December 18, 2013 Article

The Old Coot holds up the line at the post office.

“I’ve got an article for you,” a woman who works in the County Office yelled to me in line at Dunkin Donuts the other day. “You should write about the retired people who clog the aisles at the post office and the bank on our lunch hour.” I shouldn’t mention her name because the people I’m going to rile up with this article might want to retaliate. It’s Cindy! So, if you must protest, talk to her, not me. I won’t be home anyhow; I’ll be in line at the post office. (If it’s the noon hour.)  

 She’s right. Us retired folks have all day to go to the bank or the post office. But there’s a good reason why we turn up just as workers dash there on their lunch hour. Actually, there are two reasons: Some days, it’s because we are experiencing the “early bird” syndrome. On other days, it’s because we are overcome with the “can’t make a decision” syndrome. When it’s an “early bird” day we’re out of bed at five, raring to go. We get dressed, eat breakfast and are out the door by six. Off to the diner, the coffee house or the gas station. We’re looking for human contact. By seven we’ve solved all the world’s problems and move on to our inspection duties: Where are the DOT crews setting up; is it a job that’s worth going back later to watch? - Do any of the houses on the market have sold signs on them? - Did anyone pick up the tree limb on Parker Lane? It’s quite a responsibility, but we are up to the task.

 By ten-thirty, we’re exhausted; it’s time for a nap, the first of the day. We wake [with a start] at eleven forty-five and rush to the post office to buy a stamp (we never buy more than one at a time). Then, it’s over to the bank to get change for a twenty. We don’t like paying for things with a “big” bill. Too many places run a counterfeit checking pen over them. What would we do if it turned out to be fake? Grab it and run? We’re certainly not going to surrender it and take the loss! So, we go to the bank and get it broken into smaller bills.

Then, there are the days we’re stricken with the “can’t make a decision” syndrome. We still get up early, but we don’t rush out the door. Too many decisions have to be made first. Should I get dressed and then have breakfast, or have breakfast and then get dressed? Should I have cereal or eggs? Are eggs still bad for you or is it OK to eat them again?  What’s the temperature outside? Do I need a coat” An umbrella? The list of decisions is endless. Heaven help us if we make a mistake. It takes three hours to resolve all the issues and head out the door to the post office. 

 So, there you find us, on “your” lunch hour, clogging up the line. It gets worse. “What stamp would you like,” the postal clerk asks? We don’t know; we can’t make a decision. “What are our choices,” we ask? And, look back to the crowd for their opinion when the choices are announced, like a contestant on Let’s Make a Deal. The people in line shift from one foot to the other in unison and glare at the back of our heads. But, it’s not over. The clerk has more questions: Do you need boxes? - Do you need envelopes? - Do you want insurance? - More stamps? We stumble under the barrage like a prizefighter getting pelted in the ring. Then it’s time to pay. More decisions: Give up a five-dollar bill? - Hand over a twenty and be looked at suspiciously? - Charge it? There you are in line behind us, wondering why on earth we are there on your lunch hour. Well, now you know!

December 11, 2013 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t know what century it is.

“You can’t afford that sir! It’s old, from the 18^th century.” He’s right! Not only can I not afford it, I can’t even figure out how old it is. I’m “century” challenged. When someone pulls out the “century” card, I drop out of the game. Oh sure, I can eventually figure it out, but I hate to do the math. Let’s see, in the first century the years don’t have a “hundreds” digit. The fifty-third year of the first century is just 53. The second century adds a “hundreds” digit, but it’s a 1, not a 2.The numerical year is out of sync with the century. 1805, the year our house was built, is the 5^th year of the 19^th century. I have to subtract to get the date. Century minus 100 years = the actual date. Ok, now I’m ready to go; “SUBTRACT 100,” I plant in my mind. Ten minutes later I ask myself, “Do I add 100 or subtract 100?”

Most of us in the great-unwashed crowd avoid using the “century” term. It’s not a four-letter word but it’s a bad word. Besides, it sounds snooty. Like the speaker is saying, “I’m smart, educated, sophisticated and you’re a dope.” Take the experts on the Antique Road Show. They never say something comes from the mid 1800’s, a date we could comprehend. They say it comes from the mid 19^th century, causing us to be confused. And to do the math. But we stumble with it. “Do I add or subtract a hundred years?” And back we go to the first century to figure it out.

I don’t do the math anymore; I just stand there blissfully ignorant, looking like an idiot. Which in my case, is a true reflection of my mental abilities. I cannot translate from century to years. It’s a foreign language; I need an interpreter at my side when I’m in the company of highbrows. If you speak in the “century” language, please give the rest of us a break and switch to the date. And, the same thing with you people who refer to time in military terms. Switch back to AM and PM when you talk to the rest of us. I can never figure out what you mean when you say it’s 17:45. Just tell me to be there at 5:45 in the afternoon, or 5:45 PM if you want to be more precise. But, not 17:45.

I don’t think this is an old coot affliction. The conversion problem with military time and century terminology affect people of all ages. As does the metric system. Another language that’s foreign to me. I can’t find a good app for my smart phone to resolve these issues. It’s as dumb as I am. So, I’ll continue to smile and look stupid when the high brows regale me with stories from the 15^th century, thankful that I at least know what this year is, though I’m not too sure of the month. Thankful, that I know the correct time, for half the day anyhow, and that a one-liter bottle is just a little bigger than the quart bottle I grew up with. It’s all part of a conspiracy to push us old coots out to pasture. I’m sorry. Wrong terminology. Let me restate it - it’s all part of a conspiracy to transform us into “free-range” old coots.

December 4, 2013 Article

The Old Coot took the Camel Cigarette, 30 day test.

By Merlin Lessler

Take this pill! Sue the dirty bums! This is what our society has come down to. If you judge it by the ads on TV. No matter what’s wrong with you, there is a pill to fix it. No matter what happens to you, there is someone to blame, and someone to sue. Let’s start with the pills. “Don’t pay any attention to this list of side effects; the FDA made us reveal them.” That’s what the pharmaceutical companies would say at the beginning of their spiel if they were truly honest and forthright. Instead, they create an image so appealing as to obscure any negative input. Celebrex, for example, shows an attractive middle-aged woman, now freed of her arthritic pain, leisurely swimming in warm tropical waters. She’s accompanied by a collection of happy friends and beautiful golden retriever that gently paddles in and out of the group.  

The waves gently lap the shore while the announcer’s melodious voice, quietly suggests that taking the medicine may increase your chances of a heart attack or a stroke and lead to death. Or, stomach and other intestinal problems, such as bleeding ulcers, which may appear without warning and also lead to death. What the FDA should do, is make them show images of people experiencing the side effects instead of swimming around in paradise. Maybe then, we’d pay attention to just how risky these miracle cures really are.  

But we don’t pay attention to the side effects. They hardly register. And, that’s OK, because the law firms that feed on our missteps, the ones who dominate our TV screens, are there to make sure we get retribution. They’re on our side!  And, if you can believe the Syracuse lawyer whose face graces my TV more than any other, he will “leave no stone unturned” to get you money. He doesn’t mention the side effects of this service. A fee that will probably net him more money than you. 

And to think I thought the Camel Cigarette ads I grew up with in the 1950’s were unscrupulous, the ones in which they invited smokers to take a “30 day Camel” test. “Smoke camels for 30 days and discover for yourself what throat specialists discovered; not one single case of throat irritation in a coast-to-coast test of hundreds of people. I accepted their invitation; I bought a pack of Camels. And, even though I was only nine years old, I was smart enough to quit after one day. Besides, if I got caught my mother would have killed me. There’s no pill for that!

Complaints? Comments? Leave at mlessler7@gmail.com

November 27, 2013 Article

The Old Coot knows his colors.

By Merlin Lessler

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but red is the new green. People don’t stop for red lights anymore. In fact, they do just the opposite; they speed up. And, those of us who are waiting at the intersection for our light to turn green are now forced to look both ways before moving ahead. If we don’t, we’ll get broadsided. I admit, I’ve done it myself, stepped on the gas as a light started to turn red, but today’s drivers act as though they have a ten second grace period. The red light doesn’t mean red until ten seconds after it comes on. 

I’ve also noticed that one or two cars will often follow the first car through the light. It reminds me of when I was a kid and we fastened our sleds together by hooking our feet onto the sled behind us to form a train; we came down the hill as a single unit. That’s how cars now run through red lights, as a train. It’s a good strategy. Safety in numbers. Who’s the cop going to ticket? The odds are good that it won’t be you.  

I started a campaign in 2007, one of those foolish old coot things, to see if the DOT would allow drivers to treat red lights as stop signs. I was tired of sitting in my car at intersections when no cars were coming, wasting time and gas. If I was allowed to go right on red, why not straight or left? Drivers do it all the time at stop signs, what’s so different when it’s a red light? I sent letters to our elected state officials, as did a modest number of like-minded old guys with too much time on their hands. I received a polite reply from our state senator. He didn’t let on how crazy he thought my suggestion was. He just said he’d refer it to the DOT for consideration. Eventually, the answer came, on official DOT stationary, a big fat, “NO”! Little did I know I should have been asking to go left and straight on a green light, not a red one.

I still think we should be allowed to treat a red light as a stop sign. I do it all the time when I’m walking, and it takes me a lot longer to scamper across the intersection to safety than when I’m in a car. If you wait for permission from a mindless traffic signal you are going to get hit by a red-light runner. But, not if you remember, “Red is the new green!”

November 20, 2013 Article

The Old Coot takes a walk.

By Merlin Lessler

What could be more simple than taking a stroll down the sidewalk? You put on your shoes, tie them tight (good luck with that; modern shoelaces won’t stay tied), step out the door and start walking. Everything is fine: fresh air, stuff to look at and no one in sight. You slip into a walk coma, like the one you experience in a car when you get to your destination and have no memory of the trip. 

Then you spot someone off in the distance coming your way. It’s amazing how quickly the human brain can determine if a moving creature is coming toward you or going away. It must come from a primitive part of the brain, from a time when it was critical to your survival. It got you prepared to make a “fight or flight” decision. It’s not a survival skill we use much anymore but it still stirs up a considerable degree of anxiety, at least for an old coot like me. I have to break out of my coma and point myself in a straight line, so I won’t stumble into the intruder’s space.

I embrace the unwritten sidewalk walking rules, I move to the right (like in a car on a two lane road) and keep my eyes focused on oncoming traffic, which in this case is a guy walking toward me. The hard part for me, is to stay in a straight line. I tend to meander from side to side. Even when I concentrate.

So, off I go, hoping to pass by the oncoming walker without incident. That’s when I notice my shoelace has come untied. I go down on one knee and retie it. I get back up, a little light headed from rising too fast, take a few steps and find myself in the left hand lane. The guy coming my way shifts to his left too. Now, we’re both in the wrong lane but at least we won’t crash into each other. .

The gap narrows to fifty feet. I switch lanes; I go right, to obey the rules. He goes right to avoid a crash. I can read the look on his face, “Stop messing with me you old coot!” But, he’s over it by the time we pass each other. He nods; I nod, and the crisis comes to an end. I go back into my walk coma, but I’m exhausted from the stress of the encounter. I turn around and head home to take a nap. I guess there is no such thing as taking a simple stroll down the sidewalk!

 

November 13, 2013 Article

The Old Coot rides the fast lane.

By Merlin Lessler

“ Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” So says my car’s passenger sideview mirror. It bugs me! I want things in the mirror to appear exactly as they are, not some distorted facsimile. . Every time I look in it to see if it’s OK to pull back into the travel lane it haunts me. “How close is that car I’m pulling in front of?” I have to swivel in the seat, crane my neck and look out the back window to find out. No easy feat for an old coot with a trick neck. It’s just another cruel joke played on us by the geniuses that design our cars. The same ones that thought we’d like car keys to be the size of a bar of soap and cost hundreds of dollars to replace. You can’t put a spare key in a “Hide-a-Key” box to bail yourself out anymore. You lose your key, you ain’t getting back home anytime soon. (Or, with any money in your wallet.)

The mirror thing has been going on for some time. I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. I’m forever pulling in too close after passing a car and then being treated to the image in my rearview mirror (which doesn’t distort the image) of an irate driver shaking his fist and mouthing, “You stupid old coot!” All because of a trick mirror. I was on the receiving end the other day; a vehicle pulled right in front of me, a big construction truck. It nearly blew me off the road. He obviously didn’t heed the warning in his mirror either.

When I recovered, I noticed a sign on the back of the truck. It said, “STAY BACK 300 FEET.” It was only the size of a license plate and spattered with mud, but at that short distance I could read it clearly. “What was I supposed to do? Pull off onto the shoulder until he moved the length of a football field ahead? Get off at the next exit?” I was perplexed. The message is unreadable at more than a few yards. Unless, you have a passenger riding shotgun, scouting the road ahead through a pair of binoculars. Otherwise, you won’t know you are inching into the forbidden zone. 

It makes me wonder about the motivation of a company whose trucks sport such a message. It certainly isn’t meant to save us from a stone or other construction debris flying into our windshield. If it were, the sign would be four feet by eight feet, not one foot by six inches. No, what the sign really means is, “If something flies off and wrecks your car, you can’t sue us; you were warned to stay back!” The only solution I can come up with to solve both the distorted mirror and the “stay back 300 feet” problems is to speed along at 80 miles per hour in the passing lane and never pull back into the travel lane. It’s called, defensive driving. (“That’s my story officer, and I’m sticking to it!”)