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.