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 19th 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.
