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.