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