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