January 27, 2016 Article

The Old Coot is a “Go Slow” fan.

By Merlin Lessler

I don't get it. What is it about today’s culture that makes people in such a hurry? I get it for my crowd, old guys. Our time is running out and we have to get doing stuff. But, the rest of society seems in such a hurry they never stop and smell the roses. “Have stuff to do, you know!” Take how we educate kids these days. We used to send them off to school when they were five. Kindergarten was a place to learn social skills, to cut with scissors and to memorize the alphabet. If you wait that long to start your child’s education these days, you're considered an unfit parent. Kids spend two years preparing for kindergarten. They have to know their ABC's, their colors, how to tell time and could, if asked, write an essay on political correctness. If you ask parents and educators why they are in such a hurry, you get the "We’ve got to compete with the rest of the world" speech.

I don't think this is the way to compete, to skip past the different phases of development in a mad rush to the finish line. The kids graduating from high school today are less educated than the graduates of 50 years ago. The hurry-up strategy isn't limited to giving kids a head start. It continues all through their school years. The system is in such a rush to teach reading that they don't "waste time" with basic phonics. Kids aren't taught to sound words out.  “No time!" Educators put a fancy spin on it. They call it progressive, but us old coots know that the "whole language" reading concept is a crock. The same thing is going on in math class, no time to learn the multiplication tables, no need. Professional Educational innovators in Washington and Albany tell us it will click in the kids' heads, like magic. They just have to sit in math class for six weeks, and presto, the multiplication tables will be implanted in their cortex (by osmosis, I suppose). No need to memorize anything!” Not math, and certainly not poetry. That “artsy” educational exercise fell out of favor long before the multiplication tables got plowed under.  

A lot of kids don't graduate with just a high school diploma these days. Some are halfway through their freshman year of college. They take the courses in high school, to get a leg up, which makes you wonder what's going on, or not going on, in the school that kids have free time for college courses. Why aren’t they spending it in regular high school classes? I ask again, "What's the big hurry?" Even the D.C. politicians have jumped on the bandwagon. They stuck their nose under the tent with the "No Child Left Behind Act" and then came in for another attack on traditional education with the Common Core. School administrators and teachers are shaking in their boots. They devote all their energy to improving the school's test scores. In fact, they teach to the tests. No time for fundamentals. The poor kids are told in September that for the next six weeks they will spend five hours a week learning to beat the system, so they can score higher on the tests. If you ask them how many hours that will add up to, you get a blank look - they can’t figure it out. They don’t know how to multiply five times six without a calculator because they haven't been “forced” to memorize the multiplication tables. It’s probably just as well; they can’t pronounce multiplication anyhow; they don’t know how to sound it out. The system is in such a hurry that kids are at risk of getting stuck on stupid. What's the hurry? I got stuck there the old fashioned way; I did it at a slow pace.   

January 20, 2016 Artiucle

The Old Coot Knows the Rules!

By Merlin Lessler

I was surfing the High school web site the other day, to see when the pool was available for community swim. I noticed a line item for the Code of Conduct (for high school kids, not for old coots using the pool). The last time I saw it was 7 or 8 years ago, when my son was still in high school. The code back then was 8 pages long. It’s grown to 21 pages. We didn’t have written behavior rules when I went to school. There was no need.  

But now there is. If a kid throws an eraser at a teacher and gets disciplined, his parents will sue. They’ll claim, “Nobody told him (or us) that you couldn’t throw an eraser at a teacher.” Ridiculous? Not really! It’s what happens when you live in a litigious society and deal with parents who think their kid can do no wrong. The school is forced to protect itself by writing everything down and making sure the students and their parents know the rules, so no one can claim ignorance of the law.    

I remember trying the “I didn’t know” defense when I got in trouble in the third grade. It got me more than I bargained for. Instead of writing on the board, fifty times, “I will never bring a peashooter to school.” I got to write it 100 times. “You should know better without being told,” the teacher scolded. Ignorance of the law didn’t cut it then. That’s all changed now. The schools have to spell it out. Otherwise, they get sued or creamed in the media, or both.

“It’s not fair,” is another thing that got you no place in my day. The teacher was allowed to say, “ Of course it isn’t fair. It’s called real life!” Sometimes we got exactly what we deserved; sometimes we got punished for being next to the kid who actually committed the crime. That’s the way the real world is. Is there a better place (and time) to learn it than when you’re a kid in school? 

No, we didn’t need a formal code of conduct. We learned manners and correct behavior at home. If the teacher didn’t like what we did, we found out fast enough. They immediately brought it to a halt: by twisting your ear, pulling your head up by the chin or throwing an eraser at you. They meted out the punishment on the spot. If you were dumb enough to complain to your parents, you got it again at home. Even worse!  

Teachers work with a handicap today. Their job is twice as hard as it should be, as it need be. Graduates would be a lot smarter if the handcuffs came off.  When we created a disturbance in class the teacher was judge, jury and executioner.  Chew gum, and you found yourself standing in front of the room facing the class with a wad of gum stuck to the end of your nose. Pass around a picture of the teacher with fangs and devil horns and you ended up in the cloakroom surrounded by 20 snow-sopped, wool, winter coats, the smell of which was punishment in itself. The teacher had many options to “correct” your behavior: stand you in the hall or in the corner of the classroom, or send you to the dreaded principals office, to name a few. Being made to stay after school while all your friends ran out the door was the worst punishment for me. Spending the day at a desk on the girl’s side of the room was a close second.   

We learned the rules at home: we learned the consequences too. No code of conduct was needed. And if we didn’t know something, we figured it out by watching the other kids go over the line. Now, they write it all down. But, it doesn’t work. It can only be fixed by resetting the school calendar to 1950. Then, the teachers could teach and the kids would be prepared for the real world. 

January 13, 2016 Article

The Old Coot has “No problem” having a “Nice day.”

By Merlin Lessler

“Have a nice day!” – You hear this a lot. It feels good; makes it seem like you’re appreciated. It’s a common sendoff from service providers, a nice touch in customer service. But, it wasn’t always this way. And, if you travel to Europe, don’t expect to leave a restaurant and hear, “Have a nice day.” It’s only common in the U.S. and Israel. Not the rest of the world. 

Some people don’t like it. They feel it’s overused, dutiful; doesn’t mean anything more than a plain and simple good bye.  Only slightly better than what’s on the server’s mind,  “Get out of here so I can wait on the next customer.” I don’t agree. I like it. But, I’m an old coot, and people of my vintage seldom hear something nice directed their way. The best we get is, “What can I do for you, old timer?”

The “Have a nice day” phrase first appeared in a 1948 movie, “A letter to Three Wives.” The general public didn’t take to it. I know; I grew up in that era and nobody ever said, “Have a nice day.” We were too engrossed in being cool. We replaced,” Good bye,” not with “Have a nice day,” but with – So long - See ya – Tootles - Ta ta, and the lamest of all, “See you later alligator,” to which the other person was expected to respond, “after a while, crocodile.

“Have a nice day” didn’t go viral until the hippies started using it in the 1960’s. It was in sync with the “Flower Power” movement, the one that had hippies slipping flowers into the gun barrels of soldiers. Then, the truckers adopted it. They used it as a sign-off after a CB radio conversation. It was a strange pairing, truckers and hippies, two diacritically opposed segments of the population opting for the same phrase. Ours was a split society in that era, even more than it is today. It was split over the Viet Nam war, racial equality, women’s rights and most everything held dear by “The Establishment.” It was so bad, this divide, that when veteran’s families carried banners in a Boston Saint Patrick’s day parade that said, “POW/MIA families never have a nice day,” they were greeted with boos and jeers from a hostile anti-war public. (Like the soldiers and their families were to blame for the war. Duh!). Now, “Have a nice day” is so common, you hardly ever hear a plain, “Good-bye.”

But, all good things come to an end. “Have a nice day,” is slowly being replaced with, “No problem.” A lot of customer service people say this. Order coffee at a coffee bar and say thank you when the server hands it to you, and there’s a good chance you’ll hear, “No problem.” Gail Barton brought this to my attention a few years back and I’ve noticed it more and more ever since. She was right in her supposition; it makes you feel “unwelcome” to the service, (you only got your bagel and coffee because it was, “No problem.”) But, I ranted about that in an article a few years ago. My focus today is on “Have a nice day.” And, I better cut it off right here or I won’t ever hear it again.   

January 6, 2016 Article

The Old Coot wants freedom from weather nannies.

By Merlin Lessler

I miss the old weather. The kind we had when I was a kid growing up in the fifties. Before the zealots took over. The weatherman back then (and it always was a man) was more of a joke than anything. Nobody took him serious. His forecasts were often wrong. “Tomorrow will be sunny!” (We prepared for rain.) But, at least he didn’t couch his predictions by using percentages or vague terms like partial sunshine, slight chance of rain or likely clear all day. He just put it out there, “Sunny!”

It was a more interesting world. The weatherman said, “Sunny;” we hoped for the best, but took our umbrellas. We got wet. We got hot. We got cold. We got snowed in. But, we coped. After all, we are human, and equipped to adapt to a changing environment. We didn’t fixate on weather back then. It wasn’t the lead story on the evening news. We weren’t bombarded with advice on how to prepare for it. Our mothers taught us to buckle our boots, put on our mittens, wear a raincoat and never seek shelter under a tree in a thunderstorm. If today’s meteorologists were around scaring people in the caveman era, we’d still be there, cowering in the caves.

The United States had hurricanes when I was growing up; they’re not something new. The weather service named them like they do today, except they only used women’s names. Now, men’s names are alternated with women’s. I guess it’s the Weather Service’s attempt to be politically correct. Hurricane Hazel blew through here in 1954; it was the talk of the town for decades. Some of us old coots still talk about it. But, every thunderstorm sliding off the west coast of African wasn’t portrayed as a looming threat to life and limb and obsessed over for weeks on end by the meteorologists on the evening news.

Snowstorms, on the other hand, did not earn a name back then. They were expected, a normal winter weather condition. Society hadn’t yet succumbed to the weather paranoia that’s been foisted on us by the U S Weather Service and the media. Snowstorms blew in and limped out. Without a name! A real bad blizzard was referred to by the year it occurred in. There are four historic ones: The Blizzard of 1888, the Blizzard of 1899, the Blizzard of 1913 and the one a lot of us remember, the Blizzard of 1993. Twenty-five snowstorms were named last winter alone. It started with Atlas and Boreas. How many do you remember? 

So what’s my point? I don’t know exactly. I’m weather forecast challenged. It’s disabling at times. I find myself overcome with Weather Forecast Overload every 12 months or so: the squawks that take over my TV set, the dramatization of weather disasters around the globe and being treated like a child and told to put on a coat by some well groomed meteorologist pointing to an indecipherable weather pattern on a map of the country. It just gets to me. Let the weather unfold. Let it be a surprise. Let us enjoy it. Let us deal with it as it happens, not dread its coming. We don’t have to be told it’s raining; we can figure that out on our own. Especially, us old guys, we can feel it in our bones. To the Weather Service and their legions of accomplices in the media, I can only say those three little words that us old coots utter whenever we push back at the nannies running the nanny state, “Leave me alone!”

December 30, 2015 Article

The Old Coot keeps zapping along

By Merlin Lessler

This article first ran in December 2003. Cell phone usage was just starting to take off. Public space was coming under attack from LOUD TALKERS. The annoyance has abated somewhat over the years, due to people switching to text messages, but there are plenty of loud talkers out there invading our right to quiet. This article is being run as a public service, aimed at the people with poor cell phone manners. You know who you are. If you don’t quiet down, be prepared to be zapped!  

December, 2003

I peeked under our Christmas tree the other day and spotted a dozen gifts with my name in various form on the tags: To Dad, To Hubby, To Old Coot, etc.  I decided to check out one that was the size of a pack of cigarettes; I quit smoking thirty years ago, so it intrigued me. When I picked it up to see how heavy it was, and if it rattled, a strange thing happened; the wrapping started to come undone. I tried to fix it, but it came all the way off. My wife should know better than to leave me home alone with presents under the tree.

A small cardboard box emerged from the wrappings. It had a fluorescent label on it that said, “Cell Phone Zapper - (batteries included).” A black object the size of a pack of cigarettes was inside. The instructions claimed it could block cell phone signals within 40 feet, “Push the red button to engage the blocking mechanism.” I was excited! I couldn’t wait to try it out. I wrapped up the empty box and put it back under the tree; the Zapper stayed with me. I put on my coat and headed into the village.

My first stop was at Dunkin Donuts. Someone is always rushing in to get a complicated order while yakking on a cell phone. It doesn’t bother me, except when the person is yelling. Especially, if I’m sitting there in an old coot stupor and a voice out of the blue yells, “Hi!” I mistakenly turn toward the sound and say, “Hi,” in reply, only to discover the person isn’t talking to me, but yelling into a cell phone. The place was crowded with shoppers. I ordered my usual, medium coffee with cream, took a seat by the window and pushed the red button on the Zapper. Three people: a woman across the room, one at the table next to me and a guy standing at the counter, all had the same reaction. They pulled their cell phones from their ears and looked around the room with puzzled expressions on their faces. One of the women shouted, “Darn,” turned to her friends and told them her phone just went dead. I was impressed! I sat back and soaked in the quiet. Peace at last. 

My next stop was at the super market. I was in the “20 items or less” line, right behind a rude, burly guy with a full cart of groceries. As he was unloading his purchases I accidentally hit the button on the zapper. The conveyor belt pulling his stuff toward the check out clerk sputtered and reversed direction, shoving his groceries off the counter and knocking over a rack of magazines. When he stooped to pick up the mess I cut ahead and checked out. Wow, I was even more impressed the Zapper.

My last stop was at the pharmacy. I picked up a box of Tic Tacs and walked to the counter to pay.  The store has four checkout stations, but as is usually the case, the only clerk in sight was behind the photo counter pretending to be busy. He eventually came over to the register and said,  “What’s up Pop?” I noticed his tongue was pierced with a silver stud, as were both eyebrows and his left nostril. His cell phone rang and he turned to the side to answer it. I reached into my pocket and hit the red button. A strange look came over his face and he started to shake.

“What’s the matter,” I asked?

“I don’t know. All my piercings are vibrating and tingling. They’re driving me crazy!” Then he fled to the back of the store while unfastening and casting aside an assortment of silver ornaments. I left two dollars on the counter, put the Tic Tacs in my pocket and headed for the door. I walked home a happy old coot, full of Christmas spirit. I rewrapped the Zapper, put it back under the tree and plopped down in my recliner. I was off in dreamland in seconds. The next thing I knew I was being shaken by the shoulder.

“Wake up! Wake up, my son Zachary shouted. You’re having a bad dream! You keep yelling ZAP and then laughing.”

I came out of my stupor and rushed over to the Christmas tree. The little present was still there. Was it a dream? Was it real? (Find out for yourself; Google cell phone jammers. Then, maybe you’ll believe in Santa Claus again.)  

December 23, 2015 Article

The Old Coot rats out a friend. (Again!)

BY Merlin Lessler

My friend Daren had a surprise encounter with a car fender the other day. While on his bicycle. He said to me, and I quote, “I don’t want to read about this in the paper! You’ve exposed me enough!” But, he didn’t say please! I seriously considered his request. After all, I had written about the time he strutted across the floor in a New York City nightclub, back in his salad days, with a long strand of toilet paper trailing from the heel on his shoe. And, I’d also revealed his middle of the night encounter with a bat in his bedroom. That was because I was impressed that a 6 foot five, physically fit, male, could conquer a two-ounce bat with the single swing of a tennis racquet and dispose of the victim by tossing it into the yard from his front porch clad in nothing but a faded pair of boxer shorts. 

So, I suppose his request that I keep my big mouth shut was well founded. But, a Facebook post beat me to the punch, absolving me from any guilt for not honoring it. The post said, in part, Well this morning my husband was hit by a car while riding his bike home from coffee. He is fine. A bit bruised up; but he is in excellent physical shape & that saved him from further harm. He was crossing at a red light and the person hit him IN THE CROSS WALK...the car’s windows were not clear of the mornings frost...PLEASE remember to clear your windows off so you can SEE!!!!!! Yes it's cold but all it takes is an extra few minutes. Grateful he's ok & it was not one of our elder friends who love to walk our village streets. ELDER FRIENDS? ME? 

Let the record show, I was not the first to let the cat out of the bag. And besides, I couldn’t be prouder of him; he violated all the normal bicycle safety rules and rode like an old coot (which he is not and won’t be for many years). No helmet graced his head as he peddled his vintage village bicycle on the sidewalk, facing traffic. But, he did make a mistake; he crossed the street at the corner. A true old coot knows that a corner is the most dangerous place to cross. Drivers turn right on red without stopping. And without watching for bikers and pedestrians. He crossed with the light in his favor; then it happened. A driver went right on red without looking and knocked him off his bike. His so called fitness and fast reflexes saved the day. Being one of his ELDER friends, I probably would have ended up lying in the road, upside down, dialing that lawyer in Syracuse who promises, “To leave no stone unturned! ” 

So for me, and the rest of the “morning coffee boys” at Carol’s Coffee & Art Bar, we are thankful he came through with only a scraped elbow. And, even more thankful for being able to witness another chapter unfold in the Daren Merrill life story. It’s been a great movie so far.