Old Coots aren't OK - Tioga County (NY) Courier Article 1/26/2022

 The Old Coot is “OK.”

By Merlin Lessler

 A kid racing around like a wild maniac falls on his face; the parent (at least in my day) immediately says, “You’re OK!” Usually, the kid pops up and goes off running. Thinking he is OK, and learns to accept a level of pain or discomfort and moves on.  Football, soccer, baseball, hockey, basketball and other coaches use that same technique. “Walk it off and the hop over to the bench and we’ll tape you up.” (And push that bone that is sticking out back into place).

 It works with kids. I still see a lot of moms and dads using the “you’re OK” technique. It doesn’t work with old coots. When we stumble, we’re not Ok! Yet, we still engage our inner-child when someone rushes over to ask, “Are you OK?” Whether we’re Ok or not, our embarrassment overpowers reality, and we respond, “I’m OK.” We have not accepted our aged infirmity and state of fragility.

 I fell flat on my face while walking on the beach last year. I claim I just stumbled, that my foot caught in the sand and in spite of using a walking stick to avert a fall, I went down so fast I didn’t get a chance to use it.  A nice young couple rushed over to see if I was OK and to offer to help me back up. “I’m fine, thanks. I just need to sit here for a minute.” When they were out of sight I started the process of getting up from a bed of soft sand. It was a perfect imitation of a newborn colt standing for the first time. It’s an engineering marvel to raise an old coot from a horizontal to a vertical position. Something we coots don’t want anyone to see, if we can help it. 

 When I got back home I told my wife I had a close call, which by then I’d increased its severity to a nearly fatal fall on the beach. Her response, after hearing yet another of these incidents was simply, “You’re OK!”

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The Old Coot wines a little. Tioga Co. Courier Article of 01/19/22

 The Old Coot is a freedom fighter. Sort of.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m sitting in a café at a Publix Supermarket called “Pours.” I guess it was named that, because you can get a “pour” of beer or wine, and sit & sip, or shop & sip. I’m having a large coffee and an apple fritter. The cost was three dollars and two cents. I paid with a five spot and got back two dollars in change, not one dollar and ninety-eight cents. I hate getting large amounts of change like that but, I bring it on myself; I never remember to carry change with me and end up with a pocket full of it when I get home. I toss it in a jar and there it sits, lonely and forgotten. I appreciated the clerk rounding off my bill; it’s a nice customer service and only cost the store two cents.

 This cafe is immaculate, operating room clean. And quiet too, in spite of it being open to the store and just a few feet from the registers. I like the way they do things in this country, Zip -32176. You want a bottle of wine to go with that French baguette? Just slip over to the wine aisle and pick one up – not leave and go to a liquor store like in my country, Zip -13827.

 That’s the way it is here – the laws and regulations are consumer driven, to a degree. Stop in a pharmacy for a prescription and a bottle of shampoo and guess what? You can swing by the wine rack for a vintage bottle of red on your way to the register. Same thing in Wal-Mart, Target and other retailers.

 In my country, where the governor had to practically be dragged off his throne, the politicians have wrestled with the issue of where you can buy wine for many, many decades. But the lobbyists always win out, not the people. I’m not a wine connoisseur, or even much of a fermented grape consumer, but it irks me, brings out my freedom fighter instincts, that we let politicians tell us where we can buy things.

 It’s the little, everyday stuff “they” never get around to, stuff they aren’t even aware of that cause inconvenience and frustration. And, we’re not energized enough to make a fuss over it. We just accept it; that’s the way it is. So, here I sit, gloating and happy in this foreign land, enjoying the freedom of choice. I’ll finish my fritter, take what’s left of my coffee and peddle home on my bicycle. Not with a bottle of wine, but with the satisfaction that if I’d wanted one, I could have bought it right here. Kind of nice!

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The old coot happy place. A Tioga Co.NY Courier article 1/12/2022

 The Old Coot found his happy place.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m in a “time out” zone at a large shopping mall. I call it the husband corral. But, like Brer Rabbit, when Brer Fox and Brer Wolf threw him into a briar patch, I’m in my “happy” place. (Can’t relate to the Brer Rabbit comparison? Too far back in time for you to have heard of it? Then, look it up, Google it. Go to YouTube and watch the Brer Rabbit & the Tar Baby episode.)

 Anyhow, when I’m in a mall on a bench, I’m happy; I’m doing my favorite thing: watching people and writing. Men in their first shopping time-out, fidget in their seat and complain about it to us old guys, but we offer no sympathy. They have to learn to entertain themselves when in the husband corral. We did. Some of them were sent to the corral because when they tagged along with their wives, they acted like a five year old, tugging at mommy’s skirt and asking again and again, “Can we go now?” Time out on a bench is what they get for their whining.

These new recruits whine out loud, “She said she’d be right back.” That’s what they heard, but not what she meant. A translation of “right back” doesn’t have a numerical value; it can vary from five minutes (something that almost never happens) to thirty minutes or more. It’s fun to try to guess when a time out sentence will conclude. And, to wonder if the sentence will be commuted, or that you will go on parole and moved to a new time out zone outside a different store. I’ve played the guessing game for decades, wondering how long my sentence would be. I seldom guessed right.

 But I don’t care; I’m in my “Happy Place,” and today it gave me this essay. The most important part of a new recruit’s training is to apply the Boy Scout Motto, “Be prepared.” Prepared to entertain yourself on a bench by watching people, reading or like me, writing about what you see and counting the sighs and whines of new convicts in the husband corral. Eventually, you’ll look forward to a shopping trip. I know I do.   

The Old Coot is overloaded with "Mikes." A Tioga Co. Courier Article of 01/05/22,

The Old Coot asks, “Mike who?”

By Merlin Lessler

“Mike’s in the hospital!” Someone said at coffee the other day. Actually, it was eight months ago, but to an old coot, it’s just the other day. “Mike who,” someone else asked? There are three Mikes in regular attendance at our gatherings and one infrequent Mike. A few years ago, another Mike showed up with infrequent Mike and we had five Mikes on the patio outside Starbucks.

 It makes my head spin – Mike is heading down the road tomorrow - Mike is buying a building lot - Mike says the price of real estate is going through the roof. Mike! Mike! Mike! Who is doing what? We had to alter the name of the three regular Mikes, to put an end to the confusion. We have: Turnpike Mike (he travels a lot), Michael, instead of Mike, and Mark-Mike, so called because his neighbor always called him Mark and he never corrected him.

 “How could you not correct him?” someone asked. I think it was Alan. I know it wasn’t me because I understood completely. I had a next-door neighbor who called me Norm. He did it a few times and I let it slip, so it became my name, to him. My mother often did the same thing, when she was livid because of something I did, like get grass stains on a new pair of plants. “Norm get in here this minute!” One of her five brothers was a Norm, a younger brother who irked her when he was little. So, if I got her mad; she forgot I was Merlin and called me Norm.

 My son, who was seven at the time, resolved the situation with our neighbor. He told him, “That’s not my dad’s name; it’s Merlin”! The guy was embarrassed and apologized profusely. It didn’t matter to me. I never was thrilled with my name anyway, and being called Norm, was kind of nice. It reminded me of my mom.

 But all that aside, this Mike thing is out of control. At least in my world. Aside from the three, sometimes four, once five Mikes at coffee, my memory cells are crammed full of Mikes: Mike Coleman, Mike Carns, Mike Wold, Mike Cook, Mike Poe, Mike Dennis, Mike McDonough, Mike Quinliven, Mike Murphy, Syracuse Mike at the Charlie Horse, Mike Dunlop, Mike Turcovic, Mike McFarland, and the Mike & Molly TV show. And that’s just off the top of my head. The only solution is for me to call every one Mike. I used to call everyone whose name I didn’t know, or couldn’t recall, “Tim.” If they didn’t correct me, I stuck with it. Now it’s going to be Mike; sorry Don, Lucky, John, Alan, Yaco, Dan, Rick, the other Rick, Daren, Eric, Lester and ike (mike without an “m”) and the rest of the people I have coffee with, both north and south. If you don’t like it, just call me Norm.

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