The Old Coot is an Early Bird. A Tioga Courier and Owego Pennysaver Article of December 28, 2022

 The Old Coot is out of time.

By Merlin Lessler

 Our clocks were set 20 minutes ahead when I was growing up. My mother didn’t want us to be late: for school, for church, for doctor’s appointments, for city busses, for anything. She started this time trickery at 5 minutes; when we caught, on she moved it up another five and finally ended it at twenty minutes.

 My sister and I looked at the clock and subtracted 20 minutes. A lot of families set their clock ahead, though I think our twenty minutes was at the extreme end of the spectrum. It was a be-on-time era. Punctuality was highly valued. I still have an ingrained impulse to deduct 20 minutes when I look at a clock, I have to consciously turn it off, even though it’s been 60 years since I left home. I’m still stuck with the “be-on-time” mentality. That never left me. Most of the time I’m early. It goes along with the aging process. That old adage, “The early bird gets the worm,” is a credo for old coots. 

 If you have a party that’s scheduled it for 7 pm, you can expect the old coots to show up at seven on the dot. The rest of your guests, the polite ones, arrive at 7:15 or later. That punctuality mentality and clocks set ahead worked for us when we were kids growing up. We didn’t have smart phones or smart watches. Our watches were dumb; they didn’t keep good time, especially when we forgot to wind them. We relied on house clocks set 20 minutes ahead.

 My mother’s generation wasn’t alone in her quest to control time. Today’s population does it too, using the invention of the snooze button on alarm clocks in the late 1950’s, to gain that same 20 minutes my mother was after, but for more sleep. Off goes the alarm - you hit the snooze button and get five more minutes of sleep. You do this four times in a row. Welcome to my 20 minute world! How about the time-shift sham we adopt by setting the clock an hour ahead every spring, to pretend the day is longer. It makes my mother’s paltry 20 minute shift look lame by comparison.

 My wife, Marcia, and I recently crossed the Atlantic on a cruise ship from the Mediterranean Sea to Fort Lauderdale. Every night we were told to set our clocks back an hour. It was great! We got an extra hour of sleep every single night, for five nights in a row. That was the best snooze alarm ever!

 Comments, complaints Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot saved his sight. Tioga Courier and Owego Pennysaver of 12/23/2022

 The Old Coot didn’t shoot his eye out.

By Merlin Lessler

 I didn’t shoot my eye out. Not with a BB gun anyhow. And, not in one of the many BB gun wars we waged in the cow pasture to the west of Denton Road on Binghamton’s south side. (The area is now populated with houses, but back then it was a war zone in the summer, a toboggan & ski resort in the winter). No, I did it much later in life, when a tree branch shot back into my eye on a riverbank in Owego. But that’s a story for another day. An old coot story. This is a kid story.

 My, didn’t shoot my eye out story took place after I’d paid my dues for years and finally waited expectantly, like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, to find a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun under the Christmas tree. I’d posed for dorky Christmas cards with my sister Madeline, year after year. I’d forgone my desire for a BB gun and asked for eye safe toys: footballs, sleds, board games and electric trains. But when I turned 10 in 1952, I decided it was time to launch the campaign. Woody, my friend from the next block, had access to BB rifles and BB pistols. I used him and his gun friendly parents as the centerpiece of my case. But, things looked pretty glum. My mother batted every pitch I threw her way out of the park. “Woody has one, why can’t I?” - “Because you’ll lose an eye!”  This was before the term “shoot-your-eye-out” came into vogue. You lost things in those days. Your eye. Your arm. Your life.

 “No I won’t! Woody didn’t!” She pointed out that Woody wore glasses; his eyes were protected. Something I knew all too well. Especially after so recently doing the dishes for 25 cents every night until I’d earned three dollars to pay for the pair I’d broken in one of our backyard disagreements.

 “We don’t shoot at each other. We just pretend to shoot,” I argued, lie that it was, with me sporting a tender, red-rimmed pockmark from taking one in the leg just that morning.

 “We only shoot at stuff,” I said, adding to my lie. She was too smart for that one. She was as concerned for the “stuff” as she was for my eye. She knew the stuff included dopey robins that sat still while enduring shot after shot. Squirrels that scampered back and forth making the game even more exciting. The glass window pains in Mr. Soldo’s garage, Mrs. Bowen’s tulips and the Merz’s dog. But, I had an answer for all those damaged goods. It was home made arrows that errantly misfired in a game of cowboys and Indians. “A BB gun is accurate; it would never damage stuff, ” was my weak-brained argument.

 The whole thing was of her making anyhow. She’s the one who dressed me in cowboy suits since before I could walk, who equipped me with 2 six-guns and helped me mount a wooden rocking horse in the driveway with my faithful dog Lassie at my side. How did she not see this growing into lust for a weapon that could really fire? A BB gun!

 Christmas finally came, in those waning days of Truman’s presidency. It took what seemed like years, those four weeks following Thanksgiving, when the count down started. But it came, and on Christmas morning, under our tree was a three-foot long, slender package with my name on it. I saved it for last. I unwrapped the mittens knitted by my aunt in Connecticut. And, like the other pairs she sent every year, they were too short and would leave me with red, raw wrists when I played outside in the snow and cold.

 Next came a pair of ski pajamas, the fashion rage of the day. Then, a big surprise, a radio of my own. A radio for my room, so Woody and I could listen to Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, Suspense and The Shadow in private. Finally came the long skinny box. I tore off the paper. The carton underneath didn’t say Daisy Air Rifle: it was unmarked. I didn’t care; I’d settle for an off brand. I pried open the lid and pulled out the weapon. A single shot, ping-pong ball rifle! You gave it a pump and it hurled a ping pong across the room.

 My chagrin lasted less than an hour; I found the lemonade in the lemons. I could shoot at people. I could shoot at stuff! I no longer have that eye-safe, engine of warfare from the 1950’s, but, I do have a BB gun, a Daisy Red Ryder Carbine, No. 111, Model 40. My wife, tired of my complaining, found it in an antique store and gave it to me for Christmas, the same year A Christmas Story aired and Ralphie got his. It’s a little scuffed up and the squirrels laugh out loud when I stand guard at our bird feeder, but it shoots just fine. And, I haven’t shot out my eye out! Now, if I could only get the old south side warriors together, the Almy, Burtis and Spangoletti brothers, Woody, Warren and Buzzy, for one last BB-gun battle, my story would have a perfect ending.

The old coot has good medical input. A Tioga Courier and Pennysaver article of 12-14-2022

 The Old Coot wants his Doctorate Degree!

By Merlin Lessler

 This is how I think the medical system should work: - A three -legged stool. One leg is the delivery system – doctors, nurses, PA’s, NPA’s, X-ray technicians, pharmacists and the like, trying to help us through a condition or to prevent one. The second leg is the research system – universities, pharmaceutical labs, specialized hospital centers, scientists and out of the box thinkers, coming up with how the body actually functions down to the microscopic level and developing drugs, mechanisms, diets and surgical interventions to help manage a person through a condition or to avoid one.

 The third leg, the missing one, is us, the patients. We have valuable input that never makes its way into the system. If the delivery system (doctors) asked their patients what they have done or are doing, to cope with a chronic aliment, they just might uncover a valid coping mechanism that could be passed on. For example, if they asked, “How are you managing the arthritis pain and swelling in your fingers? Have you found a way to reduce or eliminate it?” They might stumble onto a new technique. - “I cup my hands under a hot water faucet and work my fingers around for a full minute or two. The pain level goes down and flexibility improves.” That sort of intelligence might get into the system.

 Patient input could be uploaded into a computer system, gathering “home remedies” from millions of patients for a variety of conditions. Research teams and statisticians could then compile, analyze, evaluate the input and then pass it back to the delivery system. And, also produce PSA’s (public service announcement) for the media dissemination. Us old coots have a wealth of untapped, out of the box, coping strategies which we share with each other. But, we’re the only interested parties, because we know the value of hard earned coping wisdom. A huge wealth of practical medical information is contained within the entire patient base, yet it never enters the delivery system. This missing leg is a big loss to society!

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot misses the headbands. A Tioga County Courier and Owego Pennysaver article of 12-07-2022

 The Old Coot “heads” into the past.

By Merlin Lessler

 I saw a guy on the beach wearing a headband the other day. It surprised me. Jolted me! I forgot all about them. A sweatband from the past. It was like seeing a ghost. What happened to sweatbands – those semi-elastic, terrycloth loops that athletes wore. And, by athletes, I mean anyone who went outside and moved on foot, in a wheelchair, pushing a walker or a bicycle, whatever. Moved in any way at all. It was a signature fashion statement that said, “I’m an athlete!”

 If you went to marathon, there would be a sea of joggers wearing head bands. This was the era before the baseball cap took over America. Head bands ruled in the 70’s and 80’s. I had several in my jogging days: white, black, blue, tri-color. They were very effective at keeping the sweat on your forehead from running into, and burning your eyes. I guess they went the way of the earmuff, another head piece you hardly see anymore.

 You could buy headbands anyplace: sporting-goods stores, department stores, gas stations, grocery stores. It was a world of sweatbands. Now, it’s just a fashion dot in history. Discarded and buried with no funeral. Yet how did this happen? They were so useful and looked cool! It made a statement, not just a fashion statement, but a sign that the wearer moved around enough to perspire. 

 I miss them. I checked around to see if they were available in our local stores. No luck there. I’ll have to go on Amazon, something I’d rather not do, but it’s often the only place you can get things you’re looking for without running all over town, breaking out into a sweat. And, without a headband!

 Ps. – You just might spot a headband a basketball game. But, that’s about it.

 Comments? Send to mlesssler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot takes off the gloves. Published 11/30/2022

 The Old Coot says stop the madness.

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s time to take off the gloves. The latex & rubber gloves that food-handlers are forced to wear, either by their employers or local health department bureaucrats.  Unfortunately, neither party is adept at undoing wrong-headed policies that prove to be ineffective. Prohibition didn’t stop the sale of alcoholic beverages; 55mile per hour speed limits didn’t stop cars from driving 65. Making marijuana illegal didn’t stop the sale or consumption. Prohibition took 13 years to undo. The 55 mile per hour speed limit took more than two decades to undo. Mary-Jane sales have been illegal by federal regulation since 1970. (Though some states are bucking the rules.) History is ripe with examples of the turtle pace at which bureaucratic institutions move to correct failed policies. While society at large says, “What took you so long?”

 The same scenario is playing out with the overdone rubber glove mandate. I was in a PUBLIX supermarket the other day, to get a loaf of their five grain, Italian bread. (Try it; you’ll like it! But you have to be in the southern part of the country to find a Publix) There was only a single loaf on the shelf, and it wasn’t sliced. I took it over to the bakery counter and caught the eye of a woman in the back sweeping the floor. “Can you run this through the slicer,” I asked. “Sure,” she responded. “I was just tidying up while a new batch of bread is in the oven.” She reached over to a box of gloves, yanked two out, wiggled them on, picked up my loaf of bread and took it out of the plastic wrapper. “Don’t you hate putting on those stupid gloves?” I asked.  She said she hated it, had to do it many, too many, times a day. Half the time they rip, especially at the wrist when there is any resistance to getting her fingers in.

 What a dangerous world I grew up in?. NO RUBBER/LATEX gloves. Cooks, waiters, bakers handled food barehanded. It is amazing that our species didn’t come to an end. Yet, here we are now, a germophobic society, absorbing hand sanitizer chemicals and putting food handlers into gloves. For no reason!  We actually need interaction with germs, bacteria and other non-sanitized substances. It’s how the body builds its defense mechanism. We are sanitizing ourselves into health challenges. (That’s not a scientifically proven hypothesis, just common (old coot) sense.) If we lived before the hyped up glove advocates took over society I guess we can turn back the clock and survive.  (A question – What about the germs on the bread wrapper that were transferred to the baker’s gloves? Where did they go?)   

Who is that guy? Old coot Tioga County Courier article of 11/23/2022

 The Old Coot meets his match.

By Merlin Lessler

I was on a cruise ship, sailing from Civitavecchia, Italy across the Atlantic to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. When I was approaching a set of glass doors I spotted an old guy coming toward me from the other side.  Not only old, but drunk, from the look of him. He listed to the right, staggered ahead a few feet and then listed to the left. Sure, the ship was rocking a bit, some swells were in the 10 to 15 foot range, so all us passengers had some difficulty walking in a straight line. But, this guy was all over the place.

 As I got closer to the glass doors I started to plan a route to avoid a collision, but every time I went to my right he staggered to his left. We seemed to be in perfect sync. When I was ten feet from the door I got a rude awakening. I wasn’t approaching a set of glass doors; they were mirrored doors. It was me I’d been watching, thinking it was some old drunk.

 Now I know why some of the people on the ship turned around and went the other way to avoid me looking like a drunk old coot. I was cold sober when I confronted myself in the mirror. I admit I have balance issues, caused by neuropathy in my lower legs and feet that causes those nerves to trick my brain, telling it I’m tilting to the left when actually I’m not leaning at all. The brain listens to the signals from my feet and makes a correction by pushing me to the right.

 So, I’m a little challenged when it comes to walking in a straight line; when you add a ship that rocks back and forth you get a drunk looking guy, staggering down the hall. I’m OK, now that I’m back on solid ground. The listing walk pattern is not that noticeable, especially if I’m carrying a walking stick to use as a reference point; it tells my brain to chill. If you confront me walking around town, don’t be afraid of the drunk coming your way. Look at my T-shirt that says, “I’M 80 – AND NOT DRUNK!”  

The Old Coot hits 80. A Tioga Co. Courier & Owego Pennysaver Article of 11/16/2022

 The Old Coot passes a milestone.

By Merlin Lessler

 This week I turned eighty. I actually considered myself at that milestone in May, when in 1942, my mother was three months “with child” and my kicking had begun, letting her know I was anxious to get going. In my mind, I was six months old when I emerged on November 15. Thus, this past May I started thinking of myself as an octogenarian, which was delightfully reinforced on Father’s Day when my wife, kids and grandkids executed a total surprise birthday at the Belva Lockwood Inn, in the Village of Owego NY, where I reside in a 217-year-old house – as creaky and cranky as myself.

 At any rate, in May, infused with that reinforcement in July, I adopted an eighty-year-old attitude – a trump card that I can play in fun and seriousness. It gains entry to many things – “Oops, I’m sorry, I’m eighty,” when I’ve stumbled into and knock over a display of mechanical toys in an antique store. That sort of thing. Along with special orders in restaurants and access to the children’s menu, where prices and portions are more suited to an octogenarian. (“I’m 80 and more like 8,” when it comes to dining out.)

 I couldn’t do that stuff when I was in my 60’s or 70’s. Not even at 79. But now that the calendar matches my mental state, a new world has unfolded for me on my journey through time. I loved it when I submitted this article, # 1,001. I started writing as the Old Coot in 2002. My goal was to see if I could come up with an article every week, for a year. Look mom! I outdid myself!

 I start an article with a “germ” of an idea, sit down with pen and paper and let my subconscious brain take over, often surprising myself with what it drags out. The process digs deep into the psyche and dregs up opinions I didn’t know I had. (A lot cheaper than lying on a couch in a psychiatrist’s office.)

So, now that I really am 80, and look back on all the stumbles it took to acquire a small source of wisdom, I’m just happy to still be in the game. In spite of traveling in a high mileage vehicle with over 27,000 days on the odometer. Mine, as everyone’s life, is a journey from ignorance to wisdom, if we only just get it when it stares us in the face, instead of waiting till it slaps us up-side the head. Thank you for reading.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot blows his horn? A Tioga County and Owego Pennysaver article of October 19, 2022

 The Old Coot Wants a friendly car horn.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was driving down the street minding my own business the other day, well, that's not exactly true; I never mind my own business, but anyhow, I was tooling along when I saw a neighbor walking his dog. He waved and I pressed the horn, but it didn't make a sound. I didn't push it hard enough. I tried again, but nothing happened. It finally worked, but by then I was past him and coming up to a young woman pushing a baby carriage. She gave me a dirty look and sped up the street to get away from the "jerk" blowing his horn at her. This happens to me all the time. The horns on today's cars are rude.

I guess it's because the button sits on top of the airbag. When you want to push the horn, you have to shove the whole airbag mechanism hard enough to make contact with the horn circuit. You can't give it a gentle tap. You can’t toot a friendly hello; you have to slam your hand down and blast the horn. It’s why we have road rage in this country. It's not due to stress in people's lives; it's due to the crappy horns that the automakers install on our vehicles. Blaring horns make people mad.

 They don't have road rage in the Caribbean. I've been to several of the islands over the years and can attest to the lack of road rage. They have good horns on their cars, the kind that can give a friendly toot and they use them all the time. All it takes is one cab ride to get the picture. The driver toots, as he pulls out - toots as he approaches another car - toots when he turns - waves and toots when he asks to be let in at a busy corner. The horn is a friendly device in the Caribbean Islands.  

 I’m considering installing an auxiliary horn in my car, put a button on the dash so I won’t have any problem finding it. Then I'll be a friendly “Caribbean” driver, not a rude American. I'll be out there tooting to my friends, giving old fogies a gentle reminder that it's OK to go right on red. I did this to my father's car when I was a teenager, except I put the button under the dash so he wouldn't notice, and mounted a blaring truck horn in the engine compartment in an inconspicuous place. I used it to scare people, in the true spirit of a teenage idiot. The horn became history the day I blew it while I sat behind the wheel and my father had his head under the hood checking the oil. I just couldn't help myself. I wanted to see if the old guy could dance. He could. He waltzed me out of the car and stood watch while I dismantled the modification to his prized Edsel.

Old coot wants a new tune. A Tioga County Courier & Owego Pennysaver article.

 I like music. It doesn’t dominate my life but there are many songs I enjoy every day and more and more every year. But not Rap, or polkas. I just can’t get on board. There is one song I hate. I hear it a lot. Whenever I get to a venue while the band is setting up.

 It goes like this, “Check, check one, two, three - Check, check, one, two, three.” One verse would be fine, but most bands go through that single stanza time after time. It takes a lot of checking. I’ve asked the singers of that tune if they ever thought of trying different lyrics and mix them in. Like, “Test, test, A,B,C - Test, test Alan Bob Chuck.” That’s my crude suggestion; it’s most often ignored. I just hoped I could spark a bit of their musical creativity to come up with a different “Checking” protocol.

 It’s why I prefer bands with acoustic instruments. A lot less check, checking. They just tune their guitars and play. They do something else that I’m partial to - their volume doesn’t blast me out of the room. I’m told to get over it - it’s an old person’s complaint. But I’ve discovered that people of all ages have the same issue. They want background music that lets them carry on a conversation, not force them to shout and say, Huh,” over and over. Let loud music be the thing for concerts and let customers in a bar or restaurant, expecting background music, have the last word on the volume. It could happen if the band said, “Check, Check, Alan Bob Chuck. And, then let Alan, Bob or Chuck in the audience, decide if it’s too loud.

The Old Coot is fading away. A Tioga County Courier & Owego Pennysaver article of 10/05/2022

 Just call the old coot, “Shorty!”

By Merlin Lessler

 “The Incredible Shrinking Man” was a hit movie in 1957, at least for me and my 14-year-old friends. Now, I’ve discovered I too, am an incredible shrinking man. Incredible, because I’m becoming “The Invisible Man” as well. Just like the character in the comic book of the 1950’s of the same name. But, more about my invisibility later – first, I’ll deal with the shrinking factor.

 I was over six-feet tall when I graduated from high school. I stayed that way, for decades, I guess; I don’t know for sure because they don’t measure your height when you go to the doctor; they just weigh you and then ask how tall you are. I didn’t know I was shrinking. I had a disc in my back removed and lost some height. And, I got old, which is the big factor in this shrinking phenomenon. I asked the nurse to measure my height a few years ago. The measuring device is right next to the scale, but they don’t use it on adults. “You’re five-eleven and one-half,” she said. I was surprised; I’d slipped below the six-foot mark. The number I’d used on a multitude of forms and applications over the years was a lie.

 This year I asked again, and learned I’d shrunk even more – “You’re not quite five-eleven.” Our bodies settle over time, like those rusting hulks of old cars you see in the country, slowly sinking into the weeds. I needed to change my pant-leg size from 32 inches to 31, but they don’t make them in a 31. So, I now have a wad of cloth nestled on top of my shoes. I don’t know how far this will go; I just hope I’ll be around long enough to be called “Shorty.”

 Now back to my invisibility. People my age, strangers and acquaintances alike, smile, nod or say something like, “How you doing?” when we pass each other on the sidewalk. People under 30 look right through us old coots when we pass, as though we were invisible. I got used to it at first, but now it’s also people in their 40’s and 50’s who see right through me. Little by little, I’m becoming completely invisible. If you are walking down the street or sitting at a table in the Owego Kitchen and a voice from nowhere says, “Hi” Just reply, “Hi Shorty; how you doing?” and go about your business.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot's war with Father Time is ongoing. A Tioga Co. Courier And Owego Pennysaver article, 09/28/2022

 The Old Coot’s at war.

By Merlin Lessler

 I can relate to the war between Ukraine and Russia, in a way only an old coot can. I’m Ukraine and Father Time is Russia. America is the team of medical specialists, helping me withstand the onslaught. I’m bombed and attacked from the north, south, east and west. It’s a blitzkrieg that I face. One sector gets settled – my sore elbow repulses the attack and the Russians go after another with a missile raid, attacking the knuckles in my right hand, flaring up the once dormant arthritis. My knuckles are the focus of my attention and continue to ache because I use that hand all the time, to swing a hammer or a golf club, untwist the top on a jar or turn a screw driver. Though, it does come in handy when asked to perform an unpleasant task. “I’d love to help, but the arthritis in my hand is so bad I can’t.” Or, to explain why my golf ball went into the woods.

 When my hand is under siege, I get no help from America, except to be told to take a pill and ease up on gripping things. Then, Russia takes advantage of my preoccupation and starts bombing my knee. Making me limp and yell, “Ouch,” at every misstep. My hopes of getting aid from America are dashed when they say, “We can replace the knee, it is bone on bone after all.” But I don’t want a replaced knee, not yet, anyhow, so I shrug and say, “No thanks,” and work on it myself, with an elastic sleeve and PT exercises.

 But the Russians aren’t done with me. They go after the north quadrant, hitting me with red, itchy eye that feels like a speck of metal is stuck in it. America comes through this time with some defensive weaponry, a bottle of high-quality eye drop medication. In a few days, I’ve pushed back the Russian assault. All is calm in the north. Then, they bomb my memory, agility, balance and reflexes. My weakest sectors. But that’s where their air attack stalls. I can cope with the damage, but it looks like a long war ahead with no treaty in sight. That’s OK. I’ve prepared for this war all my life.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot goes the wrong way to the past. September 29, 2022

 Old Coot finds magic on Parker Lane’

By Merlin Lessler

 I drove down Parker Lane the other morning. It’s a narrow, one-way street in Owego, NY, well-marked, to keep cars from entering from Front Street. But that’s what I did! I’ve been told by locals, which I’m not, though I’ve lived here for 36 years, that Parker’s Lane wasn’t always a one-way street; you could enter from either end. I just had to see what that was like, so I defied the one-way arrow, and slowly worked my way to Main Street. It was a one block journey, but what a lovely ride.

 I swear it’s a magical port that takes you back in time, like it felt to me when I first wrote about in 2004. I’d defied the one-way sign back then, though on foot and in a swirl of an early morning fog. I swear I saw the shadowy figure of Justice Parker striding from his back door to an awaiting carriage, the outline of horses munching hay in his backyard and foundry workers shuffling to work with tin lunch buckets clutched in their hands. Smoke from ancient chimneys seemed to hang in the air.

 Parker Lane wasn’t always blessed with such a melodic name. In the early 1800’s it was called Camp Alley. Henry Camp owned the corner lot at Main St. where he operated a foundry that was destroyed in a fire. It was rebuilt on Front Street across from what is now the Parkview Inn. The foundry produced engines and machinery that were used in the local steamboats that hauled goods up and down the Susquehanna. It too, caught fire and burned to the ground. The fire spread and destroyed all the houses on both sides of Front Street from the bridge to the alley.

 Nathan Camp, Henry’s uncle, owned the parcel of land that abuts the alley on the west. He too, had an impact on the village, but his contributions were positive.  He started the first library in 1813, and was one of the founders of the Ithaca - Owego Turnpike Company, an endeavor that helped expand trade. He sold that lot in 1829 to Harmon Pumpelly, who built an impressive brick mansion, which still graces the site today. It eventually became the Residence of John Parker and his wife Stella Pumpelly. The street was renamed in Parker’s honor after his death in 1873. He was a 2-term congressman and a Supreme Court Justice. 

 It only takes a minute to walk down Parker Lane, but a minute in this time warp seems longer. You emerge relaxed, calm and ready for the day. A final irony greets you as you exit onto Main St. The street marker for Main, the longest most active road in the village is one foot long; the marker for Parker Lane, the shortest and least used pathway is twice as big. It may be that the hands of the sign maker were guided by a force beyond his control, a force that wanted to remind us that the lane is important too, a connection to the past. Take a minute some time and see if the magic is there for you.

The Old Coot is happy to be dumb. A Tioga County Courier and Owego Pennysaver Article - 9/07/22

 The Old Coot grew up in the dumb generation.

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s been quite a while since I spent time in Martha’s Vineyard, but the memory is fresh. I spent my mornings on a bench with a cup of coffee at the harbor in Edgartown. There is nothing like sitting on the dock in the early hours. The waves gently lap at the pilings; boats rock with the beat; shore birds perch on piers and sea ducks weave through the trash carelessly tossed into the drink by thoughtless tourists. Sleepy bankers, lawyers and stock peddlers stumble out of BMW’s, Jaguar’s and Audi’s, and head for the charter boats. Upright fishing poles stand at attention to greet them.  Well used boats line the docks, with names that reflect the owner’s point of view: Splendid, Tenacious, and my favorite, My-Old-Lady. The Wall Street titans, decked out in Armani shorts, Chap’s shirts and 300 dollar boat shoes are greeted by local boys, sailors and fishermen alike, smoking Camels and sporting jeans, work boots and stained T-shirts, one with an inscription, “Will trade wife for boat.”

 It’s the meeting of two tribes: the blue-collar clan that makes things work and the white-collar clan that reaps most of the fruit. Hands are shaken. Grips made strong from swinging hammers and turning wrenches are matched with grips firmed up from grasping tennis racquets and swinging golf clubs. Money changes hand and off they go. Their crafts create a wake that give the tethered vessels a goodbye wave. Uniformed waitresses sit passive, killing time before their 8 A.M. shift in the Yacht Club, catching a few precious rays before they spend the day under manmade light. An old coot sits to my left, in knee socks and sandals, reading the Wall Street Journal and saying, “Howdy,” to every passerby.

 A father came by one morning, pushing a boy and a girl in a double stroller. He was wearing a pair of gray sweat pants rolled up to his knees, sandals, a sixty-dollar T-shirt and drinking diet ice tea from a leather ensconced water bottle. A group of ducks floated into view. I expected him to say, “Look at the ducks!” But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Melissa, can you count how many ducks there are?” “Tree!” she answered. “No, count again,” he replied. “Two?” she said this time, trying to please her mentor. “Right; you’re a good counter Melissa.”

 But he was wrong. There were three ducks. He couldn’t see the one peeking out from behind the pier. She could. So, he just taught his daughter how to count wrong. We have such a hard time these days, letting kids be kids. We have to make sure they can count, say the alphabet, write their name and otherwise be prepared for kindergarten. We were lucky, my generation. We were brought up dumb. We learned all the stuff in school that today’s kids know before they get there. And, we stayed dumb. We didn’t learn to read until first grade, had no homework until seventh grade and took college courses in college, not high school. We were lucky; we grew up dumb.

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The Old Coot is a victim? Tioga County Courier and Owego Pennysaver Article of 9/7/22

 The Old Coot’s world is shrinking.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m not a conspiracy theorist, though I was one for a while when I was a kid and learned that the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny weren’t real. An, then came the biggest lie of all, told to me by my mother when I was five years old, and on a gurney, waiting to go into the operating room for a tonsillectomy, “Don’t be afraid; the doctor will take a rose out of a drawer for you to smell and you’ll go asleep. After it’s over you can have ice cream.” WHAT A LIE! No rose, just the same ether the ear doctor used when he put me out to puncture my ear drum when I had an ear ache. Ice cream? It was two weeks of swallowing hell before that came true.

 OK, there really was a conspiracy going on to ease me through childhood. But today, I don’t believe in the conspiracy theories that infuse society in general, and social media addicts in particular. UNTIL NOW! It has dawned on me that the fashion industry is executing a full-blown conspiracy. A conspiracy between designers and manufacturers to use less cloth in their garments.

 My Irish heritage has cursed me with skinny arms. I was OK when short sleeve shirts came down to my elbows. The one I put on the other day, barely made it past my shoulder, exposing my chicken bone arms to the world. It is why I often wear long sleeve shirts in the summer and roll up the sleeves to stay cool, literally and figuratively.

 But, the exposure of my skinny arms isn’t the point. The conspiracy that is going on to reduce the amount of material in garments is real. A little bit of cloth here, a little there, adds up to an enormous amount of cloth the manufacturers don’t have to buy. And, it’s not just shirts, pants are so skinny that men look like they are wearing tights. Shorts are shorter. No longer down to the knee, but working their way up the leg. Who knows how high they will go. This garment industry conspiracy is just like the food industry conspiracy that has been shrinking the size of cans, cereal boxes, ice cream containers and just about everything else. The world is shrinking around me! Or, am I just paranoid?

The old coot lost his soap. An Owego Pennysaver Article of 8/31/2022

 Old Coot’s in a Lather!

By Merlin Lessler

 I started this gripe in 2005, Article # 86. Now, 17 years later, I’m still complaining, Article # 993. It’s because I miss soap. I miss bar soap to be specific. We have liquid soap at our house, even in the shower. It’s a revolution that’s taken over the country. I don’t know how it happened. I wasn’t paying attention. One day the soap dish was gone; in its’ place was a liquid soap pump in a decorator jar. I feel like I lost a good friend.

 Bar soap is a hapless victim in the war between the sexes. Apparently, it irritated millions of women over the past several centuries as it sat in soap dishes covered in grime and handprints. Male hand washers never learned to clean up the soap after using it. We never even noticed that it was filthy. We washed, we dried, we went on our merry way. First, our mothers and then our wives cleaned up after us. It took ten seconds to rinse off the soap and put it back in the dish, but we never caught on. Now, it’s too late; our bar of soap is gone.

 I hate liquid soap dispensers. I get my hands wet and then reach over to the pump, hoping against hope that some soap is left in the container. You can’t tell by looking. This was never a problem with bar soap. A quick glance was all it took to know there was enough soap to get the job done. Now, it’s a crapshoot. I pump; nothing happens. I pump again; nothing. Six more pumps and a dribble of soap finally makes it to the tip of the nozzle. Now, I can wash my hands. The pump is filthy from all the contact with my wet dirty fingers. I scrub and shrug. The liquid soap isn’t as good as bar soap. You can’t dig your nails into it to do a good job on the dirt that gets trapped underneath. It smells funny too, like lilacs or oranges or something pleasant. Soap should smell awful. It shouldn’t make you want to eat it.

 Our latest dispenser ejects a stream of foam; you don’t have to work up a lather with your hands. The soap company figured it’s too hard for customers to do it. I miss all the old bar soaps: Octagon, sand-laden Lava for grease-laden hands, Yellow Soap to bite on when you said those words that made our mothers cringe, Palmolive, Dove, Dial, Camay and Ivory. It was a bar soap world, now overtaken by lather in a jar.

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The Old Coot gets soaked. A Tioga County Courier Article of 8/224/2022

 The Old Coot broke his O-ring.

By Merlin Lessler

 I had a blow-out the other day! Not the tire on my car. It was my travel mug that blew a gasket. Most mornings, when I leave the Owego Kitchen, I get a warm-up to accompany me on the walk home. Refills are free with the purchase of coffee. Kind of nice! I claim to use a thermos mug because it saves paper cups and helps the environment, but I really do it, because I want my coffee to stay hot for the rest of the morning so I get a “walk-home” refill. I’m a cheap skate who knows a good deal when he sees it.

 Anyhow, I put the travel mug in my messenger bag that also holds a notebook loaded with ideas for Old Coot articles and a wad of half written ones. I made it across the street and into the M & T Bank parking lot when I felt a wet stream running down the side of my leg. I looked down and noticed my shirt was wet as well.

 A quick check into the bag solved the mystery; it wasn’t me that was leaking fluids, the mug was the culprit. Though it usually is me, with blood leaking out after bumping an arm or leg on a sharp edge. It’s what happens when you have thin, old man skin. Coffee soaked the bag and then me. Did I leave the stopper open? Did I forget to tighten the lid? No! It was the O-ring that seals the top; it was bent out of shape. “Good,” I thought to myself, “It isn’t my fault.”

 I lumbered home, through the village in wet, coffee-stained pants and shirt, hauling a drenched shoulder bag. Now I’m home, in dry clothes, writing this, happy as a clam. If my clothes come out of the washer with stains, it won’t be my fault (for a change) and I won’t hear my wife say, “Tsk, Tsk,” or be referred to as the Stain Man. The twisted out of shape 0-ring was repaired by a skilled surgeon on the operating room table in our kitchen. It’s back in service, ready for action and I can walk through town with some semblance of dignity.

 Comments? Send to mlesssler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is delayed even more. A Tioga County Courier Article of 8/17/2022

 The Old Coot discovers a new twist to the “Goodbye Process’”

By Merlin Lessler

 The “Goodbye Process” was first named in a June, 2009 Old Coot article. It was a process I’d witnessed for decades but never knew what to call it. I described it using the following example. A man is at a party and he hears his wife say, “Are you ready to go,” he runs for his coat, blows a kiss to the host and hostess and heads for the car. Twenty minutes later, he comes back inside looking for his wife. “I thought you said we were going!” For him, goodbye is simple, say goodbye and go, for her, it’s a process, one that involves making the rounds with each person at the event, be it a small cocktail party or a large wedding reception. On the “goodbye” round, all the previous conversations are recapped and put into a state of suspension, allowing them to be revived at a future date. The husband tags along, adding nothing to the process. He resembles a five-year-old child tugging at his mother’s skirt on a shopping trip whining, “Can we go now? Can we go now?” (Men also initiate the goodbye process, but nowhere near as often as women, at least in my unscientific study of the phenomenon.)

 I’ve noticed a change in the process, making it even longer. Picture taking! At the very last second of the goodbye process, just when the husband (or the wife, sometimes) thinks it’s over, someone will say, “Oh! I forgot! Let me get a picture of you guys.” (Also, not a sexist statement; “guys” today means people, both men and women.) So now, the ten-minute goodbye process is extended, increased by 50% or more. A “picture” is not about to be taken, but rather, a series of pictures with different combinations of “guys” – with multiple cell phones put into action. Pose, pose, pose – Snap, snap, snap.

 Is that the end? Probably not. It often affords enough time for a “I forgot to tell you” topic, starting a whole new conversation. That’s OK with me, I’m in the car as soon as I hear those words, listening to a podcast. I know what to expect and come prepared. I’m no longer that 5-year-old child, tugging at my wife’s skirt.

 Ps. – Comments from readers  about the recent “string” article included using string, stretched between two tin cans to transmit sound, the game of cat’s cradle and a substitute for a fishing line and rod, wrapped around a notched block of wood with a sparkplug attached as a sinker. I’m sure there are more. If so, send to mlessler7@gmail.com  

 

 

Old Coot goes on a visit. A Tioga County Courier Article 8/10/2022

 The Old Coot visits a peer. (a nice name for another old guy)

By Merlin Lessler

 I stopped in to visit John Bowen the other day. To compare notes on the aging process. It’s always nice, not to be the oldest guy in the room. John and I share the same birthday, “day,” but not the same year. We learned of that coincidence at a Fire Police meeting, or maybe it was at an Ambulance Squad meeting, neither of us can remember.

 We also discovered that both of us went to Binghamton Central High School and that Helen Foley was our English teacher. She was Rod Serling’s mentor, of Twilight Zone fame. Her work with us was more basic; she taught us to say isn’t instead of ain’t and why a sentence with a double negative not only sounds bad, but it turns the negative into a positive. “I don’t have no money,” means you have money. Ain’t that cool?

 We also discovered we both were in Alpha Zeta, a high school fraternity on the order of Delta Tau Chi in the movie, Animal House. We were more interested in having a good time than doing good deeds. We both spent considerable time in the principal’s office and also mastered the art of sleeping in class by resting our forehead on our hand, with our elbow on the desktop, making it look like we were staring down at the text book on our desk.   

 It was no surprise to learn that we each spent too much time in the Lottis brother’s pool hall, a half block from the school. We just did it a decade or so apart. There’s nothing like shooting at the money ball in a game of nine ball with a Lucky Strike cigarette dangling from your lips, squinting because smoke is in your eyes, a week’s pay as a soda jerk on the line. It was a great visit and a trip down memory lane. I hope one of us remembers it.  

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The Party Process - by the old coot 08-03-2022

 The Old Coot knows how to party’

By Merlin Lessler

 You’re invited to a party! Great!  It’s time to start the “Party Problem Process. The first step is to answer the question, “Do we want to go, yes or no?” If no, what will be your excuse? If yes, then on to step two - What time should we get there? That’s a complicated one, an internal conflict for old coots who were brought up to be on time. So much so, we usually get to things early.  

 But the Party Problem Process is different. Today’s norm is to come a little late. Never early or never on time. If you do, you might discover the host or hostess is still in the shower. The issue becomes something different. If you get there on time (15 minutes late) you get first dibs on seating, food and drink. There won’t be a crowded grazing table or a slow beverage line. A good plan? Maybe that’s the way to go. Or is it?

 Coming late has advantages. Getting there at 3:30 for a 2:00 to 4:00 affair. You get to pick who you sit next to, not get stuck next to a blabbermouth, or a bore. And, especially not with Mr. never-says-anything, making you so uncomfortable you become a blabbermouth. Coming late has risks. You might miss the shrimp bowl, the stuffed mushrooms, the good wine. But on the plus side, you gain the opportunity to help the host clean up and get a chance to take home a mountain of leftovers.

 “Please take some of this food; we have absolutely no room to store it!” That’s music to our ears! “Are you sure?” we ask, hoping to get the right answer. “Yes, We’re sure. We’d be so grateful if you would.” “OK,” you reply, running to your car to get the shopping bag full of empty food containers you brought with you. When you come late, come prepared. LOL

 The last challenge in the Party Problem Process, is figuring out how to dress. In today’s society, the range of options is very wide. In the old days, the good old days, it was simple. Picnic = dress down. Afternoon affair = business casual (if that is even a valid term anymore). Evening event = dress like you’re going to church (another term from the dark ages). It’s not easy, this Party Problem Process. But, if you do it right, you’re guaranteed to have a good time. And maybe, asked back again!

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The Old Coot strings you along. A Tioga County Courier article of 7-27-2022

 The Old Coot remembers the “String” era.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was looking around for a piece of string the other day, to seal a paint brush in a plastic bag, so I could use it again. I found a ball of twine in a box of seldom used odds and ends. It probably sat there, unappreciated for months. We don’t use string much these days. Or rope either for that matter. But both were once vital to everyday life.

 We used it all the time when I was a kid. A ball of string was in the kitchen, in the garage and I had one in my room. Mom wrapped our sandwiches in wax paper and tied them with string. It was the same thing the butcher did when you went to the grocery store; the meat purchases were wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string from a giant ball on a spool, right there on top of the counter. No plastic bag problems in those days. No plastic bags.

 Kids couldn’t live without string. We needed it to make a bow from an unseasoned tree limb. How else could we play cowboys and Indians? Fix a yoyo with a broken string? Fly a kite? String was the thing. You needed it to pull out a loose baby tooth, tie one end to the tooth and the other end to a door knob. Then, get your courage up and slam the door shut. Kids, and adults too, tied a string around their finger to help remember to do something. Our moms used it to tie turkey legs together and to sew up a flap so the stuffing stayed in the bird.  

 Rope too, was invaluable when I was growing up. The kind we used, clothesline rope, was made from cotton. It wasn’t like today’s rope, made from plastic that unravels when you cut it; the end has to be singed to keep it from fraying. We couldn’t dry our clothes without rope, held up by a pully on the house and a pole off in the distance or lines of rope fastened to the basement ceiling.

 We used rope to tie up the “bad guy” when we played cowboys and Indians. We got pretty good at it and the “outlaw” often had to beg to be untied. But it was no problem for our dogs to get free when we tied them to a tree; they just chewed through it.

 You had to have rope to pull your Flexible Flyer up a hill. And, especially when you were brave enough to come down the hill, standing up. It’s how you steered and kept your balance. We needed it to jump rope, with two people spinning a long piece of rope, while others jumped inside the arc. I’m sure we used string and rope for a lot of other things. Maybe you can add to the list.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot digs deep. An Owego Pennysaver Article of July, 23, 2022

 The Old Coot is skin deep.

By Merlin Lessler

 Whenever I’m in the little waiting room, after first doing time in the big waiting room, I’m told, “Just sit here; the doctor will be right with you.” Well, that never happens. You’re going to wait. I don’t sit there like a dummy, as instructed, I get up and check out the room, wondering if they’d miss a pair or two of those latex gloves or any other useful medical items laying around; gauze, bandages and the like. Not the high-ticket items.  But I leave the gloves, not worth the embarrassment of getting caught red handed, though they really should let us to take what we need for what they charge for a visit.

 Instead of pilfering, I switch to education, study the charts on the wall or those replicas of body parts: the human heart, the knee, hips, finger joints, eyeball, ear canal, tooth structure, skin layers and the like. You can see from my list; I’ve been in the offices of many different specialists over the years. Most old guys have.

 It never ceases to amaze me, all the stuff going on inside the human body – hidden by a protective covering of skin. All those complex functions, monitored and controlled by a part of my brain that runs things while keeping me in the dark. We get a peek inside every once in a while, when the doctor shows us an x-ray, cat scan or MRI image. We’re a gooey collection of tissue, muscles, bones and organs, each with specific duties. Highways of red blood vessels carry food, oxygen and other substances to where it’s needed, and blue vessels coming back for more.

 It’s an interesting exercise to look down at yourself and try to visualize what’s going on under the skin. It looks so calm from the outside. I have a half-size skeleton that’s been with me for decades; I study it whenever my framework gets out of kilter. It helps me understand what might have gone wrong. It came with a red bulging disc between L4 and L5, long before my disc, at that location, put me on the operating table. Irony? Or maybe Voodoo? I also have several anatomy books to help understand issues the doctor explains to me in a foreign language, Latin. I go home, open the book, and figure out what he said.

 If you have friends over thirty and you can’t figure out what to get them for their birthday, give them an anatomy chart that works its way, layer by layer, from the skin to the skeleton. They will love it even more each year, as they approach, and then get well into old coot age.

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End of an era. Old Coot article of 7/13/2022 (Tioga County Courier)

 The Old Coot marks the final end to an era

By Merlin Lessler

 This is the 13^th anniversary of the demise of the mailbox at the corner of Front and Ross Streets. The crumbling, leaning cement post it once hung on, fell down after all those lonesome years and was removed just a few days ago. The following is what I wrote when the mailbox was removed in 2009.  

 She’s gone! You could see it coming. She knew too much, too many secrets. Two burly guys came by in the afternoon, wrestled her to the ground, threw her in the back of a van and took off. Now, all we have left, is a stone monument, slightly askew, marking the spot where she proudly hung. The little blue mailbox on the corner of Ross and Front was taken from us. Ripped out of the neighborhood. Ripped out of our lives. No longer efficient, a victim of changing times.

 I don’t know how long it was there. They don’t keep records on that sort of thing. I asked postmaster Dave Clark. He didn’t know. He said that it wasn’t used very much; some days there was nothing in it, some days just a few letters, never more than a handful. One neighbor said it was there when he was a kid. Another thought some sort of mailbox had been at that location for 100 years or more. I know for sure it was around to collect letters from loved ones to soldiers in Europe, Africa and the South Pacific, fighting the war, the big one, WWII. “Dear Billy, I hope this finds you well. We’re praying for you. The scrap drive was a big success. We collected 100 pounds of copper. Dad ran out of gasoline coupons so we didn’t get out to the farm to see grandma this week.”  If only it could talk. What stories it would tell! But it is no more. Modern technology made it obsolete; lack of activity forced it into retirement.

 A few neighbors used it faithfully, several times a week. Now I watch them walk down the street to mail a letter in a box that isn’t there. They stare dumbfounded into the empty space on the pedestal for a minute or two, wondering, “What the heck?”  The mailbox sat outside my kitchen window, in a direct line of sight from my perch in the kitchen, a perfect set up for a nosy old coot. “There’s Mrs. So-and-so,” I would yell to my wife. “Must be they are back from Florida.” Or, I’d report, “Mr. Been-around-a-long-time just mailed a letter. He was walking pretty well, no limp. Looks like he’s fully recovered from his hip replacement surgery.” It was more than a blue chunk of metal. It was the neighborhood “watering hole,” a place where we caught up with each other, a place where we exchanged snippets about the grandchildren, the latest round of aches and pains, and tips on where to get the cheapest gas in town. It was more than a mailbox. And, we miss it.

 It’s where we put our letters to friends and relatives; it’s where we paid our bills and filed our income taxes, back when everyone did their own.  Electronic filing, electronic bill payments and e-mail put our mailbox out of business. It’s a done deal! It’s gone and there is nothing I can do about it. Except complain! And that isn’t getting me anywhere. Everyone I complain to says the same thing, “GET OVER IT!”  So, Good-bye Old Blue!!

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

The Old Coot turns 80, almost - A Tioga County Courier Article of 7/6/2022

 The Old Coot Fails a Pop Quiz.

By Merlin Lessler

 I had a SURPRISE, pre-80^th (six months prior) birthday party a few weeks ago. They seem to come so fast when you’re an old coot. Not at all like the year when I was 15 and counting the days until I could get a permit and drive my “old man’s” sedan. That year took an eternity. But after I turned fifty, the years began to fly; ten minutes later I was signing up for Social Security. My birthday cards are loaded with “old” jokes. They cause trouble for old coots like me. Not because of the “old” jokes, I’m used to that stuff. No, they cause problems because I don’t know what to do with the cards after I open them. And guess what? There are rules. Most men don’t know it’s impolite to tear open the envelope, read the card, smile, chuckle and throw it away. That’s a serious violation of the rules. You are supposed to save it, put it on display on your dining room, or your mantle if you have one. You can’t toss it in the garbage. And, if you are smart, you’ll memorize what it says. For the pop quiz that lurks in your future. You’ll know the quiz has started when you hear someone say, “Did you like my card?” If you didn’t follow the rules, you can only lamely respond, “Yes I did. Thanks you very much.” That won’t work, not when the sender asks, “Did you think the little dog with the eyeglasses was funny?” Now, in big trouble, you feel like a kid again, slumped down in your seat with the teacher standing in front of your desk staring down at you as you squirm and get ready to tell her the dog ate your homework.

 You can redeem yourself. You can go home and read the card again. Do your homework, so to speak. When you see the person who was nice enough to give you a card, you can mention the little dog wearing eyeglasses and the chuckle it gave you. You might add a statement or two about how funny other people thought the card was. This might earn you enough credit to get your pop quiz grade raised from an F to a D.  Which is quite an accomplishment. For an old coot.     

 The rules aren’t specific about how long you should keep your birthday cards on display. I go with a two-week rule. But, that won’t work for everybody. Old coots who don’t get out much, should keep the cards for a month or more, because they may not get to some of the pop quizzes for several weeks. They can bone up for the test every time they leave the house. They won’t have to use the, “I had a senior moment and can’t remember your card,” defense. They can ace the test!

 When the viewing period has run its course you are permitted to throw the cards away. But, only a foolish old coot would do it. Smart ones put them in a drawer so they can pull them out a week before their next birthday and do their homework. When they get hit with this year’s pop quiz they can compare the new card to last year’s. “I thought your card with the little puppy last year was the funniest card I ever saw, but this one, with the snail tying his shoe laces, is funnier yet!” It’s techniques like this that get you into the old coot, hall of fame. I only have one request. When I get inducted, please don’t send me a card.

 Ps, The party was great! Even better than my 7^th when I was surprised with a pair of Hopalong Cassidy cap guns.  

The Old Coot can read the "read." A Tioga County ny Article of 6/29/2022

 The Old Coot is book smart?

By Merlin Lessler

 I wandered into a “Hudson Books” store at the airport in Sandford, Florida the other day. I didn’t know Hudson was still in business. So many bookstores have gone out of business over the past few decades; it’s a pleasure to find one still in business like Riverow Books in Owego. Anyhow, there I was with an hour to kill, walking around and checking things out: candy bars for $3.50, gum for $2.00. Airport prices are high on everything; food, booze, you name it, they clean out your wallet.  Nothing like a captive audience and merchants with monopoly power. But we pay it. Have no choice.

 The book store drew me in. I could kill some time; see what book I might want to add to my reading list and get it from the bookstore or the library when I got back home. The display of books in the airport was the best I’d ever seen. Perfect for an old coot. The books weren’t on the shelves edgewise; they were facing front. You didn’t have to strain to read the title like you do when tilting your head to the right in libraries and bookstores. It’s even worse at a yard sale where some are right-side up and others aren’t

 All this straining, because the publishers refuse to line up the letters on the spine of the book in a vertical, top-down alignment or in smaller horizontal letters. Instead, they make you crane your neck and stretch to the right to see the title and author. It’s not so bad for the top few rows but by the time you get to the bottom, you have to squat, get down on your knees and finally, lay down on the floor and do a military crawl from one end of the rack to the other. When I walk around in public after a book search, I’m listing to the right, my neck is bent in the same direction, dust is on my knees and the rest of my clothes are soiled and rumpled, you get the look! The one that says, “What has that old coot been up to? Is he homeless?

 What is it about book publishers? Literate, educated to the point of being highbrow and with all the knowledge of the world passing through their hands, yet they haven’t figured out how to print titles on books so you can read them when they’re stacked on a bookshelf?

 And, what about the poor authors whose books end up on the bottom row. A modern-day Shakespeare could go undiscovered. Readers just don’t have the physical fortitude to squat low and risk tipping over on the off chance a book title or an author’s name might catch their eye.

 Well, at least the Hudson Books people have figured it out. Turn the books so customers can shop with ease and stack the duplicates behind them.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

An old coot's throwback Saturday

 The Old Coot visited the 1950’s

By Merlin Lessler

 I had a throwback Saturday this past weekend. 1950’s style.  Saturday chores for a working father; mow the lawn, make household repairs, empty mouse traps, wash the car. Those sorts of things. I started by washing the cars (plural). That was a rarity back in the 50’s. Most households were “nuclear” with working dads, stay at home moms, 2.5 kids. The car was the “family” car. I started by taking out the rubber mats, revealing pristine carpeted floors. It wasn’t like that back in the 1950’s. Most cars came with a cheap, black, rubber floor covering. A carpeted floor was rare, a luxury, something to be bragged about. Most car floors today are carpeted, but usually hidden and protected beneath rubber mats, preserved for the next owner, just like those living room sofas that once were protected by fitted, clear plastic coverings.  

 Washing a car in the 50’s was finished off by shining the chromed, steel bumpers. No more – ours are plastic and don’t shine and can hardly withstand a bump in a parking lot, costing anywhere from $1,500 to $5,000 to repair or replace. Those old steel bumpers could withstand a substantial bump and could also be used to brag about where the vehicle had been. A bumper sticker that said, “This car climbed Mt, Washington,” for example,

 Lawn mowing, the second chore I undertook on my throwback Saturday, was done with a power mower. In the 1950’s a hand-powered reel mower did the job. The edge trimming, that finished off the chore was done using hand powered clippers. Sidewalks were rid of clippings with a broom, not a noisy leaf blower. It was an era when you got your exercise without going to a gym.

 Saturday was also a day for haircuts, grocery shopping and trips to department and specialty stores for shoes, clothes and lunch in the store’s cafeteria. Most stores stayed open late on Thursday evenings in many communities, with special sales to lure shoppers into town. It took the pressure off people’s Saturday agenda because Sunday shopping was out of the question. It took the pressure off people’s Saturday agenda. Only pharmacies and an odd gas station or two were open for business on a Sunday. It was a day of rest, a break from the hassle, reserved for church, family dinners, relative visits and Sunday drives, which are frowned on today, considered bad for the planet. People dressed up on Sundays and young boys like me, got in trouble for the grass stains on our pants from skidding into second base in a sandlot game of baseball.

 Yes, it was a different world in those days, but my throwback Saturday was a delight. Try it sometime.

Old Coot and a 1953 Ford - A Tioga County Courier Article of 6/15/2022

 The Old Coot’s first car was a beauty.

By Merlin Lessler (A south side kid, now an old coot)

 I bought my first car in May, 1962 from Jack Tyler, a classmate in the Electrical Technology class at Broome Tech (now SUNY Broome). The campus consisted of four classroom buildings and a combination cafeteria – gymnasium-hang-out area and a quad.  

 The car was a 1953 Ford convertible. Jack couldn’t get it started and left it in the parking lot at Cloverdale Dairy on Conklin Ave., one block to the east of Telegraph Street. It sat there all winter, buried under a pile of snow.  Jack couldn’t get any takers, so he let me have it for $60, taking a loss from the $350 he’d paid for it a year earlier.

 My friend, Jimmy Wilson, and I dug it out, jumpered it from his car and twisted the ignition wires together in the Ford, since there were no keys to this beauty. It didn’t start. Out of gas? No, the gauge read half full. We had a brainstorm, try some dry gas. It did the trick; the car started right up; I backed it out onto Conklin Avenue and it quit. I added another can of dry gas and I drove one block to the gas station at the bottom of Telegraph Street, pulled to the pump and added 10 gallons to the tank. At 26 cents a gallon it nearly emptied my wallet of the three dollars I had left after buying the dry gas. The gauge still read half full, yet another of the imperfections of this, my greatest treasure, a 1953 Ford convertible. No Keys to the ignition or the trunk -a non-functioning gas gauge a heater that didn’t work and the motor to lift the convertible top was missing. “Why,” you ask? “Would you buy such a beast?” Did I mention it was a convertible?

 I solved the trunk key problem by taking out the back seat, crawling into the trunk and fastening a cord to the lock so I could open it from inside the car. The Ford had one other problem – a bad spot in the starter motor. If it landed on that spot when I turned it off, it wouldn’t start; I had to get a push, or if I’d parked on a hill, pop the clutch and get it going. It was a game of Russian Roulette, except with a starter motor, not with a gun.

 That car took me through the summer of 1962. Many trips to Quaker Lake with the top down and the wind rushing over me. To my first real job, at Compton Industries on the Vestal Parkway and into marriage in January, 1963. It was parked on the hill outside my parent’s house, waiting for us in six inches of snow when we came out the door after a small in-house reception. Off we went on our honeymoon, only fifty dollars to our name, a car with no heat, no keys, a top that had to be yanked up by hand and a bad starter. But for us, at that age, it was, “No Problem!” We were living the dream. I sold it in the fall for $100 and bought my first of five VW Beetles. Brand new with a thirty-seven-dollar monthly payment. It seemed the mature thing to do since we were expecting our first child in December and needed to become real grown-ups.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot loves blisters! A Tioga County Courier Article of June 8, 2022

 The Old Coot walks in style

By Merlin Lessler

 I broke in a new pair of sandals the other day. Without socks! Young guys often wear socks with sandals. Black crew socks. It used to be the old fogies who did that – now, it’s sort of nuevo chic. But old guys don’t want to look like those old fogies we laughed at when we were the young guys. So we don’t wear the black socks. Like that’s going to fool anyone.  

 Anyhow, I had these new sandals on my bare feet, all day. Walking around; riding my bike, mowing the lawn. I ended up with blisters! – “Great!” I said to myself. Now I have something to complain about on Tuesday, complaint day for the old guys I hang around with. We got tired of listening to each other’s belly-aching every day, so we restrict it to one day a week. Sometimes on the off days, we have nothing to talk about.

 Those sandal blisters would be perfect for my turn. It’s a double complaint. First, I can discuss the issue of frailty, how my whole darn body is falling apart. It isn’t quite there yet, but it sure feels that way sometimes. The blisters will allow me to complain about the thin skin, something that happens to you as you age. An innocent bump into a sharp edge gets us scampering for a tissue to blot up the blood and a band aid to stop the flow.

Then, I could shift my complaint to the sandals. “They don’t make them like they used to,” sort of thing, and then move on to other poorly made things. Grocery bags, for instance, that I have to purchase when I forget to bring my own (which is usually the case). If you grab one of today’s bags by the top edge, to heft it up so you can get your hand under the bottom, the chances are pretty good that it will tear open, causing contents to spill all over the checkout lane. I’ve been that guy, holding up the line. It isn’t fun! Anyhow, those blisters from my new sandals, made my day.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot remembers old cars. A Tioga County NY Courier Article of June 1, 2022

 The Old Coot and old cars.

By Merlin Lesssler

 Could you drive your car if it didn’t have power steering, power brakes, power windows? A windshield washer, air conditioning and wipers that don’t slow down when you step on the gas to pass a car or go up a hill. Not to mention those frill items: power seats, heated seats, heated steering wheels, GPS, FM radios and high beam headlights you turn on and off with a switch on the steering wheel, not a foot pedal to the left of the brake pedal. You could do it, but the difficulty and inconvenience would surprise you. Yet, that’s the way cars were in the 30’s 40’s 50’s and into the 60’s.

 Some people, most people living today, never rolled down a car window using a hand crank. Or experienced that long lean to the right, to reach over and roll down the passenger window or to get out of the car and into the back seat to crank down those windows. At least back then, there were vent windows in the front that would send a blast of air across the driver and passengers. It was better than nothing.  

 I walk around looking at those beauties from the 40’s and 50’s at car shows every year. Longing for those good old days, until I get in and take a spin. They aren’t the same as today’s cars. It feels like you are driving a big old dump truck. You almost need to learn to drive all over again. Gas prices weren’t an issue back then, even with cars getting less than ten miles a gallon. Not with a gallon of gas costing 26 cents.  

 Everything is so different now. Back then, trucks had a hard time getting up to the speed limit, and on a hill, they struggled all the way to the top. You didn’t have to worry about a speeding behemoth barreling by, blowing you off the road like you do today. You did have to be patient, waiting to come to a long straight stretch of road so you could pass one of those slow-moving commercial vehicles. The roads had only two-lanes. The four-lane highways had yet to be constructed. That change started during the Eisenhower Era in the late 1950’s.    

 We buzzed along at the 50-mph speed limit, with all the windows down on a hot day, and only the three people in the front seat benefiting from the blast from the vent windows. We had to hop out and clear the windshield of slush splatters in the winter and install metal chains on the back tires. Turn signals? Back then you signaled by sticking your arm out the window to indicate you were turning to the right or left. It’s hard to imagine driving in those “good old days.” Even for me! And I was there! 

 Comments? – mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot gets an alert. A Tioga County Courier Article of 5/25/2022

 The Old Coot has an internal check engine light.

By Merlin Lessler

 The check engine light comes on in my car every so often. It freaks me out. I started driving back in the 1950’s when “Idiot Lights” first appeared on the dashboard, replacing gages. Instead of an oil pressure gauge, that showed when oil pressure was getting too low, a red light came on. The same thing with engine temperature. Both lights signaled “DANGER! - Pull over and shut off the car or your engine will blow up!”

 So, us old guys are programmed to react when a light on the dash comes on. It signals trouble. These days we still have “idiot lights” in the form of a yellow engine icon. It tells us that something isn’t working right, but won’t say what it is. Our first reaction is to go nuts. Then, we remember it’s something minor like a malfunction in the emission control system; we don’t need to panic unless the light is blinking. Knowing that doesn’t help. We get perturbed whenever we see that yellow icon. Even the warning that the air is low in a tire is an annoyance. To avoid the aggravation, many of us cover it up with a piece of black electrical tape. Out of sight, out of mind.

 Old coot’s brains have check engine lights that come on too, whenever a body component misfires. A chest pain, for example, “Is it a heart attack or a sore muscle?” An ice cream brain freeze, “Is it a brain tumor or a stroke?”  We can’t cover those signals with black electrical tape, but we do the next best thing. We use denial to put them out of mind. These alerts pop on and off every other day. We expect the worse unless the warning is a familiar one and we know it’s just a minor malfunction that will go away, or one we’ll get used to.  Sore back? No problem. Had that signal before, just have to ease up for a few days. Emergency spinal surgery not required.

 I had a new one the other day; I heard a clicking sound as I walked. At first, I ignored it. But it wouldn’t go away. “Is it an ear issue or is one of my joints acting up? Ankle? Knee? Toe?” It haunted me all day. The mystery was solved when I did the unthinkable, for an old coot anyhow, and took off my shoes in the middle of the day. I discovered a nail imbedded in the sole. Mystery solved. I pulled it out, reset the check engine light and went on with the rest of my day.

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

Old coot's age in months. A Tioga County Courier Article of 5/18/2022

 An old coot is how old?

By Merlin Lessler

 I was in the Owego Kitchen the other morning, as usual. A young mother at a table near me had a toddler with her. I asked how old he was. “He’s 27 months,” she replied. I couldn’t figure out what 27 months meant. I had to convert it to something I could relate to. I said, “Oh, he’s a little over two.” I wish parents of young children would use terms the rest of us could understand. I bet they would be confused if us old coots used months to measure our age. I wonder what the mother of a 27-month-old toddler would say if I told her I was 941 months. Would she have any idea what that meant? Not without a calculator.

 I blame it on the pediatricians. They track a baby’s progress using their age in weeks. Eventually, they switch to months, sometime after the one-year mark. Parents seem to stick with the monthly system; the rest of us have to do the math to figure out how their kid is. They don’t make the transition to years soon enough. I suggest they adopt a conversion table to communicate with the rest of us. For the first couple of months go ahead and use the weeks measure for visits to the doctor; convert it to months for the rest of us. After the first year, stop using the month measurement, start using half years or approaches to a new birthday, such as, “He’s two and one half.” Or, “He’ll be three in October.”

 You can use years and half years until age 7. Then drop the halves. At age 12 you should start lying about his age; keep him12 for as long as you can. Just say he’s big for his age. It gets him in the theatre at half price and cheaper meals in restaurants (he can order from the children’s menu. I do that, or try to, but that’s an issue for another day). After that era, you have no control. He’ll do the lying all by himself. At 16 he’ll say he’s 18 to get into R-rated movies. At 19 he’ll swear he’s 21, to buy a beer at college. When he’s forty he’ll lie in the other direction and claim that he’s in his late 30’s.

 When he turns fifty, and gets used to it, gets over the shock of being half a century old, he might start lying in the other direction. Add a year or two to his age to get a feel for what’s to come. When someone (usually a liar) says, “Oh you don’t look that old.” He can fess up, “Well, I’m really not, but I will be in October next year.” It’s what us old coots do to prepare for the upcoming fireball on our birthday cake. Eventually he’ll slide into the old coot age. For me it was when I turned sixty-two and signed up for social security. We shift to a new measurement system, using decades and scores. It’s payback time, from the times we had to figure out how old a kid was when we were told he’s twenty-seven months. I’m three score, a decade and a half, plus a few years right now. When I’m four-score I’m going to buy myself an old Jeep Wrangler, to celebrate the milestone. I’ve had three Wranglers over the years; I miss the attitude you get when you drive one. It makes you feel like you’re one score again.

 Send complaints, comments to mlessler7@gmail.com