May 15, 2013 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t know your name!

By Merlin Lessler

It was a typical morning in the Goat Boy Coffee Bar – There I was, pontificating along with the regular crew – solving the Village, Town, County, State and National problems when in walks Phil Wiles. “Hi Paul,” I said, a little too loud. “I’m not Paul; I’m Phil,” he replied. “No you’re not,” I responded. “I just saw Phil at Dunkin Donuts and said Hi Phil and he said Hi back.”

“No! Really! I am Phil! Paul didn’t want to correct you for the 100^th time, so he let it go.” That’s when my compatriots deserted me. Their catcalls and whoops let me know I was wrong, yet again! So, I gave in. Maybe he was Phil. It’s confusing for an old coot, this business of trying to use the right name when you see someone. Paul and Phil are especially hard, being twins, but adding to the confusion is Jody Rose’s husband, Paul Philips. My brain starts to spit & sputter when I run into him. What should I say? “Hi Paul? Hi Phil? Is he Paul Philips or Philip Paul? I know I won’t get it right. I really get mixed up: Paul Wiles, Phil Wiles and Paul Philips. It’s no wonder I’ve dropped names entirely and greet people with Hi Captain, Hi Kid, Hey Man, How you guys doing?

But, it’s not me; it’s them! The people with similar sounding or otherwise confusing names: Craig and Greg, for example; who can keep them straight? How about Lynn, Laurie, Laura, Lana, Lisa, Lorna, Liza and all the rest of the “L” names. It’s beyond my capabilities. Even the name of the village I live in causes me problems. I’ll tell someone I live in Owego and they often say, “Oh, Oswego, I’ve heard of that; isn’t it on Lake Ontario?”

It’s not just people’s names that mess me up. The street names around here are ridiculous, the ones that have several names for the same street: Academy Street and Mc Master Street - East Ave becoming West Ave turning into Mountain Road and finally, East Beacher Hill – and how about the four-bagger, it starts out as East Front Street. You drive along looking at the ducks on Brick Pond and presto; you’re on Taylor Road. Look down to read a text message and you find yourself on Bodle Hill. Bend over to pick up the Big Mac that slid off the seat onto the floor and you’re on Day Hollow. The same road, four different names. When someone asks me for directions I always say, “Sorry, no speaka da English! Governor!”