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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