The Old Coot comes up empty. Published September 17, 2025 in NY papers

The Old Coot has nothing.

By Merlin Lessler

I was on the road in my 1983, Sears, Free Spirit, 10 speed bicycle last Sunday afternoon. It was a perfect Autumn Day with the temperature in the 70s paired with a beautiful collection of clouds sweeping across the sky. I was hoping to stumble onto a germ of an idea for this week’s column. And, getting nowhere! I peddled past a swath of houses along the river, with manicured lawns, well-kept gardens and inviting front porches that faced the Susquehanna River.  No people in sight, no walkers, no bikers, no porch sitters. I crossed Main Street into the village park. No Pickleball players, no kids shooting hoops, swinging, coming down the slides, sweeping across the monkey bars or buzzing around in the skateboard park. No People and no ideas for an article.

I kept on peddling, crossing the railroad tracks into what the residents there call, “The Flats.” It’s primarily a residential area with a few commercial entities in one quadrant; it’s separated from the rest of the village by an active set of railroad tracks. I didn’t see any kids as I peddled, no games of tag, hide & seek, no Cowboys & Indians for sure, a childhood obsession in my day, long gone now. I next rode into the school K - 12 campus. The elementary school playground was empty. All that beautiful play equipment sat idle.

I peddled on and on through the complex, but not a soul in sight, not on the tennis courts or on the track around the football field. So, I stopped to “speed” walk, as I call it, on the artificial turf, going from one end zone to the other, dodging imaginary tacklers as I ran kick-offs the length of the field, scoring a touchdown every time. You can do this when there’s no one around. And there wasn’t!

There also wasn’t anyone on the Little League or the high school baseball fields, nor on the soccer practice grounds. No one was playing a pick-up game of baseball. Kids don’t play pick-up games today, for the most part. Everything is organized these days, maybe with a little too much parental involvement. Not like my day, when no one but the players and the coaches showed up for Little League games. How could they; we played in the afternoon when dad was at work and mom was tending to things at home.

But mostly, we played pick-up (sand -lot) games: baseball, football and basketball. Even if there were only two of us, we could devise a World Series game with Mickey Mantle at the plate.

I still had no idea for an article. It felt like I was in a Stephen King novel where I was the only person left in an empty town. I guess I’ll give it another try next weekend. All I can offer is this, my lack of anything interesting to comment on. Nothing going on in town; nothing going on in my head. 

The old coot eliminates a sock problem. Published in NY on Sept. 10, 2025

 The Old Coot skips the socks.

By Merlin Lessler

I'm in the YMCA in Florida, sitting on a bench in the locker room, getting dressed after swimming laps in a 24- lane, outdoor pool. Why am I in Florida? In August? I had to do some mid-summer yard work, to keep bushes from overtaking the house so I came down for a couple of weeks.  It’s exciting to sit and watch the thermometer move toward 100, and then keep going. At least for a guy from the north country. While I was in the YMCA locker room, a guy on the other side of the room was groaning and grunting as he struggled to put on his socks. An old guy, like me. He finally got them on and then swore, “Darn it! I put on my dirty socks, not the clean ones I brought with me,” and started the whole process over again. I hadn't gotten to my socks yet; it can be quite a challenge for an old guy to get a sock started over his toes. But I did just fine; I skipped the socks and put on my sneakers. Socks are overrated.

Then, a younger guy came in; he got dressed standing up, socks, shoes, pants and shirt. I looked over to him, and like the guy in the Progressive Insurance TV commercial who is told to stop talking to strangers and acting like his parents.” I said, “I'm so jealous. I haven't been able to do that for 20 years.” He laughed and said he was 52, and already could tell that his time of getting dressed while standing up was coming to an end.

He’s smarter than I was at that age. I remember getting dressed like that at the Binghamton YMCA when I was in my 50’s. Three old guys sat on a bench nearby working hard to get dressed. One of them broke the ice. “Sonny, enjoy it while you can. Your time to sit on a bench to get dressed is coming.” I never forgot that encounter. Even now, I can clearly picture the three of them sitting on that bench, but the image in my mind, now has me sitting alongside them.

The dressing problems I had back then were to avoid mixing plaids with stripes, not getting into my clothes. Now, beside the sock issue, it’s avoiding going around with a T-shirt, or pants with an elastic waistband on backwards.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is smiling. Published 08/03/2025 in NY papers

 The Old Coot can smile again.

By Merlin Lessler

I chipped my front tooth the other day. It’s been with me, and intact, since I was seven. I did it when I bit into a plum and smashed into the pit. Unlike little Jack Horner who pulled out a plum, I pulled out a piece of ivory. I’ve broken a molar or two over the years. One on an un-popped, popcorn kernel. Another, in a tug of war with a Sugar Daddy. It yanked out the entire side of the tooth that was held together with a few pins and a filling. It’s since been fitted with a $1,000 cap. The Sugar Daddy is a thing of the past for me.

The chipped front tooth has been fixed, thanks to the skills of my dentist whose name I promised not to mention. But for some reason I never follow through on that promise. It’s Pam Bouton. She’s bailed me out more than once. I’m sure she is astonished at the lengths I go to threaten the existence of those precious ivories. Most likely thinking, “Will he ever learn?” But I know what she’s thinking; I recognize the look. I see it on my wife’s face all the time. It doesn’t matter, I can now continue through life with a smile on my face, framed by an intact set of choppers.    

The trouble with a decent smile, is you are no longer eligible to be a spokesperson for your town after a weather disaster hit: tornado, flood, hurricane, landslide. That sort of thing. You can’t be the guy the TV news reporter looks for to ask your thoughts on the disaster. They seek the goober who has a broken or missing set of choppers. He or she, always scratches their head and says, “I’ve lived here all my life and never saw anything like this. Nope, I no longer qualify, thanks to the skills of Pam Bouton.  

Comments? Send to the paper or to mlessler7@gmail.com       

The Old Coot grew up in an unsafe environment. Published August 27, 2025

 The Old Coot grew up in an unsafe world. Maybe.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s a tough world for parents these days. They try to do the right thing, keep their little ones safe, but they get caught in ever changing “official” advice: face the child forward in a car seat - face the child back - at forty pounds you can use the seat belt - don’t use the seatbelt until he’s eight - use the air bag - turn off the air bag. It never ends. We never seem to do it right. It’s especially hard on grandparents; especially old coot grandparents who are super skeptical of “official” advice. We end up getting scolded by both the media and our grandchildren’s parents. 

It’s not our fault. We grew up in cars that didn’t have seat belts, often sitting in the front seat between mom and dad in a canvas pouch hooked over the seat with a toy steering wheel in front of us, directly in line between our body and the dashboard. I can only imagine how that would have worked out in a crash. I vividly remember sitting in mine, turning the wheel to the left when my father turned his, honking the horn, moving the shift lever back and forth. Don’t ask me how I remember something from so long ago, yet I can’t remember to mail the letters in my pocket when I walk to town.

We were protected back then, even though we didn’t have proper car seats, air bags or seat belts. We had mom’s right arm. The second she slammed on the brakes it shot out and prevented us from hurtling into the dash. It’s hard to imagine that those little, slim, feminine arms were strong enough to hold back a child hurtling forward at 30 miles per hour, but they were. Scientists and public officials say it isn’t possible. They also claim it’s impossible for those same arms to pick up the front end of a car that sits atop a child, but it happens all the time. It’s the mother tiger factor.  

So, what’s a parent to do? Don’t ask me. I’m the guy who drove around with my kids in the back seat (and the compartment behind it) in a VW Beetle, skidding around a shopping plaza parking lot making “donuts” in the fresh fallen snow. I’m the guy who made plaster casts for my daughters to get them to stop jumping out of trees, trying to break their arms so they could wear a cast to school and look “cool.” (It worked by the way; it only took two days for them to beg me to cut them off). No, don’t ask me, or any other old coot what to do about car seats. Or, bike helmets, shin and elbow pads or any other politically correct child safety device. We grew up stupid (and unprotected) and stayed that way.

Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

 

The Old Coot is a drain expert. Published August 20 in NY papers

 The Old Coot is a drain expert.

By Merlin Lessler

 I'm a drain expert. No, not the one under the sink, though I can usually fix a clog in that one without calling a plumber. The drains I'm an expert on are the ones along the edge of the road. You have to be a drain expert when you're on a bicycle or you will put yourself in peril; they are as dangerous as an uplifted sidewalk panel that trips up someone taking a stroll. The street drains can trip you too. Not fun, when you are peddling along at 8 MPH, like me, or more, like everyone else.

 I'll pick on my village as an example, although I find it to be true no matter where I ride. When I go down Front Street, I know there are several drains where the pavement surrounding them has deteriorated, causing my front wheel to twist, pushing me into the curb or out into the roadway. The most dangerous drains are several inches below the road surface. It’s almost impossible to avoid toppling over; the wreck will mess you up, your bicycle too. One of the worst ones in town is on Main Street. It’s 4 ½ inches deep. I know; I measured it. There are several like that on Erie Street, alongside the westward lane. Even cars have trouble with them. George Street has a bunch of them too..

 The DOT and other entities responsible for road maintenance have little respect for bicycle riders. They repave the surface and the drains go lower. Over time, they become downright dangerous. It doesn’t have to be that way. They could install a new collar that matches the road surface, but most often they don’t bother. I’m OK in my town, for the most part, because I’m a drain expert. I know when a bad one is coming, and I go around, hoping the driver coming up from behind is paying attention to where they are going and not checking messages on their cell phones. When I’m forced to move onto the edge of “THEIR” lane, they blast their horn and glare at me through their window. Auto drivers aren’t drain experts. But I am.

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

The Old Coot is a hypocrite. Published 08/13/2025 - in Owego, NY

 The Old Coot is a hypocrite

By Merlin Lessler

Medical doctors take the Hippocratic Oath before they begin the practice of medicine. The concept of a code of ethics is generally attributed to Hippocrates, a physician and philosopher in ancient Greece. It includes the principles of non-malefience, fidelity, beneficence, and justice. For me, it boils down to the common phrase we all are familiar with: “Do no harm.” Lawyers take an oath as well; their pledge is legally binding. It varies by state and is quite comprehensive but needs updating to include a pledge to refrain from ambulance chasing and trolling to sell that service on TV, radio, and other media. Life would be so much improved; our insurance rates and the cost of goods would certainly go down.

 The business community isn’t, but should be, held to an ethical standard that also boils down to “do no harm.” Maybe then the pharmaceutical companies wouldn’t spend huge budgets advertising miracle cures for every real and made-up ailment. And businesses in general would stop offering defective manufactured products that don’t live up to the hype. CEO’s should pledge to keep their management teams focused on customers, not short term stock gains, and allow front line employees to bend the rules in situations that defy common sense. 

Oh boy, how about politicians? Pledge to max out after two terms in office. It would be so nice. Where is Hippocrates when you need him? They should also pledge to refrain from enacting new regulations for every minor incident that comes to their attention. And when they enact regulations, they should allow for common sense deviation from the regs, and bend the rules so they “do no harm.” 

Old coots should pledge to refrain from starting sentences with, “Back in the good old days.” WE do take an oath, but nothing like the Hippocratic Oath. Ours, is the “hypocrite” oath.

Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail

The Old Coot got a package. Published 08/06/2025

 The Old Coot gets a package.

By Merlin Lessler

 I went out the door the other morning and noticed a package lying on the porch steps. I said to myself, “I wonder what I’ve ordered this time?” But it wasn’t for me; it was for the second-floor tenant. I was relieved; I didn’t remember ordering anything, but I never do since I order stuff online all the like time that I can’t get in a store. So, when it shows up; it’s a surprise!  

Our family hardly ever got a package when I was a kid in the 1950’s. We could buy anything we needed in town. If we couldn’t; we didn’t get it. My sister and I got a Christmas package every year from our aunt in New Haven, Connecticut. It always contained two pairs of knitted mittens. I still remember how cold my wrists felt when I wore them outside to sled ride, build snow forts, shovel the driveway and have snowball fights. The mittens just covered my hands, never making it to my wrists. Red wrists were with me through most of the winter.  

It didn’t cost very much to send a package back then. 1st class mail was three cents an ounce; it had been that since the 1930’s. A one-pound package cost less than fifty cents. Today it costs over $10. Even so, a package on the porch back then, really got a big, “Wow,” from us. A rare treat.  

An even rarer event back then, was a long-distance phone call. It was expensive! When our aunt in New Haven called, my mother immediately turned to me and told me to be quiet, “Shut up! This is a long-distance call!” I would run outside to brag to my friends that we had a long-distance call. It cost $3.70 for three minutes in 1950, a dollar more than the monthly bill for our “two-party” line. Now, a long-distance call is a no brainer since most cell phone plans include it for free.

That cheap cost to mail a package in the 1950’s doesn’t seem like such a big deal to me since I’m an Amazon Prime member, where postage is “free,” if you don’t count the annual membership cost. I rather not be a “Prime” member; I want to go to stores to buy things, but that option has virtually disappeared. Postage on Prime is “ho-hum,” just like a long distance phone call on my cell phone. I probably do too much of both!

The Old Coot ain't a real man. Published 7/30/2025 in NY papers.

 The Old Coot isn’t “real.”

By Merlin Lessler

Real men don’t cry, not when John Wayne was king anyhow. Maybe real men do cry once in a while, but they try not to. Here’s an acid test to see if you are a real man. “Do you cut a sandwich in half, or eat it whole with one hand?” Another one is, “Real men love hotdogs.” Someone might object, “Do you know what hot dogs are made of?” Real men say they don’t care; they like them. Fine dining for a real man is ordering a deluxe hamburger with all the fixings and double onions. Real men drink coffee, not lattes. Real men wear work boots, even with shorts. High fashion is wearing a pair of jeans with a Levis or Wrangler tag.

Meat is their go to health food. It makes perfect sense. Meat comes from animals that are vegetarians. For real men, a luxury vehicle is a four-door pickup truck. Real men don’t let on that they can play the piano or admit they like some of Taylor Swift’s songs. Real men never leave a partially, full glass of beer behind when they leave a bar. Old coots like me, like to pretend we are real men, but it’s hard to live up to the image when you go around with your shirt on inside out and a pair of glasses on top of your head asking if anyone has seen your glasses.

Real men don’t complain about things; they fix them. Old coots just complain. Real men live life in the present; old coots go on and on about the good old days. Especially the ones when they thought they were real men. Now we’re just plain old men, ordering hotdogs whenever we get the chance. With mustard, never ketchup. Ketchup goes on hamburgers. We used to think McDonald’s was crazy, putting both mustard and ketchup on a burger. We’d scrape off the mustard. Now, we don’t care; we’re not real men.

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

The Old Coot has 2 memory issues. Published July 23, 2025 in NY papers.

 The Old Coot has a double memory problem.

By Merlin Lessler

I have a pretty good memory (for an old coot). My big issue is coming up with the name of someone I haven’t seen for a while. Especially, if it’s been a long while. I tried to fix that issue some 20 years ago, by keeping a list of everyone I met, with a description to jog my memory - “Joe, the guy who is a close talker (gets right in your face when you have a conversation). Or “Sarah, the life coach from Ithaca who comes to coffee once or twice a year, eavesdrops on our conversation and chuckles.” That’s what my list of names looks like. I keep it in a notebook, but also on my cell phone in the pictures App. If I run into someone I haven’t seen for years, I fake it, “Hi Governor,” or “Hi Kid.” Then, the first chance I get, I look up their name while the encounter is fresh in mind.

The memory problem I’ve never solved has been with me all my adult life - remembering the name of someone I meet for the first time. They say their name; I say nice to meet you, and their name immediately flies out of my head. I have no idea if it was Lynn, Lisa or Laura. At best, I’ll remember the first letter of their name.   

I have another memory problem; it’s not in my head, it’s in my feet; in the things on my feet to be exact – sneakers with memory foam. Like a lot of old coots, I no longer have a spring in my step. My foot goes clunk, clunk, clunk. A splat with every step, making it more of an effort to walk than when I was younger. But, it’s not much of a problem with shoes made with a memory foam cushion. My stride approaches that of a normal person, just slower. I now have discovered that the memory foam is losing its memory - in two different pairs of sneakers. They are only a few years old, but memory senility has begun to set in. I’m left with a memory problem on top (in my head) and on the bottom (in my feet). The latter issue is easy to fix, buy new sneakers. I would like to, if only the memory on top would remind me.   

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

The Old Coot has street people friends. Published in NY on July 13, 2025

 The Old Coot has “Street People” friends.

By Merlin Lessler

I have “Street People” friends. I don’t know the names of most of them. You pass each other a few times, nod hello and progress to “Good morning, Nice day, isn’t it.” You don’t need to know each other’s name, their bio or anything else. You walk, and are happy to see they are still around. It’s a “hello and a comment,” type of encounter where you respect each other’s privacy beyond that.

These Street People Friends pop up all over the place. The contact is life-enriching. I have them in our village in New York where I reside much of the time; in our neighborhood in Florida, on the beach, in coffee shops and other places where repeated encounters take place.

One thing I noticed, early on in the Street People friendship world, was that young people don’t readily engage in this exchange, for the most part. They walk past as though you are invisible if you are a senior or a really old coot like me. It won’t change unless you force the issue, which my friend Scotty in Florida is a master at. He says he’s not satisfied until he reaches 50 greeting exchanges a day - “Hi” or “Good Morning” or whatever greeting is appropriate when he’s out walking, biking, jogging or at the beach surfing. It’s so easy, just do it and you can break the barrier between the young people’s world and the old coot world.

It's kind of amazing how many people you run into on a regular basis “on the street.” Move to a new town or neighborhood and walk or circulate on a semi-regular basis (coffee shops for me) and soon enough you won’t feel like a stranger. Just say, “Hi! How are you doing today?” and move on. You’ll never live in isolation again. You’ll have Street People friends.

The Old Coot slogs through wet lawn clumps. Published 07/09/2025 (Owego Pennysaver, Tioga County Courier)

 The Old Coot teaches etiquette.

By Merlin Lessler

This is Old Coot article # 1,138. It’s the first time I’ve written about lawn care etiquette. But the time has come.

Etiquette #1. I bring home chunks of wadded up, soggy, freshly mown grass about every time I take a stroll through town. From people who spew lawn clippings all over the sidewalk and leave them there! All it takes, is to run the mower down the sidewalk and back – Presto! No grass left to be tracked home by the rest of us.

Etiquette #2. Stop! Hold your horses for a few short moments when you are mowing anywhere near someone on the sidewalk. That rotating blade is a lethal, projectile launching machine. My neighbor had her shoulder blown apart from a piece of bone a dog left on the lawn; it was hurled from a mower her husband was operating thirty feet from her. Dog bone, rock, tree root, it could be anything hidden in the grass. The tip of that mower is a powerhouse, with a tip speed of 130 to 270 miles per hour. It’s a serious threat to someone walking by or a child playing in the yard. So, when someone is near, take a pause, stand still. You don’t even have to shut off your mower. Do the same thing with a leaf blower. You’ll almost always get a thank you wave from a sidewalk traveler.  

Etiquette # 3. Mow before your yard looks like a cow pasture. Enough said.

Etiquette #4. Every once in a while, take a look at those shrubs growing alongside your sidewalk, to see if the branches project into the walking space. If you don’t, they will infringe into the pedestrian lane. It’s no fun pawing through shrubs and branches and getting a slap in the face or a sharp stick in the eye. I’ve trimmed a few bushes that were out of control for months that the owner never did anything about. I’ve had one sharp stick in the eye; I don’t ever want to go through that again. And I don’t want to carry snippers with me when I take a walk.  

In summary, blow the grass off the sidewalk – stop when people are near – don’t create a cow pasture – trim the shrubs. It’s just plain, simple lawn care etiquette.  

Send comments or complaints to the paper, or to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is a bicycle rule breaker. Published in NY on July 2, 2025

 The Old Coot goes the wrong way.

By Merlin Lessler

 I first aired this confession nearly 15 years ago. Nothing has changed. I’m still a criminal! Still socially incorrect! A criminal, because I often ride my bike on the wrong side of the road or on the sidewalk. Socially incorrect, because I don’t wear a helmet. Half the pleasure of riding a bike is to be outside with nature, moseying along, enjoying the scenery with the wind blowing through your hair, or what’s left of it. I grew up in a helmetless world – climbing trees, playing football, baseball and yes, riding bikes and soap box racers down hills and through sharp curves without head protection. All kids did. Our mothers said good-bye as we charged out the back door to play and then added, “Watch your head.” And we did! We learned to duck; we learned to take the brunt of a fall on our shoulder, not our head. Besides, protecting one’s head is a survival instinct built into the human genetic code. It’s one of the reasons our species has survived for eons. 

 I often don’t ride with the flow of traffic as required by Section 1234 (A) of the NYS Vehicle and Traffic law. I ride facing traffic when the chances of a sneak attack from the rear by a distracted driver is likely. It’s criminal behavior today, but my whole generation was taught, to face traffic when walking or biking. And for good reason! You can see what’s coming and save your life. But bikers and in-line skaters are no longer allowed to do this in New York State. The authors of the vehicle and traffic law claim that bicycling and skating against traffic are the leading cause of crashes. Pure hogwash! Nearly all bicyclers and pedestrians hit by vehicles, get it from behind. These cockamamie laws and opinions come from state bureaucrats and legislators who haven’t ridden a bike along a public road in decades, if ever. Most of them grew up in New York City. Us outlaw bikers know better. Facing traffic saves lives. It’s the cyclists that follow the rules that get run down by errant drivers.

 My crowd of criminal and socially incorrect bicycle riders are easy to spot. We’re the people in street clothes, not spandex ballet outfits. We are bareheaded, making our way at a leisurely pace on inexpensive bikes, enjoying the fresh air, the scenery and low-level exercise on a vehicle that weighs three times as much as the helmeted speedsters on two wheels who pass us. They stop for red lights, even with no cars in sight. We look both ways and go through red lights. We ride on sidewalks when the road is too dangerous (mindful of pedestrians) and follow our survival instincts, rather than the vehicle and traffic laws. Join us in our civil disobedience. You’ll be a lot safer! And have more fun! (You don’t even have to be an old coot)

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot's ego is in Jeopardy. Published in Tioga Co. Courier and Owego Pennysaver. on June 25, 2025

 The Old Coot can’t get the answer, fast enough.

By Merlin Lessler

I don’t know if you’re a fan or not of “Jeopardy,” the quiz show where your answer has to be in the form of a question, but I am, to a degree. That rule was strictly adhered to; contestants often spit out the correct answer, but not in the form of a question; the response wasn’t accepted. The rule has gradually eroded over the years: the host will look at the responder in a questioning manner, giving them a second or two to realize their error, and to restate it the proper form.

All well and good, that format was a gimmick that worked. The show has been on the air since 1964 with a few gaps in that long string of time. I started watching it when Art Fleming was the host and it aired during the noon hour, when I was often at home for lunch. I could get a few dozen answers before a contestant beat me to the punch. Over time, the questions got harder, the contestants got smarter, and I got dumber and slower. I now rarely blurt out the correct answer before they do, and I do a lot of blurting, mostly in error.

My recollection reflex is compromised. The people on the show are just too quick, cheating me of the opportunity to puff up my ego. The only way I might have a chance of shouting out a correct answer before they spoil things for me, is to DVR  the show and when I watch it, pause it right after the question is asked, giving me a minute to dig a response out of the cobwebs in my brain. Then, forward the recording, to see if I was right.

I haven’t resorted to that solution yet. Maybe I never will. It just seems like too much of an effort. So, for now, I’ll sit back with a dunce cap on my head and call it a victory if I get one correct answer before the brainiacs cut me off at the pass.

 

The Old Coot strings you along. Published in New York on June 18,2025

 The Old Coot strings you along.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m sitting here at the kitchen table with a ball of string in front of me. I brought it in from the garage to tie up a stack of file folders. It got me thinking; I almost never use string.  Rubber bands, Velcro straps, packing tape, masking tape, scotch tape, duct tape and the like have put string out to pasture: They now dominate the “fastening” landscape. Before then, if you wanted to mail a package, you wrapped it in paper from a grocery bag and tied it with string. Securing all four sides by a knot in the middle of the top.  To get it really tight, you asked someone to put their finger in the middle of the first loop of the knot so you could pull it tight, often pinching their finger in the process. But not anymore; we just slap on some packing tape, provided we can find the end that’s often undetectable.

It’s a little sad when you think about it, how this valuable invention, that archaeologist attribute to the Neanderthals, since it was found at some of their burial sites, but is now residing in the “seldom used, old tool pile.”  Not that long ago, if you went to a bakery for a dozen donuts, you walked out the door, carrying the box by the string it was tied up in. Butcher shops had huge spools of it on top of the meat counter, to tie up your purchase.

Kids in my generation , and several that followed, used string for everything: tying a skate key on a string around their necks (I’ll explain what a skate key is at another time), using it to play cats-in the-cradle, to tie to kites, for stringing yo-yos and many other uses.

For many years it was used as a pull chain to turn on overhead lights. Switches took over that function, but you may still find pull strings in closets and basements. People tied a piece of string around their finger as a reminder. “What’s that string for?” someone might ask.  “Oh that. So I don’t forget to mail that letter in my back pocket.” That sort of thing. I think I should tie a string around my finger. I often “walk the mail” through town and back home again. And, how about people who collected pieces of string, sometimes ending up with “The biggest ball of string in Idaho,” advertised as a tourist attraction on road signs along the highway.  

I think I’ll keep that ball of string on my desk, as a sign of respect for a “tool” that once was so important to civilization.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

The Old Coot skips the little white lies. Published on June 11, 2025 in NY

 The Old Coot is honest.

By Merlin Lessler

There is an old saying, “Honesty is the best policy.” It’s true, but only to a point. I wouldn’t advise taking it above an 80% level. Save that 20% so you can appear civilized, using those falsehoods we call little white lies. Like when your spouse asks, “Does this dress make me look fat?” Answer: “You look wonderful in that dress.” Or, “Honey, would you like to go to the car show with me?” Answer: I’d love too, but I have a terrible headache.”

Normal people set aside “Honesty is the best policy” in those tricky situations. But not us old coots. That’s when we adopt the policy, 100%. There is  only a small chance we’ll get our face slapped or a black eye. “Only a cad would hit an old man,” is what we count on. Don’t ask us question, unless you are prepared for the straight truth in all its ugliness. Even if you don’t ask, we still might give you information about yourself you didn’t want to hear.

We do it to each other all the time; it keeps us razor sharp. If you eavesdrop on our conversation, say in a coffee shop, you’ll get an earful of honesty. – “Your shirt is on backwards you big dummy.  Did mommy let you dress yourself this morning?” – “Your lost glasses are on the top of your head; are you so numb up there you can’t feel it?” – “You need to fix that breath of yours; are you using a garlic clove for a breath mint?” – “You’ve got your wife’s blouse on!” – “You knucklehead, you have two different shoes on!”

Of course, we never tell each other. “You forgot to zip up.” We’ll let you wander around in public like that. Same thing, when a long string of toilet paper is stuck to your shoe as you prance around without a care in the world. Oh yes! Honesty is the best policy, especially when you are an old coot and are no longer required to tell those little white lies. 

The Old Coot obeys the walking rules.. Published in New York papers on June 6, 2025

 The Old Coot takes a walk.

By Merlin Lessler

 What could be simpler than taking a stroll down the sidewalk? You put on your shoes, tie them tight (good luck with that; modern shoelaces won’t stay tied), step out the door and start walking. Everything is fine: fresh air, stuff to look at and no one in sight. You slip into a walk coma, like the one you experience in a car when you get to your destination and have no memory of the trip. 

 Then you spot someone off in the distance coming your way. It’s amazing how quickly the human brain can determine if a moving creature is coming toward you or going away. It must come from a primitive part of the brain, from a time when it was critical to your survival. It got you prepared to make a “fight or flight” decision. It’s not a survival skill we use much anymore, but it still stirs up a considerable degree of anxiety, at least for an old coot like me. I have to break out of my coma and point myself in a straight line, so I won’t stumble into the intruder’s space.

 I embrace the unwritten sidewalk walking rules, I move to the right (like in a car on a two-lane road) and keep my eyes focused on oncoming traffic, which in this case is a guy walking toward me. The hard part for me, is to stay in a straight line. I tend to meander from side to side. Even when I concentrate.

 So, off I go, hoping to pass by the oncoming walker without incident. That’s when I notice my shoelace has come untied. I go down on one knee and retie it. I get back up, a little lightheaded from rising too fast, take a few steps and find myself in the left hand lane. The guy coming my way shifts to his left too. Now, we’re both in the wrong lane but at least we won’t crash into each other. .

 The gap narrows to fifty feet. I switch lanes; I go right, to obey the rules. He goes right to avoid a crash. I can read the look on his face, “Stop messing with me you old coot!” But he’s over it by the time we pass each other. He nods; I nod, and the crisis comes to an end. I go back into my walk coma, but I’m exhausted from the stress of the encounter. I should turn around and head home, but the coffee shop is just a block away. I go there and start the recovery process. I guess there is no such thing as taking a simple stroll down the sidewalk!

 Complaints? Comments? Leave them at mlessler7@gmail.com

Vintage old coot articles can be viewed at oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com

The Old Coot knows how to buckle up. Published May 28, 2025

 The Old Coot says it never ends.

By Merlin Lessler

Once a bureaucracy enacts a rule or regulation, it’s set in stone. We all run into stupid rules that no longer make any sense. Take the FAA for example. They force the airlines to demonstrate how to fasten a seat belt before a plane can take off. Other stuff too, but the seatbelt demonstration is the worst. If anyone on a plane can’t handle a seatbelt they need to take a bus. Besides, the guy next to you can do a better job, the first step is to stop sitting on it.

The seat belt alarm in cars has outlived its usefulness. Most of us have adopted a “buckle-up practice,” even those of us who fought it when it was first mandated. It’s now second nature and it feels uncomfortable not to have that belt snugging us in. But I ignore the alarm when I pull up to a drive-in window. The first thing I do is unfasten my seatbelt to squirm around to get my wallet out of my pocket, and to reach out the window to get my order and avoid spilling the drink, because they don’t always put the top on right. At an ATM I do it, to get a good grip on the cash and not have to chase it down the driveway. The other times I get caught by the seatbelt nag, is when I put a heavy item on the passenger seat that awakens it from slumber.  

How about the TSA, treating us like the Soup Nazi treated his customers on the Seinfeld TV show. They are bureaucratic bullies extraordinaire, ordering passengers to remove belts, shoes, sweaters and coats before passing through an X-ray shower stall. Us old guys are exempt, one of the few perks of turning 75.

But really? After 25 years of shoe removal, because a shoe bomber tried to pull a fast one and failed. But he didn’t fail; millions of people have to hop around in their socks every year before passing muster. Getting through the TSA gauntlet is more stressful than flying 5 miles above the earth, at hundreds of miles per hour in a seat designed for a child. Especially if your face is red because your beltless pants fell down when you stepped into the metal detector.  

But it will never stop! A rule is a rule! Forever.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

The Old Coot can't see the light. Published in NY Papers - May 21, 2025

 The Old Coot’s view is blocked.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s time to raise the traffic lights and highway signs, because of the size of today’s pickup trucks and some giant SUV’s. Sure, tractor trailers have long been the cause of a blocked view on the road, but I could deal with that – there weren’t so many, and their view blocking impact was sporadic.

But now, a large number of vehicles are getting in the way of my view of traffic lights. I’m not sure if the light will turn red, just as I get to the intersection. What should I do, slam on the brakes? Or, step on the gas and hope for the best? The lights should be raised high enough to see over the monsters on the road. As it is now, my approach to an intersection is a mystery.

Highway exit signs suffer from the same visibility issue. For most of my travel time it’s not a big deal. But, when I approach my exit behind a big semi or pickup truck my view of the overhead sign is blocked until the last minute, and I wonder, “What lane is Exit 223-B, ” for example and I don’t want to get sidetracked to Exit 223-A. Or, when the highway splits and you want to go north and can’t see the sign that says to get in the left lane.  

I’m an old coot, with the emphasis on old, but not a 4-foot tall, little old lady whose head is so low you wonder if anyone is behind the wheel at all. I’m an average size human in an average size vehicle. I have a clear view of the road ahead, except when I’m behind a pickup truck or a mammoth SUV. These behemoths also make it difficult to back out of a parking space in a parking lot. I’m forced to inch back into the travel lane, and don’t get a view of what is coming until I’m ¾ of the way out. Some old coots, just back up without looking, all the time; it’s not a problem for them. I haven’t progressed that deep into the old coot persona, as yet, but it may be time to adapt the “no look,” back up technique. And, I might as well stop fretting about sailing through intersections after the light has turned red too. It’s almost unavoidable anyhow.

The Women who run Owego, NY Published May 14, 2025 in NY Papers

 The Old Coot revisits the “Women Who Run Owego.”

By Merlin Lessler

 I wrote this article in 2005. I asked to have it re-run as a memorial to Pat Williams, who passed away in April. She was walking & running the streets, right up to the start of 2025.    

The Women Who Run Owego!

 You won’t find them in the village office, the town hall or the county legislative chamber, yet these women “run” Owego. They run the streets! You’ve all seen them one time or another – jogging along Route 17C by the Treadway Inn on a rainy morning – sailing past Riverow - coming down the hill by Johnson’s Pools on Route 434 - cresting the rise on Davis Hill or chugging along on Route 96 by the school bus garage. It’s hard to have missed them. And if you’re like me, you’ve always wondered what their “story” was, why they run and who they are. I decided to find out. At the risk of being arrested for stalking, I ran them down. 

 Let me introduce you to the “Owego Six” – the women who run Owego – (as pictured, top row – left to right – Pat Williams, Barb Morrissey, Carol Livermore – bottom row, Irene Graven, Molly Shaw, Amy Pritchard. They all run in the morning, except Barb Morrissey, who prefers the afternoon or early evening. Pat Williams is the early bird. She starts her 10-mile routine at 4-am. Carol Livermore, who also pounds out double-digit miles every day, starts her routine at a more reasonable hour, as does the rest of the Owego Six. Carol puts in several twenty-mile runs, which add up to over 100 miles per week on her internal odometer. Molly, Irene, Amy and Barb usually run about 6 miles or so, though they all are known to throw in a long run when they have the chance. Barb tries to work in a 15-mile stint to keep fit for marathons. She’ll be running her 15^th NY City Marathon on November 6, her 32^nd marathon overall. Amy Pritchard also runs competitively in marathons and other races, but the rest of the women don’t. They only run for fun, for fitness and the pleasure of starting the day on the right foot (excuse the pun). It gets their metabolisms cranked up and helps to burn off excess calories. I’ve watched them run; I know it’s true.

 Livermore and Pritchard started running when they were very young, 8 and 10 respectively. Molly started her running in high school, Pat – after finishing college, Irene when she was in her 20’s; “Marathon” Barb was 31, a smoker and determined to change her ways when she took up jogging and joined her husband on the road. If you add up all the years they’ve been running it exceeds 150. Barb, Carol, Amy and Pat have been at it for 30 years or more. This isn’t a passing fancy; it’s a way of life.

 When they aren’t on the road, running Owego, you can find them hard at work: Irene Graven is the 1^st Assistant Tioga County DA, Barb Morrissey is a nurse at Lourdes Hospital, Molly Shaw is the fruit & vegetable specialist at Cornell Cooperative Extension, Carol Livermore is both an artist and a floral designer, the latter at Ye Olde Country Florist, Amy Pritchard teaches second grade at the O.A. Elementary School in Apalachin and Pat Williams teaches high school English at Tioga Central School.

 I’ve watched them run our town for years and have always admired their grit. They have a work ethic that makes the Postal Creed look pale by comparison. They don’t just run through snow, sleet and the dark of night; they run through blizzards, tropical storms, heat waves and cold snaps where the temperature gets so low that half the cars in town won’t start. But why do they do it - day after day, year after year? It’s not an easy question to answer. It’s an internal force that drives them. It’s automatic, not a thought process. Oh sure, they can recite, and did when I asked, a list of reasons: “It’s good for my heart” – “It’s a way to unwind” – “It gives me the physical strength and mental energy to get me through my life’s other trials” – “As a working mother and a wife it’s time to myself” – “It helps me deal with stress and to lead an active physical life” – “It makes me feel 20 years younger, and much healthier than my non-exercising contemporaries.”

 The unanswered question is – Why do they stick with it and most of the rest of us don’t?   

They don’t know why, but the point is, they do. And, I must confess, when I watch these fleet footed, dedicated women sail past me on the sidewalk, I’m jealous – jealous of their stamina, dedication and grace. It’s no picnic running through the two seasons we have here: winter and monsoons. It “ain’t” no fun to run with sleet stinging your face and sleepy-eyed commuters forcing you off the road. It’s pretty obvious that it’s only a matter of time before these high caliber women will be running a lot more than the streets of Owego. If they ever decide to run the town, not just the streets, they’ve got my vote!

 Update: Barb does most of her running in Florida except when she is in town training for the New York Marathon, Carol walks the sidewalks, but mostly behind the counter at her Coffee & Art Bar on Front St., Irene walks her miles through the village these days, Molly moved to New Zealand, Amy is still at it, running with her gang all around town. Pat’s memory will remain with many of us, forever running through town, She will be missed.

The Old Coot has a new nickname. Maybe? Published in NY on 5/7/25

 The Old Coot tries out a new moniker.

By Merlin Lessler  

I have a new nickname, “Moses.” I was first dubbed with that moniker by my friend, Ray Miller, from Chicago. He fished from the shore on the east coast of Florida. I did it too. Ray is a real fisherman; I’m an imposter. He caught enough Pompano and Whiting, and one time, a shark, to freeze and take home at the end of the snowbird season.

He fished; I walked the beach, one or two miles to the north or south. I moseyed along, with a tall walking stick. He said I looked like Moses coming down the beach, with my hair flying in the wind, a beard, and my stick. I liked it.

Then another guy, in an inland neighborhood I walked through, started calling me Moses too. I liked it even more. Two unrelated opinions. I’m thinking of adopting it as a nickname. I’ve had many over my lifetime. With a name like Merlin, you like being called something different. I started out as a little kid with “Butch” and also “Buckeroo,” which my father called me when he gave me a horseyback ride, or to be precise, “My Little Buckaroo.” I usually wore a cowboy suit and sported two cap pistols. I galloped on my rocking horse, chasing the bad guys.  Everyone in the neighborhood called me Butch. When I started kindergarten, Mrs. Shopper called out our names from her attendance sheet. When she yelled out, “Merlin,” I didn’t raise my hand; I didn’t realize she was talking to me.

Eventually, Butch faded away. And, I collected other nicknames: Les, Merl, Nick (I gave myself that one when I was eleven), Knurling (I got that in machine shop because I put a knurling grip using a lathe on all my projects). When I had a paper route and went door to door to collect the 45 cent weekly fee, I was called, “That kid who delivers our paper is at the door.” The customers who referred to me that way, made me come back two or three times before they coughed up the dough, handing me a half-dollar and never saying, “Keep the change, Kid.”

When I started writing my Old Coot articles in 2002, it became what I thought was my last nickname, “Old Coot” or just plain,  ”Coot.” I’m fine with that, but the more I think about it, the more I like Moses. I think I just might give it a test run.

Definitions: - #1 “Dubbed” – an unofficial name or nickname given to someone or something.

#2 “Moniker”- a nickname or pet name for a person.

The Old Coot is censored. Published in NY on April 30,2025

 The Old Coot shuts his mouth.

By Merlin Lessler

When I was younger, in my sixties, my wife gave me a Fitbit for Christmas. It was an early version; it didn’t do all the stuff they do today. I used it to count steps and check my heart rate. Its purpose was to nag me until I moved my body. “If you don’t move it, you will lose it.” True? It was pretty effective for several years. Eventually, after more than a decade I learned that even if you move it, vou still lose it, just at a slower rate. Who’s kidding who?

Even so, that primitive step counter was highly effective in developing “move” habits. Now, I need a different type of Artificial Intelligence monitoring me. A device that can listen to what I say and count, several, select, old man phrases. A sentence that starts with, “I used to…..” for instance. Nobody cares what you “used” to do.

Even worse, are sentences that start with, “I shudda,” as in, “I should have done X, Y or Z.” Shudda is a regret that nobody cares about but you. This Fitbit phrase monitor that I envision, will keep score as I go through the day and sound an alarm when I surpass a preset limit. It will also produce weekly charts to remind me to work harder to eliminate those “taboo” phrases.

Eventually it will help me to be somewhat more welcome in group conversations. It might even stop people from looking at their watches when I babble out of control and then say, “Oh gosh; I have to run.” There are a few other phrases that will be monitored, such as: “What’s his name?” and “They” say… Who are “they” by the way? And, when did “they” become the ultimate authority?

I have to stop right here; I’ve already exceeded my daily quotas, and it’s only 10 am.

Comments, complaints? Send to paper or to mlessler7@gmail.com

The old coot is an early shopper. Article # 1127 Published in NY Papers on 04/23/25

 The Old Coot is ready for Christmas.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s a little early for Christmas, for most people, but not for old coots. If we can get our “better half” to get on board. I like that “better half,” but out of date term. It covers all forms of relationships between two people. It used to only be used by men who had been scolded for referring to their wives as, “My old lady.” Smart ones switched to “better half.”

Anyhow, if the two of you can agree, now is the time to start shopping for Christmas. With an old coot twist. You buy your own present, not your mates. Just think of the pressure that would eliminate. You don’t have to fry your brain to come up with something thoughtful and appreciated. Something that most old coots fail to accomplish. We often put it off until December 24^th. Talk about pressure.

Buy yourself a nice gift, something you can wear or a tool you always wanted. Buy it; wrap it; stick it in the back of your closet; do this by Labor Day. By the time December 25^th rolls around, you will have forgotten what’s in the box. You won’t have to fake surprise and delight when you open it. It takes all the agony out of the holidays, and for once, your “old lady” will get something nice, and you won’t get tickets to the opera.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com    

The Old Coot is from the green generation. (Published April 16, 2025 in NY Papers)

The Old Coot is “green” with envy.

By Merlin Lessler

I pulled a loaf of bread out of the cupboard the other day. It had been there for the better part of the week, so I checked it for that greenish, bluish sign of mold. None! It wasn’t like this growing up. Bread would start turning green after a day or so. I know.  I was my family’s “bread man.” Every other day, my mother handed me a cloth sack with a draw string closure and said, “Go over to Bill Scales grocery store on Pennsylvania Ave and get a loaf of Spaulding bread. Off I would go on my bicycle, with a dime and a penny in the bag, swinging from my handlebars. The dime was for bread; the penny for a piece of Fleer, Double-Bubble Gum. I liked it better than Bazooka Bubble Gum because it came with a tiny comic strip inside the wrapper. I would stop at the top of Moore Ave on the way home to pull a slice out of the middle of the loaf, hoping my mother wouldn’t notice. It was so good when it was fresh. I couldn’t stop myself.  I still do that to this day when I buy bread from a bakery. I can never wait till I get home. Same thing when I pick up a pizza. It’s never perfectly round when it gets to our kitchen. 

 There aren’t many neighborhood bakeries around anymore. They’ve disappeared, just like the neighborhood grocery stores and neighborhood schools. Life was on a smaller scale back then. We walked to Longfellow Elementary School every day. Walked back home for lunch, and back to school again. We got as much education on the sidewalks along the route as we did in the classroom. Even when we graduated and moved up to junior high, we still walked to Longfellow, to catch one of the two buses to the junior high on the other side of town.

But, oh those “good old days.” Back in the 1940’s and 50’s. I started walking to school with my friend Woody when we were five years old. Our parents weren’t involved, except to say good bye and be careful, on our way out the door. Quite a different world! But, back to the bread. Today’s bread, made in factories, that doesn’t turn green. Mothers don’t have to cut moldy crusts off before making their children peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. The aging process in bread is virtually eliminated, by preservatives. I just wish those preservatives did the same thing for me when I consumed the loaf.?

Comments?  Complaints? Send to the paper or to me at mlessler7@gmail.com      

Why is the Old Coot stressed? Published in New York and Pennsylvania on April 9, 2025

 The Old Coot is stressed out for no reason.

By Merlin Lessler

 Us old coots are a creative bunch. We’ve gone through our childhood into adulthood and on to old coothood (which is similar to our childhood years) – Retired - on Social Security - Medicare and a pension (if we’re lucky). Our kids are grown, grandkids too. Life is simple, not a care in the world. Stress free!

 Or, should I say- seemingly stress free. In truth, we’re more stressed than anytime in our lives. We create it. Doctor’s appointment today! Will we get there on time? Will we run into a traffic jam? Will we find a parking spot? Will there be a line at the check in counter? A seat in the waiting room? All that, before we even get to the day of the appointment.

 But, we do get there. Miraculously! Half an hour early. Then we wait. What seems like an hour, looking around the room knowing every person there is ahead of us. Finally, we get escorted to the “little room.” An aide quizzes us, a bunch of, how are you doing and why are you here questions and then grabs your arm and squeezes it in what feels like a vice to get your blood pressure. Which is always high at that moment, at least for me. How could it not be, with all the stress of getting there? You explain it’s not high when we check it at home. They turn away, roll their eyes, and tell you they’ll take it again so they can let you go home. MORE STRESS!

 Now comes the hard part, waiting for the doctor. Or, more commonly today, a physician’s assistant or a nurse practitioner. How long will I wait? Will I remember all the things I wanted to ask? We have written them down, but when we pull the note out of our pocket, it’s the grocery list. The list for the doctor is back home, sitting on the kitchen table.

 So, all that stress to handle a simple task and it bore no fruit. We flunked! We have the exam and remember one or two things we wanted to ask, but know that when we get home, our wife is going to ask what the doctor said about X, Y, and Z. More stress. We say the heck with it, and go to McDonalds and wolf down a Big Mac, fries and a milkshake. No stress now. Cholesterol crowding the “high” line? So what!  We just don’t give a damn.      

 

 

The Old Coot has the side effects, not the benefit. Published in NY State (04/02/2025)

 The Old Coot has the side effects.

By Merlin Lessler

 If you watch regular TV, or even streaming TV, you can’t escape a barrage of ads for prescription drugs. I used to think of drug dealers as guys in back alleys, wearing top coats, selling heroin. Now, it’s pharmaceutical companies on TV pushing legal drugs; some are worse for you than the illegal ones. A lot of the supplements can have adverse effects too, or be of little value, but they aren’t required by the FDA to warn of the side effects.

 My main problem with these ads, as an old coot, is with prescription drugs. I watch the ad promo, but I also listen to the list of possible side effects. It’s hard because they are accompanied by wonderful, but distracting imagery. I may not even take the medicine, but I still experience many of the side effects. I get all the bad and none of the good. If old age had been advertised when I was young, with the possible side effects, I would have been better prepared.

 It should have been a subject in high school, along with the side effects of credit card use and other real life skills. Kids can parrot the state capitals, but can they explain how compound interest can compromise their life style? Or, that they will have to pay a plumber $100 to clean the screen in a faucet that they could do in two minutes themselves.

 I started writing this article to complain that I have some of the side effects of medicines I don’t even take; I ended up complaining about the lack of practical life skills in our school classrooms. I never know where this pen will take me when I sit down to write an article. It’s something Miss Foley, my high school English teacher never taught me, but apparently taught Rod Serling, creator of the Twilight Zone, who was her student too, eighteen years before I sat in the back of her classroom. If she had, or if I had paid attention, you wouldn’t have to suffer when my article wanders all over the place. Or maybe, it’s just an old coot thing. And no, I’m not comparing myself to Rod Serling, just the opposite.