The Old Coot is an Early Bird. A Tioga Courier and Owego Pennysaver Article of December 28, 2022

 The Old Coot is out of time.

By Merlin Lessler

 Our clocks were set 20 minutes ahead when I was growing up. My mother didn’t want us to be late: for school, for church, for doctor’s appointments, for city busses, for anything. She started this time trickery at 5 minutes; when we caught, on she moved it up another five and finally ended it at twenty minutes.

 My sister and I looked at the clock and subtracted 20 minutes. A lot of families set their clock ahead, though I think our twenty minutes was at the extreme end of the spectrum. It was a be-on-time era. Punctuality was highly valued. I still have an ingrained impulse to deduct 20 minutes when I look at a clock, I have to consciously turn it off, even though it’s been 60 years since I left home. I’m still stuck with the “be-on-time” mentality. That never left me. Most of the time I’m early. It goes along with the aging process. That old adage, “The early bird gets the worm,” is a credo for old coots. 

 If you have a party that’s scheduled it for 7 pm, you can expect the old coots to show up at seven on the dot. The rest of your guests, the polite ones, arrive at 7:15 or later. That punctuality mentality and clocks set ahead worked for us when we were kids growing up. We didn’t have smart phones or smart watches. Our watches were dumb; they didn’t keep good time, especially when we forgot to wind them. We relied on house clocks set 20 minutes ahead.

 My mother’s generation wasn’t alone in her quest to control time. Today’s population does it too, using the invention of the snooze button on alarm clocks in the late 1950’s, to gain that same 20 minutes my mother was after, but for more sleep. Off goes the alarm - you hit the snooze button and get five more minutes of sleep. You do this four times in a row. Welcome to my 20 minute world! How about the time-shift sham we adopt by setting the clock an hour ahead every spring, to pretend the day is longer. It makes my mother’s paltry 20 minute shift look lame by comparison.

 My wife, Marcia, and I recently crossed the Atlantic on a cruise ship from the Mediterranean Sea to Fort Lauderdale. Every night we were told to set our clocks back an hour. It was great! We got an extra hour of sleep every single night, for five nights in a row. That was the best snooze alarm ever!

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The Old Coot saved his sight. Tioga Courier and Owego Pennysaver of 12/23/2022

 The Old Coot didn’t shoot his eye out.

By Merlin Lessler

 I didn’t shoot my eye out. Not with a BB gun anyhow. And, not in one of the many BB gun wars we waged in the cow pasture to the west of Denton Road on Binghamton’s south side. (The area is now populated with houses, but back then it was a war zone in the summer, a toboggan & ski resort in the winter). No, I did it much later in life, when a tree branch shot back into my eye on a riverbank in Owego. But that’s a story for another day. An old coot story. This is a kid story.

 My, didn’t shoot my eye out story took place after I’d paid my dues for years and finally waited expectantly, like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, to find a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun under the Christmas tree. I’d posed for dorky Christmas cards with my sister Madeline, year after year. I’d forgone my desire for a BB gun and asked for eye safe toys: footballs, sleds, board games and electric trains. But when I turned 10 in 1952, I decided it was time to launch the campaign. Woody, my friend from the next block, had access to BB rifles and BB pistols. I used him and his gun friendly parents as the centerpiece of my case. But, things looked pretty glum. My mother batted every pitch I threw her way out of the park. “Woody has one, why can’t I?” - “Because you’ll lose an eye!”  This was before the term “shoot-your-eye-out” came into vogue. You lost things in those days. Your eye. Your arm. Your life.

 “No I won’t! Woody didn’t!” She pointed out that Woody wore glasses; his eyes were protected. Something I knew all too well. Especially after so recently doing the dishes for 25 cents every night until I’d earned three dollars to pay for the pair I’d broken in one of our backyard disagreements.

 “We don’t shoot at each other. We just pretend to shoot,” I argued, lie that it was, with me sporting a tender, red-rimmed pockmark from taking one in the leg just that morning.

 “We only shoot at stuff,” I said, adding to my lie. She was too smart for that one. She was as concerned for the “stuff” as she was for my eye. She knew the stuff included dopey robins that sat still while enduring shot after shot. Squirrels that scampered back and forth making the game even more exciting. The glass window pains in Mr. Soldo’s garage, Mrs. Bowen’s tulips and the Merz’s dog. But, I had an answer for all those damaged goods. It was home made arrows that errantly misfired in a game of cowboys and Indians. “A BB gun is accurate; it would never damage stuff, ” was my weak-brained argument.

 The whole thing was of her making anyhow. She’s the one who dressed me in cowboy suits since before I could walk, who equipped me with 2 six-guns and helped me mount a wooden rocking horse in the driveway with my faithful dog Lassie at my side. How did she not see this growing into lust for a weapon that could really fire? A BB gun!

 Christmas finally came, in those waning days of Truman’s presidency. It took what seemed like years, those four weeks following Thanksgiving, when the count down started. But it came, and on Christmas morning, under our tree was a three-foot long, slender package with my name on it. I saved it for last. I unwrapped the mittens knitted by my aunt in Connecticut. And, like the other pairs she sent every year, they were too short and would leave me with red, raw wrists when I played outside in the snow and cold.

 Next came a pair of ski pajamas, the fashion rage of the day. Then, a big surprise, a radio of my own. A radio for my room, so Woody and I could listen to Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, Suspense and The Shadow in private. Finally came the long skinny box. I tore off the paper. The carton underneath didn’t say Daisy Air Rifle: it was unmarked. I didn’t care; I’d settle for an off brand. I pried open the lid and pulled out the weapon. A single shot, ping-pong ball rifle! You gave it a pump and it hurled a ping pong across the room.

 My chagrin lasted less than an hour; I found the lemonade in the lemons. I could shoot at people. I could shoot at stuff! I no longer have that eye-safe, engine of warfare from the 1950’s, but, I do have a BB gun, a Daisy Red Ryder Carbine, No. 111, Model 40. My wife, tired of my complaining, found it in an antique store and gave it to me for Christmas, the same year A Christmas Story aired and Ralphie got his. It’s a little scuffed up and the squirrels laugh out loud when I stand guard at our bird feeder, but it shoots just fine. And, I haven’t shot out my eye out! Now, if I could only get the old south side warriors together, the Almy, Burtis and Spangoletti brothers, Woody, Warren and Buzzy, for one last BB-gun battle, my story would have a perfect ending.

The old coot has good medical input. A Tioga Courier and Pennysaver article of 12-14-2022

 The Old Coot wants his Doctorate Degree!

By Merlin Lessler

 This is how I think the medical system should work: - A three -legged stool. One leg is the delivery system – doctors, nurses, PA’s, NPA’s, X-ray technicians, pharmacists and the like, trying to help us through a condition or to prevent one. The second leg is the research system – universities, pharmaceutical labs, specialized hospital centers, scientists and out of the box thinkers, coming up with how the body actually functions down to the microscopic level and developing drugs, mechanisms, diets and surgical interventions to help manage a person through a condition or to avoid one.

 The third leg, the missing one, is us, the patients. We have valuable input that never makes its way into the system. If the delivery system (doctors) asked their patients what they have done or are doing, to cope with a chronic aliment, they just might uncover a valid coping mechanism that could be passed on. For example, if they asked, “How are you managing the arthritis pain and swelling in your fingers? Have you found a way to reduce or eliminate it?” They might stumble onto a new technique. - “I cup my hands under a hot water faucet and work my fingers around for a full minute or two. The pain level goes down and flexibility improves.” That sort of intelligence might get into the system.

 Patient input could be uploaded into a computer system, gathering “home remedies” from millions of patients for a variety of conditions. Research teams and statisticians could then compile, analyze, evaluate the input and then pass it back to the delivery system. And, also produce PSA’s (public service announcement) for the media dissemination. Us old coots have a wealth of untapped, out of the box, coping strategies which we share with each other. But, we’re the only interested parties, because we know the value of hard earned coping wisdom. A huge wealth of practical medical information is contained within the entire patient base, yet it never enters the delivery system. This missing leg is a big loss to society!

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot misses the headbands. A Tioga County Courier and Owego Pennysaver article of 12-07-2022

 The Old Coot “heads” into the past.

By Merlin Lessler

 I saw a guy on the beach wearing a headband the other day. It surprised me. Jolted me! I forgot all about them. A sweatband from the past. It was like seeing a ghost. What happened to sweatbands – those semi-elastic, terrycloth loops that athletes wore. And, by athletes, I mean anyone who went outside and moved on foot, in a wheelchair, pushing a walker or a bicycle, whatever. Moved in any way at all. It was a signature fashion statement that said, “I’m an athlete!”

 If you went to marathon, there would be a sea of joggers wearing head bands. This was the era before the baseball cap took over America. Head bands ruled in the 70’s and 80’s. I had several in my jogging days: white, black, blue, tri-color. They were very effective at keeping the sweat on your forehead from running into, and burning your eyes. I guess they went the way of the earmuff, another head piece you hardly see anymore.

 You could buy headbands anyplace: sporting-goods stores, department stores, gas stations, grocery stores. It was a world of sweatbands. Now, it’s just a fashion dot in history. Discarded and buried with no funeral. Yet how did this happen? They were so useful and looked cool! It made a statement, not just a fashion statement, but a sign that the wearer moved around enough to perspire. 

 I miss them. I checked around to see if they were available in our local stores. No luck there. I’ll have to go on Amazon, something I’d rather not do, but it’s often the only place you can get things you’re looking for without running all over town, breaking out into a sweat. And, without a headband!

 Ps. – You just might spot a headband a basketball game. But, that’s about it.

 Comments? Send to mlesssler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot takes off the gloves. Published 11/30/2022

 The Old Coot says stop the madness.

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s time to take off the gloves. The latex & rubber gloves that food-handlers are forced to wear, either by their employers or local health department bureaucrats.  Unfortunately, neither party is adept at undoing wrong-headed policies that prove to be ineffective. Prohibition didn’t stop the sale of alcoholic beverages; 55mile per hour speed limits didn’t stop cars from driving 65. Making marijuana illegal didn’t stop the sale or consumption. Prohibition took 13 years to undo. The 55 mile per hour speed limit took more than two decades to undo. Mary-Jane sales have been illegal by federal regulation since 1970. (Though some states are bucking the rules.) History is ripe with examples of the turtle pace at which bureaucratic institutions move to correct failed policies. While society at large says, “What took you so long?”

 The same scenario is playing out with the overdone rubber glove mandate. I was in a PUBLIX supermarket the other day, to get a loaf of their five grain, Italian bread. (Try it; you’ll like it! But you have to be in the southern part of the country to find a Publix) There was only a single loaf on the shelf, and it wasn’t sliced. I took it over to the bakery counter and caught the eye of a woman in the back sweeping the floor. “Can you run this through the slicer,” I asked. “Sure,” she responded. “I was just tidying up while a new batch of bread is in the oven.” She reached over to a box of gloves, yanked two out, wiggled them on, picked up my loaf of bread and took it out of the plastic wrapper. “Don’t you hate putting on those stupid gloves?” I asked.  She said she hated it, had to do it many, too many, times a day. Half the time they rip, especially at the wrist when there is any resistance to getting her fingers in.

 What a dangerous world I grew up in?. NO RUBBER/LATEX gloves. Cooks, waiters, bakers handled food barehanded. It is amazing that our species didn’t come to an end. Yet, here we are now, a germophobic society, absorbing hand sanitizer chemicals and putting food handlers into gloves. For no reason!  We actually need interaction with germs, bacteria and other non-sanitized substances. It’s how the body builds its defense mechanism. We are sanitizing ourselves into health challenges. (That’s not a scientifically proven hypothesis, just common (old coot) sense.) If we lived before the hyped up glove advocates took over society I guess we can turn back the clock and survive.  (A question – What about the germs on the bread wrapper that were transferred to the baker’s gloves? Where did they go?)   

Who is that guy? Old coot Tioga County Courier article of 11/23/2022

 The Old Coot meets his match.

By Merlin Lessler

I was on a cruise ship, sailing from Civitavecchia, Italy across the Atlantic to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. When I was approaching a set of glass doors I spotted an old guy coming toward me from the other side.  Not only old, but drunk, from the look of him. He listed to the right, staggered ahead a few feet and then listed to the left. Sure, the ship was rocking a bit, some swells were in the 10 to 15 foot range, so all us passengers had some difficulty walking in a straight line. But, this guy was all over the place.

 As I got closer to the glass doors I started to plan a route to avoid a collision, but every time I went to my right he staggered to his left. We seemed to be in perfect sync. When I was ten feet from the door I got a rude awakening. I wasn’t approaching a set of glass doors; they were mirrored doors. It was me I’d been watching, thinking it was some old drunk.

 Now I know why some of the people on the ship turned around and went the other way to avoid me looking like a drunk old coot. I was cold sober when I confronted myself in the mirror. I admit I have balance issues, caused by neuropathy in my lower legs and feet that causes those nerves to trick my brain, telling it I’m tilting to the left when actually I’m not leaning at all. The brain listens to the signals from my feet and makes a correction by pushing me to the right.

 So, I’m a little challenged when it comes to walking in a straight line; when you add a ship that rocks back and forth you get a drunk looking guy, staggering down the hall. I’m OK, now that I’m back on solid ground. The listing walk pattern is not that noticeable, especially if I’m carrying a walking stick to use as a reference point; it tells my brain to chill. If you confront me walking around town, don’t be afraid of the drunk coming your way. Look at my T-shirt that says, “I’M 80 – AND NOT DRUNK!”  

The Old Coot hits 80. A Tioga Co. Courier & Owego Pennysaver Article of 11/16/2022

 The Old Coot passes a milestone.

By Merlin Lessler

 This week I turned eighty. I actually considered myself at that milestone in May, when in 1942, my mother was three months “with child” and my kicking had begun, letting her know I was anxious to get going. In my mind, I was six months old when I emerged on November 15. Thus, this past May I started thinking of myself as an octogenarian, which was delightfully reinforced on Father’s Day when my wife, kids and grandkids executed a total surprise birthday at the Belva Lockwood Inn, in the Village of Owego NY, where I reside in a 217-year-old house – as creaky and cranky as myself.

 At any rate, in May, infused with that reinforcement in July, I adopted an eighty-year-old attitude – a trump card that I can play in fun and seriousness. It gains entry to many things – “Oops, I’m sorry, I’m eighty,” when I’ve stumbled into and knock over a display of mechanical toys in an antique store. That sort of thing. Along with special orders in restaurants and access to the children’s menu, where prices and portions are more suited to an octogenarian. (“I’m 80 and more like 8,” when it comes to dining out.)

 I couldn’t do that stuff when I was in my 60’s or 70’s. Not even at 79. But now that the calendar matches my mental state, a new world has unfolded for me on my journey through time. I loved it when I submitted this article, # 1,001. I started writing as the Old Coot in 2002. My goal was to see if I could come up with an article every week, for a year. Look mom! I outdid myself!

 I start an article with a “germ” of an idea, sit down with pen and paper and let my subconscious brain take over, often surprising myself with what it drags out. The process digs deep into the psyche and dregs up opinions I didn’t know I had. (A lot cheaper than lying on a couch in a psychiatrist’s office.)

So, now that I really am 80, and look back on all the stumbles it took to acquire a small source of wisdom, I’m just happy to still be in the game. In spite of traveling in a high mileage vehicle with over 27,000 days on the odometer. Mine, as everyone’s life, is a journey from ignorance to wisdom, if we only just get it when it stares us in the face, instead of waiting till it slaps us up-side the head. Thank you for reading.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com