December 30, 2018 Article

The Old Coot checklist.

By Merlin Lessler

One thing about being an old coot, is you do a lot of writing. Notes on the refrigerator: “Get milk!” – “Don’t forget garbage tonight!” – “Today is Friday!” Those sorts of things. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. The big list is the “check-list” we go through before leaving the house.

It’s more extensive than the ones airline pilots use before taking off. Mine is too large to fit on the refrigerator. It’s fastened to the wall next to the backdoor.

1. Is you shirt buttoned correctly? The buttons in the correct holes?
2. Is your sweater on backwards?
3. Put a rubber band on your wrist and snap it every time you start to go off on a diatribe about the good old days!
4. When you walk down the sidewalk, remember to try to walk in a straight line, not your normal serpentine route! CONCENTRATE!
5. When you see your reflection in a mirror or a store window, don’t gasp any scream, “Who is that guy!”
6. If you hear yourself saying, “I used to…” snap the rubber band on your wrist and stop yourself. (I’d tie a string on my finger as a reminder like I did when I was a kid in the 50’s, but I can no longer tie a knot using one hand and my teeth.)                                                                                                                       
7. Slap your face every time you hear yourself say, “Ouch!’ or “Oops!” out loud.
8. Listen for the sound of the turn signal when you drive on the highway so you won’t travel in the passing lane for hours with it blinking. It gives your generation a bad name.
9. Can’t remember nine.
10. Take the memory pill. 
11.  (On and on it goes, too much to list here.)                                                        

The problem is, I forget to go through the list most days. I guess I need to stick a reminder on the fridge, as soon as a blank space opens up.

Comments? Complaints? E-mail to – mlessler7@gmail, or Text to – 607-972-6102

December 12, 2018 Article

The Old Coot throws Bruce under the bus.

By Merlin Lessler

This subject came from Bruce Haight, a Binghamton Central High School graduate, circa 1965 that I met in Vero Beach, Florida while swapping lies about the good old days with an eclectic, older group (older than Bruce) of Central High graduates. He’s not quite an old coot, but well along in the training program. The topic is a result of a wifely suggestion to him, that he not make such a mess in the bathroom when he uses the sink, with splashes all over the place, on the mirror, on the wall, all around the sink surround, on the floor and below the towel rack where he’s shoved a wadded up, wet towel.  “It looks like a raccoon was in here, washing up for his evening meal,” remarked Bruce’s wife. (Probably not for the first time.)

We’re not good custodians of bathrooms, us old coots and men in general.  Splashes and wadded up towels, seats left up, empty toilet paper rolls. We’re not just messy raccoons, we’re also blind as bats when it comes to noticing the disasters we leave behind. It’s not our fault. Underneath our modern facade lies a cave man. Our species has evolved, but those of us with an X and Y chromosome have not kept pace with the more evolved, two X-chromosome branch. Old coots especially, and most men in general, are not much improved from when our ancestors huddled in those dank caves and proposed marriage with a hefty wooden club. We’ve retained much of that caveman persona. It’s that lipstick on a pig thing. Slather it on, but you still have a pig underneath.

Put us in front of a sink and we’re back at the stream outside the cave, washing up next to a raccoon. Both of us tossing water in the air with more gusto than “Old Faithful” at Yellowstone National Park. We make no distinction between the stream and a modern bathroom. Our wives try to make us civilized but it’s an effort that goes unrewarded. Even when they convince us to install a vanity with two sinks, we splatter so much that both areas are covered with puddles. Separate bathrooms might work, but the real solution is to send us to clean up in the backyard with a water hose. A lot cheaper than remodeling the bathroom. The raccoon would love our company; it’s been a long time since we washed up together. 

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

December 5, 2018 Article

Another old coot tooth bites the dust.

By Merlin Lessler.

I took inventory the other day; I counted my teeth. It’s something you need to do every once in a while when you’re an old coot. I had 32 teeth when I turned twenty-one. Four were wisdom teeth, though I had no wisdom at the time, just the teeth. Now, I’m down to twenty-five. I’m not a hockey player nor do I get in fights. My last tooth-jarring scuffle came when I was twelve years old. It took place at YMCA’s Camp Arrowhead, on what is now a private lake near Little Meadows, Pennsylvania. A big kid was shoving around my friend Woody, so I jumped in, pushed him aside and told him to stop. He beat the stuffing out of me.

I didn’t lose any teeth, just a load of pride and an inkling that my perceived prowess was suspect. Something I proved beyond a doubt over the next several years, twice the recipient of a surprise throat punch. (No teeth to worry about in that situation.)  I had watched too many cowboy and Indian movies, where the good guy (most notably Roy Rogers) could beat up a gang of bad guys with one hand tied behind his back. I thought I was just like him. It was a hard road to the truth.  

No, the demise of my toothful grin was not the result of violence. It started with my wisdom teeth; they became impacted one at a time over a twenty-year stretch. When the last one left me I was in my forties and more concerned about a vision problem than a tooth problem. I couldn’t read the paper; my arms weren’t long enough. So there I was, well into a second mid life crisis (my first came at age 30), half blind and down to 28 teeth. Twenty-eight isn’t bad. It’s an even number, fourteen on the top, fourteen on the bottom, one over the other so they function as designed.

But then along came the old coot roulette wheel. It spins and spins. One day it lands on the sore knee space, another day on the aching back slot. Then the cataract spot. The wheel keeps spinning and eventually lands on the broken tooth space. An absent-minded crunch on an unpopped popcorn kernel breaks off the back quadrant of a molar. You get it fixed. You get the speech that all medical personnel deliver to you at the end of every visit. “You have to expect this at your age.”

Now, you’re paranoid. Afraid that one misplaced chew will put you back in the dentist’s chair. Time passes and you forget. The roulette wheel comes back to the broken tooth slot. You do it again. This time on a Sugar Daddy. It should be against the law to sell Sugar Daddies to old coots. We should be asked for proof of age, and turned away if we’re over 60. The tooth is beyond repair, so you have it pulled. Then it happens again! And, again! Oh sure, multi-thousand dollar root canals and crowns could save them, for a while (maybe, no guarantees). But old coots are cheap .So, now I’m down to twenty-five and still counting.

I originally penned this essay 11 years ago. Just the other day, my dentist, Pam, (gently) removed yet another molar. It wasn’t doing much; the opposing tooth above, left in 2006, yet somehow, it decided to leave the sinking ship while it could. Maybe now I’ll get a discount when I get them cleaned, 24 teeth versus 32. Only makes sense doesn’t it?

Comments? Complaints? E-mail – mlessler7@gmail.com, or Text 607-972-6102

November 28, 2018 Article

Old Coots need old doctors.

By Merlin Lessler

Today’s doctors are smart, hip and well versed in the science of modern medicine. But, they’re not schooled in old coot medicine. Even those that specialize in geriatrics aren’t fully equipped for the task at hand. They know how a body is supposed to work. They just don’t know how an OLD body works, or how the inhabitants of these high mileage vehicles make it through the day. 

Take pain, as an example. When you have a young body, or even a middle age one, pain is a signal that something is wrong. If it persists you are advised to seek medical attention, which means a trip to the emergency room or a walk in clinic since you’re not getting in to see your regular doctor. I know. I used to try. Call in July and they’ll squeeze you in before the end of the year. The system is geared to treat healthy people, not the sick. So, off we go to the ER or a walk-in facility, both of which are staffed with new, young doctors just starting out, for the most part. “Describe the pain in your leg on a scale of one to ten,” they say. We don’t use a one to ten scale to describe pain. Ours is a three level scale: It stings – It hurts like heck – It’s killing me! But, that’s not the real issue. Young docs can transpose our old coot scale to their one-to-ten scale.

That’s easy, because it’s always a 10. Old guys go into a state of denial when a medical symptom emerges. We adopt a “wait and see” approach. Let it percolate for a while. We grew up this way. Run into the house after falling out of a tree when you were a kid and if a bone wasn’t sticking out, all you got was a Popsicle and told to go sit in the back yard and read a comic book. ERs should amass a team to treat old coots, like they do at the Mayo clinic. We wouldn’t be there unless it was something we couldn’t figure out and were at our wits end. 

The team should be led by an old doctor, who would know better than to ask if we’re having chest pains. Of course we’re having chest pains; we have multiple chest pains every day. Make a wrong move and something hurts. Often, it’s in the chest area. Any sudden move has an impact. If we twist to the left too fast, “Boing!” We get a chest pain, an arm ache and feel a little dizzy. Make a left turn in the car and there is a twinge in our neck. We thrive in a pain world, watching helplessly, as they race from limb to limb, torso to shoulder, head to toe. That’s why it’s so hard for us to describe what is going on when we get to the ER. But, an old doc on the staff would help with the issue. One who knows what it’s like to live in, and travel around in a worn out buggy of a body. He could distinguish between the everyday cascade of old coot pains and focus on the new one. Or, give us a Popsicle and sit us down with a comic book. I’d prefer an issue of Superman, one with a 10-cent price tab in the upper right corner of the cover.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

November 21, 2018 Article

The Old Coot survives because of a memory cooperative.

By Merlin Lessler

I belong to a shared memory cooperative. Several, actually. One of the co-ops meets once a week, on the golf course: Tom, George, Don and myself. With weapons in hand, we attack the greenery and talk about old times. It’s definitely a co-op discussion, because this group has the least amount of firing neurons of all the groups I belong to. But, we get through most of our conversations with the correct names of people and places. Plus, we lie and our memories are so poor, the lies go undetected.

My high school fraternity, AZ of Binghamton Central High, has a reunion every other year, ending with a picnic at Endwell Greens Golf Course. The youngest guys are in their late 60’s. My section is the senior component, though we didn’t start out that way. The gathering turns into a “Talk about the good old days” festival! Loaded with blank spaces that the memory co-op quickly fills in. It’s also a conversation, rife with expletives’ like, “Wow! I haven’t thought of that in years!” or “I don’t remember that at all. Are you sure it was me who threw the egg that hit the new school principal on his first day?” But, enough members of the group do remember, so the teller’s information is confirmed.

Two other groups meet weekday mornings, one group, the northern co-op, alternates between Carol’s Art & Coffee Bar and the Owego Kitchen. The other, the southern co-op, gathers at Starbucks in Ormond Beach, Florida. We sit around sipping coffee and discussing topics of the day and reminiscing over past events. It’s a disjointed conversation because there is only the equivalent of one full memory between the whole bunch of us, the shared memory co-op. If you start to tell a story about something and get stuck on a person's name; no problem; someone in the cooperative will immediately supply the missing tidbit and the rest of the story is unveiled without a long pause.

My wife and I have our own small, shared memory cooperative. We constantly fill in the blanks for each other when a lost memory gets stuck on the proverbial, “Tip of the tongue.” And, we cheat too, thanks to the existence of Wikipedia with answers to questions like: “Is so and so still alive” (some Movie or TV star, usually)  – “How old is what’s-his-name?” – “Who starred in that movie show?” The Wick always comes through.I only have one memory issue at the moment, “Did I already write an article like this and get it published?” I don’t know. I can only hope my readers also require a shared memory cooperative to get through the day and won’t remember if I have.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

November 14, 2018 Article

The Old Coot avoids long talkers. Sometimes.

By Merlin Lessler

We all have one or two of them in our lives: LONG TALKERS! If you don’t think you do, maybe it’s because you’re the long talker in your circle of friends and acquaintances. Long talkers go on and on and on. “How was the movie,” you naively ask. You don’t get a Siskel & Ebert thumbs up or thumbs down, you get a detailed, blow-by-blow replay of the whole film. A long talker will say, “The movie started with this big guy, Graham, who goes to Mars to find exotic minerals to bring his daughter out of a coma. “Mars,” you say to yourself. “This is going to be bad.” Character after character is introduced. Event after event. Soon, you are so confused you forgot what the long talker is even going on about. You desperately want to kick yourself for asking in the first place.

This is when you focus on an exit strategy. It starts with hope. You “hope” the long talker will get a phone call. But, when he does, you discover he doesn’t let it interrupt his “talk,” he ignores it and says, “I’ll get back to them later.” So, you “hope” some more, wishing your phone would ring. But, it doesn’t. Then, you look around and “hope” someone will walk in and interrupt the one-way conversation. But, nobody does. Hope rarely works! That’s when you’re forced to switch to the “lie” strategy: you look at your watch and say, “Oh my, it’s 9:15, I have to get going.” It doesn’t work. The long talker acts like you didn’t say anything and continues the marathon recitation. Three more tries, three more lies, until you finally break free. You add a fourth lie, “I’ll catch up with you later; I want to know how the movie turned out.”

As you hustle away, the long talker keeps at it, yelling out more of the movie’s plot. It gets you started on a long-term strategy, so you can avoid this situation, this person, in the future, by walking the other way when you spot him at a distance and installing an App on your phone that will make it ring when you squeeze it. And most important, you’ll have at the ready, a collection of lies to help you disengage from the clutches of a long talker, like a dentist appointment that you’re late for, or a kid waiting to be picked up. That sort of thing.

Short talkers can be just as frustrating. You know the ones, the strong silent type. They are perfectly comfortable standing next to you in total silence. You’re not. So, you try to engage them by asking a question, “Been doing anything exciting lately?” You get a quick, “No.” You try again, “This weather has been crazy, hasn’t it?” – “Yes,” is all you get. You keep at it but keep getting short yes & no responses. Sometimes just a shrug. You look around, hoping a long talker will come by, a perfect match for a short talker. But, it doesn’t happen. So, you lie and head for the restroom, hoping it has a window you can climb out. Long talkers and short talkers! Quite a challenge for us medium listeners.

Comments, complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com 

November 7, 2018 Article

The Old Coot is gunna! Probably. Maybe. Probably not.

By Merlin Lessler

“I’m gunna!” When you hear someone say this, you need to remind yourself,it’s probably a lie. When you or I say it, it’s most likely a lie too. It’s one of the most repeated lies in human history. We spray it around like those seeding machine the DOT uses to plant grass along the side of a newly completed stretch of roadway. The, “I’m gunna!” is the fertilizer component, pure horse manure.“I’m gunna start working out! I’m gunna read more and watch less TV. I’m gunna lose that gut”! Gunna, Gunna, Gunna. When you hear it come out of your mouth you should slap yourself “up-side” the head. I do this so often my head is lopsided, but it has helped me cut down on the “I’m gunnas.”

It’s hard to replace, “I’m gunna” with, “I am.” I AM on a diet. I AM working out three times a week. I AM reading more. But, that simple word exchange will change your life. Unfortunately, “gunna” is used too often by most of us. And, it comes home to roost later in life,when we replace it with, “I shudda.” I shudda taken courses at night school. I shudda learned to play the guitar. I shudda eaten healthier. I shudda. I shudda. I shudda. A world of regret, caused by a life time of, “I’m gunnas.”

We all do this, the “I’m gunna” thing, but it’s just a bad habit. If we recognize it for what it is, even just every once in a while, we can change our lifeand change future “I shuddas” into“I did.” It’s never too late. Even old coots like me have time to eliminate future “I shuddas.” I’ve been thinking of writing about this gunna thing for a year. I kept saying to myself, “I’m gunna write about how bad gunna,is.” That last slap “up-side” my head finally got my attention. Here it is! One less “I shudda” in my life.

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

October 31, 2018 Article

The Old Coot can spot a snow job.

By Merlin Lessler

They just keep coming! On TV! On the radio! In newspapers and magazines! An endless stream of propaganda, promises, half-truths, outright LIES! No! No! No! I’m referring to the political ads that come at us ad-nauseum. I’m talking about the ads from billion-dollar corporations that have pulled a fast one on their customers and the public.

Take Wells Fargo, as a for instance. First, they took advantage of new customers, by signing them up (without their knowledge) for services they didn’t want nor asked for. (3,500,000 fake accounts). Many of these customers were charged thousands of dollars in fees, penalties and high interest rates. Some went bankrupt. Many, received miserable credit scores. When Wells Fargo got caught, the CEO and the executive staff pleaded ignorance, though they set the impossible goals. They threw their middle managers, supervisors and front-line line employees under the bus. Blamed them!

Eventually the truth came out and Wells Fargo was fined one billion dollars and ordered to make restitution to customers in the amount of $142 million. None of the senior executives went to the woodshed. Now, we are forced to endure their self-serving full page and two-page advertisements in major newspapers and magazines. And, to watch their Tv ads showing how clever Wells Fargo was when they transported gold in stagecoaches back in the 1800’s. The robbers got a safe full of rocks. The gold was hidden elsewhere and was saved. Implying, our money is safe if entrusted to Wells Fargo.

They all do this, the big corporations that misbehave and then lie about it until they get caught. Then comes the ads. “We slipped up.” – “We made a mistake.”  - “We didn’t know.” – “We’re sorry.” Blah, blah blah. Facebook lied. Did their customers wrong. Sold their data, didn’t protect their identities and now are sorry and making things right. LOL. Spectrum came to town, promised the moon and quietly raised rates and found new ways to charge us for stuff that once was free.

The truth, I discovered years ago, is the more they tell us how good they are, the more they lie. Unfortunately, I have to keep reminding myself that this is so. The ads are that good. These ad campaigns, these false image portrayals follow an old principle. “A lie told often enough becomes the truth,“ Vladimir Lenin. “A lie repeated enough seems truthful,” Joseph Goebbels. A little scary, isn’t it? 

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

October 24, 2018 Article

The Old Coot gets questioned.

By Merlin Lessler

“Are you still........?” It’s the start of a question that old coots like me are asked with greater frequency, as the flames on their birthday cakes resemble a towering inferno. Are you still driving? -   Are you still in your house? Are you still riding your bike? Are you still? Are you still? Are you still? We can’t escape it! Underlying the question is, “I can’t believe you’re still alive!” We do get the actual question every once in a while, “Are you still alive? I thought you were dead.” Sometimes followed by, “So glad to see you’re still around.” It’s not so bad, if they haven’t seen you for years, but if they just saw you last month, or worse, last week, you start wondering, “How bad do I really look?” (At least they were glad to see me. Or, so they say.)

Old coots aren’t the only ones under siege from, “Are you still?” questions. Expectant mothers in their last trimester can attest to that. “Are you still carrying that kid around.” (It looks like you’re having triplets.) Young adults get the, “Are you still?” business too. “Are you still living at home?” – “Are you still unmarried?” –  “Are you still unemployed?” (Unspoken, is the judgement, “When are you going to get a life?”)

Whenever I’m asked an, “Are you still?” question, I go home and look in the mirror. Really look. Not one of those quick glances where the memory of a younger me obscures the reality of the old man’s face reflected back from the glass. But, I get over the stark reality of truth soon enough, just like I get over the, “I love your articles; are you still writing them?” – “Sure,” I respond, and then go and check the paper the first chance I get to see if I really am. The last time I looked, I was. Now comes the harder question, “Is anybody reading them?”

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

October 17, 2018 Article

Coming to you from Bikefest, 2018...Daytona Beach LOL

The Old Coot loves old clothes.

By Merlin Lessler

We all have them, old clothes that are treasured old friends. When we put them on they make us feel good about ourselves - more confident, more secure and more prepared to face the world and take on the day. But, inevitably, they, like ourselves, begin to age, lose their vigor, their presentability. For some people, it’s that special T-shirt, for others, that faded, broken in pair of Levi’s. For me, it’s an off-white, crewneck sweater I bought in the mid-1980s, at the long gone, Champion Outlet on Upper Front Street in Binghamton.

It survives to this day, in surprisingly good condition.  And, I get to take it out for a day every now and then. But, most of the time it sits in limbo, patiently waiting, with a few other “favorites” I can’t let go of. Most of them are on a closet pole in the attic above our garage. More than I care to admit, including a silk, patchwork, Jamaican party shirt I “had to have” when I saw it at a flea market in the Bahamas. It’s never been for a ride on my back, yet it still beckons me, so it remains in wait.

We get stuck in a fashion mode too. For me, it’s the fifties: Levi jeans (though we called them dungarees back then), crew neck sweaters, oxford cloth, cotton, button-down-collar shirts, dusty bucks, kakis, long, wool winter overcoats and argyle or colored socks. I added river driver shirts (now called henleys) in the 70’s and rugby’s in the 80’s. They’re all on “stand-by” in the attic.

When an item becomes too old to wear in public, it leaves the attic and goes to a “work clothes” rack in our garage. Every once in a while, I’ll give a “work clothes” item a new chance at life, and attempt to restore it to its former glory, so I can parade it out for a public appearance. It’s become easier, now that stained, tattered and paint splattered casual ware is in vogue. (Pricy too; you pay extra for the worn-out look) So, my horde of work clothes is slowly moving to the “stand-by” rack in the attic and now, more than ever, back into the house. I may look like a bum to many of you, but the hip crowd knows I’m up to date, but best of all, I’m walking around in the good company of treasured old friends.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

October 10, 2018 Article

How the Old Coot is Frosty.

By Merlin Lessler

I wrote about a new name I’d picked up a few weeks ago. VERN! Now, I’ve been dubbed with yet another moniker, FROSTY. I guess it’s my year for new names. Some behind my back like Old Stumbles, Crusty, Grouch and Cheapskate, and of course, those I hear in public, Sir, Mister and Gramps (plus Vern, Coot and now, Frosty). It makes me wonder what else I’ll be called by before the year ends.

Frosty came my way in Zion National Park, Utah, on a western trip that found me in the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Lake Powell, Los Vegas and three days with our son in San Diego. Frosty became my handle on a riding trail in Zion Canyon. Frosty was the horse I was assigned for a trail ride, something I’d agreed to with trepidation, remembering well, my one and only experience mounted on a horse, properly called the “barn idiot,” when I was 16 years old. The “Idiot” broke from the pack and galloped back to the barn where I barely managed to slip off before he shot through the door that would have surely knocked my head off, since the opening was hardly high enough for a galloping horse, let alone one with a mounted rider.

I tugged myself atop Frosty (horse people call it mounted) and got in line, next to last, with several other riders and our guide, Sylvia. She didn’t call us by our names but referred to us by the name of the horse we were riding. “Slow down back there, Spirit?”  - “Hurry up Trigger; don’t let a big gap open between you and Pinto.” Thus, I became Frosty, a lot better than Old Timer, the name I started with when I signed up for the ride, which, explains why she kept swiveling around in her saddle and yelling, “How you doing back there Frosty? Are you OK?” It was not just my age; it was the grimace on my face and the yelps of pain I emitted every time Frosty decided to gallop or to turn his head and snap at my legs with a set of horse teeth that looked lethal to me.   

I’m sure the group was sick of the constant, Frosty, Frosty, Frosty. Even when the ordeal was over it didn’t stop. As I limped across the coral back toward the lodge, the shouts of, “How you doing Frosty,” continued. Whenever my wife, Marcia, relates the tale of our horseback ride in the canyon (with too much chuckling, I might add), another new person starts calling me Frosty. I’ll accept the horse name, but I’m not planning on doing anything horse-wise to pick up a new steed reference. So, call me Frosty, or Vern, or Coot, or Jim Steel. It’s better than being ignored, which us old coots get a lot of. So, thanks for that.

Yours truly, Frosty   Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

October 3, 2018 Article

The Old Coot adjusts to change.

By Merlin Lessler

I bring my own napkins! I have to! Too many restaurants only give you a single, paper napkin these days. It’s just not enough, especially when you are having soup and your nose threatens to embarrass you, and say, “Gotcha!” My problem is, the paper napkin I’ve been issued is quickly overloaded with ketchup, mustard, mayo, gravy or whatever substance was on my plate that I had to remove from my shirt, pants or places on my face nowhere near my pie hole.  “How did you get ketchup on your ear,” my wife will ask? “I have no idea,” I respond, desperately looking around for a waiter or waitress, to secure a new napkin, something that is apparently too costly to let customers have more than one at a time. So, I bring my own. That bulge in my back pocket isn’t a wallet; it’s an emergency paper napkin supply.

It’s my fault, along with the rest of my crowd, “People of Age.” We’re the ones who lined our pockets (and pocket books) with packets of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, salt, pepper, sugar and whatever else wasn’t nailed down, for years on end, forcing restaurants to control the supply of condiments (and paper napkins) in order to stay in business. I know more than a few people of my vintage who haven’t bought ketchup, mustard, and the like in decades. So, now I’m saddled with carting around a supply of paper napkins in my back pocket.

It’s even worse in a nice, upscale restaurant where they entrust, even old coots like me, with expensive cloth napkins. I skip the soup in those places, but my nose isn’t prevented from causing me trouble; it acts as though I was slurping a steaming hot bowl of soup. And, the nose I’m sporting these days, has grown as I’ve aged. Just like my ears. Just like all old guys noses and ears. We get shorter as our bones settle, but our facial protuberances get longer. It’s the truth! I don’t want to scare readers in their 30’s, 40’s and 50’s, but it’s in your future too. I probably should have issued a “spoiler alert” at the beginning of this article, so you wouldn’t have to discover yet another reason to hang on to the falsehood that you will never get old and look like us. I remember thinking that when I walked around in an intact human mechanism. I still spend too many moments in denial of the aging process to this day. So, here I am, big nose, big ears and a wad of napkins in my back pocket.   

Comments, complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

September 26, 2018 Article

The Old Coot has a new name.

By Merlin Lessler

Just call me Vern. For years I’ve called people by the wrong name. Introduced to a Lynn, I immediately start calling her Lisa. Greg becomes Craig. Tom becomes Tim (so does Robert, for some odd reason). Paul and Phil (twins, by the way) become switched to Phil and Paul. I’ve butchered introductions for years – even when trying all the tricks: repeating the person’s name right away and using it in a sentence, like, “Where are you from, Greg?” Another few seconds pass and he becomes Craig. Or worse, I lose his name completely and desperately whisper to my wife as we walk away, “What was that guy’s name?”

I’m not alone. I’m Norm to some people. My mother had the same issue, sometimes calling me Norm, her brother’s name. So did my next-door neighbor. I’m Merrill, Merl and worse of all, Marilyn. It started early.  My 4^th grade teacher set me up on the girl’s side of the room on her seating chart (Yes, they kept us apart in those days. Smartly, I might add). She’d made up the chart before school started in September, and then was mad at me because she had to redo the seating assignments; she got even by calling me Marylin throughout the entire school year, something that carried over to the playground, much to my chagrin.

I’m also called Coot (which I like), Jim Steele (my “go-to” name when I want to be incognito, like in Starbucks or other places that ask your name, so they can call it out when your order is ready. I often use it when I violate some bureaucratic rule and am asked my name. I once used it to sign an electrician inspection, indicating that the work was performed by an electrician (Jim Steele from Elmira. What the heck; I did the wiring and inspected it as I went along.) I’m called by a several other descriptive monikers – old fogie, idiot and the like.

Now I’ve picked up a new one, “Vern!” I was christened this by Ed from Lisle Road, who routinely mentions to Jen, “I saw Vern walking up Davis Hill today.” I like it! I’m adding it to my favorites, Coot, Jim Steele and now, Vern. What’s in a name? I sure don’t know. Just call me Vern.

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September 19, 2018 Article

The Old Coot Knows His Cookies (a rerun from 2008)

By Merlin lessler

The food industry is out of touch. They don’t understand the eating habits of their customers. Take Oreos for instance. The back of the package has a carefully researched list of nutrition facts: Total Fat 8g, Sodium 110 mg, Sugars 11g, etc. You can be sure it took a bunch of pretty smart scientists to compile the data. I can’t begin to comprehend the number of tests and calculations it took to come up with the information. Yet, when it comes to the easy part, the standard portion size, this astute collection of food scientists and chemists at Nabisco can’t get it right. They don’t even come close. It’s obvious they’ve never sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of milk and a package of Oreos. They claim, with a straight face, that the standard portion size is three cookies. No human has ever been able to limit their intake to three Oreos. Forcing a prisoner of war to stop at three Oreos is considered torture under the rules of the Geneva Convention. It makes water boarding seem like a day at the beach.

Nabisco isn’t the only company that gets it wrong. All the makers of cookies, ice cream, candy and the foods we love, don’t have a clue about the eating habits of their loyal customers. The only ones who come close are the companies that sell canned vegetables. They put an average portion at one-half cup. That works for corn, peas and beets but is way too high for things like lima beans, asparagus and spinach. I limit my intake of that “unholy trinity” to a teaspoonful or less. I’ve done so since I was four years old and had to empty my plate before leaving the table no matter what my taste buds said. Of course, my mother had other ideas. If I complained about the vegetable she was dishing out she gave me a double helping. As a result, I developed into a sneak. I could make a pile of lima beans vanish from my plate and reappear in my socks. It was easy to pull off because my mother never sat down at the dinner table with us. She was in constant motion: stirring, basting and shuttling back and forth between the stove and the table. It was only on Thanksgiving that she sat down with the rest of the family. Even then, she never looked comfortable. You could tell she wanted to be in her combination, maitre d’ – chef role, making sure her charges were well served. A lot of mothers were like that, still are.

I did the research that Nabisco and the other food processors should have done. I came up with the proper portion size for their products. I started with Oreo Cookies. I determined that the correct portion size is a row of cookies. At three cookies (the portion stated on the back of the bag) I hadn’t even warmed up. At seven, I was getting close but couldn’t stop myself until I finished the row. I was tempted to have one more cookie, but I knew if I did, another full row would be in jeopardy.

The next product I worked on was ice cream. The package put the correct portion size at four ounces (one-half cup). It’s not! I filled a bowl with butter pecan. I don’t know how many ounces it was, but it looked about right, heaped up an inch higher than the bowl. When it was gone, I wasn’t quite satisfied. I replenished the bowl with three more scoops. That didn’t do it either. I was drawn back to the fridge for a smidgen (another full scoop plus a dab more). That did it. I don’t know how many ounces it added up to. I’d recommend they don’t use ounces on the package, that they state it in terms we can understand – one bowlful + one-half bowl + a smidgen. It’s not that hard to figure out; the manufacturers need to use real people to do the research, not computer models. I’m available.

September 12, 2018 Article

The Old Coot Misses the Bumper! (A rerun from 2008)

by Merlin Lessler (10 years younger)

The car bumper is history. That shiny, chromed, steel bar that once graced the front and rear of our Detroit dinosaurs has disappeared; it has been replaced with a plastic, bumper-like object that shatters when it “bumps” into something. Some pickup trucks and a few SUVs still sport a metallic bumper, but not cars. It’s another change I didn’t notice taking place. Now it’s too late.

It’s too bad. It’s not just the shine that’s gone; so is the pride we took in slathering chrome polish on our bumpers, to finish off a ritualistic Saturday afternoon car wash. We lost functionality too. Where are you going to tie the baby shoes and tin cans when the bride and groom drive away from the church? And, where are businesses going to wrap the thin pieces of wire that held a cardboard bumper ad saying, “We had a blast at Hershey Amusement Park,” or “I visited Howe Caverns?” There’s no place to wrap the wire. Where will you stand to pick apples from a farmer’s tree when he isn’t looking and where can you attach a piece of rope to pull a friend out of a ditch? It’s more than the shine that’s gone. It’s a way of life that slipped away. And nobody said a word.

When I tell my grandchildren about my favorite childhood Halloween prank, tying a stuffed dummy to somebody’s car bumper when they stopped for a red light in downtown Binghamton, they won’t know what I’m talking about. “What’s a bumper,” they’ll ask? They won’t be able to understand how we got even with the “meanest” woman on the south side of Binghamton on a blustery fall day in 1956, the stealth we employed to fasten a length of clothesline to her bumper while she was in her backyard hanging out clothes to dry, the care we took to cover the rope with leaves so we could connect it to her garbage can without it being visible and the patience we exhibited as we waited for more than an hour in the shrubbery before she finally came out of her house and drove off. She turned left on Pennsylvania Ave, hell bent to get to a sale at Fowlers Department Store, oblivious to the racket she was making, oblivious to the now empty garbage can bouncing, rattling and leaping in the air behind her. My sides still hurt from that laughing fit so many years ago.

Yes, we got even with the “meanest” woman on the block. Mean, because she made her son finish his chores before leaving the house to hang out with us. The same son who blew a “laugh” gasket, hiding in the shrubs with the rest of us, the son who had actually tied the rope to her bumper, the son who, when it was over, and our laughing fit had subsided, turned to me and said, “Now let’s do it to your mother’s car!” It can’t be done anymore. There is no bumper to attach to. We’ve lost a lot more than a shiny piece of chrome. We’ve lost a way of life. Let’s have a moment of silence for another passing, “The car bumper is dead!”

September 5, 2018 Article

The Old Coot introduces rerun season.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m taking a cue from network TV, taking a break and rerunning some Old Coot articles. But, it won’t be like the networks overuse of reruns. They run five or six new episodes of a show, starting in late September or early October, and then start the reruns. New episodes appear a month or so later, following weeks of advertising and hoopla! The average major media production of network shows is 16 original episodes a year.

Back in my day, when rerunning shows was invented, it was a “summer” phenomenon. The new season began in September, like it does now, but it ran until June. Thirty plus episodes a year, and then summer reruns.

Oh, how we groaned, we hated to be stuck with shows we’d already seen. But, stuck we were, with only three channels to choose from (the three major networks). No cable channels. No cable! Just a metal antenna on the roof or a set of rabbit ears on top of the TV set, often with hunks of tinfoil dribbling off the “ears” to bring in better reception or eliminate the “snow” that infringed on the picture. TV sets were the size of small refrigerators, sometimes with built-in record players and AM radio receivers.

So, anyhow, I’m giving in and submitting for publication a few reruns of my own. I have over 700 articles to pick from, dating back to 2003. If your memory is anything like mine, you probably would never know the difference, if I hadn’t fessed up to the scam. Heck, when I read through one, to see if it’s still pertinent, I don’t recall ever writing it, so I think I can get away with a few reruns. Starting next week, the Old Coot Rerun Season will kick off.  The first one is my eulogy to the now deceased, shiny, chrome car bumper. The second, slams food producers for getting the “portion size” listed on the package wrong.

To get you prepared, those of you that have read this far, I’m including a partial rerun from an article that ran in 2009. The “Um People,” one of my favorite human nature observations.

The Old Coot discovers the “UM” people.

 I was studying the “Um” people the other day. You know the type. They wait in line, staring at the racks of donuts in Dunkin Donuts, or the extensive menu at a fast food joint, but when their turn comes, they are dumfounded. The clerk says, “How may I help you?” They reply with, “Um.” And after a long pause, continue with “I think I want a dozen donuts,” and another, “Um.” They tap their index finger on their chin and repeat it again, “Um.” “Um.” “Um.” Finally, they get started. “Give me two jelly.” That’s followed with another, “Um.” All through the selection process the dialog is interspaced with ums. That’s why I call them the Um people. They’re never prepared for the task at hand. When the exasperated clerk finally gets their order together and says, “That will be seven dollars and sixty-eight cents,” they shift back to their “UM” mode, with, “Um, where did I put my wallet?” Everything that comes their way is a shock. We all do this from time to time, but the “Um” people never get out of the groove.

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

August 29, 2018 Article

The Old Coot is “SO” bugged.

By Merlin Lessler

SO, I really hate that the use of “SO” has multiplied and invaded our everyday conversation. I noticed the overuse of it in 2015, which means the trend started much sooner, since like most men, and all old coots, I’m not very observant. (New curtains? When did we get them? A YEAR AGO, DEAR!). I wrote about it in my typical old coot cranky fashion, focusing on its use by “intellectuals” when interviewed on TV or radio. They started every response with SO. Since then, I’ve watched it (heard it actually, since it’s a speaking phenomenon for the most part), become a standard start to a comment. Worse yet, I now find myself not only saying it, but using it to start sentences when I write.

I don’t know how it transitioned from a “connection” word, as in “I ate more than I should have, SO now I have a stomach ache,” to an introductory word, “SO, I wonder if you can tell me a good place around here to get lunch?” The once dominant sentence starter, “The,” has been pushed aside. “The boy went to school early” is now, “So, the boy went to school early.”

But, enough about SO. When I bring up the subject, all I get in reply, aside from a groan, is “So what!” A valid response, something many people say to me about my complaints. I think I’m on firmer ground with the overuse of “LIKE.” Grownups have been complaining about it for years, saying that today’s young people sound illiterate because they use it so often in conversation. I was peppered with it a few weeks ago, walking down from the summit of Mount Lafayette in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I was totally exhausted from hiking up the mountain, so I descended at a snail’s pace, afraid I might trip and do some serious damage to my ¾ century old physical structure. I was followed by two, twenty-something young women and a slightly older young man. He asked questions and the “girls” replied with an excessive number of “LIKES.” It became painful. Each LIKE hit my ears LIKE a stab from an ice pick.

“What are you going to do when you get home,” the guy asked. The first responder – “I hope my mom will be LIKE gone, so I can LIKE get these grubby clothes in the washer LIKE before she can LIKE yell at me for getting them LIKE so dirty. The conversation dribbling down on me from behind went on for the entire 3-hour descent. I stopped to let them pass on numerous occasions, but each time, they declined, saying they liked my slow rate of descent. I guess I should have said, “Why don’t you guys LIKE go ahead; you don’t LIKE want an old man slowing you LIKE down.” Had I, then they might have understood what I was saying and skipped on by, taking their LIKES with them.

I wanted to confront them about their use of LIKE and give them some old coot advice: “You need to be aware that you say “LIKE” way too often and break the habit! I bet you don’t know you do it.” They recently graduated from college and were trying to get jobs, something I overheard them discuss as we came down the mountain. “Your habit will limit your job opportunities and chances for promotion.” Maybe I did say it! Probably so. I never know. It’s one of the challenges of being an old coot; the filter between our brain and mouth is defective and we sometimes are surprised when told what we’ve said. Anyhow, they did pass me at the bottom of the trail when it became flatter and widened out, giving me a dirty look as they went by.  SO, LIKE that’s it. Not really anything LIKE monumental to LIKE complain about, just an old coot’s LIKE rant for the week.

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August 22, 2018 Article

The Old Coot remembers self-walking dogs.

By Merlin Lessler

Culture and social norms are forever evolving. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. A change is well under way that I’m not sure is better or worse; it’s the relationship between dogs and humans. It was a Mother Goose and Grim comic strip, penned by Brad and Paul Anderson, that brought the change into sharp focus for me. It pictured two dogs walking with their owner on a double leash. They spotted a dog ahead of them, wandering alone and untethered. One of the leashed dogs said, “Look at that. It’s one of those new self-walking dogs!” It made me think about the dog I had as a kid. Those were different days. Dogs were free to roam. They’ve lost that freedom, so have children, but that’s an issue for another day. We no longer have self-walking dogs; we have self-driving cars.

When I was four-years old, I led a stray sheep dog into our kitchen and said, “Mom! Look what I found. Can I keep him (it turned out to be a her)? I was a lucky kid, not many mothers would let a preschooler keep a stray dog. Especially one that was obviously about to give birth. (To seven pups, as it turned out.)

The stray, dubbed Lassie, had her pups in our basement. “Topper,” was the first to make the assent up the stairs and into our kitchen, earning him his name and a place in our family. His siblings were dispersed throughout the area; he and his mother stayed on. I was one happy cowboy. I roamed the driveway and back yard in my cowboy suit, a pistol on each hip and a pair of happy dogs by my side. Lassie chased cars, and no matter how many contraptions my father rigged up to stop her, she never failed to break free when a sedan came past the house. She was a relentless pursuer, a tire bitter. She eventually was exiled to a farm owned by a friend of the family, put out to pasture. From then on, Topper and I formed a duo that rivaled that of Batman and Robin. We went everywhere together.

As I said, it was a different era. Dogs were dogs; people were people and cars didn’t drive themselves. The confusion we have today about the people - dog pecking order didn't exist. Dogs were tougher, more self-reliant. My friends and I rode our bikes to the movies in downtown Binghamton. We' d park them in a heap in front of the Press building on Chenango Street. After a quick glance in the window at the evening paper that was speeding across a giant set of rollers, we’d head into the Strand Theater. (The Binghamton Press was an evening paper in those days. The morning paper, the Sun Bulletin, was produced at the other end of the block) Topper would plop down next to the bikes and stand guard. When we came out three hours later, rubbing our eyes and squinting into the bright sunlight, he'd be there, his tail wagging like crazy.

Truly a different world. Kids played outside and the dogs in the neighborhood played along with them, providing a layer of security that gave our parents a level of comfort when we wandered out of sight and beyond earshot. A stranger wouldn’t dare come after kids with a dog or two around. We were free to spend our days in the woods and creeks that surrounded our neighborhood. Leashes were seldom used back then. Pooper-scoopers didn’t exist. If a dog left his calling card on the lawn, you simply found a flat stone and covered it up. Nature went to work and took care of things. When the stone was removed a week later, there was nothing there. The microbes had done their job. In another week the grass grew back. People who let the stones accumulate ended up with a nice rock garden. Which, I hear, is how the concept got started, just another positive contribution to the human condition from our canine friends. Where would we be without our dogs? Self-walking or not!

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August 15, 2018 Article

The Old Coot is self-taught.

By Merlin Lessler

I walked by the Ronald E. Dougherty County Office building the other day. It was a Wednesday – Road Test Day. For people seeking a driver’s license. Cars were lined up, teenagers, for the most part, sitting nervously behind the wheel. Mom or Dad in the passenger seat, trying to ease the stress. “You can do it. Just keep your cool.”  It wasn’t the driving part they were talking about; it was the parallel parking part. The number one reason testers fail. Even though you can drive for a lifetime and avoid ever using the skill. 

The teens undergo a mandatory training class these days, and many take Driver Ed at school or learn through a private vendor. Most though, are taught by a parent. It’s quite an accomplishment, when you consider the learning environment – a yelling, screaming, screeching and gasping trainer sitting next to you stomping down on a non-existent brake pedal. Not me, I’m self-taught. I got my training in the driveway, all alone. It started when I was thirteen and I begged my father to let me run the car back and forth in the driveway, allegedly, to learn to use the clutch. For some strange reason, he let me. BIG MISTAKE!

It was fine for a while. That’s what I did, back and forth, with fewer and fewer jerks and stalls. All within the limits of the driveway. Then, I started to finish up by circling into the street and turning the car around and parking it in the driveway facing out. I got my parents to agree that it made it easier, and safer for them when they wanted to go out, since we lived on a steep hill and cars came racing down and into your blind spot.  

 Inch by inch, I pushed the envelope. Instead of turning the car around in front of the house, I drove to the corner and used a side street to turn around. Next, I had a duplicate key made. So, I wouldn’t have to bother my father when he dozed in his recliner. That’s what I told myself; I didn’t mention anything to him, and I used his snoring as a signal to get out there and “practice” some more. When he was in that vegetative state, I’d take a run around the block. Then two blocks. Then three blocks. You see where this is going.

On and on the adventure progressed, until the day he had to come to get me (and the car) in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It’s a long story and too stupid to repeat, at least in print, but it all worked out and I’m still pretty good with a clutch.  

Postscript. -History repeats itself. Years after my oldest two daughters grew up and made their way into the world, I learned that they, with some of the neighborhood kids took turns joy riding in my prized MG when my wife and I were at a meeting or went out to dinner.  I was luckier than my father; I didn’t have to travel 200 miles to retrieve them like he did.

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August 8, 2018 Article

The Old Coot has a personal trainer.
By Merlin Lessler

“Experts!” Those people on TV who give advice (mostly unsolicited) say us old folks need to exercise, move around and stretch if we want to stay fit, stay ambulatory. “Join a gym,” they say, “Get an exercise partner, set up a workout schedule, whatever it takes.”

We don’t need any of that! Especially the advice. We have a failing memory that keeps us moving, keeps us fit. Better than any exercise program. It’s nature’s way of dealing with creaky knees, stubborn hip joints and all the other failing things that occur when, “Your whole darn body is falling apart,” to paraphrase a quote from Henry Fonda in the movie, “On Golden Pond.”

We, us old coots, sink down into a couch cushion to watch a little TV and then remember that the dog is out back and surely ready to come in. We push up from the sofa, wobble to our feet, take a step, regain our balance and totter toward the kitchen, working out the kinks along the way. Everything is working (sort of) by the time we get there. Except our short-term memory. “Why did I come here?” We look around, don’t find an answer, shrug our shoulders in puzzlement and go back to the living room and sit down.

A dog food ad comes on the TV and our mind seizes on one word in the message, “DOG!” He’s still outside. Off we go again. This time, focusing on the task at hand, not allowing our mind to wander to a dozen other topics. It takes all our will power, but we do it and let the dog in. Or memory tricked us. Made us stretch, move, improve our physicality.

This happens all day long. UP! DOWN! Into the kitchen. Out to the garage. IN! OUT! That faulty memory keeps us on the move. Even in the grocery store, we go back and forth among the aisles to get the things we forgot and to put back the things that seemed like a good idea at the time, but nothing we couldn’t live without. Those “experts” on TV, wearing spandex shorts, wife beater shirts and two-hundred-dollar training shoes have no clue. It’s not us old coots who need their attention; it’s the young people who need to be prodded, with their steel trap minds that let them stay focused for hours at a stretch, playing games, checking social media and watching TV reruns on their cell phones. Now where was I? I better go back to the kitchen and check my notes.   

Comments, complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

August 1, 2018 Article

The Old Coot stresses out.

By Merlin Lessler

If you ever have a heart “thing” and go to a doctor to get it checked out, you’ll probably end up getting a stress test. I had my hiccup a few years ago, and after putting it off for several days, which is part of the “man” code, I went to my regular doctor and he sent me to a cardiologist. FOR A STRESS TEST!

 They put you on a treadmill, glue some electrodes to your chest and back and add other attachments to measure blood pressure, pulse rate and a few more things, I think; I wasn’t paying close enough attention since I’d started stressing before the test began.   

They start the treadmill and off you go, for a walk in the park. But pretty soon, they speed it up, and your leisurely walk turns into a jog, then a foot race. It feels like a mugger is chasing you and you’re desperate to escape his clutches. Then, the treadmill starts to tilt; you’re running up hill now and the mugger is still coming. It tilts some more and you’re on your way up Mount Everest. You turn to the doctor and say, “I think I’m having a heart attack!” He says you aren’t and wants you to continue to the top of the mountain. You do, and finally, the treadmill shuts down.

In my case, the doctor turned to me (I could barely hear him over my gasping for air) and said, “You’ve had a positive result.” I smiled and yelled, “Yippee!” Stretched my arm high in the air in his direction to get a hand slap. “No, no,’ he said. “Positive means the test showed some positive artery blockage!”

“Darn,” I thought to myself, “It’s the first time I heard the word, positive after a medical test, and now he tells me it’s not a good thing.” But, the fix was simple, the Cath Lab crew slipped in a few stents and sent me on my way. I hated the stress test, especially the part where I thought I was having a heart attack. I’m going to ask for something different if I ever need one again. It should be done at an airport, in the endless line snaking through security, where you’re wondering what it will be that trips you up and if you’ll make it to your gate in time. And, not get on a plane that CRASHES. The last time I got pulled from the line it was a tiny Swiss Army knife attached to my key chain. It would take 1,000 slashes with its one-inch blade to do any bodily harm. Before that, it was a bottle perfume, one ounce too large. That airport thing would be a real stress test and you wouldn’t have to wear yourself out on a treadmill thinking you’re having a heart attack.  

Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

July 25, 2018 Article

The Old Coot wants to be a big tipper.

By Merlin Lessler

You sit down in a restaurant and a waiter comes over and says, “Hi! I’m Bobby, I’ll be your server today.” Big smile! Friendly! You walk into a hospital emergency room and get a different greeting. “How are you going to pay? The restaurant bill will be fifty to one-hundred dollars, less in the places I frequent, since my pallet is based on cheapness. The hospital bill will be twenty times as much as the restaurant bill, so you should get ten to twenty times the friendliness.

Bobby is working on a five to ten-dollar tip. I guess that makes all the difference. The hospital clerk doesn’t get one. Maybe they should. It’s not the clerks fault that the first thing they ask is how are you going to pay. That’s the fault of executive management, who probably never manned an emergency room desk, nor ever had to get in line at one. Nothing unusual about that. Most corporate decision makers never face the front lines that employees do, or ever experience their company’s customer service. If they did, our customer service experiences would surely improve.

Back to the hospital service, these organizations are a special case. They are non-profit, or so they claim when they erect a new multimillion dollar medical facility and apply for a non-profit exemption from real estate taxes. You would think a few customers running out on their bill would help them sustain that non-profit status. Of course, they do make money. How else could they build those new facilities all across the country.

I’m not saying the restaurants have it right. It’s just nicer. I don’t really need Bobby to tell me his name. It does no good, because like everyone else I meet, I immediately forget their name. Besides, they don’t call me by name. I get Sir, or Honey, or sometimes Sweetie at the places I frequent. It’s what happens when you’re an old guy. I call it the “Treat you like a child” approach. I’m not complaining; it helps get you ready for what you’ll be called when it’s nursing home time. When that happens, I’m going to be a big tipper.

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July 18, 2018 Article

The Old Coot goes out for the paper.

By Merlin Lessler

I was at the “Sunday Morning Old Man Grocery Store Club” meeting the other day. We assemble every Sunday at 6 AM. A couple of guys get there earlier, when they have to pick up groceries, but most of us are there for a New York City newspaper. That’s when they are delivered. You can tell the service is underway by how the cars and pick-up trucks are parked in the lot. They all face out of their parking space, so they don’t have to be backed up. We’re back up challenged. And know it!

It’s a men’s only club. I don’t know why. No one excluded women, that’s just the way it is. We’re there for a New York City paper. I’m there for the Times. It takes me an entire week to get through it. Half the time, I have to read it in the garage, because I yell at it, especially when I’m working through the opinion section. But even when I don’t agree with the columnist, I learn something. It’s a vehicle for broadening my outlook and continuing my education.

The store gets three copies of the Times and also a small number of the Daily News. It’s first come, first served. Which is why we’re so prompt in getting there. I bet the customers who arrive later in the day have no idea that these “exotic” big city papers are available.

Every so often, more often than it should, the “paper guy” is late. That’s when you’ll see us circling the parking lot or sitting in our cars, slumped over the wheel, sound asleep. I’m too impatient to wait in the parking lot, so I drive around town to kill time. I use the time to check on what’s going on in the village: who has a ladder leaning against their house (indicating a paint or repair job is underway) or what house has a new “For-sale,” or “Sold,” sign in the front yard. That sort of things. I make sure to swing by the drug store every so often, to see if a paper bundle is sitting in a heap by the front door. It means the “paper-guy” is on his way to the grocery store, since it’s his next stop. When he gets out of his van, we gather around and follow him inside, trying to make small talk, "Glad you made it.” - “Run into traffic today?” No matter what we say, all we get in return is a grunt. I don’t think he likes his job. Or us!

We get the cashier to open the bundles, but first we have to find her; she’s in the aisles returning stuff that people decided not to buy. It keeps her busy, since so few people come to the store that early on a Sunday morning. We grab our paper and get in line, nodding or saying, “Mornin,” to each other. We’re like a family, in a way, but we don’t know each other’s names. Still, we’re a close-knit group who meet most every Sunday morning and go through our newspaper buying ritual. Anybody can attend; we’re non-denominatial. Just don’t come late! You won’t get a paper.

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July 11, 2018 Article

The Old Coot overheats!

By Merlin Lessler

We’ve just survived a heat wave. The temperature has to be over 90 degrees for three days in a row to be sanctioned as a heat wave by the US Weather Service. I’m not sure we did that, but I’m not that technical, so I’m calling it a heat wave. The gloom machine started working on it a week or so ahead of time. “It’s coming. Heat! Mugginess. The sky is falling,” as Henny Penny would say. “Six more days till doomsday! Five! Four! Three! Two! TOMORROW! “Don’t say we didn’t warn you!”

Somewhere in that warning period, before Armageddon arrived, they started giving us advice: drink plenty of water – stay in the shade or air-conditioned spaces – do your outside chores or exercise routine early in the day.  Apparently, the weather people, and the news people, think we’ve never experienced hot, muggy weather before. That’s surprising, since it is summer, and this sort of thing happens here every year. Anyone over seven years old (the supposed age of reason) knows what to expect and how to handle it.

It wasn’t bad enough that the temperature got over ninety degrees, THEY (the media and forecasters) had to make it sound worse. They threw in the temperature/humidity index. “Your thermometer will show 95 today, but it will feel like 107. They do the same thing in the winter. “Think 20 degrees is cold? Well, when you factor in the wind/chill effect, it will feel like 3 degrees below zero.” THEY, work hard to make us fear the weather. Before it gets here – while it is here – and after it has passed.

It used to be so simple – weather just happened. The weather man was around, but he (and, it was always a he back then) usually got it wrong and nobody paid much attention to the forecast. Not anymore! Heck, the media is overrun with meteorologists focused on scarring the bejesus out of us. I guess they figure we will stay tuned and they can sell more ads.  And, as though that’s not bad enough, we are saddled with The Weather Channel, working 24/7 and the U.S. Weather Service who take control of our TV sets to announce an impending doom, often with alerts about conditions out of our area. You have to cover your ears to muffle the annoying loud screech they use before and after each announcement.

OK, big deal, so we had a heat wave. I wish they would make a single forecast to cover the entire year.  Summer = Hot, Winter = cold, Spring and Fall= a little of both. And, I wish they would calm down the Henny Penny Routine. The sky isn’t falling – it’s just an acorn dropping to the ground. And, thus ends my old coot weather rant, for the 13th time in 13 years. I guess I need to get over it, or seek professional help.

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July 4, 2018 Article

The Old Coot won’t give it up. Well, maybe?

By Merlin Lessler

I’m at that age where people ask, “When are you going to give up driving?” Now mind you, they haven’t ridden with me or witnessed any driving oddities to provoke the question. Their inquiry is simply based on how I look. OLD. I usually answer with a joke, and say, “After I run over a couple of pedestrians or hit the gas instead of the brake and drive into the south wall of John’s Fine Foods.   

The real answer is, “NEVER!” Followed up with an affirmation, like that used by people defending their second amendment rights, when they say you’ll get their gun when you pry it out of their cold dead hand. In my case, it’s the steering wheel you’ll have to pry out of my hand. Driving is one of the few things I have left. So what if I miss a red light now and then. Look at all the people who race through red lights on a regular basis, and most of them are young. Well, younger than I am anyhow.  So what if I get in the passing lane on a highway and never leave until I come to my exit. I’m not hurting anyone.

I would agree to a compromise about my driving. I’d be willing to mount a flashing, multi-color warning light on the roof of my car, to signal to the world that a senior citizen (I prefer being called old man, not senior citizen) is at the wheel. So, beware! That way, you can take steps to avoid my rare missteps. Just don’t blow your horn; it will jar me out of my stupor and I’ll veer into the next lane. And, don’t follow to close, no matter if I’m going 25 in a 45 MPH zone. If you do, be prepared to stop quickly, because I’m going to slam on my brakes to get you off my tail. I don’t know why; it’s just what old coots do.

Don’t blink your lights when I’m coming toward you with my high beams on. I know they’re on.  I need them to see. It’s another one of those, “They don’t make them like they used to,” things. And they don’t. Today’s headlights are dim and get dimmer every day of a car’s life because of that cheap plastic shield that turns opaque in front of that stupid little bulb that costs so much and does so little. Where was I before I got sidetracked? Oh yeah, when am I going to give up driving? Probably right after my wife reads this and takes away the keys. It’s not that hard to pry things out of an old, “live” hand.

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June 27, 2018 Article

The Old Coot takes a trip down “no memory” lane.

By Merlin Lessler

It all started with a simple question. Big Mike was the instigator. He was trying to come up with the three music icons who started Farm Aid.  “There’s John Cougar Mellencamp, Willie Nelson and?” There was a long pause, and then he said, “Matt, who’s the third one?”

Matt scowled for a few moments and said, “Why did you have to ask me? I knew it, and when you asked it flew right out of my head. I can picture the guy in my mind (where else, in your arm?). It’s right there on the tip of my tongue!” It’s funny how lost memories make it all the way to the tip of our tongue and then disappear.

That is a typical conversation with the guys I have coffee with. Everything goes along fine, then a memory lapse surfaces, usually a failed attempt to come up with a person’s name or the name of a restaurant. It’s often something I know nothing about because I’m the old guy in the group, and out of touch. Except, when Ray shows up, then there’s two old guys. The rest of the group is decades younger than Ray and me, yet their memories have as many holes as ours, at least some of the time. When it happens, I stay quiet, because I spent all my memory cells making sure my shirt was on right-side out, my shoes matched, and I brought my wallet with me.

It's the highlight of my day when these “youngsters” exhibit memory issues (like mine).  When it’s an inconsequential fact that has slipped away it gets funny. “Was it September or October? Let me think,” a story teller will get stuck, and say. Then his eyes will roll up into his head, as though the tidbit he is searching for lies there waiting to be retrieved. Everybody will yell, “Forget what month it was, what did you do when the guy pulled out a gun?  DUH!”

I feel defeated when it’s my turn to get yelled at. Which is why it’s such a treat for me to watch Paul or Daren or Matt or Andy or one of the Ricks, or even the baby of the family, Eric, scramble to come up with a lost fact. I chuckle to myself and don’t let on what has me concerned. That I can’t for the life of me remember if I drove my car to the Owego Kitchen or walked. I do not want to go out the door and head down the street only to be yelled at by one of them, “Where are you going? Your car is back this way.” I try to make sure I’m last to leave. When I remember to, that is.

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June 20, 2018 Article

The Old Coot explains medical “procedures.”

By Merlin lessler

This article (now modified) was originally published in April 2004. I was startled at the time, because Doug Worthing came up to me and said, “I liked your article on procedures.” (He’d just undergone several) That was the first time I knew that someone actually read one of my old coot rants. Doug and I have had many “procedures” since then, but nothing has changed. So, here it is again. 

I underwent a medical “procedure” at the hospital. A procedure is 3rd on the list of invasive things they do to you in the hospital: #1 is major surgery, #2 is minor surgery. Major surgery is any operation on you; minor surgery is what they do to somebody else. A “procedure” is a close relative of major and minor surgery. It’s about as uncomfortable and painful, but insurance companies won’t pay to have you knocked out for it. You have to take it on the chin. The word "procedure" is used so you won't be afraid, so you'll show up.

When I was a kid my mother dragged me kicking and screaming to the doctor to have my eardrum punctured to ease the pain of an earache. I had it done so often that I knew what was coming the minute we pulled up to Doctor Bowen’s office on Oak Street in Binghamton. They didn’t call it an eardrum “procedure” in those days; they told it like it was, “We’re going to puncture your ear drum.” The AMA has gotten a lot smarter since then; the PR committee settled on using the word “procedure” for the painful, uncomfortable things they do to us; it was a stroke of pure genius. I just wonder why the medical profession is the only group to do so.

Big corporations should use it when they reduce their work force. Who would suspect anything bad when called to the boss's office for a "paycheck procedure”? The guy who installed a new roof on my house could have softened the blow, if after inspecting my roof, he said I needed a "shingle procedure" instead of a complete tear down and replacement. Even our local meteorologist would enhance his image if he'd just tell us to expect a "precipitation procedure" rather than 20 inches of snow. Your spouse’s lawyer might say you are about to undergo an uncoupling procedure, not a divorce. When you reach for your wallet and discover it’s empty after a day at the mall with the kids, you can say you underwent a wallet procedure, not that you’re broke. And, when you get robbed at gunpoint, you can take solace that you just underwent a sudden money transfer procedure, not armed robbery. 

The medical profession has always been out in front with the clever use of language. They’ve used Latin for centuries to describe the components of the human anatomy, so we will think they are smarter than we are, and so we won't know what they are about to do to us. They claim it's because Roman physicians were the first to dissect and then identify our body parts and thus gave them Latin Names. I don't buy it; I think the AMA stuck with Latin to keep us out of the loop, to keep what their members are doing a secret. They did the same thing with the metric system. Even though our country measures things in pounds, ounces, quarts, gallons, feet and inches our physicians discuss things in grams, cc's and centimeters. It's why it takes so long to get a medical degree, four years to learn the medical stuff and four years to learn Latin and the metric system. But, their best idea ever, came when they adopted the term, procedure. Have you had one lately.

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