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