The Old Coot is battery driven! Help! Article # 1062, published January 10,2022

 The Old Coot is fixated on batteries.

By Merlin Lessler

 I got to thinking how simple life was before I caught the “Battery Worry Virus.” The only battery I was concerned about back then, was the one in my car. I rarely gave it a thought, except years ago when I first started into adulthood when the battery in my fifth hand, 1953 Ford convertible was an issue. I paid $60 for the car at an auction in the college cafeteria. I got it for the bargain basement price because it had was buried under a mountain of snow in a parking lot. The battery, once it was fully charged, turned out to be weak, incapable of starting my car when overnight temperatures dropped down into the teens. I solved that problem by bringing it into my apartment on cold nights and putting it on the heat register. The car had other afflictions as well: no heater, no keys (I had to hot wire it to get it running), the motor to raise and lower the top was defunct and the front fenders had more fiber glass compound in them than steel. But I loved that blue beauty.

 A car battery was the only battery I thought about most of my life. But, not anymore! My life has become inundated with battery worries. Just about everything I depend on is battery powered. I can’t even get in my car without the battery in my remote entry fob working properly. I have to plan my day around my cell phone battery. I’m at the mercy of battery operated devices: an I-Pad tablet, a computer, ear buds, electric razor, screw driver, drill, lawn mower, leaf blower, tooth brush, garbage can lid opener and even a dish detergent dispenser. Even my human powered bicycle is dependent on the batteries in my blinking safety lights.

 More and more appliances have become battery dependent. I can’t even turn on our ceiling fan without a battery powered remote. Now, “they” are trying to force me into a battery powered electric car that severely limits my driving range. I think my head will explode when that happens.  

The Aging Process! Old Coot article #1,061 (Published 1-3-2024)

 The Old Coot explains the process.

By Merlin Lessler

 The aging process we humans undergo is steady, silent, but hidden much of the time. It’s not just something we encounter in old age, when more drastic alterations to our physical and mental conditions occur. It’s with us our entire life, though for years it goes unnoticed. When we’re kids, we don’t usually notice it until an adult looks us over and says, “Wow, you’re growing like a weed, really getting big!”

 We get periodic wake-up calls; they become most noticeable in our teens and then again in our thirty’s. I still remember my first big, aging alarm; It hit me when I was showing my young daughters how I could do a running flip and land on my feet. I ran, I bent down, planted my hands on the ground and flipped. But, not all the way around, not far enough to land on my feet. I landed flat on my back. It hurt my ego a lot more than my backside.

 A sign of aging pokes its head out every so often, reminding us that the process is proceeding. When the doctor first said to me, “You have to expect that at your age.” I was in my fifties. Just more evidence that the physical vehicle I was traveling in was amassing six digit numbers on the odometer. Eventually, we hop on the “old coot” roller coaster, where the aging process comes out from behind the curtain and walks by our side.

 We fight it. With denial. “I may not be able to jump very high or run as fast as a turtle, but I’ll get better,” That’s what we tell ourselves. “It’s just a temporary thing.” Oh, how comfortable the denial stage is. Eventually, we hit an acceptance stage. We learn to laugh at our infirmities. It’s like we’re in an amusement park with a wide variety of attractions: sore back one day, weak knee another, stiff neck that won’t let you look left and a hundred other “amusements.” Once you reach this plateau, all you can do is keep laughing, smile, groan & moan a little, and carry on. What the heck; you couldn’t wait to get in to an amusement park when you were a kid; now you’re in one every day. Enjoy it!

 

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The Old Coot can't make a bed. Article # 1060

 The Old Coot can’t make it.

By Merlin Lessler

My wife was down with a cold and spent the night on the couch the other day (actually it was in 2011 but I was too lazy to come up with a new article this week). It caused me a problem of major proportions the next morning. What to do with the unmade bed? Men are born with a genetic defect; we can’t make beds. We can’t fold either. When we make a bed it looks like a pile of dirty laundry. When we fold a T-shirt, it looks like a wadded up newspaper. We are bed making and folding challenged, an incurable affliction. 

 It starts showing itself, this defect, when we are young boys and our mothers try to teach us to how to make a bed. The harder we try, the worse it looks. When we get older, we fight back, “Why do I have to make the bed; I’ll just mess it up again tonight?” It’s a reasoned argument, but it never wins the day. No matter what we say, we still end up being forced to smooth out the sheet, pull up the blanket, align the cover and drape it over the pillow. My bed looked like someone was still in it when I was done. It didn’t matter! I was required to make it every morning. “Because we are civilized people,” my mother explained. “What if someone saw your room and the bed was unmade?” I made it and went off to school. Then she came in and straightened out the mess.

 I learned a few tricks along the way. I solved the problem when I was a teenager by hiding the sheet and blanket under the bed. I then slipped the bedspread over the top and smoothed it out. Without the layers underneath to mess me up it looked perfect.  

 So, there I was the other morning (in 2011), an old coot faced with a horrendous dilemma. One I usually avoided by getting up early on my way. day. Now I was stuck! My mother’s words, “We are a civilized people,” haunted me. I found the sheet at the bottom of the bed; I’d kicked it around pretty good during the night. A leg cramp must have hit me in my sleep. I pulled it tight, and then tried to smooth out the blanket. It didn’t look too lumpy, so I moved ahead with the top cover. It came out lopsided. When it was even on one side of the bed it hung at an angle on the other side. I put the uneven side where my wife wouldn’t see it, covered the functional pillows (the ones we use) and put the frilly (useless) ones on top. It still looked like a boa constrictor was hiding under the spread. I took a step back and squinted; when I squeezed my eyes just right, an image of a perfectly made bed appeared. Santa was good to me! My wife never noticed. Hope he was a good to you this year.

 Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

What's the hurry? Old Coot article #1059

 The Old Coot wonders, “What’s the hurry?”

By Merlin Lessler

 I don't get it. What is it about today’s culture that makes us in such a hurry? We are a society that can’t stop and smell the roses. “Have stuff to do, you know!” Take how we educate kids these days. We used to send them off to school when they were five. Kindergarten was a place to learn social skills, to cut with scissors and to memorize the alphabet. If you wait that long to start your child’s education today, you'll be chastised and labeled an unfit parent. Today’s kids spend three years preparing for kindergarten. They know their ABC's by age three, are able to calculate the square root of a number by age four and can write a thesis on political correctness by age five. If you ask the parents why they are in such a hurry, you get the we’ve got to compete with the rest of the world speech.

 I don't think this is the way to compete, to skip past the different phases of development in a rush to the finish line. The kids graduating from high school today are less educated than the graduates of 50 years ago. The hurry-up strategy isn't limited to giving kids a head start. It continues all through their school years. The system is in such a rush to teach reading that they don't "waste time" with basic phonics. Kids aren't taught to sound words out.  “No time!" Educators put a fancy spin on it. They call it progressive, but us old coots know that the "whole language" concept of learning to read is a crock for many of the kids. The same thing is going on in math class, no time to learn the multiplication tables, no need. Administrators tell us it will click in the kids' heads, eventually, “It's magic!” They sit in math class for six weeks and presto, the multiplication tables become implanted in their cortex (by osmosis, I suppose). “No need to memorize anything!” 

A lot of kids don't graduate with just a high school diploma these days. Some are halfway through their freshman year of college. They take college courses in high school to get a leg up, which makes you wonder what's going on that kids have free time for college courses. Why aren’t they spending it in regular high school classes? In the good old days, our senior year was the busiest of all. Classes all day, minus one study hall.  I ask again, "What's the hurry?”  

The Old Coot loves the comic strips. Published December 13, 2023 (Article # 1058)

 The Old Coot reads the comics.

By Merlin Lessler

 In a “Hi and Lois” comic strip in a newspaper the other day, “HI” pointed out a carving in a tree trunk to his teenage son. It contained the initials BW + AG scratched inside a heart. Hi’s son said, “Cool!, so that’s how people shared their relationship status before social media.”

 If you don’t read the comics (we called them “The Funnies” when I was a kid) you are missing out on a lot of wisdom, served up with a chuckle. Sometimes an outright belly laugh. Certainly, more uplifting than the news items in the rest of the paper.

 People have carved messages in trees, school desks, benches, fences and any material that yields to a jackknife or any sharp, pointed object. The most poignant example of using a tree to convey a lasting message is that of the “Scythe Tree,” along Route 20 between Geneva and Waterloo, New York. If scythe is a foreign word to the vocabulary in your head, replace it with sickle, the kind that farmers used (still do in some places) to cut hay, so it can be bundled and stored.

 A young man (teenager really) by the name of James Johnson volunteered to fight for the Union in the Civil War. He hung his scythe in the notch of a tree in his yard and asked his parents to leave it there until he returned. He didn’t return. He died on May 22, 1864, and was buried in an unmarked, battlefield grave. His parents refused to believe he wasn’t coming home. They considered his request to leave the scythe hanging as a sacred vow.

 Years passed; the tree grew around the blade; the wooden handle rotted away. Decades later, the sons in the farm’s new family, Raymond and Lynn Schafer, left home to serve in World War One. They too, hung a scythe in the tree. They returned home, but left their scythes hanging, to honor the memory of James Johnson.    

 I’ve stopped by on several occasions when traveling through the area, to pay my respects. The scythes are still partially visible, but the top portion of the tree has fallen away; only the stump remains. The site contains a small marker, placed there by the local Rotary Club.

 I have the “Hi and Lois” comic strip to thank for stirring up the Scythe Tree memory. Read the comics, for the wisdom and for the memories they might dredge out of the fog in your head. Or, just for a chuckle.  

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot doesn't believe book jacket's lies. Article # 1,057 published 12/06/23

 The Old Coot pans book jackets.

By Merlin lessler

 If you are a reader like me, or if you buy books for others, you are confronted with the old adage: “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” Although, I’m forced to admit, a good cover catches your eye. Lures you in to have a look. There is usually a blurb (sales pitch) about the author.  Often, with a mug shot, to pull you in further.

 Inside the front cover is an intro to the story line. The back cover is “Blurb City.” Highly enticing adjectives – “Suspenseful!” – “A mystery that will have you gasping!”  - “The first time the secrets to a successful Internet business are revealed!”  - “Funny!” – “Hilarious!” – “You’ll fall out of your chair laughing!”

This overzealous promotion is followed by a collection of positive comments from famous authors, Stephen King for example. He wades in on horror books. I’ve never found his comments to match what I experienced when I’ve followed his recommendation.

 You get less of a sales pitch when you shop on-line for an e-book or a Kindle book. Eventually, it dawns on you; those positive blurbs don’t hold up any more than a politician’s promise. Or, Big Pharma’s promise of great health, if you just open wide and swallow, first the sales pitch, and then the pill.

 I chuckle at all this hoop-la when I look for a book. But, even I’m guilty of it. I published a novella (short novel) a few years back, “Mystery on South Mountain.” It was on sale at the Riverow Book Store in Owego, New York until the supply sold out. It’s only available now as a Kindle Book, priced at $2.99. I checked the listing after I wrote the first draft of this article, to see if I was as guilty as other writers. I was. My blurb claims the storyline is comparable to the movie, “Stand by Me,” (which, incidentally, was based on Stephen King’s short story, “The Body.”) My promo is somewhat of an exaggeration, especially since I sent a copy to Rob Riener, the producer of “Stand by Me,” and haven’t heard a thing. Don’t expect it to open in a theater near you anytime soon.  

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is careful. #1056 Published November 29, 2023

 The Old Coot is careful?

By Merlin Lessler

 This past summer I walked out the door to go for a kayak ride on the Susquehanna River. My wife gave me one of those, “Be Careful” good-byes. “I will” I responded. Of course, I would - an 80 year old guy with poor balance, dragging a kayak a quarter mile to a steep bank, then down to the water, stepping in while holding the paddle and sliding down into the seat, hoping the kayak won’t shift and dump him (me) in the drink. I had a life vest tucked behind the seat. I don’t wear it; it makes it cumbersome to paddle. State boating regulations only require that it be on board. If that’s good enough for the “nanny state,” it’s good enough for me.

 On that day, I headed up stream; there was a stiff breeze at my back, creating white caps across the river. I stayed near the shore (following my wife’s order to “be careful”) where it was relatively calm, and started paddling. Typically, I’ll take 50 strokes, rest for ten seconds, and repeat, until my arms get used to the abuse. I passed by the nursing home (hopefully not in my immediate future) and took a quick peek across the river to where I once had a small cabin overlooking the water. Everything looked shipshape. Thanks to Chris, the present owner.

 I was headed to Hickories Park, about a 2 mile trip. I paddled past MJ’s Restaurant where a few folks on the deck waved, past Greg Kies’ car lot and up to the lighthouse. At that point, I figured I’d gone far enough, a quarter mile short of my goal. I turned the kayak around, thinking I’d let the current carry me back home. But the wind was stronger than the current; my kayak didn’t move; I’d have to paddle back. Probably a good thing, because when I do drift down river, I usually nod off; it’s a very relaxing ride; all you can see are trees along the shore and the sky above. I pretend I’m in the Adirondacks, not running parallel to a busy Route 17C.

 I made it back safely, dragged the kayak up the bank and to the house. It’s the result you get when you’re careful. Every parent exhorts the same “be careful” assertion whenever their kid heads out on a bicycle, and especially in the family sedan. It’s never taken seriously, and they know it, but if anything happens, it’s the perfect set-up for an “I told you so!” I avoid those like the plague!

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com