Old Coot not afraid of the weather! December 25, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot weathers the storm.

By Merlin Lessler

Weather was the lead story on the evening news the other night, “A DANGEROUS snowstorm is moving across the Midwest!” Not just a snowstorm, mind you, a DANGEROUS snowstorm, causing a twenty-car pileup on the interstate, snow drifts, icy conditions. On and on went the reporter. A newspaper headline went one better, saying that a mixed bag of glop imperils the eastern states. IMPERILS? Wow, that’s bad! We used to just call these events, winter weather or a snowstorm. Now, the media hypes it up, hoping to make its listeners and readers afraid of the weather and tuning in, to keep up to date. I rant about this every year, lastly, on July 4, 2018. I promised myself to not let them get to me, and then I relapse. So here I go again. Just in time, before the end of 2019.

I yell at the TV, A storm isn’t dangerous; it’s people who drive like maniacs, who don’t allow for the conditions. They’re the danger, not the storm. It’s winter; what do you expect? It snows; it gets cold, things freeze, sidewalks are slippery, wires come down, power goes out. SO WHAT! Are we, the species at the top of the food chain, incapable of dealing with weather? (The news media thinks so.)  

They trot out the “wind chill factor,” to scare us even more. A reporter (or meteorologist) will say, “The temperatures will be in the low twenties, but the WIND-CHILL FACTOR will make it feel like it’s only 10 degrees out there.” Wind chill has zero effect on most of the broadcast audience. It only affects bare skin, making the temperature seem lower when the wind gusts push cold air across it. Most of us wear winter clothes when it’s cold outside. If we walked around in shorts, flip flops and T-shirts, then the wind chill factor would have an impact, but not if we’re bundled up.

And, it’s not enough for them to just frighten us about impending weather. They forecast what going to happen next week, with a five-day tale of dread.  It’s wrong 50% of the time, at least when I write it down and then see what happens five days later. Not a scientific analysis, but good enough for me.  

It’s a wonder we dare leave our houses, with all the hype about the dangerous conditions outside. I’m hoping that someday we might get back to calling it winter weather, summer weather, and the media won’t feel a need to lecture us, as though we are little kids, unable to cope with it on our own. And, they can stop telling us to wear a coat, take an umbrella, drink plenty of water, stay in the shade. Maybe then I’ll stop yelling at my TV. The news media and the meteorologists they put out front are the real danger, making mountains out of mole hills and crying wolf so often that when a real wolf comes to town, we ignore the warning. There! I’m good for another year!

Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

December 18, 2019 Article - Liars take more time than promised

The Old Coot doesn’t have a minute.

By Merlin Lessler

“I’ll just keep you a minute.” – “Got a sec?” – “Stop me if I already told you this.” The doctor will be right with you.”

All lies! But, if you asked the speakers of those statements if they ever lied, they’d all say, “NO!” Most people don’t think of themselves as liars. But they are! I am. We all are!

One of the biggest lies I’ve ever heard, excluding promises from politicians, is the one an airline pilot puts out there over the public address system, “We’re waiting for a space to dock; it will be about ten minutes, or so.” The “ten minutes” is a lie! So is the “or so”. I’ve learned over the years that an airline pilot’s ten minutes is at least 30, often longer, destroying the credibility of the “or so” as well. How about the one you’re told when the nurse puts you in the “little room” and turns as she closes the door and says, “The doctor will be right with you.” Or, the waiter who says, “Ill be right back with your check.” Or the call center recording that states, “Thanks for holding; we’ll be right with you. Your call is important to us.” The dentist drilling on your tooth who says, “Hang on; I’m almost done.” The medical procedure you’re undergoing, “This will sting a little.”

All lies, and from people swearing they never lie. They call it a white lie or bending the truth. Bend covers a lot of ground. So do fibs, stretching the truth and other phrases employed to convince ourselves, and others, that we’re not liars.

But, lying is not the thing that gets me cranky, it’s two specific lies; “I’ll just keep you a minute,” and, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.” In both of those cases (even when you respond to the “stop me,” by telling them they already did tell you)  you are in for it, a long, boring recollection that is so detailed you get lost in the telling. It’s even worse when a married couple relates an incident. Not only do you get more detail than you can absorb, they operate like a tag team in a wrestling match, taking turns keeping the dialog going, bombarding you with facts and having side arguments between themselves about what those facts are. I go into a trance and wish they would type up the narrative so they could hand it to me with all their disagreements resolved. Then, I could skim through it at my leisure. I’ve got one last point to make in this rant, “Stay with me; it will just take a minute!”  (To be continued?)

Who are you? (Old Coot December 11, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot doesn’t know your name.

By Merlin Lessler

I have a syndrome, OK, OK, I have several syndromes, but the one that intrigues me at the moment, is my delayed memory syndrome. It’s not just an old coot thing. I’ve had it for decades. And I’m not alone; it’s fairly common with people of all ages.

I’ll run into someone and they’ll say, “Hey Merlin, how’s it going?” That’s the problem; they remembered my name (and face); I just remembered their face, sort of. I expect the name will come to me, so I fake the conversation with lame weather talk, while focusing on coming up with their name or where I knew them from.   

I barely hear what they are saying; I’m racking my brain to come up with their moniker; I use the alphabet method of memory stimulation. A as in Alan, Albert? – B as in Bob, Bill. Usually, it doesn’t work, even when I go through the A to Z routine multiple times. I don’t know what their name is; I haven’t heard a thing they said and then comes the final blow, they ask, “What do you think?” (What do I think? About what?) I end up faking it, and say, “I’m not sure.” Sometimes my wife is with me and knows that I’m deep into a delayed memory episode, she’ll try to rescue me and introduce herself to the nameless one, in hopes they’ll say who they are. But it usually doesn’t work. The person will say, “It’s nice to meet you,” and never mention their name. I guess they expect me to do that.

The encounter finally comes to an end; the “stranger” thinks I’m an idiot who can’t carry on a conversation. I walk away in a daze, still focused on coming up with their name. It sometimes does, now that the pressure is off. But, more and more often, it takes a few days or never surfaces at all. I go into research mode and call friends from the old days and ask, “What’s that guy’s name that used to stop in the office every once in a while, black hair, tall, one ear bigger than the other.” They never know. At least that’s what they say. I think they just love to mess with me.  

The cure for these uncomfortable encounters is so simple. All I’d have to do is admit that the person’s name has slipped my memory and ask them who they are. Do I ever do that? Of course not! It seems I’d prefer to have people think I’m an idiot who can’t carry on a simple conversation.

December 4, 2019 Article - The big lie- you're gunna love it!

The Old Coot ain’t gunna love it!

By merlin Lessler

“You’re gunna love it!” (you better!) Because people don’t like it when you don’t like what they like. It comes up quite often with food. “Taste this; you’ll love it!” But, you don’t. In fact, it tastes awful to you. Now you’re in for it. If you say, “I really don’t like it,” you get a “What’s wrong with you” look. And then you are told, “You don’t know what’s good.” This happens to me all the time. I grew up on a bland diet; I don’t like foods with a heavy dose of garlic, anything in the olive taste realm or hot spicy food. I get hissed at all the time. “You’re a finnicky eater!” Because, PEOPLE DON’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU DON’T LIKE WHAT THEY LIKE!

It’s not just food. Movies too. “Oh, we loved the bla-bla-bla movie.” When I saw it, I thought it was stupid. A thin transparent plot, artificial, unrealistic characters and a predictable outcome. I know better than to vocalize my opinions. I just say it was OK. I don’t want to get that look of, “What’s the matter with you?”

Books, places, people, TV shows. The landscape is full of things that people expect you to love because they do. It’s dangerous out there. It’s made me into a liar, or at least caused me to use half-truths when I disagree with other people’s opinion. I have two choices: tell the truth and get put on the “stupid, doesn’t get it” list, or give a diplomatic response that shelters my true feelings. I do a little of both.

My first encounter with a really bad, you’re gunna love it, but hated it situation, took place in Keeseville, NY in 1970, a small village in northern New York, a mere 70 miles south of Montreal. I lived in that area for two years. One morning I went fishing with the Keeseville Mayor. After we finished, we went to his house for lunch. His wife went into the kitchen, promising a gourmet treat, a lunchtime specialty or hers. “Lunch is ready,” she chimed from the kitchen. “You’re gunna love it!” There on my plate were three egg salad sandwiches loaded with sliced olives. I hate egg salad; I hate olives, but I was “Young” Lessler back then. That’s what everyone called me. I wasn’t an old coot who would have handled the situation differently, probably with an egg allergy lie. So, I chocked down the three sandwiches and forever after lived in dread of those words, “You’re gunna love it!”

Comments? Send to mlesssler7@gmail.com

November 27, 2019 Article. Good old school days.

The Old Coot is Old School.

By Merlin Lessler

We had it easy when I went to “grade” school, now called “elementary” school. “Grade” school was a big change in the education system; one-room schools were expanded into multi-room facilities where kids could be separated by grade level. We worked hard on our lessons back then. All day long: multiplication tables, state capitals, cursive writing exercises penning rows and rows of evenly spaced spirals and loops to train our hands and brains to perform properly. We’d mastered printing in kindergarten, along with shoe tying, colors, how to print our name and address, but more importantly – how to get along with classmates, to share, to be patient and wait our turn and to manage our tempers.

Yes, we worked hard in school, but the key words in that sentence are, “in school.” The only homework we had was a weekly list of 10 spelling words. We did all the rest of our work in class. When the bell rang at three o’clock, we were free for the day. We walked to school, back home for lunch, back again and then home at the end of the day. I learned as much on those walks as I did in school. It’s where we got some street smarts, or to be more accurate, sidewalk smarts – we had to be careful not to step on a crack: it would break our mother’s backs.

Yes, for sure, we had it easy, not just because of the no-homework philosophy in grades one through six, but because the teachers had control of the classroom. Discipline was administered immediately. Throw a spitball? Go spend 30 minutes in the cloak room. Pull a girl’s pigtail? Go spend time in the hall facing the wall. Get caught chewing gum? Spend half an hour standing next to the teacher’s desk facing the class with a wad of gum stuck to the end of your nose. And yes, for really disruptive behavior, a paddling by the principal or an eraser to the ear, tossed by a teacher with an accuracy comparable to a that of a professional baseball pitcher. The focus wasn’t on self-esteem; the focus was on getting us to function in society and get an education. When we did that, our self-esteem increased.

Kids today have it hard! Teachers have to struggle to control the class with hands tied behind their backs, and to face phone calls and lawsuits from parents who think their little darlings never do anything wrong. Kids have it harder than we did, but not as hard as the teachers.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot knows what is. (November 20, 2019 published article)

The Old Coot knows what is.

By Merlin Lessler

We have a wooden plaque in our kitchen that says, “IT IS WHAT IT IS!” My wife uttered her favorite statement so often I bought her the plaque for Christmas last year. It sounds like something a cheapskate like me would give as a present, but it did pass the Wife-Gift-Giving -Rules. It didn’t have a handle (pots, pans and the like), it didn’t plug into an electrical outlet (Vacuum cleaner, crock pot, etc.) and it couldn’t be worn (ugly sweater, wrong size coat, etc.). It did violate one of her rules; it didn’t sparkle or come in a jewelry box, but what can she expect when she’s married to an old coot? I’m cheap but not stupid; I paired it with a massage gift certificate, some dinning out coupons and the like. I got away with it, but I heard her mumble under her breath, “It is what it is!”

Whatever! It is what it is, is a phrase that went viral a few years ago. It always fascinates me, the phenomena of a new adage spreading across the country, becoming the go-to saying, going to the front of the line of a long row of predecessors. It did just that, knocked out: That’s Life – Whatcha gunna do? – That’s the way it is! And many similar statements that we use, or did use, to help move beyond an unpleasant event, outcome or quirk of fate. Some of the adages we say to ourselves – others, we state to the “victim,” to console them, or, sometimes to rub it in, or, to just get them to shut up and stop bellyaching.

My mother, seventy some years ago, had her pet saying; she used it on my sister and I all the time, “You made your bed, now lie in it!” In other words, “You caused your own problem, now shut up and go do your homework or something!” Back in the dark ages, the 50’s and 60’s, the one you heard a lot among the “cool” crowd, was, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.” You also heard some unsympathetic alternatives like, “It could have been worse.” The rest of the thought, that was often implied but rarely spoken was, “Yea, it could have been worse; it could have been me.”

How about, “Life sucks and then you die,” as a comforting comment. Not much comfort there. So, what’s my point? Simply, that we humans employ a litany of things to say or think when life tosses us a curve ball. Moving on is what we do. “Making lemonade out of lemons,” I guess.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Coot at an art show. November 13, 2019 article

The Old Coot is an Art lover?

By Merlin Lessler

I went to an outdoor art show the other day. It was on Beach Street in Daytona Beach. The street was closed to vehicle traffic and well over a hundred artists and craftspeople showed off their wares in tented enclosures. Now, just for the record, Beach Street isn’t along the beach like you might think; you have to cross the Halifax River and walk several long blocks to get to the actual beach. I bet a marketing executive conjured up the name. Anyway, I strolled up and down the street admiring art along with hundreds of my own kind, “ELDERS.” Oh sure, many regular people joined the mix, but my crowd dominated the landscape.

We walk funny for one thing: a trick knee wobble, a new hip limp, a herky-jerky zigzag stride, a funny foot stumble gait. Most of the crowd was made up of couples, husbands and wives. The men strolled past the booths at warp speed, the women at a turtle pace. “She” was shopping and in a buying mode; “He” was getting it over with, in a cheapskate mode; I heard a lot of, “We don’t need that!” statements. Some, coming out of my own mouth.

The outfits people wore were as entertaining as the displays, a virtual walk back in time to the fashions of the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. I was in my high-school preppy costume, topped with a straw hat. A sight to behold I’m sure. Many of the “outfits” were accessorized with knee braces, arm slings, wrist wraps, walking sticks, canes and the like. I noticed a lot of guys standing off to the side, staring into space. You could read their faces. “Where is my wife?” It’s the look of a five-year old kid who has lost his mother in a department store. I know the feeling. I became “lost” twice myself, and had no cell phone to tell my wife where I was. It was sitting on the counter at home, where I carefully placed it so I wouldn’t forget to bring it. Duh!

Several people were pushing baby strollers, some with babies on board, most with dogs. I’m not sure I could do that, push a dog around in a stroller. It would hurt my image. I’d be more comfortable doing it the old-fashioned way, with the dog on a leash, but who knows, I’m doing a lot of things I swore I’d never do. I did buy something, two pictures. One with a 1940’s woody station wagon parked in front of a Gulf Gas Station and another with a VW pulling out of a Texaco one. I always end up trying to buy my past, when I go to an art show. But, it was fun! I can’t wait until next year. But, I’m going to make sure I bring my cell phone. I don’t want to get lost again.

Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Time for a bib? November 6, 2019 article

The Old Coot now wears a bib.

By Merlin Lessler

I give up! From now on I’m going to wear a bib. It’s yet another step in my reverse evolvement, from functioning adult to infant. I first noticed the return trip when I finally noticed that I used the handrail when traversing a set of stairs. Then, came the purchase of a girl’s bike, making it easier to get on and off. A refrigerator door decorated with dozens of sticky-notes confirmed my decline. But that spaghetti dinner, with half of the sauce ending up on my off-white, sweater moved me to this new low. A BIB!

For years I’ve sported a spot or two on my clothes: coffee drips, chip dip drops, mustard, ketchup. That sort of thing. I could usually remedy the situation by grabbing an old toothbrush and going to town on the stain. But, my spaghetti sauce stained sweater did me in. A toothbrush and detergent routine wouldn’t resolve the issue. I had to send it to a professional dry cleaner.

It’s my favorite sweater too. I bought it at the Champion Outlet Store on upper Front Street in Binghamton, in 1984. The store is long gone, but the sweater has held up all these years. I only wear it every few months, but I take comfort knowing it is there in the bottom of the sweater drawer, waiting for an outing. Most of us have some, feel-good clothing items. That sweater is my favorite, though I have a few back up choices too. They are all younger than that off-white Champion, crew neck. Not a lot younger, but not quite that old.

So, to avoid whispered comments like, “Look at that old guy with all those stains on his clothes,” I’m using a bib. I tried out a napkin, tucked into my shirt collar, but it didn’t give enough coverage. I dribbled past it. When I tried the adult placement, and laid it on my lap, I dribbled high. A full bib is the only answer. But, adult bibs are hard to find. I think I need something like the bibs they hand out at lobster pounds, with a picture of a lobster decorating the center. It not only will make me look more respectable than an old coot wearing a multi-stained shirt, but will also improve my image, showing me to be a high roller, shelling out for expensive lobster dinners. I just hope they don’t notice that I’m eating a tuna fish sandwich.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Paying with plastic! October 30, 2019 Article

The Old Coot charges on.

By Merlin Lessler

Paying with plastic used to be convenient! You didn’t have to carry cash; you didn’t have to fumble through your wallet for bills or your pockets for change; you simply handed your card to the clerk and they did the work. That’s how it started anyway. Now, “For your convenience,” you have to swipe the card yourself. It sounded good, at first; I bought into it. I should have known better. Whenever a corporation claims they are changing things for YOUR CONVENIENCE; it’s usually not the case. It’s for THEIR convenience. Card readers were installed across the land and the process was turned over to us, the customer. No longer could you hand your Visa card to a clerk and let them do the work.

It wasn’t too bad, initially; you simply swiped your card and signed the receipt. But, then came the CHIP, “For our security.” Some of the units had an insert slot for chip cards, others didn’t. It caused a lot of confusion. Now, most all the card readers have the slot. I know, because most of the time I stick it in the wrong way. The clerk gives me a dirty look, rips the card out and sticks it in the proper way. Mumbling, “Stupid old foggy,” under her breathe.

More steps have been added to the process. A questionnaire, so to speak. “Is the amount OK,” is the one I love the best. You are expected to tap “Yes” or “No.” Unless you’re an old coot, then you use the prompt to try for a better deal. The prompt shows $18.56, so I ask if they’ll take $15. That really gets the clerk mumbling to herself. She then gives me one of those “Sir” responses, as in, “Sir! You need to tap yes, to complete the transaction.” I don’t let it go that easy; I smile and say, “Then why was I asked if the amount was OK?” She tells me it’s a courtesy, so customers will know what will be charged to their account. I always give the dumb same response, “Oh, I didn’t know.”

It’s even worse at a pharmacy. You have to respond to a slew of questions when paying for a prescription. The clerk used to handle this, now you do the work, using the “smart” card reader. It’s yet another step in the process that’s getting us trained to do business with a robot. Some charities have jumped on the bandwagon and inserted their fund raising efforts into the checkout process. The clerk is required to ask, “Would you like to add a dollar to your purchase and donate that amount to the “Save the Sand Fleas Foundation”? If you don’t, you get a dirty look, and if you listen carefully you might hear the clerk say, “Cheapskate,” under her breath. If you do add a dollar, you don’t get credit for your generosity. Neither does the clerk. A fat cat corporate CEO takes credit for his company’s fund raising effort, not mentioning that a card reader did all the work. It’s gotten so bad, this constant tapping at a check out counter, that I’ve had to make an appointment with a rheumatologist for the arthritis that’s invading my index finger. I’ll probably have to cough up a co-pay via yet another card reader. FOR MY CONVENIENCE!

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coots grabs the wheel - October 23' 2019

The Old Coot is glued to his car seat.

By Merlin Lessler

Ask an old guy what he thinks of self-driving cars. Almost always, you’ll get a negative reply. Full of emotion. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. It won’t work. Who wants a computer chip controlling their car? No one will buy them!” On and on he’ll rant.

Then ask his wife. A wife who has been sitting in the passenger seat while he has controlled the steering wheel and brake pedal, for years. Just for kicks, you might take a look at the floorboard under her feet in the passenger compartment. You are likely to see a big bulge in the metal where she has slammed down her foot every time she thought he wasn’t reacting fast enough to brake lights coming on ahead of them on the highway or because of his last minute reaction to traffic light. The bigger the bulge, the more she is ready for a self-driving car.  

She will tell you she can’t wait for them, no matter what issues they have, “It’s got to be better than sitting next to an old coot who insists his driving skills are of the highest caliber.” It’s not all his fault, this business of a passenger slamming on an invisible brake. Most of us have a similar reaction when we’re riding with someone who drives differently than we do: they follow closer to the car in front of them, they pull back into the driving lane after passing too soon. Those sorts of things. 

But an old guys wife is different. She’s suffered with the issue for years, has never gotten used to his driving eccentricities, which have become more erratic over time. The real issue with self-driving cars, to us old guys, is the loss of freedom they will impose on us. We’re also afraid that hackers will get into the brain of a self-driving car, hackers our wives could hire to keep us from pulling into the lodge parking lot, the cupcake shop or the diner where we stop for our third cup of coffee of the day. We’d be happy to have the car drive us where we want to go, ON OCCASION! But, our fear of losing control dominates our anti-self-driving car paranoia.

Our fathers felt the same way, when “automatic” transmissions swooped in during the 1950’s, followed by a parade of driving enhancements: power steering, power brakes, beeping seat belt alarms, ABS brake systems. It’s been a stream of mechanical devices inching toward the ultimate goal of taking the steering wheel out of our control. We all feel the same way about that, us old guys, you’ll have to pry it out of our cold dead hands!

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

October 9, 2019 Article. The old coot has a new number!

The Old Coot is now “42.”

By Merlin Lessler

Some old guy asked me how old I was the other day. “Forty-two,” I replied. He stared at me; a look of skepticism crossed his face. Finally, he said, “Who are you kidding? You’re not forty-two, eighty-two is more like it. What he didn’t know, is I now answer that question by stating my birth year and let the questioner do the math. Most of us old guys don’t know how old we are anyhow; we’re usually off by a year or two, in either direction. It’s hard for people to do the math when supplied a birth year, now that we’ve entered a new century. A math “genius” will say, “Let’s see - born in 42 – that’s 58 years to get to 2,000 – now I have to add 19 – does anyone have a pencil? No? Well, I guess that makes you 67? No, 77, or is it 87?”

It’s hard because you have to subtract from 2,000 and then add the current year in your head! I find the younger crowd has a harder time doing this than people from my generation. We had to add and subtract in our heads in front of the class. It’s a skill that’s never left us. Just like the multiplication tables that we memorized and were quizzed on constantly. Nine times seven? Sixty-three pops right out, no thought required, no smart phone either.  

I like this “birth year” answer to queries about my age. We use it when asked about our cars, why not with ourselves? Nobody asks how old your car is; they ask what year it is. If you want to know how old it is, you have to do the math, or more likely, just remark that the car looks pretty good for its age. I like it because now all my younger friends have a higher (age) number than me. My coffee buddies in Owego, for example:  Ray (renamed Roy by the group) has the lowest number after me; it’s 44. Then comes Paul, 58. Rick A. and Rick E. are 60 something. So are Tim and Daren. Andy, Mike and Eric have the biggest numbers; Eric leads the pack with an 83. He looks pretty good for 83.  

All my coffee pals in Florida have a higher age number than I do too, but the rest of my Florida friends have a lower number. Young Harold’s number is 33; Joan’s is only 38, Ray & John from Chicago are in the 30’s too; George is 41, but John, from Preston, Canada, has the best deal of all, age wise. He was born on February 29^th (a leap year). He’s only celebrated 22 birthdays. I was there for his 21^st when he had his first legal, adult beverage. The whole Florida crowd was on hand to welcome him aboard, an 84-year-old at his 21^st birthday party. He turns 23 this coming February

Ever since I switched to a birth year response to age questions I’ve had a little more bounce in my step. It’s nice to have a lower age number than all my kids, most of my friends, and no longer to be the “oldest” guy in the room. I should change my pen name to “Young” Coot. It makes perfect sense to me.

Comments, complaints. Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Ladder People - October 2, 2019 Article

The First Old Coot article – Invasion of the ladder people.

By Merlin Lessler

I took a sabbatical last month – no old coot articles for 4 weeks, ending a string of 827 articles in a row. Now, I’m starting over, resubmitting that first article that was published November 27, 2002. I hope it’s the restart of something good.

If you walk down the pleasant streets of Owego, you’ll notice a proliferation of ladders leaning against historic clapboard homes. At first blush, you might think the homeowners of our quaint village are an ambitious lot, tackling one restoration project or another on their 150-year-old houses. You’d be wrong!

I stroll through town every morning, on a meandering route to Dunkin Donuts or the Awakenings Coffee House and back home again, sipping coffee and listening to Imus on my Walkman. I do an inventory of the projects underway in the village, mostly looking for techniques to keep my 197-year-old house in good repair with minimal effort. I’ve learned that the ladders are props, a last-ditch effort by the male occupants of the dwelling against which they lean to avoid a job that’s been held off for two years or more. And, husbands are not the only ones guilty of this rouse. Many home repair contractors employ the same tactic.

Husbands resort to this “ladder-lean” strategy at the end of a protracted domestic conversation that goes something like this.

(September, year 1) - “Honey, the east side of the house is starting to peel. Do you think you should paint it before it gets worse?” (reply) “Yea, I guess. But I don’t want to do it till spring. Why have the new paint face six months of bad weather?”

(April, year 1) – “Honey, are you going to start painting the house?” (reply) “Yea, but it’s too damp and cold. I’ll get to it when it warms up a little.”

(May, year one) – “The weather looks good now honey; are you going to start painting?” (reply)  “Yea, but not till after Memorial Day.”

(June, year one) – “Honey, Memorial Day has passed. Why don’t you get cooking?” (reply) “I want to wait till the kids get out of school. The school busses spew out a ton of diesel soot starting and stopping in the neighborhood; it will ruin the finish.”

July – too hot.

August – too muggy.

September – after Labor Day.

October – too cold at night; the paint won’t dry properly.

(May- year two) – “Honey, the house is a disgrace! The paint is coming off in bushel basketsful. I’m embarrassed to go out and get the mail!” (reply) “I’m on it babe. I just need a few weeks to figure out what supplies I’ll need to get it done. You don’t want me to do a slip-shod job do you?”

(June – year two) – “Honey, the kids can’t play in the yard anymore and there are so many paint chips on the lawn that the dog refuses to leave the house. Are you going to paint the house, or do I have to call a professional?” (reply) “I’m starting it this weekend. Jeesh, give me a break, would you!”

On Saturday a ladder gets placed against the east side of the building. The project has officially begun, but other than setting up the ladder, no actual work has taken place. A new line of dialog begins; the ladder buys another year of inaction, two if the husband is a clever old coot.

A similar exchange takes place between homeowners and home-improvement contractors, but the game is initiated with a sign, not a ladder. The second the contractor gets the job he puts his sign in front of the house, announcing, “Another quality remodeling job by Cracker-Jack & Sons Inc.” The sign is the only activity for two months, in spite of twenty heated phone calls from the homeowner. Then, the ladder ploy is used; followed a month later by scaffolding and miscellaneous equipment. At the peak of the conflict, the contractor arranges for lumber to be delivered, usually in a manner that blocks the driveway. This trick is designed to prevent the homeowner from hiring a new contractor. It takes two letters from an attorney before a single board is cut. The job then goes forward in spurts: three days of intense activity, two weeks of no activity, sixteen angry phone calls, and a repeat of the pattern until completion.

There are many variations of this construction-delaying tactic: blue tarps on roofs, an “X” taped on a broken window, three rows of new siding installed; it’s running rampant in many towns across America. Psychologists call it “male performance deficiency syndrome.” I call it, “The Invasion of the Ladder People.” Take a walk through your town. You’ll see what I mean. 

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

We need a new Dept. of Transportation (August 28, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot travels outside the lines.

By Merlin Lessler

This is a repeat rant. Sorry! But I’ve spent yet another summer, dealing with cinders, broken glass, face slapping overgrown branches and DOT “Work Zone” signs encumbering the space alongside the road while riding my bike. It’s a war zone out there. 

DOT does a good job, for the most part. State roads are well taken care of. Take a short ride over the border and I’m sure you will agree. So no, I don’t have an issue with the auto, truck and motorcycle component of their function. My issue starts just off the edge of the travel lane, the shoulder of the road, where pedestrians, bicycle riders, skateboarders and the like, wend their way. Oh sure, there’s a bike lane here and there, a narrow space between a painted white line right next to the lane where 4,000-pound SUV’s fly by as though racing in the Daytona 500. I’d like to see a new state department established, the DOPT, Department of Pedestrian Transportation (meant to include pedestrians, bicycles, skateboarders and other forms of non-motor vehicle transportation). The DOPT would have exclusive authority over the travel zone alongside the road. 

The first mission of the DOPT would be to clean up this travel space, to sweep off the sand and salt after a cruel winter, the debris that has fallen off commercial transporter’s vehicles and the limbs and weeds that encroach into the pathway. Not everyone commutes in a motor vehicle; a lot of people can’t afford or choose not to. They travel on foot or under some form of human power - to get to work and other places. Another bunch of us do it for pleasure and health benefits. An unobstructed pathway would be greatly appreciated.

Once the DOPT improves the side of the road, they can address longer-term safety issues, creating truly safe places to walk and bike, protected from the distracted drivers who are running us down at greater numbers every year. The money wasted on those cross walk signals the DOT is installing across the state in places where hardly anyone crosses would be better off in the hands of a DOPT. It’s true, we’re a small portion of the population, but our numbers are growing as the benefits to good health (physical and mental) and a smaller carbon footprint are adopted by more and more people. I grew up in a world where it was safe to get around under human power, on sidewalks or safe spaces next to the road. We traveled on foot, on bicycles, pogo sticks, stilts and roller skates without incident. It would be nice to progress back to what once was. And, a DOPT would help get us there.

Dizzy isn't as much fun as it used to be. (August 21, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot is unbalanced.

By Merlin Lessler

Most old coots are balance challenged. Not all the time. Some days we hardly totter at all. But, when it hits, we go reeling. For me, it’s to the left – an awkward step or two before I right the ship. I found a secret solution the other day, while walking into town. Walk faster! My slow pondering pace has me wandering side to side and tottering every once in a while. Then I sped up the pace, and presto, my line straightened out and the tottering subsided.

Then, I stubbed my toe, and went reeling again. “Pick up your feet, stupid.” I scolded myself, remembering my mother often saying that to me when I was a kid, minus the “stupid.” Back then, the issue was being too excited to get somewhere, shooting here and there, my body ahead of my feet. Now it’s the opposite – my body comes lumbering along after my feet choose a route.

My friend Don is balanced challenged too, even more than me. We are quite a pair, reeling around on a golf course (at least when we’re having a bad balance day). My favorite image out there is when he gets off a huge drive. He’s the longest ball striker in the group. Zing it goes and then he staggers back several steps to the edge of the tee nearly toppling over. “Where did it go?” he asks, never getting to see those great shots.

Sometimes, on a super “unbalanced” day, he sports a cane. I’m less obvious, I just hang on to my club after a shot and lean on it if I need to. George (the young guy in the group) usually chides me, “Why don’t you put your club back after you take a shot? Tom (the oldest of the group who doesn’t appear to have any balance or other issues) cleans his clubs and puts them away, making my “hang onto the club” habit stand out. I don’t care. I just say I like to maintain a close relationship with my irons. That’s about as lame as the excuse I give when I go reeling down the sidewalk in the village. In that case, I blame it on the uneven sidewalks, especially those old slate ones. 

Us old guys don’t mind these balance issues. We spent our childhood on spinning rides and turning circles on the lawn until we got dizzy and then staggered around, laughing our heads off. Dizzy was fun! We had to work to get it then. Now, it comes for free.

Comments and complaints can be sent to mlessler7@gmail.com

We blew our brains out with a drink from the hose (August 14, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot Knows How to Beat the Heat!

By Merlin Lessler

We’ve “endured” a long stretch of hot weather lately, mostly in the 80’s. Whenever there’s a hot spell, a flock of “experts” swarm to the media to offer advice on keeping cool. The cat and dog people step in with their advice too. Us old coots get a chuckle every time the weather advisors take the stage. Our society can’t deal with the environment anymore. We’ve been spoiled by air conditioning. It’s everywhere: in our cars, our homes and the places where we shop, dine and work. We’ve lost the ability to cope with summer. When we were kids (in the good old days) we got a drink from a hose, not from a bottle of chilled water from France. Our parents warned us when we did, “Be careful. Don’t blow your brains out!” Of course, it never worked. We’d put the hose in our mouth and trusted that our friends would turn it on gradually. Instead, they cranked it up to full blast. It’s why my generation is so dumb. We blew our brains out getting a drink from a hose.

It was a lot harder keeping cool in those days. People didn’t have air conditioning in their houses or pools in their back yards, except for those metal framed, canvas, kiddy ones that were one-foot deep. We didn’t care that our legs hung over the side; we’d lie down in the tepid water and pretend we were swimming at the lake. It wasn’t too exciting, but it cooled us off. It didn’t take much to entertain a bunch of kids who had blown their brains out with a hose. We’d also spend hours running around under the sprinkler or taking turns soaking each other with a hose, a pail of water or squirt guns, the kind that had to be refilled after about ten squirts. We would have killed for one of the half-gallon soakers that today’s kids have at their disposal.

You had to learn to sleep “hot” in those days. Sleeping “hot” was an art. You had to fluff up the sheet just right, so it didn’t cling to your skin and turn your pillow over every half hour to get to the cool side. You never fell into a deep sleep on a hot night back then. You just made the best of it.

We may not have had air conditioning when I was a kid, but we had something better, Kool-Aid. Nothing was quite as satisfying as a glass of frosty Kool-Aid on a dog day afternoon. Especially the way we made it, with a full cup of sugar, two if mom wasn’t watching. Some lucky folks had a second-floor back porch. It was a perfect place to slumber on a narrow cot or a hired man’s bed on a hot night. People bragged if they had a sleeping porch, not unlike they do today if they have central air. We didn’t need “experts” to tell us how to cope with the weather. Ours was a self-reliant society. We didn’t complain about it. It was what we waited for all winter. It’s why you see us old coots outdoors when the temperature heats up. We enjoy it, those of us who aren’t intimidated by the media alarmists. Of course, we don’t know any better; we blew our brains out drinking from a hose when we were kids!

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The old coot takes a new view. (August 7, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot isn’t himself.

By Merlin Lessler

I stopped in at my friend Nick’s house to mooch his copy of the Sunday NY Times Magazine the other day, so I could make another futile attempt to complete the crossword puzzle. He answered the door and said, “How’s Merlin?” Then laughed. “He’s good,” I responded, warming to the idea of speaking in the third person about this old guy, who’s aging body I’m forced to get around in. The deficiencies are easier to take when I talk about “Merlin” as though he’s just some guy I hang out with and not me.

“Yea Nick, he’s OK; he’s having a problem with his right leg at the moment. He and his doctors are in the process of unraveling the mystery but I think he’s milking the issue – asking people to get up and get him things across the room, avoiding household chores yet finding a way to play golf, take bike rides, walk up Davis hill, go to coffee every morning, swim at the high school pool and other activities that miraculously don’t appear encumbered by his issue.

You can be more critical of yourself, more objective when you step into a third-person narrative and say things like, “Who does he think he is to write his lame opinions on every subject imaginable, with a lot of focus on the aging process, like he’s the first person to confront the situation.” [We all know in an abstract way that one day we will get old, but still, it’s a surprise when it really happens. Mostly, it’s so gradual we don’t notice, then something comes along to slap us upside the head, shattering the denial process.]  

I’ve written about many of these head slaps -  the day my 11-year-old (at the time) granddaughter, Oriah, and her nine year-old brother, Atlas and I threw a football around in a game of catch and they had to move closer to me because I couldn’t throw the ball as far as they could – and then their older brother, Wylie, could no longer accept any footwear hand-me-downs from me because his foot was bigger than mine – and the horseback ride I went on in Zion National Park that left me lame and limping - and how I moved up to the senior tees on the golf course, then the ladies tees and now sometimes  I just tee up in the middle of the fairway -and then a few weeks ago when I announced transitioning to a girl’s bike.

So, back to the third person frame of mind, The Old Coot is adjusting and just wants to report back to you youngsters in your 40’s,50’s and 60’s, that old age is inevitable; you will face it soon enough, sooner than you think, but embrace it. And, try not to complain about it as much as I do. I mean, the Old Coot does. Use the third person and nobody will know that you’re talking about yourself. The guy who wrote this did.

Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot Checks again and again. (July 31, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot checks again and again.

By Merlin Lessler

Six months or so ago I wrote about the check lists that old coots use before leaving the house: are your shirt buttons in the right holes? -  is your sweater on the right way, or backwards? – remember not to yell Ouch and Oops in public – did you take your pills? - pat your pockets to be sure you have the keys, phone and wallet. Those sorts of things. I’ve since discovered a need for another checklist, one to cover myself when I’m out and about. It started when I took the train from Virginia to Florida. I was in such a hurry to get off, I didn’t make sure I had everything I boarded with. As a result, I lost my back-up cell phone. I filed a claim with AMTRAK and then tracked the phone’s movement on a computer.  It headed north and traveled all through the night, getting back to Virginia at 9am the following morning. So, I knew it was on the train and no one had found it. Then it headed back to Florida, but the battery died and that was the last I heard of it. AMTRAK never found it.

Then it happened again, but this time it was my primary phone that got lost, at one of those fancy, modern movie theatres where you plunk yourself down in a luxurious, reclining chair with a food and beverage tray attached at the side. The space between the rows of seats is so wide you don’t have to get up to let others pass by to their seats. Admission was $15, which is why it was my first experience in a modern movie theatre, being the cheapskate that I am.

The seat was comfortable and the light level so low I had trouble staying awake. I didn’t want to sleep through my $15 investment; I strived to remain conscious. It didn’t work, but my wife, Marcia, saved the day; she gave me the elbow every time I started snoring. When the movie ended, we got up and walked out of the theatre and down a long corridor to the building’s exit. I fumbled in my pocket for the car keys and discovered I didn’t have my cell phone. Did I bring it with me? Of course I did, it was on my “leaving the house” checklist. I hustled back to theatre #8 to retrieve it from the seat. The cleaning crew had already gone through that section and claimed they hadn’t seen a cell phone. I checked anyhow, and there it was, out of sight, wedged deep down between the seat and the arm rest. A light went off in my head, “I need an “out & about” checklist!”

When I get up to leave a restaurant, movie theatre, park bench, emergency room lobby, police station and the like, I go through the list:  keys, wallet, phone, etc. Now, if I could just figure out where I put the list; I thought it was right here in my pocket.

Comments?  Sen to mlessler7@gmail.com 

The Old Coot dances to a different beat. (July 24, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot dances to a different beat.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s the wedding season and they’ll be doing the Hokey-Pokey at many of the receptions. I don’t know why; nobody does, but that’s what happens. Old coots don’t do the Hokey Pokey. We do the Zig-Zag, sometimes called the Herky-Jerky. When we walk across a room, for example, to put a book on a shelf and spot a hat by the sofa that belongs in the car, we halt, start toward it, and then come to a sudden stop, realizing that the book won’t make it to the shelf if we get distracted. Later in the day, we’ll wonder where it is. We know this, because we get sidetracked all the time. In this case, we stop, do a zig, turn around, do a zag, ignore the hat and keep on to the bookshelf, spending a minute or so getting it into the right spot. That zig-zag saves us. Mission accomplished!

On the way back from the bookshelf, we don’t notice the hat; we forgot all about it. Besides, we’re deep in thought, patting our self on the back for putting the book on the shelf. Then, we start to wonder – “What was it that caused me to do the Zig-Zag?” Nothing comes to mind. We shrug it off. Later in the day, in the car, we can’t find the hat that was supposed to be there. “Now where did that get to,” we say to the steering wheel. We do a lot of that, talking to inanimate objects: the steering wheel, the refrigerator, the TV, the cupboard, even the dog and the cat get a good dose of our queries.

Anyone who happened to see this event wouldn’t think anything of it, wouldn’t even notice the Zig-Zag route we took because that’s how we walk all the time. Follow one of us down an aisle in the supermarket or along a sidewalk and you realize we never go in a straight line. Our path is always an erratic zig and zag, interspaced with a stumble, followed by a lurch (which is the Herky-Jerky). No, old coots don’t do the Hokey Pokey; we’ve got our own favorite dance step and we don’t have to wait for a wedding to do it. The Hokey Pokey is way overrated anyway!

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot makes a change to a girl's bike. (July 17, 2017 Article)

The Old Coot steps up! (But lower)

By Merlin Lessler

I’ve done it! Made it through another life passage. There are more of these transitions than I ever imagined. When I made it through the passage to age 21, I thought that was the end of it. We start as a baby, evolve to toddler, school kid, teenager, high school graduate, etc. arriving at full legal age. That was it, so I thought. Then, I faced turning thirty, a tough one, especially since I was a part of the protest generation that claimed people over thirty were out of touch. Our credo was, “Never trust anyone over thirty!” All of a sudden, I was one of them.

Along came 40, old age I thought, but whitewashed by the slogan, “Life begins at 40,” helping people to ease through the passage. Then came fifty. A new slogan emerged, “Fifty is the new forty.” Then, a few more passages, each of which I assumed was the last (turning sixty, retiring, signing up for Social Security)..

All done? No! Those life alterations just keep coming. My latest one was a surprise. I had to switch to a “girls” bike. The dealer called it a “step-through bicycle,” but I know the truth. It’s a girl’s bike. I also know that most girls (women) don’t ride girl’s bikes anymore. They ride the same bikes men ride, with a straight bar across the top of the frame. The name of the bikes we call girl’s bikes, should be called old coot bikes.

I used to sit in the front window at Carol’s Coffee & Art Bar and watch Ray Thompson, well into his 90’s, pull up to the barber shop on a girl’s, vintage, three speed, English bike. I thought he rode it because it was something he picked up at a yard sale and didn’t care if it was a girl’s bike or not. But, now that I am a proud owner of a similar vehicle, I think he probably chose it on purpose.

I chose mine when I started to have trouble swinging my leg high enough to get it over the seat when I got on or off. It was beyond my flexibility limit. The seat is thirty-nine and three quarters inches from ground level; my reach is several inches lower and falling. I eventually caught my heel on the seat getting off a few weeks ago; it sent me into a tumble, ending in an embarrassing sprawl on the sidewalk with a sore hip and a bloodied knee. Then, a few days later, I did it again. I’m not sure if it was fear of public humiliation or fear of mortal danger that sent me to the bike store to buy a “step-through” bike. “A rose by any other name is still a rose.” Thus, a step-thru bike is still a girl’s bike. As a friend of mine used to say after any mishap or disappointment, “It’s better than a sharp stick in the eye!” He was right. A sharp stick made it into my eye in 2003. Riding around on a “girl’s” bike is better.  

Complaints?  Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot reads the news, watches the puppy stories (July 10, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot watches the puppy stories, but reads the news

By Merlin Lessler

The network evening news on TV is usually bad: accidents, extreme weather, crime and the like. That’s what makes it news. We all know that, yet we complain that the media focuses on bad news. But if they didn’t, they’d go out of business. No one would watch. Ever stop to gaze at a car coming to a red light and take note that it came to a full stop? Of course not! We stop and gawk only when the car has gone through the red light and crashed into a vehicle coming the other way, with police cars, lights flashing at the scene along with fire trucks and ambulances off to the side, while a wrecker tries to clear the mess out of the way.

We’re drawn to the scene like a moth to the flame. The media knows this, yet is sensitive to the criticism that all they give us is bad news. They’ve tried to respond to the criticism by slipping in an uplifting, feel good, positive item at the end of each broadcast. I’ve noticed a pattern in these “cute little puppy” stories. The worse the news is that day, the more syrup they poor on the puppy story. You don’t have to watch the entire news anymore; you can tune in for the last few minutes and get a sense of what kind of day it’s been.

If the cute little puppy story is really, really, heart wrenching but ends on a positive note, you know the news that day was really bad. If it’s a so-so, ho-hum item, like a woman found her lost ring sort of thing, you know it was not a tragic news day (most of which you can do nothing about). It’s a wise move to limit your face time with the evening news to just the cute little puppy segment, ridding your life of an overdose of negativity. Read the news in the paper instead, where you can limit your exposure by glancing at the headline and turning the page if you don’t want to experience the gore. Or, skim the item to get the gist, but not the gore. You’re in charge with a newspaper, not some TV executive focused on ratings who reduce the news to the worst tragedies of the day, and politics. Now that I think about it, they are one and the same. Stick with the puppy, your outlook on life will improve immensely.

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

The Old Coot is a time traveler. (July 3, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot steps into a time machine.

By Merlin Lessler

Time travel. We can do it! But, it’s a one-way street. We can only go back in time, not ahead. Us old coots do it all the time. It’s amazing how quick I can shoot back 70 years to my seventh birthday party, sitting around the dining room table with a half dozen neighborhood kids playing pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs as a prelude to the cake & ice cream followed by the opening of the presents. That was the year I received a Hop-a-long Cassidy, gun & holster set from my parents. It was something I’d coveted for two years, ever since I saw my first “Hoppy” movie and he became my hero. Now, I could be “Hoppy” in our unending, neighborhood game of “Cowboys & Indians.”

In my time travel mode, I can then fast forward four weeks, to Christmas, the second highpoint in my seventh year. A two-wheel bicycle was under the tree with my name on the tag. I could retire the giant, three-wheeler that served as my horse, and hop on a two-wheeler, extending my range by several blocks and doubling my speed. It was a used bike, but it made no difference to me; it was red, my favorite color. My sister got a bike too; hers was blue. We had to wait until spring to take them outside and learn to ride.  An eternity! Finally, the day came. I will never forget the feeling of horror when I looked back and saw my father half a block away, yelling, “You did it!! You did it!” I had thought he was guiding me along with his hand firmly attached to the back of my seat. I was OK until I realized he wasn’t there: I then immediately crashed to the ground.

I eventually learned to ride, but it was a slow process. The bike was too big for me. Everything we got in those days was too big. You “grew into” things - clothes, bikes and shoes with newspaper stuffed in the toes. I could balance and ride the bike in a fairly straight line, but I couldn’t get started without my sister’s help, and I couldn’t stop and get off without falling over. She would start me off, then ride fast to get ahead and catch me as I came to a stop. I eventually learned to do it on my own, using the curb along the road. Now, I’m back to using the curb again, every once in a while, anyhow. I just hope I don’t have to ask my sister to assist me as I slowly revert back to a seven-year-old’s skill level. I’d much rather get there by time travel.

Comments? Complaints?  Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot waits his turn! (June 26, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot waits his turn.

by Merlin Lessler

Don’t crowd ahead! Stay in line! Wait your turn! Don’t buck the line! Those are a few of the exhortations that taught children how to behave in polite society when I was growing up. It was an important component in transforming us from little brats to well-mannered adults. We learned the value of waiting our turn from rude people who pushed ahead of us. We didn’t like it! And we didn’t want to be thought of, like we thought of them.

Most people don’t buck the line, but times are changing, bucking the line is becoming an accepted norm. Many people now use Apps on their smart phones that push them to the front of the line. Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks, McDonalds, and a host of other food and beverage vendors invite customers to crowd ahead. You notice it; I notice it anyhow, when standing in line at one of those places, waiting patiently to get to the counter to place an order. People pop in the door, walk past the line, grab their order, smile at the line people and stroll out. It makes me wonder if they’re silently muttering, “Sucker,” as they leave.  

I could get those Apps, but I don’t want to miss the show, the “watch how people act as they wait in line” show. Sometimes, my fellow line people talk to me while we’re waiting, to grumble about the App users, but more often, to complain  about a customer at the front of the line holding us up because he doesn’t know what he wants, is too fussy about the specifics of his order or is searching through his pockets for a 10% off coupon.

I’ve made several acquaintances and a few friends, kibitzing in line with “regulars” and watching the show. I can’t let a “buck-the-line” App take that away from me.  Besides, it’s good for our well-being to slow down, to stop and smell the roses and practice patience. Something that pays dividends when you get in those agonizing lines, like at airport security. Or in life, waiting for “your ship” to come in.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot failed the recycle test! (June 19, 2019 article)

The old coot failed the test! Got an “F.”

By Merlin Lessler

I got my report card this morning. I walked out to retrieve the recycle bin and saw that it wasn’t empty. It had a small plastic bag in the bottom, signaling that I got an ‘F”! I failed. I was doing so well; I had all A’s the past several weeks, but this morning I didn’t pass the weekly quiz. That plastic bag was REJECTED! NOT ACCEPTABLE! It proved I hadn’t done my homework or I couldn’t follow instructions or I was just being an uncooperative old coot.   

But it was a mistake, not an intentional act that caused my failure. I know that plastic bags are no longer recyclable; they mess up the separation machinery at the sorting plant. It doesn’t matter if it was intentional or not. I still got an F!

I’m not as concerned about failing out of recycling school as I am about the inconvenience I put the recycle crew through. These guys are among the hardest working people I’ve ever seen. They hustle more than middies on a college lacrosse team. Virtually in a dead run, back and forth to the truck with intervals of hanging on in back (for dear life) as the truck moves on to the next set of stops.

My inability to retrain myself, to adapt to the change in the recycle rules, makes their jobs harder; it forces them to paw through my “test paper” to see if I passed this week’s exam. All I can say is, “I’m sorry! I’ll try to do better. And, if that doesn’t work, I’ll plead the “old coot” memory excuse, “I forgot!”

The Old Coot cuts the line. June 12, 2109 Article

The Old Coot solves a line problem.

By Merlin Lessler

I don’t think architects get out enough. They don’t visit the buildings they’ve designed, to see if they are meeting the needs of the people who inhabit them. Take the restrooms, as a for instance. If they visited any public facility, they might pick up a few tips on design fundamentals that apparently aren’t taught in architect school. They would see a long line of women waiting to get into the bathroom and a tiny, or no line at all, in front of the men’s room door. It wouldn’t be hard to adjust the design to eliminate this flaw. Make the ladies room twice as large as the men’s room. Equality is great, but not as a design fundamental. Not, when it comes to rest rooms. Unequal square footage should be the norm.

Architects also need to go inside the rest rooms. Years ago, some engineering marvel decided to replace paper towel dispensers with electric hand dryers. “How can it go wrong? It solves the trash removal issue!” It did that, I’ll grant you, but over the years the machines have been ramped up and now sound like a jet engine revving up on the runway. They’re louder and harder on the ears than a rock concert. I’m lucky, I’m usually wearing jeans and denim is the perfect material for drying your hands. I hustle out the door while wiping them on my pants. It’s a skill I picked up when I was six years old and got my first pair of Levi’s. I just wish I had a second pair of hands so I could cover my ears at the same time.

Architects might also notice, if they stopped by one of their creations, that the paved walkways into buildings are seldom used, as evidenced by well-worn dirt paths through the grass to building entrances. It might be smarter to plant grass and see where people walk. Then, pave the worn-down paths. (Not my original idea; I stole this from someone; I forget who.)

Maybe, when they are at one of their creations, they can try to open their car door without dinging the car next to them in the parking lot. The spaces get smaller and smaller, yet the cars get longer and wider. It’s especially hard on old coots like me. We have to fling the door wide open and then work to unfold and extricate an uncooperative body that wants to stay in the car. They must have picked up their design principles in the same college course that airline designers learned to squeeze more people (sheep is more like what they think of us) into airplanes. And, just like the car and parking space phenomena, the passengers boarding planes are getting bigger, but the seats, aisles and headroom are getting smaller. Somebody in the design business needs to do the math! PLEASE!    

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

Tho Old Coot wants closed captions - June 5, 2019 Article

The Old Coot complains yet again, #827.

By Merlin Lessler

This is the 827^th Old Coot article that’s erupted through pen & paper (and keyboard) over the past 15 or so years. Most of them have voiced some sort of beef about the world we live in, the world I live in anyhow. By the time I’ve finished scribbling & typing I’m laughing at the complaint, and more importantly, laughing at myself. More than six of these eruptions have aired my ongoing gripe with the “Weather” people. One article earned me a call from a US Weather Service meteorologist, to defend their warning system, that at the most inopportune times, interrupts my TV screen with irrelevant (and annoying delivered) alerts that don’t affect my area, or if they do, are what I would call, normal weather. I complain that they have made us afraid of thunderstorms, snowstorms, winds, rain, heat and cold waves, making the latter seem even more severe by replacing actual temperature measures with wind-chill and heat index numbers, adding to the fear factor.   

Even more of my complaints have focused on the big three - politicians, bureaucrats and corporations. A corporation, by legal definition is an “artificial person,” but it seems all three entities often fit that “artificial person” description, producing rules, laws and policies that defy common sense.

I’ve complained about people who clog up and slow down lines due to their inability to follow line protocols. I’ve thrown my gender under the bus endless times for our lack of ability to fold cloth items (T-shirts, sheets, blankets, etc.) for our inability to notice obvious things in the world around us, to make a bed without it looking like a dog chased a cat under the covers and an inability to come to terms with the good-bye process that our wives employ, taking ten minutes or more to say goodbye when leaving a gathering of friends. Often, with us standing at the side and chomping at the bit to just GO!

My complaint today is rather mundane, but it raises my blood pressure when I encounter it. I’m hoping it irks you too. But who knows? Maybe it’s just an old coot thing. I go to a sports bar or restaurant to consume unhealthy food and an adult beverage or two where there is a wall of TV’s.  No sound is coming from the speakers because they are on different channels and would only add to the din in a place that is already noisy. But most often, not a single TV is in a closed caption mode. You get a picture but little idea of what is going on. If you ask the waitress, waiter or bar tender to turn on the closed captions, all you get is a blank stare and are then told, “Only Joe knows how to do that, and he’s in the back. I’ll tell him when I get a chance.” This, form high tech young people who grew up in the electronic device era and yet, can’t or aren’t allowed to mess with the TV remote control.  And, it’s not just sports bars that are closed caption challenged, health care waiting rooms, airports, train stations and many other lobbies as well. The customer used to “always be right” but now we’re left out in the cold, the cold of silence.

Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

I'm afraid of my chair! - Old coot article of May 29, 2019

The Old Coot is afraid of his chair.

By Merlin Lessler

The U.S Consumer Products Safety Commission (CPSC) collects statistics on injuries and deaths caused by consumer products. A dry, humorless collection of data, at first blush. But when you really examine the numbers, they are quite thought provoking. Astounding, is more like it.

I’m looking at the data for senior citizens (65 and older) because that’s the team I’m on, like it or not. We are a stumbling bunch and some of our stumbles take us to the emergency room. We’re beyond the “Go walk it off” stage. Or, as my mother dealt with my injury complaints when I was a kid (as did most mothers back then), “Here’s a popsicle; go out and sit in the back yard and you’ll be fine.” If I didn’t have a bone sticking through my skin; I wasn’t really hurt. (I only had one trip to the ER as a kid, and that was because a pitchfork got stuck in my foot.)

CPSC numbers, from the most recent report I could find, show that seniors had over two million ER visits that year caused by consumer products. The rate for us old folks is 5 injuries per 100 compared to 3 per 100 for the 24 to 64-year-old group. OK, we’re more accident prone, and at a rate nearly twice that of younger people. No one knows this better than we do, but what surprises me, are some of the consumer products that send us to the ER. Blankets, for example. Blankets caused 4,700 ER visits. I can only guess how a blanket caused a trip to the hospital. Maybe, if you get tangled up and throw your shoulder out of joint as you struggle to get free? Or, if you get a leg cramp and smash your toe into the footboard trying to kick it out? Anyhow, it does happen, and nearly 5,000 times a year.

The products that cause most of the injuries are more understandable: 785,600 ER visits due to stairs, ramps, landings and floors, 128,200 due to bathroom structures and fixtures, and 44,300 from old coots like me, climbing on ladders or stools. There is no data to cover one of my ladder mishaps. I climbed onto the roof and accidentally kicked the ladder over, stranding myself until a good Samaritan (Damen Tinkham) came by and set the ladder back up.

We are a clumsy bunch, us old coots (and cootessas); we’re so clumsy that 6,200 of us had to go to an ER after using sound recording equipment! 11, 000 visits as the result of a golfing mishap. We keep the ERs in business. I think we should get a senior discount.  

I’ve got to stop my examination of this consumer data. If I get any further into it, I won’t dare to get out of my chair. Which, I notice, isn’t as safe a place as I might have thought since chairs, sofas and sofa-beds caused 46,800 (ER) injuries. Even if I get out of my chair without an accident, I still have to navigate across the room to type this handwritten mess of scribbles into my computer. A dangerous journey across a throw rug. Dangerous, because rugs and carpets cause 64,200 injuries a year, according to the CPSC. I’ll have to risk it, but it’s a jungle out there.

Comments? Complaints? Mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot has sixty kids (May 22, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot has sixty kids?

By Merlin Lessler

I'm an old coot; my children are grown out in the world, and every so often I find myself ruminating in my head, or looking through a stack of old pictures, wondering how that time with them could have passed so fast. It’s the kind of wool gathering that brings ones mortality into sharp focus. This isn’t something new for me, this ruminating; I did it at each passage in each of their lives: bringing them home from the hospital as a newborn – hearing their first utterance of Da Da – witnessing their first time sitting up, crawling, standing, walking, getting a tooth, off to school, teenage-hood, driver’s license, high school graduation, college and on and on and on. And, through all of it, I was aghast at the warp speed that time uncoiled. So, “BIG DEAL,” you say, “Everyone has encounters with, and surprise at, how fast time flies by, how fast life flies by. 

Well, here’s the big deal, if you have kids of your own, or you are an aunt or uncle, or just were able to watch neighborhood kids grow up, you get to see them in many variations: baby, toddler, kindergartner, teenager, young adult and off into the world for additional transformations. But they just get to see you (us) in an unvaried state – an adult. That’s what we’ve been all their lives. Even when the kids were little and I was in my twenty’s and thirty’s, I was the old man, their old man. Every father, mother, aunt, uncle, and neighbor is an oldster to them as well. If you're twenty, thirty, forty (which is young from an old coot perspective), that’s old to a kid.

We’re lucky; we get to observe all their different “person-hoods” as they grow up. Just look at a few old pictures and you will see what I mean. They really are different people as they move through the passages of life. It’s sort of a rebirth, every few years. Their underlying traits show through, but they’ve become new people with each passage. I was lucky enough to co-parent six children and to know each of them as 10 different people. That’s 60 people I have a history with. But they’re stuck with just one of me – “the old man.” Figuratively back then, literally now.

The next time I’m in the doctor’s office and am asked if I know what month it is (and my answer is two months off) or who the president is (and I say, Bill Clinton.) I might get a pass since I at least knew the name of a month and the name of a president, but if I was asked how many children I had, and I said, “Sixty,” it would be the loony bin for me. I don’t care; it’s the truth. And, I have the pictures to prove it.

Comments? Complaints? Register them at mlessler7@gmail.com