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.   

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

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?

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

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).

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

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