August 15, 2018 Article

The Old Coot is self-taught.

By Merlin Lessler

I walked by the Ronald E. Dougherty County Office building the other day. It was a Wednesday – Road Test Day. For people seeking a driver’s license. Cars were lined up, teenagers, for the most part, sitting nervously behind the wheel. Mom or Dad in the passenger seat, trying to ease the stress. “You can do it. Just keep your cool.”  It wasn’t the driving part they were talking about; it was the parallel parking part. The number one reason testers fail. Even though you can drive for a lifetime and avoid ever using the skill. 

The teens undergo a mandatory training class these days, and many take Driver Ed at school or learn through a private vendor. Most though, are taught by a parent. It’s quite an accomplishment, when you consider the learning environment – a yelling, screaming, screeching and gasping trainer sitting next to you stomping down on a non-existent brake pedal. Not me, I’m self-taught. I got my training in the driveway, all alone. It started when I was thirteen and I begged my father to let me run the car back and forth in the driveway, allegedly, to learn to use the clutch. For some strange reason, he let me. BIG MISTAKE!

It was fine for a while. That’s what I did, back and forth, with fewer and fewer jerks and stalls. All within the limits of the driveway. Then, I started to finish up by circling into the street and turning the car around and parking it in the driveway facing out. I got my parents to agree that it made it easier, and safer for them when they wanted to go out, since we lived on a steep hill and cars came racing down and into your blind spot.  

 Inch by inch, I pushed the envelope. Instead of turning the car around in front of the house, I drove to the corner and used a side street to turn around. Next, I had a duplicate key made. So, I wouldn’t have to bother my father when he dozed in his recliner. That’s what I told myself; I didn’t mention anything to him, and I used his snoring as a signal to get out there and “practice” some more. When he was in that vegetative state, I’d take a run around the block. Then two blocks. Then three blocks. You see where this is going.

On and on the adventure progressed, until the day he had to come to get me (and the car) in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It’s a long story and too stupid to repeat, at least in print, but it all worked out and I’m still pretty good with a clutch.  

Postscript. -History repeats itself. Years after my oldest two daughters grew up and made their way into the world, I learned that they, with some of the neighborhood kids took turns joy riding in my prized MG when my wife and I were at a meeting or went out to dinner.  I was luckier than my father; I didn’t have to travel 200 miles to retrieve them like he did.

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August 8, 2018 Article

The Old Coot has a personal trainer.
By Merlin Lessler

“Experts!” Those people on TV who give advice (mostly unsolicited) say us old folks need to exercise, move around and stretch if we want to stay fit, stay ambulatory. “Join a gym,” they say, “Get an exercise partner, set up a workout schedule, whatever it takes.”

We don’t need any of that! Especially the advice. We have a failing memory that keeps us moving, keeps us fit. Better than any exercise program. It’s nature’s way of dealing with creaky knees, stubborn hip joints and all the other failing things that occur when, “Your whole darn body is falling apart,” to paraphrase a quote from Henry Fonda in the movie, “On Golden Pond.”

We, us old coots, sink down into a couch cushion to watch a little TV and then remember that the dog is out back and surely ready to come in. We push up from the sofa, wobble to our feet, take a step, regain our balance and totter toward the kitchen, working out the kinks along the way. Everything is working (sort of) by the time we get there. Except our short-term memory. “Why did I come here?” We look around, don’t find an answer, shrug our shoulders in puzzlement and go back to the living room and sit down.

A dog food ad comes on the TV and our mind seizes on one word in the message, “DOG!” He’s still outside. Off we go again. This time, focusing on the task at hand, not allowing our mind to wander to a dozen other topics. It takes all our will power, but we do it and let the dog in. Or memory tricked us. Made us stretch, move, improve our physicality.

This happens all day long. UP! DOWN! Into the kitchen. Out to the garage. IN! OUT! That faulty memory keeps us on the move. Even in the grocery store, we go back and forth among the aisles to get the things we forgot and to put back the things that seemed like a good idea at the time, but nothing we couldn’t live without. Those “experts” on TV, wearing spandex shorts, wife beater shirts and two-hundred-dollar training shoes have no clue. It’s not us old coots who need their attention; it’s the young people who need to be prodded, with their steel trap minds that let them stay focused for hours at a stretch, playing games, checking social media and watching TV reruns on their cell phones. Now where was I? I better go back to the kitchen and check my notes.   

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August 1, 2018 Article

The Old Coot stresses out.

By Merlin Lessler

If you ever have a heart “thing” and go to a doctor to get it checked out, you’ll probably end up getting a stress test. I had my hiccup a few years ago, and after putting it off for several days, which is part of the “man” code, I went to my regular doctor and he sent me to a cardiologist. FOR A STRESS TEST!

 They put you on a treadmill, glue some electrodes to your chest and back and add other attachments to measure blood pressure, pulse rate and a few more things, I think; I wasn’t paying close enough attention since I’d started stressing before the test began.   

They start the treadmill and off you go, for a walk in the park. But pretty soon, they speed it up, and your leisurely walk turns into a jog, then a foot race. It feels like a mugger is chasing you and you’re desperate to escape his clutches. Then, the treadmill starts to tilt; you’re running up hill now and the mugger is still coming. It tilts some more and you’re on your way up Mount Everest. You turn to the doctor and say, “I think I’m having a heart attack!” He says you aren’t and wants you to continue to the top of the mountain. You do, and finally, the treadmill shuts down.

In my case, the doctor turned to me (I could barely hear him over my gasping for air) and said, “You’ve had a positive result.” I smiled and yelled, “Yippee!” Stretched my arm high in the air in his direction to get a hand slap. “No, no,’ he said. “Positive means the test showed some positive artery blockage!”

“Darn,” I thought to myself, “It’s the first time I heard the word, positive after a medical test, and now he tells me it’s not a good thing.” But, the fix was simple, the Cath Lab crew slipped in a few stents and sent me on my way. I hated the stress test, especially the part where I thought I was having a heart attack. I’m going to ask for something different if I ever need one again. It should be done at an airport, in the endless line snaking through security, where you’re wondering what it will be that trips you up and if you’ll make it to your gate in time. And, not get on a plane that CRASHES. The last time I got pulled from the line it was a tiny Swiss Army knife attached to my key chain. It would take 1,000 slashes with its one-inch blade to do any bodily harm. Before that, it was a bottle perfume, one ounce too large. That airport thing would be a real stress test and you wouldn’t have to wear yourself out on a treadmill thinking you’re having a heart attack.  

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July 25, 2018 Article

The Old Coot wants to be a big tipper.

By Merlin Lessler

You sit down in a restaurant and a waiter comes over and says, “Hi! I’m Bobby, I’ll be your server today.” Big smile! Friendly! You walk into a hospital emergency room and get a different greeting. “How are you going to pay? The restaurant bill will be fifty to one-hundred dollars, less in the places I frequent, since my pallet is based on cheapness. The hospital bill will be twenty times as much as the restaurant bill, so you should get ten to twenty times the friendliness.

Bobby is working on a five to ten-dollar tip. I guess that makes all the difference. The hospital clerk doesn’t get one. Maybe they should. It’s not the clerks fault that the first thing they ask is how are you going to pay. That’s the fault of executive management, who probably never manned an emergency room desk, nor ever had to get in line at one. Nothing unusual about that. Most corporate decision makers never face the front lines that employees do, or ever experience their company’s customer service. If they did, our customer service experiences would surely improve.

Back to the hospital service, these organizations are a special case. They are non-profit, or so they claim when they erect a new multimillion dollar medical facility and apply for a non-profit exemption from real estate taxes. You would think a few customers running out on their bill would help them sustain that non-profit status. Of course, they do make money. How else could they build those new facilities all across the country.

I’m not saying the restaurants have it right. It’s just nicer. I don’t really need Bobby to tell me his name. It does no good, because like everyone else I meet, I immediately forget their name. Besides, they don’t call me by name. I get Sir, or Honey, or sometimes Sweetie at the places I frequent. It’s what happens when you’re an old guy. I call it the “Treat you like a child” approach. I’m not complaining; it helps get you ready for what you’ll be called when it’s nursing home time. When that happens, I’m going to be a big tipper.

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July 18, 2018 Article

The Old Coot goes out for the paper.

By Merlin Lessler

I was at the “Sunday Morning Old Man Grocery Store Club” meeting the other day. We assemble every Sunday at 6 AM. A couple of guys get there earlier, when they have to pick up groceries, but most of us are there for a New York City newspaper. That’s when they are delivered. You can tell the service is underway by how the cars and pick-up trucks are parked in the lot. They all face out of their parking space, so they don’t have to be backed up. We’re back up challenged. And know it!

It’s a men’s only club. I don’t know why. No one excluded women, that’s just the way it is. We’re there for a New York City paper. I’m there for the Times. It takes me an entire week to get through it. Half the time, I have to read it in the garage, because I yell at it, especially when I’m working through the opinion section. But even when I don’t agree with the columnist, I learn something. It’s a vehicle for broadening my outlook and continuing my education.

The store gets three copies of the Times and also a small number of the Daily News. It’s first come, first served. Which is why we’re so prompt in getting there. I bet the customers who arrive later in the day have no idea that these “exotic” big city papers are available.

Every so often, more often than it should, the “paper guy” is late. That’s when you’ll see us circling the parking lot or sitting in our cars, slumped over the wheel, sound asleep. I’m too impatient to wait in the parking lot, so I drive around town to kill time. I use the time to check on what’s going on in the village: who has a ladder leaning against their house (indicating a paint or repair job is underway) or what house has a new “For-sale,” or “Sold,” sign in the front yard. That sort of things. I make sure to swing by the drug store every so often, to see if a paper bundle is sitting in a heap by the front door. It means the “paper-guy” is on his way to the grocery store, since it’s his next stop. When he gets out of his van, we gather around and follow him inside, trying to make small talk, "Glad you made it.” - “Run into traffic today?” No matter what we say, all we get in return is a grunt. I don’t think he likes his job. Or us!

We get the cashier to open the bundles, but first we have to find her; she’s in the aisles returning stuff that people decided not to buy. It keeps her busy, since so few people come to the store that early on a Sunday morning. We grab our paper and get in line, nodding or saying, “Mornin,” to each other. We’re like a family, in a way, but we don’t know each other’s names. Still, we’re a close-knit group who meet most every Sunday morning and go through our newspaper buying ritual. Anybody can attend; we’re non-denominatial. Just don’t come late! You won’t get a paper.

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July 11, 2018 Article

The Old Coot overheats!

By Merlin Lessler

We’ve just survived a heat wave. The temperature has to be over 90 degrees for three days in a row to be sanctioned as a heat wave by the US Weather Service. I’m not sure we did that, but I’m not that technical, so I’m calling it a heat wave. The gloom machine started working on it a week or so ahead of time. “It’s coming. Heat! Mugginess. The sky is falling,” as Henny Penny would say. “Six more days till doomsday! Five! Four! Three! Two! TOMORROW! “Don’t say we didn’t warn you!”

Somewhere in that warning period, before Armageddon arrived, they started giving us advice: drink plenty of water – stay in the shade or air-conditioned spaces – do your outside chores or exercise routine early in the day.  Apparently, the weather people, and the news people, think we’ve never experienced hot, muggy weather before. That’s surprising, since it is summer, and this sort of thing happens here every year. Anyone over seven years old (the supposed age of reason) knows what to expect and how to handle it.

It wasn’t bad enough that the temperature got over ninety degrees, THEY (the media and forecasters) had to make it sound worse. They threw in the temperature/humidity index. “Your thermometer will show 95 today, but it will feel like 107. They do the same thing in the winter. “Think 20 degrees is cold? Well, when you factor in the wind/chill effect, it will feel like 3 degrees below zero.” THEY, work hard to make us fear the weather. Before it gets here – while it is here – and after it has passed.

It used to be so simple – weather just happened. The weather man was around, but he (and, it was always a he back then) usually got it wrong and nobody paid much attention to the forecast. Not anymore! Heck, the media is overrun with meteorologists focused on scarring the bejesus out of us. I guess they figure we will stay tuned and they can sell more ads.  And, as though that’s not bad enough, we are saddled with The Weather Channel, working 24/7 and the U.S. Weather Service who take control of our TV sets to announce an impending doom, often with alerts about conditions out of our area. You have to cover your ears to muffle the annoying loud screech they use before and after each announcement.

OK, big deal, so we had a heat wave. I wish they would make a single forecast to cover the entire year.  Summer = Hot, Winter = cold, Spring and Fall= a little of both. And, I wish they would calm down the Henny Penny Routine. The sky isn’t falling – it’s just an acorn dropping to the ground. And, thus ends my old coot weather rant, for the 13th time in 13 years. I guess I need to get over it, or seek professional help.

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July 4, 2018 Article

The Old Coot won’t give it up. Well, maybe?

By Merlin Lessler

I’m at that age where people ask, “When are you going to give up driving?” Now mind you, they haven’t ridden with me or witnessed any driving oddities to provoke the question. Their inquiry is simply based on how I look. OLD. I usually answer with a joke, and say, “After I run over a couple of pedestrians or hit the gas instead of the brake and drive into the south wall of John’s Fine Foods.   

The real answer is, “NEVER!” Followed up with an affirmation, like that used by people defending their second amendment rights, when they say you’ll get their gun when you pry it out of their cold dead hand. In my case, it’s the steering wheel you’ll have to pry out of my hand. Driving is one of the few things I have left. So what if I miss a red light now and then. Look at all the people who race through red lights on a regular basis, and most of them are young. Well, younger than I am anyhow.  So what if I get in the passing lane on a highway and never leave until I come to my exit. I’m not hurting anyone.

I would agree to a compromise about my driving. I’d be willing to mount a flashing, multi-color warning light on the roof of my car, to signal to the world that a senior citizen (I prefer being called old man, not senior citizen) is at the wheel. So, beware! That way, you can take steps to avoid my rare missteps. Just don’t blow your horn; it will jar me out of my stupor and I’ll veer into the next lane. And, don’t follow to close, no matter if I’m going 25 in a 45 MPH zone. If you do, be prepared to stop quickly, because I’m going to slam on my brakes to get you off my tail. I don’t know why; it’s just what old coots do.

Don’t blink your lights when I’m coming toward you with my high beams on. I know they’re on.  I need them to see. It’s another one of those, “They don’t make them like they used to,” things. And they don’t. Today’s headlights are dim and get dimmer every day of a car’s life because of that cheap plastic shield that turns opaque in front of that stupid little bulb that costs so much and does so little. Where was I before I got sidetracked? Oh yeah, when am I going to give up driving? Probably right after my wife reads this and takes away the keys. It’s not that hard to pry things out of an old, “live” hand.

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