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

The Old Coot got his hand back. Article #1078 published 5/01/24

 The Old Coot has a one-arm day.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I’ve thought about doing this for quite some time. To see if I could get through a day with one arm. My left one (I’m a righty). Too much time on my hands? Maybe? But, when you’re an old coot like me, you never know when you will have to adapt to some physical limitation. So many things can disable your good arm: a fall, a stroke, arthritis, or just numbing it out for the day by sleeping on it.

 Five years ago I decided, “Today is the day!” Getting dressed was a surprise, not as hard as I expected. My shirt was on and buttoned in less than a minute. Pants were another matter. I couldn’t get them on and buttoned until I lay down on the floor. I was off to a good start. Then, I cheated; I slipped into a pair of loafers instead of shoes that needed to be tied. I stuck my right hand in my pocket and set out to face the day with one arm. “Call me Lefty!”

 I’ve done a few things left-handed over the years. The Sunday Times crossword puzzle for example. It takes longer, but I can eventually fill in the letters in readable fashion. It’s a hard puzzle so I have a lot of spaces I don’t have to fill in. I also try to eat European style every once in a while, with a fork in my left hand, the knife in my right, and no switching back and forth. I usually make out all right, except when I stab my lip with the fork. I thought my experiment was going reasonably well until I nearly put my eye out brushing my teeth. I didn’t fare much better splashing water on my face and combing my hair, but that’s not a problem for an old coot. People don’t expect much when it comes to my appearance. Breakfast was a breeze; I didn’t end up with any more milk and cereal clinging to my shirt than normal. I did have a problem buttering a piece of toast; it kept skidding off the plate.

 Then, I decided to take a bike ride.  I do that one-handed all the time. That’s when my one-armed day came to an end. I squeezed the left brake handle in a panic and nearly flew over the handlebars. The left hand brake lever connects to the front brake. You should never use just the front brake for a sudden stop. My one arm day had some success, which came in handy last year when Mister Arthur-itis came for a visit to my right hand last year, limiting my gripping power.

 And then, just the other day, I got my hand back. It rolled into town and said, “Did you miss me?” I sure did. No more wearing a thick, cotton gardening glove to play golf. And even with the glove it was difficult to hang on tight, sending some of my shots into the wilds. But then I had an excuse for my errant drives and record high scores. I looked like an idiot with that big mitt on my hand when I stepped up to the tee to drive. But it’s an image I’m used to and have become comfortable with. Anyhow, “Welcome home Old Righty; It’s so nice to have you back!”