Sunday, July 19, 2015

July 15, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is singing the Blues.
By Merlin Lessler

I was at the Black Cat Gallery in Owego the other night, sipping free wine, munching on cheese and crackers, listening to folk music played by two talented women, one from Vestal, the other from candor, and gazing at the art and craft work. It was the first Friday of the month and that means “Art Walk” with stores staying open late and special arts and talent displayed throughout the Owego Marketplace. It’s a real treat, especially for an old coot like me. Did I mention free wine?

So there I was, freeloading yet again and getting in the way of legitimate shoppers. I gazed at a sepia picture of Robert Leroy Johnson, an itinerant blues singer and guitar player of the 1930’s whose records were reissued in the 1950’s, twenty some years after his death at age 27 in 1938. Those 78 RPM records, not only establish his credentials as an exceptional guitar player and song writer, they are also credited with the birth of rock and roll, from the days of Elvis right through to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones; they all took their cue from, and credit him, with greatly influencing their own works. 

This was all news to me. A Vestal schoolteacher standing next to me explained the history. I shouldn’t mention her name, but I will anyhow, as I always do; it was Karen Liberatore. It got me thinking about the hardship that drove people to create the blues: poverty, personal tragedy, bias, prejudice, and lack of educational and employment opportunities. What would drive the blues today if it were in the hands of middle class Americans?

“Cell phone blues,” might be one such dirge to come into creation, a lament from a teen whose parents limited his monthly data allocation to 3,000 mega bytes on a non-state of the art, 3-year-old Samsung cell phone. Or, “Stick shift blues,” from a girl whose father made her learn to drive on a standard transmission car with 150,000 mile on the odometer. “Latté blues,” would come from a teen whose mom limited her latté budget to two a week.

These modern blues wouldn’t be limited to teens, who are always an easy target for old coots like me; we constantly compare their life style to the hard times we grew up in. The “walk to school up hill, both ways” kind of thing. We’d create our blues music too. “Social Security Blues,” moaning about the Administration changing the date my monthly check from the seventeenth of the month to the third Wednesday, causing it to come as late as the 21st in some months. Or, “The early-bird Special blues,” a lament about restaurants reducing the cut off from 5 PM to 4:30 PM. The same places that have wised up and removed the unlimited supply of Splenda and sugar packets from their tables, forcing us to buy our own instead of stocking up while we dined.


No, the blues wouldn’t have the same driving force that created them in the 20’s and 30’s. “My Roth IRA only earned 4% last year” just doesn’t have the same impact. Johnson would probably fall out of his chair laughing if he heard our laments. Especially those from my old coot crowd whose favorite hobby is to moan the blues and complain about virtually everything. Fortunately we can’t carry a tune; the blues genre is safe! 

July 8, 2015 Artcle

The Old Coot hogs both lanes turning a corner.
By Merlin lessler

Old Coots swing wide! I didn’t notice it until Lois Bingley pointed it out. She’s a skilled bird watcher and applied her observation skills to watching old birds, which is the polite term for old coots. She said, “Just watch one of your crowd take a corner in their car. They swing way into the other lane to maneuver through it. They swing so wide they must think they’re driving an eighteen-wheeler or something. 

It’s true, but it’s not our fault. We’re partial to big boats, cars like the ones we grew up with. Big enough to seat three people in the front, a back seat that looks like a living room couch and a hood so long it requires an ornament or a crimped line at the front to help you steer. You line up the ornament with the edge of the road and it places you in the center of your lane. It worked great when we were in our youth, before we shrunk to our present height and we could sit up straight and erect behind the wheel.


But now, we’re shorter and slink down in the seat. You can barely see our heads when you follow from behind. This change in our physical structure is why we swing wide. We can hardly make out the hood ornament, all those yards in front of us. It’s like we’re driving from the recliner we watch TV (and nap) in at home. We lean way back and have a distorted view of the scene coming at us through the windshield. We glide into a right turn by going left. It kind of clears a path as the people coming toward us in the other lane jerk their cars out of the way. Then, we finish our wide turn and go down the road oblivious to the chaos we’ve created back at the intersection. Except now, thanks to Lois Bingley, I am aware of my swing wide technique. All I can say, is, “Thank you,” to all the drivers out there who pull out of my way, letting me get to the early bird special on time.

July 1, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is running around in circles (counterclockwise).
By Merlin Lessler

I walked the half-mile loop at Hickories Park the other day. In a counterclockwise direction. The arrow on the pathway instructs you to go the other way (clockwise). It’s a safety thing. They want you to face traffic as you go around since cars share the loop with pedestrians, skaters and bicyclists. Most of us ignore the arrow and walk with traffic at our back. It just feels wrong to walk around a circle in a clockwise direction. I wonder why?
All track meets have the runners going counterclockwise, same with roller and ice rinks, horse tracks (except in Europe) and auto races. Any activity that goes around in a circle goes counterclockwise. Is this a right-handed thing? Do left-handed people feel uncomfortable going counterclockwise?
Or, is it a Northern Hemisphere thing, like water going out of the bathtub swirling in a counterclockwise direction as it goes out the drain. When you cross the equator into South America, the swirl goes the other way. It’s the same thing with hurricanes. The wind swirls around the eye counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere and clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere. It’s called the Coriolis Effect. The planet makes it happen that way. I guess it affects us too.
It won’t matter in a few decades; today’s kids won’t know what clockwise or counterclockwise means. All the clocks they are growing up with are digital. Tighten a bolt by turning it clockwise and loosen it by turning it counterclockwise? That instruction won’t mean a thing. Righty-tighty and lefty loosey will replace it. The transformation has already begun. 
The signs for circular tracks, rinks and the like won’t ever instruct users to go in a clockwise or counterclockwise direction; they will have to say, “Walk with your left (or right) foot closest to the center of the circle. Or, they’ll paint arrows on the pavement like that at Hickories Park. It doesn’t really matter. Everybody, except maybe lefties, only feel comfortable walking in a counterclockwise direction so that’s the way they will go. We’re a counterclockwise species. If you’re rolling your eyes by now, check the mirror to see in which direction they roll. I bet they are rolling in a counterclockwise direction. Or, to say it in modern terms, “Lefty loosey!”

June 24, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is afraid of doors.
By Merlin Lessler

I have a door problem. A double door problem, to be specific. The entrances where you go through a door into a vestibule, and then through a second door. The physical doors aren’t the problem; it’s the question of manners. You approach the first door and a guy in front of you holds it open. A good thing! But, it kicks off an awkward social situation. Should you say, “Thank you,” and follow him to the second door where the scenario is repeated and say, “Thank you,” again? Or, should you make light of it at the second door and say, “Ditto,” or should you let your first thank you carry through the second door? 

If you save your thank you until you’re through the second door it causes a problem when someone coming out holds it open and you thank him or her. The guy in front of you takes it personal. (“You thanked the guy coming out, but not me. Grrr!”)  The safe route is to thank everybody in sight, even the guy who shoves past and crowds ahead of you in line. To him, I say, “Thank you,” out loud, but to myself I say, “Jerk!” 

It’s gotten to the point where I’m obsessed with the whole scenario. Not quite so bad that I loiter outside until it’s clear sailing through both doors, but almost. And, I often hang around inside, especially in coffee shops, to see what other people do. About fifty percent say, Thank you,” at the first door, and again at the second door. Thirty percent say it on the first door and make a slight physical gesture on the second, a nod, a wink or a thumbs up. The rest, I’m sorry to report, don’t say a thing. Let’s be frank here; they are just plain rude. As are the people who don’t give you a “thank-you” wave after you let them in front of you in their car. When they are rude at double doors, I say, “You’re welcome.” Sometimes it gets me, “Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you.” When they are rude in a car, I never do anything. There are just too many road-rage people out there; you can get shot.


I’m not sure what the solution is for the double door, manners problem. Super markets and big box stores have solved it for their customers by installing mechanical door openers. Good manners aren’t required. Other businesses have stuck with a single door, in spite of the cold draft that sweeps in when it’s opened on a bitter cold day. The rest have installed a double set of doors, creating a “manners” challenge for society. Maybe we need the first lady to start a campaign, like Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No,” program. This time we need a, “Just Say Thank You,” program. 

June 17, 2015 Article

The Old Coot cashes in!
By Merlin Lessler

Finally, old coots like me get to cash in on gift registries! We missed out, “back in the day,” when we had our weddings. Guests gave us what they wanted to give. Everyone lugged a fancy wrapped package to the reception and added it to a pyramid like pile on the gift table. The groom was stuck with getting them home, often pulling out from the curb at the end of the reception in a car loaded with boxes of loot. The car itself was gift wrapped, in “Just Married” signs, ribbons, bows and a string of rattling tin cans dragging from the back bumper.  

The packages were opened in private, so nobody would know that someone else gave you the same gift they did. You often ended up 6 toasters, 2 steam irons, 5 electric percolators and a mishmash of everyday and special occasion household items in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate. But, it wasn’t really a problem. All the unwanted and unneeded items went into the hall closet. A treasure chest of sorts, to be drawn upon for future weddings, showers and house warmings. It was a great system, except for when you mistakenly gave an item back to the original giver (and their name was on a card you missed inside the box, hidden under the tissue paper).

Then some accountant came along and invented the gift registry; to bring into balance the gifts received side of the ledger with the gifts desired side. (It had to be an accountant, don’t you think?) People could then pick out their own gifts. Invitees were required to go to the store or the web site indicated on the invitation and select something, setting up a frantic race of old coots to get there first and nail down the cheapest item. The groom is no longer responsible for getting the presents from the reception to the couples home; the retailer takes care of that, sometimes including a stack of hand written (fake of course) thank you notes for the couple to put in the mail when they get back from their honeymoon.


Some of us old coots still have unused coffee pots, toasters and the like, kicking around in the back of our hall closets. Items we never got the chance to re-gift, and never will. But at least we can get in on the gift registry scam. It’s now available to people of my vintage, designed for the important milestones of our autumn years: hip, knee and shoulder replacements, heart stents, gall bladder extractions and the like. I received one such invitation from my friend Ken, in South Carolina. He’s having ankle surgery and the invitation to “wish him well” asked that we not send flowers or candy, but to select something from his gift registry account at WWW.I finallygetwhatIwant.com. I checked the box next to a two-pack of ace bandages. (It was the cheapest thing on the list.) All his items medical related. I’m going the other way with my registry; it won’t contain any therapeutic items like Ken’s did. I’ll load mine with happy things that old coots appreciate: Snicker’s bars, Oreo cookies, Hostess cupcakes, ice cream and dry red wine. I almost can’t wait for a new ailment to strike so I can send out, “I’m sick,” cards with gift registry details. 

June 10, 2015 Article

The Old Coot gives a warning.
By Merlin Lessler

Summer is just around the corner. Some of you may be planning a vacation with another couple. Be careful! A couple's vacation can prove troublesome. Both couples say, “We’re great friends! We get along so well. It would be so nice to go on vacation together.” That’s the premise, so off you go.

Day one is a travel day. Oh sure, there’s a little tension on the trip, causing a spat or two, but those are between partners. Her saying, “Come on honey; we need to get through security before it backs up.” Him saying, “There’s plenty of time.” Her replying, “Do me one favor; let’s just get through security; then you can do whatever you want.” The other couple is watching the exchange, so he backs down. In they go. Just a little spat. No big deal. Not yet!

You make it to your destination, go to dinner; no problems so far; everyone is too tired to disagree. But, a glimmer of what’s to come, surfaces. “What do you want to do for breakfast?” Such an innocent question. Except, couple # 1 wants to grab a cup of coffee and a muffin and get to the beach early to get a good spot. Couple #2 wants to sleep in and have a lavish breakfast in the dinning room and mosey out to the beach in time for lunch. The “I’m on vacation” attitude starts to surface. Some minor grumbling off to the side, between partners, not between couples. “I didn’t spend all this money to do stuff I don’t want to do.” (Often accompanied with childlike pouting and foot stomping.)

The whole thing could be resolved right then, before the real disaster of a couple’s vacation unfolds. All it would take is for one of the wives to say, “Lets do this - you do what you want to do during the day, we’ll do what we want and then we’ll meet up for dinner.” That way they would have had the best of all worlds; the comfort of traveling with friends and the ability to enjoy time in their own way. But, this never happens. Everything has to be done as a foursome. An endless series of spats behind closed doors, arguing about how best to deal with the other couple’s shortcomings. “She’s so bossy!” -  “He’s so stubborn and selfish.” -  “Who does he think he is?” – “Did you catch how rude she was to the server? I bet the staff got even when her entrée went back to the kitchen.”

Finally, the last day on the beach. Four people, all mad. The only thing holding the marriages together is a mutual distaste for the other couple. They lounge in beach chairs, each angled in a different direction; no one would know they were together. It’s a symbolic temper tantrum that silently says, “I’ll face whatever way I want. ” A single thought floods everyone’s head, “NEVER AGAIN!”


One of the wives looks up from her travel magazine and says, “There’s a great cruise to Alaska in May, half price! What do you think?” Stony silence is the response. I know; I’ve been next to these couples, eavesdropping, on the beach, on cruise ships, in campgrounds. Even hiking up the trails in the White Mountains. If you go this couple’s route, be careful, you may destroy a great friendship. 

June 3, 2015 Article

The Old Coot gets a comeuppance.
By Bill Schweizer, introduction by Merlin Lessler 

A few weeks ago I explained why I ride a bicycle without a helmet, to complement a previous article where I explained why I ride facing traffic. I bike at the same speed that many joggers run at, 8 miles per hour.  They don’t wear helmets; why should I?

 I added this “Ps.” at the end of the article: To my 92 and ½ year-old, Iron Man friend, Bill Schweizer – Yes, I wrote about Spandex yet again, but notice I did not chastise those who wear it. (It was implied but not stated.) If you feel compelled to submit a poem to the editor in protest, you’ll have to confine your rhyme to my bare head.

Here is Bill’s response: (You need to understand that the word love, in line five, is pure sarcasm. Bill is well aware of my dislike of Spandex).
 
There is this guy I much admire,
 who has a problem with his attire

 Dressing down is his big thing,
 of its features he does sing

 His love of spandex is well known,
 trying a pair might change his tone

 Most of the time his rants are harmless,
 but when it comes to helmets, call it scandalous

 Riding without, and wrong way to boot,
 is sure to result in a short lived coot

 So far, he's been a lucky fellow
 he has escaped a head of Jell-O

 If the wind in his hair must blow,
 Put the top down on his car and go

  Show some wisdom on his ride,
  protecting head should be the guide

  So my friend, my fondest hope,
  wear a helmet, don't be a dope

  (Written by a guy with three broken helmets but with the ability to walk out of the emergency room in every case.) Bill