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!

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

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