The Old Coot remembers. (Tioga County Courier Article of 02-23-2022)

 The Old Coot nominates his own, “Word of the Year.”

By Merlin Lesssler

 The “Word of the Year” for 2021 was “Vaccine.” In 2020, it was “Pandemic.” In 2013 it was “Selfie.” Merrian-Webster, Oxford Dictionary and other Lexicographers select the word. Sometimes they agree; sometimes they don’t. I have no idea what criteria they use to pick it, even after going to their websites to get an explanation. The Oxford Dictionary explanation claimed their “lexicographers dug into their English language corpus data, blah, blah, blah.” It stopped me right there; I was over my head. I had no idea what they were talking about.

 Most of us think the word of the year is a word spoken more than any other, often a new one. Vaccine, Pandemic, and Selfie all fit that criterion and you don’t need a team of lexicographers and corpus data to make the selection.   

 Those may be words spoken the most by the general population, but they aren’t the words used by the people I hang out with. The word of the year for my old coot species is “Remember.” We don’t have a conversation without it popping up every few minutes. “I went to that new restaurant the other day; I can’t remember the name but ….” – or – “I saw that guy who used to have coffee with us a few years ago, “I can’t remember his name, …..”

 Can’t remember – Can’t remember – Can’t remember.

 The second most used word among old coots is “Memory.” It usually follows one of those, “I can’t remember,” sentences. – My memory is shot. – I have no memory anymore. – I lost my memory years ago. The trouble is, the use of these words is filtering down to younger and younger groups of people. The memory starts going bad as you get into your 50’s. A little scary at first, but then you get used to it; by the time you get to old coot age, you take it for granted that you won’t remember just about anything with a name - a person, a place or a thing. Your vocabulary is speckled with – What’s-his-name – Thing-a-ma-jig – Watch-ya-call-it and the like. Some old guys get so frustrated when their memory cells won’t provide a lost name that they stop dead in their tracks. Us well seasoned old coots, get around that problem by faking it, inserting any name, knowing the rest of the group won’t know the difference; their memories are shot.

 If you’re in your 40’s, 50’s or 60’s and are worried about your memory, don’t worry, eventually you won’t remember that you can’t remember!

 

    

 

 

The Old Coot is incorrect! Tioga County Courier Article of 2/16/2022

 The Old Coot is corrected.

By Merlin Lessler

 My friend John was in the hospital having a “procedure.”  A procedure is the same thing as an operation except they don’t knock you out as much. A procedure hurts, sometimes it hurts a lot, but when the doctor mentions the word procedure you think, “No big deal.” You’re wrong. It’s gunna feel awful.

 Anyhow, John was in the hospital, and hurting. I texted to see how he was doing and signed off with, “If you need anything, just ask me.”  That’s what I typed into the phone, but it changed the last part to, “Just FAST me.”  Re replied, commenting on my error, but his phone changed FAST to FAAT. It made both of us look stupid, illiterate. I can’t afford any additional evidence of my senility. I provide enough of it on my own without having Auto-correct add to it.  

 It not only changes word and hurts my image, but it also slows down my texting speed when I notice an auto-correct misstep and scroll back to fix it, losing my train of thought and forgetting the astute point I was about to make. I’ve changed auto-correct to spell-correct several times, but somehow it reinstalls itself and keeps me looking stupid. I’ve even changed keyboards, but they too betray me and slip into an auto-correct mode without me knowing.

Sometimes I want to say “Ain’t” to make a point. It tries to make me look good, for a change, and replaces ain’t with isn’t. I go back to ain’t, but it fixes it again. It’s an arm wrestling match to get it to do what I want. From now on if one of my articles doesn’t make any sense you’ll know it’s not my fault, auto-correct did it! That’s my story and I’m sticking TWO it.

 PPs, John did finally get back to answering my offer to just ask, if he needed anything. He said, “Paint my house! You said anything.” From now on I’m going to call, not text.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot walks and says hello. February 09, 2022 Tioga County Courier Article

 The Old Coot takes a walk.

By Merlin Lessler

 I live in a village, an old and very small village. It was settled in the 1700’s. My house was built in 1805 and has the expected imperfections of a house of that vintage. It’s perfect for me: an old coot, also with expected imperfections. Sidewalks border most every street - some are concrete, some are slate, but they all present a challenge to those of us who aren’t paying attention and stumble when confronted with an edge that has been pushed up by a tree root. No matter, many of us travel the walkways. You would be hard pressed to take a stroll and not meet a person coming the other way, or in my case, catching up and passing by as I do the, Tim Conway, slow step, down the street.

 The first time I walked through town, long before I moved there, I was impressed by how friendly everyone was. Quite different from my previous walking experiences, where passerby’s generally avoided eye contact and rarely spoke.

 The first few times you pass by a person in our village, you’re met with a smile or a nod and more often, a “Good morning.” The more you see a person, the more you interact, converse about the weather or some other form of small talk. “Who was that?” a walking companion might ask. “I don’t know, we’re walking acquaintances, not acquaintance, acquaintances?” We haven’t reached the point of exchanging names, maybe we never will.

 Names aren’t important in a friendly village, where greeting and talking to strangers is commonplace. On the sidewalks, in stores and restaurants, even at the gas pumps. Small talk in a small town. Nice! The same thing happens in neighborhoods all over the country and on rail trails and other pathways where walkers have frequent encounters with each other.

 The walking world is like this - friendly, refreshing, important. It never happens in the driving world, where hostile looks, horn honks and hand signals do the talking. Need a little pick-me up? Take a walk, just watch your step; those uneven sidewalk joints can get you down. Literally!  

 This article was suggested by David and Janet Allen, who I ran into on the sidewalk in three different places one brisk, sunny afternoon. It was so appropriate, since that’s where I met them, many years ago.

 

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

 

Old Coot can't get in the door. Tioga Co.Courier article of 2-2-2022

 The Old Coot was caught in a loop.

By Merlin Lessler

 I experienced “Infinity” the other day! In the doorway to a Dunkin Donuts – a double door set-up – an outer door separated from an inner door by a four-feet vestibule.  I was coming in; another old guy was coming out. We both opened our doors at the same time. He stepped back, holding his door open and waved me in. I did the same.  “You go!” I said, since he was an old guy. Then he said, “No, you go!” Thinking I was an old guy. We both held our doors open, amid a flurry of - You go – No, you go.

 Our egos were fully engaged at that point. I wasn’t about to let some old guy hold the door for me. Neither was he! It was a clash of old man egos – old coot macho. You go, no you go, an unending, unwillingness to yield. 

 A traffic jam built up behind us. People anxious to get in and out. Yet, this OLD JERK and I were in a battle of politeness. That’s when it hit me; I was trapped in a loop, a real world example of infinity, inching closer and closer to my goal, but never getting there. Finally, I gave up and let go of the outer door and walked in, while that STUPID STUBBORN, OLD FOOL escorted me through his door. No small matter that I was pushed forward by an angry mob, led by an irked woman armed with a twenty pound purse, cocked, loaded and aimed at my head. 

 On the way out, after buying my senior coffee, I held the door open for her. She bustled past me like an angry grizzly bear. She failed to say, “Thank you.” So, I raised my voice and sent a “You’re welcome,” in her direction. She turned back and glared at me with a look that said, “You old goat; why don’t you get back to the nursing home where you belong.” It just goes to show; it doesn’t pay to be nice.      

 Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com