The Old Coot buys his bike back. December 23, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot buys and sells and buys.

By Merlin Lessler

 Last year it was golf clubs; this year it’s a bicycle. I bought a new set of clubs at Dicks and donated the old ones to the Open Door Mission so they could sell them in their outlet store. One round of golf convinced me I’d made a mistake. Dicks generously took the clubs back and I went to the Open Door store and bought back my old clubs. All, but one. Someone had purchased it; the club is 30 years old. They will find that out, the first time they pull it out of their bag and step to the tee and are greeted by a loud roar of laughter from the other golfers.   

 That was then; this is now, the year I bought back my bike. I sold it to my friend John, of Ormond Beach, Florida, because of an affliction I came down with that I thought was permanent and progressive (Charcot Tooth Marie Disease). It caused the muscles in my arms and legs to drastically lose strength. But, after several months of intense medical investigation it was determined that the condition was actually caused by the statin drug (cholesterol medicine) I’d been taking for several years. A few doses of steroids and several months of recovery started me back on track. In time, I should make it to full strength (old coot strength that is, nothing to brag about).

 I texted John to see if he would be interested in selling the bicycle back to me. His response was, “Sure!” I had a caveat; I needed to see if I could get on it. It’s a “boys” bike and old coots like me have a hard time swinging our leg up and over the bar. It’s why we generally buy step through bikes or girl’s bikes.

 He texted back, saying he wasn’t home at the moment, but we could set up a time to get together, he’d even pump up the tires. I replied, “I ’ll look at my busy schedule and get back to you. I looked; it took less than a second and texted him, “My schedule looks good for this afternoon and all day, every day for the next four months.”

 He replied, “NOW, THAT SHOULD GO IN ONE OF YOUR ARTICLES.” So here it is. An admission that I have nothing on my schedule for the next four months, unless you count an eleven AM, a four PM and an after supper nap every day. Hey, it’s tough being an old coot.    

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The Old Coot points out the terlit crisis. A Tioga County Courier Article of 12/16/20

 

The Old Coot Can’t Find a Terlit!

By Merlin Lessler

 This is a subject that nobody talks about. Yet, it’s a serious problem, has been for decades. We’ve got a “terlit” crisis on our hands, at least that’s how they say it in Brooklyn. In the rest of the country, it’s called a rest room crisis.  There aren’t any! At least when you need one. Public rest rooms are scarcer than proverbial hen’s teeth. Our government has turned its’ back on the issue. They’ve thrown us a few bones, there are rest rooms along interstate highways and sometimes we are allowed to use the facilities in municipal buildings, provided we get there on Monday through Friday between nine and five, it isn’t a public holiday, we are wearing a mask and we can make it through the security checkpoint with a nail clipper (or some other deadly weapon) in our pocket. But, for the most part, our elected officials have ignored the “terlit” crisis.   

 Actually, they haven’t just ignored it; they’ve exacerbated it. They’ve made nature’s call a crime. If there aren’t public “facilities” around and you get caught with your pants down behind a bush, you will be arrested. We’ve just finished an election cycle and not a single candidate mentioned the terlit crisis. Politicians have strapped us in our cars, taken cell phones out of our hands, defaced all the products we buy with warning labels and are forcing our favorite restaurants to prepare food in politically correct cooking oil, but they stick their heads in the sand when we ask them, “Can I use the terlit please?” Candidates are promising all kinds of new programs: free health care, $5,000 savings bonds for new babies, 401-K accounts but not one word about what we’re supposed to do when we’ve had three cups of coffee and are looking for a public rest room. “Go find a gas station,” they tell us. 

 We’re lucky; there is a public rest room in our village (it’s in the same building as the Tioga Visitor center, on Front Street). The town also provides rest rooms, those are at Hickories Park. I walk there quite often; it’s a busy place. A lot of walkers, runners, skaters, bikers, sled riders, x-country skiers, picknickers and kids go there. Even in the winter! I thought we had a Terlit crisis this fall. The rest rooms were locked, and all the port-o-johns were removed. The whole place became a rest room; find your favorite bush.

 But I was wrong. I called Town Supervisor, Don Castellucci, to complain, my favorite pastime. He thanked me for the heads up and said he’d check into it and fix it. HE DID. The bathroom on the hill in the main campground is heated and open, though the road to it is closed. But, so what; we’re there to get exercise. They also plan to install a port-a john on the other side of the creek, in the vicinity of the dog park. All they need to do, is add a message to the bathroom closed signs, that says the one on the hill is open. As for the rest of the country, maybe some entrepreneur will come along and figure out that there is money to be made, and a lot of it, by simply opening a chain of public Terlits, like the ones in many European countries. I hope so. I hate to keep asking, “Where’s the Terlit!”

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

Old Coot needs a break ! December 9,2020 Tioga County NY Courier Article

 

The Old Coot wants a day off!

By Merlin Lessler

 One day a week! One day without any COVID-19 news. Is that too much to ask? Nothing in the newspaper, not a word on the radio and especially nothing on TV! I know the news media has to focus on tragedy; that is news; it’s our fault, our human nature; we can’t help but rubberneck as we pass by an auto accident, a house fire, a mob of protesters. If media only covered good news they would go out of business. But, one day free of Corona Virus hysteria wouldn’t hurt readership, wouldn’t hurt TV and radio ratings.

 Do we really need a daily tally of deaths? New cases? Overcrowded hospitals? No! No! No! We need a day off. And, not just old coots like me. Everyone needs a break. The virus has hurt us, the media is finishing us off with their overkill.   

 They once kept us focused on ongoing tragic events by marking the number of days.  “Day 128 of the hostage situation in Iraq,” – “Day 6 of wild fires in California.” It’s day 277 of the pandemic in the USA as I write this, but marking the day isn’t on the media agenda; daily hysteria is.  They’ve been effective in making us afraid of many things, even the weather, even normal weather like cold spells in winter, hot spells in summer, wind, rain and thunderstorms. They’re now feasting on the Corona Virus.  

 We don’t need the hype; we need a mild-mannered spokesperson like Smokey the Bear used to be when he said, “Only you can prevent forest fires.” That was before they ramped up his message and changed forest fire to WILD FIRE! The Corona the Bear version could avoid the hype and simply say, ‘Only you can prevent the spread of the Corona Virus; please wear a mask.” That would work for me. Especially, if the media gave us a day off.

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The Old Coot solves the Zoom problem. Tioga County Courier, NY, December 2, 2020 Article

 

The Old Coot knows when to speak.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve been involved in a bunch of “Zoom” sessions this year. A pandemic phenomenon for many of us. It’s usually a mess. Everyone talks at once, stopping when they realize they don’t have the floor, then starting up again. And again. This start-stop, multi-talker process reminds me of when I was in kindergarten, before we learned to raise our hand when we wanted to say something. And, then waited for the teacher to give us the go-ahead. It took that whole first year for Mrs. Shopper (in my case) to keep us from blurting out something whenever we felt like it. Ah, Mrs. Shopper! Do we ever forget that first teacher, that 2^nd mother figure in our lives?

 Anyhow, that early childhood training would serve us well in a “Zoom” session. We need someone to be “Mrs. Shopper” and the rest of us to be the kids in kindergarten. To learn to raise our hands when we want to speak. It will take some getting used to; we are an impatient lot; we don’t like to wait. For anything! But, if we don’t, these virtual meetings will continue to be a disaster. 

 Us old coot are trainable. We had to wait for everything growing up. We learned patience. We grew up in an era when the adage, “Children should be seen but not heard,” was in play. Even at home, we had to wait before blurting out what was pushing our buttons. We even had to wait to make a phone call. Not, because someone in the family was using the phone, because someone in another household was using their phone, and shared a telephone circuit with us. Two, three or more, families sharing the same party line. A private line was expensive, which is why most families were on a party line.  

 When you picked up the phone to make a call on a multi-party line, it made a click sound that the person using the line could hear. If you “clicked” enough times, the person “hogging” the circuit might say, “Good bye,” and hang up. Not always. Sometimes, you had to claim you had an emergency and needed the line. Telephone wars were not uncommon. The best tactic was to leave your phone off the hook so your party-line family couldn’t make a call. If you picked up the phone very carefully it wouldn’t produce a click. Then, you could listen in on their conversation. A popular pastime in those days. That’s what a Zoom session is, a bunch of people sharing a party line.  So, raise your hand, or click in and your Zoom session will go much smoother.

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The Old Coot shoots par. (Tioga County Courier Column 11-25-2020)

 

The Old Coot takes note, of a note book.

By Merlin Lessler

 I watched the Master’s Golf Tournament last week. In November! Not May! No fans! No azaleas! Just golfers, PGA officials, TV videographers and members of the exclusive (for-profit) Augusta National Golf Club. It will forever be known as the Pandemic Masters. It’s always a treat to watch the pros demonstrate how the game is supposed to be played. You can’t help but notice the fat notebook in the golfers back pants pocket that they take out and study before each shot. The book contains a map of the course, showing key terrain features, the contours of the green, obstacles, location of sprinkler heads and other useful points of reference.

  It’s a guidebook of the highest level; it also includes notes made by the golfers on each round. They learn from their mistakes as they progress through the four rounds of a standard tournament. I can’t imagine what it would be like to look down at a logbook, look up to get the lay of the land, check the wind, know how far you can hit each club in the bag and then execute a shot. The book wouldn’t do me any good. I never know how far I’ll hit any club in my bag. Truth be told, I could get by with less clubs. I pretty much shank them all with equal frequency.

 My logbook, if I had one, would contain a single page. In big letters, it would say - “Keep your head down!” -  “Keep your eye on the ball (I tend to close my eyes at the last moment)!” And most important for me, #3 “Don’t try to kill it!” I never accomplish all three. My swing is in perfect agreement with the lyrics in Meatloaf’s hit song, “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.” That’s why my game is so interesting.  Each shot is a surprise.   

 The golfers that wait their turn on the tee, while my foursome tees off, often break out in laughter when I pull out my driver. It’s over 30 years old and the head is made of wood. The head is so small it looks more like a modern-day putter than a driver. I bought new clubs two years ago, but returned them after one round. Then, I slunk back to the Owego Open Door Mission Outlet Store and bought back my old ones. I’d donated them when I purchased the new ones. Fortunately, they were still there. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me; who would want them? Other than an antique dealer.

 Anyhow, I’ll stick with my old clubs and a one-page guide book. If I decide to add a second page, it won’t contain golf tips. – It will offer practical advice, suitable for an old coot like me. #1 - Your car is red and parked in the back row of the parking lot; don’t go looking all over for it #2 - Take your spikes off before getting in the car.  #3 - Tell everyone you shot par. (It’s not a lie; I always shoot par. Unfortunately, I reach that number at the 13^th or 14^th hole, not the end of an 18 hole round.) My friend Ray, who is a year younger than me, has been shooting his age every so often. It’s quite an accomplishment. I’m working on it, but I doubt I’ll make it. It’s not likely I’ll live to 150.   

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Old Coot needs the newspaper (and plastic bags) Tioga County NY Courier Article 11/18/2020

 

The Old Coot can’t live without the newspaper.

By Merlin Lessler

 The newspaper is under attack. It’s been going on for a long time. First, it was radio that took a crack, then TV joined in the siege. The newsprint industry survived. Even so, a ton of daily and weekly papers went out of business, small town and big cities alike. The demise really began over 60 years ago, after the Kennedy assassination. It made our thirst for INSTANT news insatiable. The baton was passed to TV. Now it’s the Internet, teamed up with smart phones. If you’re part of the hip, with-it crowd and someone asks you what’s going on or what the weather is going to be, you don’t reach for the paper; you get the answer from your phone.

 Prognosticators say the end is near. The newspaper is finished. The days of in depth, investigative reporting are over. I hope not. TV network news organizations thrive on the “30-second” report. Cable channels concentrate on 24/7 coverage of sensational news, boring us to death as they focus on the minutia. Magazines, loaded with ads, get a quick skim and retire to doctors waiting rooms. Newspapers get the story behind the story better than any form of media, but most of that is national in nature. We’re lucky; we have newspaper coverage in our local area, but much of the country doesn’t.

 How will it end? Nobody knows. But, even if you don’t read the paper for news, or use it to clip out sale coupons for “Oreos,” or don’t care about the critical role that newspapers play in a democracy, you still have a stake in the battle. Life without newspapers would be devastating. What would you wrap smelly fish in?

 And, how would you get your windows to sparkle, or start a fire? Old coots like me, thrived and prospered because of newspapers. Paper routes put a jingle in our pockets when we were kids. Newspapers were an essential element in our world: stuffed into the toes of our oversized, hand-me-down shoes and as temporary umbrellas when dashing through a downpour. Is there anything better than a snooze under a newspaper in a recliner chair or on a park bench on a sleepy summer afternoon? There is nothing that gives privacy like a newspaper draped over your head. How would we move without newspapers? What would we wrap the dishes in? How would we paper-train a puppy or line a birdcage? A paperless society would be a messy society. No more paper hats! No more paper sail boats, papier mâché figurines or blankets for the homeless on a cold night.

 I first wrote about this ten years ago, and things have only gotten worse. Now, we have another demise on our hands, Plastic Bags are in the death throes. We have a bag of bags on hand in the kitchen and garage; most people have a similar stash. The bags come in real handy when you have a mess to clean up, need to store things, tote stuff around and a slew of other uses. No newspapers! No plastic bags!  What’s the world coming to?

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What's in a name? Old Coot article of November 11, 2020 (Tioga County, NY Courier)

 

The Old Coot doesn’t know your name.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here I go again, sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. In the “Men are from Mars” -  “Women are from Venus” arena. The compulsion struck me when the politicians and media pundits were embroiled in debate over the nomination of Amy Coney-Barrett for the Supreme Court. It wasn’t the politics that caught my attention, it was the double last name that she was saddled with. The hyphenated Coney-Barrett. Her original last name and her former identity were lost in the shuffle. Lost to her husband’s last name and a hyphen, placing her name in a secondary position. The old Amy Coney became a missing person.

 Here's where I step in it; I just hope the water isn’t too deep. You be the judge. I throw down this gauntlet: you have a name - you keep the name. Unless you go into a witness protection program. I’ve felt this way for a long time, ever since my 10-year high school reunion, back when you could pick up a phone book and find people. Locating the boys from my class was relatively simple, but not the girls, the ones who were married; they disappeared, left the planet so to speak, phonebook wise anyhow.

 I wonder how us men would react if we had to give up our last name when we got married? I don’t particularly like mine, but I wouldn’t want to lose it. Even to a hyphen.

 I get it, the history of the custom; it goes back to a time when women were considered property. First, of their fathers and then, after they were “given” away in marriage, of their husbands. Many wedding ceremonies still ask the question, “Who giveth this woman”?

 Do we still think that way? I don’t think so! So, why is it so hard to give up the practice. Just asking. Merlin Lessler-Cady, (who I would be if the shoe was on the other foot).

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The Old Coot has many names - Tioga County Courier, Nov. 4, 2020

 

The Old Coot has an alias. Several!

By Merlin Lessler

 We acquire many names as we spin through life. The first one is “The Baby.”  How’s “The Baby” doing? Is “The Baby” walking yet? Has “The Baby” started teething? Then we move on to our birth certificate name or a nick name. In my case, I became “Butch.” Everyone in the neighborhood called me Butch, so often that I thought it was my real name. Then came kindergarten, I officially became Merlin, as in, “Merlin Lessler stop throwing sand at Butchy.” Butchy was really Peter, but somehow, he kept his street name. I was only throwing sand at him because he was a bully and had just yanked a toy truck out of my hands.

 I shrugged and accepted the Merlin label. Then came 1st grade; we were assigned seats, boys on one side of the room and girls on the other. The teacher prepared an alphabetical seating chart in preparation for the first day of school. I was assigned a seat on the girl’s side of the room. There I sat, in a sea of giggling, finger pointing first graders. The teacher finally noticed; she claimed she thought Merlin was an alternative spelling of the girl’s name, Marilyn. I got moved to the boy’s side, but she got even for having to redo the seating chart. She continued to call me Marilyn. This went on for weeks. Finally, I’d had enough. She asked “Marilyn” to come to the blackboard to write the spelling words. I stayed seated. She asked again. I didn’t move. Then again, this time with her face inches from mine. My reaction? “Marilyn? Who’s Marilyn? I’m Merlin! Everyone here knows that but you.” My insubordination earned me my first trip to the principal’s office. I had to sit in the cool-down room with Butchy, who welcomed me with a slug to the arm.

 That experience and the aftermath turned me sour on my unusual name. I spent the next several decades with different name tags: Nick, Knurling, Les, Shooter (as in pool player), Jim Steel (fake electrician) and several others, best of them being: Hubby, Daddy and Grandpa. I settled on Merl, and then finally embraced, and switched to, Merlin. It was like getting back together with a long-lost friend. It has some positives. I can go by one name, like Cher. I don’t need a last name; I’ve only met one other person named Merlin. It happened in a Starbucks in Florida. The clerk shouted out, “Merlin, your drink is ready.” I hadn’t ordered yet, so I knew it wasn’t for me. I went over and introduced myself. My first Merlin! When I see him now, he calls me, “Other,” as in, the “other” Merlin. It’s not hard to tell us apart. I’m the skinny guy; he’s the one in Teddy Bear pajama bottoms.

 Now, little by little, my Merlin moniker is slipping away. More and more people refer to me as the Old Coot, or just plain Coot. Finally, a name that’s a perfect fit. At least I don’t have to sit on the girl’s side of the room.

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is a blabbermouth. October 28, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot tells all!

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m a blabbermouth! Most old coots are. Tell us a secret and we go public! We love it when someone starts a sentence with, “Don’t let this out, but …..” – OR - “You can’t tell anybody this, but …” – OR - “We’re not announcing this yet, but …..” That’s a mistake, when you’re talking to a blabbermouth. Sometimes I write an article about someone’s embarrassing moment. I tell the story and end it with, “I can’t mention their name. It’s Daren Merrill. “ Or whoever made the mistake of telling me something they didn’t want published. I can’t help myself. It’s a sickness, Blabbermouthitis.

 Mike Coleman let it slip that he’d turned 50. I wasn’t sure how old he was until he presented me with a cane the other day. Not just a cane, an old coot cane, complete with a bicycle horn, a change purse, a pill box and two warning signs “A senior moment in progress” and “If found, please return to …” That’s when I learned he was over 50; he said he got the cane at his 50^th birthday party. He laughed as he handed it to me saying he knew I could put it to better use. He was right.  Did he want everyone to know he turned 50? I don’t know, but they do now.

 I plan to bequeath it back to him. He’ll need it someday. He has no idea how fast you go from fifty to eighty. Not that I’m eighty yet. I won’t say how old I am. I’m 77, a 77-year-old blabbermouth. When you’re a kid, it takes forever to go from ten to twenty, especially the period just before you’re old enough to get a driver’s license. It’s the longest period of your life. An eternity. But not so with fifty to eighty; those three decades fly by so fast your head spins.

 Mike will have to modify the cane; it works fine for me, but I’m six feet tall (or once was); he’s more like six foot seven.  I’m not sure if he wanted that publicized, but it’s too late now. Paul C., another coffee club attendee, confided something to me a week or so ago. I haven’t blabbed it yet, not because I’ve reformed; I just haven’t run into anyone to tell. It’s this darn pandemic. My lips are sealed, against my will.

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Old Coot was mentored - Tioga County Courier October 21, 2020 Article

 

The Old Coot learned from a master.

By Merlin Lessler

 Not every man becomes an old coot when he gets old. You need a mentor, a trainer, to make it into the old coot fraternity. It’s not easy. The by-laws are extensive and must be both memorized and put into daily use. It’s a long set of rules: complain about today’s society, talk about the good old days, share your medical knowledge with long winded descriptions of every procedure you’ve undergone and the list of all the ailments you are presently dealing with, insist on stopping during a conversation when you get stuck on the name of a person, place or thing until you come up with it. That’s a short sample of the old coot by-laws.

I was lucky; I started my training when I was in my late twenties under the guidance of a high-ranking member of the old coot society, Don Gipson of Patterson, NY. He was my boss at the time, well into his sixties. He passed along wisdom about aging, preserving your energy, the corporate world and the world at large. Those lessons served me well, on the job and in social interactions.

 Our corporate work day ran from 8am to 4:30 pm. Don strolled in at 9. He didn’t slink in like I did when I was late. No, he strode in with an attitude that proclaimed, “I’m early!” That was my first lesson: Attitude!  Think it and be it. In his case it was to preserve energy. He knew he had only so much, and that most days he’d be at meetings or community events well into the evening. “You’ll understand when you get older,” he told me.

 He taught me to be a skeptic of both, new ideas and existing ways of doing things.” If everyone was doing it, it was probably wrong.”  It took me a while to master this concept. I wasn’t as fast a learner as Jack Roskoz, a co-worker who also reported to Don. Jack became a “Contrarian” at an early age and it served him well as he shot up the corporate ladder.

 Don applied this “dare to be different” principle to everything, even a cocktail party. He and his wife Gert didn’t populate their dining room table with a selection of snacks and hors de vors like everyone else. They cooked a big turkey, cooled it down and set it on a platter in the center of the table. Everyone loved it, walking around the house socializing, while nibbling on cold turkey instead of a bunch of squiggly globs of whatever.

 Don solved the belt problem. I bet you didn’t know there was belt problem. I didn’t. I got dressed, slipped a belt through the loops and off I went. Not Don. He bought an assortment of belts at a thrift store and equipped all the pants in his closet with them. He wasn’t perfect; he had one flaw; he wore white socks with a black suit. It was similar to the belt thing. One color in the sock drawer eliminated a daily selection process. I was the emcee at his retirement party and presented him with a new pair of white socks. He didn’t get the joke. He’d been doing it so long he hadn’t given it a thought in years. His “attitude” skill was profound. He didn’t retire at 65, which was mandatory at the time. He convinced the company to change the rule, and stayed on the job for several more years. That’s covered under old coot rule #15 – If there is no good reason for a rule, throw it out. Now, I’m the mentor. I’m just having a hard time getting the “youngsters” I hang out with to listen to me. 

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Old Coots repeat. Tioga County Courier October 14, 2020 Article

 

Old Coots hears an echo.

By Merlin Lessler

 A friend of mine from the Starbucks coffee gang in Ormond Beach, Florida sent me a note the other day, just to say hello. (Due to the privacy regulations I can’t mention his name; it’s John Stewart.) He said there wasn’t much to report except that the group is now back inside Starbucks, but gone are the days of twelve people pulling up chairs and sitting around a coffee table for a group conversation. They now sit one or two at a table in a pattern that spreads across the room.

 The place is noisy. Hissing, clanging and banging exotic beverage appliances blast a symphony across the room that reverberates beneath a vaulted metal ceiling. It’s near impossible to carry on a group conversation in that atmosphere. He said they nod, as though they actually heard what someone said. Not that it matters much if they miss it. The same missive will come around again in a day or so, such is the conversation of old coots. 

 John is right in his observation; I circulate through three of these old coot coffee gatherings: one in Florida and two in New York. None of us pay close attention to what is being said. We’ve heard it before, so many times that we know the specifics better that the person telling it. We only listen so we can correct him when he gets mixed up with the facts. We jump in with gusto to point out the error. The usual response is, “Oh yea; you’re right; I didn’t finish first in the 10-K race, it was my cousin. But, I finished, and ahead of some of the runners.”

 These “stories” are recirculated so often that many times they are introduced with a disclaimer, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.” If you don’t respond quickly you get the re-run. Even then, it rarely stops them. They are then subject to unrelenting interruptions, designed to wear them down. Especially when they go off on a jag about their latest medical adventure. Now that I’ve come to the end of this article, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve said it all before.

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

Old Coot play clothes memory. October 7, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 The Old Coot wants a change (of clothes).

By Merlin Lessler;

 These days, many people wear single purpose clothes. Whether for work, shopping, going out for dinner, to a party or some other event, the same clothes serve multiple purposes. I call it casual-lazy. And, I’m jealous. The world I grew up in had a strict dress code. When I was a kid, we had play clothes, school clothes and Sunday-best clothes. Sunday best, were the worst. You put them on to go to church and if you were lucky, you could take them off as soon as you got home. Unless! – you were going to grandma’s house for dinner or were expecting company.

 Then, you had to stay in your “best” and if you wanted to go outside and hang around with your friends or cousins, you got the dreaded warning from your mother, “Don’t you dare mess up those clothes. If you get a grass stain you might as well start looking for a new family to live with!” I’m not sure those are the exact words, but it felt like that as I slunk out the door in trepidation. How could any kid live up to that objective in a hot game of kick ball or even a mild game of tag. I could get grass stains just playing with a yoyo.

 I’m still stuck in the “good clothes” – “Sunday best” - and “play clothes” scenario. Except, now my play clothes are called work clothes. I don’t have to worry about grass stains, wish that I could. A hot game of tag would be lukewarm at best. The visual is frightening, a bunch of old coots running around the yard trying to escape a tag. No, grass stains aren’t the issue for me. My stains are food related: coffee, ketchup, spaghetti sauce and mustard. I should change into “play” clothes whenever I’m near food or drink. The other issue I have with my good clothes comes when I attempt to fix something or do a chore that, “Will just take a second.” It never just takes a second and I always end up with a grass stain equivalent.

 Sometimes, I use my head and change clothes when I do a chore that involves paint, grease, oil, topsoil and the like. But, my lack of flexibility makes the process take so long that by the time I’m done I’ve forgotten what I was going to do. I wish the dress code of our society would change to that portrayed in futuristic movies, where everyone wears the same one-piece, one color outfit for all activities, every day. A fabric that doesn’t stain, tear or stretch out. It would make my life so much simpler. The animal kingdom figured it out. You’d think we humans, at the top of the food chain, could do so as well.

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Old Coot loves recycle Tuesday. Tioga County Courier Article (9/30/2020)

 

The Old Coot supports the Tuesday Afternoon Club.

By Merlin Lessler

 The Tuesday Afternoon Club came by this week, right on schedule (Tuesday afternoon). The first member passed through around two o’clock. He grabbed 2 jars and 1 coffee can full of screws, nuts and bolts and metal odds and ends. An hour later, a second collector peddled in on his bike and picked up a bag full of deposit cans and bottles. A short while later the last of the crew stopped by with a grocery store cart, grumbled about missing the good stuff but did get some electronic equipment that looked like it might still function (it did), leaving the remainder of the recyclables in the red plastic bin for Taylor Garbage to take away the next morning.

 I love this service provided by the Tuesday Afternoon Club. It’s an efficient system all the way around. I get rid of some “redeemable” items – metal to the scrap yard – odds & ends to be sold or used by a member of the group – deposit cans redeemed for cash, all things I’d rather go into the economy of club members, relieving me of the chore of hauling the stuff to redemption facilities. Last week a sofa that we no longer needed went out into the world this way. It sat in the garage for a bit and then left the property after placing a “Free Sofa” sign near the road, pointing to the garage.

 It’s a greatsystem, though some people get upset if someone paws through their garbage can recycle bin. Not me! Why should anyone care if someone is willing to put in the effort to make a few bucks from stuff that we put out to the curb? It’s not like the Tuesday Afternoon gang is sitting around looking for a hand-out. This crew is willing to invest time and effort for a small financial gain, and do us (me) a favor in the process.

 But, the whole thing may be coming to an end, yet another victim of the pandemic. Rumor has it that the County Government may eliminate recycling pick-up from their budget and leave it to each resident to deal with, to pay for and/or find some way to get the recyclables and other junk into the system. Yet, government handling of this process is the perfect and most efficient way to do it. It won’t hurt me if the County ops out of their recycling responsibilities. I’ll figure out a way to deal with the change if that’s the way it goes. But, what about the Tuesday Afternoon Club? They’ll be out of work and surely won’t be able to file for unemployment benefits. Another example of trickle-down economics - where the last drops of the trickle fall on the financially vulnerable sector of society.

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The Old Coot solves a mystery. (Tioga County Courier, Sept 23, 2020 Article)

 

The Old Coot is elbow challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m sitting in a window seat at the Owego Kitchen, watching two robins waddle around, pecking at worms in front of the post office. Not too exciting you say. You’re wrong. It is. For an old coot, anyhow. It’s a nice distraction from a changing world. When you’re young, you can’t wait for change – to graduate from school – to get a job – to get your own place - to get married – to buy a new car. Eventually, you go the other way; you don’t want change; you want things to stay the way they are. That’s when you officially become an old coot. You’ve decided that change is not for the better, at least not for you.

 It means another friend moved away; he gave up winter and moved to Florida or Arizona. It means your favorite restaurant just went out of business. It means you’ve heard yet another clerk say, “They don’t make that anymore.”  You just want to block out the changes that pop into your life in an endless parade: eggs are bad for you, coffee is bad for you, meat is bad for you, it can’t be repaired, the lawn mower won’t start unless you squeeze the handle (and keep squeezing it the entire time you are mowing).  CHANGE! UGH!

 Today’s change is my elbow. The right one, to be specific. It hurts. It’s a new pain; I’ve never had it before. So, I sit here drinking coffee with my left hand, dribbling a few drops on a clean shirt, distracting myself by watching two robins. Eventually, I’ll have to get back to the elbow and try to puzzle it out, to wonder why I didn’t appreciate it last week when it felt so good. And, I’ll have to face the question, “What did you do to it?” When I reply, it will be the same answer I’ve had for every other new pain. “Nothing!”

 I did some “old man” push-ups (standing up and leaning into a wall). I moved some books to different shelves and sawed a board in half with a hand saw. Not really much of anything! I hate this conversation; it always gets me the same response, from everybody I complain to: my doctor, my wife, my friends. “You’ve got to expect that at your age!”

 I’ve learned to deal with these things, to turn lemons into lemonade as the saying goes (easier said than done, I might add). I’ll complain enough to get out of some unpleasant chores. I’ll make a sling or buy an elastic elbow support to let the world know that I’m sporting an injury. I’ll tell people it's tennis elbow. I won’t mention that the last time I played tennis was in 1991 when my daughter Amy beat me for the first time. That’s when I paraded out the tennis elbow excuse. Now, the pain that I faked so long ago, has finally arrived. It would be even more embarrassing than losing to a seventeen-year-old if I had to reveal the real cause. I figured it out as I sat here watching the robins. The pain comes from constantly walking around with a coffee container in my hand. My elbow finally gave out. I have coffee elbow! Ouch!      

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The Old Coot watches the show. Tioga County Courier Old Coot Article - 9/16/2020

 

The Old Coot Has a Day at the Beach.

By Merlin Lessler 

“You’ve come a long way, baby!” So touted the ad for Virginia Slims, a new cigarette that was marketed to independent minded women in the late 1960’s. It was true. It is true. Women had, and have, come a long way, breaking free of the shackles that held them back. Now, they stand or fall on their own merits. It isn’t true though, as some social progressives would have you believe, that there is no difference between men and women. Old coots know better. The fundamental difference hasn’t changed since we lived in caves. Men hunt. Women gather, and nest (and do everything else, I might add, including hunting). 

I stumble on these differences all the time, pursuing my favorite pastime – people watching. I’ve reported back on many of them - men can’t fold - men don’t listen - men don’t understand the good-bye process - men tape over their wedding video with a Giant’s football game and wonder why their wives are upset. And, as I observed at the beach, men can’t pick out a spot to set up their gear on the sand.

 It was warm and sunny, a perfect day to sit by the water and relax. I watched a brother old coot come out of his car, plop down a combination beach bag/cooler and set up two folding lounge chairs & an umbrella at the first open spot he came to. He sat down, lit a cigar and opened the paper to the sports section. He was in heaven! Then the storm clouds blew in; his wife arrived. The battle was on! Mind you, I was too far away to hear a word they said, but, I’m a master at reading body language, especially when the sparks are flying. She barked a few sentences in his direction; he shrugged, got up and gathered their stuff and stood there like a dummy, something us old coots do when we’re being supervised. She patrolled the waterfront, measuring the wind, the angle of the sun and other factors.

 Finally, the selection process came to an end. She signaled to the “dummy” to bring their stuff. She told him where to set up the chairs and the umbrella and freed him from her apron strings. He plopped down on his chair but quickly got back up, an appropriate response to the quick jerk of her head and the sharp glare she hurled in his direction. She then brushed off some microscopic grains of sand from the chairs and stood back to assess the layout. The nest was ready! He sat with a sigh, took a puff on his cigar and reopened the paper. Her work was done, she headed up the beach to examine the goods on sale in a craft market a hundred yards or so off the beach. She went by herself, knowing full well that men don’t know how to shop and she didn’t want a two-year-old (equivalent) tugging at her skit and whining to go back to the beach. I didn’t notice if she was smoking a Virginia Slim or not. I was in enough trouble as it was for repeatedly saying, “Yes dear, Yes dear,” while not listening, as is usually the case when I’m distracted by drama such as this.

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Old Coot versus the grocery store - Tioga County Courier article 9/09/20

 

The Old Coot turns in his wool coat.

By Merlin Lessler

 

It’s time for a new game plan! A new “Grocery Store” game plan! They’ve been herding us through their aisles like sheep for decades. Milk in one corner of the store, bread, as far away as they can get it. They try to entice us with goods along the route when we come in for a quick bread & milk run, the most common, dash-in-and-out, customer shopping errand. At least for nuclear families with a couple of kids. The bread supply used to be critical; you had to have it so your kid’s lunch could be packed for school. Nowadays, most kids eat school cafeteria food; my generation abhorred it. Even so, people still go on milk and bread runs.  

 

We’ve all suffered with it. You rush into a big-chain grocery store for milk & bread on your way home from work. Where’s the bread? - As far from the milk as you can get! Some “brilliant” marketing genius (I need to tread lightly here – I was a marketing guy at one time, but I was cured of the affliction) came up with this bread-milk placement plan. It’s a profit-based strategy, not a customer service strategy.

 

And, it works, to a degree. But for the most part, it annoys us. It’s been going on so long we take it for granted and put on our running shoes. Is it merchant bullying? It feels that way to me! Big-chain grocery stores aren’t the only ones that do it; how about running into a big-chain pharmacy to pick up a prescription? You have to go to the very back of the store, past the chips, the cereal boxes, the ice-cream cooler, the office supplies, the garden shop to get your prescription. Then we’re made to get in line behind a mark on the floor to comply with privacy regulations. But, we’re still within earshot and we make sure to listen when the customer talks to the pharmacist.

 

It should be no surprise that grocery stores and pharmacies employ the same tactics. They are basically the same entity, selling both food and drugs. As they continue to add products, merchandising will go full circle, back to the old general store. Except, there won’t be a warm glow from a potbellied stove with a cluster of old coots like me sitting around it in winter or out front in summer, perched on empty crates next to the fruit and vegetable racks. Milk wasn’t in the back of the store in those days; it was placed in the milk box on your front porch, waiting for you when you came down for breakfast.

 

How do we stop this debacle? I don’t know; it’s so ingrained in the store design philosophy it seems impossible to fix. I do the best I can; I get bread first, pick up a few extra loaves and leave them over by the milk cooler so someone who starts there can avoid a trip to the other side of the store. The geniuses in the corporate office haven’t figured out that the key to profitability is to focus on the customer, making the shopping experience hassle free, not some strategy that tries to trick us into an impulse buy. They think they can treat us like sheep? Will this ram ain’t saying, “Baa, Baa,” any more.  

 

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Old Coot encounters a battle-axe. August 2, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot rediscovers the battle-axe.

by Merlin Lessler

I was hanging out with my friend Bishop in our backyard the other day. She’s married and has a different last name, but she’s still Bishop to me. That’s how old coots are; they don’t adjust to change. It was a hot, muggy afternoon and we were wading around in our tiny, shallow, garden pool like a couple of two-year old’s, shooting the breeze while my wife swept off the back porch, not quite ready to join us in the water. Then, I heard Bishop utter a word I hadn’t heard in decades, BATTLE-AXE! It’s funny how a word can transport you to another era, in this case, back to the 1950’s when battle-axe was a common term, at least in the Three Stooges, Abbot and Costello, W.C. Fields and other old rerun movies that I and my 10 year old friends consumed at the movie theater every Saturday afternoon. It was also in everyday use as well.

I wouldn’t be surprised if many of you are not familiar with the term or exactly sure what it means. It was quite popular back in those dark ages of my youth. I’m not sure exactly who Bishop was talking about; I was half listening as usual, but when battle-axe hit my ears, I laughed out loud. She’s a lot younger than me and I was surprised to hear her say it. Battle-axe, according to the dictionary, is an aggressive, domineering, antagonistic, overbearing forceful woman. A female bully in other words.

This is where I step in it, continuing on with a sexist topic from an era when women who didn’t act “lady like” were labeled with a whole array of negative terms. Terms that men escaped, even though their behavior was identical. A double standard of the vocabulary variety. How about: fish wife, old bat, hag, nag, backseat driver? Quite an array. Men were spared the critique; they were labeled with more positive terms like, strong willed, forceful, titan, sharp businessmen and the like. 

By the time the 1980’s rolled around, battle-axe fell by the wayside, but women still didn’t get a break. If they were the least bit assertive, they were called aggressive, pushy. Pushy men weren’t labeled. My wife and I have five daughters and seven granddaughters (not counting the boys), but I don’t advise calling any of them a battle-axe. You just might get a surprise. Or, a big laugh, like the one I gave Bishop.

 

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Old Coot Article Tioga Co. Courier, Aug 26, 2020

 

The Old Coot isn’t cool.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I was waiting in the car while my wife was in the grocery store last week. I’d just had a medical “procedure.” You know, one of those things where they don’t knock you out or numb you up. They tell you, “It’s just a procedure.” I always want to ask, “Have you ever had this procedure?” I think if they did, they’d reconsider proceeding on you without knock out drops. Mine, was just an MRI, so no big deal. Except, trying to lie still for 30 minutes, hoping my nose didn’t start to itch or a cramp didn’t overtake my leg. That’s where the stress comes in for me.

 

Anyhow, I decided to wait in the car; I didn’t want to undergo a grocery store “procedure” on the same day. I was trusted with the keys so I could listen to the radio or roll down the window, not that many cars have a crank that you roll down. We “button-push” it down these days. It was a beautiful morning, in the mid 70’s; a gentle breeze was slipping across the parking lot and I was in a spot where I could watch the people going in and out of the store. Pure entertainment for an old coot.

 

I “rolled” down the window, to hang my arm out, but I couldn’t; the opening was too high. You can’t do the arm out the window thing in an SUV. You have to be in a regular car, which are slowly disappearing from the market place, now accounting for barely 30% of vehicles sold. It irked me a little. I had a 1950’s image in my head, back when any teenager or young adult male drove around in good weather with their arm hanging out the window. The window was our air-conditioner. Often with a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of an undershirt. Yes, undershirt. They weren’t called T-shirts back then. On hot days, guys went around, but not usually in public, in an undershirt (white, of course) to be cool and casual.

 

Then along came Marlon Brando’s movie, “On the Waterfront. He wore an undershirt in public and changed men’s fashions forever. He made wearing one acceptable for everyday use. It made the T-shirt revolution take off and you know how that went. T-shirts dominate the fashion scene. You even see people wearing them to church, at weddings and just about everywhere else.  

 

Anyhow, there I was, an old coot sitting in a car, trying to relive a teenage memory and couldn’t hang my arm out the window. I gave up; I just sat there like a dummy, wishing I at least had a Lucky Strike cigarette to place behind my ear. It’s tough trying to be cool when you’re an old coot.

 

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Old Coot has flashback. August 14, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot is tripping out.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I had a flash-back moment the other day, as I came in the back door. I looked across the kitchen to the corner of the room into the telephone nook to see if the answering machine was blinking. But there is no answering machine in the nook. Or a phone, for that matter. What was I thinking? An old instinct kicked in. It was fun to re-experience the thrill of coming home in the pre-cell phone era, wondering if someone called and left a message. The red light on the answering machine was like a beacon in a lighthouse, flashing a signal, “YOU HAD A CALL!” Rapid blinks meant you had several calls. WHO? WHY? WHAT’S GOING ON?

 

Such a different world. We had more patience; we didn’t expect instant contact, instant feedback. A nicer world, I think. You had time to think before you replied, to mull over your answer. “What should we say to Joe? He’s upset, but has a right to be. How can we bring him down, gently?”  Lies could be invented if necessary; we call them fibs when we execute these social untruths. “I don’t want to go to their house Sunday night. How can we get out of it?” You had time to conjure up an excuse, or create a conflict.

 

We were nicer, on the surface anyhow. And freer to escape doing things or going places we rather not. We had time to come up with an alternative plan. And, more important, time to calm down before tossing out a knee-jerk reaction to a phone message. Time to re-listen to the message to be sure you got it right. And think.  

 

Don’t get me wrong, I like my smart phone and all the things it can do for me. But still, I miss that old world, where communication was more thoughtful and ran at a slower pace. And, I especially miss coming home to a blinking light. Signaling a mystery. Soon be solved.  

 

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Old Coot reads the blotter. Tioga County Courier Article - 8/12/2020

 

The Old Coot works in ink.

By Merlin Lessler

 

Blotters! Ink blotters to be specific, used with inkwell ink. I was working on an article for the Binghamton Press a few years ago; it was about writing with a dipping pen and liquid ink when I was a kid. We had holes in the upper right corner of our desks, designed to hold an ink well. In first and second grade our work was done in pencil; the hole remained empty. When we made it to 3rd grade, we switched to ink; the neatest writers went first (girls). The teacher placed an ink well in the hole and handed the student a pen holder, a pen point and a small bit of cloth to clean ink off the pen point. She then filled the inkwell from a quart bottle with a snorkel nozzle and finally gave the lucky ink “graduate” a blotter to dry the ink so it wouldn’t smear. I was among the last group (all boys) to get “inked.”

 

Anyhow, I bought some old fashion point holders, pen points and ink to experience using the primitive writing instrument I grew up with, only slightly more advanced than the quill pen John Hancock used to sign the Declaration of Independence. I made the same blots and smears on the paper as I did all those years ago. (I’d foolishly decided to write the article with pen and ink) Three blobs on a paper in third grade and you lost your ink “privilege.” No ink for a week. A worse punishment (to the ego) than being sent to the cloakroom for a pea shooter war behind the teachers back. An “ink” time-out felt bad; made you try harder when you your inkwell was filled again. Nothing like failure to help you succeed. Makes you wonder why today’s society works so hard to help kids avoid it, giving every player on every team, winners and losers, the same reward, a certificate, a trophy, or both. Earned or not. No signal there to try harder, to work on your shortcomings.

 

Back to the subject at hand. Ink Blotters!  I found a bunch of them for sale on E-Bay – you can’t buy them in a store, at least I couldn’t find any. The ones I received were long in the tooth, handed out by advertisers in the day. I now use mine for bookmarks and notice the ad copy every once in a while; it gives me a kick to see how things were promoted back in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s. An ad for the Scotch Woolen Mill got my attention the other day and started me on this writing path, an all wool full suit and or topcoat or overcoat for only $23.00! Coat and pants alone, $20.00. Just pants, $7.50. That got my chuckle reflex going.  Then comes the company promise - “A 30-year record of knowing how to build clothes that fit and satisfy” – “Ask to see our deluxe grade woolens on display with your local dealer.” A scowling Scotchman stares out from the ad; he’s wearing a wool tam cap; a bolt of plaid wool fabric is wrapped around his left shoulder. The ad sold me, but I was 70 years too late. I bought a dozen of those advertising blotters for less than seven bucks. Some with legible, but mirror image ink stains on the blotting side. All entertaining. Highly recommended for book marks. And, if you are fast, you can blot a coffee dribble on your shirt before it sets. If you do, someone might give you a certificate!  

 

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Tho Coot tosses the penny. August 5, 2020 Article - Tioga County Courier

 

The Old Coot throws in his two cents.

By Merlin Lessler

 

It’s claimed we have a coin shortage in this country. As a result of the Corona Virus. Everyone is jumping on the “corona virus excuse” these days. Maybe it’s true for the coin shortage. They say the flow of currency through the economy has slowed down, almost stopped. Nothing new for me; I’ve always experienced a shortage of currency, though more like the five, ten, twenty- and fifty-dollar bill variety. I never have enough of them. I do have a ton of pennies though. If the mint stopped penny production and shifted to nickels, dimes and quarters they might solve the problem. Forget the half-dollar: I think they stopped producing them in any quantity years ago. I miss them. A great coin to flip and use as a protractor to draw a circle. But the vending machine industry put them on death row years ago.

 

It costs 1.83 cents to make a penny. Not too smart. But’s it’s the government; what do you expect. The mint, or some other entity, should buy back the pennies from banks, stores and the public; it would cut the production cost nearly in half. Or, even better, just take the penny out of circulation. Stores, restaurants and other cash business places could round off the sales slip to the nearest nickel, using the math most of us learned in the 3^rd grade. If the bill is $18.32, it gets rounded to $18.30. If it’s $18.36, up it goes to $18.40. Nobody would complain. Most of us would say, “Thank you,” for not asking for the few cents, or giving me pennies back in change.

 

Many of us throw the pennies in a jar or drawer and hope they go away. I sometimes throw them on the parking lot in public places and let someone willing to bend over and pick them up have them. The worst transaction in a penny society is paying the tab that comes to $10.02. You don’t have the 2 cents so you hand over a twenty and end up with nine ones 98 cents in coin.

 

It would take an act of congress to get this passed, so it will never happen. We have to take it into our own hands, and not accept pennies in change, leave them with the merchant. And, take the pennies we have lying around and cash them in for usable money. Wala! You now live in a penny free society! There’s a penny that’s been laying in my driveway for over a month. It fell there when I got out of the car. Old Coots don’t bend over to pick up a penny. We’re afraid if we dip that low, we won’t be able to get back up. I’m not going to push my, “Help I’ve fallen and can’t get up alarm” for a penny. I’m saving it for a worthwhile situation. Like a bend down for a half-dollar. I couldn’t stop myself if I saw one lying on the ground. I guess it’s a paper route thing. When I delivered the Evening Press the cost was 45 cents a week. When I did my collections every Monday night, I received a pocketful of half dollars. My other pocket was loaded with nickels, so I could give the customers their change. Only three people on my route of 67 customers ever said, “Keep the change, kid.” And people think I’m a cheapskate.  

 

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Old Coot versus Auto view blockage (July 29, 2020 Tioga County Courier)

The Old Coot versus the automobile pillar!

By Merlin Lessler

 

As I came around a curve in the road the other day, a crosswalk popped up just as the road straightened out. I hit some old guy walking across the street at turtle speed! NO! That’s not true! I was the one crossing the street (at snail speed) and some old guy came around a curve in his SUV and ran me down. That’s not true either.

 

It didn’t happen! Not to me anyway. But it does happen, all the time. Often at a corner, because a driver’s view is obstructed by one of the pillars, those wide, padded supports on each side of the windshield that hold up the roof. They are excessively wide, especially in SUVs. So wide, that they block objects and people from a driver’s view. A pedestrian crossing the street becomes invisible, depending on the angle between the driver’s eyes and the pedestrian’s location. Bulky side view mirrors make the blind spot even bigger. They have evolved into quite massive structures, especially when you consider their main function is to hold up a mirror. They do more than that now; they allow us to adjust the angle with the touch of a button, remove frost and in some cars, wipe away the rain drops. Making them larger and larger. It’s all good when you’re on the inside the car, not so hot if you are walking or riding a bicycle and move into an ever-increasing blind spot.

 

Bad driving habits make matters worse. Many drivers look left before turning “right on red” and don’t come to a stop. And, don’t see someone stepping off the curb into the crosswalk on the right. That’s why crossing at intersections has become dangerous, not to mention the people who text while driving and can hit you from any angle. We’ve been taught to cross the street at the crosswalk, which is usually at the corner. You can get a ticket for jaywalking if you don’t. Get caught in New York City, and it will cost you $250. Crossing away from an intersection is safer; the odds of making it to the other side are much higher, as long as you do what you were taught when you were five years old, and look both ways before stepping off the curb.  

 

Car safety for drivers and passengers has improved immensely over the past twenty years. Pedestrian and bicycle safety, on the other hand, has declined. Partially due to the obesity of the windshield pillars. It’s like automobiles have glaucoma; the view out the windshield gets narrower and narrower. It doesn’t have to be this way. Cars in the 1950’s sported wrap around, panoramic windshields, a concept introduced to the marketplace with the 1953 Cadillac Eldorado and the Oldsmobile Fiesta. All cars had them eventually, creating a safe world for pedestrians.

 

This is why old coots like me are suspicious when modern day innovative changes are announced. They are often not for the better. Pedestrian deaths due to vehicle crashes increased by 32% over the last ten years. In 2018 they totaled 6,283 and bicycle fatalities came in at an astounding 857. If you’ve got wide pillars on your car, move your head from front to back at an intersection, like a chicken pecking at the ground; it will help you see around the pillar. And, look both ways to see what you’re missing – ME! - The invisible “chicken” trying to cross the street alive to see what’s on the other side.  

 

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Old Coot Tioga County Courier Article 7-22-2020 "Old Coot buys boxes"

The Old Coot is thinking outside the box.

By Merlin Lessler

All I buy are boxes. I’d rather buy “stuff” but stuff isn’t for sale. Just boxes. It’s a new world; I can’t even guess how long it’s been this way; It’s been a gradual change. You can’t buy things – you buy boxes, packages and hope the things inside are what you want. Not everything is like that; you can pick up an apple and examine it. You can try on clothes. You can test drive a car, but a lot of merchandise is boxed up, often with insufficient information printed on the carton. “How wide is it?” No answer. “Are the handles rubber?” No answer. Then comes the BIG question, to yourself, “Should I open the box and find out?”

I go that way sometimes, using the principle, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission.” I can only do this if the merchandise is in an agreeable container or I have the equipment necessary to open a box that is glued and stapled or to take on an item in a shrink-wrapped body suit. That’s when I’m forced to start the “get permission” process and try to find a clerk. I swear they hang out in a break room, watching us on security cameras and falling out of their chairs laughing as we hold a “locked” box and impatiently look around the store for help, trying to decide if it’s worth the risk to free the item from prison or to buy it as is and return it later if it doesn’t meet our needs. Even at home, with an illegal burglar tool-kit, it’s hard to get something out of modern-day packaging, especially if you are trying to preserve the prison, so you can return the item to the “Box” store.

If you go the other way, and decide to open the box in the store without permission, you feel paranoid. At least I do. So, you go about the breaking and entering process like a thief, hoping you don’t get caught and the store doesn’t have a “You break it, you buy it” policy that applies to both the merchandise and container.

You’ve got options. But none come easy. “Get a clerk to open it.” – “Buy it and return it.” “Open it yourself.” Or talk yourself out of making the purchase entirely, saying to yourself, “I don’t need it that bad!” The country is full of Big Box Stores, full of little boxes. That’s made my favorite shopping choice, the ever-present national chain outlet called, “Garage Sale,” or its subsidiary, “Yard Sale. They let you see, touch and try out sale items. Someone is right there to answer your questions and best of all, they are often willing to negotiate the price. There is one problem with these merchants, they don’t accept Visa. But nothing comes in a box!!

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Old Coot # 883 Published July 15, 2020 Tioga County Courier

The Old Coot loves bad TV ads.

By Merlin Lessler

Law firms (of the ambulance chasing variety), Big Pharma and quackery products dominate the television advertising landscape. They make you mad, make you groan, or if you are like me, make you laugh out loud. They are so pathetic it makes you wonder why they do it. Simple answer, “Because it works!” The ambulance chasing ads that I chuckle at the most came from a law firm that proclaimed, “We leave no stone unturned!” They stuck with that theme for several years. I guess they finally ran into a stone they couldn’t turn. They switched their mantra to “Maximum Benefits!” That’s what they promise you’ll get if you hire them. They’ve moved on; now they say, “We’re nice, but tough!” We’re nice attorneys, but get tough when it comes to getting you maximum benefits. Television stations across the country are rife with attorney ads like this. It’s fun to tune to a local station when you’re out of town. It’s almost as entertaining as the local sightseeing attractions.

My favorite ad at the moment doesn’t come from a law firm. It’s from Plexaderm – a so called miracle ointment made from shale that removes wrinkles and those unsightly bags under your eyes. For a mere $59.95 you can regain your youthful looks. (Or, get a trial size for $14.95). A group of users are paraded out, demonstrating the startling results, baggy eyes and all. The goop is dabbed on: presto, the wrinkles “seem” to disappear. It’s an all-out war on wrinkles and an all-out war on your wallet. Near the end of the ad, a sixty-one-year-old personal trainer takes center stage. I laugh so loud I nearly fall off the sofa. She flexes her biceps to prove she is fit and health conscious. Unfortunately, she looks more like people in my age group. More like 80 than 61. (Not that there’s anything wrong with looking 80). After a few dabs of Plexaderm her face actually does look less wrinkled. She looks younger. Not 80 any longer, more like 79 and ½. My wife watches my antics and gives me that “Would you just get over it” look. Old coots like me get that look all the time.  

But we don’t get over it; it’s one of our favorite pastimes, especially the anti-aging shams and the Snake Oil products that pharmaceutical companies bombard us with. Most often, with a beautiful, pastoral scene in the background and lovely music playing as they gently list the life-threatening affects you should be prepared for.  One of the first of these snake oil products came right from the southern tier area; Doctor Kilmer’s Swamp Root Oil. He grew fabulously rich selling this cure-all. It came in 18 varieties, solved every medical problem know to man in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. It didn’t hurt that it contained 10% alcohol. Many a teetotaler had no idea they’d become an “Doctor Kilmer’s Swamp Oil” alcoholic.

Yet, here we are, one-hundred and fifty years later, a sophisticated, well-educated society still being taken in by modern day hucksters. The ads are so ridiculous that they provide an endless stream of entertaining for cynical old coots like me. I just wish the networks would stop interrupting the ads with TV shows.

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The Old Coot has a tissue issue! July 7, 2020 Article

The Old Coot steps into the arena!

By Merlin Lessler

The battle of the sexes rages on. I’m old enough, but apparently not wise enough, to be an observer and not a participant. Every now and then, the Neanderthal part of my male brain wakes up and engages, not just my mouth, but in this case, my pen. So, here I go with a new salvo in this unending war. The issue - TISSUE BOXES!

The square ones with flowers and other pleasant scenery decorating the sides. A tissue peeks out of the top, ready to do your bidding. I reach over and give it a tug. Do I get a tissue? No! I get the whole box. I have to hold it with one hand and pull the tissue out with the other. What once was a one-hand job, now takes two, unless you’ve been to tissue school and learned the three-tug technique. My Neanderthal dominated brain can’t execute a three, gentle tug process. It’s too clumsy. It’s only capable of one big pull.

I wish that was my only issue with the square, tissue dispenser. It’s not! The tissues aren’t lying flat like the ones in the” unfashionable” rectangular containers where you can pull out a tissue with one hand. The tissues in the square box are folded into a ball with a sub-par intertwining function. I describe it as wadded up mess. Sometimes, one tissue pops up; sometimes, you get a handful and sometimes, the tissue scheduled for duty goes AWOL and hides in the box. I suspect, but have never done the math, that the designer, square box, has a lot less product than the rectangular box. Which, by the way, is getting harder and harder to find.

I’m on the losing side of this war between men from Mars and women from Venus. The tissue box battle is yet another skirmish that went the other way. I lost the liquid soap dispenser versus bar soap war. I lost a sneak attack from pillows that invaded the war zone and took over the chairs, sofas and beds and must be removed if you want to sit or lay down. I lost the battle of a short, good-bye process when leaving a party or other gathering. I stand to the side like a four-year-old tugging at his mommy’s skirt, using ESP to beg, “Can we leave now?’ But the ESP doesn’t work; the process will take a minimum of five minutes. I still retain control of my “Archie Bunker” pillow-less chair. And, there I sit, a tired, battle worn veteran on the losing side in the battle of the sexes. Yet, I’m a happy guy – my Neanderthal infused brain is too dumb to know better.

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July 1, 2020 Old Coot Article- Plastic fasteners tear my new shirts!

The Old Coot tears through his clothes.

By Merlin Lessler

I bought a new shirt the other day. It was a rare find, a blue, oxford cloth, button down collar vintage masterpiece. It’s my favorite shirt. When I wear one, I feel invincible, ready to take on the day (an old coot day, anyhow). Most people have a feel-good item of this sort in their wardrobe. I have six of these shirts, three on active duty and three in reserve. When I find one, I buy it. They get in the mix one or two times a week.

Am I stuck in a fashion rut? You bet – this obsession has been going on since I was in 7^th grade and the official dress code was an oxford cloth, button down collar shirt (usually blue, but also blue or gray stripped), cotton khaki pants and white bucks. I’m still at it: I don’t have the white bucks, mine are tan.

Anyhow, I took the shirt out of the bag, started to unfold it and hit a snag. The sleeves were bolted to the body of the shirt with two plastic fasteners – the kind that make a tear when you yank the fastened sections apart. Which I did, knowing better, but too lazy to get up and get the scissors. I was rewarded with a small tear in the back of the shirt. Then, I got the scissors. One tear was enough.

I hate those things, those little “Capital I” shaped nuisances that have replaced straight pins that once held clothing articles in a flattering pose. Just about everything you buy these days is loaded with “I” fasteners or other plastic devices. It’s a challenge to free your purchase from bondage. You need scissors or a knife, and sometimes a pair of wire cutters.

The “I” shaped fasteners used in clothing annoy me the most. They were invented by two engineers working for the Dennison Manufacturing Company: Jerry Merser and Arnold Bone. The “I” shaped fastener is just one of many diabolical devices now included in the “Swiftach” system of fasteners which went into use starting in the mid 1960’s. It was first used to attach price tags. Clerks did it by hand up to that point, a labor-intensive process. It only takes a second to insert an “I” fastener using an insertion pistol. (No pistol permit needed for this menace to society.)  

It’s used for more than attaching price tags these days; clothing is rife with them, to better display a garment (holding it hostage, in my view). They’re like fish hooks; they go in easy but are impossible to get out without tearing a hole. Scissors are mandatory

Look around – you’ll see it isn’t just old coots who sport small rips and tears in their clothing. A lot of people do, especially men, who won’t take the time to get scissors and avoid the damage. Old coots like me don’t mind a rip or two; it distracts from the coffee, mustard and spaghetti stains that decorate our clothes.

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