July 24, 2013 Article

The Old Coot lives in the fast lane.

By Merlin Lessler

I went through the express line in the supermarket the other day. Old coots always go through the express line. We buy one or two things and get out the door as fast as we can. We are grocery store challenged. Because of old memories; memories of standing in a long line behind overloaded shopping carts, holding a carton of milk and a loaf of bread, the only two items we were capable of purchasing without messing up. Bread and milk were easy in those days; there were two choices for milk (quart size or ½ gallon) and three for bread (sliced sandwich bread, hot dog rolls, hamburger buns). Hard to mess up!

We stood there holding our bread and milk, watching the shoppers in front of us as the clerk searched each item for a price sticker and entered it into an enormous mechanical cash register. It was a long slow process and the clerk was nervous because the customers watched every move like a hawk, poised to pounce if she made a mistake. 

Agony is what it was, standing there at the end of the line. Then, the express lane was invented. One of the top 10 innovations of the 20^th century, right up there with the Chia Pet. If you had five items or less, you could skip past the aisles of agony. You didn’t dare make eye contact with people in the slow lines, but you could feel their resentment; it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. So, you kept your eyes down and hopped into the lifeboat, ignoring the principle of, “Women and children first!”

The number of items allowed in the express lane has grown over the years. It started with 5 and gradually expanded to 12. At that level you could still check the other shoppers to make sure they weren't cheating. But, the express line I was in the other day allowed 20 items. It was too hard to see if the other customers counted correctly, though I tried. And, the line didn’t move nearly as fast as it used to.

Pretty soon, one of the supermarket chains will wise up and start an “express-express” line. The old one will remain, the 20 or less one. The new, “double express” line, will be restricted to 5 items. I’ll use it with my loaf of bread and carton of milk and smile to myself as I beat the 20 or less customers out the door. 

It still won’t compare to the system at John’s Fine Food, The Community Shop or Thompson’s Grocery Store where they ring a buzzer or yell to the back for help the second things start to back up. A swarm of workers put aside what they are doing and rush to the front to help get customers bagged up and out the door. No, there is nothing like a small town, locally owned grocery store. Every line is an express line!

July 17, 2013 Article

The Old Coot salutes the Village People.

By Merlin Lessler

There is a bunch of people who walk Owego. There are the noon walkers, taking a break from work and stretching their legs. There are the after-dinner walkers, taking a stroll to burn off that extra piece of pie. There are the mothers and fathers (mostly mothers) pushing strollers, sometimes at a walk pace, sometimes at a full jog. There are dog walkers, sightseers from out of town, historic tour walkers and then there is my crowd, the morning walkers, taking in the sights while the village sleeps.

We’re a nosey bunch, us morning walkers; we’re like news reporters working a beat. “Did you see that the Hennessey house is for sale?” – we’ll report to anyone we meet. “Did you see the color the Smith’s are painting their house?” We’re walking but mostly we’re gawking. And why not? A walk through the village is like a walk through a Norman Rockwell painting.

We nod to each other as we pass. Sometimes, we know who we are nodding to, sometimes we don’t.  We exchange weather comments or give a heads up on a sight not to be missed on the next block. My favorite walkers are Sue Johnson and Jane Murphy. They both winter in Florida, but from May to October you will find them on the sidewalk most every morning.

Sue is the one in the lead; she’s five feet ahead of Jane, turning her head back to carry on a running conversation. Jane claims it’s because Sue has longer legs and walks faster, but I don’t buy it! They both walk at the same pace; it’s just that they do it five feet apart. Sue is the scout! Jane guards the rear!

But these two morning walkers don’t just walk, talk and check out the sights; they stop and interview whoever crosses their path. “What are you up to these days?” – “Did you go south this winter?” – “Did you sell your cottage at the lake?” Running into them is like being interrogated by Mike Wallace on Sixty Minutes, just more enjoyable because after they finish your debriefing, they get you up to date on what’s going on around town.

I miss them in the winter when they are in Florida, these two friends who have pounded the pavement together (five feet apart) for several decades. But every spring they come back, about a month after the robins, and join the morning crowd:  Eddy, scouting for recyclables - Thelma, checking trash cans for scraps to feed the birds -  David, keeping track of police and fire calls on his portable scanner - Nancy, down from the mountain to put in her laps. And, me! (among others) We’re the village people. We walk the beat.

July 10, 2013 Article

The Old Coot misses straight-A students.

By Merlin Lessler

“She’s a straight A student!” That’s how a kid (not me) who excelled in school was referred to. It definitely was a coveted description. An A in every subject! I got my meager supply of A’s one at a time. I rotated them through the subjects, most coming in secondary courses like gym and wood shop. But, if they gave a grade for it, I would have gotten a load of A’s for the essays I was forced to write explaining why I would never throw spitballs in class again or stick “Kick me!” signs on classmate’s backs. 

Straight A’s! That said it all. It cut right to the heart of the matter. Now, I guess the best we can say about a kid in elementary school is they get all S’s. They are satisfactory and at grade level in all subjects. In high school it’s expressed even more mundanely, using percentile terms. “He’s an excellent student; he carries a 96% average.”

Back when A’s and B’s and C’s ruled the stage, an A meant a kid had a test average of 94 to 100 for the semester. He or she could have a misstep or two and still wear a “Straight A” crown of distinction. We are left with a mediocre marking system that has no impact, no pizzazz. “How’s your kid doing in school?” – “Oh, she maintains an average across her subjects that exceeds 94%.” What an unwieldy response! As opposed to saying, “She’s a Straight A student!”

And, what about the kids that weren’t Straight A students but got all A’s and B’s. Another highly noteworthy accomplishment with a powerhouse description, “She gets all A’s and B’s!”  Now, it’s reduced to a meek, “She maintains an average that ranges above 87%.” The poor kid, like Rodney Dangerfield, “Gets no respect!”

You would think an education system so focused on testing would include a grading system that gives students something to strive for, like the “all- star” designation in sports. You can tell the politicians and the Regents, who continuously treat our education system as a laboratory experiment, were not straight A students when they were in school. It’s more likely they were the kids who wildly waved their hand to get the teacher’s attention so they could tell her, “Bobby has a Superman comic hidden inside his history book!”

 
No, I wasn’t a straight A student. I had a different goal each year, to get the word “promoted” circled at the bottom of my report card. As for my Straight A friends, some did well in life and some didn’t. It isn’t just what you learn in the classroom that prepares you for life. The lessons learned on the playground are just as important.  

July 3, 2013 Article

The Old Coot finds a bargain?

By Merlin Lessler

“Welcome to my spider web!” That’s what we should hear when we’re exposed to an ad for something with an introductory price or a trial offer. But instead, we blissfully sign up for the NY Times at a special rate, or Time Warner, or Direct TV or any of the multitudes of offerings from “spiders” who spin an “introductory price” web across our path. Can you tell from my tone that I’ve fallen prey to one of these schemes?

Actually, more than one has tempted me to put aside my, “there is no free lunch,” skepticism and sign on the dotted line. It starts out great. You get the NY Sunday Times delivered to your front door for $4 a week, not the $6 you’ve been paying at the store. Every four weeks your credit card gets zinged for $16. You hardly notice it on the monthly statement. Then, the spider climbs into the web and feasts on your altered decision making capability. The $16 debit every four weeks changes to $28.

When you finally get around to noticing it, three or four months later, you realize you’ve been had. You go to their web site with the mistaken idea that you will cancel your subscription. You soon discover that you have to call them if you want to opt out. So, you grab your phone, a book to read, a snack and dial the 800 number. Eventually, you weave your way through the queue and hear, “Your call is important to us; a representative will be with you shortly.” You hear it 1,500 times before a person comes on the line. By then, you’ve finished the book and polished off the snack; you’re tired, hungry and a little numb. In this weakened state, you fight your way through a gauntlet of new offers hurled at you to get you to change your mind.

Finally, the rep realizes that nothing will work; you are going to cancel the service. “OK sir, (you tell by her tone that she really means, old coot, not sir) I will process your request; it will go into effect on September 1^st.”  - “September?” you reply. “Why can’t you make it effective right away, like you did when I signed up?” You then get a series of scripted, mumble jumble, policy and process reasons, but you sense that none of this is factual. You insist on immediate termination and you get it. (Well, almost. Two more weeks of the Times is better than waiting until September). You pound your chest in victory like Tarzan and hang up.

But, you did it! Sure, you got hosed for a few months. Several months. Ok, for a year and a half. But you’re out, and except for a promo in the mail every other week and a sales call now and then it’s behind you. “That will never happen again,” you tell yourself, while reading through an ad from Direct TV with a special introductory price of $24.50 a month for 9,000 channels. And then, reach for the phone.

June 26, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is in a fix.

By Merlin Lessler

Do you remember being a kid, peddling along on a bike, minding your own business and your pant leg got caught in the chain? You couldn’t peddle! You couldn’t put on the brake, at least not in my day when the brake was engaged by peddling backwards. All you could do was keep going forward, knowing when the bike slowed down it was going to tip over and you would skin your elbow or knee. Probably both! 

My worst  “pants-caught-in-a-bike-chain” experience took place when I was coming down a steep hill, headed for a busy street at the bottom. I had one chance to save my life, if I could somehow turn off onto a gravel construction road that jutted to the side just above the busy street. I knew I would fall when I made the turn, and most certainly would get banged up, but it was my only hope! Faster and faster I sped down the hill, flying by the Daley’s house, then the Almy’s house and finally past my friend Woody’s house, who was gawking at me out his bedroom window with a look of horror on his face. I steered toward the construction road and closed my eyes. That’s all I remember. Then, a neighborhood woman yelled out her kitchen window, asking me if I was OK. I looked down at the blood and cinder mosaic on the side of my leg, the skinless elbow on my arm and noticed that my torn pant leg was free of the chain. “I’m OK,” I shouted, got to my feet, picked up my bike, straightened the handlebars and peddled home. It was my third session that week with our bottle of iodine. I can still feel the sting.      

Now, I find myself back on a bicycle, rolling down a hill out of control with my pant leg caught in the chain. Except, this time the bicycle is metaphysical, and the hill is life, rapidly spinning by. That’s what it feels like to be old, any kind of old: 30 old, 40 old, 50, 60, 70 or 80 old. No matter what part of the hill you are on, the scenery is flying by way to fast. And, worse yet, there is no side street to pull off into. 

So, what’s my point? I don’t know. Someone asked me if I remembered getting my pants caught in a bicycle chain when I was a kid. And, like a typical old coot, turned it into a philosophical treatise on the meaning of life. How’s your bike ride going? Are your pant legs inching closer to the chain?