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?