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.

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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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