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.

Complaints? Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

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!

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

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.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

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