The Old Coot is a blabbermouth. October 28, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot tells all!

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m a blabbermouth! Most old coots are. Tell us a secret and we go public! We love it when someone starts a sentence with, “Don’t let this out, but …..” – OR - “You can’t tell anybody this, but …” – OR - “We’re not announcing this yet, but …..” That’s a mistake, when you’re talking to a blabbermouth. Sometimes I write an article about someone’s embarrassing moment. I tell the story and end it with, “I can’t mention their name. It’s Daren Merrill. “ Or whoever made the mistake of telling me something they didn’t want published. I can’t help myself. It’s a sickness, Blabbermouthitis.

 Mike Coleman let it slip that he’d turned 50. I wasn’t sure how old he was until he presented me with a cane the other day. Not just a cane, an old coot cane, complete with a bicycle horn, a change purse, a pill box and two warning signs “A senior moment in progress” and “If found, please return to …” That’s when I learned he was over 50; he said he got the cane at his 50^th birthday party. He laughed as he handed it to me saying he knew I could put it to better use. He was right.  Did he want everyone to know he turned 50? I don’t know, but they do now.

 I plan to bequeath it back to him. He’ll need it someday. He has no idea how fast you go from fifty to eighty. Not that I’m eighty yet. I won’t say how old I am. I’m 77, a 77-year-old blabbermouth. When you’re a kid, it takes forever to go from ten to twenty, especially the period just before you’re old enough to get a driver’s license. It’s the longest period of your life. An eternity. But not so with fifty to eighty; those three decades fly by so fast your head spins.

 Mike will have to modify the cane; it works fine for me, but I’m six feet tall (or once was); he’s more like six foot seven.  I’m not sure if he wanted that publicized, but it’s too late now. Paul C., another coffee club attendee, confided something to me a week or so ago. I haven’t blabbed it yet, not because I’ve reformed; I just haven’t run into anyone to tell. It’s this darn pandemic. My lips are sealed, against my will.

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Old Coot was mentored - Tioga County Courier October 21, 2020 Article

 

The Old Coot learned from a master.

By Merlin Lessler

 Not every man becomes an old coot when he gets old. You need a mentor, a trainer, to make it into the old coot fraternity. It’s not easy. The by-laws are extensive and must be both memorized and put into daily use. It’s a long set of rules: complain about today’s society, talk about the good old days, share your medical knowledge with long winded descriptions of every procedure you’ve undergone and the list of all the ailments you are presently dealing with, insist on stopping during a conversation when you get stuck on the name of a person, place or thing until you come up with it. That’s a short sample of the old coot by-laws.

I was lucky; I started my training when I was in my late twenties under the guidance of a high-ranking member of the old coot society, Don Gipson of Patterson, NY. He was my boss at the time, well into his sixties. He passed along wisdom about aging, preserving your energy, the corporate world and the world at large. Those lessons served me well, on the job and in social interactions.

 Our corporate work day ran from 8am to 4:30 pm. Don strolled in at 9. He didn’t slink in like I did when I was late. No, he strode in with an attitude that proclaimed, “I’m early!” That was my first lesson: Attitude!  Think it and be it. In his case it was to preserve energy. He knew he had only so much, and that most days he’d be at meetings or community events well into the evening. “You’ll understand when you get older,” he told me.

 He taught me to be a skeptic of both, new ideas and existing ways of doing things.” If everyone was doing it, it was probably wrong.”  It took me a while to master this concept. I wasn’t as fast a learner as Jack Roskoz, a co-worker who also reported to Don. Jack became a “Contrarian” at an early age and it served him well as he shot up the corporate ladder.

 Don applied this “dare to be different” principle to everything, even a cocktail party. He and his wife Gert didn’t populate their dining room table with a selection of snacks and hors de vors like everyone else. They cooked a big turkey, cooled it down and set it on a platter in the center of the table. Everyone loved it, walking around the house socializing, while nibbling on cold turkey instead of a bunch of squiggly globs of whatever.

 Don solved the belt problem. I bet you didn’t know there was belt problem. I didn’t. I got dressed, slipped a belt through the loops and off I went. Not Don. He bought an assortment of belts at a thrift store and equipped all the pants in his closet with them. He wasn’t perfect; he had one flaw; he wore white socks with a black suit. It was similar to the belt thing. One color in the sock drawer eliminated a daily selection process. I was the emcee at his retirement party and presented him with a new pair of white socks. He didn’t get the joke. He’d been doing it so long he hadn’t given it a thought in years. His “attitude” skill was profound. He didn’t retire at 65, which was mandatory at the time. He convinced the company to change the rule, and stayed on the job for several more years. That’s covered under old coot rule #15 – If there is no good reason for a rule, throw it out. Now, I’m the mentor. I’m just having a hard time getting the “youngsters” I hang out with to listen to me. 

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Old Coots repeat. Tioga County Courier October 14, 2020 Article

 

Old Coots hears an echo.

By Merlin Lessler

 A friend of mine from the Starbucks coffee gang in Ormond Beach, Florida sent me a note the other day, just to say hello. (Due to the privacy regulations I can’t mention his name; it’s John Stewart.) He said there wasn’t much to report except that the group is now back inside Starbucks, but gone are the days of twelve people pulling up chairs and sitting around a coffee table for a group conversation. They now sit one or two at a table in a pattern that spreads across the room.

 The place is noisy. Hissing, clanging and banging exotic beverage appliances blast a symphony across the room that reverberates beneath a vaulted metal ceiling. It’s near impossible to carry on a group conversation in that atmosphere. He said they nod, as though they actually heard what someone said. Not that it matters much if they miss it. The same missive will come around again in a day or so, such is the conversation of old coots. 

 John is right in his observation; I circulate through three of these old coot coffee gatherings: one in Florida and two in New York. None of us pay close attention to what is being said. We’ve heard it before, so many times that we know the specifics better that the person telling it. We only listen so we can correct him when he gets mixed up with the facts. We jump in with gusto to point out the error. The usual response is, “Oh yea; you’re right; I didn’t finish first in the 10-K race, it was my cousin. But, I finished, and ahead of some of the runners.”

 These “stories” are recirculated so often that many times they are introduced with a disclaimer, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.” If you don’t respond quickly you get the re-run. Even then, it rarely stops them. They are then subject to unrelenting interruptions, designed to wear them down. Especially when they go off on a jag about their latest medical adventure. Now that I’ve come to the end of this article, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve said it all before.

 Comments, complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot play clothes memory. October 7, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 The Old Coot wants a change (of clothes).

By Merlin Lessler;

 These days, many people wear single purpose clothes. Whether for work, shopping, going out for dinner, to a party or some other event, the same clothes serve multiple purposes. I call it casual-lazy. And, I’m jealous. The world I grew up in had a strict dress code. When I was a kid, we had play clothes, school clothes and Sunday-best clothes. Sunday best, were the worst. You put them on to go to church and if you were lucky, you could take them off as soon as you got home. Unless! – you were going to grandma’s house for dinner or were expecting company.

 Then, you had to stay in your “best” and if you wanted to go outside and hang around with your friends or cousins, you got the dreaded warning from your mother, “Don’t you dare mess up those clothes. If you get a grass stain you might as well start looking for a new family to live with!” I’m not sure those are the exact words, but it felt like that as I slunk out the door in trepidation. How could any kid live up to that objective in a hot game of kick ball or even a mild game of tag. I could get grass stains just playing with a yoyo.

 I’m still stuck in the “good clothes” – “Sunday best” - and “play clothes” scenario. Except, now my play clothes are called work clothes. I don’t have to worry about grass stains, wish that I could. A hot game of tag would be lukewarm at best. The visual is frightening, a bunch of old coots running around the yard trying to escape a tag. No, grass stains aren’t the issue for me. My stains are food related: coffee, ketchup, spaghetti sauce and mustard. I should change into “play” clothes whenever I’m near food or drink. The other issue I have with my good clothes comes when I attempt to fix something or do a chore that, “Will just take a second.” It never just takes a second and I always end up with a grass stain equivalent.

 Sometimes, I use my head and change clothes when I do a chore that involves paint, grease, oil, topsoil and the like. But, my lack of flexibility makes the process take so long that by the time I’m done I’ve forgotten what I was going to do. I wish the dress code of our society would change to that portrayed in futuristic movies, where everyone wears the same one-piece, one color outfit for all activities, every day. A fabric that doesn’t stain, tear or stretch out. It would make my life so much simpler. The animal kingdom figured it out. You’d think we humans, at the top of the food chain, could do so as well.

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Old Coot loves recycle Tuesday. Tioga County Courier Article (9/30/2020)

 

The Old Coot supports the Tuesday Afternoon Club.

By Merlin Lessler

 The Tuesday Afternoon Club came by this week, right on schedule (Tuesday afternoon). The first member passed through around two o’clock. He grabbed 2 jars and 1 coffee can full of screws, nuts and bolts and metal odds and ends. An hour later, a second collector peddled in on his bike and picked up a bag full of deposit cans and bottles. A short while later the last of the crew stopped by with a grocery store cart, grumbled about missing the good stuff but did get some electronic equipment that looked like it might still function (it did), leaving the remainder of the recyclables in the red plastic bin for Taylor Garbage to take away the next morning.

 I love this service provided by the Tuesday Afternoon Club. It’s an efficient system all the way around. I get rid of some “redeemable” items – metal to the scrap yard – odds & ends to be sold or used by a member of the group – deposit cans redeemed for cash, all things I’d rather go into the economy of club members, relieving me of the chore of hauling the stuff to redemption facilities. Last week a sofa that we no longer needed went out into the world this way. It sat in the garage for a bit and then left the property after placing a “Free Sofa” sign near the road, pointing to the garage.

 It’s a greatsystem, though some people get upset if someone paws through their garbage can recycle bin. Not me! Why should anyone care if someone is willing to put in the effort to make a few bucks from stuff that we put out to the curb? It’s not like the Tuesday Afternoon gang is sitting around looking for a hand-out. This crew is willing to invest time and effort for a small financial gain, and do us (me) a favor in the process.

 But, the whole thing may be coming to an end, yet another victim of the pandemic. Rumor has it that the County Government may eliminate recycling pick-up from their budget and leave it to each resident to deal with, to pay for and/or find some way to get the recyclables and other junk into the system. Yet, government handling of this process is the perfect and most efficient way to do it. It won’t hurt me if the County ops out of their recycling responsibilities. I’ll figure out a way to deal with the change if that’s the way it goes. But, what about the Tuesday Afternoon Club? They’ll be out of work and surely won’t be able to file for unemployment benefits. Another example of trickle-down economics - where the last drops of the trickle fall on the financially vulnerable sector of society.

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

The Old Coot solves a mystery. (Tioga County Courier, Sept 23, 2020 Article)

 

The Old Coot is elbow challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m sitting in a window seat at the Owego Kitchen, watching two robins waddle around, pecking at worms in front of the post office. 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 your own place - to get married – 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 change is not for the better, at least not for you.

 It means another friend moved away; he gave up winter and moved to Florida or Arizona. It means your favorite restaurant just went out of business. It means you’ve heard yet another clerk say, “They don’t make that anymore.”  You just want to 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, it can’t be repaired, the lawn mower won’t start unless you squeeze the handle (and keep squeezing it the entire time you are mowing).  CHANGE! UGH!

 Today’s change is my elbow. The right one, to be specific. It hurts. It’s a new pain; I’ve never had it before. So, I sit here drinking coffee with my left hand, dribbling a few drops on a clean shirt, distracting myself by watching two robins. 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. And, I’ll have to face the question, “What did you do to it?” When I reply, it will be the same answer I’ve had for every other new pain. “Nothing!”

 I did some “old man” push-ups (standing up and leaning into a wall). I moved some books to different shelves and sawed a board in half with a hand saw. Not really much of anything! I hate this conversation; it always gets me the same response, from everybody I complain to: my doctor, my wife, my friends. “You’ve got to expect that at your age!”

 I’ve learned to deal with these things, to turn lemons into lemonade as the saying goes (easier said than done, I might add). I’ll complain enough to get out of some unpleasant chores. I’ll make a sling or buy an elastic elbow support to let the world know that I’m sporting an injury. I’ll tell people it's tennis elbow. I won’t mention that the last time I played tennis was in 1991 when my daughter Amy beat me for the first time. That’s when I paraded out the tennis elbow excuse. Now, the pain that I faked so long ago, has finally arrived. It would be even more embarrassing than losing to a seventeen-year-old if I had to reveal the real cause. I figured it out as I sat here watching the robins. The pain comes from constantly walking around with a coffee container in my hand. My elbow finally gave out. I have coffee elbow! Ouch!      

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The Old Coot watches the show. Tioga County Courier Old Coot Article - 9/16/2020

 

The Old Coot Has a Day at the Beach.

By Merlin Lessler 

“You’ve come a long way, baby!” So touted the ad for Virginia Slims, a new cigarette that was marketed to independent minded women in the late 1960’s. It was true. It is true. Women had, and have, come a long way, breaking free of the shackles that held them back. Now, they stand or fall on their own merits. It isn’t true though, as some social progressives would have you believe, that there is no difference between men and women. Old coots know better. The fundamental difference hasn’t changed since we lived in caves. Men hunt. Women gather, and nest (and do everything else, I might add, including hunting). 

I stumble on these differences all the time, pursuing my favorite pastime – people watching. I’ve reported back on many of them - men can’t fold - men don’t listen - men don’t understand the good-bye process - men tape over their wedding video with a Giant’s football game and wonder why their wives are upset. And, as I observed at the beach, men can’t pick out a spot to set up their gear on the sand.

 It was warm and sunny, a perfect day to sit by the water and relax. I watched a brother old coot come out of his car, plop down a combination beach bag/cooler and set up two folding lounge chairs & an umbrella at the first open spot he came to. He sat down, lit a cigar and opened the paper to the sports section. He was in heaven! Then the storm clouds blew in; his wife arrived. The battle was on! Mind you, I was too far away to hear a word they said, but, I’m a master at reading body language, especially when the sparks are flying. She barked a few sentences in his direction; he shrugged, got up and gathered their stuff and stood there like a dummy, something us old coots do when we’re being supervised. She patrolled the waterfront, measuring the wind, the angle of the sun and other factors.

 Finally, the selection process came to an end. She signaled to the “dummy” to bring their stuff. She told him where to set up the chairs and the umbrella and freed him from her apron strings. He plopped down on his chair but quickly got back up, an appropriate response to the quick jerk of her head and the sharp glare she hurled in his direction. She then brushed off some microscopic grains of sand from the chairs and stood back to assess the layout. The nest was ready! He sat with a sigh, took a puff on his cigar and reopened the paper. Her work was done, she headed up the beach to examine the goods on sale in a craft market a hundred yards or so off the beach. She went by herself, knowing full well that men don’t know how to shop and she didn’t want a two-year-old (equivalent) tugging at her skit and whining to go back to the beach. I didn’t notice if she was smoking a Virginia Slim or not. I was in enough trouble as it was for repeatedly saying, “Yes dear, Yes dear,” while not listening, as is usually the case when I’m distracted by drama such as this.

 Comments, complaints?  Send to mlessler7@gmail.com