My Shoes don't fit. An Old Coot Tioga County Courier Article of 12/31/21

 The Old Coot’s shoes don’t fit.

By Merlin Lessler

 My shoes don’t fit! My socks either. It’s not just me. Not an old coot thing! It affects a lot of people. The companies that make shoes and socks use a “close enough” standard. They’re not very precise. Take the shoes; if your foot is an exact size, you’re all set. If it’s a little too long, you have to buy the next larger size, and walk around with your foot slopping back and forth. They don’t make ½ sizes anymore. It’s even worse if you have a narrow foot. All you can get is medium, wide, and extra wide. Those of us with narrow feet, wobble side to side in our shoes. It’s a double whammy when you’re in a shoe too long and too wide. It’s why people (me) are so cranky – our foot bones bend and twist all day in ways they were not designed to move. And, to make it worse, modern day shoelaces are made from a synthetic material that won’t stay tied. 

 Now to the sock problem. Buy socks to fit your feet? Not on your life. The major sock companies only offer 2 sizes (for men anyhow) - Size 10 /13 (for shoe sizes 6 to 12) and Size 13/15 (for shoe sizes 12 – 16). Socks are either too big and wad up in your shoe, or too tight and make your toes curl. Then there’s tube socks, a knit bag that slips on your foot and you hope for the best. It all started back in the 1960’s when a cheapskate sock maker eliminated the toe and heel and came up with them. A friend of mine, John in Canada, loves them. He buys the longest ones. When the toe wears out he sews a straight line across the foot section, just above the hole, and moves on. He starts with a mid-calf sock and ends up with an ankle sock.   

 Hippies solved the problem in the 1960’s; they went barefoot. But stores and restaurants retaliated; they put up signs that said, “No Shirt - No Shoes - No Service!” The young people of today have started a second shoe/sock revolt. They don’t wear shoes or socks; they wear flip-flops. No matter what the weather. No matter what the occasion. Soon there will be new signs appearing in stores and restaurants. “If you have flip-flops on your feet; keep walking down the street!” Right next to the “Old Coots not allowed” sign.

 Ps. If you want a good fit for your shoes, go to Power & Paddle on Route 38, Catatonk. They solved my “fit” problem.

 Comments, complaints. Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot's have a fashion. Tioga County Courier Article 12/22/21

 

The Old Coot dress code.

By Merlin Lessler

 When I was younger, in my twenties, old men didn’t wear the hip clothes that I did: bell bottom pants, leisure suits, khakis, rugby shirts and the like. They wore ironed shirts, cardigan sweaters, pants buckled at rib cage level, high water pants and spit-shined leather shoes. Old coots today don’t parade around in a distinct “old man” fashion style. Most of us anyhow. We dress like normal people, more or less. But if you pay attention to the details, you will notice subtle differences.

 Take our shirts for example; we wear long sleeve shirts: summer, winter, spring & fall. Every season finds us in long-sleeves. If you see an old guy in short sleeves, he either hasn’t made it to full membership in the old coot club, or he still retains a fully functioning circulation system; he’s a showoff!  The reason for long sleeves is obvious in cold weather; they help keep us warm. But the same is true in hot summer weather. The air conditioning thermostats in stores and restaurants are set so low that an old guy in a short-sleeve shirt will shiver violently, so much so that the flapping sound of his flabby arm skin will make a racket. In reality, a long sleeve shirt is also a short sleeve shirt; just roll up the sleeves. When we go back outside, we roll them down. 

 Ironically, the opposite strategy comes into play with pants. Old coots avoid long pants as long as the weather will allow. Long pants are too hard to get into, even when we sit down to put them on. We opt for cargo shorts with plenty of pockets. They’re easy to slip on and those pockets come in handy to hold the junk we think we cannot be without: handkerchiefs, reading glasses, medical supplies, jackknives, ID cards and directions to get home in case we forget. We make up for the shortness of the pants on cold days by pulling up a pair of elongated tube socks, unless we are already wearing knee-high, compression stockings. If it gets too warm, we roll them down. Isn’t that a pretty sight?

 We usually wear a hat, but most young guys do as well, so a hat doesn’t necessarily signify, “old coot.” Hats are great for hiding bald domes, but more important for us, they keep us warm.  As you know, 50% of the heat we lose, radiates out of our heads. It’s a scientific fact; I know it’s true; I looked it up on the Internet using the phone in my cargo pant’s pocket!

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot in a war zone. Tioga Co. Courier Article 12/15/2021

 

The gauntlet has been thrown down!

By Merlin Lessler

 There is a quiet conflict underway in this country, call it a war in the making. It’s been smoldering under the radar for years, but now the flames lick higher. It started in the 1960’s, maybe earlier, when a college student, usually a co-ed, came home for Thanksgiving and announced, I’m a vegetarian!” Mom went into a tizzy, “What do we feed her?” she asked Dad. “I’ve got a 25 pound turkey in the oven and all the fixings including a bushel of mashed potatoes and enough gravy to drown an army.”

 “It’s just a phase,” her husband replied. “She’ll get over it by the end of the semester.” And, that’s what usually happened, back then. But not anymore. It’s now an outright conflict between the herbivores (plant eaters) and the omnivores (plant & animal eaters). Our species evolved as omnivores; we have the teeth to prove we were genetically destined to consume both meat and plants.

But now that the war has heated up, our species has divided into two different evolutionary forks: The omnivore fork and the herbivore fork. And, who do you think is throwing the bombs? Not the so-called uneducated meat eaters; It’s the descendants of peace loving flower children: vegans and vegetarians. They are in an attack mode – going as far as to claim the animals consumed by the omnivores are the cause of global warming and climate change.

 Maybe they will dominant the path of the human species, discarding us omnivores, just as we did the Neanderthals. It’s going to get ugly out there. No more spaghetti and meatballs! No more pizza with pepperoni! No more ham and eggs! No more bacon burgers! A whole bunch of us old guys won’t give up; they’ll have to pry the hot dogs out of our cold dead hands.

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Old Coot explains "one". (A Tioga Co. Courier Article of 12/08/21)

 

The Old Coot explains the meaning of “one.”

By Merlin Lessler

 The doctor of a friend of mine suggested he limit his intake of alcohol to one glass of wine in the evening. They all say that to people our age. I don’t get it; we’re too far gone to do any serious damage at this point.  Anyhow, that’s what they do. But, in Hanks’ case, the doctor didn’t indicate the size of the glass. Big mistake! Hank decided that a goldfish bowl on a stem would be just about right. He used the “Bill Clinton” dictionary. The one Bill used when testifying before a grand jury that he didn’t lie when he said, “There is nothing going on between us; it depends on your definition of is”. Hank’s definition of “one” glass of wine doesn’t limit the size of the glass; it depends on the definition of one. If you want to know what that is, look it up in the Bill Clinton Dictionary. It’s two pages past the definition of “is”. 

 A lot of us do this, whether it’s “fibbing” to doctors, or to ourselves. We are capable of using this cloudy kind of language. When asked if we’ve cut back on our snacking addiction, we respond, “Why certainly, I hardly ever snack”! (Only during my waking hours.) Or, “I cut down my intake of Oreo cookies. I limit it to ONE (one row),” adopting Hank’s definition of “one.”  “Do you exercise regularly?” – “Of course!” (Every two months) It depends on your definition of regular.

 Every thing you promise to others or yourself, depends on the meaning of the words you use. Take your pick: Webster’s Dictionary or Clinton’s Dictionary. A handful of chips means a hand the size of King Kong’s. One beer, means one growler. One bowl of ice cream just barely fits into Hank’s wine glass.

 It’s not just average people who use Clintonesque definitions.  Ever tried to exercise your rights under a warranty or a guarantee? Some companies do just that, they honor what they promised. But many others point to the small print, (that most of us don’t read) and say, “Tough luck!! You’re not covered.” (100 % doesn’t mean 100%). I won’t get into the political promises made by office seekers. I don’t have enough ink in my pen to cover that part of the Clinton Dictionary. Besides, I have to help Hank carry his new wine glass from the store to his car. This one comes on wheels and a straw the size of a garden hose.    

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Old Coot wears modern jeans. A Tioga Co. Courier Article of 2/01/21

 The Old Coot is hip? (sort of)

By Merlin Lessler

 I had on a pair of “I’m not old jeans” the other night. Out in public! They have skinny legs, actually they are technically classified as “Slim.” The “skinny” ones fit more like pantyhose. The legs in mine are wider, but they’re still considered hip. They contain stains, paint splatters, rips and tears. And cost a lot of money! Not mine. I got them from the “last call, next stop the garbage” rack in Old Navy. I shop there because it has “old” in its name, making me think I’m welcome.  

 I have a similar pair of jeans hanging in the garage, a 40-year-old pair of Levi’s. With stains from real work, paint splatters, rips & tears that appeared the old fashion way; they were earned, not factory produced. The other difference between my work pants and my “I’m not old jeans” are the width of the legs. They are wider and you can squat down and do stuff with no fear that the seams will rip apart.  

 They hang in the garage next to the rakes and snow shovels, waiting patiently to be put into action. A painting project, carpentry, or digging around in the dirt. Something that the “I’m not old pants” couldn’t hold up to.  I wish I had theses paint splattered, fashion pants when I was a kid and had to face my mother in a pair of jeans covered with grass stains. Especially, since she always warned, as I ran out the back door, “Don’t you dare get grass stains on those pants!” She didn’t understand, when you play cowboys, you have to wither on the ground and die properly after being ambushed and shot by two bad guys with loaded cap pistols.

 I don’t know what point I was trying to make with this rambling. Maybe, I just wanted to brag that I had a hip pair of jeans or to acknowledge that old coots still retain a sense of style, and even though we are averse to change, we are willing to stick our toe in the water every once in a while. As long as it’s cheap!

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot says old is good! ( Tioga Co. Courier article 11/24/21)

 

The Old Coot thinks old is good.

By Merlin Lessler

 Young guys look at old coots like me, and say, “Oh boy, look at that old guy; he's just not with it, can’t do stuff, walks funny. Never going to happen to me!”

 They think it’s all bad, to be old, but it’s not. There are a lot of advantages to being an old coot.

We have a built in excuse for a lot of unpleasant things. We don’t have to help someone move to a new house or apartment. Or, to lift heavy objects, like the other day in the Owego Kitchen. Ike needed help unloading a huge cooler from a pick-up truck and moving it inside. A very heavy and awkward item to handle. He didn’t even consider asking me. The “young” guys got the privilege while Lester (Ike’s father) and I watched.

 I'm glad I'm too old to cave dive, or run a marathon, walk a tightrope, scale a cliff and a whole slew of other “feats of strength.” People even open doors for me, wave me ahead of them in line, help me carry groceries to my car. I don't have to worry about getting old, I’m already there, and an expert on managing life in an old body. But, the nicest things about being old, is you don't have to be politically correct about what you say. You can be frank. Something the younger crowd can’t do, not without being called a bully, or being obliterated by social media. “We can say, “You need to fix your breath; it stinks” We do this mostly with old people like us, things of necessity like, “You forgot to comb your hair, dummy!” - “your pants are on backwards” – “I think you're wearing your wife's blouse.” It’s a kindness to do this for the individual and a necessity if we want to improve the image of oldsters in general.

Young folks are not exempt from our unfiltered comments, “Boy you’ve put on weight!” – “When did you go bald?”

 My friend, Alan, has a nickname, “One shoe, two shoe.” He made the mistake of walking into our early morning coffee group, wearing two different shoes; he hadn’t noticed them on his five mile walk down the beach to Starbucks. Yes, there are definitely advantages to being old. You can mouth off to some big, young guy, to a degree (let’s not go crazy here) and a have pretty good chance that he won't hit you. He’d be embarrassed to be seen beating up an old man. Don’t try this at home kids! I know of one old guy who did this and got decked. Even so, it’s good to be old.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Safe from atomic bombs? Old Coot Article 11-17-2021

 

The Old Coot learned survived skills in 3^rd grade.

By Merlin Lessler

 I started watching a new movie the other day; it portrayed what the world will be like if global warming isn’t curtailed: horrific storms with hurricane force winds, unending forest fires, routine 500-year floods, hail stones the size of automobiles. It was a futuristic look at the world in its scariest scenario. I knew where it was going and quit watching after the first fifteen minutes.

  Later that same week, a psychiatrist was on the radio, instructing parents on how to talk to their kids about global warming, so they won’t live in fear with the constant pelting of media scenarios that made them think they are doomed, along with the planet. It was timely, and had some good advice to moderate climate change terror. Tell the kids things like, “We will solve this problem; let’s do our part.”   

 I wish someone thought this way about kids in my generation. We grew up under the cloud of an atomic war. For me, it started in elementary school, as the Cold War with Russia heated up. We had air raid drills, to “save” us in the event of a nuclear attack. We loved fire drills; we got to go outside and wait on the playground. And, even though we had to stay in line, it was still a lot of fun; we were out of the prison for fifteen minutes. Air raid drills, on the other hand, required that we get under our desks and face away from the widows (to avoid going blind from the flash of an atomic bomb). We were told that our region was a target because of IBM and other tech and defense companies that peppered the Triple Cities area. Like this action would actually save us. What were they thinking?

 To make matters worse, many popular movies of the day had “end of the world” themes, with terrifying creatures, mutated from the fallout of atomic bombs, stalking cities and the people who lived in them.   One of my favorites was the movie, “Them.” It had a legion of giant ants killing and eating people who wandered near their nest in an underground culvert. I still get a chill whenever I hear a squeaking sound similar to that made by the giant ants.

  Maybe that's why my generation listens to the horrors of climate change portrayed on the media with a shrug, “Yeah, maybe it'll happen.” We’ll do our part, but we think it hurts zealots’ credibility, when every single snow storm or thunderstorm is blamed on climate change. It scares kids, adults too, and reminds me of Chicken Little running around yelling that the sky is falling when it was only an acorn that hit the ground. These threats of doom have caused some young couples to fret over whether they should have children and bring them into a world with hail stones the size of automobiles. We still need to enjoy life, not live in constant dread of what might be. The earth’s climate has changed many times and life has been able to adapt. We will too.  Now, get under your desk and face away from the window!   

 Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com 

Ink blots don't work. An Old Coot Article in the Tioga Co. Courier (11/10/21)

 The Old Coot can’t blot out a memory.

By Merlin Lessler

 Back in September, some classified documents relating to the Saudi involvement in 9/11 were released. Supposedly, a candid picture of what went on leading up to the attacks. Finally, we’d get to learn the truth. Not so fast! The report was redacted, loaded with black strikeouts that resembles ink blots.  Once again, we'd been hoodwinked by the bureaucratic process of redacting, blocking out the “sensitive” portions of the report. It reminded me of the inkblots on my test papers when I was in high school. That was my strategy too, to hide the evidence, of my stupidity. I didn't know it was officially called redacting. I used it frequently in my 11th grade history class. The tests I “forgot” to study for. (All of them)

 A question on the test might ask us to explain the economic impact of the Stamp Act on the colonies. I had no idea, but a response was called for. I’d reply with something like this., “The Stamp Act was enacted to BLOT, BLOT, BLOT …….” (The ink blots were created by my Parker fountain pen). I didn't fare any better than the FBI did when it released the redacted reports.  But ink blots were the only thing I could come up with. I thought it might give me a fighting chance, maybe enough partial credit to get a passing grade

 Fountain pens were in the vogue in those days. Ballpoint pens hadn't quite made the scene and our papers had to be done in ink. Parker Pens were the top of the line, at least for high school students. Especially the “Snorkel” model, where a metal tube came out of the end of the pen point when you turned a knob at the other end. You didn’t have to stick the point into the ink, and thus didn’t cause the pen to blot on the paper. I wanted the blots, so when I was in History class, I dipped the point into the inkwell as far as it could go. I didn’t do this in my other classes; just my history papers were splattered with ink blots.

 Much to my father’s dismay, a history buff who read the encyclopedias in his leisure time, the ink blot strategy didn’t work; I failed 11^th grade History. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would be interested in all that “old” stuff.  Not anymore. I’m a history buff myself, of sorts, but much of my interest of late, only goes back to mid-20^th century, where I don’t have to do any research; I lived it.

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

The Old Coot walks back in time. Tioga Co. Courier Article of 11/10/21

 

The Old Coot goes wool gathering.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here's an interesting mental exercise to undertake. I recommend it highly. It helps put things into perspective. An interesting journey of introspection. Here’s mine.

 Seventy-nine years ago, as I write this, my mother was in her last two weeks of pregnancy with me, wondering when her baby would “pop out.” Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it be healthy? Would this world war ever come to an end? Little did she know, that in two weeks, on a Sunday night, at 2 in the morning, a future old coot was to be unleashed on the world. Little did that unborn baby know, that decades later, he would be walking around town with a messenger bag over his shoulder, a notebook and pen at the ready, a walking stick in his hand and reflecting on life on the cusp of entering his 80th year. That about to be born baby, had no idea what lay ahead, a whole life of living. No idea he’d grow from an infant into a young boy, start school, evolve to a teenager (making all those stupid choices that the naïve do in their salad days), moving on through life at breakneck speed, finishing high school, college and then more college at night school, getting married, having kids, jobs, houses, cars and the material things of life. Facing losses of family and friends. Moving on, eventually blessed with grandkids, in double digits, extending the family tree for another generation.  

 Then, retiring from the work world after 38 years, and reinventing himself as a writer (sort of), starting off on a new venture, stumbling along, still with only an inkling of what may loom ahead. Stepping into one day at a time, ready for the adventure to unfold with some wisdom from the history of life to that point, no matter how small the thimble it would take to hold it. The ride can be a little bumpy when traveling in a vehicle (the human body) with so darn many moving parts, never knowing which one will decide to act up. So, on he moves, into the future, his face turned to the warmth of the sun, knowing he’s privileged to be on this journey at all. His mission is simple: live each day, appreciate it, enjoy it. Thus, is life. And, in my case, taking a moment to reflect, and write this essay.

 For more of the story, sign on to - oldcootbinghamtonmemories.blogspot.com

The Old Coot provokes a poet (A Tioga County Courier Article 10/27/21

 

The Old Coot Gets a Comeuppance

By Merlin Lessler

 This column was published in August, 2008. It’s being republished to honor the memory of Bill Schweizer who died this year at age 99. My Hero!

 I was in Dunkin Donuts the other morning. It was about six am. Nobody was around. Sunday morning was just coming up, a lazy, peaceful time. I was nestled in a chair by the window; the muddy Susquehanna was off to my right; the intersection of Front and Park was straight ahead. I counted the signs at the corner. There were 15 separate pieces of tin giving directions to three car routes, two bike routes and two local streets in view from where I sat. A lot of information to decipher while driving down Park Street, talking on a cell phone, balancing a cup of coffee between one’s knees and looking for route 17C. This is the same spot where the inspiration to write about spandex came to me a few months back. The need to ban it! It started when a spandex clad cyclist pulled up to the intersection and stopped for a red light. He was perched on a high-tech racing bike; an aerodynamic helmet that made him look like a space alien was on his head; a pair of exotic cycling shoes were bolted to his pedals. The light didn’t change! He, and his bike, weren’t heavy enough to trip the sensor in the road that would turn the traffic signal from red to green, in spite of his being at least fifty pounds overweight. He waited and waited. Finally, he got off his bike and walked it over to the pedestrian crossing button and pushed it. It gave me the chance to examine his spandex profile in depth, the proverbial two pounds of bologna in a one-pound sack. It fueled my desire to ban the stuff, at least for “athletes” of his stature.

 As often happens when I shoot my mouth off in print, I irk a few people. Ok, a lot of people. This time it moved a reader to challenge my spandex stance with a poem. A friendly neighbor who lives a few doors up the street from me penned it. He thought he could do it anonymously but as is always the case when I say I won’t mention the subject’s name, I do. Here is the spandex rebuttal poem, written by Bill Schweizer.

 I wonder what bothers the Old Coot                              

On spandex he should have stayed mute                       

Was this a confession                                                  

To hide an obsession                                                   

Or just a try to be cute                                               

           

Referring again to Old Coot                                                                             

Whose column one must refute                                     

Why can’t he find                                                        

A spandex behind                                                        

Is really a nice attribute                                                

 

The subject of spandex is not mute                               

In spite of complaints by Old Coot                               

He should not pretend                                                  

All’s well in the end                                                                                                                 

If spandex was given the boot                                        

 

As the biker went by really cruising

His spandex controlling the bruising

He yelled at Old Coot

Your column’s a hoot

But I don’t find it very amusing

 

This message I give to Old Coot

At least try a spandex suit

You’ll ride with abandon

On your 10 speed tandem

With out a suffering glute

 

I’ve finally run out of “oots”

To disparage the column by Coots

I’ll give it a rest

And wish him the best

In spite of our spandex disputes

I can't find anything - A Tioga County Courier Old Coot Article (10/20/2021

 

The Old Coot can’t find anything.

By Merlin Lessler

 I can’t find anything in my car. Where are my reading glasses? Don’t I have a tape measure here someplace? What happened to that cell phone charger? That’s what happens when I go looking for something. I finally did an inventory, starting with the glove compartment. Mine is good sized, and that’s a problem; it is so chuck full, that when I open it, half the contents spill out: car manual, stereo manual (twice as big as the car manual), maps, a CD pouch, hand sanitizer, a small ice scraper, registration & insurance cards, and believe it or not, gloves. I had no idea they were there until I did the inventory.

 But the glove box isn’t the problem. It’s that plus all the other compartments where I shove things. There is a small compartment with a door above the glove box. It contains pen, paper, glasses and earphones. Below the radio is an open cubbyhole. Not a problem since I can see the box of Tic Tacs, store cards, a paper clip and a key chain with a miniature flashlight on it.  

 There is a small storage compartment with a door to the left of the steering wheel. That’s where I found the tape measure. I also discovered two jackknives, a package of Rolaids and some toothpicks. Also, a small change purse full of loose change. It comes in handy at a drive-in window.

 

I’m not done! I haven’t mentioned the compartment in the center console. That’s where I found the cell phone charger. Also, binoculars and an emergency writing kit, in case I get an idea for an article. It contains glasses, a pen and paper. Next to the console, stuck between it and the seat, is a folded up reusable grocery bag. It’s usually still there when I get to the check out counter in the store.

 Each front door has a foot long trough that’s two inches wide. Sunglasses on the driver’s side of the car and an umbrella on the other. I won’t get into the junk stuffed above the sun visor that falls out whenever I try to use it. One last thing, the back area of the car. It contains two walking sticks, jumper cables, tie downs, a blanket, a bag chair, earmuffs and a sweatshirt. Oh yea: there is a kayak carrier on the roof; I only used it twice year.

 You’d think I was a survivalist, prepared for an environmental disaster. I decided I had to de-clutter. I took everything out and put it on a table in the garage, to sort through things and get back to basics. Probably a futile gesture. Little by little, I’ll fill it up again. Oh, by the way, as I reloaded, I discovered a small backpack under the driver’s seat. I forgot it was there. I didn’t dare look to see what was in it. I’ll deal with that during next year’s inventory. 

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot notices walking styles - A Tioga County Courier Article 10/13/21

 

The Old Coot is a stride expert. by Merlin Lessler

Old coots, like me, hang out on the sidelines and study human nature. We’re obsessed; we’re professional people watchers. We used to be doers, now we’re 10% doers, 90% watchers. As a result, I’ve concluded that no two people walk alike. Everyone has a unique stride, just like they have a unique set of fingerprints. There are two-arm swingers, one-arm swingers and people who don’t swing their arms at all. Some walk on their toes, others on their heels and some do a little of both.  

The list of variations is endless, but it all boils down to a dozen or so components, that in various combinations, determine a person’s stride: 1) body tilt to the left or right, 2) arm swings - double, single, wild, or with a hip slap, 3) giant steps, mini steps, 4) hop step on one foot or the other, 5) duck waddle, 6) knee catch, etc. etc. etc. After you see someone walk a few times you can tell who it is at a distance, a distance safe enough to engage your fight or flight mechanism. This innate skill has been genetically with us since we lived in caves; it helped us identify a member of a hostile tribe. Now, it’s used by a lot of people to avoid old coots, particularly the ones who talk your ear off, about their latest physical ailments, if you mistakenly ask, “How are you doing?” 

I’m not alone; a lot of my elderly friends switch to a description of a person’s walking style if they have difficulty coming up with the person’s name. “You know who I’m talking about,” one of them might say. “That guy who lives in the Flats, who tilts his head to the left, swings his right arm, holds his left hand on his hip and has an ankle jiggle in his right foot.” We then know exactly who he’s talking about. We can’t come up with his name either, but at least with the stride description, we don’t have to endure long pauses in conversations when someone’s memory malfunctions.

If you see an old guy, walking around with a tilt to the left, doesn’t walk in a straight line, carrying a paper coffee container and wearing a messenger bag across his shoulder; that’s me. Gawking around, watching people instead of where I’m going. Say, Hi,” but don’t ask me how I’m doing. (Unless you want an earful).

The Old Coot would like to see old/new sports. A Tioga County Courier Article 10/06/21

 The Old Coot yearns for old sports.

By Merlin Lessler

 If you’ve watched a golf tournament on TV anytime in the last several years, you’ve probably noticed that the game they play is nothing like the one you or I play. I’m not sure what species these players belong to, but it’s definitely not the same one that I do. Not with them swatting a drive 300 yards and more, lofting an approach shot from 170 yards with a nine iron and almost always landing it on the green. Then, dropping in a five-foot put with nonchalance regularity, while many of the rest of us, tremble with fear if we need to hole out a putt of that length for a par, or even a bogie.

 OK, it’s a given, they are good! Both the men and the women. But, I’d like to see them play without a caddy and have to figure out on their own, which club to use, where to aim the shot and how to compensate for the wind. They huddle in consultation so often the game is, in reality, a team sport. I'd like to see them play with a set of clubs like those used in the days of some of golf's greatest: Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan and Slammin Sammy Sneed. The same balls too. Now, that would be an exciting tournament to watch.

 Likewise, the Kentucky Derby would be considerably more interesting if the owners of the horses were in the saddle, not professional jockeys. Baseball could be more fun too, if they used equipment from the 1920’s. They took a shot at it in the “Field of dreams” game this year, but would have been so much better if they used those old mitten-like gloves without a web and balls that aren’t as lively as today’s, which garner a lot more home runs than the ones from the days of Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle. That just might get this old coot to cough up the “exorbitant” price of a ticket and a hot-dog at a major league game. 

 It wouldn’t hurt to have the NFL football players follow suit and put on gear from the 1940’s. It would be a very different game. A leather-padded helmet would no longer tempt a tackler to lead with his head and “target” a ball carrier. I bet there would be fewer injuries if today’s lethal weapons (Helmets) were removed from the field of play. Less head injuries too. None of these things will happen, but wouldn’t it be nice.

 

 

The Old Coot is of age> A Tioga County Courier Article ((/29/2021)

 

The Old Coot had to prove he was over 21 (LOL).

By Merlin Lessler

 I stood at the counter in a mini-mart in Watkins Glen with a $1.49, 20-oz can of Busch Light beer in my hand. It was part of a ritual that started years ago when I first attend the annual vintage old sport car festival, where those old beauties are on display and running through the village, following the original Grand Prix route. The clerk said, “License!” “What?” I responded. “Let me see your driver’s license or I can’t sell you that beer.” I chuckled to myself (getting proofed at my age) and opened my wallet so he could see my license. “Take it out of the holder so I can scan the bar code on the back,” he impatiently ordered. I did. He scanned. I walked out with my beer, ready to get on with my, almost annual, fall ritual    

The village officials close the main street (Franklin) and a legion of old geezers like me, flock there with a regularity that matches that of the swallow’s annual return to Capistrano (though this year they were late). Austin-Healey’s Porsches, Jaguars, MG’s, Triumph’s, and the like, take over the town. It had been 4 years since I was there, due to circumstances beyond my control. I was excited, in spite of the bureaucratic inquisition I’d undergone in the mini-mart. This was a day of freedom. In cheapskate fashion. Beer was available all along the street, but the cost was four to six dollars for a small plastic glass. Nothing like my 20-ounce, ice cold, $1.49 bargain.

 It felt like civil disobedience, walking through town sipping a beer, although only on the surface. The open container law had been suspended for the event. Still, it was a delight to pass by friendly Watkins Glen police officers, violating a law that was in effect in every other town in New York State. Not there! Not on that day! My wife and I sat in bag chairs along the road, sipping beer, eating hot dogs and watching the vintage sport cars race by. We also gawked at cars on display around town, including those in the “For Sale” lot. I’d promised not to get bewitched and purchase one, like I once did. I was happy just to look at them and be unencumbered by the open container law.

 It was a delightful day; the cars were beautiful; everyone was friendly; it was one of those rare moments in time when all is well with the world. It takes place every year on the Friday following Labor Day. Maybe I’ll see you there in 2022. You’re gunna love it!

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

The Old Coot wears his scars proudly. A Tioga County Courier Article of August 15, 2021.

 

The Old Coot is marked.

By Merlin Lessler

 When I was a kid, say in the 7- to 10-year-old range, I almost always sported a scab on my knee and elbow. Sometimes, a blackened fingernail joined the duo; it took forever to grow out. Even my socks and pant legs were marked, not by rips and tears, but with burdock balls that decorated my faithful dog’s fur as well.

 Fast forward 7 decades, and here I am, looking like that younger self. Back then the knee abrasions came from bicycle accidents – a pant leg caught in the chain while coming down the steep hill I lived on, and crashing onto a cinder side road near the bottom. All because, I was not able to push the pedal backwards to engage the brake – (no hand brakes in those days).  The scab I sport on my knee at the moment came from banging it while sitting at the table and bumping it while switching position. The one on my elbow came from walking out the back door and bumping into the lock mechanism. The other decorations I sport come from similar, seemingly innocent missteps – it’s what happens when you are an old coot.

 Like most of us old guys, I’m on a low dose, daily aspirin regimen. To keep my heart healthy. This results in small bleeds under the skin. If we bump into too many things we look like some thug beat us up in an alley. Our old skin enclosure also thins as we age. Aspirin or not. Sometimes those bruises break through and Walla! We look like a 10-year-old again. Add a suntan to the equation, further thinning the skin and we are officially “Thin skinned!” Literally! 

 Oh sure, I have some rips and tears of the bicycle accident variety, but not from falling off with my pant leg caught in the chain. Mine come from swinging it around in the garage to point it in the other direction and brushing my leg with the pedal. The black fingernail I sported all summer is something for which I have no explanation. When I was a kid, I knew exactly where it came from, a hit with a hammer while building a tree fort in the woods. I picked up the burdock walking through fields to get to and from the woods on South Mountain in Binghamton. It was harder to deal with than a cut or a scrape. 

 They say you go through a second childhood when you get old, so here I am, heading toward 80 like a rocket, looking like a 10-year-old with a bike and a tree fort.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

An Old Coot loses his cool. A Tioga County Courier Article of September 8, 2021

 

An old coot buys a Cinnabon!

By Merlin Lessler

 You see this all the time, in a grocery store parking lot, along the street in a shopping area and especially at a mall with a huge parking lot. The driver’s side door opens. An arm comes out and reaches for the roof. It lingers there for a moment or two and then tenses. A stooped, human-like form begins to emerge. Up, up it comes; soon, the entire world can see the thing that has exited the car. It’s an old coot (could be me) that’s struggled out of a decades old crate, unceremoniously held together with gray strips of duct tape. It’s like watching a chick emerge from an egg.  

 But, that’s just the beginning; the show is far from over. The old coot locks the door. Twice! Then checks it to make sure it’s really locked. He peers toward the mall entrance and heads off on a long and dangerous trek, having parked at the remotest corner of the lot. He makes it to the door, only to turn around and stride back toward his car in a panic. He dodges people in cars who dangerously back out of parking slots while chatting on cell phones. He skirts around families that insist on walking five abreast. He makes it to his car, opens the door, bends down, reaches under the seat and retrieves his wallet. It’s several inches thick, loaded with discount cards, ID’s, memory aids and a plethora of items that he almost never uses. He can prove he passed his Junior Red Cross lifesaving test 65 years ago; the crumpled, faded card is there, mixed in with a stack of discount coupons, most of which have expired. He can’t drive with the wallet in his back pocket; it makes him tilt too far to the left (not a good position for a conservative old coot), so he sticks it under the seat. Now, he jams it in his front pocket, locks the door twice, checks it, and heads back to the mall.

 Twenty minutes later, he comes storming out the door, clutching a Cinnabon box. His face is flush from a combination of embarrassment and anger. He just told the manager of the men’s department in Penney’s what he could do with a pair of khaki pants, and then threw them at him to make his point. He’d found them on a rack with a big sign that said, “50% off.” The manager came over to the register to see what the ruckus was all about. It erupted when the (snotty) clerk told the old coot that the 50% off applied to a second pair of pants. “The first pair are full price; the second pair are the ones that are half off.”

 He stomped all the way to his car, put the Cinnabon box on the roof while he unlocked the door and began a protracted entering process. It took a full minute to bend, stretch and wiggle his way behind the wheel. The cinnamon bun, that he was so looking forward to, fell off the roof and rolled under a truck when he tore out of the lot. That’s an old coot for you!

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

Old Coot stood in the corner - an Old Coot ,Tioga County Courier Article Sept 1, 2021

 The Old Coot toes the line.

By Merlin Lessler

 School is back in session – kids are wearing masks. I tried that in 2^nd grade. I had on my cowboy shirt and hat and wore a kerchief across my face like cowboys did when driving the herd. The teacher wasn’t happy with some wise crack kid walking into her class like a bank robber in an old western movie.

 “Take off that mask and go to the back of the room and stand in the corner!” I heard that a lot when I was in elementary school. I got to spend time in all the penalty zones: the corner, the cloakroom, the hall and at the blackboard with my nose touching the slate. I wasn’t a special case. All the boys got the same shrift. We were itchy in school. Itchy to get outside and play. It was reflected in our behavior. We daydreamed when we should have been learning the difference between it’s and its. We shot wads of paper at the back of kids’ heads instead of making an endless series of loops, an exercise designed to improve our writing skills. We slipped a frog out of our pocket to see how he was doing when we should have learned to spell city, CITY, instead of CITEee. Girls too, got punished, but not for disrupting class or acting like a jerk. They got in trouble for whispering, passing notes and chewing gum. A sharp word from the teacher was all it usually took for the girls to shape up. Boys needed more; I don’t know why; that’s just the way it was.  

 Discipline was progressive. “Give me the squirt gun,” the teacher might say, to start a scenario, followed by a series of more onerous punishments. “Go stand in the cloak room,” was a common 2^nd step. It wasn’t so bad in spring and fall. It was just boring, hanging out in a narrow room with 25 coats, boys on the left, girls on the right. It was worse in winter; you were in exile with 25 sodden, wool coats. The smell of wet wool drying in a confined space is a punishment that exceeds the crime. I know it well, having served many sentences in “the hole.”

 I don’t envy teachers today. They have to get the three R’s across without the behavior adjustment tools that teachers used when I was in elementary school. Although teachers were authorized to spank kids back then, they rarely did. Just knowing they could, was enough to keep us in line, most of the time. Any adult was apt to give you a whack if you misbehaved or got sassy. The whole village really did raise children back then. If your parents found out that a teacher or a neighbor had given you a swat on the behind for acting up, you got a double dose from them. Consequences were perfectly matched to the crime. Bring a peashooter to class – lose it! Talk out of turn – get scolded! Do it again – stand in the corner. One more time – a trip to the principal’s office. Next, came the most dreaded punishment of all, “Stay after school.” You sat at your desk while your classmates ran outside to play. Often, writing 100 times on ruled paper, “I will not disrupt class, ever again,” or some such thing.

 The meekest, frailest teacher in the school had total control of her room. She had an arsenal of weapons at her disposal.  The all-female staff at my school had a secret weapon too, a highly developed vise-like grip between their thumbs and index fingers. When it was applied to a cheek, an ear lobe or the tender flab of skin on the back of your upper arm, it would bring tears to the eyes of even the toughest kids. We messed up, but always with consequences.

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The Old Coot is finally in step. A Tioga County Courier Article of 8-25-2021

 

The Old Coot is lawn mower challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 My lawn mower and I are finally in sync. We now operate at the same speed. I used to walk too fast for it and had to mow a second time if I wanted the lawn to look half-way decent. Manufacturers no longer allow you to control the speed of the blade. My current, old man speed, is a perfect match for my mower. It’s missing a warning label that states, “This mower works best when pushed slowly; think baby steps, like the ones Tim Conway took when he imitated an old man.”

 I’m happy that the mower and I get along better, but I’m not happy that it shoots the grass clippings thirty feet in the air, pelting everything along the route. To fix that, I modified the side flap with duct tape to reduce the force of the spray; it helped to cut it down somewhat, but the tape starts to shred after a few mowings and needs to be replaced. At this rate, I’m going to spend more money for tape than I did for the mower.  I should have expected it; I bought the lowest price mower on the market, and got what I paid for. That’s what happens when you’re a cheapskate.    

 The other thing I don’t like about this beast, is the safety flap on the back of the blade housing. It digs into the turf when I pull the mower backwards taking twice as much of my limited strength, to pull it. It used to be easy to mow in both directions; you just flipped the handle back the other way and pushed down the next row. That came to an end several years ago when the U.S. Safety Council mandated design changes. They thought we were too stupid to mow a lawn without their intervention, making so many mandated alterations that you need an engineering degree to perform a simple lawn mowing task. They even made the gas cans so safe, that it’s difficult to fill the tank without spilling gas all over the place.  

 I have another lawn care problem that has nothing to do with the mower; it’s the people who walk their dogs and leave a mound of dog droppings in my mowing path. Maybe it’s not the person’s fault; they may have a physical ailment that requires them to use a specially trained companion dog that gives them comfort for their ailment called, “Too-lazy-to-bend-over syndrome.” Anyway, most days I have a good time mowing. I can look back when I’m done and feel I’ve accomplished something. A real highlight in the day for an old coot like me. Except when I forget to check my shoe before going in the house.

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The old coot and the "Nanny" Sate. A Tioga County Courier Article of 8/18/2021

 

The Old Coot has the Summer Blues.

By Merlin Lessler

 The nannies were on TV again today. The network calls it news; I call it a chat with the busybodies.” They don’t have a very high opinion of the general public; they think we need their advice, and a lot of it. The theme this time was hot summer weather. Beware!” Most of us can tell when a heat wave arrives; some of us look forward to it. But, in case we are too stupid to figure out what is going on, the media comes to our rescue, to clue us in and to help us handle this “difficult” occurrence.  

 They started today’s segment by parading out two pale-faced dermatologists to tell viewers to stay out of the sun. They acknowledged that we couldn’t always do that so they listed the steps we should take to prevent wrinkles, age spots and skin cancer, the one-two-three punch. We should wear hats, long pants, shirts with long sleeves, light colored & light weight clothing, wraparound sunglasses and most important of all, glob on tons of sunscreen. One doctor suggested that carrying an umbrella was also a good idea too. Then, the screen faded as a commercial on diet pills took over. It makes me wonder how our species survived for hundreds of thousands of years, working and playing in the summer sun.

 After the commercial break a nutritionist took center stage. He kicked off his segment with new commandments to supplement the original ten: “Thou shall not eat barbequed red meat –Thou shall eat no bratwurst or anything with wurst in its name – Ye shall eat fish and be happy – Do not taketh soft serve ice cream into thy digestive system, nor soft pretzels and cheese.” I don’t know about other viewers but he ruined my summer. I left the room. I couldn’t bear to hear him speak ill of hot dogs, hamburgers, speedies and potato salad. I then put skinny, pasty-faced nutritionists on my “do not listen to” list.

 The nanny show finished by introducing a fashion consultant specializing in bathing suits. Volunteers from the audience marched in front of the cameras so she could explain why they were wearing the wrong swimsuits for their body types. One by one, she did a critique: “Your gut is hanging out; Your bulging thighs look worse because your suit bottom is too small. Blah, Blah. Blah. Then came the advice: “Buy a suit that’s one or two sizes larger than you usually do - avoid low rise bottoms – mix a red top with a yellow bottom; it will distract from your body issue. On and on she went. By the time she finished with her “cover up and distract” advice, she’d might as well have pushed back the fashion clock to the 1890’s when people went swimming fully clothed. She didn’t say anything about men’s beer bellies or Speedo suits. We escaped her critical eye. The entire show was depressing; I think I’ll spend the summer boycotting the nanny shows.

Old Coot Can't Tie in Back -August 11, 2021 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot is fit to be “tied.”

By Merlin Lessler

 If you’ve been in the hospital lately for a procedure or in a doctor’s office for an examination, you might have fumbled getting into a hospital gown. The nurse hands you one, and as she walks out the door says, “It ties in the back.” Not for me! Not anymore!

 I can’t tie behind my back. Most men can’t. I stopped trying several years ago. Now I put it on so it ties in the front. My inability to tie things in the back came to light when I was in kindergarten and it was time to finger paint. We had to put on a smock that tied in the back. The girls could do it! Most of the boys went untied, unless the teacher felt inclined to help them. It’s just one of the things that separated the girls from the boys, this back tying form of dyslexia that boys have. Probably a sexist statement but I’m sticking to it.

 Boys and girls (men and women) are different. It starts right off in kindergarten; girls are way ahead of boys in maturity, dexterity and sharing. And, can handle a life time of tying, fastening   and buttoning behind the back. If men’s shirts buttoned up the back like women’s dresses do, we’d go around wearing pullovers. And, to tie a tie behind our back, like women fasten necklaces, we’d go around tieless.

 The only thing old coots like me can do behind our back, is to clasp our hands together when we impatiently pace back and forth in a line, waiting to be served. Especially at the DMV, renewing our driver’s license, hoping not to hear the clerk say, “Are you really still driving a car?”

 It is said that real men wear pink. Well, it’s also true that real men wear aprons. Us old coots wear ones with long strings, so they can be looped around and tied in front. Just Google Amazon if you want one, they have plenty. Yes, I stumble through life with a “can’t tie behind my back” deficiency, but at least I don’t get fooled by the medical community anymore. I tie in front, like nature intended, no matter what the nurse says when she hands me a gown. What do you do?

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The Old Coot is a mess. Tioga County Courier Article August 4, 2021

 

The Old Coot is a mess.

By Merlin Lessler

 I Have a Pamphlet titled, “Stain Removal from fabrics.” It was published in the 1950’s, for employees of Western Electric. It’s been in my collection of “paper goods” for years, a collection that once included a salesman’s guide from the 1930’s which outlined an extensive set of sales techniques based on a person’s facial features - chins, eyebrows, noses, ears, hair color and the like. It’s now in the hands of Mike Coleman; he uses it as comic relief when he’s in his Binghamton insurance sales office.

 But, back to the stain removal pamphlet. It’s a valuable commodity, especially for old coots like me who rarely make it through the day without picking up an assortment of food and beverage blotches on their clothes. For me, it’s most often coffee, mustard, ketchup, spaghetti sauce and ink. At least once a day, my wife points to my shirt and makes an exasperated observation, “What have you spilled on yourself now?”

 I forgot I had the pamphlet until I stumbled on it in the back of a drawer the other day. The same day I sported a blood stain on the sleeve of my shirt, the result of an encounter with the sharp edge of an aluminum ladder. I have a long running familiarity with blood stains from that sort of mishap; I knew I was in for it.  But the stain pamphlet saved me. “Dab the blood stain with Hydrogen Peroxide,” it advised. Whoosh! Like magic, it disappeared. No frowns from my wife that day!

 The next stain to arrive on my shirt was coffee. I should know better than to ride my bike and sip coffee at the same time. But the bike wasn’t really the issue. It was me. Whether I’m sitting at a table, reclining in a chair or just standing up and talking, coffee will find its way to my clothes.

 The pamphlet’s advice for coffee and tea stains is to drop boiling water from a height of three feet onto the stain, dab it with a water & glycerin solution or soak it in sodium perborate. I wouldn’t dare splash boiling water from a height of three feet; I’d end up in the emergency room. I don’t have glycerin or sodium perborate. I guess I’ll have to continue to live with coffee splotches.

 Mustard is one of the worst stains for me to deal with.  I’ve tried everything over the years, to no avail. The stain removal pamphlet was of no help. Its 1950’s era advice was useless because the solution required glycerin or oxalic acid. I don’t have, or know, where to get either. By the end of the day, my clothes resemble a military camouflage suit. I’m a stain expert. Expert at getting stains into my clothes! Not getting them out!

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

Old Coot is new language challenged Tioga County Courier Article (7/28/2021)

 

The Old Coot doesn’t get it.

By Merlin Lessler

 Emojis (those small digital icons that express emotion) have taken over the English Language. When I was growing up there were only a few symbols at my disposal - O’s and X’s, placed at the end of a note or letter to express “hugs and kisses.” It’s all that was needed. We used words for everything else.

 Then, along came an advertising genius with the heart symbol. It replaced the word, “Love” as in I “heart” New York. Mostly a lie, but it stuck. Then came a few Emoticons, smiley faces and the like created from punctuation marks on a standard keyboard. For the most part, we communicated using words, not symbols.

 In 1999 the Emoji was invented, just as text messaging was just going mainstream. A marriage made in heaven. As of the end of 2020, there were 3136 Emojis. That number is expected to grow to 3353 by the end of 2021. My problem is, I can’t decipher their meaning. I’m symbol understanding challenged, for the most past anyhow. And, how can anyone need to express 3,000 or more emotions? I only come up with a handful that are of use to me:  happiness, anger, disappointment, shock, sadness, guilt, puzzlement and the like.  Puzzlement is one I use a lot, especially when getting a text loaded with Emojis.

 We will be back to Hieroglyphics (the written language of ancient Egypt) if this trend keeps up.  Apparently, that Egyptian form of writing was even more confusing than today’s Emojis. The meaning of the picture symbols remained a mystery for thousands of years. It was only dumb luck that led to breaking the Hieroglyphic code. It happened when one of Napoleon’s soldiers stumbled across the Rosetta Stone on July, 19, 1799. Our historical record will eventually be written entirely in Emojis at the rate the number of symbols is growing. I pity archeologists of the distant future, unearthing our civilizations and trying to understand the written language.

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

Old Coot make a pitch for reading. Tioga County Courier Article July 21, 2021

 

The Old Coot is a reader.

By Merlin Lessler

 I just finished reading a Nero Wolfe book by author, Rex Stout. He penned 72 “Wolfe” episodes, starting in 1934. He lived 5 miles from me when I was in my thirties; I was near the eastern boundary of New York State, just off Route 84 in Brewster, NY; his estate was on the western edge of Connecticut, straddling both state borders. I’d heard of Nero Wolfe, but I never read one of Stout’s books. Since he was a neighbor, sort of, I decided I would read one to see what it was all about. When I did, I was hooked.

 I didn’t solve the mystery in that first one. Nero Wolfe did, and in dramatic fashion, squeezing his one-seventh of a ton frame into a special, oversized chair behind his desk in front of a roomful of interested parties. The perpetrator (as yet unnamed) was there along with the cast of characters involved in the case, Wolf’s dedicated assistant, Archie Goodwin and NYPD Inspector Cramer, who was chagrined that he hadn’t been able to solve the case. He was forced to listen to Wolf’s oration to find out who did it so he could make an arrest. The facts are there for all to see, but only Wolfe is genius enough to connect the dots.

 Rex Stout was a genius himself, just like Nero Wolfe. He created a school banking system that was adopted in school districts across the country in 1927. It afforded him the luxury of retiring from the finance world in 1934 to become a full-time author. I’ve read every book, several times. And even when I re-read one, I still fail to figure out who committed the crime. But that’s what readers love about Rex Stout’s writing; We want to be surprised, just like the crowd gathered in Wolfe’s office in the last 10 or 20 pages of the book.   

 I re-read four or five Nero Wolfe books every year, as a respite, mixed in with current novels and non-fiction. I find the journey into Stout’s world of the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s with a genius at the helm to be very comforting. It never fails to mellow me out and to suffer a little humility. I’m not sure why I’m going on and on about this. Maybe it’s a subconscious attempt to induce you to spend time with the eccentric, overweight Nero Wolfe and experience a soothing interlude in a hectic day. And, if you haven’t read a book since being forced to in high school, a journey through the 150 pages of the average Nero Wolf book just might bring you back to reading for fun.

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The Old Coot doesn't know? Tioga County Courier Article of July 14, 2021

 

The Old Coot knows the answer.

By Merlin Lessler

 Among the hardest three words to say, are, “I don’t know.” We hate that we don’t know something, when asked. So, we march ahead with an answer. Sometimes we condition it with, “I believe….” – I’ve been told….” – “I heard….” – “The word on the street is….” Or, we lie. Fake it! Make up an answer and hope it doesn’t come back to haunt us.

 Why is it so hard? To say those three little words? (This is where I should say, “I don’t know.” But off I go with an answer). We can’t say those three little words because of our egos. We’ve just been complimented by the asker, who thought we would know the answer. We hate to lose face and say, “I don’t know.”

 Politicians don’t have that problem. They never say they don’t know. Instead, they respond with a delaying tactic, “That’s a great question.” That compliment to interviewers throws them off guard. It’s called the “flatter and distract” technique. Then off they go on a long round of blather and never answer the question.

 This phobia isn’t a male or female thing. Both sexes are equally guilty of not being able to say, “I don’t know.” It’s even harder to say than, “I was wrong.” Which is what you are setting yourself up for when you answer a question with fiction rather than fact. Fortunately, saying you were wrong got easier when some clever person, probably a politician, invented the phrase, “My bad.”

 Somehow, this takes the sting out of admitting you are wrong. We hate to be wrong, but we hate even more, to admit it. Saying, “My bad,” solves the problem. I’d love to meet the person who came up with it. I asked Google. I was sure it wouldn’t know and would just throw up a bunch of web sites, which is another way of saying, “That’s a good question.” That’s what I got. I picked the one that said it came from the 1995 movie, “Clueless.” If that’s wrong, it’s “My bad.”

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The Old Coot knows when to lie. Tioga Co. Courier Article (July 7, 2021)

 

The Old Coot’s pants are on fire.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m a liar. Everyone is, but it’s something that a lot of people won’t admit. Not me! I even lie to my doctor. I’m not alone. Many of my fellow old coots do too. It starts right off when the doctor walks into the little room where you’ve waited, staring at gruesome pictures on the wall, for the longest ten minutes of your life. “How are you doing, Mr. Coot. Any issues?” What kind of question is that? To ask of an old man. Of course, there are issues, all of which I’ve come to accept over my “golden” years, and know how to live with. So, I lie, “I’m doing great!”

 “Any chest pains?” – “Not really.” Just the normal ones I get every once in a while – some could be heart related – most are old age related – indigestion or muscle aches from screwing in a light bulb. I’ve lived with these chest things for years, so no sense letting that cat out of the bag. I have a few stents – put in five years ago, so I’m an expert at listening to my body. If I didn’t lie, I’d be in for a round of unnecessary tests, probes and a battery of appointments spending endless hours in waiting and examining rooms. So, for my own good, I lie.

 “You up in the night a lot?” – “Sometimes; no complaints.” Sometimes? What a lie – how about every night! That’s the norm for an old coot. No sense in getting into a new round of appointments with a urologist. I’m not bringing up the subject until the rug between my bedroom and the bathroom starts to wear thin.

 “How are you sleeping?” – “Good. No problem.” What a lie! – I love my 11am nap – the 3pm doze reading a book – the TV shows after dinner that I mostly sleep through. I sleep in bits and pieces so by bedtime I don’t go down for a solid stretch of time. Bad sleep habits (patterns) are the norm for us old guys. No sense admitting it and setting myself up for a session at a sleep clinic, listening to a bunch of old guys snoring.

 All through the doctor visit –Lie! – Lie! – Lie! But these are healthy lies that many old coots have mastered. We’re dealing with medical professionals who have studied, but never experienced, the ins and outs of old age. It’s not a science. Old age is an art. Give me an 80-year-old doctor and I will stop telling lies.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The old coot doesn't like dog owner's image - Tioga County Courier 6/30/2021

 

The Old Coot makes a request.

By Merlin Lessler

 This is my only complaint about dog owners. Call it a PSA (public service announcement). Some of you are making our species look bad, walking around with a leash in one hand and a bag of dog poop in the other. I’m not against dogs, just the image that some of you are creating, though very much appreciating that you pick it up! Most of you, anyhow. As a matter of fact, I love dogs. Cats too. I’ve had dogs since I was three years old and my parents let me keep a stray that had been wandering around the neighborhood for weeks. They got quite a surprise three weeks later when “Lassie” delivered seven pups in our basement. We kept one and named him Topper because he left the litter, climbed to the top of the stairs and poked his nose into the kitchen.

 So then we had two dogs, mother and son. Lassie was an unrelenting car chaser. My father, a design engineer, rigged up all sorts of contraptions using wire coat hangers and twine to try to retard her ability to race after a car. To no avail. She eventually was adopted by a friend of my father who lived in the country where traffic was extremely light. This was the 1940’s after all. There were such places then.

 Topper was at my side for eleven years, except when I went to church or to school. Otherwise, he was my constant companion – in the woods camping and building forts, at the ball field playing pick-up games. Even to downtown Binghamton, waiting outside a store or the movie theater. No leash; he just plopped down by the door and waited.  I had that first love of my life until I was 14 and he passed away.  

 I’ve had a succession of dogs for most of my life; I don’t have one at the moment, but when I feel the need for some canine interaction, I go to the dog park or to my daughter’s house. There is nothing like a greeting from a dog – a happy show of affection, no strings attached. Even if you are an old coot.

 That’s a long route to get to my point, but I’ve been taking lessons from Andy Haefer on how to string out a short story. He’s leaving town, moving to Georgia, so I plan to carry on his storytelling tradition. Back to the point! I’m asking the dog owners who are walking their dogs and carrying a bag of you know what, to put the bag in an old purse with a shoulder strap or in a small messenger bag, so the aliens who watch us from their UFO’s don’t assume that dogs are the superior life form. It’s up to you to save us Earthlings.

 Comments – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com