The Old Coot needs a stunt-man double. Published 12/25/024

 The Old Coot needs a stunt man.

By Merlin Lessler

I was in the Daytona State College Phys/Ed locker room the other day. I swung my leg over the bench in front of my locker. I didn’t lift it high enough, and stumbled but caught myself before I could fall. That’s one of the problems of being an old coot – you make what seems like the same effort you always made to do something (picking up my leg, in this case) and the result isn’t the same as it once was. Hence, me stumbling over the locker room bench.

Things like that don’t go unnoticed. Jeff, a fellow lap swimmer, said I looked like Kramer on Seinfeld, who is always stumbling around making some spectacular staggers. He wondered out loud if Kramer used a stunt double on the show. (He didn’t according to Google) Jeff’s comment got me thinking. That’s what I need, a stunt double. To get me safely through the day. Doing ordinary things that I’m no longer adept at. – Like stepping over something without tripping. My day would go so much smoother and be anxiety free. Like when I swing my leg over the back wheel to get off my bicycle; it sometimes catches on the tire and sends me reeling in a backwards stumble. I’ve only fallen once doing this and that was more than ten years ago when I was a young old coot. Since then, I take great care getting off my bike, but if I had a stunt double, I could hop off with ease.

I could pop up and out of the swimming pool, save myself the trouble of sloshing to the stairs at the other end of the pool. My double could climb a step ladder to change a light bulb in an overhead fixture. Or, reach down to pick up a quarter off the ground. Old coots like me drop stuff all the time, not just money. I could employ a stunt man on a full time basis to bend down and pick things up.

My wife would love it if he stood in for me when I have coffee with the boys or dine on a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Then I wouldn’t come home wearing a shirt splattered with stains. But I like Italian food too much to use a stand-in. You can only go so far with this stunt double stuff.       

 

 

The Old Coot and cardboard boxes equal's fun. (Published December 11, 2024)

 The Old Coot + a cardboard box = fun.

By Merlin Lessler

 

A recent “Family Circus” comic strip pictured 2 kids and a dog hanging around a huge cardboard box. The caption said, “Mommy got a new washer, and we got a new clubhouse.” It reminded me of the day my mother got her new AUTOMATIC washing machine; it was in the early 1950’s. It was a big day at our house. That dinged up old ringer washer was moved aside, and a sparkling new Maytag took its place; it was connected to the faucets in the nearby stationary sink that she used to soak clothes in to start her usual cleaning process. My mother didn’t trust the new machine that hid what it was doing under the lid, so she continued to soak everything before loading it into the Maytag. She even continued to use the scrub board and bar of yellow soap to remove the grass stains on the knees of my jeans, which we called dungarees in those days. Jeans were what girls wore.

 

My sister and I garnered the box and turned it into a club house. My friend, Woody, and I added a “No girls allowed,” sign on the flap and took possession. First, in the basement and then outside. We used it to slide down the steep, snow covered hill in my backyard. Cardboard was quite durable in those days, much more rugged than it is now. That box stayed intact for weeks, getting soggy, but maintaining its size and shape as it dried out on the back porch, awaiting the next snowfall.

 

Eventually, we cut it into 4 pieces, giving us 4 sleds so some neighborhood kids could join us. It didn’t take much to entertain kids in those pre-TV days. We spent most of our free time outside. Through snow, sleet, rain and the dark of night. We would have made excellent postal carriers.

 

Those old cardboard boxes added to our supply of toys shared in the neighborhood: stilts, pogo sticks, trikes & bikes, sleds, balls, bats & gloves and roller skates. If we didn’t have the right equipment, we borrowed it, sometimes without asking. It was a bonanza era for cardboard boxes; ringer washers were replaced by automatics, old gas stoves with new electric ones and ice boxes replaced by electric refrigerators. The recycling was handled by us kids, using, and wearing out all those boxes. We cut the scraps into small squares and fastened them to the fender braces on our bikes with a clothes pin to make a motorized sound. Sociologists should refer to the span of time between the end of World War ll and the 1960’s as the cardboard box era. I’m so glad I was there.

 

Comments, complaints? -  Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot likes knobs and switches. Published November 4, 2024 - Tioga County Courier

 The Old Coot cheers the change.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s been 20+ years in the coming, but knobs, sliders, switches and other physical controls are making a comeback in automobile design. If you’re less than 30 years old, you’ll wonder what I’m talking about. Let me explain. You could once control most functions behind the wheel, blindfolded. Want more heat? Reach over to the slider switch and move it to the right.  Need the fan to blow harder? Turn the knob next to the slider switch. You didn’t have to see it. You could feel it. No touch screen to distract you from keeping your eyes on the road.

Those screens cause more accidents than cell phones. That’s my take anyhow. It’s the same thing with household appliances. Printed circuit boards and touch screens dominate the landscape. I can’t even change the clock on our Samsung range without downloading an App and connecting to the brain (artificial intelligence) inside the unit. I won’t get into our washing machine. Another nightmare that decides I can’t change water temperature in a preset mode. I’m too stupid to be allowed that freedom. A/I has pushed my wants aside.

Get in a strange car? Good luck finding out how to control things. Every smart screen is different and uses symbols that are old coot, un-friendly. I can’t even get it right on an elevator when I try to press the “shut the door” button. Car manuals are now used more than ever. I guess you can read it while driving. Not any more dangerous than reaching over and drilling down through a menu on a touch screen. A screen that is getting bigger and bigger and probably will eventually replace the windshield entirely. Pushing us further into a virtual world.  

All is not lost. Some auto manufacturers have figured out that touch screens aren’t cutting edge anymore. Tesla and VW are leading the pack, and starting to add knobs and switches for commonly used functions. They had to hire designers that didn’t grow up playing video games and using touch screens. They hired some old coots to guide them to a new/old future. A safer one!

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

        

The Old Coot reads in pieces. Published in New York, November 27, 2024

 The Old Coot reads in chunks.

By Merlin Lessler 

I started re-reading a book that I first read in 2018 – “The Shipping News,” by E. Annie Proulx. A nice read! 9.9 on a 1 to 10 scale. I learned many years ago, I could re-read a book after five years and most of it would seem new, as though I never read it.

This re-read was especially nice since the binding came apart and the book split into six sections. I like that. I could shove a section into my back pocket and pull it out whenever I had time to kill. I read four sections when I was in Florida and the last two, in New York. I loved that I didn’t have to lug a 337 page book in my, always too full carry on, when I flew home. 

I’d love it if publishers would get a little innovative, and put out some books that break into manageable sections. Easy to hold over your head in a hammock or a recliner, unlike one of James Michner’s or Stephen King’s 900 pagers. King got innovative in 1996 and published “The Green Mile” in sections, releasing a new 100 page pocket book every month for six months. He was writing it as he went along, not even knowing himself how it was going to end. For half a year, he wrote and then published. The first five sections were about 100 pages long, the last, 140 pages. What a great way to read a story. I recently re-read it, 28 years later, this time with the image and sound of Tom Hanks voice, who starred in the movie. What a delight. I was on a river cruise on the Rhine and stuck a section in my pocket to read whenever the tour guide overdid the blah, blah.

I’m a reader, hard and soft covers, new and used, Kindle books and once in a while an audio book. The best one of that ilk was, “Pontoon,” a novel of Lake Wobegon, read by the author, Garrison Keillor. What a treat. All well and good, but the section books are the most convenient to carry around. I think I’ll start buying cheap, used books and break them into sections I can roll up and carry in my back pocket. I can get away with doing that, because I’m an Old Coot, which allows me a lot of freedom to do my own thing. Like the Hippies from the generation I grew up in.

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

  

The Old Coot is more than sorry. Article # 1105 Published in New York State 11/20/2024

 The Old Coot is sorry (and thankful).

By Merlin Lessler

 One of the downsides of being an old coot, is that you have to apologize. All the time! I spill stuff, just not on myself, but on my surroundings and people within range. Or, when I forget to be someplace or do something, like dropping a letter in the mailbox at the post office in a timely manner, instead of driving it around for three days. Or worse, I talk too much about the good old days and the stuff I used to do. Like that afternoon in my 30’s when I finally was able to run a mile in six minutes. (My one and only time, and it nearly killed me). Yet, I’m still inserting it into conversations fifty years later.  

After a while you discover that just saying, “I’m sorry,” doesn’t quite do the job with the person you insulted, spilled something on or otherwise offended. You say, “I’m sorry.” They frown at you and say, “Whatever!” You need a follow up to your lame, “I’m sorry.” I learned the lesson the hard way. It was at a reception my company was holding for a U.S. senator. I spilled a glass of red wine down the front of his immaculate bright white shirt. Our CEO was next to him when the accident occurred, glaring at me while I apologized profusely. The senator turned to him and said, “Give the kid a break; somebody hit his elbow.” (A lie.) Bottom line. I didn’t get fired. A good thing! I had two daughters in college, another in high school and one in middle school. That’s when I learned to say, “Thank you for your forgiveness.” Now, I add it whenever I say, “I’m sorry.”   

 One thing I don’t ever have to apologize for is being late. I’m early! All old coots are early. And not just for early bird specials. We’re early for everything. Have you ever been in a doctor’s office waiting room and overheard the receptionist say, “I’m sorry sir, your appointment is tomorrow. Now, that’s really early. But not as embarrassing as when we show up at a party where the invitation said it starts at seven o’clock. We show up a few minutes before seven. And get, “Oh you’re here already? Come in. Jane is in the shower, and I have to go to the store to pick up some ice.” That’s when I parade out an, “I’m sorry,” (And then stupidly add, “Do you mind if I open this bottle of white wine.”)

 You would think we’d learn to come late, the polite way, like everyone else. But we can’t do it. It’s not in our DNA. I suggest you tell old coot invitees a later time than everyone else. That will avoid an uncomfortable encounter for both of you.

If these comments offend you in some way, “I’m sorry.” Plus, the rest of the junk I

recommended saying.

The Old Coot shuns the Blah Blah. Published November 13, 2024

 The Old Coot has the blahs.

By merlin lessler

 I was lucky enough to have been in the Netherlands last month. I still call it Holland – you know: the Little Dutch Boy, his finger in the dike, tulips, wooden shoes, windmills. That’s the extent of my knowledge of the Netherlands. Or was. Now, I know a lot more. I took a guided tour in an area of a dozen or so antique windmills, one or two restored to working order, the remainder just sitting idle. A beautiful landscape image.

The trouble started when we crossed a bridge leading to Windmill Lane. There were about twenty of us in the group. Walkie-talkies hanging on a strap around our necks, ear buds jammed into our ears and a tour guide talking. Talking, talking, talking – while we stood in the middle of the bridge, frozen in time, learning all the intricacies of windmills. I call it “blah, blah.” I wanted to move, to get to the windmills. So, I drifted ahead, crossed the bridge, ducked into the combination gift shop, snack bar at the far side of the canal where the pathway to the windmills started. Then, I walked back to the group to interrupt the blah, blah and tell the guide I was moving on. I loved the look of surprise on the faces of our two tour friends, Laarnie and Elaine.

It was a look I’d see a lot of over the next few days. Every time I moved away from the group and gave my patented, blah, blah hand signal. Again and again, in towns along the route we traveled in a long boat on the Rhine River. I learned years ago, to slip away from guides who overload tourists with trivial information. I wish they’d just hit the high notes and let us see, and examine, the subject of their blah, blah lecture. The first time I executed this strategy I was on a tour at the Sistine Chapel in Rome. The guide kept the group “locked up” in front of a signpost in a courtyard outside the building. I lasted five minutes; then my wife and I snuck away and into a long entrance hallway lined with exquisite sculptures and paintings leading to the chapel proper.

We looked at everything and then strolled back to the group held captive by the tour guide, just then starting toward the hall. I was there to see things; I could Google the blah, blah, later. I’m now a well-seasoned blah, blah avoider. It’s a skill that also comes in handy at cocktail parties and other gatherings when you get stuck next to a human, blah, blah windmill. Thanks to the mother/daughter team of Laarnie and Elaine our journey was a fun one. But enough blah, blah from me. I’ll stop right here, and let you look at the rest of the newspaper.    

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

    

The Old Coot is a co-buyer. Published 11/06/2024 Tioga County Courier

 The Old Coot is a smart buyer.

By Merlin Lessler

 The buying techniques of men and women are very different! There, I’ve stepped into the abyss again, trying to explain another difference between men and women. In the 1950’s, pundits called it the battle of the sexes, in the 1970’s and 80’s we tried to blur the lines, to claim there weren’t any differences. Then, the truth was trotted back out and we learned that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. So, I guess it’s safe for an old coot to make social commentary on the differences in the buying habits of men and women.

I don’t know much about the specifics of women’s shopping habits to tell the truth. I know it’s a continuous process that involves discounts, coupons and comparison-shopping. And, is never consummated until the price of an item is at the lowest point possible. The husband never learns how much something cost, only how much money was saved. It’s a technique that’s been perfected by women.

 Men go a different route. They bring in poor “Uncle Fred,” their ace in the hole when they purchase an expensive item they have no right to buy without a family conference. Most boats are bought this way. “Honey, now before you get mad, I didn’t buy the 26 foot cabin cruiser by myself; Uncle Fred went in on it with me!” What can she say? Uncle Fred is her favorite uncle. And to cinch the deal, the husband says, “I’m naming the boat after you!” The same thing happens with motor homes, cottages and hunting camps. They are always bought with Uncle Fred and named after their wives.

 She’s never told that poor Uncle Fred was bullied into the joint purchase; he only gave in when his share was negotiated down to 1%. Men never buy expensive items (cars excluded) without a partner. If it isn’t Uncle Fred, it’s Jim-next-door. Jim-next-door is brought in on things that can be shared: a pool table, a 55 inch TV for the man cave in the garage, a lawn tractor, chain saw – anything that’s somewhat extravagant and seldom used. “I don’t know why you’re upset with the (log splitter, 40 foot ladder, lawn roller, you fill in the blank), I bought it with Jim-next-door.”

 The final straw in men’s buying techniques, is the schmooze that comes at the end of the purchase discussion. After the wife asks, “If Uncle Fred and Jim-next-door are in on all these purchases, why is everything in our garage?” Now comes the schmooze, at least when dealing with an Alpha Male purchaser, “Because their wives aren’t as hip as you, dear!”

 

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The Old Coot is a fire bug. Published October 16, 2024

 The Old Coot is a fire bug.

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s a lovely fall afternoon, as I sit here looking out the window, instead of reading the book on my lap. (The Thursday Murder Club, by Richard Osman.) The wind is gusting, blowing leaves out of the trees and across the yard. It’s blowing so hard, the leaves are whizzing by, twenty feet above the ground. It reminds me of the good old days, when that wonderful aroma of burning leaves surrounded the neighborhood where I lived amid a forest of trees that surrounded our house. There were so many leaves it was a struggle to wade through them to cross the yard. I raked up elephant size mounds and fed them into a small pile I’d set on fire. Eventually, I’d get impatient and get too many going at one time, sending a plume of smoke through the neighborhood. That’s when the neighbors called my wife and asked her to have a word with the fire bug burning leaves. I’d back off for a while and when I thought no one was looking, get the blaze going again. If I didn’t, I’d be out there all weekend. But that aroma from the burning leaves was oh so nice, on par with that of fresh bread baking in an oven.

 I glad I moved from that “leaf” house. I cannot imagine bagging the mountain of leaves I dealt with back then. When I moved to Owego and was clearing the back yard of several years of accumulated leaves, I decided to burn them to rid myself of the mess. Since it was illegal to do so, someone called the police, but luck was with me. The policeman went to the wrong address; I had time to quiet down the fire and he left without finding the culprit. Besides, my real problem was a giant Chinese gingko tree in the front yard. Its leaves fell in a single day, starting the morning after the first hard frost of fall. It looked like a winter blizzard when it happened. The real issue had nothing to do with the ban on burning.

 Those leaves wouldn’t burn anyhow. They were still green when they fell, packed with moisture and slippery as eels. So slippery, you couldn’t move them with a rake; you had to push them with a snow shovel. It took me the better part of two days to get them to the curb where a village worker came by with a leaf machine to suck them up. Then the machine broke and wasn’t replaced. We had to bag leaves after that. One fall I broke a record, ending up with fifty, 30-gallon bags, stuffed to the top. Each bag weighed a ton; I had to use a wheel barrel to get them to the curb. I’ve moved out of the “Gingko” house, but still like to walk by on the day the leaves come storming down. It’s not my problem anymore. Thanks to the new owners, Mike and Jennifer.

 I do miss the wonderful aroma of burning leaves swirled through the countryside. I guess I became addicted to it when I was a kid. My friend Woody and I cooked hotdogs over a leaf fire in the woods on South Mountain in Binghamton since we were seven years old. It was so easy: push them into a little pile, drop in a lit match and presto, you had all the fire needed to cook hotdogs on a stick. Every year, as the leaves start to drop, I’m tempted to build a small fire and become surrounded by that wonderful aroma, if just for a few minutes. So far, my willpower has held up, but who knows what the future will bring.

The Old Coot can't open anything. Published 10/09/2024

 The Old Coot is “opener” challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 I can’t open anything! Well, almost anything. It’s not just because I’m an old coot. You know what we’re like – weak muscles, arthritis in the fingers, limited vision, etc. No, it’s not me, it’s the package and bottle makers. The latest manifestation I had with this issue was opening a bottle of water. Two issues there – the bottle material is thin, and the cap is so small it’s hard to grip. They are small on soda bottles too, but not that small, and not as hard to open.

Those water bottles get me every time. I grip on the tiny cap and grasp the body of the bottle which is made of ultra-thin plastic. So thin, it squishes in the middle, looking like an hourglass. I strain, grasp and twist, in what I think is a macho-man effort. When it finally does break free, a geyser erupts, spraying me and anyone nearby. It’s best not to do this on an airplane. I learned that lesson the hard way.

Those bottles are not the only containers that cause me consternation on a regular basis. Opened a can of Campbell’s soup lately? They now have a lift off lid with a tab attached to pull it off with. The company thinks a can opener is beyond our capability. The tab is tiny and hard to lift. When you do get it up and give it a yank, nothing happens. So, you give it a he-man yank. It breaks free of the can and the soup sloshes all over the place. It’s best to open it over the sink.

It's not just liquid products that I have opening issues with. Even a bag of chips causes me a problem. I have to use my teeth to break into it, or pull it from each side, getting a potato chip shower when it breaks apart.

My list of hard to open items is getting longer and longer. How about that little metal cover under the cap on a tube of toothpaste? It has a microscopic tab to pull it off with. I use the tweezers in my Swiss Army Knife. A handy tool that helps me survive in a world of irksome food and beverage containers. The first multi-purpose knife I had ended up in the hands of a TSA agent at the Elmira Airport. I hope he’s putting it to good use, opening his containers. Or better yet, he gave it to his favorite old coot, who will be forever grateful.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

Fast food isn't fast. Old Coot Article # 1099 Published 10/02/2024 in New York

 The Harris Dinner turns 100!  By Merlin Lessler

This article about the Harris Diner was first published on December 18, 2004. Nothing has changed since then, and last week the diner celebrated its’ 100th anniversary by using food prices from the 1950’s. I stopped in to join the crowd (and it was a crowd) and to congratulate Sam.

The Big Lie -Fast Food

“A Few weeks ago, I took three of my grandchildren, Jake –5, Hannah- 3 and Abby – 2, to MacDonald’s in Westchester County for lunch. It was the day Jake and Hannah’s sister Callie was born; my part in the process was to watch the kids while my daughter, Wendy, was at the hospital. I sat at the table trying to entertain the antsy threesome while Abby’s mother, Kelly, waited in line for our “fast food” order. It was the longest thirty minutes of my life. I like going to MacDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and all the rest of the fast-food restaurants, but I think it’s time that they admit the obvious, and stop referring to themselves as “fast.” Fast applies to the service at Harris’s Diner; a small locally owned restaurant, housed in a cramped Quonset-like hut next to the fire station in Owego, the village where I live. It doesn’t provide customer parking, special menu items for kids or an indoor playground, yet it beats the pants off the international fast-food chains.

 I’m not a regular at Sam Harris’s diner; I only stop by every so often for breakfast. Once in a while I wander in at six, it doesn’t open until seven. The lights are down low, and Sam isn’t around, but there are customers hanging out at the counter and at tables in the back, drinking coffee, shooting the breeze and reading the paper. The coffee urns are full. The “regulars” made it. At 6:45 Sam comes in, trades insults with some of the rabble and goes into the back room to do some prep work. I sit at the counter with a choice seat near the grill, a cup of coffee before me, having been served by one of the gracious regulars. Sam flicks on the lights and fires up the grill. He starts things in motion by piling on a mountain of home fries and a dozen strips of bacon. He knows what the regulars want. Hazel, Sam’s faithful waitress, comes in at seven on the dot, ready to wait tables and bus the dirty dishes, a tough job for a gal well past retirement age, but one she does with class and a big smile.

 I sit with my coffee and watch the show. I don’t think there is anything more entertaining than a good grill man, and Sam is one of the best. He’s cracking eggs with one hand, flipping pancakes with the other and discussing last night’s Yankee game with a customer across the room. Regulars stream in, trade insults back and forth, head for the rack of coffee pots behind the counter and help themselves, some using their own cups, stored on a shelf above the pots. Hazel glides around exchanging pleasantries and taking orders, but Sam takes mine, since I’m right in front of him. The average time between giving your order and getting it is less than ten minutes. In my case, sitting at the counter, I get my two eggs over light, home fries, ham and toast in five. This is fast food! Hazel drops of the check when the food is served. You never have to wait for her to get around to it, like in many restaurants. A pile of bills and change lie in a heap next to the cash register. Customers settle up themselves, making changes and leaving the meal ticket as they pass the register on their way out. The “regulars” even go so far as to open Sam’s cash register when they can’t make correct change from the pile. I give my money to Hazel.”

Congratulations Sam! Thanks for keeping the tradition going.

Yard signs equal angst. Published Tioga County Courier 9/25/24

 The old coot is tired of being a referee.

By Merlin Lessler

Early voting is underway! Not with ballots, but with yard signs. Back in friendlier days, these signs were better tolerated. People even wore pins – “I like Ike,” for example, for us old coots. They walked around with little fear of getting a punch in the nose. A family would drive by a sign in the neighborhood and say, “Oh look, Bill is supporting John F. Kennedy. I’m a Nixon fan myself. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten together; we should invite them over for a backyard picnic before the weather turns cold.”

Not anymore. “Oh look, they’re supporting “What’s-its-name.”  What idiots!” – or – “Oh look, those morons are for Who-you-ma-call-it!” We are extremely divisive in our political positions today. Best friends no longer speak to each other. Family members disconnect. Thanksgiving gatherings turn into a food fight. Signs stir up the same animosity. We should go back to the days when folks didn’t overtly discuss religion or politics. In person, on their shirts and hats or the front lawn. Sure, it’s a right, guaranteed by the 1^st amendment, but now it’s approaching the “yelling fire in a crowded theater” level.   

We can’t look to our leaders for this guidance. We’ve got to get the ball rolling ourselves. Calm down on Facebook, all social media. Many of us like a little of the policies from each side; we’re middle roaders. But right now, it’s like we’re traveling down the road in different directions; any move to the middle causes a head on crash. Is it so hard to accept that others can have a different position? On issues and candidates? And not think of them as idiots? Maybe? It’s up to us to do it. We need a small child to lead us. The ones who learn in kindergarten how to get along. Afterall, who is more important in your life, some politician in the White house or your family, friends and neighbors?  

Comments? Keep them civil; I know I stirred the pot with this one. That’s what old coots do. Send them to mlessler7@gmail.com. Or, to the publisher of the paper you read this in.  

 

The Old Coot zeros in, Article # 1,097 Published 09/18/2024.

 The Old Coot wants to see the zeros.

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s time to bring back the zeros. These zeros – 000 and 000 and 000 and 000. All twelve!  The print media writes things like, “The senate passed a $1.2 trillion spending bill today.” We don’t blink an eye. What is a trillion? More than a billion, but what is it really? How about if they ended the shortcut and put it out there as - $1,200,000,000,000. That might catch our eye. It might make us wonder how we can afford it. How much more will “we” be taxed.

Even the TV & radio media drop the ball. $1.2 trillion. Ho Hum. How about saying, twelve hundred piles of billion-dollar bundles. Or better yet, twelve hundred thousand piles of million dollar bundles. It might perk our interest a little more.

They do this type of clarification all the time with the weather! “It’s going to be 86 degrees today, but the heat/humidity index will make it feel more like 100.” Or, “It’s going to be 16 degrees tomorrow morning, but with the wind chill factor it will feel like five below.”

Once the money that Washington and Albany threw around got to be more than a million, a disconnect occurred between the spenders and the people that pay the bill. A billion here, a billion there. We hardly knew the difference between a billion and a million after a while. It didn’t dawn on us often enough, that a billion is one-thousand million. Line up 1,000 millionaires, each sitting on a pile of one million, dollar bills, take a picture, and that’s what a billion looks like. A trillion is 1,000 times as much as that. Now you’ve got the average American’s attention. Oh yes, we need the media to pay as much attention to the politicians’ love of spending as they do trying to scare us about the weather, which is a trillion times less important.

Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com   

   

The Old Coot hates modern faucets! Article # 1096 Published September 11, 2024

 Old Coot can’t handle it!

By Merlin Lessler

I first aired this complaint in 2011. I’m still struggling with the issue - the shower and sink, water control joystick. A single handle controls temperature and flow rate and I can never get it to do what I want.

 I don’t know how long these things have been around. Probably decades. I avoided them like the plague, but they’re all over the place now. I wonder why. What was so bad about a separate cold and hot water knob? A set up where you had perfect temperature control. If the flow was a little on the hot side, you made a minor adjustment to either knob, that was it. You could even do it with your toe when the bath water started to cool down. When I try this with a joystick, the temperature shoots all over the place. When I want the water to be a tiny bit hotter, I overshoot and threaten to scald myself. When I go the other way, I get a blast from the Artic that sends my heart into atrial fibrillation. I’m capable of getting all hot or all cold, but the delicate balance of lukewarm or semi-hot eludes me. I know I just need to push it a slight bit, a right-ish or left-ish maneuver, but the “ish” part gets me every time.

 It reminds me of when I was 14 and driving my father’s car back and forth in the driveway, never sure what gear I would get when I moved the shift lever. Every once in a while, I ran it around the block, because I couldn’t find reverse. At least that’s what I told my dad when he caught me out in the street without a driver’s license. It’s the same with joysticks. I end up “going around the block.” I’m starting to get really concerned. These controls are all over the place, not just in sinks and showers.

 The kids that grew up playing video games are now old enough to be making design decisions for many products. They have put joysticks on tractors, riding lawn mowers and a whole slew of devices. The steering wheel is going the way of the dinosaur, being phased out, just like the hot and cold water knobs in sinks and showers. I’ll really be sunk if I don’t get the “ish” part down pat before they put them in cars! I’ll end up like the Chevrolet Corvair, that Ralph Nader claimed was unsafe at any speed. That’s what I’ll be!”

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot's phone took a train ride. Published Owego, NY - September 4, 2024

 The Old Coot’s phone took a train ride.

By Merlin Lessler

My friend Rick lost his cell phone the other day. I won’t mention his last name, but if you want your wood floor refinished, I’ll give you his number.

He was in a panic. Well, not actually a panic; he’s pretty even tempered. Let’s just say, he was concerned. He went through the house and his truck. No luck! Then he extended his search to the places he had been that morning. First, the grocery store. Nobody had turned it in. Over to Home Central - Not there. Then across the tracks to Scott Smith and Son where he had gassed up. Nothing doing! He knew he had it when he was there because he remembered checking his messages.

He did a lot that morning. A week’s worth of stuff for me. Finally, he went back home and gave it an FBI search. Nothing! He stood there scratching his head, “What am I missing?” Then it hit him, the chest freezer in the basement. He had put some groceries in there. Without much hope, he pulled up the lid. There it was, peeking out from under a package of ground beef.

We’ve all had this experience. Usually with a similar outcome. But not always! Sometimes it’s gone forever. I lost one on a train ride to Florida. I’d discovered it was missing when I got to the room we had rented. I knew I’d lost it on the train. I used my computer to track it down. Sure enough, it was on the train traveling north through Georgia. I called Amtrak. In hopes they could check the seat I’d been in and get it. I won’t get into what a nightmare that process turned into. Bottom line, I watched the phone go north to the auto-train station in Virginia, and then head south again. Then it disappeared. Lost forever. Wedged down in the seat cushion on an Amtrak train. I like Rick’s story better.

The Old Coot is magnetic. Published in Tioga County Courier 8/28/24

 The Old Coot is decorated in crumbs.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m a crumb magnet. A similar sounding name to that of a Cro-Magnon, an early man that didn’t make the final cut. But, that’s me, a crumb magnet. My clothes, shirts and pants, but also shoes and socks end the day decorated with a variety of crumbs: toast crumbs, bagel crumbs, lettuce bits (not technically crumbs) and more, collect on my apparel. Whatever moves from plate to mouth scatters in fear, I suppose, of being consumed. I look like Pig Pen, that Peanuts, Comic Strip character, who lived in a swirl of debris.

But I’m not just a crumb magnet; I’m a crumb disperser as well. Multitalented that I am. My magnetism only reaches so far. The particles that don’t lodge on my clothes get strewn to my surroundings. If I have a bagel in the Owego Kitchen for example, the floor beneath my table looks like someone was feeding birds. I herd the crumbs with my foot, over to the table legs, where they’ll be less conspicuous.  

This doesn’t work at home, where there is an area rug at my feet. It attracts the errant crumbs; I have to grab the portable vacuum to hide the evidence, or be accused of eating like a two-year-old.

I need to be fitted with one of those wide brimmed, plastic pet collars that vets use to keep a dog from chewing on a sore, or stitches from an operation. Wouldn’t that be attractive! The only other option I’ve considered, is to eat inside a large garbage bag. That would fix the messy floor problem, but I’d still have crumb laden clothes to deal with. It’s a work in progress. I’m open to suggestions.

Comments?  Be nice! Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

Are you an old coot? published August 21, 2024

 The old coot test.

By Merlin Lessler

 Every once in a while, some middle-aged guy will stop me, and ask, “What makes a person an old coot?” I ask them a series of questions and then let them see if their worst fears are coming true. Here are the questions I ask.

 Is the gap between the top of your shoe and the bottom of your pants two inches or greater? (the bigger the gap the more of an old coot you are)

 Do you insist that underwear be white, socks too, no other color is clean?

 Do your shoes either slip-on or fasten with Velcro?

 Does staying up late mean you only doze off twice by bedtime at 11pm?

 Do you wear a fanny pack with the pack in front to the point where you don't use your pockets anymore?

 Do all your conversations start with, “When I was a kid" -"When I was still working" - "When my kids were young” - or the like?

 Do you usually find the things you lost: around your neck, pushed up on top of your head, in your pocket or in your other hand?

 Do you yell at the newscasters on TV?

 Does your belt buckle ride just below your rib cage? (this may explain why your pant cuffs are six inches above your shoes)

 Is your dinner hour 4pm?

 Do you have to sit down to put on your socks, shoes and pants?

 Does everybody under forty look 16 to you?

 Are you the first one to get there: for a party, to vote, for church service and every other event with a start time?

 Do you read the obituaries every day?

 Is the music too loud? Everywhere!

 Is the President, your doctor, dentist, lawyer and every other symbol of authority younger than you?

 Are three or more of your toenails thicker than the edge of a half-dollar and closer to gold than pink? (And do you even know what a half-dollar looks like?)

 Does sleeping through the night mean you only had to get up once?

 Do you leave it that way and shrug, “Oh well,” when you discover you’ve put your sweater on backwards?

 Does it take you a minute or longer to get into or out of your car?

 If you answer “Yes” to 6 or more, you are well on your way, 12 or more, well, what can I say, welcome to the club.

The Old Coot dives right in. Published 8/14/2024

 Old coot takes a dive.

By Merlin Lessler

 (I wrote this article 20 years ago. The other day, my cousin, Pat Martin, sent me a framed copy of this, her “favorite” Old Coot article. I decided it was time to give it another airing.) 

We closed our pool this week. The water temperature slipped below 70 and was headed downhill fast. My wife stops going in when it drops to 80; my limit is 72. Our son will swim when it's in the 60's. If his pals are around, he’ll even go in when it’s in the 50’s. I miss the pool already. It’s kind of a magic device that tells you things about people. Their approach to the water reveals a lot about their personality. It will even tell you what they do for a living, if you know the code.

For instance, some people dive right in. They don't test the water; they don't ask, "How is it?" They walk to the edge, lean over and take the plunge. This group is primarily made up of cops, firemen and nurses. Doctors don't make the cut; they can't get in without asking questions about the temperature, the chemical composition, the depth, the texture of the bottom, etc.

 People who dive in, but then break the surface with a loud scream are in sales. They have to let everyone know how it felt; they can’t help themselves.

 Some people ask a lot of questions about the temperature before they go in: "Is it cold? Do you get used to it? Does it feel OK after you've been in awhile?" They can't go in until they know exactly how they might react to it. People in this group are teachers, lawyers and bank loan officers.

 Another personality group enters the water in a calculated and conservative manner. They start by sticking in a toe, and then the foot. Eventually they bend over and get their hands wet and carefully splash water on their bodies. When they’ve completed their “bird bath” they’re ready to take the plunge. This group finds work as engineers or librarians, unless they go through the process with their backs to the water or with their eyes closed. Then you can find them working in administrative jobs: in schools, government bureaucracies or with accounting firms.

 People who manage to keep their hair dry when they swim are in a special category altogether. They are the titans of business, the corporate “front office” crowd. They get wet but strive to maintain a businesslike image. Dry, combed and styled hair is their substitute for the business suit.

 People who stick in a toe, wave to everyone and then go back and sit in a lounge chair make up the last group that I’ve been able to identify. When they get home, they tell everyone how great the water was, what fun. These people run the government; they're the politicians.

 It’s sad to acknowledge that the pool season is over. I won’t be able to finish my analysis of pool personalities. Oh well, maybe next year.

 Ps. In case you’re wondering how old coots enter a swimming pool, we hop right in, no matter the temperature, in fact the colder the water the better. It’s not because we’re fearless or brave; it’s because we love the rush our systems get from the shock of lowering our body temperature so fast. It speeds up the flow of blood to our entire body. We feel like teenagers, if only for a minute. It’s a nice trip down memory lane.

The Old Coot walks alone. Published Tioga County Courier 7/7/24

 The old coot walks a different path.

By Merlin Lessler 

My walking stick and I took a stroll through the village the other day. I walked along a smooth, paved route on Front and Main Streets. At times, I had to veer around a vehicle parked in my way, but otherwise, it was an uneventful stroll along a macadam surface. Off to my left was a narrow strip of grass adjacent to a mix of cement and slate surfaces that most pedestrians were walking on.

I don’t know what they were thinking! Facing obstacles that lie in wait, like those in a steeplechase racecourse: slate squares and concrete slabs with raised edges, realigned by nature and tree roots to trip young and old alike. Disrupting an otherwise peaceful stroll, past a string of lovely historic homes that define the character of the village. It’s the magic that draws visitors to our town, to shop, to stroll, to lull in peace and escape an otherwise chaotic world, unaware of the dangers that may lurk along their route.

But it wasn’t always like this. There was a time when it was safe to walk through the village, on level sidewalks. Homeowners and village officials were charged with the responsibility to keep them safe. The homeowners, to fix the slabs that caused a tripping hazard, and the village, to cite a code violation when they didn’t comply. The village, at times, shared in the repair or replacement cost, if that year’s board adopted it as a policy. Most homeowners today don’t even know the sidewalk in front of their house is their responsibility. But the village government does, and appears they choose not to enforce the code and allow tripping hazards to exist.

The state DOT redid the 17-C section of Front Street in 1986, including the curbs and sidewalks. Homeowners were given the option of keeping their slate slabs along the front of their lot or change to new concrete slabs, tinted to match the darker color of slate. Old slates were leveled, and new concrete was poured. That was 38 years ago, leading to the challenging conditions we now live with. Maybe our village officials and homeowners will step to the plate, but in the meantime, I’ll be traveling along the safer path. That’s what old coots do.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is change challenged. (Published 7/31/2024)

 The old coot can’t adapt to change.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve been testing my ability to adapt to change. I rate it on a scale of one to ten. When I was young, change couldn’t happen fast enough. I was a solid ten. Over time, my test score declined. This summer it hit a new low. It was automatic doors that did me in. I’d been going in and out of medical facilities to visit people and to undergo some routine old coot tests. As I walked to the first doorway, it opened automatically, throwing me off balance and making me stumble a bit. I got used to it (I gave myself 7 on the 1 to 10 scale). But then, when I walked up to a regular door, I expected it to open; it didn’t, and I nearly planted my face. I’m back and forth; some doors open on their own, some don’t. I’m forced to adapt all the time, and not doing so well. My adaptability skill is low. It’s a crap shoot out there. Will the door open on its own or not?

It's not just automatic doors that challenge my ability to adapt. Automobiles do it too. They’ve taken over, they scold you if you don’t fasten your seat belt, tell you that a door is unlatched, make you step on the brake to start the engine, won’t let you leave the lights on. They lock the doors when you put it in drive. Not a good thing when you get into an accident and a good Samaritan can’t pull you out before it catches on fire or rolls into the river. Some cars keep you in your lane and stop you from crashing into cars in your blind spot when you change lanes. They even prevent you from coming too close to the car in front of you when using cruise control. Little by little they dumb you down. s.

Then, when you get into a car without all that stuff, you could be in trouble with driving skills that have been lost. My adaptation skill level gets overheated. If I rent or borrow a car, I have trouble driving it: to start it, turn on the wipers, adjust the temperature or find a radio station. No two cars are alike. Gear shift lever? No! Just a round knob. - Ignition key? No! Push a button on the dash (if you can find it). I need a lesson and some practice whenever I hop into a strange vehicle. Eventually, I won’t be able to drive or get into a building. A homeless old coot, on foot, who didn’t adapt to change.   

 

  

The Old Coot cleans up. (his car) Published July 24, 2024

 The Old Coot cleans up.

By Merlin Lessler

I washed my car the other day. Actually, it was my wife’s car – mine is in Florida, braving the hot muggy weather, much hotter and muggier than here. Which is why I cherish my New York State summer residency, in spite of all the state mandates we are forced to live with, not to mention the taxes. Anyhow, I hosed it off, then got at it with a sudsy mitt and a long handled soft bristle brush.

You don’t see many people in their driveways doing this anymore. It once was a Saturday ritual for many men, some women and teenagers lucky enough to have their own vehicles. According to “experts,” only 28% of automobile owners wash their own cars. It’s off to the car wash for them. It’s down from 50% thirty years ago. We’ve become a commercial car wash society, reported to be a 33-billion-dollar industry, with 60,000 car wash establishments across the country.

Waxing a car is something else again. I suspect the percentage of people doing that is pretty low. Even I gave that up years ago; clear coat finishes eliminated the need. Simonize wax was king in the old days. Applying it and rubbing it in took over an hour. The first time I waxed my father’s car when I was a teenager, I did the windows as well as the car body. I learned that lesson the hard way. He wasn’t very pleased when he turned on the wipers during a rainstorm to face a blurry mess out the windshield.

When I wash my car, I consider it an exercise session. A lot of bending, squatting, stooping, stretching and reaching and I pay myself the $20, a car wash place would have charged me. You don’t have to be an old coot like me to do this. Anyone can.  

 Comments, good or bad. Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot tips to the right. Published Tioga County Courier 7/17/24

 The Old Coot leans to the left. And the right.

By Merlin Lessler

 I have a balance problem. I’ve had it for years; I get along just fine with it. I often use a walking stick, the same one I used to hike up the high peaks in the White Mountains of New Hampshire with my daughters and son. It was a great adventure every year starting in the mid 1970’s and ending with my last climb when I turned seventy-five. Anyhow, the nerves in my legs have gone on strike; they tell my brain that I am tilting to the side, when I’m not. It makes me adjust to the “fake news” from below. My eyes recognize the lie and set me straight. In the process, I wander from vertical a bit.

 When someone asked me what was wrong when they saw me with a stick, I would go into a long windbag explanation of the balance issue. Now I lie, “Oh no big deal, I have a trick knee.” (Who doesn’t at my age?)  I had two reasons for the lie. When I had explained the balance quirk it was too much information and people’s eyes glazed over. And, their reply usually was, “I always knew you were unbalanced!”

 The other day I was walking along East Main Street; Sister Mary O’Brien was coming toward me on the opposite side of the road. “Hey Old Coot,” she yelled over to me. “What’s going on with the stick?” I couldn’t lie to her; she can spot a lie a mile away, so I went into the balance issue. She didn’t say it, but I could read what the grin on her face said, “I always thought you were unbalanced, ha ha!”

 I’m making this whole thing sound more of an issue than it is. It compromises my lifestyle, not at all. Except, there is always an exception isn’t there. Except, when I walk out of a bar or restaurant serving adult beverages, places I go without the walking stick. When I get up to leave, and have to weave through a crowd of people and around tables, I look a little tipsy. I get a look that says. “Look at that old guy; he’s drunk.” When I bump into people or a table, I quickly explain, “I’m not drunk; I have a balance problem.” I doubt if anyone believes it. But it makes me feel good. The only real danger I face, is getting stopped by the police and made to walk a white line. I’d fail. I’d have to sit in the slammer until a blood test showed my beverage of choice had been Pepsi Cola.

 Comments, complaints? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Too much "sharing." Old Coot article published 07/10/24

 The Old Coot learned to share in Kindergarten.

By Merlin Lessler

 

When we are little kids, our parents strive to teach us to share. It gets us started, especially if we have siblings. We don’t especially like it, unless it’s our turn to be the one on the receiving end. The training really ramps up when we go to school, kindergarten in my day, pre-school these days. I still remember my first week in Kindergarten. My neighborhood friend, Woody, and I raced to the toy cupboard when our ABC’s and Shoe tying lessons were over. He grabbed a metal fire engine; I snagged an ambulance. Then, a giant of a kid came over, pushed us aside and grabbed them away from us. “You can’t play with these; they’re mine!” It was our first, of many to come, encounters with Butchy, a bully that harassed us for years, often sitting on his bicycle on the playground with a baseball bat resting on his shoulder. He wasn’t afraid to take a swing. Fortunately, he always missed; he was pretty uncoordinated. He didn’t learn to share. But we sure did.

 

Now, my issue is with the people who share too much. Like the loud guy (big mouth) talking into his cellphone in a restaurant or other public place. It’s even worse when he has his speaker on and we get blasted with both sides of the conversation. Also, the driver with an expensive stereo system, blasting so loud that anyone sitting near him at a stop light gets clobbered with noise. He’s “SHARING.” It’s so loud, that were he in a workplace, OSHA would deem it in violation of the 85 DBA noise limit.

 

How about the guy whose car exhaust system has been modified; you can hear him coming two blocks away. Some Harley motorcycle guys do the same, sending a blatting crescendo of engine noise across the roadway. “Look at me; I ride a Harley!” Most Harley riders, the ones with standard exhaust systems, resent the blatting rider too. It gives them a bad reputation.  

 

The world is full of oversharing people. The ones whose dogs bark all day long, the bands in bars and restaurants who crank up the volume so high you can’t talk to the person next to you. There are way too many sharers out there, including some of the advertisers on TV that raise the volume of their ads, in violation of the FCC rules; it appears that FCC is asleep at the wheel. My list of over-sharers is pretty long. How about yours?

 Comments? Complaints?  Send to mlesler7@gmail.com

 

 

The Old Coot takes his coffee black - Published 7/3/24

 The Old Coot takes his coffee black.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was sitting in the Owego Kitchen coffee house the other day and wondered where the coffeehouse concept came from. I wondered. Google answered. They (it) said it was born in the Mideast, in the 15th century and migrated to Europe and England in the 17^th century. It was a “gentlemen only” establishment.! All I know is, they weren’t around when, or where, I was growing up. Sure, old guys hung out in diners, perched on swivel bar stools, sipping oily, black coffee from china mugs, chewing the fat, as they called those mindless conversations loaded with guffaws.

 In my world, the modern version of the coffee house began as a hippy thing. I was around, but unaware, as the concept blossomed. My wife and I were otherwise occupied, with three daughters under the age of five and too busy to afford us leisure time to hang out in a coffee house, listening to dreadful, home-grown poetry.   

 At any rate, in spite of our lack of participation, those institutions gravitated across the country throughout the 1960’s. Few if any, turned a profit. But that wasn’t the objective for the long-haired men and long-skirted women who ran them. They were designed to enhance the anti-establishment movement; owners and patrons subscribed to the credo: “Don’t trust anyone over 30.” It was a place where people discussed life philosophies on overstuffed, well-worn couches and chairs. A random guy or girl was often hanging out, strumming a guitar and singing folk songs like “This Land is Your Land.” It provided a refuge for young adults, especially college students doing homework and escaping every-day life.

 Coffee houses still are around, run by independent proprietors, slugging it out against the giants: Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts and the like – Corporations run by people over 30, not to be trusted who figured out how to monetize the hippy version of a coffee house. Who would have thought customers would pay 5, 7, 10 dollars or more for a complicated beverage crafted by a mixologist (barrister) to start their day. Not me! I take my coffee black and often with a free refill and then overstay my welcome. That’s what old coots do. We’re lucky, here in Owego, to be blessed with four coffeehouses that big business hasn’t gotten their hands on. Bring your guitar and strum a tune or two.

The Old Coot, once a boy of summer. Published 6/26/2024

 The Old Coot was one of the “boys of summer.”

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s that time of year again; time for the “Boys of Summer.” That’s what they called it back when I was a kid in 1954. It was the last year I was eligible to play Little League. Eleven years old and soon to be too old to qualify. Three of us from the neighborhood “gang” decided to try out. And, to our surprise, made the team: Woody Walls, Waren Brooks and myself. The biggest thrill was getting the uniform making us official players on the Elk’s Little League team. We were a scraggly bunch of South Side, Binghamton kids. We grew up playing ball at the “Flats,” a wide-open playing field between Vestal Avenue and the Susquehanna River, adjacent to the temporary, Veteran’s housing complex. It’s now part of the Mac Arthur Elementary school grounds. There is one veteran’s house still standing, now used as the bath house for the city pool. But, back then it was home for my cousins: Rosemary, Rita and Jerry Collins. Billy and Pat Collins came into my world later on.

 Little League started in June, when school let out. Games were played in the afternoon on weekdays. It was a kid’s pastime, of little interest to parents for the most part. The coaches were usually the only adults at a game, except when we played the really good teams. Sertoma, for example, led by Doug Johnson. He not only could blast the ball out of the park, he was the most feared pitcher in the league. Little League was a wonderful pastime. It profitably occupied us for an entire summer, but someone came along when I wasn’t looking and changed it. And, it bugs me a little.

 First, they changed the time frame. It’s no longer a summer pastime. The season kicks off in May, sometimes with traces of snow clinging to the grass in the outfield. The games are played in the evening or on the weekend, to accommodate parent’s work schedules. “Mom and Dad” feel compelled to be there, to nurture the egos of this generation. The stands are full and the kids play to the gallery. I feel sorry for them. We only had to answer to our coach and our teammates. Players today have to please the crowd, half of which is cheering them on; the other half, not so much. The game is played in multi-field complexes, equipped with refreshment stands, public address systems, batting cages, fences painted with colorful corporate logos and manicured playing surfaces. We were lucky if the hastily thrown up snow fence reached all the way around the field.

 Kids today wear batting gloves, batting helmets, base running helmets and rubber-cleated shoes. They sit on covered benches, a chilled sports drink at their side. We wore old sneakers and shared a catcher’s mitt with the other team. Sometimes, we had a soda after the game, provided we could scrounge up enough deposit bottles on the trip from the ball field to the neighborhood grocery store. You no longer hear the “crack of the bat. Its’ been replaced with the “ping” of an expensive aluminum ball-hitting mechanism. We started the season with four new wooden bats, all of which were eventually cracked from hitting the ball on the label, and held together with friction tape. The new ball that was budgeted for each game often ended up wrapped in tape as well, its cover having been blasted off by a peewee slugger in the third inning. Little League was for the kids; now the adults have taken it over. Too bad! Or is it? You decide.

Old Coot calls for a penalty flag. Article #1085 -Published June 19, 2024

 The Old Coot calls for a foul.

By merlin lessler

 When an infraction is committed in a football game, the ref throws a yellow flag. When the coach thinks the ref made a bad call, he throws a red flag, asking for a review. In soccer it’s not a flag, but a yellow card for “excessive” fouling of another player. Do it again and a red card comes out and the player goes out. In basketball, the ref blows a whistle. We need to employ these techniques in non-sporting events. Gatherings of families and friends. When the bickering starts to heat up, the ref throws a yellow flag, halts the conversation before it gets out of control.

 This would be especially productive at a Thanksgiving gathering, where red and blue political people are thrown together. When the bickering starts, the host or hostess should present a yellow card, blow a whistle or throw a yellow flag, to stop the escalation. And, introduce a more friendly topic of discussion. If one of the bickering pair starts up again, they get shown a red card and put in exile at the children’s table in the next room.  

 This process would also come in handy when a group of married couples get together and the “Bickersons” start to pick apart each other’s statements. (She) - “Billy Jones ran through my flower bed.” (He) – “No, it wasn’t; it was the Watson kid!” (She) – “IT WAS BILLY JONES!!!” one more back & forth and the ref blows the whistle. Everybody laughs, and the temperature of the bickering couple cools down. Besides, nobody cares if it was Billy or the Watson kid. Just tell the group what happened to the flower garden.

 If you witnessed a table of old coots under these rules, you’d hear a lot of whistles and see a lot of red and yellow flags thrown about. But the bickering with them isn’t between participants; it’s self-bickering, an old coot stuck on a name that he can’t retrieve from the fog in his brain. He gets angry at himself, and yells, “What was it. Darn; it’s right on the tip of my tongue, blah blah!”  Flags, whistles and cards would make the world a better place. Especially the one I live in.

The Old Coot knows why, Article #1084 published June 12, 2024

 The Old Coot knows why.

By Merlin Lessler

 Why is there no cure for the common cold? That miserable, life sucking ailment that lays you low once a year, or so, if you’re lucky. More often, if you are around or have little kids that bring the “gift” home from nursery, or regular school. This is the age-old question, for which the medical science industry stays mute.

 For the answer – all you have to do is take a stroll down the cold medicine aisle in any drug store. It’s a long lane, well packed with pricey, cold remedies. Day pills, night pills, pills to make you cough, pills to stop you from coughing, throat soothers, sinus ache relievers, and an endless list of promised relief. Why would any industry seek to cure what brings in so much cash from the shoppers of this aisle of voodoo.

 So, we cough, we hack, we drip, we ache and we buy the promise of relief that lines the aisle. The most extensive assortment in the store. Here is where I shift into “the good old days.” You are forewarned of the journey that will follow. But, back then, mom got out the Vicks, rubbed it on our chest and neck, brought out the cough syrup (that did, by the way, contain a narcotic) and sent us off to school. The cold virus burned its way through the classroom, eventually the whole building, and then sputtered out. Teachers weren’t immune, but rarely became infected. Probably because they stayed away from us at their desk or the blackboard at the front of the room, a good ten feet from the first row of hackers and sneezers.

 I have to stop here. I’m headed to the drug store to the “aisle” of gloom. You’ve probably figured out; I have a cold. And worse, I passed it along to my wife.    

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

The Old Coot is bottle opener challenged. Article # 1083 (published 06/05/2024)

 The Old Coot is a second-rate opener.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was struggling to get the cap off a plastic water bottle the other day. You’d think it would be a simple task. All you have to do is, grip the bottle and twist off the cap. But, it’s not so easy, because plastic bottle material is so thin, that when you grasp it, it squishes in half and looks like an hourglass. If you’re an old coot, it’s hard to get a firm grip on the tiny cap. You squeeze harder and harder on the bottle and twist as hard as you can on the cap. So hard, that the hidden vein in your forehead makes an appearance, as if to ask, “What’s going on?” When the cap finally breaks loose, the water erupts from the bottle, like Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park.

 That’s why I get my water from the tap. I miss the good old beverage container days. When the bottle was made of glass and topped with a metal, fluted, cork lined cap. Sure, you needed a can opener (church key) to open it, but they came free with a beverage purchase. Or, you could use the built-in opener in coke machine, which were located all over the place. Most of the time we didn’t need any of that stuff; the jack-knives we carried in our pockets had a bottle opener blade.  

 Some of the caps had a surprise under the cork lining, if you had the patience and took the time to scrape it off. You might find a dollar sign, entitling you to a free soda. Or an ace, king, queen, jack or ten card. When you collected a royal flush, you won a special prize. Most often, you found a message that said, “You will be thirsty again in one hour.” Those cork lined, metal fluted caps, were in use from 1892 until 1960. You would think I’d have gotten over it by now, and I would have, if I didn’t get a shower every time I opened a cheap, thin, plastic water bottle.

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Old Coot had eleven lives, so far. Published 5/29/2014

The eleven lives of an old coot.

By Merlin Lessler 

 Scientists claim that the cells in your body are replaced every seven years (on average). I guess that means you get a new start with a new you throughout your life. I’ve been 11 different people so far. Some of them have been pretty cool, others not so much. The first one got me through the toddler stage, into kindergarten and continuing until I turned seven. The next “me” was pretty active: patrol boy, paper boy, little leaguer, cub scout, sidewalk roller skater, tree climber, hut builder, camper, trumpet player, rule follower.

 Then came middle school (junior high in my day) and a little more erratic, irresponsible and rule breaker “me.” Highlighted by a ride I undertook in my father’s car that ended in a trooper station in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. My dad had to come and fetch me. That was a memorable ride home. What can I say in mt defense? I just couldn’t wait any longer to drive – that 2 year stretch until I would turn 16, seemed like a life time.

 But I made it. Got my junior license and promptly had it taken away. This third “me” was a numbskull. One Sunday afternoon, I tried to see how fast I could go in my father’s pride & joy Edsel, on Upper Court Street in Binghamton. The trooper who pulled me over, didn’t think going 100 mph was as cool as I did. Neither did the judge who suspended my license.

 Then came the fourth me – husband, father, community service volunteer. A respectable, upstanding citizen. A red blooded American, as were the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth iterations I’ve lived. Then, that ninth one came along, retired and morphed into the embryo stage of an old coot, a writer, commentator on the social oddities of life. By the time number 11 came onto the scene, the old coot persona had reached full bloom. He talked too much about the good old days and pointed out everything that wasn’t up to snuff. My younger selves must be so embarrassed. I start my 12^th iteration in 2 & ½ years. I hope it’s someone the first eleven can be proud of. But I wouldn’t count on it.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot lives in a train station? Published 5/22/2024

 The Old Coot is on the right side of the tracks.

By Merlin Lessler

 I live in a train station. A horn blasts! A quiet toot-toot would be more pleasant, but the loud blast is OK. Then comes that wonderful train wheel rumble; it continues for ten minutes or more. One of my favorite sounds.

 We moved to a new location last year, close to the tracks. I couldn’t be more thrilled with the proximity to the railroad rumble. I’ve been a train nut since 1950, when I found an electric train set under the tree. It eventually grew into a two-level layout, with three train sets running at the same time, gated road crossing, lighted Plasticville houses, tunnels and more. Thanks to my father’s efforts to “help” me build this wonderland, primarily by handing him a tool or a piece of track and listening to him yelp and say, “#@*&#,” when he hit his thumb with the hammer. A lot of my friend’s fathers "Helped” them too.

 I grew up and eventually duplicated the layout myself, but on a modest scale. I bought a train set, houses, scenery and other items at garage sales and flea markets. It was constructed to fit under our Christmas tree and spent the rest of the year out of sight, in the attic. I eventually replaced that under the tree layout with an LGB big train set that ran on a high shelf around the room in my “man cave.”  I could then watch it from my recliner and hear the clickety-clack as it circled overhead, sending me to dreamland within just a few minutes of “reading” my favorite novel.

 I recreated that same set-up in the next house we moved to, but since then we downsized and moved again; I now don’t have a place for my train anymore, but the loss was made up for by the real trains that rumble by throughout the day. They work the same magic that my model train did, sending me to dreamland, as I “read” in my recliner. I wake with a startle, when a second train comes through, blasting its horn to warn the public to get off the tracks. My first thought is, “Where am I? In a train station?” When the fog in my brain subsides, I realize it’s just a train passing by, and go back to my book and let the rumble put me back to sleep. I love living in this train station. 

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

The Old Coot learns the days of the week. Article #1,080

 The Old Coot learns how to start the week.

By Merlin Lessler

 There are two ways to approach Monday, the start of the work week for most people. It’s kind of like a New Year, with an opportunity to turn over a new leaf, to change. One way to greet Monday is with a groan – Ugh! It’s Monday, five more long days until the weekend. You slosh through the first few hours in a fog, maybe a little depressed. The Monday Blues! I’ve been retired for some time now, but I still remember that feeling, “I’ve just got to get through the week and then I can be happy again.”

 The other way to greet the day is to treat it like a woman does when she comes into the Owego Kitchen before going to work. I’m there, sitting at the old coot table with Lester, Rick, Eric, Matt, Mike, sometimes the other Mike and sometimes one or two of the other Ricks. In she comes before heading to work at the bank, I shouldn’t mention her name (It’s Jules). She banters, back and forth with us. She’s upbeat and laughs so hard that people up and down Lake Street must ask, “What was that?”

 It starts on Monday with her yelling, “It’s HAPPY MONDAY! Ha Ha Ha.” She renamed the days of the work week, starting with Happy Monday. Tuesday is “Second Monday.” Wednesday is “Hump Day,” like most workers think of it. Thursday is “Friday Eve,” and Friday is just plain old Friday, but if you hear her say it, with that beautiful laugh, you’ll know it’s a different kind of Friday.

 She has the same temptation to face Monday as the start of a long journey to the weekend. Blah! Ugh! Boo! But instead, she laughs her way into Monday, A great way to approach the work week. I wish I’d learned that when I set the alarm on Sunday night for Miserable Monday. But, it’s never to late to learn, even for an old coot. Here’s hoping all your Mondays are Happy Mondays.

Coot proves that spring is here. Published 05/08/2024

 The Old Coot proves that spring is here.

By Merlin Lessler

 Everyone knows a robin is the first sign of spring. The second sign, is a confirmation – an old coot walking up Davis Hill, that steep, winding lane that starts at Taylor Road (East Front St.) and ends at Lisle Road. I just completed that hike, and several residents from King’s Point and nearby were fortunate enough to observe that spring time was confirmed. And, I was fortunate enough not to have been run over. 

I recommend the climb to anyone looking to get their heart beating a little faster, and a sense of peace and tranquility from hiking a hill with trees on both sides filled with bird songs, squirrels rustling through dry leaves and deer families crossing to greener pastures.

There are a few tricks to getting up and down safely. First and foremost, to focus your ears on listening for cars. You have to know if one is coming at you and then quickly move to the edge of the road. When I do, I lean on my walking stick with a smile on my face and my hand up in a thank you wave. It’s almost always returned.

The stick also helps to make the climb, adding some arm power to the effort. I’ve used one for decades, a habit that began when hiking trails in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. But, no more! I hiked Mt Lafayette when I was 75 and concluded the smart thing was to make it my last. Coming down proved especially difficult. My daughter Amy and her kids, Wylie, Oriah and Atlas accompanied me on that climb. I hope they get the hiking bug.

But, back to the tricks to survive Davis Hill, where cars speed up and down on this winding race track. You must listen hard and get to the side. I criss cross so the cars coming toward me always have a good sight line and time to avoid converting me into road kill. I step back well in advance and lean on my stick. The stick gets you pity instead of irritation; it makes you look old and feeble. Pity is underrated, but it can serve you well when walking up Davis Hill where everyone is in a hurry. Anyhow, it’s official. Spring is here!

Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com