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!

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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.  

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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.

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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.

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