The Old Coot says old is good! ( Tioga Co. Courier article 11/24/21)

 

The Old Coot thinks old is good.

By Merlin Lessler

 Young guys look at old coots like me, and say, “Oh boy, look at that old guy; he's just not with it, can’t do stuff, walks funny. Never going to happen to me!”

 They think it’s all bad, to be old, but it’s not. There are a lot of advantages to being an old coot.

We have a built in excuse for a lot of unpleasant things. We don’t have to help someone move to a new house or apartment. Or, to lift heavy objects, like the other day in the Owego Kitchen. Ike needed help unloading a huge cooler from a pick-up truck and moving it inside. A very heavy and awkward item to handle. He didn’t even consider asking me. The “young” guys got the privilege while Lester (Ike’s father) and I watched.

 I'm glad I'm too old to cave dive, or run a marathon, walk a tightrope, scale a cliff and a whole slew of other “feats of strength.” People even open doors for me, wave me ahead of them in line, help me carry groceries to my car. I don't have to worry about getting old, I’m already there, and an expert on managing life in an old body. But, the nicest things about being old, is you don't have to be politically correct about what you say. You can be frank. Something the younger crowd can’t do, not without being called a bully, or being obliterated by social media. “We can say, “You need to fix your breath; it stinks” We do this mostly with old people like us, things of necessity like, “You forgot to comb your hair, dummy!” - “your pants are on backwards” – “I think you're wearing your wife's blouse.” It’s a kindness to do this for the individual and a necessity if we want to improve the image of oldsters in general.

Young folks are not exempt from our unfiltered comments, “Boy you’ve put on weight!” – “When did you go bald?”

 My friend, Alan, has a nickname, “One shoe, two shoe.” He made the mistake of walking into our early morning coffee group, wearing two different shoes; he hadn’t noticed them on his five mile walk down the beach to Starbucks. Yes, there are definitely advantages to being old. You can mouth off to some big, young guy, to a degree (let’s not go crazy here) and a have pretty good chance that he won't hit you. He’d be embarrassed to be seen beating up an old man. Don’t try this at home kids! I know of one old guy who did this and got decked. Even so, it’s good to be old.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Safe from atomic bombs? Old Coot Article 11-17-2021

 

The Old Coot learned survived skills in 3^rd grade.

By Merlin Lessler

 I started watching a new movie the other day; it portrayed what the world will be like if global warming isn’t curtailed: horrific storms with hurricane force winds, unending forest fires, routine 500-year floods, hail stones the size of automobiles. It was a futuristic look at the world in its scariest scenario. I knew where it was going and quit watching after the first fifteen minutes.

  Later that same week, a psychiatrist was on the radio, instructing parents on how to talk to their kids about global warming, so they won’t live in fear with the constant pelting of media scenarios that made them think they are doomed, along with the planet. It was timely, and had some good advice to moderate climate change terror. Tell the kids things like, “We will solve this problem; let’s do our part.”   

 I wish someone thought this way about kids in my generation. We grew up under the cloud of an atomic war. For me, it started in elementary school, as the Cold War with Russia heated up. We had air raid drills, to “save” us in the event of a nuclear attack. We loved fire drills; we got to go outside and wait on the playground. And, even though we had to stay in line, it was still a lot of fun; we were out of the prison for fifteen minutes. Air raid drills, on the other hand, required that we get under our desks and face away from the widows (to avoid going blind from the flash of an atomic bomb). We were told that our region was a target because of IBM and other tech and defense companies that peppered the Triple Cities area. Like this action would actually save us. What were they thinking?

 To make matters worse, many popular movies of the day had “end of the world” themes, with terrifying creatures, mutated from the fallout of atomic bombs, stalking cities and the people who lived in them.   One of my favorites was the movie, “Them.” It had a legion of giant ants killing and eating people who wandered near their nest in an underground culvert. I still get a chill whenever I hear a squeaking sound similar to that made by the giant ants.

  Maybe that's why my generation listens to the horrors of climate change portrayed on the media with a shrug, “Yeah, maybe it'll happen.” We’ll do our part, but we think it hurts zealots’ credibility, when every single snow storm or thunderstorm is blamed on climate change. It scares kids, adults too, and reminds me of Chicken Little running around yelling that the sky is falling when it was only an acorn that hit the ground. These threats of doom have caused some young couples to fret over whether they should have children and bring them into a world with hail stones the size of automobiles. We still need to enjoy life, not live in constant dread of what might be. The earth’s climate has changed many times and life has been able to adapt. We will too.  Now, get under your desk and face away from the window!   

 Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com 

Ink blots don't work. An Old Coot Article in the Tioga Co. Courier (11/10/21)

 The Old Coot can’t blot out a memory.

By Merlin Lessler

 Back in September, some classified documents relating to the Saudi involvement in 9/11 were released. Supposedly, a candid picture of what went on leading up to the attacks. Finally, we’d get to learn the truth. Not so fast! The report was redacted, loaded with black strikeouts that resembles ink blots.  Once again, we'd been hoodwinked by the bureaucratic process of redacting, blocking out the “sensitive” portions of the report. It reminded me of the inkblots on my test papers when I was in high school. That was my strategy too, to hide the evidence, of my stupidity. I didn't know it was officially called redacting. I used it frequently in my 11th grade history class. The tests I “forgot” to study for. (All of them)

 A question on the test might ask us to explain the economic impact of the Stamp Act on the colonies. I had no idea, but a response was called for. I’d reply with something like this., “The Stamp Act was enacted to BLOT, BLOT, BLOT …….” (The ink blots were created by my Parker fountain pen). I didn't fare any better than the FBI did when it released the redacted reports.  But ink blots were the only thing I could come up with. I thought it might give me a fighting chance, maybe enough partial credit to get a passing grade

 Fountain pens were in the vogue in those days. Ballpoint pens hadn't quite made the scene and our papers had to be done in ink. Parker Pens were the top of the line, at least for high school students. Especially the “Snorkel” model, where a metal tube came out of the end of the pen point when you turned a knob at the other end. You didn’t have to stick the point into the ink, and thus didn’t cause the pen to blot on the paper. I wanted the blots, so when I was in History class, I dipped the point into the inkwell as far as it could go. I didn’t do this in my other classes; just my history papers were splattered with ink blots.

 Much to my father’s dismay, a history buff who read the encyclopedias in his leisure time, the ink blot strategy didn’t work; I failed 11^th grade History. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would be interested in all that “old” stuff.  Not anymore. I’m a history buff myself, of sorts, but much of my interest of late, only goes back to mid-20^th century, where I don’t have to do any research; I lived it.

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

The Old Coot walks back in time. Tioga Co. Courier Article of 11/10/21

 

The Old Coot goes wool gathering.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here's an interesting mental exercise to undertake. I recommend it highly. It helps put things into perspective. An interesting journey of introspection. Here’s mine.

 Seventy-nine years ago, as I write this, my mother was in her last two weeks of pregnancy with me, wondering when her baby would “pop out.” Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it be healthy? Would this world war ever come to an end? Little did she know, that in two weeks, on a Sunday night, at 2 in the morning, a future old coot was to be unleashed on the world. Little did that unborn baby know, that decades later, he would be walking around town with a messenger bag over his shoulder, a notebook and pen at the ready, a walking stick in his hand and reflecting on life on the cusp of entering his 80th year. That about to be born baby, had no idea what lay ahead, a whole life of living. No idea he’d grow from an infant into a young boy, start school, evolve to a teenager (making all those stupid choices that the naïve do in their salad days), moving on through life at breakneck speed, finishing high school, college and then more college at night school, getting married, having kids, jobs, houses, cars and the material things of life. Facing losses of family and friends. Moving on, eventually blessed with grandkids, in double digits, extending the family tree for another generation.  

 Then, retiring from the work world after 38 years, and reinventing himself as a writer (sort of), starting off on a new venture, stumbling along, still with only an inkling of what may loom ahead. Stepping into one day at a time, ready for the adventure to unfold with some wisdom from the history of life to that point, no matter how small the thimble it would take to hold it. The ride can be a little bumpy when traveling in a vehicle (the human body) with so darn many moving parts, never knowing which one will decide to act up. So, on he moves, into the future, his face turned to the warmth of the sun, knowing he’s privileged to be on this journey at all. His mission is simple: live each day, appreciate it, enjoy it. Thus, is life. And, in my case, taking a moment to reflect, and write this essay.

 For more of the story, sign on to - oldcootbinghamtonmemories.blogspot.com

The Old Coot provokes a poet (A Tioga County Courier Article 10/27/21

 

The Old Coot Gets a Comeuppance

By Merlin Lessler

 This column was published in August, 2008. It’s being republished to honor the memory of Bill Schweizer who died this year at age 99. My Hero!

 I was in Dunkin Donuts the other morning. It was about six am. Nobody was around. Sunday morning was just coming up, a lazy, peaceful time. I was nestled in a chair by the window; the muddy Susquehanna was off to my right; the intersection of Front and Park was straight ahead. I counted the signs at the corner. There were 15 separate pieces of tin giving directions to three car routes, two bike routes and two local streets in view from where I sat. A lot of information to decipher while driving down Park Street, talking on a cell phone, balancing a cup of coffee between one’s knees and looking for route 17C. This is the same spot where the inspiration to write about spandex came to me a few months back. The need to ban it! It started when a spandex clad cyclist pulled up to the intersection and stopped for a red light. He was perched on a high-tech racing bike; an aerodynamic helmet that made him look like a space alien was on his head; a pair of exotic cycling shoes were bolted to his pedals. The light didn’t change! He, and his bike, weren’t heavy enough to trip the sensor in the road that would turn the traffic signal from red to green, in spite of his being at least fifty pounds overweight. He waited and waited. Finally, he got off his bike and walked it over to the pedestrian crossing button and pushed it. It gave me the chance to examine his spandex profile in depth, the proverbial two pounds of bologna in a one-pound sack. It fueled my desire to ban the stuff, at least for “athletes” of his stature.

 As often happens when I shoot my mouth off in print, I irk a few people. Ok, a lot of people. This time it moved a reader to challenge my spandex stance with a poem. A friendly neighbor who lives a few doors up the street from me penned it. He thought he could do it anonymously but as is always the case when I say I won’t mention the subject’s name, I do. Here is the spandex rebuttal poem, written by Bill Schweizer.

 I wonder what bothers the Old Coot                              

On spandex he should have stayed mute                       

Was this a confession                                                  

To hide an obsession                                                   

Or just a try to be cute                                               

           

Referring again to Old Coot                                                                             

Whose column one must refute                                     

Why can’t he find                                                        

A spandex behind                                                        

Is really a nice attribute                                                

 

The subject of spandex is not mute                               

In spite of complaints by Old Coot                               

He should not pretend                                                  

All’s well in the end                                                                                                                 

If spandex was given the boot                                        

 

As the biker went by really cruising

His spandex controlling the bruising

He yelled at Old Coot

Your column’s a hoot

But I don’t find it very amusing

 

This message I give to Old Coot

At least try a spandex suit

You’ll ride with abandon

On your 10 speed tandem

With out a suffering glute

 

I’ve finally run out of “oots”

To disparage the column by Coots

I’ll give it a rest

And wish him the best

In spite of our spandex disputes

I can't find anything - A Tioga County Courier Old Coot Article (10/20/2021

 

The Old Coot can’t find anything.

By Merlin Lessler

 I can’t find anything in my car. Where are my reading glasses? Don’t I have a tape measure here someplace? What happened to that cell phone charger? That’s what happens when I go looking for something. I finally did an inventory, starting with the glove compartment. Mine is good sized, and that’s a problem; it is so chuck full, that when I open it, half the contents spill out: car manual, stereo manual (twice as big as the car manual), maps, a CD pouch, hand sanitizer, a small ice scraper, registration & insurance cards, and believe it or not, gloves. I had no idea they were there until I did the inventory.

 But the glove box isn’t the problem. It’s that plus all the other compartments where I shove things. There is a small compartment with a door above the glove box. It contains pen, paper, glasses and earphones. Below the radio is an open cubbyhole. Not a problem since I can see the box of Tic Tacs, store cards, a paper clip and a key chain with a miniature flashlight on it.  

 There is a small storage compartment with a door to the left of the steering wheel. That’s where I found the tape measure. I also discovered two jackknives, a package of Rolaids and some toothpicks. Also, a small change purse full of loose change. It comes in handy at a drive-in window.

 

I’m not done! I haven’t mentioned the compartment in the center console. That’s where I found the cell phone charger. Also, binoculars and an emergency writing kit, in case I get an idea for an article. It contains glasses, a pen and paper. Next to the console, stuck between it and the seat, is a folded up reusable grocery bag. It’s usually still there when I get to the check out counter in the store.

 Each front door has a foot long trough that’s two inches wide. Sunglasses on the driver’s side of the car and an umbrella on the other. I won’t get into the junk stuffed above the sun visor that falls out whenever I try to use it. One last thing, the back area of the car. It contains two walking sticks, jumper cables, tie downs, a blanket, a bag chair, earmuffs and a sweatshirt. Oh yea: there is a kayak carrier on the roof; I only used it twice year.

 You’d think I was a survivalist, prepared for an environmental disaster. I decided I had to de-clutter. I took everything out and put it on a table in the garage, to sort through things and get back to basics. Probably a futile gesture. Little by little, I’ll fill it up again. Oh, by the way, as I reloaded, I discovered a small backpack under the driver’s seat. I forgot it was there. I didn’t dare look to see what was in it. I’ll deal with that during next year’s inventory. 

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot notices walking styles - A Tioga County Courier Article 10/13/21

 

The Old Coot is a stride expert. by Merlin Lessler

Old coots, like me, hang out on the sidelines and study human nature. We’re obsessed; we’re professional people watchers. We used to be doers, now we’re 10% doers, 90% watchers. As a result, I’ve concluded that no two people walk alike. Everyone has a unique stride, just like they have a unique set of fingerprints. There are two-arm swingers, one-arm swingers and people who don’t swing their arms at all. Some walk on their toes, others on their heels and some do a little of both.  

The list of variations is endless, but it all boils down to a dozen or so components, that in various combinations, determine a person’s stride: 1) body tilt to the left or right, 2) arm swings - double, single, wild, or with a hip slap, 3) giant steps, mini steps, 4) hop step on one foot or the other, 5) duck waddle, 6) knee catch, etc. etc. etc. After you see someone walk a few times you can tell who it is at a distance, a distance safe enough to engage your fight or flight mechanism. This innate skill has been genetically with us since we lived in caves; it helped us identify a member of a hostile tribe. Now, it’s used by a lot of people to avoid old coots, particularly the ones who talk your ear off, about their latest physical ailments, if you mistakenly ask, “How are you doing?” 

I’m not alone; a lot of my elderly friends switch to a description of a person’s walking style if they have difficulty coming up with the person’s name. “You know who I’m talking about,” one of them might say. “That guy who lives in the Flats, who tilts his head to the left, swings his right arm, holds his left hand on his hip and has an ankle jiggle in his right foot.” We then know exactly who he’s talking about. We can’t come up with his name either, but at least with the stride description, we don’t have to endure long pauses in conversations when someone’s memory malfunctions.

If you see an old guy, walking around with a tilt to the left, doesn’t walk in a straight line, carrying a paper coffee container and wearing a messenger bag across his shoulder; that’s me. Gawking around, watching people instead of where I’m going. Say, Hi,” but don’t ask me how I’m doing. (Unless you want an earful).