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?

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