The Old Coot has a big nose! Published 4/24/24 #1,077

 The Old Coot is getting “nosey,”

By Merlin Lessler

 I looked in the mirror the other day, really looked for a change. Not my normal, quick glance that fills in the image with a memory of how I appeared years ago, making me think I’m not really an old man. That mirror showed many defects, a bigger nose to start with. It was “as plain as the nose on my face,” yet I hadn’t noticed.

 Then, I saw the ears. They weren’t mine! I never had saucers sticking out of the side of my head like that, had I? This must be some cruel trick. But, it wasn’t. Something was going on here; I was seeing it for the first time. I looked again. “Has my forehead ever been that big? And that far back?” The more I looked, the more I found. Too bad they don’t give you a manual when you sign up for Social Security to prepare you for the body alterations that will come your way.

 Like that bag of skin that keeps your insides protected from the outside world. All of a sudden, it starts to sag. It’s the opposite of that saying, “Two pounds of bologna in a one pound bag.” Now, I’m one pound of bologna in a two pound bag. Skin that’s sagging and wrinkling all over the place and thinning out so much that every time it gets a good bump, it bruises or bleeds. I can’t fix it with Botox – it would take too much fill it; I’d look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy

 Just great! If this keeps up, I’ll eventually have to braid my earlobes and tie them behind my neck and buy glasses with wider and wider nose pieces. So, here I am, big nose, big ears, arm muscles that are powered by rubber bands. When I’m in a movie theater, in a seat in the middle of a row, I sit in fear that a cramp will grab my leg, forcing me to swim over my seatmates to the aisle to kick it out. Yet, it’s the best time of my life! A period of low expectations. Nobody expects much of you when you’re an old coot. “Look at the old guy; he just raked his yard. Amazing!” We take advantage of it, us old guys. None of that, “Failure is not an option,” macho stuff for us. Failure is our best friend. It evokes pity, which is way underrated. It’s as good as, if not better, than praise. No sense to look with apprehension on getting old. It truly is the golden age of your life. Enjoy it when it comes. Big nose and all.

 

The Old Coot is a cave man. Published 4/17/24

 The Old Coot is a cave man.

By Merlin Lessler

 Neanderthals - a branch of the human family tree that was thought to have died out over 35,000 years ago. A dead end on the evolutionary ladder. We were told they were no match for us humans, a smarter and more civilized branch of the evolutionary tree. But Not True! Scientists experienced a shock wave, forcing them to reprogram their gray matter and recalibrate their text books.

 The shock was generated when anthropologists examined human DNA and found our genome contains Neanderthal DNA. Anywhere from two to twenty percent. And, then they were hit by another shock wave. A discovery that proved cave men weren’t as stupid and oafish as previously thought. It was a piece of string that did it. Archeologists unearthed a remnant of string in a 35,000 year old Neanderthal tomb, uncovered in 2022, in southeastern France. The string was made from short strips of hide, sinew and hair, woven into a pattern that transformed the short fibers into a long and useful cord. String is an important tool of early man, something we take for granted today.  

 I always suspected that there were Neanderthals among us. Not necessarily sporting a receding forehead and protruding brows, but exhibiting oafish behavior. Like bullies and other thoughtless, selfish people. Perhaps those people’s genomes contain large amounts of Neanderthal DNA.

 Unfortunately, I think I’m joining that group. I thought the transformation I’ve been going through these past twenty years, was just the normal aging process. I now think I was wrong. Maybe, the Neanderthal genes are taking over, causing my cranky, old coot attitude. I’m becoming a caveman (in addition to being a dinosaur). I just hope I can keep it under control and limit the focus of my yelling, to yelling at the TV, and not friends, neighbors and the general public.

 

The Old Coot promotes newspaper readership. Article # 1075 (Published 4/10/17)

 The Old Coot has a message.

By Merlin Lessler

 My daily newspaper has two features I never miss: “Today in History” and “Birthdays.” I usually go through “Today in History” first. There are always some interesting historical events. Today it included eleven items, but what interests me the most, are the events that occurred during my lifetime. Every year, more and more of them fall into that category. In today’s addition, only two of the eleven items took place before I was born: the birth of John Sebastian Bach in 1685 and the day Persia officially changed its name to Iran in 1935. I was alive for the other nine. It’s a nice trip down memory lane, but a brutal reminder of why I never got the date right on history tests in high school.    

 In the “Birthdays” section, I first look to find people older than me. Then, for a moment, I’m not the oldest guy in the room.” Sometimes, no one is older than me; every single one is younger and that confirms my normal status. To make it even worse, I’ve never heard of most of the younger people. I face an increasing generational gap that’s getting wider than the Grand Canyon. They say age is just a number. But the Gannett Corporation doesn’t have to throw it in my face, every single day.  

 A similar disconnect greets me on the comics page. I read every strip when I was a kid. Little by little, my old favorites have disappeared: Little Lulu, Mutt and Jeff, Gasoline Alley, Popeye, Li’l Abner and the like. Today’s paper had 33 strips, but only 17 that interested me. Some have been with me for ages, like Dagwood and Blondie. You’re never too old to read the comics. (I call them the Funnies) Not only are you guaranteed a chuckle or two, but also, a good dose of wisdom. And, a little humility, like I get, when Earl, of the Pickles comic strip, makes yet another old coot social blunder. My favorites, besides Pickles, are Zits, Peanuts, Curtis, Shoe and BC. What’s yours? No answer?  Then turn to the Funny Pages every once in a while. It will perk up your day.        

 All I can say is, “Support your local newspaper, for the comics, the news and the obits, but more importantly, to sustain the one institution that keeps the government’s foot to the fire. Without them, we become Russia. There is nothing funny about that. 

The Old Coot speeds through time. Article # 1,074 - published 04-03-1924

 The Old Coot speeds along!

By Merlin Lessler

 I just cut my nails. I’m always surprised, it seems that I just cut them. But no! It’s been weeks. Time goes so fast when you’re an old coot. As you go through life, your “time passing” speedometer speeds up. It’s not fast enough when you’re young. A seven year old, sitting at the Thanksgiving table, thinks, “This might be the year I get a bicycle for Christmas.” So excited, until they hear their mother say to their father, “Where did the year go? Only four weeks until Christmas!”

 Four weeks? That’s a lifetime to a seven year old – an eternity. You live for the future when you’re a young kid. And, can’t believe it when you graduate from high school. A surprise that the future snuck up on you and slapped you in the face.

 Not us old coots. We live in the moment. Unfortunately, not the present moment. We look longingly to the past. (Before the world went nuts. Ha Ha) We start many, too many, of our sentences with – I used to…. I once could……When I was a kid… The only people who will listen to topics introduced in this manner are other old coots, but only so they can chime in with their “good-old-days” tale.

 Eventually, our conversations turn to memory issues, since most of our reminisces are rife with - I forgot the name. What-cha- ma-call- it. Thing-a-ma-jig and the like. One of us will shift the conversation to a confession of the things he recently forgot. “I put my wallet down when I came into the house; it was two days before I found it.”  - “I spent ten minutes yesterday, searching for my glasses; my wife pointed out that they were on top of my head.” Then comes the big liar in the group, claiming his memory is just fine. He shuts up when he’s told his shirt is on backwards and he forgot to put on one of his socks.”

 What’s all that got to do with time? You might be asking at this point, especially if you are in your 40’s or 50’s, living on the cusp of old age. Well, you’ll get there too. It’s just a matter of time. Even now, your Time-Passing speedometer is edging over the speed limit. As for me, my memory is excellent, I think, yet I wrote this a month ago and just discovered it in my notebook today.  

 Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot misses rotten tomato throwing. (Published 3/27/2024)

 The Old Coot misses the rotten tomato era.

By Merlin Lessler

 We once were blessed with an effective (and fun) mechanism to express our opinion of politicians. Even, a Broadway performance, or anyone making a public appearance. It was the “Rotten Tomato Era.” A political hack, laying it on thick, could expect to be showered with a barrage of rotten tomatoes. It was such fun to deal with politicians in those days. Sometimes, a voter would run up to the podium and introduce a banana cream pie to the gas bag’s face. Actors and actresses, which for some reason, (I never got the memo), we now are forced to call actors, could also expect a showering of rotten vegetables from the audience when their performance was severely lacking.  

 Not anymore! Our right to free “rotten tomato” speech is a criminal offense. To even touch another person without their permission, can get you arrested and charged with disorderly conduct or assault. We’ve lost such a delightful free speech mechanism. Yet, we still do it mentally, at least I do, every time I watch the news and hear a bloated bunch of malarky from a corporate executive, politician or even an advertisement that I know is a lie. It makes you wonder what happened to the truth in advertising rules that were enacted five decades ago? The consumer protection czar is asleep at the wheel and most certainly deserves a pie in the face. 

 And, what about the American Bar Association? It once restricted its members from advertising their wares. It was a matter of professional ethics. That tradition sure has evaporated. The members who run the ABA deserve a double, whip cream pie in the face, along with the CEOs of pharmaceutical companies. Can you imagine how nice TV watching would be without ads from ambulance chasing lawyers and drug pushing corporations. Ads, that consume ten minutes of every 30 minute time slot. Sometimes the best way forward is to go back. It sure would be nice to get those rotten tomatoes moving once again.

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

 

       

The Old Coot get's distracted by a paper bag. Article # 1022 Published March 20, 2024)

 The Old Coot gets lost in the past.

By Merlin Lessler

 My wife bought a jar of honey the other day. The clerk put it in a craft paper bag that reminded me of the ones I took to school when I was in junior and senior high. In elementary school, we walked home for lunch, but once we made it to 7^th grade, we rode a bus from our elementary school, across town to junior high with a bag lunch in our grasp. We carried our books under our arms, covered in craft paper that matched the lunch bags. No book bags or back packs in those days. I guess I grew up in the dumb generation.

Our school had a cafeteria, but many of us, either couldn’t afford, or couldn’t stand, to eat the slop that the lunch ladies plopped on your plate. The only thing I purchased in the cafeteria was government subsidized milk, and once a week, a sliver of ice cream, served on a cardboard dish for ten cents.

Things changed in senior high. There were no school buses. You either took a city bus, walked, or were lucky enough to have some older kid in the neighborhood with a car who would get you there and back for a buck a week. At 25 cents a gallon, it was a profitable venture. If you played sports, with after school practice, you walked home or bummed a ride. Hitch hiking was another way of getting around in that era.

The other change in senior high, was where we settled in to eat our lunch. There was a bakery just a few steps from school and for reasons unknown to me, they let us crowd in to eat, even though most of us just bought a container of milk. It was a mob scene, so crowded that it was hard to get from the front door to the beverage container in the back. We stood around like munching cows in a pasture. My bag usually contained three sandwiches, a boxed snack pie and an apple. I’d weigh 400 pounds if I ate like that today.

When I made it to eleventh grade, my lunch room shifted to the pool hall down the block. I learned more there than I did in class, but the subject was street smarts. It cost ten cents to play rotation or eight ball, a penny a minute for straight pool. Those games were fairly innocent. It was the money games that improved our street smarts, nine ball and six ball. We had an hour for lunch; it was enough time to lose a week’s allowance with a missed shot on the money ball. The Lotis brothers, who owned and ran the pool hall, collected a fist full of dimes and got a garbage can full of empty paper lunch bags as a reward. Oh my, all that from a jar of honey in a paper bag.          

The Old Coot gets a workout. #1071 Published 3/13/24

 The Old Coot gets a workout.

By Merlin Lessler

I was recently on a cruise in the Southern Caribbean. It wasn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been on a ship or two or three over the last 30 years, but I was a youngster when I started, in my early 50’s. A lot has changed over those 30 years, but this isn’t a documentary about the evolution of cruising. I don’t know what it is. Anyhow, I’m usually off my leash in the early morning hours. I’m at breakfast as I write this. It’s a cafeteria deal, with islands of food items, not one long line. You scramble from place to place. Cereals here – custom cooked eggs there – meats at another station- toast and bread off to the side.

You weave through a mass of people like an NFL running back trying to avoid tacklers. No small feat for an octogenarian with balance issues. On this day, I actually remembered to grab a silverware pack (knife and fork wrapped in a cloth napkin) and shoved it in my pocket. Unlike the day before, the several days before, when I located an empty seat, sat down to eat, and realized – NO UTENSILS!

This day, with a knife and fork in my pocket, I headed to the toast station where you wait while the bread you select runs through a car wash like toaster conveyor. I decided to come back in a few minutes and moved on, grabbed a juice at the beverage corral, found a table and plopped down my stuff, marking my turf. End of trip #1.

 Then, I grabbed a large plate and a bowl and put the bowl on the plate. Did I mention that there are no trays to purvey your selections? Not anymore. I went to the cereal station and deposited a splash of Cheerios into the bowl- then to the fruit island to add watermelon, cantaloupe and two strawberries to the plate the bowl sat on. My solution to the no tray situation. I put the goods on my table. End of trip #2.  

Trip #3 - back to the beverage corral to snag a coffee and said, “Sorry,” to the nice little old lady I nearly knocked over when my balance issue hurled me into her. I sat down and breathed a sigh of relief, opened my napkin and discovered just a knife and fork, no spoon. This started trip #4. I went back to the cereal island and grabbed a spoon, thinking, “This is it; I can finally eat my breakfast.” Oops! Not to be, I had forgotten to pour milk on my cereal; grabbed the bowl of Cheerios and went back to the cereal station where there were pitchers of milk and cream. Trip #5.

I‘d forgotten to pick up the toast, but decided I’d had enough exercise for one morning. Maybe tomorrow. I hadn’t tripped or bruised too many passengers in the process. Someone is sure to ask what I did on my cruise. I’ll simply say, “Had a good breakfast. And, got a lot of exercise.”       

The Old Coot rides down memory lane. (Article # 1,070 - published March 6, 2024)

 The Old Coot rides down memory lane.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was on a 12 lane, 70 MPH highway the other day, 6 lanes going north, six lanes south. The way cars wove in and out was amazing. It was like being in the Daytona Five Hundred. I did OK, for an old guy. Did some weaving myself, though I felt like I should do what an 81 year-old is supposed to do, and go to the center lane, stay there going 45 miles per hour with my left signal blinking. Just to add a little drama to the symphony between the lanes.

 It's an ugly mess, compared to the road trips my sister and I took in the back seat of the family sedan, a 1950 Hudson Hornet, gazing out the window counting cows. Cows on her side versus my side. And, reading billboards, twenty feet in the air and Burma Shave signs at street level. There were only two lane roads where we lived in those days. The speed limit was 50 MPH, but you could rarely go that fast for very long. You got stuck behind a truck inching up a hill or a family in a Buick sedan taking a Sunday Drive, and no straight-a-ways long enough to pass them.

 We were never bored; when the cows were gone, we played the Alphabet Game – be the first to spot a letter on a sign, working through the alphabet in sequence. Alice’s Diner” would start you off with an “A.” No matter how far ahead you got, the “Q” would slow you down. The first eagle-eye to spot an antique shop usually won, but a “Z” could be a show stopper too.    

 Time went by pretty quick, between the alphabet game, watching and counting farm animals and the odd sites along the way, like a mailbox 15 feet in the air with “Airmail” stenciled on the front. Our dog spent the whole trip with his head out the window, his ears flapping in the breeze. Dad’s arm hung out his window. Mom made sure ours were inside the car. No seat belts, no air bags, no air conditioning. But we were lucky; we had an AM radio, tuned to a station that played the Lone Ranger and Suspense. The adventure in those days was getting there. I miss it.  

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

The Old Coot racks up mileage. - Article #1,069 Published 2/28/24

 The Old Coot is on the move.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was on a cruise ship recently. It went from Fort Lauderdale to Barbados with 4 stops in between. Approximately 3000 nautical miles. (1 nautical mile equals 6,076 feet, in case you didn’t know, like me). I think I put on a similar mileage going from our cabin in the back end of the ship, to the theater for shows in the front, and back to the dining room in the aft.

 But that’s not the only place I racked up the miles. I did a like amount riding the elevators, from our floor, nine, to fourteen for breakfast and lunch, back to twelve for the pool. Up and down, down and up: floor five for coffee, floor ten to the library and puzzle room, down to the gangway on two, 800 steps to a bus or cab when in port, or three times that much to walk into town. I’m not complaining, just commenting. Actually, my Fitbit went nuts counting steps; it must have wondered if someone had stolen it and was on the run.

 Elevator mileage added up the most. I don’t like elevators in general, and those on cruise ships in particular. I once got stuck between floors on a cruise ship in a storm with high seas. The boat was rocking; there I was, stuck with the door open, the floor above was at waist high level. Should I try to scamper up and get out? What if I did and the elevator started to move? It goes so fast I’d be cut in half. So, I sat and waited. An hour or so later, the maintenance crew got me out.

 I don’t know what floors I was between; it couldn’t have been between twelve and thirteen. There is no floor thirteen on a ship. (Or, in a hotel and most other tall buildings.) Superstition over the number thirteen! Really?  In what we call our enlightened modern age. Whenever I went to fourteen for breakfast I laughed at the lights ticking off the floors: nine, ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen.  I’d comment to other passengers, “What happened to the thirteenth floor?”  Someone always explained why that was, that it was superstition. That gave me my morning chuckle. My stupid question was never met with silence. It’s what old coots do, let ourselves look stupid because we no longer care what other people think.

 Comments? – Send to  mlessler7@gmail.com

 

 

 

The Old Coot pans mandatory holidays. Published 02/21/2024 Article # 1068

 The Old Coot pans mandatory holidays.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was having a bad day. It was late afternoon, I hadn’t run into anything to complain about. Then, I tumbled right into it after searching a mile long aisle of cold medicines. I didn’t realize that cold treatments came in so many variations. When I was a kid, a jar of Vicks and cough drops did the trick. Mom applied Vicks to my chest and tied a rag laden with it around my neck, and sent me off to school.

 That cold aisle experience was a revelation, but not enough to register on my complaint meter. The next aisle did. A mile long rack of Valentine’s Day cards. A pressure cooker for most men. What should I do, or buy, to fulfill my Valentine’s Day obligation? Another celebratory holiday foisted on us by the greeting card, candy, florist, restaurant and jewelry industry.

 It’s mandatory, these annual obligations created by commerce interests. Birthdays, I get, anniversaries too. But, not the endless stream of guilt laden “special” days. Secretary’s Day., Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Grandparent’s Day. On and on they go.  You can be a thoughtless jerk all year long and use Valentine’s Day to get yourself off the hook, But, if you are thoughtful and pleasant all year long, but forget to buy a card for Valentine’s Day (and any number of other manufactured celebratory events) and you’re apt to be called a thoughtless old grouch.

 Anna Jarvis, the woman who created Mother’s Day in 1908 and succeeded in getting it adopted as an official U. S. holiday in 1914, spent the later part of her life trying to remove it from the calendar, because it had become so commercialized. She wanted it to be a day you did thoughtful things to thank your mother for all the sacrifices she’d made for you during the previous 364 days.

 But, back to the Valentine’s Day celebration, that so recently came and went. You might think I messed it up and am using this column to cover my tracks. No comment!

 Comments? Complaints/ Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is a good "waiter!"- Article # 1,067 Published 2/14/2024

 The Old Coot knows how to wait.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here I go again. Providing unwanted advice in yet another attempt to help “Men From Mars” get along with “Women From Venus.” This time it’s for men who are “fast leavers” married to women who are “slow leavers.” It goes something like this. He asks, “Ready to go?” (To the store, across country, across the street. It doesn’t matter.)  She replies, “I’ll be right there.” Off he goes, gets in the car and watches for her to come out the door.

 Two minutes go by. Then five. He starts getting antsy, “What the heck is keeping her?” Another five minutes tick off the watch on his wrist. He starts to boil. He gets out of the car and goes to the door. Here she comes, two bags in hand. One, to drop off at her mother’s, the other to be donated to the Mission. “You don’t mind do you?” she asks, as the car bolts out of the driveway and nearly hits a woman walking down the sidewalk.

 “What took you so long?” he asks, gritting his teeth to help keep his temper under control. The reply is a long one, “Oh, I had to take a load of clothes out of the dryer and fold them so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. Then I noticed the mirror in the bathroom was all spotty from when you washed your hands, so I wiped it off. The dishes in the sink looked messy so I rinsed them and stacked them up to dry, in case someone came in and saw them. All legitimate things. “BUT,” he groans, “You said you were ready to go!” She says, “I was! (almost).”

 It doesn’t matter where you are going; the scenario is always the same. The problem is created by the “slow-leaver” but the solution lies with the “fast-leaver.” Even a rat in a maize eventually learns how to navigate the obstacles between itself and happiness. But not the men, fidgeting and fuming, while waiting in the driveway, outside the door of an antique shop or on a bench in the mall. Always surprised she’s not there, like she said she would be. He believes her when she says, “Just a sec!” Even though it’s never just a sec. He’s one rat that doesn’t find his way to the cheese.

 Here comes the good part. Advice from an old coot who learned this Mars versus Venus thing a long time ago.  (Waiting impatiently for years!) But, no more; the path through the maize is simple. It’s called, “Facing reality. You are going to wait! Longer than you think! So, figure out how to spend that interval between your slow-leaver saying, “I’ll just be a sec,” and the time it actually takes her to get there.

 Use your phone; call a friend you haven’t spoken to in years, check the weather or use the camera to take pictures of unenlightened men, waiting for their wives on a bench with a scowl on their face and steam coming out their ears. It could go viral, even funnier than the images of Wal-Mart shoppers that circulate on the Internet. Carry a man-bag. Fill it with a book, a crossword puzzle, a nail clipper. Whatever! When the “slow-leaver” shows up, you can say, “I’ll just be a sec.”

The Old Coot yells in vain. Published in Tioga Courier 1/31/24

 The Old Coot is a yeller!

By Merlin Lessler

I’ve been talking to my appliances a lot lately. Yelling, actually. It started when my bank sent an e-mail saying they weren’t able to mail December’s statement, a glitch in the program. “OK, I can handle that.” So I thought! I opened the web page to find the statement. That started me yelling. At the computer! The glitch happened because the bank computer nerds redesigned the web site and put statements in a new location, hidden in an oddly named drop-down menu. I yelled, but finally found it, downloaded the statement, and sent it to my printer. It laughed at me, “Ha, Ha I’m out of ink; here’s too blank pages to prove it. I yelled at the printer, but I had a spare cartridge on hand (Amazon sent me three when I ordered one). So, I moved all the stuff that was sitting on top of the printer, opened it up, fumbled getting the old cartridge out because they changed the way it goes in and out. That started me yelling some more, “Why didn’t you leave the ink cartridges alone? Don’t you understand I hate change!” No answer from the printer; it just sat there grinning.

 Next outburst came when I went to heat up some water on the stove top. It’s black, with black letters. I have to get glasses to use it. Can you just walk up and turn a knob? No! You have to push a “power” icon, then a burner icon and then increase the level of heating by tap, tap, tapping on an up arrow. It’s exasperating and deserves all my “yelling.”

 It goes on and on. I can’t work the oven either, unless I get to a manual. But, there is no manual; there is a QR code on the door that takes you to a web site where you can download a manual, as long as you know the model number. Which I don’t - Yell, Yell, Yell.

 I live in a foreign country. All my appliances speak a language I don’t understand. My TV, my car, everything. Don’t even get me going about the washing machine; it locks the door, preventing me from adding a dropped sock. I always drop something. So, I yell at our appliances. I yell at the “idiots” on TV, especially the weather maniacs that try to scare us over cold and snowy weather in winter, hot weather in summer, and storms that often don’t materialize. That horrible squawk comes out of the TV speakers and a robotic voice “calls wolf.” And guess what?  Now I’m yelling at you. Sorry!

The Old Coot peddles into the past. Article #1064 - published 01-24-24

 The Old Coot peddles into the past.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was seven when I got my first bike, a used, single speed, fat tire, specimen you engaged the brake to stop by pushing the pedals backwards. By the time I was ten, I’d completed the requirements for a bachelor’s degree in mechanics (bicycle mechanics). I took that bike apart dozens of times, to fix flats and adjust the handlebars and seat as I grew. When I wanted a racing bike, I removed the fenders and flipped the handle bars forward so I could lean over the front wheel like a real racer. When the fenders were on, I could carry a passenger on the back one, holding me around the waist. If a second friend came by, he sat on the handle bars, facing forward and yelling when we were about to crash into something. On the rare occasion when another friend joined us, he sat on the crossbar between the seat post and the handlebar post. Four on a bike! A lost art of the 1950’s.

 Like most kids of that era, I could ride facing backwards, by standing on the pedals and leaning back to grip the handlebars. Needless to say, my parents spent a lot of money on band aids, gauze, adhesive tape and iodine. But luckily, no time at the ER.

 I found a three speed, skinny tire, English bike with hand brakes under the tree the Christmas I turned twelve. I transitioned from a “pony” to a “stallion.” I went on to earn a “master’s degree” in bike mechanics. It served me well for the rest of my life, as did the basic carpentry skills I learned building tree forts and soap box street racers. That three-speed bike introduced me to brake pad adjustment and replacement, generator light installation, brake and shift cable adjustment and spoke tuning. The latter, a necessity, after we loosened them up by fastening baseball cards into the spoke pathway to create a motor sound effect. Loose spokes could lead to a bent and ruined wheel, a repair cost I could not afford.

 Now, in my 80’s, I’m still riding, not a three-speed, but an eighteen-speed, though I only use three of them. Still getting that feeling of joy, gliding around with so little effort, fresh air blowing around me, a twelve-year-old in an eighty-one year old body. I’m that same kid again when I hop on a bicycle. In truth, there is no hopping, just a big leg lift with hope that my feet land on the peddles. In a helmet? Of course not! I’m twelve-years-old when I’m on my bike and it’s 1954.   

    

The Old Coot has a button down mind? Article # 1,063 published 1/17/24

 The Old Coot got it right on the button!

By Merlin Lessler

 There is an odd quirk in the human psyche, we’re fussy about buttons. If you don’t button your shirt correctly, you’re in trouble! It’s a social misdemeanor to walk around in a misbuttoned shirt. Alignment is important! “Oh my gosh! Your buttons are one off!” It freaks people out. Personally, I love seeing someone in a misbuttoned shirt. It makes them more like me and brings a smile to my face. I never bring it to their attention.

 I’m not sure what sets people off when they see a shirt with buttons in the wrong holes, the lack of symmetry maybe? We like things to be symmetrical, like our faces - 2 ears, 2 eyes, nose in the middle, mouth directly below. It sets the standard for how we view the world. Put an extra eye in the middle of the forehead and we go nuts. The Tucker Automobile Company made this mistake back in the 1940’s; they put a third headlight in the middle of the front hood. Even though their car was more advanced than any automobile at the time, the company went defunct in a few short years. Mismanagement? Or, was it that third “eye” in the middle of the hood? The Tucker was a misbuttoned shirt.

 It’s also not acceptable to skip a button. You’ll hear about it, “You missed a button there,” someone (many someones) will say, and then point to the infraction. It makes us uncomfortable. Small boys and old coots are exempt from the “button-fussy” rules. Neither care about button correctness. Nor, if they are wearing two different socks or two different shoes.

 The next time you see someone with misaligned shirt buttons; don’t give into the temptation to point out the mistake, just hand them a dollar bill and say, “Thanks! You made my day!” You’ll spend the rest of your day with a smile on your face; they’ll spend the day wondering, “What was that all about?”

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is battery driven! Help! Article # 1062, published January 10,2022

 The Old Coot is fixated on batteries.

By Merlin Lessler

 I got to thinking how simple life was before I caught the “Battery Worry Virus.” The only battery I was concerned about back then, was the one in my car. I rarely gave it a thought, except years ago when I first started into adulthood when the battery in my fifth hand, 1953 Ford convertible was an issue. I paid $60 for the car at an auction in the college cafeteria. I got it for the bargain basement price because it had was buried under a mountain of snow in a parking lot. The battery, once it was fully charged, turned out to be weak, incapable of starting my car when overnight temperatures dropped down into the teens. I solved that problem by bringing it into my apartment on cold nights and putting it on the heat register. The car had other afflictions as well: no heater, no keys (I had to hot wire it to get it running), the motor to raise and lower the top was defunct and the front fenders had more fiber glass compound in them than steel. But I loved that blue beauty.

 A car battery was the only battery I thought about most of my life. But, not anymore! My life has become inundated with battery worries. Just about everything I depend on is battery powered. I can’t even get in my car without the battery in my remote entry fob working properly. I have to plan my day around my cell phone battery. I’m at the mercy of battery operated devices: an I-Pad tablet, a computer, ear buds, electric razor, screw driver, drill, lawn mower, leaf blower, tooth brush, garbage can lid opener and even a dish detergent dispenser. Even my human powered bicycle is dependent on the batteries in my blinking safety lights.

 More and more appliances have become battery dependent. I can’t even turn on our ceiling fan without a battery powered remote. Now, “they” are trying to force me into a battery powered electric car that severely limits my driving range. I think my head will explode when that happens.  

The Aging Process! Old Coot article #1,061 (Published 1-3-2024)

 The Old Coot explains the process.

By Merlin Lessler

 The aging process we humans undergo is steady, silent, but hidden much of the time. It’s not just something we encounter in old age, when more drastic alterations to our physical and mental conditions occur. It’s with us our entire life, though for years it goes unnoticed. When we’re kids, we don’t usually notice it until an adult looks us over and says, “Wow, you’re growing like a weed, really getting big!”

 We get periodic wake-up calls; they become most noticeable in our teens and then again in our thirty’s. I still remember my first big, aging alarm; It hit me when I was showing my young daughters how I could do a running flip and land on my feet. I ran, I bent down, planted my hands on the ground and flipped. But, not all the way around, not far enough to land on my feet. I landed flat on my back. It hurt my ego a lot more than my backside.

 A sign of aging pokes its head out every so often, reminding us that the process is proceeding. When the doctor first said to me, “You have to expect that at your age.” I was in my fifties. Just more evidence that the physical vehicle I was traveling in was amassing six digit numbers on the odometer. Eventually, we hop on the “old coot” roller coaster, where the aging process comes out from behind the curtain and walks by our side.

 We fight it. With denial. “I may not be able to jump very high or run as fast as a turtle, but I’ll get better,” That’s what we tell ourselves. “It’s just a temporary thing.” Oh, how comfortable the denial stage is. Eventually, we hit an acceptance stage. We learn to laugh at our infirmities. It’s like we’re in an amusement park with a wide variety of attractions: sore back one day, weak knee another, stiff neck that won’t let you look left and a hundred other “amusements.” Once you reach this plateau, all you can do is keep laughing, smile, groan & moan a little, and carry on. What the heck; you couldn’t wait to get in to an amusement park when you were a kid; now you’re in one every day. Enjoy it!

 

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com