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.    

The Old Coot is from Mars, not Venus. Published in NY on March26, 2025

 The Old Coot escapes a male chauvinist bullet. By Merlin Lessler

 A few weeks ago, I commented on the differences between men and women ordering a dozen donuts. A Mars versus Venus thing. Men step to the counter and run through their selections at machine gun speed; Women, not so much. My long distance friend in Texas, David Kerby, said he would love to see the critical responses I would get from women. The only reaction I received was this one from Tracy Landrum. 

 Merlin-   I love this article! Your description of women couldn’t be more accurate, and I am one of them. I used to wait table for a living. I cringed when I saw a group of ladies come in. I knew they would select a table they believed would be the most comfortable; regardless if it was the only dirty one in the place. Women like the air conditioning adjusted, the blinds rearranged, and everything they don’t intend to use for their experience OFF the table.  After viewing a menu for some time, it’s time to place the order, and now they want to ask what’s good?  Women don’t want to set the server free to tend to another task while they hem and haw over what they should order…because then you won’t be available the moment they have decided what they want! (that could lead to missing out on group conversation).

 Ladies have got to get better prepared before stepping up to the line.  If you don’t know what you want, take YOUR time, not someone else’s.  Not everyone is amused by the hemming and hawing and fumbling for your money while they wait in line behind you. Honestly, women must realize they are holding up the valuable time of those who have already done their groundwork and are prepared!  Your observation here is dead on! Have you seen the Amazon prescription commercial where the man is 6th in line to pick up mom’s prescription (because she couldn’t just have it delivered by Amazon as he requested) and the man has to wait in line behind the woman who is purchasing a garden item at the pharmacy with no price tag on it? Haha, it captures some of the same behavior you describe here in your article.

 Women also love to touch items, smell them, compare them, stare at them, think about them. It’s a wonder any of us picked a mate! I love that I have a husband who will do the errand running and HE will be the one to get the order together, step right up, and “chop chop”, out with the order!  He has spent time learning what I like to eat at each restaurant, and isn’t shy to print up a menu at home for me to help speed things along before we go out.  I think it’s sweet and helpful. I don’t know if all women would agree with that, but it might be a helpful hint to the men who would like to speed things up. 

 Thanks for a good laugh, I always enjoy your articles.  Take Care, Tracey. Sent from my iPhone

The Old Coot loves his bracelet. Published March 19, 2025 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot loves his bracelet.

By Merlin Lessler

I was with my young friend Scotty the other day. He’s a kid, just became eligible for Social Security this past year. He noticed the black bracelet on my wrist. “What’s that all about?” he asked. I told him what it was. A “Your-wife- doesn’t- have- to- report- you- missing-after- you- crash- on- your bicycle and conk- out – when - an - ambulance- takes- you- to- the- hospital- and - you- don’t- come -home- bracelet.” Mine, provides my name, address, and my wife’s cell phone number.

I used to carry around a business card wrapped in clear plastic tape with her number on it when I swam laps at the college pool. It kept floating out of my pocket and the life guard would hand it to me when I got out of the water, with a huge grin on his face. Now, I have a medical alert bracelet with a nylon strap that doesn’t come off in the pool, when I’m on a walk or on a bike ride. You never know when you’re going to need, it if you’re an old coot.

My friend Paul from Michigan passed out on the beach in Florida two years ago. He didn’t have any ID on him. Who does, when they take a little walk on the beach in a bathing suit? Fortunately for him, he was only out for a few minutes and asked the ambulance to stop at his hotel so he could tell his wife where he would be spending the afternoon. Knowing how cool, calm and collected he is, he probably just said, “I’ll be at the hospital and might not be home for dinner.” They kept him for several days, spacing out a series of tests so they could maximize his medical bill.

My bracelet is so light and unintrusive that I hardly notice it. It cost me about $15 on-line at Amazon. Including the engraving. It’s so much better than having your family going from ER room to ER room in all the nearby hospitals, or worse yet, from morgue to morgue to identify one of the “John Dos” in the cooler. Well worth the price. Even for a cheapskate old coot like me.  

The Old Coot explains the waiting period. Published March 12, 2025 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot waits it out.

By Merlin Lessler

 Did I do this before? I can’t remember. Oh well. I witnessed an encounter between a mother and her teenage son in the grocery store the other day. It was a chance meeting; she came from home; he came from school. Her greeting brought me back to my own teenage days, “Why are you wearing that shirt? I just ironed it!” His face turned red, and his buddy didn’t help the situation when he said, “Oh Dude! Bad Boy!” And, chuckled out the side of his mouth. My mother said the exact same thing to me, every time I tried to sneak out of the house wearing a freshly ironed shirt.

Ironed clothes had to go through a waiting period (limbo) before they could be worn. I never knew how long the resting period was. It depended on my mother’s memory. If she could remember ironing it, it had to go back on a hanger and into the closet. (If I got caught, that is.)

 The same principle applied to new clothes. “You take off that shirt this minute young man. I just bought it!” All new things did time in limbo. When we got a new stove, the old one went into the basement. That’s where the heavy cooking took place. Better to lug stuff up and down stairs than to “wear out” the new stove. It also applied to baked goods. “Get your hand out of that cookie jar; I just baked those brownies!”

Ok, Ok; I get it. When I got old enough, my mother taught me to iron and turned the chore over to me. It’s a lot of work to iron things, but even when I did the ironing myself, she still made a stink if I slipped into something freshly ironed. I made a mistake a few years back and told my wife about how I had to let freshly ironed clothes rest when I was a kid. Today’s dress code is pretty casual; we don’t do a lot of ironing; we fold things. If she sees me put on something that was freshly folded (folded by her because I’m folding challenged) she yells over to me, “Why are you wearing that shirt; I just folded it,” and then cracks up laughing at how I cringe. I can’t help it; it’s a guilt feeling that’s ingrained in my subconscious. No matter how old you get, you still retain guilt from the past.

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

The Old Coot is an eavesdropper. (Published in NY on 3/5/25)

 The Old Coot is an eavesdropper.

By Merlin Lessler.

 I was in a donut shop the other morning. It's a great place to observe human nature in action. I'm there every Sunday, to sip coffee and consume the one jelly donut I limit myself to each week. I sit there and read the book review section in the weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal. I'm often distracted by interplay between customers and employees. This particular one has well trained, friendly servers, in sharp contrast to the attitudes of some of the customers, who come in, in a sleepy, grouchy mood. By the time they leave, they are usually in good spirits.  From the intake of sugar, the stimulus of caffeine and also because of the cheery atmosphere created by the staff and especially the “hands-on” manager.

 She can fix any problem. For instance, I'd placed my order in my car, on my phone, for indoor pick-up. That way, it's sitting there waiting for me when I walk in. I grabbed the bag with my donuts inside, the container of coffee and sat down at my favorite table. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped, with my eyes focused on a book review. I reached into the bag, pulled out my donut and took a bite. It wasn't the jelly donut I'd craved. It was a glazed donut. A good donut, but not jelly. I went to the counter and explained my misfortune. The manager didn't blink an eye. She reached into the donut rack and handed me a jelly. She said she was sorry. I said I was sorry that I'd taken a bite without looking. She laughed, and told me to enjoy them both.

 Here's where I step into it! Commenting on the difference between men and women. On scant, unscientific evidence I learned from observing people ordering a dozen donuts. I didn’t set out to do this, but I overheard a man order a dozen donuts in a rapid fire manner. “I’ll have two glazed, two jelly, four chocolate frosted, two Boston cream, and two old fashion.” Bing, bang, boom, done! A few minutes later, an adult woman stepped to the counter, also to order a dozen donuts. “Let me have a jelly one.” Then, after a pause. “No, forget the jelly. Let me see. How about Boston cream? I love them; what’s your favorite?” Then, another pause. “I’ll have a glazed. How many do I have left?” Then she ordered a jelly. Well, you see how it went, and that’s before she fumbled around in her purse for her wallet.

 It's not the first time I’ve witnessed this scene. It’s an example of the “Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus phenomenon. My data sample is not statistically valid, but it’s what I observe, again and again. Enough times to produce an opinion and brace myself to be called a male chauvinist pig. That’s what happens when you’re an old coot.

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

The Old Coot won't take the pill. Published in local New York papers on February 26, 2025

 The Old Coot took the Camel Cigarette, 30 day test.

By Merlin Lessler

 Take this pill! Sue the dirty bums! This is what our society has come down to. If you judge it by the ads on TV. No matter what’s wrong with you, there is a pill to fix it. No matter what happens to you, there is someone to blame, and someone to sue. This is a gripe I’m compelled to air every few years (11 in this case).

 Let’s start with the pills. “Don’t pay any attention to this list of side effects; the FDA made us reveal them.” That’s what the pharmaceutical companies would say at the beginning of their spiel if they were truly honest and forthright. Instead, they create an image so appealing as to obscure any negative input. One “pill” ad shows an attractive, middle-aged woman, now freed of her arthritic pain, leisurely swimming in warm tropical waters. She’s accompanied by a collection of happy friends and beautiful golden retriever that gently paddles in and out of the group. The waves gently lap the shore while the announcer’s melodious voice, quietly suggests that taking the medicine may increase your chances of a heart attack or a stroke and lead to death, or stomach and other intestinal problems, such as bleeding ulcers, which may appear without warning and also lead to death.”

  What the FDA should do, is make them show images of people experiencing the side effects instead of swimming around in paradise. Maybe then, we’d pay attention to just how risky these miracle cures are. But we don’t pay attention to the side effects. They hardly register. And, that’s OK, because the law firms that feed on our missteps, the ones who dominate our TV screens, are there to make sure we get retribution. They’re on our side! 

 And to think I thought the Camel Cigarette ads I grew up with in the 1950’s were unscrupulous, the ones in which they invited smokers to take a “30 day Camel” test. “Smoke camels for 30 days and discover for yourself what throat specialists discovered; not one single case of throat irritation in a coast-to-coast test of hundreds of people.” I accepted their invitation; I bought a pack of Camels. And, even though I was only ten years old, I was smart enough to quit after one day. Besides, if I got caught my mother would have killed me. There’s no pill for that!

 Complaints? Comments? Leave at mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot saved Old Blue! - Published 02/19/25 Tioga Co. Courier, Owego Pennysaver and elsewhere

 The Old Coot saved “Old Blue.”

By Merlin Lessler

 My favorite shirt is 38 years old. A blue, oxford cloth, button down collar specimen. It’s an old timer, like me. In fact, we’re the same age if you reverse the numbers. The main issue with it is a frayed collar; it’s officially not allowed out in public. I’ve tried, but didn’t get away with it. Even when I used some blue painter’s tape to cover the fray. The problem is, my wife has an eagle eye. So, Old Blue is under house arrest and in “work shirt” status. If I’m not careful, that will be my status as well. The shirt and I have history. It went to work with me, on vacation, to parties and once to an opera, which neither of us got much out of.

,It was a Tommy Hilfiger creation; I purchased it in his outlet store run by his sister in Elmira, New York. As far as I know, it was the only outlet that sold his high end clothes at bargain basement prices. Probably, because Elmira was his home town and he wanted to share his fashions with the local people. He put Elmira on the map as did Mark Twain, who wrote Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and other books in a cabin on his wife’s sister’s farm where he summered for many years. The cabin now resides on the campus at Elmira College; he resides nearby, with his wife, in Woodlawn Cemetery.

 All of us old coots have some favorite old clothes, hidden in the back of our closets. The ones we’ve saved from donations to thrift stores or town dumps. I miss those clothes that were sacrificed in that manner, but having Old Blue still with me makes up for it. Thanks Tommy, for 38 great years.   

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

The Old Coot reads and dozes. Published - 02/i2/2025

 The Old Coot is a “read-dozer.”

By Merlin Lessler

I have acquired a new pastime. I call it “read-dozing.” I’m a reader, primarily books and newspapers. I’m also a napper. When I first started working, and getting paid for it, I found myself a little sleepy between 2 and 3 in the afternoon. I worked for Compton Industries, an electronic firm whose primary business was calibrating oscilloscopes for IBM corporation. After we finished adjusting the devices, we set them up in a test room to “age” the calibration since some adjustments would wander out of spec after initial use. The room was warm, from the heat generated by a sea of oscilloscopes. They also emitted a gentle hum, produced by their internal fans.

I had to go into the “aging” room to check and readjust the calibration every afternoon. Between the warm temperature and the hum of the fans, it was difficult to stay awake. So, I didn’t. I napped, just like I did in high school study halls, with my forehead nestled in my hand and my elbow on the desk. I figured the teacher thought I was concentrating on reading information in a text book on the desk. Once in a while, my arm would buckle, and my head would come crashing down on the desk, waking me up and scaring the kids around me.

Anyhow, my naps in the “aging room” started a lifelong habit of dozing in the afternoon for 10 minutes or so to snap me out of the doldrums and let me be more productive than I otherwise would have. Now that I’m unemployed (retired) and out of high school, there are no impediments to my napping routine. I read a few pages; then doze off for a few minutes. I often dream about the story I’m reading and move the plot along. When I wake up and start reading again, I discover that my dream version was way off. I read; I doze; I dream - I read and doze again. It’s a great pastime! Try it; you’ll like it.

Old Coot gives public speakers advise.- published 02/05/2025

 The Old Coot pans public speakers

By Merlin Lessler

 Public speakers need public speaking lessons. It’s embarrassing to watch.  Take a politician (they do most of the blah, blah, yacking) standing at a podium to talk about a new bill he or she is introducing. Something they claim to be passionate about. They constantly look down at their speech notes, saying something like. “I am so (looks down) pleased to introduce Bill number (looks down) S-527, which will (looks down) once and for all, revitalize our small businesses.

 It's especially annoying when they are expressing sympathy for the victims of a mass shooting. You have to read notes, to say how sad you feel for the victims and their families? Really? (You can’t just speak from the heart?)

 It’s not just politicians – It’s police chiefs, CEO’s, school superintendents and many other public spokespersons. Put a podium in front of them, and their head starts bobbing. Speakers who use tele-prompters are just as annoying, staring off into space as they speak.

 Football coaches don’t use notes when interviewed at half time and are asked, “What does your team need to do to get back in the game?” Then comes the typical response. “We have to move the ball down the field and put some points on the board.” DUH! Maybe THEY should have notes to come up with more relevant responses. Those reporters need lessons too, so they can ask questions that don’t evoke stupid answers.

 Anyhow, public speaking and public questioning need a revamp. It’s a social skill that was taught in grade school in my day. We were made to stand and answer a question or go to the front of the class and give an oral report on a book we read. Or, in my case, to explain to the class why it wasn’t acceptable to send spit balls through a straw to the girls side of the room. I learned to speak in front of an audience, but not to stop sending spit balls.   

The Old Coot is arm crossed! (Published 1/29/25)

 The Old Coot’s arms are crossed.

By Merlin Lessler

At coffee the other morning, one of the “klatsch” boys asked me why I had my arms folded. Was I cold? I didn’t know I had folded my arms. I guess I did it without knowing. I wasn’t cold. It’s just another trait that emerges when you are an old coot. Changes like this happen and we don’t notice. We walk funny, groan when we get up from a chair; when we glance in a mirror, we see a memory of what we used to look like, not an old man’s face. It’s a long list of oddities that we are blessed with. Cheapness is a big one. It’s a perspective thing. We remember when a BabyRuth candy bar cost a nickel, a pizza was a dollar, and a Pepsi was ten cents. When we look at a restaurant bill, it’s a shock, especially when we calculate a 20% tip that amounts to what we once paid for the entire meal.  

 So, I now cross my arms all the time. Sitting at a red light, I look down and my arms are crossed. In the bleachers at one of my grandkid’s soccer, lacrosse or football games, I sit with my arms crossed. Watching TV, sitting by the pool. You name it, any idle time, I’m arm crossed.

 I wasn’t always this way. I only crossed my arms when I was cold. Brrr! Or, when I was looking down at one of my daughters watching TV instead of picking up her toys. It’s a bad habit; it makes you come across as a rude, angry person. I remember how I felt when the teacher in our elementary school looked down at me with her arms crossed. I knew I was in trouble and was going to be sent to the cloak room or the principal’s office. Now, I project that same image as I sit or stand, unaware that my arms are crossed. In Finland, it’s seen as a sign of arrogance. I’m going to start keeping my hands in my pockets. It won’t be easy.  My mother would yell at me when I was a kid, “Get your hands out of your pockets.” It’s one of those things you never forget, even decades later when you’re an old coot.  

The Old Coot doesn't like being nagged. Published Tioga County Courier and others on 01/22/25

 The Old Coot shrugged off a nag.

By Merlin Lessler

 First we stuck in a toe, then two and now our whole foot is into the use of an electronic nag. It started innocently enough, with Fitbit, which came out in 2009. It counted steps, distance and calories burned. It nudged us to get moving, something our obese, out of shape society needed. Then, it became a competition. “I did 5,000 steps today!” – “I did 10,000.” “Oh yea, I did 20,000!” Now, those enjoyable walks through neighborhoods, towns and parks became something the “step counting” devices nagged us about.   

 They evolved to measure everything. And, Nag! Nag! Nag! “You only got 5 hours of “good” sleep last night,” the App might scold. “And, you’re way under your goal of 10,000 steps a day this week. Your heart rate never made it to the recommended exercise level; so, you didn’t achieve the full benefit of your effort.”

 It’s not just steps and sleep. The nanny Apps scold us on much more; swimming, biking, running and sleeping to name a few. Studies of these electronic monitoring devices conclude that they are counterproductive. “Your goal to maintain an average speed of 20 Mph on your bike ride ended in failure! You only hit 18 MPH!” How does a message like that make you feel? Not good. It puts you into a funk and raises anxiety when you ride, trying to achieve a pre-set goal. The focus is on hitting the target, instead of enjoying a pleasant, relaxing journey on your feet, in a pool, or on a bike. Even a trip into dreamland..

 The fun is gone. I have to stop this discourse and attend to a nag. My $35, knock-off, fitness watch is reminding me that I have not hit my 5,000 step goal. I don’t mock the people who use electronic nags; I’m a victim myself. But, I’m working to stop. That’s why I dropped my 10,000 step goal to 5,000. I now can ride my bike and swim without tracking. I once weaned myself out of an Oreo cookie addiction and I can do this too. If I can do it, so can you. Start slowly; lower your goals. Eventually, you can go back to a watch that just tells the time. That’s enough anxiety to live with.

The Old Coot says it's all in a name. Published 1/15/25

 The Old Coot says just call me Coot.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve had dealings with some pleasant and interesting people over the last few months. A profitable exchange with Coin Dealer Scott, a better than imagined outcome with Tree Trimmer Mike and an always competent outcome with Insurance Agent Woody. Some of my Florida interactions took place with Real-estate Michael, Car Dealer Iancu and Builder Mike.

I guess you can see the pattern here. Every person’s name was preceded by their profession. A little weird isn’t it? At first glance anyhow. But not if you put it into the context of how we address select, so called professionals. It’s not Chuck Schumer, it’s Senator Schumer or Congressman Smith and Congresswoman White. College teacher Cawley is Professor Cawley or Doctor Cawley. Most of us save the use of “Doctor,” for medical doctors, but some PHD graduates refer to themselves as doctor too. Even some with just an honorary degree. I’ve made up the names to protect the innocent. The ones like Doctor Brown who says, “Please just call me Bill.”

 We don’t live in a monarchy where people are forced to address royals like King Charles or Prince William and a whole litany of other regal designations. This is good old America where we are all equals. We are free to call everyone by name, not title. But, maybe the title first and then name is the way to go. I’d like it if it applied across the board. I’d have no trouble calling the mechanical genius who fixes my car, Auto-Mechanic Joe. Or the craftsman who handles all the household repairs on my residence, Carpenter and Handy Man Lee.

 My preference for using vocational titles for everyone would not set well with the crowd that gets that special treatment. Politicians and college professors would be insulted by our lack of respect. Some of them anyhow. They wouldn’t want to be in the Joe Blow category where the rest of us reside. They’d claim, “I worked hard and long to get here” (in the privileged class). Not any harder than a Master Plumber or cabinet maker or the McDonald’s CEO, who started out flipping burgers and earned his way to the top..   

 As for myself, I’ll stick with my “Joe Blow” status and happily be referred to as Old Coot, or like many of my friends do, just plain Coot.