names. Then, you’ll understand how other people grew up, and why they’ll resent you if you remain a two-name person. That’s why I’m changing my name from Old Coot to Old “Something” Coot. I can’t decide on the “something,” Stupid? Dumb? Grouchy? Contrary? If you have a suggestion let me know at mlessler7@gmail.com.

 The Old Coot looks on the bright side.

Published June 20, 2012

Rick got a haircut! Not just any haircut. He got one of those 1950’s summer haircuts, the kind that lasted through the long school break. We called them teddy-bear haircuts. Later, they were culled buzz cuts, and if you found a barber with a steady hand, flat tops. We lined up in the barbershop the day after school got out, like sheep in a shearing pen. The barber set his clippers on “short as possible” and mowed our heads. We hopped out of the chair, got our lollipop and said, “See you in September.” That’s the haircut Rick got!

He plopped down in the chair, said shorten it up and then concentrated on the latest issue of Field and Stream. (It’s so ironic that barbershops have the current issues of popular magazines but doctor’s waiting rooms have magazines with pictures of Ronald Reagan talking to Margaret Thatcher, movie critics raving about Jaws and Hank Aaron nearing the home run record.)  Rick looked up from his magazine and saw two Ricks in the mirror, one on the left with hair, one on the right doing an imitation of a peach. The barber caught his eye in the mirror, and reacting to the startled look on Rick’s face, said, “If that’s not short enough, I can take more off.”

Rick hadn’t considered that possibility. He was contemplating the idea of leaving it half done. Then, he could at least put his best side forward and talk out of the corner of his mouth like a gangster. But, he settled for a continuation of the buzz cut and went back to his magazine. In reality, he looks pretty good. He doesn’t have the usual lumps and bumps on his head like the rest of us. Still, it’s hard not to notice the change. The first clue of how different he really looked came when he sat at the kitchen table talking to his teenage daughter. She wasn’t making eye contact. She was staring at his head. The lush forest was gone, replaced by a bright, shinny dome. It drew her attention, like a blinking bubble light on the top of a police car. He had to keep pointing to his eyes and say, “Here, look here. I’m not up there, rolling his eyes toward his forehead.

Everyone is used to the new Rick now. We’re back to looking him in the eye when we have a conversation. Still, the image of a “bowling ball” runs through our heads. We can’t help it. This is the same Rick that ran out into the street to kick a ball rolling down the hill toward his flooded house last September. He just wanted to kick something! Unfortunately, it wasn’t a rubber ball that was rolling his way; it was a bowling ball. He kicked and then let out a yelp that echoed off the hills. I can’t wait until he’s old enough to join the Old Coot society. He’ll take a lot of pressure off me. 

 The old Coot speaks up.

Published June 27, 2012

There is a new language out there! I call it “mumble-speak,” not to be confused with Owego-speak, which is what you get when you talk to a native (lived here all my life person). “Where do you live?” they might ask. “That green house on Main Street across from the church.” – “Oh, you mean the Jefferson house!” You never live in your own house in Owego-speak; it’s always the previous owner’s house. You have to adopt this language to live in a small town because it’s not just the houses that are identified by the past, so are all the natives. “Bill Smith? Oh you mean Charlie Smith and Betty Green’s son. His aunt used to own the grocery store on the corner of Fox and Spencer. His grandfather was a foreman at the foundry.

Mumble-speak is different than Owego-speak. You can’t understand the words. I got a good dose of it the other day when I called AT&T about a billing error. I fought my way through a queue, guessing which button to push – “If this is a billing inquiry, press one, if this is an account inquiry, press two.” – WHAT?” My situation didn’t fit the options that were offered. I got so irked, I yelled at the same time I pressed the number. A voice recognition system heard me and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t understand your response,” and sent me back to the beginning of the queue.

Eventually I calmed down, and made it to the option I wanted. A REAL LIVE PERSON! But, first I had to listen to an endless repetition of, “Stay on the line and a representative will be with you shortly.  - Your call is important to us - Calls are taken in the order received -Your call may be recorded to assure quality service.” (And to prosecute you if you get out of hand and say abusive things to our representative).” This call center creed was interspaced with music. Not just any music, but songs that were selected to get you to hang up.

 
I pushed the “speaker” button on my phone and waited it out, starting and finishing the NY Times crossword in the interval. Finally, a person came on the line. She startled me! I almost knocked the phone off the table.  And, then I heard those magical words, “How may I help you?” Except it didn’t sound exactly like that. The phone rep. spoke in mumble-speak. What I heard was, “Hew mah aye shelp yewgh?” – “Pardon?” I replied. It was the first of many “Pardons?” and “Whats?” I might have solved my problem. I stated my case and heard a response, but I’m not sure what she said. I’ll find out the next time I get a bill. I’ll be better prepared; I’m taking lessons in mumble speak from my friend Daren. He’s bi-lingual and uses his fluency in mumble speak to set up call centers all over the world. He gave me one of his company’s training CD’s. The trouble is, I’m becoming so fluent in mumble-speak that no one listens to me anymore. At least I think that’s the reason?

May 2012 published articles

 

The Old Coot ain’t a master craftsman!

Published May 2, 2012

This Old House is one of the most popular shows on Public Television. A crew takes on an old house and refurbishes it. Problems mount as the house is torn apart but the capable craftsmen are up to the challenge. Little by little, week by week, the project progresses. Eventually, the homeowner gets back into his new “old” house and life goes on. The remodeling crew moves on to a new “old” house.

“It’s a fantasy! It might as well have been created at Disney using animated cartoon characters,” said Rick Elliker at one of our solve-the-world’s-problems sessions at the Goat Boy Coffee bar. “In the real world, the show would be called This Darn House.” (Though Rick’s actual title is slightly more colorful than that). He’s right. I’d like to see Norm Abrams tackle one of my projects some time. Using my tools, not the ultra sophisticated, million dollar shop tools he uses. Let’s see how nice and tight his miter joints are using a plastic miter box that’s held together with duct tape. Or, pound a nail with a hammer that has a rounded head that bends nails if your aim isn’t perfect. How about leveling things up with a level that’s off a quarter of a bubble, and you can never remember which way it’s off.

Matt (another fan of the show) says he’d gladly loan Norm his skill saw. The blade has been in it for ten years, except the time he took it out and put it in backwards so he could cut concrete. I’d like to loan Norm my battery-operated drill and see how well he does with a tool that needs recharging after putting in five screws. 

They never show the real world on these do-it-yourself shows. Like, when you get up on the ladder in the attic and realize your tape measure isn’t hooked to your belt. It’s down in the basement in a window well (when you finally locate it an hour later). Or, the six trips to the hardware store; three for thingamajigs and doohickeys and other stuff you don’t know the name of and three for advice, the last trip to have the advice repeated. No, they never show the plumber removing the faucet because he put it in backwards. Or, the carpenter running down to the basement to trip the breaker back on because he pounded a nail into a wire in the wall. 

The guy on the roof never gets stranded because he kicks the ladder over when he hops off the top rung. A ladder that’s never quite long enough for the job at hand. There are no smashed thumbs, no cursing, no hammers thrown across the room. Everyone on This Old House is happy and carefree. Not at all like those of us with starring roles on “This Darn House.” 

The Old Coot has a flash back!

Published May 9, 2012

I was with my grandson the other day. He had jelly and powder from a donut all over his face. I grabbed a napkin and started cleaning him up as he twisted and squirmed, in a vain attempt to avoid the process. I eventually got him cleaned up, sort of. I’m not fanatical about it. He’s lucky. He doesn’t get the spit shine we did when we were kids. From “old ladies” armed with handkerchiefs and endless supplies of saliva.

I can still feel the dread that swept over me when my mother (grandmother or aunt) dug into her coat pocket for a wadded up old handkerchief to clean me up when were out in public. Usually, it was a milk or hot chocolate mustache that needed a spit shine. Out came the hanky – into her mouth to gather the cleaning solution and then, the treatment process began. It was like having a criminal come up from behind you and slap a chloroform rag over your face. Except, in this case, it wasn’t chloroform you smelled, but a blend of weak perfume and the scent of stale lifesavers that had nestled next to the handkerchief in her coat pocket.

The technique was akin to water boarding. You thought you were going to die, as she scrubbed every crevice in your face while holding you motionless in a straightjacket-like wrestling hold. Talk about squirming. I usually ended up on my back, pinned under a black, low-heeled shoe by the time the sterilization process was completed.

Kids today have no idea the torture they’ve missed since handy wipes were invented. They also lucked out because clean faces aren’t thought to be as close to godliness as they once were. The standards are lower. Mothers (this never was a father thing) went around armed with concealed weapons: handkerchiefs stuffed in their coat or apron pockets, up a sleeve or someplace below their clavicles next to a wad of cash. Get a crumb on the edge of your mouth and out came the weaponry. My mother was faster on the draw than a gunslinger in the old west. Even today, I’m afraid of a handkerchief. When I see one peeking out of a woman’s coat pocket or sleeve, I pull into a crouch and start to whine; I feel like I’m four years old and sporting a milk moustache. It’s a flash back. I’m not shell shocked; I’m spit shine shocked.

The Old Coot earns a teaching degree.

Published May 16, 2012

I went to the doctor the other day. My toes felt a little fuzzy, sort of half asleep. They’ve been like that for years but curiosity finally got the best of me. I wanted to know why? He checked things out and said, “No problem. I’ll make you a shoe insert to take the strain off the metatarsal bones; it will reduce the pressure and you’ll be fine. Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” I didn’t have an answer. I just said, “Because this is my first time being old. I didn’t know any better.”

We have classes for everything in this country, but none for what to expect and how to deal with the aging process. It’s not so critical when you first start down the path, say in your thirties. You try a running flip in the back yard to show your kids how cool you were when you were their age. You limp around for a few days and start a list of things you can’t do anymore. The list grows exponentially with every decade. It eventually dwarfs the list of things you can do. Touch your toes? No! Shinny up a rope? No! Read the paper without glasses? No! You adjust, little by little. But, it would be a lot easier if there were a course you could take to prepare you for the next phase. 

If you get a bunch of speeding tickets the judge makes you attend a defensive driving course. So you won’t hurt yourself or others on the road. That’s what I need, a defensive aging course. Loaded with tips so I don’t hurt myself. Things like, “Stop putting on your socks while standing up!” Hopping on your left foot while putting a sock on the right foot is a sure way to introduce your head to the bedpost. It hurts. I know. I have a long list of do’s and don’ts; of things I learned the hard way traveling down the old age highway. My publisher says not to bother. Nobody will read it, that people are just like I was when I was in my thirties. They’ll take one look at the title and say, “Not for me! I’m not going to get old!”

Maybe she’s right. But, I feel compelled to get the information to the public, to teach people the proper way to get into a car (back in so you don’t get trapped in a split with one foot stuck under the gas peddle and the other on the driveway). Or, how to drive when the crick in your neck is so bad you can’t turn your head to see if someone is coming when you turn a corner (carry a small mirror so you can see to the right and left). I’d have a whole chapter on cats. How they sit in the dark and wait for you to stumble over them in the middle of the night. I was complaining all over town about the lack of defensive aging training. Finally, one of the 40-something guys who I have coffee with had enough of my bellyaching. “There is a course on aging,” he said. “It’s at the Goat Boy Coffeebar, at 8am. I’m surprised you didn’t realize it. You’re the tenured professor!

The Old Coot is afraid of the big bullies coming to town.

Published May 23, 2012

Bully, Bully, Bully! That’s all you hear these days. Like it’s some new phenomena. Oh sure, some extreme cases started the news coverage, but the media hype has blown the problem all out of proportion. Maybe even contributed to it. Do we really need to make over our entire social structure to cope with a human condition that’s been with us since before we came down from the trees and moved into caves?

I remember the bullies at my grade school. I met the first one, Butchy, the day I started kindergarten. He pushed me aside at the sand box and said, "This is mine!” I hustled over to the cabinet and pulled out a fire truck. He took that too. He was twice my size, and carried a bat on the playground. He wasn’t as tough as Denzel, who lined us up on the playground every Friday and made us an offer we couldn’t refuse, “Give me a dime or take a slug in the arm!” I was cheap. I took the slug.

My father told me to stand up to him. Like all father’s who don’t know what they’re talking about. “A bully will back right down if you confront him,” was the wisdom of the day. It was nuts! I watched kids do that. Denzel made quick work of them. But we learned a lot from the bullies. Most important of all: not to be one. We knew how it felt. Nobody in my crowd of chickens picked on the little kids. But, by today’s standards we’d be in big trouble at school; we’d be enrolled in the bully reform program.

Us bullies shot spitballs across the room. We stuck “Kick Me” signs on classmate’s backs. We carried concealed weapons, and used them. Squirt guns! Pigtails got dipped in inkwells. We had a wind up gadget that gave what felt like an electric shock when you shook hands with an unsuspecting victim. We had fake packs of gum that snapped a kid’s finger like a mousetrap when he tried to pull out a stick. We were bad! We were bullies according to today’s new rules.

And, that’s the problem. We’ve turned the bully problem over to the real bullies, the politicians in Albany and Washington and the bureaucrats in the state and federal education departments. Now that it’s in their hands, we can expect to be shoved around more than ever. It’s “Butchy” grabbing the sandbox and the fire truck all over again! And, kids today are being deprived of a critical experience in growing up, how to survive and get along with people they can’t control. We were lucky; we learned to find our way in a world of bullies. And, we learned not to abuse our power when we became the “big” kid. We’re bully smart, but not smart enough to deal with the new bullies in town. 

The Old Coot lost his native tongue.

Published May 30, 2012

Language changes! Not much of a revelation there, but it happens so slowly we sometimes don’t notice. By the time you’re an old coot, you need to attend English as a Second Language class. I sent someone an e-mail the other day. It was all capital letters. It’s not my usual style but I’d jotted it off without looking at the screen. I was using my two-finger typing method and my eyes were focused on the keyboard. I guess I’d slipped and hit the Caps Lock key. It was too hard to fix, so I just sent it. A few days later, the guy I sent it to, asked me if I was still mad. “Mad? Why would I be mad? I’m not mad!”  - “Well, that message sounded like you were yelling at me. It was all Caps.”

I can see that now. But, I got stuck on his term; CAPS. It was another reminder of how the language has left me behind. I’d only started using the term CAPITAL LETTERS a few years ago and now it’s been replaced with CAPS. They were called UPPER CASE in the language I grew up with. Small letters were called lower case. Our school paper had three lines for each row (it probably still does). Upper Case letters spanned all three lines, from the bottom to the top. Lower case letters stayed within the lower two lines, except for the stick parts of some letters like b, l & d, which were allowed to protrude into the alpine atmosphere of the upper case letters. Other lower case letters, like p & j, were allowed to have their stick part slip below the bottom line. But, by and large, the bulk of the lower case letters were low and the upper case letters were high.

By the time my daughters started school the language changed from lower and upper case, to capital letters and small letters. By the time my son came along the language changed yet again. This time it was the term WRITING that got the axe. It was changed to SCRIPT. He learned to print and switched to script. We learned to print and switched to writing. He was allowed to hold his pen any way he wanted. (It looked to me like he was holding a knife and stabbing the paper). We spent two years learning the “correct” way to hold a writing instrument, in a vise-like grip between our thumb and index finger with the instrument resting on our middle finger. It was a pencil we learned on, not a pen like my son did. We didn’t get a pen until third grade, and it wasn’t a ballpoint pen or a fountain pen either. It was a wooden penholder with a pen point inserted into it. The ink came from the inkwell on our desk that was filled by the teacher. (Note: you may have to Google some of the terms I’m using. They are from the old language). 

I was one of the last kids in my third grade class to earn the ink privilege. It took hours and hours and pages and pages of loops and swirls and other writing exercises to learn the technique. I can still fill a page with spirals, even with my eyes closed. All that got thrown out when they changed the language. And, I missed it. They’re writing (scripting) me out of my native tongue. 

April 2012 Published Articles

The Old Coot knows the answer?

Published April 4, 2012

Back in the dark ages, circa 15 B. G. (Before Google), we rooted around for a piece of information, thumbing through dictionaries, encyclopedias and old newspapers or squinting at faded microfiche screens. Often times our inquiry went unanswered. The thought bubbles floating above our heads were filled with question marks. If we absolutely had to have an answer, we went to the library and asked to be directed to the proper reference material. We’d ask, “How old was Joseph Kennedy when his son John was born?” She (it usually was a she back then) gave us the Dewey Decimal System number and pointed to the right aisle. You could even call on the phone and get an answer, but not if you were a kid. You’d usually get an answer while you hung on the line. Librarians were pretty resourceful; they had their own web of information, strung together across the state. Long before the World Wide Web came along and took center stage.

Most of the time the thing we wanted to know wasn’t important enough to go to the trouble to find it out. We lived with our ignorance. We lived with the question marks floating above our heads. Not anymore. If we want to know something, no matter how insignificant, we Google it and satisfy our curiosity. Useless tidbits of information, like, “Who does the voice of Howard’s mother on the Big Bang Theory?” (It’s Carol Ann Susi, who appeared in the Seinfeld episode where George took her on a date because her mother controlled his unemployment check) Or, “How old is Clint Eastwood?” (81; he’ll be 82 on May 31)

We’re smarter now, in this A.G. (After Google) era. We know the facts and our minds aren't clogged with unanswered questions. But, there is a distinction between the answers we got from the librarians and the answers we get from Google. You could take what the librarians said to the bank. Not quite so with Google. Pretty good, but not 100%. How can it be when Google lines up the references by popularity, mixed in with web sites that pay to be there? (Can you imagine the Encyclopedia Britannica people paying librarians to hand patrons their text first?)  

Google makes mistakes. One of the most telling is the misspelling of their own name. They picked a math term to identify their corporation, Googol. Googol is a large number, “one” followed by “one hundred” zeros. It was selected because it represents the vast number of web sites they will connect you to when you seek information. I know this because I Googled it. I’m not 100% sure it’s accurate. If I wanted to be certain, I could ask a librarian. But, I’m and old coot, and old coots don’t want to be 100% accurate. The facts often mess up the case we’re trying to make.

The Old Coot is in a panic.

Published April 11, 2012

You hear it all the time - a horn sends out a series of blasts in a parking lot. You fumble in your pocket for your key ring to make sure it’s not your car that’s causing the ruckus. When you discover it isn’t, a smug grin crosses your face and you look around to snicker at the poor sap who pushed his panic button by mistake.  We hear it! We ignore it! It’s so common, we never consider that someone may be in trouble and need help. This “boy” has cried wolf too many times.

The auto-lock panic button is yet another clever invention that has outlived its usefulness. It should be thrown on the junk pile, right on top of the hi-fi turntable, the reel-to-reel tape recorder, the rotary dial phone, the buggy whip. It’s time for automakers to remove this nuisance from our lives, to eliminate the red button from auto door lock systems and give customers a can of mace or a stun gun so they’ll be safe in parking lots.

I personally hope they don’t. It would spoil my fun. Like a lot of old coots, I often find myself unsupervised in shopping center parking lots. My wife hops out of the car and says, “I’ll just be a minute,” but I’m prepared for a long wait, equipped with a newspaper, a thermos of coffee and the car radio tuned to a sports talk show. When the paper is read, the coffee consumed and the sports commentators start repeating themselves I exit the car and get ready to play the panic button game. I head toward the store and wait until there are a dozen or so people walking to and from their cars. Then, I push the panic button on my key ring. The horn starts blaring; the game is on. People fumble for their keys, thinking they pushed their panic button by mistake.

This creates a true “panic.” Several car horns start blasting as people push their panic buttons, thinking they are stopping their horn from blowing but in fact are adding itto  the symphony. More and more instruments join the chorus. No one can figure out what’s going on, whose horn is yelling for attention. They run back to their cars to make sure it’s not theirs. That’s when I push my panic button to silence my horn and go into the store. When my wife comes along and says, “Sorry I took so long; did you get mad waiting?” I smile and answer, “ Of course not. I had my paper and coffee. And, you know how much I like to people watch. They really put on a show today!”

The Old Coot used to ……

Published April 18, 2012

I was hanging out with a bunch of “forty-something” guys the other day at the Goat Boy Coffeebar. They were talking about the workout they had that morning, the basketball game at the Boys & Girls Club the previous day, the bike ride up Montrose Turnpike planned for that afternoon. I sat mute. I couldn’t participate, not without saying, “I used to” as a preface to every comment. I used to play basketball in the noon league at the YMCA. I used to bike up the steep hills of South Mountain. I used to, I used to, I used to. And the hardest of all, “I used to be your age! Now I’m an old coot.

All those “used to’s” get us into trouble, us old guys. We start to think,” MAYBE?” As in, “Maybe I can still bang around a basketball court with the young guys. Maybe I can give it all I’ve got and run a fast mile on the high school track.” Or, do just one of the things the gang of "forty-something" guys do without a thought that someday they’ll join my “used to” crowd.

Then it happened. Daren made my day, talking about an old guy he played basketball against when he was in his twenties. The guy was all over him – stealing the ball, blocking shots, beating him to the other end of the court on a fast break. “Wow!” he said to the old guy. I hope I’m in as good shape as you, when I’m your age.” The guy was forty-one! Daren passed that milestone several years ago. He was staggered when it hit him that he was now older, than that “old guy.” It’s something he’ll get used to. In time.

This aging thing is weird. A ten year old will ask a young adult how old he is. “Twenty,” the “old” guy replies. “You’re old!” the kid exclaims. Old people are those people older than us. We move the “old” line as we age. – “I’m glad I’m not that old, ” we say, pointing to a guy in his fifties. –  Or – “I’m young; not as old as him,” nodding toward a sixty year old. -  Up, up, up goes the old age line. Then along comes Dave, on his daily walk down West Beecher Hill, through town and back up the steep hill to his house. He’s in the “eighty something” club. He does this every single day. Rain or shine! Ninety degrees and muggy or two degrees below zero and windy! He proves to us that age is just a number and it’s time to stop saying, “I used to.”   

The Old Coot is a dunker.

Published April25, 2012

It was a symphony. The players lined up on swivel stools, a steaming mug of coffee on the counter in front of them, a “plain” donut clutched in their right hand, posed above their mug (except for Lefty). Then, like instruments in an orchestra, the donuts were dunked on cue, “Plunk, plunk, plunk – dunk, dunk, dunk.” That unfinished symphony is now finished. The diner-donut-dunkers are gone. As are the toast-in-cocoa dunkers and the crumpet-in-tea dippers. An era has come to an end.

Oh sure, there are dunkers out there. Of the ketchup and French-fry ilk or the Oreos and milk variety. Here and there a grilled cheese gets dunked in tomato soup. But, the legion of donut dunkers that lined the silver diners vanished a decade or two ago. The Seinfeld TV show made the last mention of dunking in public on Season 3, episode 7, when the camera panned to a well-dressed gentleman dunking a donut in Dinky Donuts. Kramer claimed it was Joe DiMaggio. (We’ll never know for sure)

People buy donuts by the dozen and consume them in private at home these days. No one hops on a bar stool, executes a 360 degree swivel and orders a cup of Joe and 2 plain donuts. And dunks! Even the company that took the dunking process as their namesake (Dunkin Donut) backed away from their heritage and discontinued the “dunkin” donut with its little dunking handle. It no longer has a home on the racks that line the back wall. Coffee comes in a Styrofoam container with a lid. Who can dunk in that atmosphere?

Old coot dunkers like me are extinct, exiled to society’s attic, right next to the barrel makers and lamplighters. Coffee was 10 cents in my early dunking days. Two plain donuts were a quarter. So were sugar donuts, but none of us bought them; we didn’t want to be seen walking around town with a frosty white mustache. Plain donuts were safe. Sugar donuts were for kids. 

Now that I’ve got that out of my system, I forgot my point. That’s what you get from an old coot. A long rant about the good old days and then nothing. I don’t even know what got me started. Probably that trip to the dentist last week so Pam could fix yet another tooth that started to come apart (an “old age” thing). It must have got me looking into the future, to a time when I’ll only be able to eat a donut if I can dunk it. Sitting on a stool in the diner and saying, “Hi,” to someone who greets me with, “How you doing Gummy?” That’s even worse than being called, “Old Coot!”

Old Coot articles published in March, 2012

The Old Coot woke up in a foreign land.

Published March 7, 2012

I’m writing this in Florida. It wasn’t my decision to come here; a migration gene kicked in when I signed up for Social Security. It draws me to the south with the rest of the flock when winter weather arrives. It’s not an easy migration. It takes a lot of preparation. I had to work through an extensive checklist. It was as though I was going to a foreign country. I was!

It took several weeks to round up things for the trip: plaid pants (check), white shoes with Velcro fasteners (check), Perry Como CD’s (check), black knee socks (check), metal detector (check), McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Subway and Burger King discount coupons (check), wide swim trunks that spread out so it looks like you are swimming with a sting ray (check), elastic pants that can be worn frontwards or backwards (check), neck strap for glasses (check), fanny pack (check), two-dollar gallon of wine (check). 

The equipment is just the first step in getting ready for Florida. There’s more! I had to change my eating habits, adjust to having dinner at 3:30 in the afternoon. I also had to adopt Florida driving techniques: slink way down in the seat so the guy behind me thinks no one is driving the car, lock my turn signal in the “turning left” position, back up without looking and drive at 40 MPH for hours on end in the passing lane.

My perspective on age was another change I had to make. I had to get used to being the kid, instead of the old guy. A fellow migratory started the ball rolling when he said, “Son, you’re not old. Wait till you get to be my age.” – “And, how old is that?” I asked. “I’m twenty-one, but my birthday was on February 29th, you do the math!” I have to admit, it’s nice not to be the oldest guy in the room for a change. Or, to get those looks from young people that say, “You’re old!” – or - “How do you dare go out in public?”

I worked hard on my checklist. I didn’t want to forget anything. Last year I forgot my portable calculator with a paper tape. I had to check all the restaurant tabs in my head and guess at the tip. This year, I just hand the tape to the waitress when she adds up the bill incorrectly. But more important, I use it to calculate her tip down to the penny. I was a regular sugar daddy last year. Sometimes my tip shot up to 11%. Never again! The calculator was the first thing I loaded into the 1978 Buick station wagon with simulated wood-grain side panels that I rented for the trip. (It’s all about fitting in.) Now, where did I put that AARP discount card?

The Old Coot rides with the wind.

Published March 14, 2012

I’m still in Florida. With “my” people. It’s a little scary; I’m surrounded by old coots that think and act as though they are 13 years old. Just like me. (The age that causes parents and teachers to pull their hair out!) A lot of us travel on what we call, two-wheelers, a throw back to the term we adopted eons ago when we were little kids and made the big move up from three-wheelers. We don’t wear helmets. We can’t help it. It’s our last vestige of independence. We accepted the seatbelts. We accepted the pat downs at the airports, the childproof medicine bottles we can’t open, the safety stickers plastered on everything we buy. But, we drew the line at the edicts from the hysterical “societal nannies” that think it’s dangerous to ride without a helmet. They made it illegal for kids under fourteen to ride a bike without a helmet, but thankfully, exempted old coots that act that age.  

So, off we go in packs, down the Florida coast with our hair (or bald scalp) blowing in the wind. There’s nothing like sailing through town with your head back and your feet on the handlebars without a care in the world. A helmet would ruin the experience.

We’re pretty safe, even though we won’t wear a helmet. We don’t go fast enough to get hurt for one thing. Our speed is about that of a fast walker. Except, when we get a good tail wind or fly down a steep hill. Then we get up to 10 miles per hour, our brakes screeching all the while as we pull on the levers in terror. Speed kills; we know that. But, going slow isn’t the only reason we’re safe without a helmet. We’re safe because we have a highly functioning head-protection reflex. We developed it when we were little kids. We slip; we fall; yet our heads never hit anything. It’s our elbows, shoulders or wrists that take the blow.

We were brought up learning to protect our noggins. When we left the house to play our mothers would yell, “Be careful; watch your head!” And, we did. If you don’t believe it, go by a group of old coots sometime and yell, “Watch out!” Every single one will duck down and throw his arms up around his head. It’s one of the few physical skills we still perform to perfection.  

So, here I am, gathered in with a flock of old coots that come south for the winter, gliding around town bareheaded on two wheelers. But, we’re not the brave ones. That honor goes to the old guys passing us without helmets on Harleys. They’re a throwback to the days of Marlon Brando and James Dean when they rode across the silver screen on a motorcycle with the wind blowing through their hair. Back in the politically incorrect days on the 1950’s. Dean was a rebel without a cause, but if the politicians enact laws that require old coots to wear bike helmets, we’ll become rebels with a cause!

The Old Coot pegged his meter.

Published March 21, 2012

I was grousing around the other day. To anyone within earshot. Nothing special. Just a collection of little irritations. McDonalds got me started. I’d ordered a hamburger kid’s meal. They should change the name to “Kid’s & Old Coot’s” Meal. More old coots order it than kids. I bit into the burger and immediately realized my mistake. I’d forgotten to open it up and remove the pickles and scrape off the mustard. Mustard on a hamburger? Most people I know use ketchup. Mustard is for hot dogs! I think it’s a law or something. And, who wants warm pickles? I want mine on the side, and cold. So, I fixed the burger and finished my lunch in peace. Sort of. My grouse meter started to go up.

Then, Bill Gates got in my face. He may be a great humanitarian, but he creates more frustration than any other person on the planet. Every time I get a new computer it has one of his new “latest and greatest” operating systems. Everything is different! I have to relearn how to use it. And, like old dogs, old coots find it almost impossible to learn new tricks. I made the mistake of buying a PC with Windows 7, “Premium” Home Edition. In my world, “Premium” means the top of the line, the best there is. In Bill Gate’s world, it means the bare minimum, the cheap and dirty version. I couldn’t install any of my old (and cherished) software. Not unless I spent another $200 for Windows 7 -  Professional.  My grouse meter went up three degrees.

One by one, the irritations kept coming. My cell phone charger was next. We have three cell phones in our house; each has its own charger and a unique connector plug. The cords are always lying together in the drawer in a big snarl. I don’t know how it happens. We wind them up and carefully place them in separate parts of the drawer but the minute it closes, they weave themselves into a tangled ball. “Why can’t all cell phones use the same charger?” I groused to my wife, Marcia. “Take a walk, you old coot,” she responded. (My grouse meter rose, yet again.)

But, I didn’t take a walk. I drove the car to the gas station instead. To fill it up. I forgot what car I was in and pulled up to the wrong side of the pump. “Why don’t all cars have the gas cap on the same side?” I yelled to the ceiling of the car. (Up another degree) I got out to see if the hose would reach, but of course it wouldn’t. It’s about ten inches long. So, I got back in the car and pulled around the other way. Almost! A kid in an old beater cut me off and took the spot I was heading to. Another plea to the ceiling of the car (and another degree on the meter). Finally, I got to fill up the tank. I think it cost seventy dollars; I’m not sure; the pump failed to deliver a receipt and ordered me to see the clerk if I wanted one (Up! Up! Up!) There was a line of people cashing in lottery tickets so I said the heck with it and left (the needle kept rising).

My grouse meter was now in the red zone. If I was a car my “check engine” light would be glowing. I needed a relief valve. I went to the Goat Boy Coffeebar and sat with the boys. I made it just in time for the daily grouse meeting. We listen to each other. We have too. It’s a rule. You listen to me and I’ll listen to you. My meter went back into the safe zone. All Stephanie charges for is the coffee. The psychotherapy is free. I wonder how high her grouse meter is by the time we leave?   

The Old Coot speaks a new language.

Published March 28, 2012

I’ve noticed a lot of British accents on TV lately.  It’s an invasion of sorts, like when the Beetles came to America and pushed Elvis aside. More and more of the commentators on news shows have a British accent. You never hear them say, “Me saw a man get arrested in Cairo!” They speak the language at a high level. – “Good show, old chap.” – “That was a smashing street demonstration.” But, I think it’s the accent. It makes everything they say sound more credible. Even if they use the wrong pronoun or a forbidden contraction like ain’t, we don’t notice; the accent clouds our mind and makes whatever they say sound intelligent. 

The people who run TV news programs know this and are hiring more and more people with British accents. They want us to think the newscasters are smarter than us. So, we’ll stay tuned. People with British accents help sustain that myth.

The accent not only makes reporters and commentators seem smart, it also makes them seem honest and frank, like Simon, when he was on American Idol. He told it like it was, reinforcing the myth, brutally so. Eventually, all plain speaking American reporters will be pushed aside and replaced with Brits. The Revolutionary War isn’t over. We haven’t won the final battle. It’s just getting underway.

I’ve been practicing my British accent, hoping to regain the respect that hasn’t come my way of late. It’s working pretty good. (Oops.) I mean, it’s working pretty well. I watch BBC a lot, to learn British sayings and pronunciations. Not all my attempts to speak British have turned out so hot. I asked the clerk in the gas station where the loo was the other day. She said, “Lou doesn’t work on Thursdays.”

That’s OK; I’m in no hurry. I can take my bloody time making the transition. I’m going to try it out at the Harris Diner. I’m sure Sam will be impressed, especially when I order eggs and bangers with a spot of tea, instead of my usual, #3. I’m sure the Franz brothers and the rest of the boys at the back table will start to show me some respect, especially when I get up to leave and turn to them and say, “Cheerio! It’s been jolly good to see you again!” I’ll be the only British old coot in town. Finally, a place of distinction!