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?