The Old Coot misses the bumper Published in NY (07/22/26)

The Old Coot Misses the Bumper!

by Merlin Lessler

 I first aired this gripe, in print, 24 years ago. It’s time to recycle it in modified form.

 The car bumper is history. That shiny, chrome, steel bar that once graced the front and rear of our Detroit dinosaurs has disappeared; it has been replaced with a plastic, bumper-like object that shatters when it “bumps” into something. Some pick-up trucks and a few SUVs still sport a metallic bumper, but not cars. It’s another change I didn’t notice taking place. Now it’s too late.

 It’s too bad. It’s not just the shine that’s gone; so is the pride that we took in slathering chrome polish on our bumpers to finish off a ritualistic Saturday afternoon car wash. We lost functionality too. Where are you going to tie the baby shoes and tin cans when the bride and groom drive away from the church? And, where are businesses going to wrap the thin pieces of wire that held their cardboard bumper ads saying, “We had a blast at Hershey Amusement Park,” or “I visited Howe Caverns?” There’s no place to wrap the wire. Where will you stand to pick apples from a farmer’s tree when he isn’t looking and where can you attach a piece of rope to pull a friend out of a ditch? It’s more than the shine that’s gone. It’s a way of life that slipped away. And nobody said a word.

 When I tell my grandchildren about my favorite childhood Halloween prank, tying a stuffed dummy to somebody’s car bumper when they stopped for a red light in downtown Binghamton, they won’t know what I’m talking about. “What’s a bumper,” they’ll ask? They won’t be able to understand how we got even with the “meanest” woman on the south side of Binghamton on a blustery fall day in 1956. - The stealth we employed to fasten a length of clothesline to her bumper while she was in her backyard hanging out clothes to dry. -The care we took to cover the rope with leaves so we could connect it to her garbage can without it being visible. - The patience we exhibited as we waited for more than an hour in the shrubbery before she finally came out of her house and drove off. She turned left on Pennsylvania Ave, hell bent to get to a sale at Fowlers Department Store, oblivious to the racket she was making, oblivious to the now empty garbage can bouncing, rattling and leaping in the air behind her. My side still hurts from that laughing fit so many years ago.

 The kid who also blew a gasket laughing while hiding in the shrubs with the rest of us, the kid who had tied the rope to his mother’s bumper, turned to me and said, “Now let’s do it to your mother’s car!” It can’t be done anymore. There is no bumper to attach to. We’ve lost a lot more than a shinny piece of chrome. We’ve lost a way of life. Let’s take a moment of silence for another passing, “The car bumper is dead!”

The Old Coot can't whistle. (Published in NY 07/15/2026)

 The Old Coot can’t whistle.

By Merlin Lessler

I was riding on my old friend, a 1984 Sears, Free Spirit bicycle the other day and tried to whistle. I thought it would help with the “Open Mouth Syndrome” that I’d recently noticed and have been trying to correct. It’s not good to go around with your mouth wide open; it ruins your image, especially when you are trying to look cool. I thought whistling would help, by exercising my mouth and jaw muscles. But I couldn’t whistle. I’d lost my embouchure. (*)

I tried to blow into a trumpet a few years ago. I thought it would be easy since I’d played the trumpet in the sixth grade and later moved on to junior high where the band instructor switched me to a French horn; too many trumpet players signed up to try out for the band, and I was the worst of the bunch. The French horn section was short a player and no one tried out, so I filled the void. I wasn’t even sure which valves to push to get the correct note. It’s similar to a trumpet, but some notes are different. I tried out by faking my way through a practice piece and somehow made the band. I was assigned to the fourth seat, at the bottom end of the pecking order where I wouldn’t be called on for solos or duets.

I spent three years dragging around that heavy French horn through school halls and home on the bus. I hated it. It shouted, “Nerd!” My image was as bad as that of the guys who carried a briefcase. There were no bookbags in those days and only a few students in the entire school used a briefcase. The rest of us (boys) carried our books and notebooks under a single arm. Girls used two hands and cradled their books in front of themselves.

 So, now with my weak embouchure, I ride my bike and whistle; it comes out more like a whisper than a whistle. I pretend it’s a supersonic sound, above the human hearing range that only dogs can hear. But no dog has reacted to it as of yet.

I recently discovered I can fake a whistle through my teeth if I clamp them down and grin while blowing. But that’s not the whistle I want. I want a real lip whistle. If you see some goofball riding around town appearing to whistle and you don’t hear anything, that’s me. But at least my open-jaw syndrome won’t be on display.

 (*) embouchure – is the use of lips, facial muscles tongue, and gums when playing a wind or brass instrument. (or whistling!)  

The Old Coot won't go out on a limb. Published in NY on 07/08/2026

 The Old Coot won’t go out on a limb.

In 1852, Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin in a damp New England kitchen while also attending to her 6 children. The book caused the greatest stir in American literature since Thomas Paine’s, Common Sense, selling 300,000 copies in its first year.  It received an even bigger reaction in Europe, causing over half a million women in England to sign an anti-slavery petition. She attended crowded receptions, first in England and then with an extended stay in France. 

She particularly loved sitting beneath the trees in the Garden of the Tuileries in Paris, watching families come to spend the day, while legions of boys and girls were frolicking, racing, playing ball, etc. without making a hideous racket.  Unlike what she experienced in America. (*)

Now to my point, if I could, I’d say to Harriet, “Nothing much has changed in America; it has gotten even worse. You can't go to a beach or public park without loud yelps and screams filling the air. (Now, accompanied by barking dogs). Just the other night we were having dinner on an outdoor patio at a restaurant. Two kids were running around, fighting, yelling and screaming. Where were the parents? Inside, sitting at the bar, totally oblivious.

 I've experienced noisy kids running in a disturbing and noisy way for decades. Always asking myself, “Why don't the parents do anything about it?” I know enough not to scold a kid myself. I don’t want to climb out on that limb. I’d end up with a black eye or being escorted away by a police officer. And, be labeled an “Old Foggie.” My deepest sympathy goes to the teachers who deal with this modern-day version of undisciplined offspring. 

It wasn’t always a bad as it is today. It’s been a gradual change over time. When I grew the whole village (or neighborhood) not only helped raise us; they disciplined us as well Many times I was scolded by a stranger or felt the vicelike grip of a little old lady on my earlobe. The most effective of all was being told, “Young man, if you don't behave, I'm going to tell your mother!” That would do it. You didn't want to hear your mother say, “Wait until your father gets home!” In my case, I didn’t have to wait; my mother handled it right then. A slap on the back of the head, a switch to the legs follow by being sent to my room. No TVs in kid’s rooms; no cell phones or electronic devices. Hearing a parent say, “Go to your room,” was the worst punishment of all for kids who wanted nothing more than to be outside.

(*) The Harriet Beecher Stowe information came from “History Matters” quoting David McCullough from an essay called “The Unexpected Mrs. Stowe.

The Old Coot got a new TV. Published (7/1/2026 in NY)

 The Old Coot got a new TV,

by Merlin Lessler

We acquired a new TV to replace our old one; it got a little cranky, limiting what we were allowed to view. First, with a light gray shadow down the center of the screen. Slowly it darkened and was joined by a mate on the left side of the screen. A golfer on the PGA tour would strike a putt toward the hole and it disappeared behind the censored center of the screen. A baseball player would send one flying toward the fence and it was blocked from our view. The final straw came in the Nick’s basketball game 4 in the finals. The tip-in that won the game with just over a second on the clock didn’t make it to our screen. It had to go!

Sounds simple doesn’t it? Unplug and unhook the old; plug in and hook up the new. Off you go. NOT ANYMORE! Not like the old days when our TVs were dumb. Step one, close out all the streaming Apps on the old TV. They don’t like to be disabled; they hide the exit button deep in the setting’s menu. That wasn’t too bad, except that the spot to click on the exit button was behind the fog on the left side of the screen. I had to get up repeatedly and go up to the screen to see it. All in all, it took 20 minutes to “unhook” it.

It was an even longer process to find and/or add streaming Apps on our new “Mr. Smarty-pants TV,” It required entering our user-names and passwords for each App, using an alphabet screen where you find and click on each letter and number.

All in all, it took the better part of an hour to change TVs. And, mucho bucks to pay the monthly cost of the Apps, which we are forced to sign up for if we want to watch certain shows or sports events. The General Electric Company once had a slogan, “Progress is our most important product.” Oh, how I long for that kind of thinking. It is so lacking in today’s appliances and vehicles. If they keep progressing, or I get any dumber, I don’t know if I can survive.  

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The Old Coot is a scribbler Published in Owego NY and elsewhere on June 24, 2026

 The Old Coot is a scribbler.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m typing this article into my computer from scribbles in a notebook that are barely legible. The scribble comes when I write fast in a vain attempt to keep up with my thoughts. It’s not real writing; it’s connected printing. It’s not my fault. Let me explain. We learned to write the alphabet in kindergarten, circa 1948 at Longfellow Elementary School on the south side of Binghamton. Upper and lower case. It was really two distinct alphabets. Then in first grade, we took on writing, now called script or cursive. We had writing class every day, to develop the skill to connect letters in a continuous flow of loops and swirls. We practiced swirls and other shapes, filling page after page. We didn’t write the ABC’s until we could do the exercises properly. Only then were we allowed to take on the Palmer Method of writing.

The teacher collected a sample of our writing at the end of the term and placed it in a Student Writing Folder, for review by Elizabeth J. Drake, the Director of Writing for the Binghamton School System. She visited every elementary classroom, in every school in the city. That was a big job, since grade schools were scattered all around the city within walking distance for almost every kid in town. There was only one bus I know of, for kids living near the Vestal town line. When we graduated from sixth grade, we were given our writing folder. I still have mine. It wasn’t good enough to receive a gold seal on the certificate like some kids did, but it was good enough.  

Writing class stopped when I moved on to West Junior High School on the west side. When I was in Broome Technical Community College, as it was called at the time, one of my classes was in technical drawings, part of the electrical technology curriculum. We were taught a rigid style of printing that produced crisp letters, worthy of being placed on engineering and architectural drawings. That training was as rigorous as the training we had in grade school. I learned it and stopped writing from then on.

I’ve printed for well over 60 years, but since I “write” articles all the time, I’ve ended up a scribbler; my rapid printing doesn’t keep up; my hand and mind are out of sync. As a result, I can hardly read what I write. Eventually, I get it into my computer. Then, for a few hours over the week, I edit it into some semblance of sensibility. Sometimes it makes it; sometimes it doesn’t.

The Old Coot Swallows the scam. Published 6/17/26 in Owego, NY

 The Old Coot explains FCMB&B.

By Merlin Lessler

In between the ambulance chasing lawyer ads, and prescription drug ads, that dominate the TV screen today, are ads for nutritional pills and supplements to extend your life and keep you healthy (without FDA scrutiny). Eat fruit and vegetables? Why bother, just take two pills with all the contents packed into little pills - a pile of beautiful looking vegetables and fruits condensed and crushed into a pill. Other ads focus on the digestive system. If you take all this stuff, can you live to 150?   

There are also ads for pills that focus on the brain, helping to avoid Alzheimer’s and a bunch of pricy salves, some made just for men, that eliminate bags under your eyes and wrinkles. The before and after pictures prove it. If you believe them.

 I try to go to the other end of the spectrum, and eat real fruit and vegetables. Then along comes an article in the Wall Street Journal, warning of the pesticides in tomatoes, cucumbers, peas, and other grocery store fruits and vegetables.  If you don’t take the pills and you can’t eat the store-bought fruits & vegetables, what are you to do?  

I try to relate today’s advertising world compared to what it was like when I was growing up and we got our first TV. My father put up an antenna and we received three channels, sort of. Often with a snowy picture on the screen. Many people had indoor, rabbit-ear antennas; they required frequent twisting and turning and were often decorated with pieces of tinfoil to improve reception. TV ads were few and far between. Usually at the beginning of a show, in the middle, and at the end. A thirty-minute time slot had 27 minutes of show. The average show today is 20 minutes long; you are forced to suffer through 10 minutes of ads.

Pills and the like were mildly advertised back then, but not prescription medicine. There were ads for Carter’s Little Liver Pills a tonic called Serutan (natures spelled backwards) and Geritol. That’s the only ones I remember. The rest of the ads were for cars, toys, kitchenware and other products and services. There was no big push to sue somebody or shove medicines down our throats. Except cereal. We were instructed by Mister Wizzard, on his weekly science show, to start our day with FCMB&B. Fruit, Cereal, Milk, Bread & Butter. A hoax imposed on us by the Kellog’s and Post cereal companies. It became ingrained in me. That’s because I’m an old coot with decades of FCMB&B under my belt.  

The Old Coot pans book jackets. (Published June 11,2026 in Owego, ny)

 The Old Coot dislikes book jackets.

By Merlin Lessler

Book Jackets? Boo! – Awful things -taken off immediately by me. Made for the bookshelf – to make the book look good. Take it off and the cover is naked, plain, no words, no pictures, just the title and author on the edge.

As I write this, I’m reading a book put together by the daughter of David McCullogh – a collection of his speeches, tributes, essays and interviews. David was a famous and gifted (hard working) historian who died in 2023.

The book I’m reading, “History Matters, has a plain cover under the jacket like the rest of them, but the inside cover, front and back, are far from plain. Each contains a watercolor painted by David. He was a top-notch artist in addition to being an important writer and historian.

What a wonderful surprise, perfectly placed. So different from the dull outside cover. Publishers take little pride in their product’s exterior, and leave the art work to a cover designer, probably now an A/I computer program. I bet the editor cringed when McCullogh’s daughter insisted on including his two watercolors.

I should put my money where my mouth is and strip the jackets off the books in my personal, modest library. I’m going to try it on one shelf as soon as I finish this essay and see what I see. It will be what a doctor sees when examining a patient, down to their bare essentials. A position most of us find uncomfortable. We can’t wait to get back into our “jackets.”

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The old coot is"unyoung."

 The Old Coot is unyoung.

By Merlin Lessler

I just noticed that the official media, TV and radio have started referring to homeless people as “Unhoused.” It might have been going on for some time, but I’m slow to notice changes in language by the politically correct crowd.

Unhoused? If those “experts” who correct our vocabulary considered homeless to be a cruel term, then why not force on us a nicer designation: CAMPERS! TRAVELERS! Not UNHOUSED.

I don’t get it. But there it is, a new change in language. It just makes me wonder, who is it that decides these things? Is it an organization? A secret cabal? A branch of the federal bureaucracy? Who?

I’m an old coot. I know it. I’ve been labeled as a Senior Citizen. But, call me what I am; an old man. I don’t know who came up with that one; it’s been around for decades. I find it insulting, like us elders are too fragile to be called what we are. And please, do not evolve the language into a new term, the UNYOUNG. Old geezer is better than that. It gives me a chuckle.

This politically correct policing has been going on for decades, getting more intense every year. Some of it was overdue, but these days it is taken to extremes. Like when listening to Gavin Newsom, the governor of California, defend spending $189,000,000 to provide internet enabled tablets for all the prisoners in California prisons. But he didn’t refer to them as prisoners; he referred to them as Justice Impacted Individuals for whom he was providing digital equity.     

I am fearful of this revisionist labeling because I have a balance problem, unfixable, but easy enough to deal with. If the bureau of political correctness took that on I would be called Unyoung and Unbalanced. Please, just call me Old Coot.

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The Old Coot should shut his mouth? (published in Owego, ny on 5/20/26)

 The Old Coot should shut his mouth?

By Merlin Lessler

There is a side benefit to the cameras on everyone’s phones; we get to see candid photos of ourselves every once in a while. We are often surprised at what we see. In my case, an old guy with his mouth half open. Apparently I have a case of “Old-Man-Jaw-Drop Syndrome.” I walk around without knowing that my mouth is open. That’s OK when I’m asleep on a bench in the mall or in a seat on an airplane. People expect you to have an open mouth. Everybody does it, but not when they’re walking around or peddling along on a bicycle. It makes you look stupid; it’s another of those old age things. Things drop. I have foot drop in my left foot. It drops when I lift my leg. It would trip me if it weren’t for a little device I wear on my ankle with a strap tied to the lace near my toe; it holds my foot up and keeps me from tripping. A life saver for twenty-five bucks.

But, I don’t want to be fitted with a similar device to keep my jaw from dropping. I’ve devised my own physical therapy; I constantly repeat to myself, “Keep your lips together! Shut your mouth!” The latter being something I’ve never learned to do. Yet, it’s important that I do; I have an image to sustain and not make my fellow octogenarians look bad.

I practice keeping my pie hole shut when I’m taking a walk, riding a bike or anything else in public view. Unfortunately, when I’m doing those things I go off into a trance and quietly whistle a tune. It’s a weak, almost silent sound. I think I lost my ability to whistle, but that’s a story for another time. I can’t use that trance state I go into as an excuse; I’ve got to stay in the moment and keep my mouth shut.

I need to remind my fellow old men to do the same. If I see a young guy with his mouth open, I’m going to keep mine shut. I don’t want a punch in the jaw and end up with my mouth wired shut while it heals. Although, that is another way to deal with the jaw drop syndrome.

Old Coot knows your age, not your name! (Published in NY on May 13, 2026)

 The Old Coot knows your age.

By Merlin Lessler

I bumped into this guy (not literally) in the locker room at the YMCA a few weeks ago. He came ut of the gym; I came out of the pool. We were in sort of an undeclared race to get dressed. He was pretty nimble, impressively so. I asked him how old he was. (It’s considered OK for old guys to ask other old guys how old they are.)  “Eighty-eight,” he responded.  I told him I was 83 &1/2. He said, “You look pretty good for your age.” I said, “You look pretty good for your age.” It’s a rule; us old guys say this to each other. It makes us feel good.

A week later, I ran into him sitting on a bench, leaning down and putting on his socks. Not an easy task. I said, “Hi eighty seven.” He said, “I’m eighty eight.” I said, “Now I remember.”  I knew it would be much easier to remember a number than a name. I came close. When I meet an old guy like this, it’s what I do. Trouble is; they have a birthday and I have to expunge the old “name” in my head. But, we don’t care if we get or give the wrong age or name. It’s no big deal. We know each other’s brain compartment that holds names is slow on the uptake. There is a young guy (in his thirties) in the locker room eating an apple every day. I never asked him his name; I just started calling him Apple-Boy. He chuckles every time I do that.

Us old guys aren’t the only ones who use age to identify people. You can’t get to see a doctor without reciting your birth: day, month and year. Even the YMCA uses that to identify you. I went to the desk to add three months to my membership. When I started to say my name; the clerk stopped me and said, “We don’t have members listed by name; we have them listed by their birth date.” I kind of wondered if they ever had two members born on the same day? If they do, and it’s the same date as me, I won’t say anything; I’ll let him pay for my membership. 

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The Old Coot pens an article. Published in Owego NY on May 6, 2026

 The Old Coot pens an article.

By Merlin Lessler

All of a sudden, I noticed my pen supply in the kitchen was nearing extinction. No problem. Or so I thought. I’ll just go to my office and grab a handful; they probably just migrated there. Guess what? That pen holder was also down, only two pencils and one pen. I checked the garage, no help there. So, where are the pens? I’m sure I had an overflowing supply of pens. Someplace.

It’s quite irksome, especially since I’m a hog when it comes to free pens. Like at the bank, when the clerk says to take a couple. I do, but more than a couple. Some banks fasten their pens to a chain. I’m not getting to many places that hand out pens. It’s my own fault. I do most of my banking online or at an ATM.

Doctor’s offices don’t give away pens; they do let you borrow one to write a note to yourself. For me it’s usually a doctor’s name. I can’t remember it ten seconds after I hear it. The receptionist acts as a chain connected to the pen in those places.

Now, I’ll have to buy some new pens. Probably several six packs at the Dollar store. That, and I’ll be on the lookout for freebies. Beware to places with a bunch of pens out in the open for customer use. An old coot is on the prowl.

Ps. I bought two packages of pens at the dollar store. One had four pens with a nice rubberized grip.  The other package had six red colored pens. Great! I told myself; they will stand out when I drop one someplace around the house. Then my wife asked why I bought so many pens with red ink. (Because I didn’t read the label on the package, is what I should have said. But, I do that all the time and don’t get what I think I’m getting.) Instead, I said I like red ink a lot.

PPS. – I found the missing pens. I’d collected some of the excess pens a few months ago and put them in a place where “I’d never forget.” But I did.

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The Old Coot sliced on a slant. Oops? Published in Owego NY on 4/29/2026

 The Old Coot pans the diagonal cut.

By Merlin lessler

I just finished a stressful computer glitch the other morning, I needed some comfort food. I decided on a slice of toast. I ran the bread through two cycles, to get it dark, but not quite charred. It reminds me of making toast over a fire in my camping days. It’s a tricky task to get it just right. I put it on a plate in front of me; buttered it and cut it in half. For some reason, unknown to me, I cut it on a slant. Something I rarely do.

I usually cut things in two, on a line that is parallel to the sides. It’s one of those things you do without thinking, like putting on shoes and socks. You usually do the same foot first, slip on the sock and then either the shoe or the other sock. Some people slip on both socks first, then their shoes. It’s the same sort of thing with pants and shirts: right leg first, right arm first or the opposite. Whatever, you usually do the same thing every time when you get dressed. When you do think about it, you get confused.

So, there I was with a piece of toast that I’d purposefully cut on a slant. Some people always do a slant cut, some always do a straight cut, converting a square into two rectangles. Other people don’t cut toast or sandwiches at all. They eat them intact. I don’t know what to say about people who cut off the crust; that’s the best part.

When I was a soda jerk in high school at Soldo’s Rexall Drug Store I learned the quarter cut. That’s how we made a BLT. We cut the finished product on a slant, twice, stuck a toothpick into each quarter and set them on a plate with potato chips in the center. To me, it was a work of art. Every once in a while, I do that myself every once in a while on a trip down memory lane to my high school days.

But, back to that slant-cut piece of toast. It’s not a good way to cut when you want to dunk the toast into a cup of hot chocolate. It won’t fit properly; just the tip. That’s all I’ve got. I just talked myself into two more slices of toast and a cup of hot chocolate. No slant cut this time. Why not, I’m a skinny guy, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t gain weight. I’m not complaining, or bragging, just stating a fact. I can’t hop, skip or jump either. That’s the stuff that happens when you’re an old coot.

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The Old Coot has coffee elbow. Published 04/22/2026 in upstate NY

 The Old Coot asks, “Tennis anyone?”

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m sitting on the patio at a Starbucks in Ormond Beach, watching two little birds hop around picking crumbs from the cracks between the tiles. Not too exciting you say. You’re wrong. It is. For an old coot, anyhow. It’s a nice distraction from a changing world. When you’re young, you can’t wait for change – to graduate from school – to get a job – to get married – to get your own place – to buy a new car. Eventually, you go the other way; you don’t want change; you want things to stay the way they are. That’s when you officially become an old coot. You’ve decided that most changes are not for the better. (for me)

 It means another friend has moved away. It means your favorite restaurant went out of business. It means you’ve heard yet another clerk say, “They don’t make that anymore.”  You just want to cover your ears and block out the changes that pop into your life in an endless parade: eggs are bad for you, coffee is bad for you, meat is bad for you, your mower can’t be repaired, and the new ones won’t start unless you squeeze the handle.  CHANGES = UGH!

 Today’s change is my elbow. The right one, to be specific. It hurts. It’s a new pain; I never had it before. So, I sit here drinking coffee with my left hand, dribbling a few drops on my clean shirt, distracting myself by watching two little birds have their breakfast. Eventually, I’ll have to get back to the elbow and try to puzzle it out, to wonder why I didn’t appreciate it last week when it felt so good.

 When I’m asked what I did to cause the problem, my answer will be the same answer I’ve had for every other new issue. “Nothing!” I did a couple of push-ups. I took out the garbage. I hosed off the car. I raked some leaves. I really didn’t do anything to it! I hate this conversation because it always ends up with the same response from everybody: my doctor, my wife, my friends. “You’ve got to expect that at your age!”

 I’ve learned to deal with these things. I’ll tell people it's tennis elbow. I won’t mention that the last time I played tennis was in 1991 when my 17-year-old daughter, Amy, beat me for the first time. That’s when I invented tennis elbow and used it as an excuse to save myself from further embarrassment. Now, the pain that I faked so long ago has finally arrived. I think I figured it out as I sat here watching the birds. The pain comes from constantly walking around with a container of coffee in my hand. My elbow finally gave out. I have coffee elbow!      

The Old Coot doesn't cross at the corner. Published 04/15/2026

 Where did the Old Coot cross the street?

By Merlin Lessler

Most mornings I leave the coffee group I hang out with, walk a quarter of a mile through a parking lot at a shopping plaza and then half way across a busy four-lane street to a small island space between the two lanes going north and the two lanes going south. I wait there, and when no cars are coming, I hustle the rest of the way across. I use the word hustle loosely, because my stride is anything but.

Anyhow, from there, I walk back toward the intersection that I avoided by crossing in the middle of the block, take a left down the sidewalk to the beach and then onward, either north or south for a half-mile or more, depending on what the tide is doing. When it’s low tide, the beach is wide and flat; at high tide it’s narrow and on a slant, not a good way to walk for an old coot. That’s what dictates how far I will go.

I cross paths with an old guy on my walk; one day I found him crossing the road in the same spot I do. (He’s 90, so I can call him an old guy.) We’d nod and say good morning most times, but that day, I said, “Jack, I see you cross in the same spot I do.” He smiled, and said “Oh yeah; if you cross at the traffic light, even with a green pedestrian arrow, you can get run over by a car turning right on red.” Drivers only look to the left to make sure no cars are coming, and then bolt to the right and into the crosswalk.

Us old guys know how to cross. Everyone is taught to never cross in the middle of the block, always at the corner. Jack and I figured out it is outdated advice, and wrong. Downright dangerous! It’s a safety rule that hasn’t been brought up to date; it doesn’t take the “right-on-red” rule into consideration. A lot of people have been hit, hurt, even killed, crossing at the corner. My friend. Daren got dumped off his bike by a right-on-red turner; he was just sitting there with the front wheel in the crosswalk, waiting for a chance to go. I’ve had a few close calls myself. But not anymore.

 The problem is even worse, now that pedestrian crossing lights have been installed at hundreds of thousands of intersections across the country. Part of a federal pedestrian safety effort. People push the button, wait for the “go” signal, and think it’s safe to cross. It is, until a right-on-red driver is sitting at the stop light and in a hurry. The rule that a pedestrian has the right of way, is no longer in play. It’s been replaced with, “Walker beware!”

The Old Coot gets off track. Published in Owego NY 04/08/2026

 The Old Coot gets off track (as usual).

By Merlin Lessler

I write to laugh at today’s world and my ineptness to adapt to it. Sometimes I get off track and stuck on grievance, again and again, but eventually that helps me accept it. I kept getting stuck on how hard it is to open things sealed in plastic or bottles with tops that are too small to grip. I’ve aired those complaints so often the issue has become an amusement. When I’m confronted with it, I laugh out loud as I struggle to open something.  

I also write with a “Pass-the-Wisdom-along,” theme, in an attempt to give people headed toward old age a glimpse of the issues they will face, a roadmap to help prepare for the inevitable. And, to learn to laugh at themselves rather than fret over it on the steps along the old age path.

The old age journey is much easier in Japan where the elderly are respected, even revered. The journey is different here in our youth-oriented society. Old coots are either invisible to young people or a joke. We learn to laugh at ourselves along with them, knowing their day will come. If you laugh at life in general and old age in particular, the journey in all its absurdity is a more pleasant way to travel.

I stumble around with a lack of balance caused by neuropathy in my feet and legs. But I do get around, and pretty well. Especially if I’m using a walking stick or simply touching something nearby. Any stable object or a person’s shoulder will do. I learned that technique from my friend Doc Williams, who gave a talk on balance at a Rotary meeting several years ago. He especially stressed using a stick rather than a cane, so you walk upright.  

I’m scratching my head at this point, wondering what I was trying to get at in this article. You would think that after writing over 1500 old coot essays, I would be able to stay on track, but I can’t. I put a pen in my hand, grab a piece of paper and off I go. Often not knowing where. The stuff spins out on its own and I take credit for it. Sometimes something good, sometimes something bad, and often something I never expected.

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

The Old Coot learns the Irish Goodbye Published in upstate New York

 The Old Coot does a disappearing act.

By Merlin Lessler

I read an article in the Wall Street journal by Alison C. Cheperdak titled, “In Defense of the Irish Goodbye,”-  (leaving a party without saying goodbye may be the most polite option) The title really caught my interest because I know the consequences of saying goodbye: it will engage the “Goodbye Process,” a term I coined and explained in a 2005 Old Coot article. In a few words, it extends leaving for many, many, minutes, from a man’s viewpoint. When his wife says it’s time to leave, he thinks they will be finding the hosts, saying thanks and goodbye. But for his wife, it means going to everyone she had a conversation with, rehashing it and saying good bye, plus thanking the hosts. At minimum, the process takes 15 minutes. The husband is standing with her, figuratively tugging at her sleeve saying, “Can we go now, can we go now?”  Like a five-year-old would do in a store with his mother. The male/female roles can sometimes be switched, but that’s not my experience!

For years I have been accused of doing a disappearing act. I'd be at an event with a lot of people and eventually someone would ask, “Where did Lessler go?”  -  “Oh, he’s gone. He just leaves.” I learned long ago whether it’s a cocktail party or just a bunch of people at a bar, if you say you’re leaving, they always try to stop you. “Come on, have one more!” Not me. I just disappear. (When I’m by myself. I can’t get my wife to join in.)  I never knew it had an official name – “Irish Goodbye.” Now I do.

The journalist says it's almost rude not to do that sometimes; if you're at a wedding for example. The bride and groom go table to table having a little chat with everybody and finally get to sit down to enjoy the reception. But, they are interrupted all the time by people coming over to say goodbye and redo the same conversation they already had. Would Emily post approve? Maybe? You just have to read the room. If your absence won't be noticed, you're in the clear. If leaving without a goodbye could cause confusion or concern, a discrete farewell whispered to the host strikes the perfect balance between tradition and convenience. My behavior has finally been validated. Thank you, Wall Street Journal.

 Ps. If you’d like to read the original 2005 Coot article explaining the Goodbye Process in full, just e-mail a request to me at mlessler7@gmail.com and I’ll e-mail you a copy.

The Old Coot roamed free. Published in Owego NY

 

The "young" Old Coot roamed free.

By Merlin Lessler

I was listening to Will Shortz, the Puzzle Master on NPR, a few Sundays ago. He invites over the phone) one of the people who successfully solved the previous week’s puzzle. This week’s winner was a young father. He introduced himself, said where he lived and what NPR station he listened to. Will asked him what he did besides solving word puzzles in his spare time. The contestant hesitated for a few heartbeats and then said, “I have a seven-year-old daughter who plays soccer and a nine-year-old son who’s an indoor rock climber. That keeps me pretty busy.

I’m sure it does. That’s the normal way with kids these days. Parents attending and traveling all over the place to “organized” sport activities, taking turns bringing healthy snacks and drinks for the kids – carrot sticks, spinach balls, tofu candy, wheat stalks and crab grass. At least that’s what I imagine it to be, since I don’t really know what a healthy kid’s snack is. At any rate, no pizza and soda for these guys!

 I was lucky, I grew up in a world where kids handled their own sports activities. Parents were not involved. Little League was the only organized sport for kids in the 1950’s. I played on the Elks team in Binghamton, New York. We got a spaghetti dinner at the Elks clubhouse at the end of the year. That was our healthy snack for the season. Never was there an adult in the bleachers, just siblings and bored kids looking for something to do. It wasn’t because of lack of parental interest, but because the games were played on weekday afternoons during summer vacation, unlike the games today. Mom was home; dad was at work.

All our sports were unorganized - played in back yards, empty fields or unused park areas. We chose up sides and did our own officiating. The game was adjusted to match the number of participants and the location. The handle of our baseball bat was usually wrapped in tape, because some “idiot” hit the ball on the label and cracked it. A serious No-No! The ball often had been taped up too, having lost its cover; we couldn’t afford the two bucks to buy a new one. Most of our income came from redeeming deposit bottles. Sometimes we even had to share gloves, tossing ours to a kid coming out of the dugout when we ran off the field for our turn at bat.     

We were lucky, my generation. We walked out the back door with a bat on our shoulder and a mitt in our hand, or carrying a football or basketball. Our mom said, “Be careful,” on our way out. That was the extent of parental involvement. At least in my neighborhood.

The Old Coot reached drinking age? Published in Owego NY and elsewhere on 3/17/26

 The Old Coot proves he over 21.

By Merlin Lessler

My friend Roy is 86 years old. He says 86 going on 87. When you are in your eighties, you give your age just like little kids do. If you say to a four-year old, “I hear you are four years old now.” He will reply, “No, I’m four and one half.” (I’m 83 ½ myself). Anyhow, Roy bought some hard cider at a high-end grocery store near Cornell University the other day. He couldn’t buy it unless he proved he was of legal drinking age. I’m sure he chuckled. I did when he told me about it. And to make it worse, the clerk requested proof from his eighty-four year old wife, who was standing next to him. She didn’t have her driver’s license with her. The manager had to be summoned to allow the purchase. It’s frustrating that companies don’t trust their employees to use their judgment with company policies when it’s obvious that someone is over 21. They make the rules ironclad. No bending allowed.

I run into the same thing every year at Watkins Glen during the vintage racing car festival. The main street through town is closed to traffic so the original Watkins Glen sport car races can be reenacted on the original race course route that went through the village. Several spectators were hurt and one was killed in 1952, bringing to an end racing through town. The sponsors then built the present day race track on the hill above the village.

At the festival, the streets in town are littered with a large array of early sports cars. Beer stands litter the area as well and the “no open container” law is suspended. It cost five bucks for a small beer in a flimsy plastic cup. But not for me; I go to the gas station in the middle of it all and buy a giant can of Miller Lite for $2.29. I get proofed, but I’ve done it enough times to expect it and have my driver’s license ready. A small inconvenience for twice the beer and half the price.

The trouble we now face is that more and more customer interaction functions are being handled by artificial intelligence. Those idiot savants aren’t as smart as the developers claim. But you can be sure of one thing. Roy and I are going to show ID for the rest of our lives, no matter how many wrinkles we get. It’s always going to be, “Their way or the highway!”

The Old Coot talks to his fridge. Published March 11, 2026

 The Old Coot talks to his refrigerator.

By Merlin Lessler

I talked to my refrigerator the other day, I hadn’t closed the door properly. It beeped and I ran back, shut it, said, “Thank you.” The refrigerator didn’t say anything. Not, “You’re welcome,” or “No problem.” Nothing! Later, it was the microwave. I hadn’t taken out my warmed up cup of coffee. After a minute or so it Buzzed, reminding me. Again. And, then again. Finally, I took the cup out and said, “Thank you.”

I’ve talked to my TV and radio for years. Sometimes yelling, but that was only when a newscaster inserted their political opinion into the report. I yell at football players and golf pros on TV too, when they fumble or miss a three foot putt. But more and more, it’s my appliances talking to me. Even “Alexa” gets on my case, saying there is a package on the porch.

Our gas range invades our TV screen, announcing that the oven is up to temperature. Cars have gone even further, quietly making us obsolete, pulling us back into our lane to avoid a sideway crash or slowing us down when on cruise control, to prevent a rear end collision. Nice features, I guess, but little by little they are making us lazy and dependent. Eventually, they will move us to the passenger seat.  

I’m not sure where I’m headed with this diatribe, but I’d like to make a few modifications to the inanimate things that talk to, and assist me. Like, the refrigerator, to let me know when the snicker bar shelf is almost empty, or that the milk is about to turn sour. But, most of all, that my supply of emergency pizza slices in the freezer compartment need replenishing.

Snickers and pizza, that’s all I need to survive an anxiety situation. I keep up with it myself, at the moment, but could use a little help. It won’t be long before the fridge gives me an inventory whenever I walk by. I can’t wait; it’s getting harder and harder to yank open today’s heavy refrigerator doors to do it myself.  

Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot wants better seats. Published 03/04/2026

 The Old coot likes an aisle seat.

By Merlin Lessler

I went to a play at the Daytona Beach Playhouse the other day. The Daytona 500 race was going on at the same time, but we hadn’t checked the calendar when we bought the tickets. We did get home in time to see three big smashups, the last one with only a few laps to go. Anyhow, this theater was nice, small, and low budget. It fit right in with my cheap skate persona.

We usually buy an aisle seat, so we don’t have to climb over people to get to our seats. When you order a ticket to just about any venue, you can select where you want to sit: upfront - to the side - in the back and the like. Different prices of course, and limited availability. It’s first come, first served. So, there we were, in the back row with an aisle seat.

I wish there were other seating choices. Like: a seat without a big hat or a big hair person in front of you. I’d add to that bigness thing: no big heads or tall people either. Even with the aisle seat we had some inconvenience, to let middle-row people pass in and out for a trip to the rest room or the snack bar for another glass of wine. So, I’d add a ban on small bladder people and drinkers in my row.  

I think those seating options would be attractive and worth the money. I probably should add a choice that assures the absence of yacking people withing 20 feet of you. I don’t get it. They pay good money to see a show and then, “Blah, blah, blah,” all through the performance. Yep, that’s the choices I want: no big hats, big heads, big hair, small bladders or constant talkers within hearing range. I’d give up an aisle for that.

Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The old coot needs a better book cover. Published on 02/25/2026

 The Old Coot has a face for radio.

By Merlin Lessler

I was putting some books on a shelf in my office the other day and noticed that the actual book covers were drab - title and author and that’s it, a plain wrapper. But the slick removable cover the publisher put over it was colorful, eye catching and exciting.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” used to be a common saying, extrapolating that advice to, “We shouldn’t judge people by how they look.” Hardly anyone follows that adage; it’s in exile. People, and books, as publishers well know, are commonly judged by how they look. Take the news, weather and commentary people on TV. Producers certainly think, in fact know, that their looks are important. It’s human nature. And, it affects a lot more than TV hiring; most companies do the same, consciously or unconsciously. The saying, “he has a face for radio,” says it all.

One of the lessons that us old people learn, starting about when we get our first Social Security check, is that we’re judged, or ignored, by how old our “cover” looks. I’m well acquainted with the judgement, but I use it. - “Would you let me go ahead of you in line? I’m in my 80’s?” It gets me through TSA in the fast lane without taking off my shoes, jacket or belt and onto the plane ahead of the line, especially when I use a cane, which I really need in a slow moving line or on an excessively long and hurried race from one gate to another. And, I get senior discounts automatically. I don’t have to ask. My “cover” does it for me. It’s not all bad, this being an old coot thing.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot touts in line dating. Published 02/18/2026 in New York

 The Old Coot is an “in-line” dater.

By Merlin Lessler

We didn’t have online dating when I was growing up; we had “in-line” dating, as in waiting in line to get the courage to walk over to a girl and ask her to dance or by getting” in-line” to cut in on a girl already dancing. When impatience with our courage ran out, we tapped on her partner’s shoulder, and even if they were going steady with her, etiquette required him to step aside and let you take over. The prettier the girl, the longer the line of guys wanting to cut in and have a chance to charm her, and by some Cupid miracle, ignite a girlfriend/boyfriend relationship. We were so naïve.

I think the “cut- in” custom still exists, it’s just not used as often as it once was.  Online dating has taken over the landscape, with participants using a mix of fact, fiction and exaggeration in their personal profiles. Blatant lies and doctored photos as well. None of the latter two items ever result in a second date.

If my crowd (old coots)  considered online dating, and used honesty in our self-descriptions, our profiles would read something like this: old coot seeking a date - likes going places and doing things as long as he gets home before dark – only says, “ I used to,” or “I should have” three times an hour – has many friends and acquaintances and only a few of which aren’t aware of that relationship -does good deeds, but talks about it more than acts – is a great chef, as long as the microwave is working – looks at prices on the menu and picks the cheapest offering -  believes Elvis is still alive – is a night owl, sometimes stays up as late as 10 PM – sleeps like a baby (up every three hours) - lives on the wild side, rides a two wheel bicycle without a helmet. Call this land line or mail a letter to this home address, if interested.

Replies? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Th e Old Coot loves the Cruise Ship Polka. (Published in Owego, NY 02-11-20260

 The Old Coot loves the Cruise Polka.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was on a cruise ship the other day in a food court called “The Marketplace.” I call it the “Feeding Trough.” I was at a six-top table with a husband and wife at one end and me at the other, minding my own business. Hah! That’s a lie: I was people watching and eavesdropping like crazy. The wife was alone for a few minutes while her hubby ran off to get another load of pastries. He left his phone on the table. It suddenly emitted a loud rattling noise that sounded like a bottle of pills being shaken. I looked over to his spouse and asked, “Is it time for your husband to take his medicine?” She replied in the affirmative, “Yes, but as usual, he’s not here to take them.”

 It was early, many of the tables were empty. The rush-hour was just beginning; it’s what I’d been waiting for, the mad scramble for an open seat at a table or a turn at one of the numerous food stations scattered throughout the large eating area. I was well situated to watch the mad scramble. It’s kind of like the scrub in a rugby match. Elbows were flailing; people rushed from one food stand to another. Food was spilled; angry looks were exchanged.

 It seemed as though these people hadn’t eaten in weeks. Their plates were piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon toast, pastries, cut up fruit, pancakes, waffles and a myriad of other items. The wait staff wandered through the sea of tables with pots of coffee and glasses of juice. It helped to energize the troops; they repeatedly returned to battle and make queries such as, “Where did you get that giant sweet roll? I must have one!”  

 It’s most entertaining when the sea is rough and the ship is rocking. That adds spilled plates and sloshed beverages to the mix, I wasn’t disappointed. The imaginary maestro tapped his wand; the plate clatter orchestra fired up and the cruise ship “feeding polka” began. I sat tight. I didn’t want to join in on the performance, not with my balance issues that are magnified on a swaying ship. I stayed put with my meager plate of food and watched the show. I got my money’s worth. How could I not? I was in  Old Coot Heaven.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot swaps a pencil for a pen. (Published 01/04/2026)

 The Old Coot is an upside down writer.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve switched from a pen to a pencil. I decided it when I was reading a Nero Wolfe detective book by Rex Stout titled, “And Be a Villain.” I own all seventy- two of Stout’s, Nero Wolfe tales. I find his “who-done-it” stories relaxing and I’m almost always surprised when Wolfe reveals who the guilty person is, usually in his office, surrounded by all the characters in the story and two policemen. This was the third time over the last 50 years that I’d read this book. Since I own it, I violate it: I dog-ear the page corners instead of using a book mark, write notes here and there, and in this reading, where there were 13 suspects, I wrote each of their names and a brief bio on the inside back cover. Whenever a new character showed up, I flipped to the back and added them to the list. I must have had a better memory the last two times I read the book since nothing was written on the page.

I read it in a recliner; I had the book over my head and when I made an entry with my pen it stopped working after I jotted down a few letters. I had to sit up and lean down to get it to work again. Up and down, up and down I went, like a duck bobbing on a pond. That’s when I decided to switch to a pencil.

I found one in our junk drawer, a “Dixon-Ticonderoga, #2 - HB, pencil. It writes upside down. I once had an “Astronaut” pen that could do that, but it was pricey and I didn’t feel like shelling out $30 for a replacement. But, a simple pencil can match the upside down ability, plus you can transport it behind your ear, chew on it while you think, erase your mistakes and best of all, for an old coot like me, it’s cheap! I bought an 18 pack for less than five dollars. I’ll never ever use them all up; I’ve spread them around in the house, in the car, in the garage and in a pouch on my bicycle.

The Dixon-Ticonderoga pencil was patented in 1839. The company was in business for well over a century, guided by the principle of “Best of its kind.” Dixon (Joseph) was the founder of the company; Ticonderoga was the area in New York where the graphite was mined. The brand name is still around, but the pencils are now made in China. They’ve been slimmed down and the graphite isn’t as good, but they do write upside down. I just wish the company that makes them hadn’t changed the guiding principle to “As Chintzy As We Can Make it.”

The Old Coot is a cut up. Published January 28th in Owego NY

 The Old Coot is a cut-up.

By Merlin Lessler

 My wife and I had lunch with a friend the other day. I ordered a short stack of pancakes and sausage. I love restaurants that serve breakfast all day. It’s right up my “cheapskate” alley. Pancakes were the cheapest thing on the menu.

 I cut them into bite size pieces, ditto for the sausage links. Our friend Lynn didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the look on her face she was wondering, “What kind of idiot cuts up all their food at one time? It’s what mothers and fathers do for a toddler.”  I do it to avoid the fork and knife switching, back and forth after each use of the knife. I can’t cut with my left hand and can’t use it to get food to my mouth. It’s only used to hold down whatever I’m cutting.

 In Europe, and with adults with more sophistication than me, the fork stays in the left hand, the knife in the right (for right handed people). They maneuver food from the plate to their pie hole with their left hand, using the knife to help load it onto the fork, often with the tines facing down, transporting the food on what I call the wrong side of the fork. (I’ve tried it many times, to no avail). Also, what do you do with peas? How can anyone balance them on a fork held in the “wrong” hand?

 This is where being an old coot has its benefits. People don’t expect much of us. (And, we play that card as often as possible). We arm ourselves for battle, the fork in our left hand, the knife in the right, and go to war with a piece of meat or whatever is too big to eat in one bite. We cut it all up, send the knife into exile, move the fork to our right hand and eat in peace, just like we did when we were little kids and mom cut up our meal for us. We’ll eventually end up with someone cutting up our food again, so we might as well get a head start on eating the sensible way before it becomes a necessity.  

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

 

The Old Coot Counts to ten in the pool. Published 1/21/26 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot counts to ten.

By Merlin Lessler

My friend Wesley came laughing into our coffee klatch the other morning. He had been in a store where his purchases came to $10.06. He gave the teenage clerk a twenty dollar bill, a nickel and a penny. A puzzled look crossed her face. She froze, as though in a catatonic state. After a few seconds, she snapped out of it, fumbled in the cash register drawer and handed him a five dollar bill, four ones, three quarters, a dime, a nickel and four pennies, and left the six cents Wesley had originally handed her on the counter.

I guess this shouldn’t be a surprise. Kids grow up today with a series of electronic devices doing a lot of thinking for them. My generation is “Device Stupid.” We struggle to use them. We call their generation, “Common Sense Stupid.” It’s important for us to mix with each other. We can both learn to be less stupid.

When I swim laps in the YMCA pool, I count lengths by reciting, “One two, buckle my shoe, three four shut the door,” on and on with the counting rhyme. When I finish with, “Nine ten, the big fat hen,” I switch from the crawl stroke to the back stroke. I do this over and over for about thirty-minutes.

I wondered if kids today still learn to count using the “One two - buckle my shoe” method. I asked around and apparently they do, even though the rhyme is out of date. Its origin goes back to the 1780’s, when shoes were fastened with a buckle. The industrial revolution in the mid 1800’s replaced the buckle method with metal eyelets and shoe laces. I grew up with laces, but it was much harder to learn to tie, than it was to learn to count. My son grew up with Velcro. Kind of like the old buckle. Now, you don’t have to tie at all. Slip-on shoes and Velcro have entirely changed the shoe landscape.

Terms like, dial a phone, turn a screw counterclockwise to tighten, tick-tock goes a clock and a slew of others commonly used by my crowd are as out of date as buckle shoes, but we still use them, and chuckle when a youngster has no idea what we’re talking about. We probably need to do more teaching and less chuckling, but gosh the chuckling is so much fun.   

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot rides it out. - Published 01/13/2023 in Owego, NY

 The Old Coot takes a ride.

By Merlin Lessler

You don’t have time to meditate? Or lay on a couch in a therapist’s office? Then do it the old coot way, take a ride in your car (after the sun comes up) on a Saturday, Sunday or a holiday morning. Go alone; turn the radio off and go exploring to nearby areas, but places you’ve never been.  Learn about your surroundings; put a new map in your head; get rural if you can; go slower than you normally would and look around. Really see what this other world is really all about. 

I find it fun to contrast how wealth is displayed in so called upper class areas versus middle income, poor and rural areas. In wealthy areas it’s all about the house: big, fancy, extensive landscaping,. Often jammed together on small lots. Rural is different. People live in moderate sized houses with huge yards. It is amazing how many hours of mowing it must take to keep up with it. But mowing isn’t really a chore, it’s another form of meditation; you are all alone, doing something monotonous, so your mind wanders and digs out stuff and helps you solve your problems. Just like this “Sunday” drive I’m suggesting you do every once in a while.

The thing I like most about rural areas, aside from the huge mown lawns, is the people who show their wealth by filling up their acreage with old, decaying cars and tractors, discarded household appliances, farm equipment, rusty swing sets. You name it; if it doesn’t work or look good anymore, you will find it there. Some people think this is ugly, but you can see it as beautiful; it is like modern art that appears to be blobs of paint, but draws you in to find the beauty if you lose yourself when viewing it.

You never come home from one of these rides without being entertained and changed a little bit. But, most of all, a little more relaxed, calmed and mentally healthier. Happy Riding!

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com  

The Old Coot hears a bird call. Published in NY and elsewhere 01/06/2026

 The Old Coot is a birder?

By Merlin Lessler

There was a bird on a rooftop across the street from me in Florida yelling, “Blow-Ah, Blow-Ah.” It was a call I’d never heard before. It looked like a crow, but I know what a crow sounds like and that wasn’t it. I should know, after all, Cornell Ornithology Laboratory has a free bird identifying App that is named Merlin, just like me. I have the App on my phone; I use it quite often, like when I’m sitting on the porch. I use the “bird sound” function to call birds in the vicinity to come to me. I pick one of several mating calls and soon enough, a bird flies over, but quickly figures out that I’m not a proper mate and flies off to tell their friends to stay away; it’s just an Old Coot calling, not the Coot Bird. (Coots are dark, chicken like waterbirds)

It is a fun thing to do, but it can get out of hand, as it did one evening at our friends, Paul and Carol’s house in the early evening while we were sitting in their lanai at the back of their home. Carol said a lonely screech owl flew over and sat on the fence next to where we were sitting. It was quite regular; it came every night.  Just one owl, all by itself. She thought it was the only one around. I pulled out my “Merlin App” and scrolled down to the screech owl section and tapped on one of several available calls.

 It didn’t take long. First one owl came by, then another and then another. One flew into the screen around the lanai, then did it again. Being the jerk that I am, I’d overdone it. A single screech from Carol, not the owl, got me to shut the thing off. I felt the same fright as she did; it was like being in the Alfred Hitchock movie, “The Birds,” where the whole town was trapped in their houses by angry swarms of birds that attacked and tried to kill anyone who ventured out the door.

Anyhow, back to the bird that was chirping, “Blow-ah.” It flew off before I could get the Merlin bird ID” App going to identify what it was. I tried artificial intelligence on Google; It wasn’t sure, but thought it might be a “Fish-Crow,” and then suggested I install the Merlin Bird ID App. It didn’t say it, but I could sense it thought it was appropriate for me, since I’m a bird brain.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot's best Christmas present, 1949 - Published in NY papers

 An old coot remembers his best Christmas present ever.

 By Merlin Lessler

 It happened when I was seven, the best Christmas present a kid (in the fifties) could hope for, was under the tree. A bicycle! My sister, Madeline, and I both got bikes that year, second-hand, but freshened up with a new coat of paint. We didn’t care; they sparkled, as did our eyes when we saw them under the tree. But, into the basement they went, to wait for Spring to arrive.      

 Finally, the first robin arrived and the bikes came out. We lived on a hill; it was steep and a terrible place to learn how to ride. My father helped me push it up to a flat street at the top of our hill that hardly had any traffic on it. I still remember the exhilaration of staying upright while he pushed me. I remember even more vividly, the terror I felt when I looked over my shoulder and discovered he wasn’t there. I panicked and crashed to the ground. He eventually convinced me that I’d kept the bike upright all by myself and didn’t need his help, except to get started. I hopped back on, and like Hop-a-long Cassidy, my cowboy hero, rode off into the sunset. One problem; I didn't know how to dismount. When I came to a stop, I simply fell over.  

 My sister solved the problem. She raced ahead, jumped off her bike and caught me as I came to a stop. Later on, I just stopped near a curb and put out my foot so I could climb off. It wasn’t my fault; the bike was too big, like everything in those days. We had to “grow into” stuff: shoes, clothes, skates, sleds and yes, bikes. I went around in oversized jeans (we called them dungarees) with a six inch cuff, shoes with wadded up newspaper stuffed in the toes and to top it off, I had to use a curb to get on and off my bike. Now that I’m in my 80’s, I still use a curb when one is available.   

 I developed a deep relationship with that two-wheeler. I don't think a cowboy ever loved his horse more than I loved that bike. It was freedom; it was status; and it taught me how to fix things. I learned to take it apart and convert it into a racing bike, by removing the fenders, reversing the handlebars and raising the seat. Sometimes, I decorated it with red, white and blue crepe paper and rode at the tail end of Memorial Day and Fourth of July parades. A lot of kids did. We also “clothes pinned” a piece of cardboard to the fender support so it would flap against the spokes and made it sound like we were riding a motorcycle. It didn’t take much to entertain a kid back in the fifties.    

 When I turned 12, I found a lightweight, English bike, with hand brakes and three gears under the tree. It was brand-new and the exact right size. I was ecstatic, but I’ll always think of that used, repainted first bicycle as the best Christmas present ever. I hope your Christmas was as merry as mine was back then.