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