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