The Old Coot shuns the Blah Blah. Published November 13, 2024

 The Old Coot has the blahs.

By merlin lessler

 I was lucky enough to have been in the Netherlands last month. I still call it Holland – you know: the Little Dutch Boy, his finger in the dike, tulips, wooden shoes, windmills. That’s the extent of my knowledge of the Netherlands. Or was. Now, I know a lot more. I took a guided tour in an area of a dozen or so antique windmills, one or two restored to working order, the remainder just sitting idle. A beautiful landscape image.

The trouble started when we crossed a bridge leading to Windmill Lane. There were about twenty of us in the group. Walkie-talkies hanging on a strap around our necks, ear buds jammed into our ears and a tour guide talking. Talking, talking, talking – while we stood in the middle of the bridge, frozen in time, learning all the intricacies of windmills. I call it “blah, blah.” I wanted to move, to get to the windmills. So, I drifted ahead, crossed the bridge, ducked into the combination gift shop, snack bar at the far side of the canal where the pathway to the windmills started. Then, I walked back to the group to interrupt the blah, blah and tell the guide I was moving on. I loved the look of surprise on the faces of our two tour friends, Laarnie and Elaine.

It was a look I’d see a lot of over the next few days. Every time I moved away from the group and gave my patented, blah, blah hand signal. Again and again, in towns along the route we traveled in a long boat on the Rhine River. I learned years ago, to slip away from guides who overload tourists with trivial information. I wish they’d just hit the high notes and let us see, and examine, the subject of their blah, blah lecture. The first time I executed this strategy I was on a tour at the Sistine Chapel in Rome. The guide kept the group “locked up” in front of a signpost in a courtyard outside the building. I lasted five minutes; then my wife and I snuck away and into a long entrance hallway lined with exquisite sculptures and paintings leading to the chapel proper.

We looked at everything and then strolled back to the group held captive by the tour guide, just then starting toward the hall. I was there to see things; I could Google the blah, blah, later. I’m now a well-seasoned blah, blah avoider. It’s a skill that also comes in handy at cocktail parties and other gatherings when you get stuck next to a human, blah, blah windmill. Thanks to the mother/daughter team of Laarnie and Elaine our journey was a fun one. But enough blah, blah from me. I’ll stop right here, and let you look at the rest of the newspaper.    

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

    

The Old Coot is a co-buyer. Published 11/06/2024 Tioga County Courier

 The Old Coot is a smart buyer.

By Merlin Lessler

 The buying techniques of men and women are very different! There, I’ve stepped into the abyss again, trying to explain another difference between men and women. In the 1950’s, pundits called it the battle of the sexes, in the 1970’s and 80’s we tried to blur the lines, to claim there weren’t any differences. Then, the truth was trotted back out and we learned that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. So, I guess it’s safe for an old coot to make social commentary on the differences in the buying habits of men and women.

I don’t know much about the specifics of women’s shopping habits to tell the truth. I know it’s a continuous process that involves discounts, coupons and comparison-shopping. And, is never consummated until the price of an item is at the lowest point possible. The husband never learns how much something cost, only how much money was saved. It’s a technique that’s been perfected by women.

 Men go a different route. They bring in poor “Uncle Fred,” their ace in the hole when they purchase an expensive item they have no right to buy without a family conference. Most boats are bought this way. “Honey, now before you get mad, I didn’t buy the 26 foot cabin cruiser by myself; Uncle Fred went in on it with me!” What can she say? Uncle Fred is her favorite uncle. And to cinch the deal, the husband says, “I’m naming the boat after you!” The same thing happens with motor homes, cottages and hunting camps. They are always bought with Uncle Fred and named after their wives.

 She’s never told that poor Uncle Fred was bullied into the joint purchase; he only gave in when his share was negotiated down to 1%. Men never buy expensive items (cars excluded) without a partner. If it isn’t Uncle Fred, it’s Jim-next-door. Jim-next-door is brought in on things that can be shared: a pool table, a 55 inch TV for the man cave in the garage, a lawn tractor, chain saw – anything that’s somewhat extravagant and seldom used. “I don’t know why you’re upset with the (log splitter, 40 foot ladder, lawn roller, you fill in the blank), I bought it with Jim-next-door.”

 The final straw in men’s buying techniques, is the schmooze that comes at the end of the purchase discussion. After the wife asks, “If Uncle Fred and Jim-next-door are in on all these purchases, why is everything in our garage?” Now comes the schmooze, at least when dealing with an Alpha Male purchaser, “Because their wives aren’t as hip as you, dear!”

 

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The Old Coot is a fire bug. Published October 16, 2024

 The Old Coot is a fire bug.

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s a lovely fall afternoon, as I sit here looking out the window, instead of reading the book on my lap. (The Thursday Murder Club, by Richard Osman.) The wind is gusting, blowing leaves out of the trees and across the yard. It’s blowing so hard, the leaves are whizzing by, twenty feet above the ground. It reminds me of the good old days, when that wonderful aroma of burning leaves surrounded the neighborhood where I lived amid a forest of trees that surrounded our house. There were so many leaves it was a struggle to wade through them to cross the yard. I raked up elephant size mounds and fed them into a small pile I’d set on fire. Eventually, I’d get impatient and get too many going at one time, sending a plume of smoke through the neighborhood. That’s when the neighbors called my wife and asked her to have a word with the fire bug burning leaves. I’d back off for a while and when I thought no one was looking, get the blaze going again. If I didn’t, I’d be out there all weekend. But that aroma from the burning leaves was oh so nice, on par with that of fresh bread baking in an oven.

 I glad I moved from that “leaf” house. I cannot imagine bagging the mountain of leaves I dealt with back then. When I moved to Owego and was clearing the back yard of several years of accumulated leaves, I decided to burn them to rid myself of the mess. Since it was illegal to do so, someone called the police, but luck was with me. The policeman went to the wrong address; I had time to quiet down the fire and he left without finding the culprit. Besides, my real problem was a giant Chinese gingko tree in the front yard. Its leaves fell in a single day, starting the morning after the first hard frost of fall. It looked like a winter blizzard when it happened. The real issue had nothing to do with the ban on burning.

 Those leaves wouldn’t burn anyhow. They were still green when they fell, packed with moisture and slippery as eels. So slippery, you couldn’t move them with a rake; you had to push them with a snow shovel. It took me the better part of two days to get them to the curb where a village worker came by with a leaf machine to suck them up. Then the machine broke and wasn’t replaced. We had to bag leaves after that. One fall I broke a record, ending up with fifty, 30-gallon bags, stuffed to the top. Each bag weighed a ton; I had to use a wheel barrel to get them to the curb. I’ve moved out of the “Gingko” house, but still like to walk by on the day the leaves come storming down. It’s not my problem anymore. Thanks to the new owners, Mike and Jennifer.

 I do miss the wonderful aroma of burning leaves swirled through the countryside. I guess I became addicted to it when I was a kid. My friend Woody and I cooked hotdogs over a leaf fire in the woods on South Mountain in Binghamton since we were seven years old. It was so easy: push them into a little pile, drop in a lit match and presto, you had all the fire needed to cook hotdogs on a stick. Every year, as the leaves start to drop, I’m tempted to build a small fire and become surrounded by that wonderful aroma, if just for a few minutes. So far, my willpower has held up, but who knows what the future will bring.

The Old Coot can't open anything. Published 10/09/2024

 The Old Coot is “opener” challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

 I can’t open anything! Well, almost anything. It’s not just because I’m an old coot. You know what we’re like – weak muscles, arthritis in the fingers, limited vision, etc. No, it’s not me, it’s the package and bottle makers. The latest manifestation I had with this issue was opening a bottle of water. Two issues there – the bottle material is thin, and the cap is so small it’s hard to grip. They are small on soda bottles too, but not that small, and not as hard to open.

Those water bottles get me every time. I grip on the tiny cap and grasp the body of the bottle which is made of ultra-thin plastic. So thin, it squishes in the middle, looking like an hourglass. I strain, grasp and twist, in what I think is a macho-man effort. When it finally does break free, a geyser erupts, spraying me and anyone nearby. It’s best not to do this on an airplane. I learned that lesson the hard way.

Those bottles are not the only containers that cause me consternation on a regular basis. Opened a can of Campbell’s soup lately? They now have a lift off lid with a tab attached to pull it off with. The company thinks a can opener is beyond our capability. The tab is tiny and hard to lift. When you do get it up and give it a yank, nothing happens. So, you give it a he-man yank. It breaks free of the can and the soup sloshes all over the place. It’s best to open it over the sink.

It's not just liquid products that I have opening issues with. Even a bag of chips causes me a problem. I have to use my teeth to break into it, or pull it from each side, getting a potato chip shower when it breaks apart.

My list of hard to open items is getting longer and longer. How about that little metal cover under the cap on a tube of toothpaste? It has a microscopic tab to pull it off with. I use the tweezers in my Swiss Army Knife. A handy tool that helps me survive in a world of irksome food and beverage containers. The first multi-purpose knife I had ended up in the hands of a TSA agent at the Elmira Airport. I hope he’s putting it to good use, opening his containers. Or better yet, he gave it to his favorite old coot, who will be forever grateful.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

Fast food isn't fast. Old Coot Article # 1099 Published 10/02/2024 in New York

 The Harris Dinner turns 100!  By Merlin Lessler

This article about the Harris Diner was first published on December 18, 2004. Nothing has changed since then, and last week the diner celebrated its’ 100th anniversary by using food prices from the 1950’s. I stopped in to join the crowd (and it was a crowd) and to congratulate Sam.

The Big Lie -Fast Food

“A Few weeks ago, I took three of my grandchildren, Jake –5, Hannah- 3 and Abby – 2, to MacDonald’s in Westchester County for lunch. It was the day Jake and Hannah’s sister Callie was born; my part in the process was to watch the kids while my daughter, Wendy, was at the hospital. I sat at the table trying to entertain the antsy threesome while Abby’s mother, Kelly, waited in line for our “fast food” order. It was the longest thirty minutes of my life. I like going to MacDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and all the rest of the fast-food restaurants, but I think it’s time that they admit the obvious, and stop referring to themselves as “fast.” Fast applies to the service at Harris’s Diner; a small locally owned restaurant, housed in a cramped Quonset-like hut next to the fire station in Owego, the village where I live. It doesn’t provide customer parking, special menu items for kids or an indoor playground, yet it beats the pants off the international fast-food chains.

 I’m not a regular at Sam Harris’s diner; I only stop by every so often for breakfast. Once in a while I wander in at six, it doesn’t open until seven. The lights are down low, and Sam isn’t around, but there are customers hanging out at the counter and at tables in the back, drinking coffee, shooting the breeze and reading the paper. The coffee urns are full. The “regulars” made it. At 6:45 Sam comes in, trades insults with some of the rabble and goes into the back room to do some prep work. I sit at the counter with a choice seat near the grill, a cup of coffee before me, having been served by one of the gracious regulars. Sam flicks on the lights and fires up the grill. He starts things in motion by piling on a mountain of home fries and a dozen strips of bacon. He knows what the regulars want. Hazel, Sam’s faithful waitress, comes in at seven on the dot, ready to wait tables and bus the dirty dishes, a tough job for a gal well past retirement age, but one she does with class and a big smile.

 I sit with my coffee and watch the show. I don’t think there is anything more entertaining than a good grill man, and Sam is one of the best. He’s cracking eggs with one hand, flipping pancakes with the other and discussing last night’s Yankee game with a customer across the room. Regulars stream in, trade insults back and forth, head for the rack of coffee pots behind the counter and help themselves, some using their own cups, stored on a shelf above the pots. Hazel glides around exchanging pleasantries and taking orders, but Sam takes mine, since I’m right in front of him. The average time between giving your order and getting it is less than ten minutes. In my case, sitting at the counter, I get my two eggs over light, home fries, ham and toast in five. This is fast food! Hazel drops of the check when the food is served. You never have to wait for her to get around to it, like in many restaurants. A pile of bills and change lie in a heap next to the cash register. Customers settle up themselves, making changes and leaving the meal ticket as they pass the register on their way out. The “regulars” even go so far as to open Sam’s cash register when they can’t make correct change from the pile. I give my money to Hazel.”

Congratulations Sam! Thanks for keeping the tradition going.

Yard signs equal angst. Published Tioga County Courier 9/25/24

 The old coot is tired of being a referee.

By Merlin Lessler

Early voting is underway! Not with ballots, but with yard signs. Back in friendlier days, these signs were better tolerated. People even wore pins – “I like Ike,” for example, for us old coots. They walked around with little fear of getting a punch in the nose. A family would drive by a sign in the neighborhood and say, “Oh look, Bill is supporting John F. Kennedy. I’m a Nixon fan myself. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten together; we should invite them over for a backyard picnic before the weather turns cold.”

Not anymore. “Oh look, they’re supporting “What’s-its-name.”  What idiots!” – or – “Oh look, those morons are for Who-you-ma-call-it!” We are extremely divisive in our political positions today. Best friends no longer speak to each other. Family members disconnect. Thanksgiving gatherings turn into a food fight. Signs stir up the same animosity. We should go back to the days when folks didn’t overtly discuss religion or politics. In person, on their shirts and hats or the front lawn. Sure, it’s a right, guaranteed by the 1^st amendment, but now it’s approaching the “yelling fire in a crowded theater” level.   

We can’t look to our leaders for this guidance. We’ve got to get the ball rolling ourselves. Calm down on Facebook, all social media. Many of us like a little of the policies from each side; we’re middle roaders. But right now, it’s like we’re traveling down the road in different directions; any move to the middle causes a head on crash. Is it so hard to accept that others can have a different position? On issues and candidates? And not think of them as idiots? Maybe? It’s up to us to do it. We need a small child to lead us. The ones who learn in kindergarten how to get along. Afterall, who is more important in your life, some politician in the White house or your family, friends and neighbors?  

Comments? Keep them civil; I know I stirred the pot with this one. That’s what old coots do. Send them to mlessler7@gmail.com. Or, to the publisher of the paper you read this in.  

 

The Old Coot zeros in, Article # 1,097 Published 09/18/2024.

 The Old Coot wants to see the zeros.

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s time to bring back the zeros. These zeros – 000 and 000 and 000 and 000. All twelve!  The print media writes things like, “The senate passed a $1.2 trillion spending bill today.” We don’t blink an eye. What is a trillion? More than a billion, but what is it really? How about if they ended the shortcut and put it out there as - $1,200,000,000,000. That might catch our eye. It might make us wonder how we can afford it. How much more will “we” be taxed.

Even the TV & radio media drop the ball. $1.2 trillion. Ho Hum. How about saying, twelve hundred piles of billion-dollar bundles. Or better yet, twelve hundred thousand piles of million dollar bundles. It might perk our interest a little more.

They do this type of clarification all the time with the weather! “It’s going to be 86 degrees today, but the heat/humidity index will make it feel more like 100.” Or, “It’s going to be 16 degrees tomorrow morning, but with the wind chill factor it will feel like five below.”

Once the money that Washington and Albany threw around got to be more than a million, a disconnect occurred between the spenders and the people that pay the bill. A billion here, a billion there. We hardly knew the difference between a billion and a million after a while. It didn’t dawn on us often enough, that a billion is one-thousand million. Line up 1,000 millionaires, each sitting on a pile of one million, dollar bills, take a picture, and that’s what a billion looks like. A trillion is 1,000 times as much as that. Now you’ve got the average American’s attention. Oh yes, we need the media to pay as much attention to the politicians’ love of spending as they do trying to scare us about the weather, which is a trillion times less important.

Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com