The Old Coot can't make a bed. Article # 1060

 The Old Coot can’t make it.

By Merlin Lessler

My wife was down with a cold and spent the night on the couch the other day (actually it was in 2011 but I was too lazy to come up with a new article this week). It caused me a problem of major proportions the next morning. What to do with the unmade bed? Men are born with a genetic defect; we can’t make beds. We can’t fold either. When we make a bed it looks like a pile of dirty laundry. When we fold a T-shirt, it looks like a wadded up newspaper. We are bed making and folding challenged, an incurable affliction. 

 It starts showing itself, this defect, when we are young boys and our mothers try to teach us to how to make a bed. The harder we try, the worse it looks. When we get older, we fight back, “Why do I have to make the bed; I’ll just mess it up again tonight?” It’s a reasoned argument, but it never wins the day. No matter what we say, we still end up being forced to smooth out the sheet, pull up the blanket, align the cover and drape it over the pillow. My bed looked like someone was still in it when I was done. It didn’t matter! I was required to make it every morning. “Because we are civilized people,” my mother explained. “What if someone saw your room and the bed was unmade?” I made it and went off to school. Then she came in and straightened out the mess.

 I learned a few tricks along the way. I solved the problem when I was a teenager by hiding the sheet and blanket under the bed. I then slipped the bedspread over the top and smoothed it out. Without the layers underneath to mess me up it looked perfect.  

 So, there I was the other morning (in 2011), an old coot faced with a horrendous dilemma. One I usually avoided by getting up early on my way. day. Now I was stuck! My mother’s words, “We are a civilized people,” haunted me. I found the sheet at the bottom of the bed; I’d kicked it around pretty good during the night. A leg cramp must have hit me in my sleep. I pulled it tight, and then tried to smooth out the blanket. It didn’t look too lumpy, so I moved ahead with the top cover. It came out lopsided. When it was even on one side of the bed it hung at an angle on the other side. I put the uneven side where my wife wouldn’t see it, covered the functional pillows (the ones we use) and put the frilly (useless) ones on top. It still looked like a boa constrictor was hiding under the spread. I took a step back and squinted; when I squeezed my eyes just right, an image of a perfectly made bed appeared. Santa was good to me! My wife never noticed. Hope he was a good to you this year.

 Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

What's the hurry? Old Coot article #1059

 The Old Coot wonders, “What’s the hurry?”

By Merlin Lessler

 I don't get it. What is it about today’s culture that makes us in such a hurry? We are a society that can’t stop and smell the roses. “Have stuff to do, you know!” Take how we educate kids these days. We used to send them off to school when they were five. Kindergarten was a place to learn social skills, to cut with scissors and to memorize the alphabet. If you wait that long to start your child’s education today, you'll be chastised and labeled an unfit parent. Today’s kids spend three years preparing for kindergarten. They know their ABC's by age three, are able to calculate the square root of a number by age four and can write a thesis on political correctness by age five. If you ask the parents why they are in such a hurry, you get the we’ve got to compete with the rest of the world speech.

 I don't think this is the way to compete, to skip past the different phases of development in a rush to the finish line. The kids graduating from high school today are less educated than the graduates of 50 years ago. The hurry-up strategy isn't limited to giving kids a head start. It continues all through their school years. The system is in such a rush to teach reading that they don't "waste time" with basic phonics. Kids aren't taught to sound words out.  “No time!" Educators put a fancy spin on it. They call it progressive, but us old coots know that the "whole language" concept of learning to read is a crock for many of the kids. The same thing is going on in math class, no time to learn the multiplication tables, no need. Administrators tell us it will click in the kids' heads, eventually, “It's magic!” They sit in math class for six weeks and presto, the multiplication tables become implanted in their cortex (by osmosis, I suppose). “No need to memorize anything!” 

A lot of kids don't graduate with just a high school diploma these days. Some are halfway through their freshman year of college. They take college courses in high school to get a leg up, which makes you wonder what's going on that kids have free time for college courses. Why aren’t they spending it in regular high school classes? In the good old days, our senior year was the busiest of all. Classes all day, minus one study hall.  I ask again, "What's the hurry?”  

The Old Coot loves the comic strips. Published December 13, 2023 (Article # 1058)

 The Old Coot reads the comics.

By Merlin Lessler

 In a “Hi and Lois” comic strip in a newspaper the other day, “HI” pointed out a carving in a tree trunk to his teenage son. It contained the initials BW + AG scratched inside a heart. Hi’s son said, “Cool!, so that’s how people shared their relationship status before social media.”

 If you don’t read the comics (we called them “The Funnies” when I was a kid) you are missing out on a lot of wisdom, served up with a chuckle. Sometimes an outright belly laugh. Certainly, more uplifting than the news items in the rest of the paper.

 People have carved messages in trees, school desks, benches, fences and any material that yields to a jackknife or any sharp, pointed object. The most poignant example of using a tree to convey a lasting message is that of the “Scythe Tree,” along Route 20 between Geneva and Waterloo, New York. If scythe is a foreign word to the vocabulary in your head, replace it with sickle, the kind that farmers used (still do in some places) to cut hay, so it can be bundled and stored.

 A young man (teenager really) by the name of James Johnson volunteered to fight for the Union in the Civil War. He hung his scythe in the notch of a tree in his yard and asked his parents to leave it there until he returned. He didn’t return. He died on May 22, 1864, and was buried in an unmarked, battlefield grave. His parents refused to believe he wasn’t coming home. They considered his request to leave the scythe hanging as a sacred vow.

 Years passed; the tree grew around the blade; the wooden handle rotted away. Decades later, the sons in the farm’s new family, Raymond and Lynn Schafer, left home to serve in World War One. They too, hung a scythe in the tree. They returned home, but left their scythes hanging, to honor the memory of James Johnson.    

 I’ve stopped by on several occasions when traveling through the area, to pay my respects. The scythes are still partially visible, but the top portion of the tree has fallen away; only the stump remains. The site contains a small marker, placed there by the local Rotary Club.

 I have the “Hi and Lois” comic strip to thank for stirring up the Scythe Tree memory. Read the comics, for the wisdom and for the memories they might dredge out of the fog in your head. Or, just for a chuckle.  

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot doesn't believe book jacket's lies. Article # 1,057 published 12/06/23

 The Old Coot pans book jackets.

By Merlin lessler

 If you are a reader like me, or if you buy books for others, you are confronted with the old adage: “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” Although, I’m forced to admit, a good cover catches your eye. Lures you in to have a look. There is usually a blurb (sales pitch) about the author.  Often, with a mug shot, to pull you in further.

 Inside the front cover is an intro to the story line. The back cover is “Blurb City.” Highly enticing adjectives – “Suspenseful!” – “A mystery that will have you gasping!”  - “The first time the secrets to a successful Internet business are revealed!”  - “Funny!” – “Hilarious!” – “You’ll fall out of your chair laughing!”

This overzealous promotion is followed by a collection of positive comments from famous authors, Stephen King for example. He wades in on horror books. I’ve never found his comments to match what I experienced when I’ve followed his recommendation.

 You get less of a sales pitch when you shop on-line for an e-book or a Kindle book. Eventually, it dawns on you; those positive blurbs don’t hold up any more than a politician’s promise. Or, Big Pharma’s promise of great health, if you just open wide and swallow, first the sales pitch, and then the pill.

 I chuckle at all this hoop-la when I look for a book. But, even I’m guilty of it. I published a novella (short novel) a few years back, “Mystery on South Mountain.” It was on sale at the Riverow Book Store in Owego, New York until the supply sold out. It’s only available now as a Kindle Book, priced at $2.99. I checked the listing after I wrote the first draft of this article, to see if I was as guilty as other writers. I was. My blurb claims the storyline is comparable to the movie, “Stand by Me,” (which, incidentally, was based on Stephen King’s short story, “The Body.”) My promo is somewhat of an exaggeration, especially since I sent a copy to Rob Riener, the producer of “Stand by Me,” and haven’t heard a thing. Don’t expect it to open in a theater near you anytime soon.  

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is careful. #1056 Published November 29, 2023

 The Old Coot is careful?

By Merlin Lessler

 This past summer I walked out the door to go for a kayak ride on the Susquehanna River. My wife gave me one of those, “Be Careful” good-byes. “I will” I responded. Of course, I would - an 80 year old guy with poor balance, dragging a kayak a quarter mile to a steep bank, then down to the water, stepping in while holding the paddle and sliding down into the seat, hoping the kayak won’t shift and dump him (me) in the drink. I had a life vest tucked behind the seat. I don’t wear it; it makes it cumbersome to paddle. State boating regulations only require that it be on board. If that’s good enough for the “nanny state,” it’s good enough for me.

 On that day, I headed up stream; there was a stiff breeze at my back, creating white caps across the river. I stayed near the shore (following my wife’s order to “be careful”) where it was relatively calm, and started paddling. Typically, I’ll take 50 strokes, rest for ten seconds, and repeat, until my arms get used to the abuse. I passed by the nursing home (hopefully not in my immediate future) and took a quick peek across the river to where I once had a small cabin overlooking the water. Everything looked shipshape. Thanks to Chris, the present owner.

 I was headed to Hickories Park, about a 2 mile trip. I paddled past MJ’s Restaurant where a few folks on the deck waved, past Greg Kies’ car lot and up to the lighthouse. At that point, I figured I’d gone far enough, a quarter mile short of my goal. I turned the kayak around, thinking I’d let the current carry me back home. But the wind was stronger than the current; my kayak didn’t move; I’d have to paddle back. Probably a good thing, because when I do drift down river, I usually nod off; it’s a very relaxing ride; all you can see are trees along the shore and the sky above. I pretend I’m in the Adirondacks, not running parallel to a busy Route 17C.

 I made it back safely, dragged the kayak up the bank and to the house. It’s the result you get when you’re careful. Every parent exhorts the same “be careful” assertion whenever their kid heads out on a bicycle, and especially in the family sedan. It’s never taken seriously, and they know it, but if anything happens, it’s the perfect set-up for an “I told you so!” I avoid those like the plague!

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot checks some old postcards. Article #1055 Published N0vember 11, 2023

 The Old Coot checks the mail.

By Merlin Lesssler

 I’ve used a couple of old postcards as bookmarks for the past several years. Keith (of Keith & Phyllis from London, Ontario, Canada) found them in an antique shop in Daytona Beach; he bought them and gave them to me because they were from Binghamton, NY, where he knew I grew up. The one I’m using at the moment, marks my page in the book, Stateless by Elizabeth Wein. It features the New Armory building, downtown on Washington Street. (An excellent book, by the way)

 

The card was sent by Alice of Binghamton to Mrs. Elmer A. Lawrence of Stamford NY. (Delaware County), postmarked, October 5^th, 1907, 9am. It’s interesting that the name of the county was part of the address. A one-cent postage stamp got it there, arriving at the Stamford post office at 9am, on October 7^th. Pretty fast service in those days, probably by rail. I’m not sure we can match it today.

 

The armory looks like a castle; it sports a two story tower on one end of the facility and a five story tower on the other. It was built in 1904 and existed as an armory until 1932, replaced by a more modern facility on the west side of Binghamton. It became a college in 1948 when New York State created five institutions of Arts & Science around the state, to serve the flood of GI’s returning home after World War ll. Locals called it State Tech. Unfortunately, it was destroyed by fire in 1951, leading to the construction of a new campus on upper Front Street, called Broome Tech, where I went to college in the early 1960’s. Now it’s referred to as SUNY Broome.

 

The second postcard, addressed to Ella Whitaker in Hancock, NY pictures the city post office, now a piece of rubble, buried someplace under a parking lot. The postmark shows the card left Binghamton at 9:30 pm on July 5, 1912. No date is noted on the receiving end.

 

The third postcard, residing in Moby Dick, a slow read I’ve been working on for over 6 months, sports a picture of the United States Post office and Court House. The facility is still in operation today, but the postal function has moved down the block. This card was sent in 1937 to Mrs. John Jacob of Seneca Falls, NY. This too, made the journey with a one-cent stamp, 37 years after the first card was sent. Wouldn’t it be nice if postal rates held up that long these days? The stamps on the earlier cards had a picture of Benjiman Franklin in a frontal pose. The 1937 stamp showed him in profile, revealing long locks of hair. The country’s first hippie. You’ve got to love it!

     

The Old Coot questions modern medicine. Article # 1054, November 15, 2023

 The Old Coot isn’t sure who’s right.

By Merlin Lessler

 My grandparents never (or almost never) went to a doctor or entered a hospital. They were born in the late 1800’s and passed away in the 1950’s. My grandmother, of “hardening of the arteries, as they called Alzheimer’s back then, my grandfather of a strangulated hernia, which he treated with a truss for 20 years, (but should have gone to a doctor and a hospital to get it fixed). But, people from their generation didn’t run to a doctor, as a rule. Or, a dentist, except for an abscessed tooth extraction or to get a new set of choppers. They treated most of their ailments with home remedies, and made out pretty well for the most part.

 They were in their 60’s by the time I came into their lives. I had more doctors than golf league partners when I was their age. I’m in pretty good shape, yet my annual calendar is sprinkled with checkups and investigative procedures. It makes me wonder who had the best strategy – home cures or modern medicine in a relentless struggle to keep me going with a stash of prescriptions and medical appointments in an endless, repeating stream.

 Maybe, a little of each is the way to go. Besides, I’m now used to a doctor saying, “You have to expect that at your age.” It’s been going on for more than 20 years. It taught me not to pick up the phone at every new physical adventure that comes my way.  Where am I going with this? I’m not sure. I grapple with it every so often. I thought if I wrote it out I’d come to some conclusion. Not this time. I guess I’ll try to accept the inconvenience of sitting in waiting rooms, thumbing through old magazines and watching TV with the sound turned off, and closed captions NOT turned on. It’s especially hard on me, because I can’t lip-read!

The Old Coot's car was keyed! Article #1053, November 8, 2023

 Old Coot – My car was keyed! Ouch!

By Merlin Lessler

 I love the electronic devices of our modern day world – smart phones, tablets, computers, GPS and all the goodies making life easier. EXCEPT! Automobile ignition keys, car fobs, remote entry and other such devices. How did automobile company innovators get so out of control?

 They should have stopped at the remote door openers, attached to a simple key. I loved that era. You could go to the hardware store, get some duplicate keys made and put one in a magnetic key box and stick it under a fender or behind a bumper, before they were made from plastic. I used to hide one behind the license plate, held in place by the screw holding the plate. All I’d need, if I lost my keys or locked them in the car, would be a screw driver or a Swiss Army Knife. Easy enough to get from a bystander.  

 So what’s the big deal, you’re probably wondering at this point? The big deal is the $180 I just paid a locksmith to get a new key fob; the old one fell apart, the second one to do so in the last few months. The dealer wanted even more, upwards of $300. It took a few days of opening the door with the key, hidden in a compartment of the fob, causing the car alarm to go off, repeatedly sounding the horn, to get me to cough up the $180 replacement cost. The car thought someone was breaking in, or I was being mugged in the parking lot.

 I never liked that panic, horn blowing function. No one pays attention, except to chuckle and wonder who the numbskull is that just hit their panic button by mistake and didn’t realize it. That was me, for a while. Now, $180 poorer, I’m free of that embarrassment.

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot knows how to wait. Article # 1052 (November 1, 2023)

 The Old Coot is on a waiting list.

By Merlin Lessler

 I listened to a woman yell into a smart phone in the grocery store the other day. Actually, it was a flip phone, and it wasn’t the other day, it was 18 years ago. But nothing has changed. People always talk loud when on a cell phone. It takes all the challenge (and fun) out of eavesdropping. This woman told a friend she just bought a rotisserie chicken for dinner. Maybe it’s me, but I think the smart phone has eliminated the last shred of patience in our society. We can’t wait anymore; we have to report on things as they happen, no matter how miniscule.

 The news media has adapted to our inflated lack of patience. They used to focus on the day’s events, but now they focus more on the future, knowing we’re too impatient to wait for it to unfold. We need to know now! The media, talk radio and most especially, sports commentators, spend their airtime speculating on what’s to come, bringing in an endless string of “experts,” to forecast what will be. These prognosticators are cocky and self-assured, but more times than not, they are wrong! I chuckle when their predictions prove false.

  My old coot crowd was brought up in a world of waiting. Patience was embedded deep within our psyches. It started with cereal box tops for me. I’ll never forget the months it took to eat my way through three boxes of Wheaties so I could send them and three dimes in for some cheap toy. Even then, the wait wasn’t over, the wooden glider kit took two months to come, an eternity for an eight-year-old. (Just for the record – the plane didn’t fly any better than one made by folding a piece of paper.)

 I even had to be patient with what I wore. If my mother caught me putting on a freshly ironed shirt, she’d tell me to put it back in the closet. “Get that shirt off; I just ironed it!”  Clean shirts had to age for three days in my house. Same thing with new clothes. “Where are you going in those pants?” I just bought them last week.”

 It wasn’t just clothes; I was forced to exercise patience when offered food at a friend or neighbor’s house. I couldn’t say yes until it was offered three times. “Would you like a piece of pie?” - “No thanks,” I’d say, looking over to my mother for an indication she would suspend her 3-offer rule. She never did,! And, I missed out on a lot of pie. I’ll never forget my mother’s reaction, when she asked my friend Wally if he would like a piece of pie. He said, “Yes I would, Mrs. Lessler,” (after only one offer.) Boy, that made her mad. I could interpret her mumbles as she turned to get the pie; luckily, he couldn’t. He would have heard, “What a rude young man; what kind of mother does he have?”

 Yes, I learned patience, but it never did me any good. I went around in dirty clothes and still have an insatiable hunger for pie. It’s an affliction I can’t shake.

The Old Coot says, "let them eat cake!" Article # 1051 - 10/25/2023

 The Old Coot says, “Let them eat cake!” (or pizza)

By Merlin Lessler

 One of the perks of being an Octogenarian is you get to break the rules. If you don’t know what an Octogenarian is, Google it, or even better, dust off that old dictionary on the shelf and look it up. While you’re in there, look around; you might be surprised at how much you can learn, spending ten minutes thumbing through a dictionary.

 Anyway, back to one of the benefits of being an Octogenarian. You can have pizza for breakfast! “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and eating cereal is the best breakfast food.” That’s a myth that cereal companies have foisted on us for over a century. It’s good health alright. Good health for Post’s and Kellog’s bottom line!

 My generation was brainwashed by this myth; in the 1950’s, Mister Wizard ended his popular Saturday morning TV science show, by asking the kid from next door, who assisted in scientific experiments, “What should you have for breakfast, every day?” Litle Bobby, sometimes Susie, would reply, “FRUIT, CEREAL, MILK, BREAD &BUTTER, Mister Wizard.” - “That’s right Bobby, don’t forget, every morning, FCMB&B!”

 I prefer left over pizza and a glass of milk. Pizza hits every box in Mr. Wizard’s FCMB&B recommendation: Fruit (tomato in the sauce), Cereal (the grain in the dough), Milk, Bread (just more grain), Butter (no butter in the dough, but olive oil, which is better for you). Protein, if you add sausage or pepperoni to the top.

 Cake is good for breakfast too. In reality, a nutritious meal, containing eggs, wheat, butter and milk. What better way to greet the day than eating a piece of chocolate cake and drinking a cold glass of milk? 

 So, take some advice from an Octogenarian, You CAN have your cake, and eat it too! Same for pizza. Enjoy the start to a good day!

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot wants a wisdom factor in IQ tests. Article #1050, published October 18, 2023

 The Old Coot added a new wrinkle to intelligence measurements.

By Merlin Lessler

 There is a new IQ test out there, waiting for acceptance. It adds a “wisdom” factor to the “intelligence” quotient. Wisdom is overlooked in a number driven society. You can assign a number to a person’s intelligence quotient, but not their wisdom. Until now! I’m proposing a foolproof way to measure it, something as plain as the wrinkles on your face. In fact, those wrinkles are a sign of wisdom in a life well lived. I call it the wrinkle test.

  Check our faces; the more wrinkles we have, the more wisdom we possess. Add a limp and a white hair or bald head, and you have even more evidence of a high wisdom quotient. It’s not 100% accurate, but pretty close, as long as you check the “Wrinkler’s” appearance. Is their shirt buttoned in the correct button holes? Do their shoes match? Are socks on both feet? That sort of thing.

 It's what the corporate workspace needs. More seniors! Age diversity! To go along with all the other diversities that are strived for these days. It will inject additional wisdom into corporate operations. Old guys and gals can help companies avoid impulse driven decisions. The “Wrinklers” (my term; you won’t find it in the dictionary) will know when it won’t work, and why. And, just as important, how to reset the plan for a successful outcome.

 It sure would help restrain the inclination to fix things that aren’t broken. It’s something companies constantly do. They mess up the Apps and computer programs I use, all too often. I liked things the way they were and hate being forced to relearn something I’ve mastered. “New and improved” is often just the opposite.

 It wouldn’t happen if they had some Wrinklers in on the product testing who could point out mistakes the design team is unknowingly making. Those so called, high IQ corporate people, have no idea how real-world customers are affected. When Coke’s executive staff came up with the bright idea, to change their cola formula, to make a “New Coke,” they almost went out of business. Their customers revolted. It never would have happened if they had some Wrinklers on board.

 

 

QUIET! The Old Coot has a long distance call! Article # 1049 (Published 10/11/2023

 Hush! The old coot has a long-distance call!

By Merlin Lessler

 I remember when a long- distance phone call was something special. When my mother’s hands would shake after she answered the phone and the operator connected her to a long-distance caller. "Hush," my mother would shout. “Run and get your father!”

 People seldom made long-distance calls back then. Only when the information was too urgent to send through the mail. The entire household shifted into an agitated state as word of a long-distance call spread through the house. It usually meant something bad had happened: Aunt Millie had a stroke; Uncle Harold was run over by a car or Cousin Pete had been thrown in the slammer. Adrenalin shot all over the place.

 It was a big deal in those days; my sisters and I bragged that our family had a long-distance call. Sometimes, I'd run out the door before the phone conversation actually got underway, to tell my friend Woody, we had a long-distance call. “Wow," he’d exclaim, as I hustled back inside, full of pride.

 It was expensive; it was rare; and it was exciting. Even so, it didn’t cost a dime if made a fake “person-to-person” call. A college kid, for example, would ask the operator to place a person-to-person call to his house after he arrived back at school. The operator would tell whoever answered the phone, that she had a collect call for a specific person. Whoever answered the phone, would say that person wasn’t there and hang up. Now the family knew the kid made it safely to school. No charges were incurred when a person-to-person call wasn’t completed.  

 The exciting, long distance call experience has been nearly wiped out by the cell phone. People call & text long distance, multiple times a day, without giving it a thought. It has no effect on their phone bill. Well over 90% of us have cell phones according to Google. I kind of miss the thrill of making a long-distance call. A real one. And, especially a fake one.

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is a "space" man. Article # 1048, Published 10/04/2023

 The Old Coot is a “space” man

By Merlin Lessler

 The “Open Concept” in house design is all the rage. Kitchen – Dining – Living, all in one big open space. You see it on ”HGTV”  – on “This Old House” and just about everywhere that living space is the topic. This new way to live is hip! I like it – but it has some drawbacks.

 Back in “The Day,” the kitchen was a food prep area – the dining room was an eating space and the living room was the sitting around space: for reading, watching TV and socializing. If you were lucky, there was a rumpus room in the basement: a place to send the kids to get them out of your hair.

 A typical family gathering found the women in the kitchen in those days, helping the “hostess,” swapping gossip and complaining about the “lumps” in the living room. The lumps sat around watching sports on TV and discussing the routes they took to get there. Often disagreeing with each other’s choices.

 It worked great! Both sexes liked the set-up. When mealtime came, they merged together in the dining room, except for the kids who were shuffled off to a card table out of the way. When asked about the topics discussed in their separate quarters, the women said, “Recipes;” the men said, “World politics.”  

 That dynamic is lost with the open concept. New lines of communication have developed. Better or not? I don’t have a clue. I find when I exaggerate something, embellish a story, I get corrected by my wife when we’re all together in an open concept environment. “OK, so there weren’t a thousand people in line at the DMV; there were six. But it was still a painful wait.” My tales have lost their umph. Sometimes couples end up not speaking by the time they leave the gathering. It might have something to do with the high divorce rate in this country.

 Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com Compliments? Send to this paper.

The Old Coot is in Style, Article #1047, Published on September 27, 2023

 The Old Coot is in style.

By Merlin Lessler

 Some old coots (me especially) are messier than two-year-olds sitting in a highchair eating pasta. Often with the bowl on top of their heads with spaghetti cascading down around their face. The spaghetti head look! Us old coots (me) often end up in a similar state - dribbling, dropping and spilling food & drink onto ourselves and our surroundings. Restaurants have to wash the table and mop the floor after we leave. But we don’t just leave a mess behind, we take it with us too.  

 We’re stain kings! Food slobs! Spaghetti sauce magnets! I crave for the days of the 50’s and 60’s when reversible clothes were in vogue. Splatter your shit! No problem, just slip into a rest room (kind of like Superman slipping into a phone booth) and turn it inside out. Same thing with reversable jackets and pants. Instead, we walk around, strategically placing our arms across our chests to hide the mess on our shirts. When we get home, we sneak into the house and hide it in the back of the closet.  

 Thankfully, today’s fashion is rife with torn and stained, jeans and shirts. The kids buy them new, and at a pretty steep price; we pull them out of the back of our closets, for free. We have a whole wardrobe of torn and stained attire. Probably worth a fortune on the open market. We’re not hip on purpose; we’re fashionable because we’re “Unstained Clothes Challenged.” A condition for which there is no known cure.

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gnmail.com

The Old Coot is tied in knots. Article #1046 - September 20, 2023

 The Old coot is tied in knots!

By Merlin Lessler

 I was walking along, minding my own business, probably daydreaming, when my shoelace nearly tripped me. It had come untied. I knew why; I hadn’t tied it with a double knot. I had to bend down and re-tie it. The bending down and getting back up isn’t a problem for me, like it is for a lot of Octogenarians, but losing my balance and tipping over while I’m down there tying the lace is a problem. I have a balance issue that ramps up during a bending down situation. I scolded myself for skipping the second knotting of the lace. I knew better

 I almost always tie my laces in a double knot. It prevents the tripping and bending down problem. It got me thinking, “Am I the only, loyal, “double-knotter” on the planet? What’s going on in the footwear world?” So, I started asking people, “Do you double-knot your shoes?”

 I got blank stares from some young people, followed by, “What’s a double knot?” Including one kid, whose laces weren’t tied at all. And, of course, being an old coot, I pointed out it might cause him to trip. He grinned and told me that’s what his mother always tells him. I noticed his friend’s sneakers had a knot at the top eyelet (hole) and the rest of the lace was cut off, converting the tie-shoe to a slip-on. If I tried that, the sneakers would have to be so loose for me to get into them, that I’d take two steps and become shoeless.  

 My unscientific survey provided a spectrum of answers I hadn’t anticipated. “I only wear flip flops!” – “I only double knot when I’m hiking.” (Or jogging.) – “I don’t have any tie shoes.” – “My shoes fasten with Velcro.” The survey proved the world has changed, and now the Sketchers Company is pushing it even further with their new, slip-on sneakers. I tried on a pair; they were too wobbly for me. I’ll stick with a double knot and stay safe, in spite of Martha Stewart recommending slip on Sketchers in TV ads. “Stick to what you know, Martha!” (I should do the same, but…..)

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is in a fog. Article #1,045 - Published 09/13/2023

 The Old Coot is in a fog.

By Merlin Lessler

 Fall is here. It always comes as a surprise. I think summer will go on forever and then a fog rolls in to remind me. I rode my bike to town in it; the whole village looked as though it was wrapped in a cobweb. It was the topic of the morning conversation at the Owego Kitchen, “Boy, sure is foggy out there!” We’re a sharp bunch, us old coots; we notice things like fog.

 We don’t notice we missed two belt loops in our pants, that our “lost” glasses are perched on the top of our heads or that the guy we just greeted with, “Hi Bill,” is really Frank. No, we don’t notice those things, but we do notice fog. Fog is good. You can’t see the crabgrass through the haze; the lawn looks flawless. The east side of the house that looked like it needed repainting yesterday seems just fine on a foggy morning.

 Fog is one of the best things about fall. There is nothing quite so serene as a flock of geese ascending from the river blanketed in fog. First, you hear the resounding honks, then, one by one, the geese rise in a Vee and head off to warmer places. Old coots do the same thing, except their formation is on the southbound lane of Route 81 or 95, interspaced among a sea of tractor-trailers.

 Some of my old coot brothers (and sisters) don’t notice the fog; they haven’t had their cataracts fixed. To them, a foggy morning is just like any other. It’s not good to put off getting the cloudy lenses replaced with new ones, and not for the obvious reasons like it’s impossible to drive at night or it’s hard to recognize people. I get why some old coots don’t deal with their cataracts. It’s the, “there is nothing out there I want to see” syndrome. It’s similar to the condition that stops old guys from buying hearing aids, or turning them on when they do. They don’t want to hear anything either. Especially someone telling them it’s time to trim those cornstalks growing out of their ears. 

 But, delaying the inevitable (cataract repair) is fraught with danger. The kind that takes place when you get home from the hospital and look in the mirror. First, you screech. Then you yell, “How did my face get so old looking?”  When you turn around to ask your wife what’s going on, you get another shock, “Who are you?” you ask. No, it’s better to nip the problem in the bud and enjoy the real fog, the one that comes rolling in on a nippy morning and announces the arrival of fall.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot knows why. Article #1044 Published September 6, 2023

 The Old Coot knows why.

By Merlin Lessler

 You see it on TV all the time – another promise to make you thin and healthy – “Buy our video” – “Join our gym” – “Eat our prepared meals” – “Take our pill”- “Follow our diet.” None of it works, not for long anyway. But, I’ve discovered the secret. We just have to do the stuff we don’t do anymore. 

 Like, get up and walk over to the TV to change the channel. Lean way to the right in your car and use a hand crank to open the passenger window. “Push” the lawnmower; use a hand-powered trimmer. “Sweep” the clippings off the sidewalk with a broom. “Shovel” the snow.

 The list of “stuff we don’t do” is a long one. I spent ten minutes looking for the car keys so I could drive to the post office and get a stamp to mail a bill to a business five blocks away. I could have walked over and paid it in person, but we don’t do that anymore. Now, I do even less; I sit at a computer and pay the bill. I’ve become so sedate I no longer turn pages in a book. I push a tab on a Kindle. Presto! I’m on the next page. I don’t even expend energy to turn down the corner of a page so I can go back to it. My Kindle has a tab for that too. 

 We don’t take the stairs – up or down – even if we only want to go to the next floor; we push a button and wait for the elevator.  (And catch a cold from another passenger in the process). We push a lot of buttons – the one on the dishwasher. (No more scrubbing the plates and wiping them dry). The one on the dryer – no more strenuous trips to the backyard to hang out the clothes. More of the stuff we don’t do anymore.

 It’s everywhere – this stuff we don’t do. It’s in our car. We don’t push in a clutch, shift gears or crank the wheel with our own muscle power. We don’t row a boat – climb a hill to ski or sled down. We don’t clean the oven or pull the stuff out of the freezer to defrost it. We don’t pick berries or can tomatoes. We nibble; we nosh; we sit and push buttons. And wonder why we’re overweight and out of shape.

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

The Old Coot Needs a Caddy - Article # 1043, Published August 8/30/2023

 The Old Coot needs a caddy.

By Merlin Lesler

 It finally dawned on me (I’m a slow learner) that professional golf is a team sport! The role of the caddy has changed. The job is not simply to carry the bag and hand a club to the pro. It’s become a consultation job. The courses I play on have a marker at 200, 150 and 100 yards from the green. It’s how I, and the guys I golf with that aren’t using a golf watch, select the proper club for the journey from the tee to the green. But using the right club doesn’t even matter much if you forget to keep your head down and shank the ball a pitiful distance forward. The guys with the golf watches scuff the ball as much as I do.

 The caddies handle all that stuff; he or she tells the pro, how far it is to the pin, a more precise measure than a hacker’s estimate. Sometimes you will see a golfer and the caddy spend several minutes arguing about which club to use. They both have notebooks that let them know about every hazard ahead, but don’t agree on how best to execute the shot. They have to take into consideration the wind, the rise & fall of the green. whether to put spin on the ball, hook it or slice it, and several other variables. Sometimes, this discussion takes longer than the walk to the ball. Often, you’ll see a club pulled from the bag, put back, another taken out, followed by more discussion and yet another club selected to finally whack (my term) the ball.

 The caddy also acts as a cheerleader, ego-booster and psychologist. All, to get the pro out of a funk after a bad shot. It’s a team: caddy and pro. Off the course is additional support staff: swing coach, psychologist, publicist, agent, and tournament booking secretary. But none of the secondary team is as important as the caddy.

 I do the same thing that caddies do, but I do it myself. And, not just when I play golf. I go through a check list, every time I leave the house. I have to make sure my shirt is on right side out, my pants aren’t on backwards, my hair is combed, my shoes are tied and I have keys and ID in my pockets. I also remind myself what day of the week it is and who is our president. Lastly, I make sure my arm is positioned to cover the stains on my shirt. I could use a caddy just to get out the door!  

 Complaints, comments? Send to -mlessler7@gmail.com 

The Old Coot tells all! Article #1042, published August 23, 2023

 The Old Coot tells all.

By Merlin Lessler

 The topic of conversation the other morning at the Owego Kitchen was air-conditioners.” Rick, from Catatonk, (we have three Ricks in the group, Cornell Rick, Catatonk Rick and Wood Floor Rick), commented on how he maneuvers a heavy air conditioner from a storage closet to the window. He lifts it, just barely these days, puts it on his office chair, wheels it to the living room and slides it into the open window. I asked him if he ever shoved it in too far and sent it sailing like I once did. He said he hadn’t, not this one; there is a shelf outside the window to hold it up.

 But he went on, he did do it with another air conditioner. It not only fell to the ground; it ripped the cord out of the socket and ripped the socket out of the wall. I asked if it tripped the breaker and left the house in the dark. He ignored the question, probably thinking he’d already said too much. We have long memories of each other’s mishaps and never fail to bring them up. Usually as a deflection, when we find ourself in the hot seat.  

 I’ve confessed some of my goofs over the years, like the time I was on the porch roof hosing down the clapboard siding before painting it. I yanked the hose as I moved along the wall, and pulled too hard at one point. It tipped the ladder over, stranding me on the roof. My wife wasn’t home to help me out of the predicament, so I there and waited for someone to come by and notice me. It was a long 45 minutes. Finally, my neighbor Damen strolled down the street on his way home from downtown and noticed my dilemma. It took a while before he stopped laughing and set the ladder back up.   

 Then, there was my garbage can, acrobatic act. I’d climbed on top of the can to squash the overflowing trash so the lid would close. I went sailing, giving my tail bone a bruising and causing the disc between L-4 and L-5 to exit stage left. Back surgery a month later fixed that problem, but not my chagrin at being so stupid. At least a ladder wasn’t involved that time.

 Matt, a coffee stop regular, had an air-conditioning story too, about what happens when your house has the best air-conditioning in a neighborhood of new houses going up. But he gave me a look, that said, “Don’t you dare reveal it in an article, or use my name.” So I won’t. For now!

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

Why did the Old Coot cross the street? Article published in New York 08/16/2023

 Why did the Old Coot cross the street?

By Merlin Lessler

 Here we go again. DOT is inundating our village with a plethora of pedestrian crossing signals. Most likely this is happening across the state and the country, since it is a federal safety edict. It just proves how stupid they think we are. Too stupid to know enough to look both ways before crossing a street! Something kids from my day, and well beyond, learned to do before they were five. We did! We walked to school, crossing several intersections on our way, starting in kindergarten. And, we were far from child prodigies!

 The nanny state we suffer under, also urges us not to J-walk. “Always cross at the corner!” And now, more and more, at a corner with a button to push and a control box loaded with artificial intelligence, telling us when to cross. Often, with a robotic voice saying, “Wait, Wait, Wait, “until the go signal comes on.

 I find the whole thing insulting, and dangerous! If you cross at a corner, press the “I’m too stupid to know when to cross” button and think it’s safe to go when the light comes on. You’re not; you are more likely to get run over than if you crossed in the middle of the block and looked both ways; Jay-Walked! It’s that “right on red” rule that will get you run down. Especially now, when many drivers forget the “after stopping” part of the rule. The driver turning right on red is looking to the left; as soon as it’s free of traffic, off he goes, right into a pedestrian coming from the right. He never looks in that direction! The poor pedestrian thinks it’s safe to cross, the traffic signal told him so.

 We need to teach DRIVERS to look both ways! Not just the pedestrians. Then it might be safe to cross at the corner. In the meantime, middle of the block is safest. Right on red & cell phones are a deadly combination for us poor pedestrians. The question isn’t, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” It’s “How on earth did the chicken make it to the other side?”

 Comments? Complaints? Sent to mlessler7@gmail.com

No surveys for the old coot. Published August 9,2023

 The Old Coot won’t answer.

By Merlin Lessler

 The constant need for corporations and merchants to beg us to, "Like Me,” is beyond a simple annoyance. You can't buy a product or engage a service without getting a request to respond to a survey. Again, and again if you don't comply right away. "Like Me, Like Me, Nourish My Insecurity," is what it says to me. Driven by corporate executives at the highest levels who don't really know how to run their companies, so they use their customers to do that for them. And, to punish employees for the bad policies created at the top that cause poor marks on customer surveys. Employee raises, performance appraisals and bonuses are determined by survey data. Companies aren't run with knowledge and experience of upper management. Nor with input from front line employes. Companies are run by data, not a passion to provide the best product or service. Companies, the big ones anyway, are focused on short term financial results, which often leads to long term decline in customer satisfaction. And eventually to long term financial loss.

 As soon as I get bugged by a business, begging to be told how they did, I lower my satisfaction level of their product or service. The company would be much better run if the management team took the time to actually be a customer on a regular basis. Then, they would know how to configure the delivery of their product or service. It would be especially enlightening if they called their customer service phone lines and experienced the endless queues and dreadful music, as they wait like we do, to finally talk to a person! They could do their own survey and leave us alone.

Old Coot says men have changed. Article # 1039 (08/02/2023)

 The Old Coot spots a change.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve been noticing this for a while – men crying on TV. I don’t know how or when it started, but I’m seeing it more and more. If it’s on a “talk” show, the male guest is telling a sad story (a sob story) and breaks out in tears. The audience and the host, break out in applause.

 You see it all the time; a sportscaster’s interview with a player who just won a tough fought match starts tearing up. More and more, men are coming out of the “men don’t cry” closet.

 It’s probably a good thing, keeping emotions bottled up can lead to bad outcomes. It’s definitely a transition in societal behavior. And, it doesn’t seem to necessarily relate to a sad event. Wonderful happenings can also lead to a teary outcome.

 I’m not sure I’m all in. I’d like to be, but that “Be a Man” and “Real Men Don’t Cry” ethic has a strong hold on many of us older dudes. I do find myself dipping a toe in the teary pool, moving in the direction toward the “real men do cry” behavior.

 My only point in all this? Public displays of male tears are on the rise. My job is to notice, even the obvious. It just takes me a while to become aware of the change.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

 

The Old Coot is in the Slow Lane! - published in Tioga County NY and around the area, on July 26, 2023

 The Old Coot is in the slow lane.

By Merlin Lessler

 Go slow; live long. That's my mantra. Just look to the turtle to see the truth in that. They lumber along, taking their time and have been the butt of jokes for centuries, maybe forever. But they have thick skin and take no offense, since they outlive all of us.

 I worked as a soda jerk when I was in high school. At Sam Soldo's Rexall Drug Store on Court Street in Binghamton. I started in back, washing dishes and breaking down the trash so it could fit in the five garbage cans located in the basement next to the freight elevator. But I learned how things worked, and ended up behind the counter, making sodas, banana splits and shakes. Frying hamburgers and crafting BLT sandwiches, cut in four sections and secured with tooth picks. I concocted a sandwich that made it to the menu - "The Merlin" - Cheese, lettuce tomato and mayo on rye, best if accompanied by a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder. It was a favorite of the Sear’s sales crew from in the same block.

 The woman who supervised the soda fountain crew called me, “The Turtle.” -  "You move too slow up and down the counter," she would scold me. She flew back and forth like a Road Runner. I went slow for a reason. I learned from the previous crew chief to go slow and do stuff along the journey: pick up empty plates, straighten the ketchup and mustard bottles, napkin holders and ash trays as I moved back and forth to assemble an order. I’m really a turtle now. And, not one that moves efficiently back and forth. Just an old coot, moving in “slow” gear.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com  

 

The Old Coot got in trouble. The July 19th published article.

 The Old Coot will tell your mother.

By Merlin Lessler

 “I’m going to tell your mother!” That’s what a neighbor said when she caught me cutting through her garden. I was seven years old and on my way to a friend’s house to play Cowboys & Indians. Like all kids, I took short cuts, going through yards, over fences, along the top of walls, under hedges and yes, between the rows of tomato plants in backyard gardens. It was the law of the jungle in my world; you had to take the shortest route. Unless, someone threatened to tell your mother. Then, we went the long way. We knew we’d get it when we got home if we didn’t. Usually, with a swat to the backside, or worse, a switch to the back of the legs.

Some kids had it worse, the ones whose mothers didn’t handle discipline. They made an “arrest” and held the “criminal” in captivity for the “executioner,” by saying, “Wait until your father gets home!” Not only would the kid get spanked, we did, but he also had to suffer for hours on death row, knowing when his father came through the door after a long day at work, he’d really get it. My mother spared me that ordeal; she dealt with my misdeeds on the spot. I learned the immediate connection between my bad behavior and consequences. I was lucky. (So was my father.) 

 Now kids get the “one – two – three” business. “Stop doing that! I’m going to count to three!” I’m not sure what that means. Usually, the kid keeps right on doing what he was doing, until phase two kicks in and mom or dad says, “I mean it; I’m starting to count. Right now!” After about five courses of this meal the punishment is served up, a “timeout” in a room loaded with toys, video games, computers and cell phones.

 Our deal was better. It was over and done with. We shaped up. A threat to tell our mother was powerful. It has no legs anymore. If you threaten a misbehaving kid, you’re apt to get a call from the police for harassment, or a lawyer informing you that you’re being sued. The kid gets off scot-free. It’s a huge loss to society. It’s harder for teachers to teach and for the village to raise the children. We’ve been disarmed. If I could find out who is to blame, I’d go tell his mother!

 Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot in a downhill crash. Article # 1036 (Tioga County Courier & Owego Pennysaver)

 The Old Coot was in a fix.

By Merlin Lessler

 Do you remember being a kid, peddling along on a bike, minding your own business and your pant leg gets caught in the chain? You couldn’t peddle forward; you couldn’t pedal backwards. The chain was locked in place. Bikes back then had coaster brakes that engaged when you pushed the peddle backwards; most bikes today have hand brakes (except for some cruiser and city bikes). All you could do when your pant leg got caught in the chain was keep going forward, knowing you were going to tip over and skin your knee or elbow when you came to a stop.   

 My worst “pants-caught-in-a-bike-chain” experience took place when I was ten-years old and coming down a steep hill on Denton Road, headed for a busy Vestal Ave at the bottom. I had one chance to save myself; I had to turn off onto a cinder construction road that jutted to the side, one block from the bottom. I knew I would fall when I made the turn, and most certainly would get banged up, but it was my only hope! Faster and faster, I sped down the hill, flying by the Daley’s house, then the Almy’s house and finally past my friend Woody’s house, who was gawking at me as I flew by. I steered toward the construction road and closed my eyes. That’s all I remember. Then, a neighborhood woman yelled out her kitchen window, asking me if I was OK. I looked down at the blood and cinder mosaic on the side of my leg, the skinned elbow on my arm and my torn pant leg, now free of the chain. “I’m OK!” I shouted, got to my feet, picked up my bike, straightened the handlebars and peddled home. It was my third session that week with a bottle of Merthiolate. I can still feel the sting.      

 Now, I find myself back on a bicycle, rolling down a hill, out of control with my pant leg caught in the chain. Except, this time the bicycle is metaphysical and the hill is life, rapidly spinning by. That’s what it feels like to be old, any kind of old: 30-old, 40-old, 50, 60, 70 or 80-old like me. No matter what part of the age hill you are coming down, the scenery is flying by way too fast. And, worse yet, there is no side street to pull off into. 

 So, what’s my point? I don’t know. Someone asked me the other day if I remembered getting my pants caught in a bicycle chain when I was a kid. And, like a typical old coot, I turned it into a philosophical treatise on the meaning of life. How’s your bike ride going? Is your pant leg inching closer to the chain?

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com or visit blog -www.oldcootwisdomblogspot.com   

The Old Coot is out front on the porch. (7/5/2023)

 The Old Coot is watching.

By Merlin Lessler

 Nobody’s out front! On their porch! Mostly! I ride my bike here in the village, through nearby communities and along my favorite route, Marshland Road. Quite a few houses have porches, but I hardly ever see anyone sitting on them. Oh sure, there are a few exceptions sprinkled here and there. I almost always see Joe, next to the Parkview Inn on his porch when I ride by early on Sunday mornings. And, later on, I see Kim reading on her Front Street porch, patiently waiting for the day when her house is finally raised above flood level, Nancy, is on her Paige Street porch and a handful of others. But for the most part, people are in back of their houses when they go outside to relax.

 We recently moved to a house with a large, wrap around porch. I’m out there all the time. It’s where I eat breakfast & lunch, read, doze and people watch. I can see everyone walking and driving by, and they can see me. I’m probably becoming a village legend - that weird guy who’s always out on his porch.

 Oh well, I’ve been called worse. But I have to admit, I’m loving it out there. I also get to see a train rumble past a dozen or more times a day. Clang! Clang! Clickety! Clack! It can be mesmerizing. Feeling stressed? Watch a train. Even an electric, scale model train can have the same effect.   

 I had one on a shelf that went around the office in our old house. I ran it all the time, especially when reading a book in my recliner (with my eyes closed). Now I do the same, but out on the front porch with a full-size train.

 I guess I’m just a nosy old coot. Who wants to see what’s going on. Out front! Things like: the number of cars that run the red light in front of our house, or turn right on red without stopping, people walking for exercise, going to work, or to shop in the village stores. It’s better than the reality shows on cable TV. Unlike them, it’s real.

The Old Coot is rocking. A Tioga County and Owego Pennysaver article of 6-28-2023

 The Old Coot is safely in his rocking chair.

By Merlin Lessler

 In 2008, I surveyed the public swings in our area. To see if there might be a good place for an old coot to enjoy the thrill of flying through the air. I found a good prospect behind the elementary school. Four swings hung from a high center bar, promising a long glide path. I hopped on, pumped hard to achieve maximum distance from the ground, then laid back to face the sky and let the swing work its magic. It wasn’t as nice as I expected; the wooden flat seat I grew up with had been replaced with a wide rubber strap that squished my hips together, so much so, I aborted the mission after only a few minutes. It was like being in a vice.

 I checked all the parks and found one with a wooden seat, in Hickories Park by the river, next to a pavilion. I’m sure the picknicking family had a good laugh at the old coot swinging and leaning back to face the sky, flying through the air. When I got home, I conjured up a wooden seat that would fit over the rubber strap and went back to the elementary school where I could enjoy myself without hearing a chorus of chuckles.

 We moved in May and in the process, I stumbled on that wooden seat adaptor, hidden under my workbench in the garage. I decided to update my swing set invention, in hopes of finding a place to “fly through the air.” The results were discouraging.

 There are no swings at all, in Hickories Park. And, the swings everywhere else are “height challenged,” with a mere eight feet from the top bar to the ground. The swings by the Little League Park are the only exception, twelve feet high. All are equipped with that miserable, hip pinching rubber strap.

 Swings are the victim of an overprotective and litigious society. Dangerous! Too high! The wooden seats were outlawed to protect a kid who wander into their path, something most of us in my generation did, at least once. Today’s playgrounds are safe, but no fun for an old guy who would like to swing. Seesaws (teeter-totters) are gone too. Even the ground has been deemed a danger, replaced with a surface of wood or rubber chips. I guess I’ll have to settle for a ride on a rocking chair on my porch.  

 Complaints? Sent to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot says too many names. Published June 21, 2023 (Owego Pennysaver, Tioga Co. Courier)

 The Old Coot doesn’t know your name.

By Merlin Lessler

 I hear people say they can’t remember names all the time. It’s not just old coots either; it’s folks of all ages. I’ve finally figured it out; we’ve got too many names to deal with these days, And, too many variations and different spellings.

 When I was a kid in grade school (elementary school to you younger folks) there might have been a couple dozen names in common use for boys and girls. Names like Tommy and Bobby, Jimmy, Kay, Judy, Betty, at least on the playground. Once inside the classroom, they became Thomas, Robert, James, Kathleen, Judith and Elizabeth. Basic names, no matter in or out of the classroom.

 Not any longer. There are hundreds more today with variations that go on forever. A simple name like Alice, which is hardly used any more, has been replaced with Alyce, Alicia, Alisha, Allie, to name just a few. Take every common name from my generation and pull out a dozen or two variations and you have a tsunami of name choices. I have enough trouble remembering if the guy I’m talking to is Greg or Craig. Two different, somewhat common names, that sound the same to me.

 A few years back, I solved my problem with men’s names. When I meet one for the first time, they say their name; it immediately flies out of my head. So, I say, “Hi, nice to meet you, do you mind if I call you Tim.” Most of the time, they look at me funny, for a minute, but often say, “OK; I guess.”

 Toms are Tims; Roberts are Tims, everyone else too. Unless they are a Mike. For some reason I can remember men named Mike and can quickly recall it when I see them. Thankfully, there are a lot of Mikes out there. That, plus the Tims I rename, makes my life a lot easier.

 So, if you are worried that your mind is failing because you can’t quickly pull someone’s name out of the cobwebs in your head, not to worry! You’re probably OK. There are just too many names to deal with these days.  

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

No more free postage. Coot article of 6/14/2023 Tioga Co. Courier, Owego Pennysaver

 The Old Coot wants to end “Franking.”

By Merlin Lessler

 Free postage! (Franking) That’s what we grant the members of the United States Congress. So they can communicate important goings on in Washington. Free printing too. I guess it sounded like a good idea when it started. A small perk, so the men and women we elected could let us know what they were up to. Back when a three-cent stamp and a mimeograph black and white letter got the job done. Back before the political office became a lifetime career, not a few months sabbatical from the work world where they earned their living.  

 It’s time to reverse the franking (free postage) privilege. To give us free postage, so we can let them know what we expect of them for a change. A chance to express opinions for or against the latest “bright idea’ kicking around in the cigar smoked, back rooms at the Capitol. Any letter we send, addressed to congress, should be franked. And, no more free, one-way communication from them, with free design & artwork, professional phrasing and glossy printed propaganda, posing as electorate communication, when it really is campaign propaganda. If they ever get around to doing our work in the House and Senate, we might then consider reinstalling their franking privilege.

 It's our fault! We let this happen. It’s called Privilege creep. Starts out small, grows a little each year, and here we are, paying to be told what a great job they are doing. It’s time for a Franking change!

 Comments – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot & the Cough Bully. Article published 6/7/2023 Tioga County Courier, Owego, NY Pennysaver

 The Old Coot & the bully.

By Merlin Lessler

 Got a little cold coming on? With a tickle in your throat? That teases you into a cough, or two, or three? Now take that tickle to a public place – a group dinner you couldn’t get out of. You have one thing on your mind, suppress the urge to cough; resist the tickle. The activity around you is a blur. You sip water to kill it, but the tickle makes its presence known. You do a small, “Ahem,” to quiet it down. You’re OK for a minute, but you have to stay focused on the cough bully lying in wait in your throat. He’s in a recliner; his hands are behind his head, as though sunning himself on the beach, thinking, “I’ll wait, and get him when everyone’s eyes are focused on him.” 

 Been there? Done that? Maybe, in the dentist’s chair? The barber or hairdresser’s chair? Or, in any up close and personal situation. Like church. The movies. Or, worst of all, on a crowded airplane. It’s like that prom pimple that pops out on the end of your nose. Or, that canker blister on you lip, before a first date. Add the two together and throw in a bad hair day and you have the Triple Dipple Bully of Cruelty.

 I can think of another element to add while at dinner with a cough bully. The ice cream headache. Somehow, you make it through the main course. Without too many instances when you couldn’t keep the menace at bay. You order a dish of ice-cream, in hopes to sooth the monster. But you eat it too fast, and a stabbing pain strikes your forehead and temple: the dreaded ice-cream headache. It distracts your attention from the tickle in your throat and now you are wincing in pain and coughing at the same time. All is lost!

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot Article of June 1, 2023 (Owego Penny Saver & Tioga County Courier

 The Old Coot lost his status.

By Merlin Lessler

 I had to switch my watch to my right arm the other day. There was a cut on my left wrist, and the watch kept opening it up when I bumped into something. I had a hard time seeing the face of the watch when it was on my right wrist.  It was unnatural to twist my arm to see the dials. Actually, no dials, just numbers: 7:22 as I write this. The watch is blank until I pull up my arm from the side and twist it. Then it shows the time, but goes blank 10 seconds later.

 I solved the problem; I put the face of the watch on the inside of my right wrist. It really is the most efficient way to wear a watch – you hardly have to move your arm to check the time. I only recall two kinds of people wearing watches that way: nurses and people in the military. Nurses, so they can see the second hand when checking someone’s pulse. Soldiers, so they can hold a rifle in a firing position and still see what time it is.

 Many people gave up their watches when cell phones went mainstream. They used their phone; the time was right there in their hand. They were lured back, when the Fitbit and the Apple watch went on the market. I had a Fitbit for a few years, but I had trouble seeing the display when I was out in the sun. I replaced it with a cheaper watch that isn’t quite as smart. It tells the time, my pulse rate, how far and fast I walk, but nowhere near as much as the real smart watches. I don’t care; I can see the numbers in bright sunlight, and the ten second delay lets me use it as a flashlight in the dark. 

 It now rests on the inside of my right arm, giving me some status, like that of a nurse or a soldier. A better image than that of an old coot. But it came to a quick end when a young guy (in his thirties) saw it and asked me, “What war were you in? The Civil War or World War one, Ha Ha?” I’m not feeling so smug now. I think I’ll get out my dad’s old pocket watch. No one will even know what it is when I pull it out to check the time. Maybe they’ll think it’s a new electronic device. I’ll have status again.

The Old Coot is a lefty. An Old Coot article published on May24, 2023

 The Old Coot is now a lefty.

By Merlin Lessler

 What arm do you start with, when putting on your shirt? I bet you don’t know, not for sure. It’s one of those things you do without thinking; your subconscious takes charge. Even if you try to figure it out the next time you get dressed, you still won’t know, because you’ll be thinking about it.  It’s hard to find out what your body does on its own.

 How about socks; which sock do you put on first? The right or the left?  For me, it’s left. That’s the leg I can cross over my knee with the least amount of strain. I do it sitting down, but only since I became an old coot. I used to put on my right sock first. I’d hop on my left foot and pull it on. I couldn’t do that with my left sock. When I tried, I’d lose my balance and start to topple over. Now, I sit on a chair. Eventually, I won’t even be able to do that. I’ll get down on the floor and get dressed like a toddler and then say,” Somebody want to help me get up.?

 Some people don’t put on both socks at the same time. They put on a sock and then a shoe, and then the other sock and a shoe. Archie Bunker and his son in law Michael had a big fight about this on an “All in the Family” episode. Archie insisted the right way was to put on a sock and a sock, then a shoe and a shoe. Michael was of the sock and a shoe, sock and a shoe persuasion. So, Archie called him a Meathead!

 This sock business is important, at least to us old coots. It’s a critical part of our day. It’s not as easy as it once was, back when we didn’t give it a thought. Especially, on a day when our back is acting up. If we drop a sock on the floor, we’re in big trouble. We can’t bend over and pick it up or slip it on like regular people. We have to get a coat hanger and either pick it up, or try to nudge it on to our foot. That’s why you see us going around wearing a single sock every once in a while. It means we gave up trying to get it off the floor or got distracted and forgot to put it on. Sometimes, I don’t wear any socks, on purpose. Too much trouble to put them on. It’s what the hip, younger crowd does. It makes me sort of hip too?

 But, back to the “which arm do you put in your shirt first” question. If you don’t know the answer, consider yourself lucky. If you do know the answer, well, you’re an old coot like me who has no choice!  

 

The Old Coot is unpluged. A May 24, 2023 Article

 The Old Coot is plug challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 I have a plug problem. For most of my lifetime, I could plug something into a wall outlet with ease: two slots, two prongs, in they go. Now, because of an overprotective bureaucratic safety edict, I’m stuck with a wide prong and a narrow one and a wide and narrow slot. You would think a person has a fifty-fifty chance of getting the plug lined up the right way. Not the case. Not for me, anyhow. It’s more like one in ten chances of getting it right.

 Oh sure, if I went and grabbed my reading glasses, I could get it right the first time. But I don’t, and thus, I have a plug problem. And, not just with electric lamps and appliances. It’s the same with USB and HDMI plugs. I also seem to get them wrong most of the time. And, my cell phone charger and plug, until just recently, when my new Samsung phone came with a plug that is indifferent to which way you plug it in. If I’d had an Apple phone, I never would have had the problem. But, being a cheapskate and opting for a phone that cost one fifth that of an I-phone, I’ve had to deal with a phone plug problem for more than a decade. It’s why I like my Apple I-pad so much, a gift from my oldest daughter seven years ago. Never a plug problem with that device.

 I recently moved to an apartment in a house a block or so down the street from our well-loved two hundred and eighteen-year-old residence. It’s one of those life adjustments you make to accommodate the aging process. But it wasn’t easy -all those plugs; all those slots. It was a wrong-way, plug festival. My wrist is still sore from twisting it to get the plugs to line up with the slots. The wrist will get better, my plug problem won’t.

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com