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