The Old Coot is finally in step. A Tioga County Courier Article of 8-25-2021

 

The Old Coot is lawn mower challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 My lawn mower and I are finally in sync. We now operate at the same speed. I used to walk too fast for it and had to mow a second time if I wanted the lawn to look half-way decent. Manufacturers no longer allow you to control the speed of the blade. My current, old man speed, is a perfect match for my mower. It’s missing a warning label that states, “This mower works best when pushed slowly; think baby steps, like the ones Tim Conway took when he imitated an old man.”

 I’m happy that the mower and I get along better, but I’m not happy that it shoots the grass clippings thirty feet in the air, pelting everything along the route. To fix that, I modified the side flap with duct tape to reduce the force of the spray; it helped to cut it down somewhat, but the tape starts to shred after a few mowings and needs to be replaced. At this rate, I’m going to spend more money for tape than I did for the mower.  I should have expected it; I bought the lowest price mower on the market, and got what I paid for. That’s what happens when you’re a cheapskate.    

 The other thing I don’t like about this beast, is the safety flap on the back of the blade housing. It digs into the turf when I pull the mower backwards taking twice as much of my limited strength, to pull it. It used to be easy to mow in both directions; you just flipped the handle back the other way and pushed down the next row. That came to an end several years ago when the U.S. Safety Council mandated design changes. They thought we were too stupid to mow a lawn without their intervention, making so many mandated alterations that you need an engineering degree to perform a simple lawn mowing task. They even made the gas cans so safe, that it’s difficult to fill the tank without spilling gas all over the place.  

 I have another lawn care problem that has nothing to do with the mower; it’s the people who walk their dogs and leave a mound of dog droppings in my mowing path. Maybe it’s not the person’s fault; they may have a physical ailment that requires them to use a specially trained companion dog that gives them comfort for their ailment called, “Too-lazy-to-bend-over syndrome.” Anyway, most days I have a good time mowing. I can look back when I’m done and feel I’ve accomplished something. A real highlight in the day for an old coot like me. Except when I forget to check my shoe before going in the house.

 Comments? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The old coot and the "Nanny" Sate. A Tioga County Courier Article of 8/18/2021

 

The Old Coot has the Summer Blues.

By Merlin Lessler

 The nannies were on TV again today. The network calls it news; I call it a chat with the busybodies.” They don’t have a very high opinion of the general public; they think we need their advice, and a lot of it. The theme this time was hot summer weather. Beware!” Most of us can tell when a heat wave arrives; some of us look forward to it. But, in case we are too stupid to figure out what is going on, the media comes to our rescue, to clue us in and to help us handle this “difficult” occurrence.  

 They started today’s segment by parading out two pale-faced dermatologists to tell viewers to stay out of the sun. They acknowledged that we couldn’t always do that so they listed the steps we should take to prevent wrinkles, age spots and skin cancer, the one-two-three punch. We should wear hats, long pants, shirts with long sleeves, light colored & light weight clothing, wraparound sunglasses and most important of all, glob on tons of sunscreen. One doctor suggested that carrying an umbrella was also a good idea too. Then, the screen faded as a commercial on diet pills took over. It makes me wonder how our species survived for hundreds of thousands of years, working and playing in the summer sun.

 After the commercial break a nutritionist took center stage. He kicked off his segment with new commandments to supplement the original ten: “Thou shall not eat barbequed red meat –Thou shall eat no bratwurst or anything with wurst in its name – Ye shall eat fish and be happy – Do not taketh soft serve ice cream into thy digestive system, nor soft pretzels and cheese.” I don’t know about other viewers but he ruined my summer. I left the room. I couldn’t bear to hear him speak ill of hot dogs, hamburgers, speedies and potato salad. I then put skinny, pasty-faced nutritionists on my “do not listen to” list.

 The nanny show finished by introducing a fashion consultant specializing in bathing suits. Volunteers from the audience marched in front of the cameras so she could explain why they were wearing the wrong swimsuits for their body types. One by one, she did a critique: “Your gut is hanging out; Your bulging thighs look worse because your suit bottom is too small. Blah, Blah. Blah. Then came the advice: “Buy a suit that’s one or two sizes larger than you usually do - avoid low rise bottoms – mix a red top with a yellow bottom; it will distract from your body issue. On and on she went. By the time she finished with her “cover up and distract” advice, she’d might as well have pushed back the fashion clock to the 1890’s when people went swimming fully clothed. She didn’t say anything about men’s beer bellies or Speedo suits. We escaped her critical eye. The entire show was depressing; I think I’ll spend the summer boycotting the nanny shows.

Old Coot Can't Tie in Back -August 11, 2021 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot is fit to be “tied.”

By Merlin Lessler

 If you’ve been in the hospital lately for a procedure or in a doctor’s office for an examination, you might have fumbled getting into a hospital gown. The nurse hands you one, and as she walks out the door says, “It ties in the back.” Not for me! Not anymore!

 I can’t tie behind my back. Most men can’t. I stopped trying several years ago. Now I put it on so it ties in the front. My inability to tie things in the back came to light when I was in kindergarten and it was time to finger paint. We had to put on a smock that tied in the back. The girls could do it! Most of the boys went untied, unless the teacher felt inclined to help them. It’s just one of the things that separated the girls from the boys, this back tying form of dyslexia that boys have. Probably a sexist statement but I’m sticking to it.

 Boys and girls (men and women) are different. It starts right off in kindergarten; girls are way ahead of boys in maturity, dexterity and sharing. And, can handle a life time of tying, fastening   and buttoning behind the back. If men’s shirts buttoned up the back like women’s dresses do, we’d go around wearing pullovers. And, to tie a tie behind our back, like women fasten necklaces, we’d go around tieless.

 The only thing old coots like me can do behind our back, is to clasp our hands together when we impatiently pace back and forth in a line, waiting to be served. Especially at the DMV, renewing our driver’s license, hoping not to hear the clerk say, “Are you really still driving a car?”

 It is said that real men wear pink. Well, it’s also true that real men wear aprons. Us old coots wear ones with long strings, so they can be looped around and tied in front. Just Google Amazon if you want one, they have plenty. Yes, I stumble through life with a “can’t tie behind my back” deficiency, but at least I don’t get fooled by the medical community anymore. I tie in front, like nature intended, no matter what the nurse says when she hands me a gown. What do you do?

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is a mess. Tioga County Courier Article August 4, 2021

 

The Old Coot is a mess.

By Merlin Lessler

 I Have a Pamphlet titled, “Stain Removal from fabrics.” It was published in the 1950’s, for employees of Western Electric. It’s been in my collection of “paper goods” for years, a collection that once included a salesman’s guide from the 1930’s which outlined an extensive set of sales techniques based on a person’s facial features - chins, eyebrows, noses, ears, hair color and the like. It’s now in the hands of Mike Coleman; he uses it as comic relief when he’s in his Binghamton insurance sales office.

 But, back to the stain removal pamphlet. It’s a valuable commodity, especially for old coots like me who rarely make it through the day without picking up an assortment of food and beverage blotches on their clothes. For me, it’s most often coffee, mustard, ketchup, spaghetti sauce and ink. At least once a day, my wife points to my shirt and makes an exasperated observation, “What have you spilled on yourself now?”

 I forgot I had the pamphlet until I stumbled on it in the back of a drawer the other day. The same day I sported a blood stain on the sleeve of my shirt, the result of an encounter with the sharp edge of an aluminum ladder. I have a long running familiarity with blood stains from that sort of mishap; I knew I was in for it.  But the stain pamphlet saved me. “Dab the blood stain with Hydrogen Peroxide,” it advised. Whoosh! Like magic, it disappeared. No frowns from my wife that day!

 The next stain to arrive on my shirt was coffee. I should know better than to ride my bike and sip coffee at the same time. But the bike wasn’t really the issue. It was me. Whether I’m sitting at a table, reclining in a chair or just standing up and talking, coffee will find its way to my clothes.

 The pamphlet’s advice for coffee and tea stains is to drop boiling water from a height of three feet onto the stain, dab it with a water & glycerin solution or soak it in sodium perborate. I wouldn’t dare splash boiling water from a height of three feet; I’d end up in the emergency room. I don’t have glycerin or sodium perborate. I guess I’ll have to continue to live with coffee splotches.

 Mustard is one of the worst stains for me to deal with.  I’ve tried everything over the years, to no avail. The stain removal pamphlet was of no help. Its 1950’s era advice was useless because the solution required glycerin or oxalic acid. I don’t have, or know, where to get either. By the end of the day, my clothes resemble a military camouflage suit. I’m a stain expert. Expert at getting stains into my clothes! Not getting them out!

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

Old Coot is new language challenged Tioga County Courier Article (7/28/2021)

 

The Old Coot doesn’t get it.

By Merlin Lessler

 Emojis (those small digital icons that express emotion) have taken over the English Language. When I was growing up there were only a few symbols at my disposal - O’s and X’s, placed at the end of a note or letter to express “hugs and kisses.” It’s all that was needed. We used words for everything else.

 Then, along came an advertising genius with the heart symbol. It replaced the word, “Love” as in I “heart” New York. Mostly a lie, but it stuck. Then came a few Emoticons, smiley faces and the like created from punctuation marks on a standard keyboard. For the most part, we communicated using words, not symbols.

 In 1999 the Emoji was invented, just as text messaging was just going mainstream. A marriage made in heaven. As of the end of 2020, there were 3136 Emojis. That number is expected to grow to 3353 by the end of 2021. My problem is, I can’t decipher their meaning. I’m symbol understanding challenged, for the most past anyhow. And, how can anyone need to express 3,000 or more emotions? I only come up with a handful that are of use to me:  happiness, anger, disappointment, shock, sadness, guilt, puzzlement and the like.  Puzzlement is one I use a lot, especially when getting a text loaded with Emojis.

 We will be back to Hieroglyphics (the written language of ancient Egypt) if this trend keeps up.  Apparently, that Egyptian form of writing was even more confusing than today’s Emojis. The meaning of the picture symbols remained a mystery for thousands of years. It was only dumb luck that led to breaking the Hieroglyphic code. It happened when one of Napoleon’s soldiers stumbled across the Rosetta Stone on July, 19, 1799. Our historical record will eventually be written entirely in Emojis at the rate the number of symbols is growing. I pity archeologists of the distant future, unearthing our civilizations and trying to understand the written language.

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

Old Coot make a pitch for reading. Tioga County Courier Article July 21, 2021

 

The Old Coot is a reader.

By Merlin Lessler

 I just finished reading a Nero Wolfe book by author, Rex Stout. He penned 72 “Wolfe” episodes, starting in 1934. He lived 5 miles from me when I was in my thirties; I was near the eastern boundary of New York State, just off Route 84 in Brewster, NY; his estate was on the western edge of Connecticut, straddling both state borders. I’d heard of Nero Wolfe, but I never read one of Stout’s books. Since he was a neighbor, sort of, I decided I would read one to see what it was all about. When I did, I was hooked.

 I didn’t solve the mystery in that first one. Nero Wolfe did, and in dramatic fashion, squeezing his one-seventh of a ton frame into a special, oversized chair behind his desk in front of a roomful of interested parties. The perpetrator (as yet unnamed) was there along with the cast of characters involved in the case, Wolf’s dedicated assistant, Archie Goodwin and NYPD Inspector Cramer, who was chagrined that he hadn’t been able to solve the case. He was forced to listen to Wolf’s oration to find out who did it so he could make an arrest. The facts are there for all to see, but only Wolfe is genius enough to connect the dots.

 Rex Stout was a genius himself, just like Nero Wolfe. He created a school banking system that was adopted in school districts across the country in 1927. It afforded him the luxury of retiring from the finance world in 1934 to become a full-time author. I’ve read every book, several times. And even when I re-read one, I still fail to figure out who committed the crime. But that’s what readers love about Rex Stout’s writing; We want to be surprised, just like the crowd gathered in Wolfe’s office in the last 10 or 20 pages of the book.   

 I re-read four or five Nero Wolfe books every year, as a respite, mixed in with current novels and non-fiction. I find the journey into Stout’s world of the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s with a genius at the helm to be very comforting. It never fails to mellow me out and to suffer a little humility. I’m not sure why I’m going on and on about this. Maybe it’s a subconscious attempt to induce you to spend time with the eccentric, overweight Nero Wolfe and experience a soothing interlude in a hectic day. And, if you haven’t read a book since being forced to in high school, a journey through the 150 pages of the average Nero Wolf book just might bring you back to reading for fun.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot doesn't know? Tioga County Courier Article of July 14, 2021

 

The Old Coot knows the answer.

By Merlin Lessler

 Among the hardest three words to say, are, “I don’t know.” We hate that we don’t know something, when asked. So, we march ahead with an answer. Sometimes we condition it with, “I believe….” – I’ve been told….” – “I heard….” – “The word on the street is….” Or, we lie. Fake it! Make up an answer and hope it doesn’t come back to haunt us.

 Why is it so hard? To say those three little words? (This is where I should say, “I don’t know.” But off I go with an answer). We can’t say those three little words because of our egos. We’ve just been complimented by the asker, who thought we would know the answer. We hate to lose face and say, “I don’t know.”

 Politicians don’t have that problem. They never say they don’t know. Instead, they respond with a delaying tactic, “That’s a great question.” That compliment to interviewers throws them off guard. It’s called the “flatter and distract” technique. Then off they go on a long round of blather and never answer the question.

 This phobia isn’t a male or female thing. Both sexes are equally guilty of not being able to say, “I don’t know.” It’s even harder to say than, “I was wrong.” Which is what you are setting yourself up for when you answer a question with fiction rather than fact. Fortunately, saying you were wrong got easier when some clever person, probably a politician, invented the phrase, “My bad.”

 Somehow, this takes the sting out of admitting you are wrong. We hate to be wrong, but we hate even more, to admit it. Saying, “My bad,” solves the problem. I’d love to meet the person who came up with it. I asked Google. I was sure it wouldn’t know and would just throw up a bunch of web sites, which is another way of saying, “That’s a good question.” That’s what I got. I picked the one that said it came from the 1995 movie, “Clueless.” If that’s wrong, it’s “My bad.”

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com