December 28, 2016 Article

The Old Coot Finds a Rare Coin!

By Merlin Lessler

This article was written over a decade ago, back when I was a younger old coot. It never made it to the paper, but I’m submitting it now, a little late, but better late than never.

June, 2006

I’m walking around with a fifty-cent piece in my pocket. I got it in change at Everybody’s Country Store. It’s the first one I’ve seen in years. When Kathy Phelps, the owner, handed it to me I thought I’d stepped back in time, to the era when a half-dollar was a treasured possession. Cathy’s store is like going back in time anyhow. The fixtures, cabinets and racks are vintage. The door sticks on cold mornings, like an old door should. The display cases are awash in fresh baked goods. The deli section is famous for its sandwiches. If you pass by in the wee hours of the morning you can glimpse the shadowy movement of the baking crew toiling away on today’s goodies. It gives the same respectful feeling as when you pass a barn at dawn and spot a lanky silhouette moving down a line of cows.

The half-dollar got me thinking, “Where did they go?” You never see them anymore. Ours, is a society fueled by quarters. When I was a twelve-year-old with a paper route, a lot of half-dollars passed through my fingers. Unfortunately, not many stayed with me. Newspapers retailed for a nickel in those days; fifteen cents on Sunday. Every Monday night after supper, I went back over my route to collect. The transaction went like this - I’d say, “Press.” The customer would grumble, “How much?” I’d respond, “Forty-five cents”. And, under my breath – “Just like last week; just like every week” Several customers would claim they had already paid, but I had proof they hadn’t. I had the postage stamp sized receipt still in my collection book, with their name at the top of the page.

It was somewhat of a hassle to get paid, but the circulation manager didn’t care. He was on my doorstep every Saturday morning with the bill - three cents per paper for Monday through Saturday, ten cents for Sunday times sixty customers. My profit for delivering the paper every day and then collecting from those 60 customers was about ten bucks. If everyone paid! Which never happened. Tips were a rarity back then. You would think that a customer or two might say, “Keep the change, kid,” when they handed you a fifty-cent piece for a forty-five-cent debt. It would be a small thank-you for getting a dry paper, on time, every day of the week. A paper that was carefully folded and tossed onto the porch or put inside the door if they didn’t have a porch. But, it wasn’t the case. Of the sixty customers on my route, only three told me to keep the nickel, and that was only every now and then. But, I wasn’t disappointed; I was happy to just get paid without hearing: “Come back tomorrow” - or - “My husband isn’t here and he pays the bills” - or - “I paid you last week for two weeks!” (Yes, you did, because you owed for the previous week). I was also happy to get through the week without one of the “guard” dogs on the route taking out their hostility on me when I hurried by and tossed the paper on their doorstep. I wasn’t always quick enough and I got nipped now and then. The owner usually blamed it on me.  “It’s your fault; you scared him!” It still didn’t get me a tip.  

No, I didn’t resent the skimpy number of tips. I loved walking home with a pocket full of half-dollars too much to let anything bother me. It was how I measured “a job well done.” It’s why the fifty-cent piece that Kathy Phelps gave me in change was such a shock. I’d forgotten how much I missed it. I started asking around, “Do you ever get any half-dollars?” John Spencer at Riverow Books said, “Hardly ever.” Darci at Awakenings Coffeehouse said, “Once a month or so. The kids that work for me don’t know what they are.” Everybody I asked had a similar answer. The half-dollar “passed away” and nobody went to the funeral. It didn’t even make the obituaries. Too bad. It makes me kind of sad.

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December 21, 2016 Article

The Old Coot opts out. 

By Merlin Lessler

I had a bad start to the day last Thursday. I slipped into my coat, grabbed my cell phone and headed down the sidewalk to the Village Kitchen. The owners, Ike and Julie, call it the Owego Kitchen, but when it was under construction I got the name wrong (Village Kitchen) and seem to be incapable of correcting the mistake in my lamebrain. I don’t know what the big deal is. I call both Robert and Tom, Tim. Lynn, Laura, Ray, Roy. But, it is a big deal to my friend Darrel, who insists his name is Daren. Every time I say Village Kitchen he falls out of his chair laughing, “You old coot! It’s the OWEGO Kitchen!” This, from a guy, who doesn’t know his own name.

So anyhow, I was headed into town with a spring in my step, as much as an old guy can muster, and turned on my phone. It went through its start-up calisthenics and after it got settled it flashed that message we all dread, “Battery critically low;  connect to your phone charger……” It took the spring right out of my step and laid a cloud of gloom across my horizon. “How would I survive the morning on 14%?”

That’s when I mentally slapped myself up-side-the-head and gave “him,” (me) a talking to. “You’ve gone without a phone in your pocket for more than three score years and now you’re in a panic because your battery is down to 14%? Oops; now it’s at 13%.” So, I turned it off! It took a block or two of nervous adjustment and then a peaceful feeling settled in. I was disconnected, no phone, no earbuds and no Lew Sauerbrey on the radio to block the sounds of a flock of geese flying overhead and birds twittering in the trees along the way. No news of world affairs (all bad usually) and no text messages intruding into the pleasure of a pleasant stroll down the street. Even for an old coot, this was a welcome treat.

It's amazing how a low battery notice on a phone can alter our mood. That such a handy device can turn on us, and send us into a state of stress. I didn’t realize how much power I’d turned over to an unlocked, used Samsung smart phone. It’s time for a change. I hope it shows up with 14% every morning, so I can shut it off until I really need to reach out, or to let the world reach in. Who’s in charge here anyhow?

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! 

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December 14, 2016 Article

The Old Coot ain’t buying it.

By Merlin Lessler

There he is, big as life, Alex Trebek, on the TV screen pitching “senior” life insurance for Colonial Penn (cannot be turned down) Life Insurance Company. He’s there, because the advertising team thinks we’ll buy Alex’s line. After all, he’s the smartest man on TV; he knows the questions to all the answers on Jeopardy.

Next, up pops Fonzie (Henry Winkler), that loveable rascal from Happy Days. He’s pitching reverse mortgages. How can we not heed his promise of happiness as we go through our golden years flush with cash after signing up? He was always straight with Mrs. B, and with a snap of his fingers, he could fix anything.

This is how gullible the ad people think we are. Put a TV star in front of us and we’ll buy it. Unfortunately, all too often, we do just that. It’s the sheep gene that comes with being human. Old coots (myself included) have worked hard to flush out that part of our DNA; it takes years of hard work and many bruises along the way. Mostly to our egos. We withstand criticism for being skeptical old goats, and cheapskates too. The training began the day we figured out that Santa Claus was a scam, an ingenious behavior modification mechanism. Little by little we strengthened the muscles of our skepticism, growing from gullible to wise, at least when it comes to snake oil salesmen.

But, some of my compatriots never graduate from Old Coot University. They give a caller their electric bill account number, send a check to the IRS to avoid going to the slammer and a money order to a long-lost cousin who needs cash to get back home after being mugged. We learn to live by well-worn adages; they serve us well, those gems of wisdom from thousands of years of human experience that are so succinctly stated in just a few words: - “If it seems too good to be true it probably is.” That single piece of advice is enough to stifle Alex Trebek and Henry Winkler when thy come after your wallet. It might be wise to write it down and glue it to the corner of the TV screen, a “picture-in-picture” sort of thing, so when the Hollywood crowd (and politicians) start talking, you’ll remember to engage the skepticism neurons in your brain.

Here are a few other from my top 50 list of adages, most of which I learned to be true the hard way: There is no such thing as a free lunch -  If it ain’t broke don’t fix it - Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. - Don’t put all your eggs in one basket - Two wrongs don’t make a right -  People who live in glass houses should not throw stones - A stitch in time saves nine -  You can’t judge a book by its cover.

Here’s the start of a few others. I’m sure you can finish them. If not, you need to do more work.  The grass is always… Absence makes the heart……A chain is only as strong as…..There is no time like …..All good things must …..Actions speak louder than……Keep your friends close and your…..Hope for the best but…..The squeaky wheel gets…..

And of course, the most useful of all - Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you. Too bad Fonzie and Trebek didn’t adopt that one.

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December 7, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is keyed up. Again.

By Merlin Lessler

What are they thinking? The engineers who design modern automobiles. I’ve been on this rant before, but the idiocy keeps slapping me up-side-the-head. It came to roost again two weeks ago when I rented a car and then again just the other day when I took a test drive. It was the keys that set me off! Those stupid electronic devices “they” thought were an improvement over a simple metal key that worked just fine. The starting device for the rental car was embedded in a two-inch square container with an oblong protuberance that folded out of the case. The protuberance is what you slid into a tiny, square opening on the steering column to start the vehicle. To start the test drive car, I was handed an Oreo cookie on a key chain. It took a while, but I finally figured out that the “cookie” had to be wedged into a slim slit in the dashboard. All I can say is, “STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!” You can’t just hop into a strange car and drive away; you need a lesson first.

Why did it happen? No car owner I know ever complained about the key, certainly never asked to have it replaced with a device that has a battery, a computer chip, costs hundreds of dollars and can’t be replaced without taking out a second mortgage. Thirty or so years ago, the engineers of the day, redesigned the key so you could put it in right side up or upside down. Now that was an improvement! But, these new keys, all I can say is, “WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?”

And, how about that “check engine” light? That amber, glowing icon that most of us have been annoyed by at one time or another. It sets us on edge. What should I do? Is the engine about to blow up? Should I pull over and call AAA? Eventually, we learn, it almost never has anything to do with the engine. It keeps us in a state of terror because we didn’t tighten the gas cap properly or some minuscule environmental component is having a bad day. The only time I want to see an alarm is when the motor is about to be destroyed, the temperature is about to go through the roof or the oil pressure is heading toward zero. That’s what I want, but what I get is an amber icon glowing at me from the dash for no good reason, which is why I cover it up with a small strip of black electrical tape.

Unfortunately I can’t do that with the tire symbol that turns on every time the weather changes. It’s in the wrong spot, so I talk to it, just like I talk to the radio and the TV when I hear something I don’t like. “What do you want me to do,” I say to the tire icon. “Nobody has a decent tire gauge or an air compressor that works with any efficiency any more. So, leave me alone.” (Scott Smith and Son does have a free tire pump that works great, but there is only one Scott Smith and Son. The other ten million gas stations charge you a buck or more for a few paltry compressor minutes that force you to rush around from tire to tire to identify the suspect and then wait an eternity for the pump to push in 2 or 3 pounds of air.

But, an even worse output from the geniuses designing cars are the touch screens that replace the knobs and levers that control the heater fan, the direction of the air, the radio volume and several other functions that need tending to as we drive along. Functions, you used to be able to engage by feel, keeping your eyes on the road. Now, you have to glance over and aim your finger at an icon, an up or down arrow or some such indicator, and hope you don’t crash into someone on the road ahead. It’s distracted driving, well beyond talking on a cell phone. But, it’s legal! 

And, when you buy a car, the only thing the salespeople rave about are the frills: blue tooth, USB ports, back up cameras, satellite radio, etc. Nothing about the drive train or the important components of the car. I think it’s a distraction, so we won’t ask them where the bumpers are. Those strong shinny things that were so useful and so strong that when you rented a u-haul trailer and didn’t have a hitch, which was true for most of us, an attendant just strapped a temporary hitch to your bumper and off you went. Now, we have this plastic atrocity that shatters if you look at it sideways. You don’t dare push a friend’s car; if you do, both of your bumpers will get mashed. I’d like to go on, but you know the rest of the story; you suffer with it every day. WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?  

Comments, complaints?  mlessler7@gmail.com

November 30, 2016 Article

Old Coot University.

By Merlin Lessler 8-06

I watched a middle age couple cross the street, a little over 10 years ago. It inspired this article, which I’m repeating, sort of, as a PSA (public service announcement). They got out of their car, hiked to the corner, pressed the cross button, walked inside the crosswalk lines to the other side and then back to their destination, directly across the street from their car. They walked an extra block. I would have J-walked. I don’t know if they were motivated by fear of getting run over, lack of confidence in their ability to look both ways, fear of getting a ticket or they just were people who stayed between the lines. .  

The same principal is at work when it comes to walking across a lawn. Most buildings have squared off sidewalks; they look great on the architectural drawings, but if you walk around a lot, like I do, you’ll notice that a squared off walkway is the longest route to a building. If you take the diagonal you get there faster. The paths worn in the grass at an angle to the walkway show that a lot of people defy the designer and travel the shortest route. Good designers take this into account; it’s called the “human” factor. Great designers don’t bother with a walkway layout. They build the building, plant grass, and then after a few months, send in landscapers to build walkways where the grass is trampled down.

This is why old coots are valuable to society. We take the short route in everything we do. The world would be a better place if the architects and engineers paid more attention to us. One of my old coot friends developed a “short route” to getting dressed. He got tired of putting his belt through the loops every time he put on a different pair of pants. He went to a thrift store and bought a dozen belts. He put one in each pair of his pants. Now, when he gets dressed, he just slips on his pants and buckles up. Some old coots avoid this entirely by buying pants with elastic waistbands. This is not approved by the old coot society I belong to. Elastic waist pants are something we couldn’t wait to grow out of as kids. We started down the fashion runway in short pants, then knickers (usually made of itchy wool) and then elastic waist pants. Once we moved on to “big boy” pants, with belt loops, we vowed to never go back. You couldn’t pay my old coot crowd to wear anything with an elastic waistband, except maybe sweat pants to workout in. The old guys you see wearing elastic around town give us old coots a bad name.  

The public school system would be well served if they added a new course to the curriculum. It might be called - Short Route 101. High school students would be broken into teams and required to follow a bunch of old coots around and then meet as a discussion group to report what they observed. They’d learn to take short cuts across public green spaces. And, as a bonus, they’d learn to fake a language problem when it served their purpose: when challenged by a store clerk for unloading a cart full cart of groceries at a “ten-items-or less” counter, or asked to leave an “invitation-only” event to which they weren’t invited, or when walking up to a closed teller window, and refusing to budge until the clerk doing paperwork cashed their check. Responding to a challenge in each case with, “No speaka da-englise.”  

They’d also learn the fine art of J-walking. Which is the safest way to cross a street these days. DOT has spent millions (wasted in my opinion) to install pedestrian crossing signals at thousands of intersections around the state, including the intersection at the junction of the Hiawatha Bridge and Route 434. The last known pedestrian to cross the street at that place was on April 7, 1996. DOT’s idea of a safe crossing zone is what I call the danger zone; it’s where pedestrians get run over. The right on red after stopping regulation is the culprit. People don’t stop. The crossing light says go to the pedestrian, they step into the crosswalk and a car comes zooming around the corner and runs them over. Old coots cross in the middle of the block where there are no surprises. We learned to look both ways before crossing before we were five years old and that skill has served us well. Want proof? Just ask Daren Merrill; he got run down in the crosswalk at the corner of Front and Church.  At what “DOT safe” corner are you gunna get yours?

November 23, 2016 Article

The Old Coot was at the zoo.

By Merlin Lessler

I was at the zoo the other day. I go to zoos every once in a while. The animals fascinate me. This one was in Ormond Beach, Florida; Kenny and Annie were the scheduled keepers that afternoon, coming in to replace Diana, who was on the early shift. There is a long, waist high barrier separating the keepers from an odd looking, and acting, assortment of bipeds. Kenny and Annie took turns approaching each specimen to provide liquid and solid nourishment, ego stroking and other small services to keep the subjects happy and under control. It’s a difficult job; you never know when one of the specimens will go ballistic and start a ruckus. It happens infrequently, but it happens.

Of course, I wasn’t really in a zoo. I was at a bar. The Charlie Horse Restaurant on Atlantic Avenue, a short hop north of Daytona Beach. Marcia and I go there once a week when we’re in the area to escape the cold north. We sit at the bar, have a beer or a glass of wine, and eat dinner. It’s a very busy place; Kenny and Annie go 100 miles an hour, handling drink orders for a large bar crowd and an adjacent dining room. I remarked to Kenny one night that watching him was like watching a caged specimen in a zoo, as he ran back and forth preparing drinks, taking meal orders, working the register, changing kegs, serving meals to people at the bar and handling a pretty active take-out crowd. 

That’s the night I learned that I really was in a zoo, but had it wrong. Kenny responded to my observation, while down on his knees changing the third keg of the night. He said,  “You are right. It is a zoo, but you have it backwards. The specimens are on your side of the counter. Watch the bar crowd in the mirror for a few minutes and you’ll see what I mean.”

It didn’t take long; he was absolutely right – I had a clear view of a long parade of jackasses (myself included), blowhards and boisterous, demanding bipeds, ordering drinks and meals and picking up take out orders while conversing about the world’s problems and coming up with idiotic solutions.  The mirror didn’t lie; the animals were on my side of the bar.

It’s like that in every place a counter is lined with bar stools. Once you come to the realization that you’re an attraction in a zoo, you can’t help but be a little embarrassed and modify your behavior. Which is why this article is being published. It’s a public service. Be a good specimen; the zookeepers are watching you.  

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November 16, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is not100%!

By Merlin Lessler

This article is 83 & 41/100 percent factual. Which is quite high for me; I usually stretch the truth and bend the facts more than that to fit my opinion. Most old coots do this to some degree, but nowhere near as flagrantly as politicians and corporate marketing executives. We’re lily white compared to those masters of deception.

Take the marketing executive that came up with the ad campaign for Zicam. It claims that people who use Zicam at the first sign of a cold will reduce their symptoms by 45%. The stuff works to some degree, as does any product with zinc as a prime ingredient. But, 45%? That’s just pure fiction (in my old coot opinion, which is why I lowered my “factual” score by 16 & 59/100 percent). How do you measure 45% less cold symptoms? Count the number of times a Zicam user sneezes and compare it to a non-user? Count the number of tissues used over the duration of a cold? There is no scientifically accurate mechanism to make a claim as specific as 45%. The marketing staff made it up, cleverly selecting a specific number to make the assertion sound credible. It is a clever ploy, much more effective than saying, “Your cold symptoms will be reduced.” (Now comes my 2^nd favorite, and overused, old coot reaction.)  “Bull!”

How about the Ivory Soap people? They’ve claimed their soap to be 99 and 44/100 % pure since 1895.  Pure what? The chemical lab that analyzed the soap determined that 99 & 44/100 % of the ingredients were fatty acids and alkali; only a small fraction consisted of other materials. Thus, the claim of 99 & 44/100 % pure? If you define pure as fatty acids and alkalis. Not my definition of purity. But, it made good ad copy, and is still in play 121 years later.

Ivory’s,“It floats,” ad campaign has an interesting history as well. A worker in the factory forgot to turn off a mixing machine and whipped in too much air. The company decided to sell the “ruined batch” of soap anyhow and pretend it was OK. They got letters! Customers loved this floating soap. They didn’t have to fish around in the bathtub for a sunken bar. I don’t know if the worker got a bonus, but his mistake became the standard operating procedure and kicked off the “It floats” campaign in 1895.

And people wonder why old coots like me are such skeptics. We’re not skeptical; we’re realistic. We know when we’re being fed pabulum by the media, the politicians and the marketing campaigns of big corporations. Especially, the pharmaceutical companies that won’t be happy until every person in this country is ingesting a costly collection of medicines on a daily basis. From cradle to grave! Thus ends my 83 & 41/100 percent factual rant of the week. And, a warning, “Beware of ads that use percentages in their claims (and many do). They are always pure BULL!” 

Comments and complaints can be sent to – mlessler7@gmail.com

November 9, 2016 Article

The Old Coot Doesn’t Want to Know!

By Merlin Lessler

When you’re a kid you want to know everything. “Why is the sky blue? How do airplanes fly? Why? Why? Why?” Not true when you are an old coot. You don’t want to know anything. Anything new that is. “What kind of gas mileage do you get on that?” someone will ask me, pointing to my two-seater at the gas pump. “I don’t know,” I reply; (“I don’t want to know!” I say to myself. I’m sure it would be disappointing). When I was young and wanted to know everything I checked the mileage every time I filled-up. It was always less than I hoped for. It was a downer. I finally gave it up. If someone persists in asking, I tell them’ “It gets forty miles to the gallon, but I haven’t checked it lately,” They don’t hear me say under my breath, “I never check it.”

I live in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” world. It’s nice here. You should try it. What’s the weather supposed to be this weekend? I don’t’ know. I don’t want to know. I’ll be able to adapt to it; I’ve done it for more than 70 years; our species has done it for hundreds of thousands of years. I avoid weather forecasts. They’re wrong a lot of the time, at least the ones five days in advance. People cancel events on a bad forecast - a snowstorm that misses us - a thunderstorm that mysteriously never materializes. Why dread things in advance? Especially if there is a good chance the prediction will never come true.

Now, there is a new forecast mechanism under development. It won’t predict the weather; it is supposed to measure how well the hippocampus (hippocampi, to be accurate, since there are two) sections in our brain are functioning. It’s an important mechanism, dealing with short-term memory, among other things. If it gets messed up, we start forgetting what we are doing, or are about to do. That, “What did I come into the kitchen to get,” sort of thing. Of course our hippocampi get messed up all through our lives. We overload those portions of our brains when we try to do, or think about, too many things at one time. The portals are narrow, and just like traffic that backs up on the highway when three lanes get compressed into two, so do the short term memory lanes in our brain.

This new forecasting mechanism will continuously monitor our hippocampi functionality using an App on a smart phone or a wristband device. It will predict that we are headed for Alzheimer’s or some other senility affliction. We’ll know, but since there is no cure, why go to all the trouble to measure it and give ourselves a bleak view of the future, ruining our present.

Us old coots don’t need a device to measure this; we do it all the time, have been at it since we first noticed memory lapses in our early 50’s. Every occurrence sent us into a panic. “Am I losing it?” We’d ask ourselves. Finally, we settled in and accepted the truth; we are deteriorating, physically and mentally. In addition, we have a legion of people that monitor our failing memories: spouses, children, grandchildren, neighbors, strangers and the severest and most brutal of all, our friends. Who, love nothing better than to witness a fellow old coot make a mental misstep and pounce on it. It’s a, “Better him than me,” kind of thing, until it’s our turn in the barrel.

We know we’re headed deeper into the murk. The science guys can keep their monitoring apps and wristband devices. When they find a cure for the defect they are monitoring they can come around and try to sell us the mechanisms. We won’t buy them, but they can try. We’ll respond with our 3^rd most favorite “old coot” reply, “Leave me alone!”

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November 2, 2016 Article

The Old Coot makes his mark.

By Merlin Lessler

To dog-ear a book or not? That is the question. If the book is from the library or borrowed from a friend, there is only one answer, “No!” But, if you own the book, you might have to wrestle with the question. I did, and now my books contain a series of dog-eared pages. You can easily see where I folded over the corner to mark my place. The book also contains a scattering of notes with a large concentration on the first page. That’s where I keep a list of the characters in the story and a short description to help me remember who is who, “Matilda – the lady down the street with the Great Dane,” that sort of thing. I keep forgetting because I usually have several books going at the same time. I switch back and forth. I desperately need a list of characters. 

I never used to dog-ear or write notes on the pages of a book. The stern librarians of my youth, who scolded me so often for minor “library” infractions, made me afraid to. I still harbor a fear of librarians when I enter their kingdoms (except for Linda Williams). When I turn in a book after the due date, I pay the fine with trepidation. Even though today’s librarians are friendly, welcoming and helpful, it doesn’t matter; my fear is too deeply ingrained. I attribute most of it to the two librarians who patrolled the aisles in my high school library. Their persona was that of drill instructors at a Marine recruit training camp. The frowns with which they glared down at me from an elevated command center haunt me to this day. So does the memory of those steely fingers that pinched my ears when I got caught from behind when talking above a whisper.

In spite of that fear (and guilt) I decided to make my books my own. Not only do I dog-ear the pages and jot notes inside, I also sign my name when I finish reading, the date and a rating (on a scale of 1 to 10). I started the date and rating thing when I discovered I could reread a book after about five years and it would be as though I never read it. When I read a book a second or third time (those with a 9 or 10 rating), I appreciate that I don’t have to recreate a character list. I don’t know why authors or publishers don’t provide this, or a map, when the story moves all over the landscape. My rating system is not as sophisticated as the New York Time’s Best Seller List or Oprah’s recommendations, but it serves me well. 

And, why not make books your own, especially considering how much they cost today and how little they are worth a few years hence. It’s a shock when you see a book you paid $27 for now being sold for a dollar or two. I fought the war and the dog-ears won; I make a book my own. How about you? 

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October 26, 2016 Article

The Old Coot draws circles.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m sitting here in Carol’s Coffee and Art Bar with a blank piece of paper in front of me. I’ve got nothing! Just a foggy view through my writer’s block. It started while I was in the Owego Kitchen two days ago. The paper stayed blank that day, but the coffee and blueberry muffin were great. Now, I’m trying to force my way through the haze again. I drew a circle, and then another, hoping the motion would help fire the neurons in my aging brain. It worked; I stared at the circles and the germ of an idea jumped through the mist: manhole covers! What a perfect topic for a grumpy old coot.

Manhole covers, sunken ones, are a pain. The ones in the middle of the road that pavers neglect when they add a new layer of blacktop, plus the storm sewer grates along the side of the road. They often end up several inches below the pavement. Once in a while, a few inches above.  You’re sailing along minding your own business, checking your phone for text messages, munching down a Big Mac and yelling at an IDIOT on the car radio who is pushing a new drug, followed by a list of side effects that would get better results than the torture techniques of terrorists. (He’s the drug dealer we really should be going after.) But, back to the circles, the manhole covers and sunken grates. BAM! You hit one and it spills the coffee onto your lap. It’s worse than hitting a speed bump. They at least warn you when those tooth rattlers lie ahead.

How hard is it to raise the grates and manhole covers (or lower them) when repaving the road? Or, if it is too hard, then why not just weld a second cover or grate on top of the first to minimize the jolt? It’s a game of Russian roulette driving east on Erie Street. Cars by the hundred travel every day on this route, to avoid going through downtown Owego. Most drivers learn the hard way by slamming into a sunken drain. After that, they set a course that avoids the obstacles. Cars going east, look like skiers weaving in and out of gates on a slalom course. (For some unknown reason, the grates on the other side of the road are the same level as the pavement.) 

Even worse, are the sunken grates I encounter on my bicycle when crossing the Hiawatha Bridge. (That’s the one by Hickories Park.) The drain holes don’t bother cars because they are in the shoulder area of the road, in the miserly space provided for bikers and walkers. It was bad enough when the DOT reduced the width of this space by moving the guardrails from the edge of the bridge onto it several years ago, but now it’s a gauntlet you have to run to get across the bridge. There are 12 sunken storm drain holes on each side of the bridge that try to throw you and your bike into a tumble, or a swan dive into the river, or a fatal crash in front of a speeding automobile. The circles on my once blank piece of paper tell a scary tale. Forget the clowns. Beware the manhole covers!

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October 19, 2016 Article

The Old Coot finally gets the new math.

By Merlin Lessler

One is greater than five. That’s the new math. Correction, the new “old coot” math. I’m still getting used to it. It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks, but not impossible. I’m an old dog who requires reading glasses (if I want to read or thread a needle for example). The issue started as I slid into my forties, and like all males, I denied it for years. I was ok under bright lights or out in the sun, but otherwise, everything blurred unless I held it at arms length. I finally gave in and had my vision checked. I ended up with a pair of bifocal reading glasses, big ones, as was the style back then. Some guys never moved on; you can spot them with glasses the size of fish bowls covering their face from below their nose to the top of their forehead. Not me! I must have purchased 150 pairs of cheap reading glasses and a few pair of “real” glasses over the last 3 decades, and little by little, the glasses got smaller and smaller.

That’s where the new math comes in. Where one is greater than five. I get a five pack of reading glasses about every 12 months. They’re cheap, so they don’t last long, especially when you sit on them or carelessly toss them around like I do. At the moment, I don’t know where any of them are. When I had just one pair, I paid attention to where I put them down, but with five pairs, I don’t bother. I toss them off or leave them behind when I’m through looking at something. Pretty soon, five pair becomes four, then three and eventually none. I just ordered a new batch. As soon as I did, I stumbled on one of the lost ones. Which made it a lot easier to type this without having to lean back so far from the computer screen that my fingers barely reached the keyboard.

 But, I’m going to turn over a new leaf when the new batch arrives. I’m going to put four pair in the garage on a high shelf so they are not readily available. Then, I’ll see if I can’t learn to keep track of one pair. Unfortunately, it’s not just glasses that are subject to the “one is greater than five” math. Car keys, house keys, screwdrivers and a lot of other things fall victim to the phenomena. Most cars come with two sets of keys. I used to make the mistake of getting several extra set made, (just in case). Soon, the five keys began to diminish, just like my glasses. I was in danger of having no keys. Now that car manufacturers provide a key-like device that costs hundreds of dollars, I don’t even consider buying one extra set. And, you know what? I never misplace them. One (and even two) is greater than five. That may be why polygamy is illegal in the United States. Just saying.  

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October 12, 2016 Article

The Old Coot now believes in “one thing at a time.”

By Merlin Lessler

Our mom’s taught us to do one thing at a time, “Concentrate,” they admonished us. We were easily distracted. We laid on the living room floor listening to Sergeant Preston of the Yukon Royal Mounted Police while playing Monopoly and setting up rows of dominos that would fall in a pattern when we nudged the first in line to start the reaction. All kids were, and still are, like that. Today’s future old coots lie on the rug or sit in a recliner chair with ear buds blasting music into their heads, fiddling with a smart phone, watching a movie, conversing with their best bud while doing homework and fending off parental exhortations to concentrate and do one thing at a time.

I worked in a drug store soda fountain when I was in high school, a combination soda jerk and short order cook. That’s where I found support and encouragement to NOT do one thing at a time when handling a 40 foot counter. I was taught to maximize the effectiveness of my trips back and forth behind the counter: pop bread in the toaster, grab a plate, clean off the space in front of an empty stool and flip a burger on the grill. Hands moving all the time coordinating multiple tasks. I was OK at it, but not on a par with a real short order cook. I love going to a diner and watching a master pace back and forth with things happening all along the route: eggs getting flipped, bacon coming out of the frig, coffee poured into diner’s half empty cups and cash taken from customers headed out the door. Try it some time at the Harris Dinner; Sam doesn’t charge extra for the entertainment, but he should.

Now that I’m an old coot, my mother’s “do one thing at a time” credo is finally coming into play. Like, when I go to the garage to get something and get distracted along the way, picking up a scrap of paper to put in the recycle bin, plugging my phone into the charger, checking the trash can to see if it needs to be emptied, pawing through the pockets in my coat hanging in the hall in hopes of finding the set of car keys I lost two days earlier, and when I get to the garage, I have no idea why I’m there and have to retrace my steps in hoping to jog my memory, knowing that if I’d stuck to the task at hand I’d actually have accomplished something.

One thing at a time becomes mandatory when you’re an old coot. I’m slowly making the transition, but some of my fellow travelers through old age haven’t gotten on board; it’s easy to tell who they are; they’re the ones who show up late for coffee with three buttons on their shirt unbuttoned, wearing slippers and their wife’s pink jacket. One half of their hair is uncombed and they pat their empty pockets in hopes of finding the wallet they left on the kitchen table. But, the guy who doesn’t even remember to show up is worse. Is that you?

Comments? Complaints? shoot to – mlessler7@gmail.com

October 5, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is stuck on apples.

By Merlin Lessler

I bought an apple at a national chain grocery store the other day. Of course, it had a sticker on it. All the apples do, most of the other fruit does as well: oranges, pears, watermelons, tomatoes (yes, they are a fruit). Even onions have stickers.  Here’s where I venture into all too familiar territory for me – shooting off my mouth about something I know nothing about. I find it much easier than digging out the facts. Made up ones are more exciting. So, I’ll start my rant with, “I assume,” to save myself from a lawsuit.

“I assume,” - the apple had a sticker on it so the clerk could ring up the correct price. (Remember when cash registers actually “rang,” when clerks finished entering a series of items and then turned a crank to “ring” up the total?) Different types of apples have different prices, ranging from $1.99 per pound to $2.29 per pound. I remember when you bought them one at a time and paid 10 cents; we always pawed through the pile to find the biggest one. Now it doesn’t matter; you pay by the weight.

If you went to a store back in the days of my youth, and well beyond, you didn’t find stickers glued to the skin of an apple (and accidentally swallowed every once in a while). Those clerks in the mom and pop neighborhood stores knew their apples; they could tell the difference between a McIntosh and a Northern Delicious. I think most of the today’s clerks can too, but the financial guys at the top of the corporate ladder (this is where my lack of actual facts kicks in) don’t think that people at that level are smart enough to distinguish a Mac from a Delicious, or an orange from a tangerine. Besides, that financial mindset wants to know exactly how many of each type are sold, on what day of the week and to whom. The “whom” comes from the store card they force us to use in order to buy things on sale.

Financial types are running most businesses these days. And, in many cases, running them into the ground, because their focus is on the short-term: this quarter’s profit and stock price. Long-term consequences, which are more important, get short shrift. Customer loyalty, employee morale, corporate contribution to society are secondary, and often ignored.  

Take a look at some of the recent examples of narrowly focused corporate visionaries. EpiPens that cost less $5.00 to produce, priced at $600 by the Mylan Drug Company. Where coincidentally, the CEO’s mother, in her role as president of the National Association of State School Boards, spearheaded a drive to get all the school boards in the country to adopt a policy to equip schools with EpiPens. (“Thanks mom.”)

And, how about that CEO at Wells Fargo, John Stumpf, whose bank was caught with its hand in the cookie jar, stealing from customers by signing them up and charging them for services they didn’t want.  He appeared at a congressional hearing saying he took full responsibility. But, (here comes another apple sticker) had no intention of returning the bonus he received as a direct result of the theft. Fortunately, the board of directors had a different opinion. Stumpf got stumped; he has to return the $41 million in unvestock he received as a bonus.

That little sticker on an apple is symbolic; it doesn’t just stick in my throat every once in a while; it’s a constant stick in my craw.

Comments, complaints? send to -  mlessler7@gmail.com

September 28, 2016 Article

The Old Coot isn’t flexible

By Merlin Lessler

 (Article # 686 covering my battle through old age, written on my daughter, Amy’s back porch, at six in the morning, waiting for her dogs to do, what I let them outside to do, and not escape and get hit by a car like the last time I was charged with their care.)

I haven’t seen the bottom of my foot in years. I stepped in some pinesap the other day and my foot stuck to the deck. I know. I know. What’s an old coot doing going around barefoot; he should be in support hose and orthopedic shoes! But I was barefoot; I took a walk on the wild side. And, if it were the 1960’s, I’d be confronted with a sign at the entrance to every business establishment that said, “No Shoes, No Shirt, No service!” But, I wasn’t near a store; I was on my own property, trying to look at my foot to see if I could reach the sap and scrape it off.

I was standing up for my first attempt, but I couldn’t bend my leg and twist my ankle far enough to see anything. At least not in the four seconds before I started to lose my balance and topple over. Then, I sat down and tried again. I almost got my foot twisted into view when a leg cramp forced me to jump to my feet and kick it out before it settled in for a long siege. Bottom line. – I never saw the bottom of my foot.

But, I’m experienced at this old coot stuff, figuring out how to get things done with defective equipment. I didn’t need to see the bottom of my foot to solve the problem. I squirted some dish detergent on a cement sidewalk next to the deck, blasted it with a burst of water from the hose to get a sudsy froth and rubbed my foot back and forth figuring the combination of the soapsuds and the rough surface of the concrete would do the job. It did! Without me having to see anything, but still, it would have been nice to see what the bottom of my foot looks like these days. 

It’s not just a bare foot with sap; it’s anything that ends up on the bottom of my foot: a sliver, a sharp pebble imbedded in it, a shoe with crud on the bottom. When I track something into the house I can’t answer a simple question, or follow a simple instruction: “What’s on the bottom of your shoe?”  (No answer) – “Check your shoes the next time.” (Can’t do it) So, I don’t wear shoes in the house; I kick them off as I walk in the door. My door. Anybody’s door. I don’t want to admit I’m incapable of looking at the bottom of my foot. And, it used to be so easy. Enjoy it while you can.

Comments? Complaints?  - mlessler7@gmail.com

September 21, 2015 Article

The Old Coot repeats himself.

By Merlin Lessler

I watched a young guy empty a have-a-heart trap in a wooded area across the river from the village along Route 434 the other day. A bushy tailed squirrel scampered out and ran into a thicket. I don’t know for sure, but I surmise that he trapped it at his house and was getting rid of it in a squirrel friendly way. I can appreciate that; I’ve been in a decades long war with squirrels. Coming up with ingenious ways to keep them out of our bird feeders. Winning for a short period and then marveling at their cleverness as yet another brilliant scheme of mine has gone down in flames. The guy freeing the squirrel didn’t know that he was fighting a losing battle. The squirrel would return. It’s a lesson I learned in 2004, when I was a younger old coot and published the following article.

A squirrel teaches an old coot a lesson. - September 24, 2004

I didn't know squirrels could swim. I hadn't given it much thought, but had anyone asked, I would have said, “No.” Now I know better. I was out on the river with four friends in our kayaks. You can always spot me when I'm with other people on the river; I'm the slowpoke in the back. I say I’m taking my time so I can observe the wildlife along the riverbank, but it’s because I'm an old coot and no matter how hard I paddle, I can’t keep up with the group, any group, even the AARP crowd.

Jean was in the lead kayak. She pointed to a lump in the middle of the river and shouted, "What's that?" Being the elder, and self-proclaimed wildlife expert, I took a look and chuckled, “It’s just a log.” She didn't buy it. "No, she replied. It's furry!"

"Well,” I countered, “Then it must be a muskrat.” (They're all over the place, but not usually in the middle of the river). I started paddling; I was sure it was a log and wanted to be first to reach it. It wasn't a log; it wasn't a muskrat. It was a squirrel, doing the doggy paddle and making good time. I reported the news and began to follow it, to see where it was going. It headed straight for shore, taking ten minutes to get there from the middle of the river. When it hit the riverbank it jumped out of the water and scampered up a tree.

I was stunned; we all were. None of us had any idea that squirrels could swim. We discussed why it was in the middle of the river. Did it fall out of a tree along the bank and swim in the wrong direction? Was it a teenage squirrel running away from home? Was it an old coot squirrel, banished by the clan for endlessly talking about the good old days?

I didn’t expect to learn why the squirrel was in the river, but through a quirk of fate, I stumbled on the answer. The mystery was solved at a meeting of the Riverwalk advisory committee. A husband and wife from Owego sat next to me. They live on the river and do a lot of kayaking. I asked if they had been out lately. "No, we haven’t. How about you?" I told them about my squirrel experience. "In fact, I concluded, the squirrel hopped ashore right near your house."

They both began to laugh. I didn't think they'd be able to stop. It was like when you start laughing in church; they couldn’t get it under control. Finally, they calmed down and the husband, wiping tears from his eyes, told me what was so funny. He'd been trapping squirrels and transporting them across the river. He caught nine so far this summer, but the squirrel population in his yard never changed. He’d wondered if they were coming back via the Court Street Bridge. It never crossed his mind that they might be swimming back. "The whole thing makes sense now," he exclaimed. I learned a good lesson. Just when you think you know everything, something happens to show you how little you really do know.

Postscript - Just a few days ago I gained some additional squirrel knowledge. Because of our hot dry summer, the “pack of four,” as I call them, started stealing my wife’s tomatoes, taking a bite to get the juice and leaving the evidence behind. I trapped them and took them to a new home, 2 miles away. Three days later they were back. That’s when I did the research I should have done before moving them. Google informed me that squirrels should be moved ten miles or more if you want to keep them from returning. Proving to me, yet again, you’re never too old to learn.

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September 14, 2016 Article

The Old Coot packs for a trip

By Merlin Lessler

I’m getting ready to go on a short vacation. To Virginia. For Larissa Dobransky’s wedding. I still think of her as the little kid who lived next door. I should update my perspective and think of her as Doctor Larissa Dobransky. I bet she doesn’t respond to her elderly patients like the medical people I deal with. If I complain that my arm or leg is doing something weird, or something else on this “vehicle” I’m walking around in, I always get, “You’ve got to expect that at your age.” I’m going to ask her about that, if I get a chance. None of us old guys and gals expected any of this stuff. Anyhow, my wife thinks we’re all packed. Dresses, suits and casual clothes. But, that’s not enough for an old coot. I need special old coot gear.

Picture this! Some old guy asleep in a lounge chair by the swimming pool in a swanky hotel, flat on his back, arms akimbo, eyes closed, mouth wide open and snoring as loud as a leaf blower. I plan to pack in my old coot kit, a baseball hat, a newspaper, an operating room mask and the like so my wife will have something to cover my face with when I drift into la la land. She can activate the blue tooth portable speaker I’m bringing and play loud music to drown out my snoring. Some old coots use a straw hat to cover their whole face and quiet the noise; I find them awkward to carry around and if you do so by wearing it on your head, you become one of those quirky old guys in a straw hat. I’m leaving mine at home.

I also plan to bring a few work zone cones to place around my lounge chair in case I get hit with a leg cramp while I’m sleeping and leap up and do the “kick your leg and spin around” dance to free my leg from it. I don’t want to knock anyone into the pool. This should keep people safely out of the cramp zone.

My wife doesn’t know it, but I’ve made a reservation to rent a baby stroller. I can use it to push around my old coot vacation gear. I’m hoping to rent a baby too, to put in the stroller; it will distract other hotel guests from looking me over too closely and thinking, or saying, “What’s an old coot like that doing at the swimming pool?” It will transform my image into a positive one, that of a doting grandfather (or, great grandfather). If I can’t get a baby, a small dog will work. But, not a little puppy; it would draw too much attention and I’ll never get to nap. It ain’t easy going on a vacation when you’re an old coot. (But, I guess I have to expect that at my age.)  Congratulations to Larissa Dobransky and Ryan Stuhlreyer on your September nuptials.

Comments. Complaints. Leave at mlessler7@gmail.com

September 7, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is newsed out.

By Merlin Lessler

It was a single moment in time, 5pm, August 1^st, 1980. But oh, what a moment! A frontal attack on American culture with a catastrophic outcome. It came with a whimper, hardly noticed by an unsuspecting population. Pundits laughed. Major TV network executives scoffed. Yet, the fuse was lit and we now live with the bomb that exploded across the airwaves. Because on that moment, 36 years ago, CNN launched their 24 hour-a-day news channel. 

It’s turned out to be one of the worst disasters in American history. That’s a bit of a stretch. What happened at that moment in time isn’t on a par with the invasion of Pearl Harbor, D-day, 9/11 or other disasters of that ilk, but those aside, it was a significant attack on our way of life that grew from an innocent beginning into a festering thorn in our side. Well, my side anyway. .

When CNN launched its’ all day news format, it was met with laughter. “Who would watch a channel that has news on all day?” – “How can they ever find enough fodder to keep people interested?” – “What a joke!”

Well, we were wrong, and now are living with the disaster that took root and blossomed after that fateful day in history. We live in a world where we’re barraged with all day, every day news coverage, Not just on CNN, but on every major TV network, plus way too many specialty focused “news-like” channels, such as the Weather channel and the Money Channel. We’re awash in minutia, with only a little news mixed in. We’re drunk on the underbelly of societal misbehavior. And, it is even worse in an election year (which in reality isn’t a year anymore; it’s a constant). We get endless garble from political pundits, analyzing every tick of activity, not just reporting it, but endlessly speculating on how it will affect the outcome. I misstated that point; the pundits aren’t just reporting and speculating; they are arguing about it, and constantly talking over each other creating a mishmash of noise. 

True facts are often lacking as news outlets race to be first with a new twist on the hot topic of the day. Everything and everyone is fair game: the family of the victim of a brutal murder gets a knock on the door and a mic in the face. The wife of a disgraced senator is rushed at a church service with none-of-your business questions on how she feels about her husband’s misbehavior. The victim, and the victim’s family are victimized all over again, just so the insatiable 24-hour news media can feed.

It’s an agonizing process as they repeat, again and again, the alleged facts. With an endless stream of repeated video running in the background, slicing and dicing the story into minute components and delving in depth into every morsel ad nauseum. And, we get hooked! We listen and watch, and to join the reporting staff by rushing to tell each other the latest tidbit we just heard on TV. Oh yes, August 1, 1980 was truly a day in infamy.  (Written in the Owego kitchen)

Comments. Complaints. send to mlessler7@gmail.om 

August 31, 2016 Article

The Old Coot lived for recess.

By Merlin Lessler

The Florida legislature has been working on a bill that mandates 20 minutes of free playtime in elementary schools. House Bill # 833 passed the House in February and the educational elites went nuts. They don’t want to waste 20 minutes of school time on recess. So far, they have been successful in blocking the bill; it’s bottled up in a senate committee and most pundits think that’s where it will die.

Wow! Am I out of step (as usual). I never would have survived a school day without recess. We had two 15 minutes periods of freedom in an otherwise rigidly regimented educational environment. It was those recess periods that kept me going. Something to look forward to other than the 3 o’clock dismissal bell. It kept us in line too. We knew we could be sitting at attention at our desk while the rest of the class whooped it up on the playground if we misbehaved in class. My crowd, on the boy’s side of the room, considered it capital punishment. We could withstand getting sent to the cloakroom, to the corner of the room, to the hall and even to the principal’s office as punishment for our crimes. But, to miss out on recess; that was a death sentence.

All the boys had ADD in those days. It wasn’t called that, and wasn’t controlled with medicine. It was simply referred to as “ants in the pants” and passed off with the comment, “Boys will be boys.”  Recess kept it at bay. Both, the promise of freedom, and then the actual experience. Our excess energy was drained off as we ran around the playground playing tag, bat ball or that now politically incorrect game, dodge ball. Now that I look back on it, the teachers must have liked recess as much as we did, a break from facing a classroom infested with a dozen or more twitchy, ants in the pants, boys with an attention span that was measured in seconds. The teachers had 15 minutes of peace and quiet, twice a day and another break at noon when we walked home for lunch. This was back in the day when neighborhood schools were in vogue. We walked to and from school in all kinds of weather so we were equipped for outdoor recess, no matter what the weatherman threw at us. There weren’t any adult monitors on our playground, but Mrs. White’s 5^th grade classroom overlooked the play yard. We could spot her peering out her window every so often and that was all it took to keep us in line.

The legislative effort in Florida to force recess back into the schools shows how far afield the educational system has strayed. How dare the school officials deny kids their inalienable right to recess? Too many people making educational policy decisions forget what it was like to be a school kid. They are more focused on a narrow field of test scores than making sure the kids are well rounded. And, believe me, recess on a playground helps round out a kid’s education. (And, makes sitting in class a little more bearable.)

Comments? Complaints? send to mlessler7@gmail.com

August 24, 2016 Article

The Old Coot’s last meal issue.

By Merlin Lessler

Have you ever been out to dinner with menu-challenged people? Ones who can’t decide what to order, who keep sending the waiter or waitress away, “I haven’t decided yet. Give me a few more minutes.” A few minutes turns into 20 minutes, or more. That’s when I ask, “So what time is your execution scheduled for?” To which I get the reply, Execution? What are you talking about?”

I should shut my mouth right then, but I don’t. “I thought you were trying to decide what your last meal will be, and think that you have to get it right because you’re never going to eat again.” Don’t try this tactic. It isn’t going to get you the result you want. Just the opposite! First, you’re going to get, THE LOOK, from your wife, followed by a kick in the shin under the table. She’s not the one who is meal-ordering challenged, but she’s on their team and will join in the delay and say, “I think I’m going to reconsider my order. I’d made up my mind, but now I want to look through the menu again.” That’s when I realize I’m all alone in my quest to eat soon.

I can’t relate. I know what I want before I get out of the car. I have an acute case of old coot dining out syndrome. I only order maybe five things: a hamburger, spaghetti and meat balls, pizza. Well, I guess that’s three things. I hate menus that are more than a page long. Each additional page adds five minutes to the group ordering process. Ten pages, fifty minutes. Longer, if you are with a death row patron ordering their last meal.

I liked what and how Kelly Gissendanger from Georgia ordered for her last meal in September 2015. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t going to be enticed to try something new, like I am every once in a while, only to pledge to go back to my “favorite three” the next time. She ordered two Whoppers, two large fries, bell peppers, salad with boiled eggs, cherry vanilla ice cream, cornbread and a side of buttermilk. I was near Georgia at the time of her execution, driving my car and listening to a local afternoon radio news show. The pundits went nuts. “What is she thinking? Why not a nice steak dinner, lobster, anything but fast food.” Kelly knew what she liked and stuck with it, driving the media crazy. Then, they started in on how unhealthy her food choices were. “That’s a 4,200 calorie meal,” one of the reporters opined. I yelled at the car radio, like I often do. “Come on! It’s her last meal, who cares if it’s unhealthy.” They creamed her for her politically incorrect last meal, yet hardly mentioned that she hired someone to kill her husband. I was critical of her too; she left out spaghetti and pizza.

Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

August 17, 2016 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t “fall” for it.

By Merlin Lessler

A regional hospital in our area, which shall remain nameless (not to protect the innocent, but to protect this old coot who needs their services all too often), is sponsoring a “fall” (as in people falling) prevention program aimed at the elderly (my crowd). It’s a good thing; it should help a lot of people and we need it. But, the ad writers went astray. They tried to lure us in with a big fib. The come-on claims that falling isn’t normal (if you’re an old guy stumbling around, you’re unusual; come in and get yourself repaired.) What the ad writers don’t know, is that us old guys and gals resent corporate jibe and slick advertisements that take liberties with the truth. We watch this ad unfold in our living rooms and yell,  “BOGUS!”  It IS normal for seniors to fall? Heck, it’s what we do best.

Our foot doesn’t come up as high as it once did when we take a step. If the sidewalk has pushed up an inch at one end, or some small obstruction is lying on a walking surface, our toe will make contact and put us into a tumble. That’s not the only problem. We’re also distracted walkers. We don’t look where we’re going; we’re ruminating in our heads: Did I turn off the stove? - What time is my doctor’s appointment? - Is it today? – What is that guy’s name, the one I just passed and said hello to? Then, we do a cartwheel because our foot encounters the lifted edge of a slate sidewalk on Front Street? (Talk about death traps)

We’re also not as limber as we used to be, but seem to forget. We pull up our foot while standing to slip into our socks. It takes so long for a leg that is limber-challenged to get up far enough to slip them on that we often find ourselves on the floor looking at the ceiling, a sock dangling half off our foot. We tottered for a second and then went down. I timed myself; if I don’t get my foot in the sock in 4.2 seconds I’m going down. I’m just thankful I haven’t cracked my head on the sharp corner of the dresser yet. When old guys fall, or have a close call putting on socks or pants, we resolve to sit down to do it the next time. And promptly forget.

Standing up too quick, starts another scary scenario for my people. Our inner ear, where the balance mechanism resides, is sleepy. It’s taking a nap most of the time and doesn’t wake up when we pop up out of a chair. We stand; it rubs its’ eyes and looks around in a stupor and we reel, then totter and guess what? Fall down. 

I’m sending this article to the good people at the regional hospital in hopes they will scold their ad writers and just tell the truth. It is normal for seniors (what we used to call old people, which most of us prefer by the way) to fall. Then more of us might do something about it. As it is now, us old guys see the ad on TV and yell, “BOGUS!” And, figure they can’t help us; they don’t even know we’re out here in great numbers falling all over the place.

Two point eight million of us go to the emergency room to seek treatment from injuries due to falls every year. Eight hundred thousand end up being admitted and twenty seven thousand get to have a date put on their tombstone. If the ad writers put that out there, the balance program would take off like wild fire. I won’t be able to attend, not for a few weeks; I just took another tumble putting on my socks. I’ve got to remember to sit. 

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August 10, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is a gift consultant.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s your wife’s birthday. What to get her? A dress? A bathing suit? Flip-flops? You know better. You’ve been married long enough not to make those mistakes again. And, you also know better than to buy her something with a handle. Like that vacuum cleaner you gave her one Christmas. Or that new set of copper bottom pots and pans you anxiously watched her unwrap on your third anniversary. You definitely know what not to get her.

But what to do? Buy her flowers? That usually works, except the last two times the ones you picked out wilted in one day (that darn gas station). Candy? Not politically correct in these days of weight obsession. Maybe it was OK back when the Ozzie & Harriet Show was on TV, but that era ended 60 years ago.

If you buy her a “thing,” you will miss the mark. You won’t get it on sale or with a coupon or on double discount, senior Wednesday. Oh sure the hand made Italian shoulder bag you picked out last year was perfect, but you paid retail. A disappointment instead of a positive.

So, what should you do? You’ve gone through the list of things that husbands a handed along the marriage license: took her out to dinner and a show, on mini-trips, even had a surprise party for her at the Elk’s club. But this time you know there is something she wants. A new coat. Now that you’ve exhausted your list and made all the mistakes you can put your acquired wisdom to work and give her the best gift of all. The gift of shopping! You know she wants a coat because one of her 1,300 hints finally made it through to you. Perfect! Put a gift card in an envelope with a thoughtful birthday card. No cute cats or monkeys on the front, and definitely no little old lady with stockings rolled down to her shoes, a flower hat on her head and holding a martini glass with false teeth floating next to the olive.

A gift card and a nice card, that’s it. Not only will she get exactly what she wants (the new coat), she’ll get to go on a quest and search for the best buy, maximizing coupons, secret sales and a special, “extra” credit day discount to land the prize. It’s the best gift ever. Shopping.

Oh sure, this advice qualifies as sexist, 20^th Century thinking. And, it may not fit everyone’s situation, but it will work in a lot of cases. More than some of you are willing to admit. This advice is politically incorrect, dated and just plain useless. Or, is it? You tell me.

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August 3, 2016 Article

The Old Coot will call you Tim.

By Merlin Lessler (AKA Jim Steel)

I know three guys named Tim. Tim #1 thinks his name is Tom, as in Tom Silvanik. Tim #2 thinks his name is Robert, as in Robert Fairlie. Tim #3 is different. His name really is Tim, as in Tim O’Rourke.

Tim #1 is used to me calling him Tim. He doesn’t even correct me anymore. Sometimes I remember and call him Tim-Tom, but usually it’s just, “Hi Tim!”

Tim #2 is new to the game. I see him and say, "Hi Tim.” He immediately tells me his name is Robert. I don’t care, I still call him Tim. That’s the name I programmed into my head and I don’t have access to I.T. people to fix it. But, he’s coming around. He doesn’t correct me as much anymore, and when he does it’s by calling me Jim. He doesn’t know it, but I like being called Jim. When I was a kid it’s one of the names I used. Some people in Elmira, where I lived for 5 years in the sixties, still call me Jim, as in Jim Steel the electrician, neither of which I am. (Doesn’t everyone have an alias?)

I would have killed for a name like Jim growing up. If my father named me Sue, like the kid in that old Johnny Cash song, I wouldn’t have been any worse off. Growing up as a Merlin did have some advantages. It was instrumental in teaching me to defend myself on the playground, but that got old after a while and “Jim” was born. In third grade I found myself with a seat assignment on the girl’s side of the room, until the teacher called attendance and got no response when she called out Marilyn, even after repeating it several times. She finally looked up, saw I was a boy and quickly ordered me to the boy’s side of the room. She got mad because she had to redo her seating chart. She didn’t like me after that and I didn’t like her, because she would still call me Marilyn every once in a while. I think on purpose. 

Growing up with a moniker like Merlin is the reason I can’t relate to people getting irked when an old coot calls them Tim. It may not be their name, but it’s a nice name. (It’s not Marilyn). Besides, if an old guy calls you by the wrong name, you should give him a pass. Be impressed that he even remembers that he knows you. So, we’re a little sloppy; we call Craig, Greg, and we call Tracy, Stacy. And we lump all the women named Katie, Katlyn, Kyla, Catherine and Kathleen into one name – Kate.  Let it go.

A few years back I wrote about my name problem with the Wiles twins, Paul and Phil. How my batting average was less than 50% in getting their name right when I saw them around town. And, the day my head exploded. First, I ran into Paul and called him Phil. Then, I ran into Phil and called him Paul. A few minutes later, Paul Phillips came walking up and I called him Phillip. I didn’t think it could get any more confusing until I discovered a guy named Paul, that I had coffee with several times a week at the Starbucks in Ormond Beach, Florida was also named Paul Phillips. Son of a gun if the wires in my head didn’t get crossed and I started calling him Phillip. I give up. When I’m back there next winter, I’m just going to call him Tim.

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July 27, 2016 Article

The old coot learns the rules (porch rules).

By Merlin Lessler

My wife, Marcia, and I were sitting on David and Janet Allen’s back porch the other day. Solving the world’s problems. It’s a porch that was once sat on by two Supreme Court Justices: first by John M. Parker, and later by his son, Charles E. Parker.  A distinguished history. Which makes you wonder why an old coot was allowed to perch there. Me too!

As often happens, when you sit around on a porch, the talk turns to porches. In this case it progressed from structure talk to porch etiquette, as practiced in small town America.

I always have something to learn; David always has something to teach, in this case, porch etiquette. We have a front porch on our 211-year-old house, so David’s lesson plan of the day was of particular interest. These are the rules, unwritten and uninforced, but well thought out when they evolved in Great Britain, hundreds of years ago and are still applicable today, even in the “Colonies.”

Rule #1 – If you are walking down the sidewalk and pass someone sitting on a porch, you shouldn’t wave or yell, “Yoo-hoo,” unless the sitter makes eye contact or initiates an exchange of greetings. If they are reading a newspaper, conversing with another sitter or just staring into space, it’s bad porch manners to intrude into their privacy. Just keep walking.

Rule #2 – If the porch sitter initiates an exchange of “Hellos,” you should politely respond, but don’t take it as in invitation to come aboard. A porch is an arena of private meditation, and you don’t want to break the spell. If beckoned over by the sitter, by all means meander up. Otherwise, stay on the sidewalk. With one exception: if you have an especially hot item of gossip, deliver the news. Gossip trumps the rules of porch etiquette.  

David explained that these rules especially apply to old coots like me, who are often guilty of intruding into places they are not invited. He thought there should be yet one more rule, to keep old coots in line. And that is, to not summon people to your porch. It’s an unwanted interruption to a peaceful stroll through town. No one wants to be invited over to a porch to listen to the rantings of some old grouch. My wife readily agreed, explaining that is the reason her outdoor furniture is kept on the back porch. A kindness to the village.

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July 20, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is a skipper.

By Merlin Lessler

I was skipping in Hickories Park the other day. I looked around first, to make sure no one could see me, an old man acting like a fool. You would think I wouldn’t bother since I do so many dumb things in public view, but skipping seemed a little too far off my script, so I was cautious. Besides, I wasn’t sure I could still do it, at least without tripping and executing a perfect swan dive onto the pavement. But, the memory of covering ground, so fast, with so little effort, beckoned me. I was possessed. 

I was a jogger in my “pre old-coot” life. I gave it up years ago, but try to take it up again every few years. After a few days the delusion wears off; my knees, back and hips get together and sit me down for an intervention, bringing me to my senses.

Skipping though, as I remembered it, was effortless and gentle on the frame. So, off I went, down the lane toward the bandstand on a quiet weekday afternoon. It made me wonder if kids still skipped these days. I don’t see them doing it. They did it all the time when I was a kid, though it was more of a girl thing then. So was jumping rope, but the boys in my neighborhood did both. We were blind to the sexist norms of the day. Heck, Beatrice Krupa was the best player on our sand lot baseball team. She could hit farther, catch better and run faster than any of us. She shattered the “boys only” myths of the era.  

But, I drift from the subject at hand – skipping. I started checking around to see if it was alive and well. I’ve learned that just because I don’t witness something doesn’t mean it it’s not happening. A lot of things just don’t register on my radar screen. When I asked “mature” adults  (50 years old or older) if they thought kids still skipped, their immediate response was to skip away from me and back again to prove they could still do it. I launched a small skipping craze with my inquiries of older adults. But, they couldn’t answer the question. Like me, they hadn’t noticed. So, I started on younger adults. Ones with kids. Most said their kids skipped, once in a while, but they didn’t think it was a very popular activity. 

Then I asked kids. The first thing I got was, “Why are you asking this?” Then, like the older crowd, they skipped off to show me they knew how to do it. When I asked if they did it a lot, the common answer was, “No! Why skip? Running is faster?”  I think I’m on to something. Adults like to skip. Kids like to skip. But, neither group does it very often, if at all. I suppose if there were skipping classes with skipping shoes and clothes it would be popular. We’re a society that likes our physical pastimes supported by commerce: special equipment, proper attire, organized activities. What the heck; a skipping craze would be good for the economy.

Oh yes, I forgot to finish my Hickories Park skipping adventure. It turned out fine. I didn’t fall, and my knees, hips and lower back didn’t get together for an intervention. I won’t do it on a big stage; I’ll be a closet skipper and do it now and then. How about you?

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July 13, 2016 Article

Even an old coot can be a love child.

By Merlin Lessler

It starts at home, with family members. A kid heads out the door, looks back and says, “See ya later mom.” She replies, “Love ya.” He then says, “Ditto or love you too.” Not in my day of course. People didn’t say, “Love you,” very often. Not the words. We got the message in a different way, “Put on your coat; it’s chilly. And, be careful.” The equivalent of “Love you.”

It’s become pretty common. A nice thing, though it has its awkward moments now that the custom has spread beyond immediate families. It took a little getting used to for us old coots. A little startling the first time a friend turned to leave, gave us a hug and said, “Love ya.” Most of us old guys stiffened up. But, we eventually learned to handle it, to feel comfortable with the hug. The, “Love ya,” took a little longer. We started using it, but somewhat sparingly and definitely not old coot to old coot. We stuck to the approved expression of feelings for each other as proscribed in the old coot manual. With an insult. “Don’t get in the back seat and try to drive home like you did last week. Ha! Ha!” – Or – “Next time you come over make sure your pants aren’t on backwards. Ha! Ha!” That sort of thing. It expresses our fondness for each other. 

“Love-ya” has become so common these days that its impact is somewhat blunted. It’s even used among strangers. “Thanks for telling me how to get to the court house,” a stranger will say to a “local.” Followed with, “Love ya.” A cop gives you a ticket for speeding – you glower to yourself, but reflexidly say, “Love ya,” before pulling back onto the highway.

OK. Maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. But, things are headed that way, and though it’s a little uncomfortable for some of us old guys, I can’t help but think it’s a positive change in the evolution of Homo sapiens. It’s a lot harder to dislike someone who just said, “Love ya.” It might be the ideal mechanism to brunt the hate that abounds around the world. I hope so; the politicians’ solution hasn’t worked.    

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July 6, 2016 Article

The Old Coot shuns introductory offers.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m looking at an ad that came in the mail today – an  introductory offer – for home delivery of the Sunday New York Times. It sounded good, at first glance: 75% off the regular price for 12 weeks + “free” digital access * (the asterisk was explained in microscopic print at the bottom of the page). Neither the introductory price, nor the “regular” price was mentioned. Time Warner has these introductory offers, as do the TV satellite companies and just about any businesses that offers a subscription service. You sign up for an introductory price; the grace period ends and they jack up the rate. And, jack it up again. And, keep jacking it up until you threaten to quit.

I've learned my lesson. Now I say, “No thanks,” to all of them. When I had a New York Times subscription a few years back, it took a forty-five minute phone call to cancel it. I had to fend off a barrage of secret “stay-with-us” offers. Finally, the rep acquiesced and agreed to cancel my subscription as of September 30^th. But, it was July; September was two months in the future. It took another 10 minutes of listening to the complexity of canceling a subscription before he finally gave in and stopped the billing process as of the end of the week. 

All introductory offers are like that. A trick! But it’s not just businesses that employ this tactic. We all do it. ‘Hi, nice to meet you,” we say to someone new. And, then proceed to trot out our “introductory” self: polite, thoughtful, considerate, agreeable, nurturing. Oh what a show. What a different product when they get to know us, when the introductory period comes to an end.

No place do we do this more so than in the dating world. The most WONDERFUL people are out there playing the “newly-dating game.” She talks; he listens. Oh what a clever introductory offers. He says - I’d love to go to the opera with you. - Can’t wait to put on a tuxedo for New Year’s Eve. She says - Nothing I like better than camping. - Can’t wait for football season to start. Then comes the ring, the wedding, the honeymoon, and in fifty percent of the marriages, the divorce. Often handled using an introductory offer from the law firm  -  Half off your first one (or some such thing).

Old coots are even worse. “We can put that nice, grandfatherly, old guy persona out there for an introductory period. Then, all of sudden, switch to the old grouch _ The kids today don’t ……. -  Back in my day you could get a hamburger for……. – They don’t make things like they used to…….. The fine print in an old coot introductory offer is so tiny, you need a microscope to read it. Some of us complain to just our families and close friends. Some of us complain to everyone we see. Some of us write newspaper columns. Beware of an introductory offer. It could be hiding an old coot!

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June 29, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is anti-presumptive.

By Merlin Lessler

The countdown is on! Two significant dates loom ahead, and I can’t wait! I’m more anxious than a seven year-old waiting for Santa. My world, yours too, will be rid of half of it on July 20th and the remainder on July 27th. No longer will we be forced to hear, Presumptive Nominee, all day, every day, every time we turn on a radio or TV or open a newspaper.

I don’t remember hearing this term so often in past election years. It’s so bad this time around that it’s grating on my psyche and makes me want to scream, "Shut up!” No one in the media is creative anymore. They all follow the same script, report the same stories in the exact same way and use the same terms. It’s as though they were handed a script instead of a journalism degree. Couldn’t just one newscaster on network TV and radio, or one newspaper reporter or columnist use another word than presumptive? How about likely, or probable, or inevitable, or potential? Anything but presumptive, presumptive, presumptive.

And, I think it’s a snob thing. They use it because it sounds highbrow and demonstrates their superior intelligence. I think they are quite presumptuous in that assumption.

I’m afraid, Presumptive, will migrate into everyday language and become a commonly used word. We’ll have to strike fiancée from our vocabulary and replace it with presumptive wife. Preschooler? No more; a four year-old will be a presumptive kindergartner. Pre-med and doctorial students will be referred to as presumptive doctors.

We have a problem in our culture. Once a word or a phrase comes into common use, we don’t know how to discard it when it’s worn out. How about, AS WE SPEAK? You hear this in person and from the media all the time. What was so wrong with RIGHT NOW? Or NOW? Besides, AS WE SPEAK, isn’t accurate anyway. AS I SPEAK AND YOU LISTEN is the correct term.

And, while I’m looking around for garbage to take to the curb, I’ll happily throw in, AT THE END OF THE DAY. Its use is starting to fade, but maybe we can coerce it into retirement. SPOILER ALERT is a newcomer to the media copycats, but even in its infancy, it’s starting to go stale. NO PROBLEM is another one; I’ve campaigned for years to have it stricken from the language and replaced with that old standard, YOU’RE WELCOME, to no avail. I guess, at the end of the day, I may be the only one who is irked by these lame, overused phrases. It’s what moved me from presumptive old coot, to old coot.

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