The Old Coot doesn't get the whole story. Published on 11/12/2025 in NY

 The Old Coot never gets the whole story.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here I go again! Another foolish attempt to explain the difference between men and women, naively thinking it will help in the battle of the sexes, bringing Mars and Venus into compatible orbits. This time it’s the “men never get the whole story” phenomenon.

 A husband will come home and say to his wife, “I ran into Bill today; his son got married in the Bahamas last month.” He (the husband) thinks he did a good job, got the scoop and remembered to report it. He couldn’t be more wrong!

 The grilling begins! “Which son? Who did he marry? Did Bill and his wife attend or did the couple elope? Where are they going to live? Where did they meet? How long had they dated?” Each question is answered exactly the same, “I don’t know.” Men never get the whole story!

 They actually do get more facts than they report. But, not facts relevant to the “relationship” story. For example, the husband with the scoop on Bill’s son getting married did learn that the son drives a 2019 Mini Cooper with 8,000 miles on the odometer, that Bill shot a 97 on the golf course in spite of getting a 10 on the 16^th hole. But facts about the marriage? Absolutely none! He didn’t think to ask.

 It’s not his fault; it’s the way a man’s brain works. Next time, if he’s like most men, he won’t mention Bill’s son getting married. Mars will keep his orbit away from Venus.

 I don’t know why men are like this. It might be a memory problem; we forget we’ll face a cross-examination when we come home with a “report” like this. We eventually learn to cope, when we become old coots. But, we don’t fix our problem; we simply resort to fiction. We make up the answers. Our fingers are crossed when we step to the witness stand and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. 

 An old coot will respond to a “who-did-he-marry” question with made-up facts,  “A girl from California; they met in college.” – “Did Bill and Mary go to the wedding?” - “No the couple eloped.” On and on an old coot will go, perjuring himself to the nth degree, to avoid having his “men don’t get the whole story” syndrome exposed. Eventually, it will come out, but he’ll cover his tracks with, “I guess I heard it wrong,” revealing yet another male dysfunction, the “men don’t listen” syndrome, an aliment I explained a few years ago in my unending quest to quiet the battlefront in the war of the sexes.

 Complaints? Comments? Drop them at mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot drives with a navigator. Published 11/05/2025 in NYpapers

 The Old Coot Avoids Back-Seat Drivers!

By Merlin Lessler

 Back-seat driving is a term you don’t hear much anymore. It’s a throwback to the past, to the days when old-time comedian, Milton Berle and his ilk, joked about their wives being back-seat drivers. The men were at the controls, but she determined when to step on the brake, where to turn and how fast to go. She was so fearful of his driving that she sat in the back seat where it was safer.

 It’s quite a sight to imagine, an irritated old geezer with sweat pouring down his face and his wife huddled in the back seat screeching orders at him. We’ve all experienced a back seat driver at one time or another, though these days they don’t usually supervise from over your shoulder; they do it from the seat next to you, buckled in and protected by an air bag. Unfortunately, the more the back-seat driver supervises, the worse we drive. We lose our ability to steer, brake and shift in a safe and smooth fashion. “Turn left at the corner,” we’re told. “I know; you don’t have to tell me,” we whine. “Well, you missed it the last time!” (Of course I missed it; she didn’t tell me to turn.) We don’t need a back-seat driver. It’s the other way around. Having a back seat driver turns us into bad drivers; we miss turns, go too fast and put the brakes on at the last minute. We unconsciously relinquish control, when our driving is supervised.

 I do just fine when I’m by myself. I take the correct route, I never get a speeding ticket, and I haven’t had an accident in decades. Yet, when my “driving coach” gets in the car with me, my superb driving skills slip out the door as she slams it shut. I adjust my style to allow for the screeches and yells that will emanate from her side of the car. I shift into a new gear, “L,” short for Lazy. I no longer pay attention to the speedometer, the route or street signs. I’m not on the lookout for cyclists, pedestrians or jaywalking deer. Shifting into Lazy isn’t a conscious thing; it sort of happens on its own.

 I’ve learned (sort of) to be compatible with my driving supervisor. I guess things will change over time; I won’t even be at the wheel. I’ll be perched in the back seat of a driverless car, doing some screeching of my own.

Old Coot graduated stupid. Published in NY papers 10/29/2025

 The Old Coot graduated stupid.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m kind of irked that I graduated from high school, STUPID! I knew nothing about anatomy, a critical subject to help one get through life. Wouldn’t you think that knowledge of how this mechanism works that travel around in all our lives would be important?

Anyhow, I learned anatomy the hard way. Waiting for the doctor, in the “little room,” and reading the information and looking at pictures on charts hanging on the wall. It was a long, slow process that I’ve been at for more than sixty years. Oh boy! So that’s where my kidneys are. Man, a liver is big. Look at all the bones in the ear. Who would think there were so many bones in such a small space?

I learned some stuff from doctors. It usually started out OK, but when they switched to Latin I was lost, even though I took several years of it in high school. I wasn’t familiar with any of the words I heard in the little room. When I got home, I looked them up in a dictionary, to see if I could figure what the Doctor was talking about. It was a lot harder in the pre-Google years. Not so bad now, but too late for me since I already know enough to qualify for an anatomy certificate. 

I don’t know what’s taught in school these days. All we had on how the body functioned was a single semester in Health Class that focused on hygiene, nutrition and dental health. And, a single afternoon when an embarrassed elderly Health teacher tried to cover the subject of sex education. I don’t know who was more uncomfortable, the teacher or us. There were no questions; we couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

These days when I find myself lacking some medical information, I use Google to help me out, but more importantly, I have a collection of old coot friends that are a wealth of knowledge and advice on just about any affliction that comes your way in old age. They’ve had it all and now are heart specialists, joint replacement experts, digestive system affliction pros and many more afflictions encountered by old men. And, you don’t have to wait in the “little room” for an explanation, that you’re probably not going to understand anyway.

Old Coot is learns a new language. Published October, 22, 2025 in NY Papers

 The Old Coot Takes A Language Lesson

By Merlin Lessler

 

I had a conversation in Owego-speak the other day. It’s a language I’ll never be fluent in. It’s spoken by native Owegoites. They give you the genetic history of anybody whose name comes into the conversation. “Oh, there’s Tom Smith,” the Owegoite declares. “Who’s he?” you naively ask. “You know,” they respond, in perfect Owego-speak, “His sister’s, husband’s, first wife is the one who set fire to the house next to the Great American.”

 

Now you’re confused. “Where’s the Great American?” you ask, in a puzzled voice. “It’s where the CVS is now,” they explain. You start to get a little irritated. “Why didn’t you say, next to CVS?” But you’ve been down this road before. You chide yourself for not keeping your mouth shut. You know you’ve just kicked off a whole new round of Owego-speak. They pick up your fumble and take off down the field, “Because it wasn’t the CVS when she lived there, DUH!” They go on and on, entwining more local names into the discourse, ending with, “And, it doesn’t matter anyhow because she now lives on Front Street.” You do it again; you ask another open ended question, “Where on Front Street?” - They reply in Owego-speak, “Across the street from the Bassett house. I lived in the Bassett house when I first moved to Owego. Then I moved to the Ross – Farrington – Loring - Rutherford house, depending on who you are talking to. You never live in your own house in Owego-speak.

 

The Old Coot is out of date, yet again. Published 09/24/2025

 The Old Coot bends and stretches.

By Merlin Lessler

Here we go again, being offered yet another way to eliminate a simple chore. FINDING A KID’S SNEAKER! When a kid said, “Where’s my sneakers,” their mom or dad responded, “Go look for them yourself!” (Unspoken, but on the parent’s mind, “That’s your problem. I’ve got my own, trying to figure out how to help you make a miniature volcano for show and tell.)  That may be a slight exaggeration, and I’m sure a large swath of the population disagrees with my perspective. But, why else would a major footwear company like Sketchers think that a lot of parents want to be relieved of the challenge of finding misplaced sneakers?  They already proved that people don’t want to be bothered with a simple chore like tying the laces in their sneakers. The enormous sales success of their “Slip- ins” verified that assumption.

But this new product, a sneaker for kids with a hidden compartment, where a parent can insert an air tag chip to solve the problem when a kid says, “Mom, Where’s my sneakers.” At least, that’s how they are promoting the product. A quick glance at an app on a cell phone locates the sneakers. What the heck, another task is now eliminated from the modern-day world. I guess the lost sneaker issue takes too much effort: looking, thinking, bending and moving stuff around.

We’ve eliminated many common day chores. We don’t wash our cars, push a lawnmower, rake leaves. We can’t even dry our hands with a towel in many public restrooms; we are forced to use a screaming, high-pitched, ultrasonic blow dryer, a definite threat to hearing. I don’t know about women’s restrooms, but in men’s, most guys give the blower a few seconds, get impatient and bothered by the noise and finish the job by wiping their hands on their jeans. The list of physical stuff we no longer do is endless. Some people replace the exercise that was lost by going to the gym. Or more often, with nothing at all.

I’m not going to put a chip in my sneakers. I’ve opted for all the bending, stretching, looking, thinking and moving things around that I can get. Us old timers need to stick with the credo, “Use it or lose it.” I know I can’t afford to lose any more of it .   

The Old Coot comes up empty. Published September 17, 2025 in NY papers

The Old Coot has nothing.

By Merlin Lessler

I was on the road in my 1983, Sears, Free Spirit, 10 speed bicycle last Sunday afternoon. It was a perfect Autumn Day with the temperature in the 70s paired with a beautiful collection of clouds sweeping across the sky. I was hoping to stumble onto a germ of an idea for this week’s column. And, getting nowhere! I peddled past a swath of houses along the river, with manicured lawns, well-kept gardens and inviting front porches that faced the Susquehanna River.  No people in sight, no walkers, no bikers, no porch sitters. I crossed Main Street into the village park. No Pickleball players, no kids shooting hoops, swinging, coming down the slides, sweeping across the monkey bars or buzzing around in the skateboard park. No People and no ideas for an article.

I kept on peddling, crossing the railroad tracks into what the residents there call, “The Flats.” It’s primarily a residential area with a few commercial entities in one quadrant; it’s separated from the rest of the village by an active set of railroad tracks. I didn’t see any kids as I peddled, no games of tag, hide & seek, no Cowboys & Indians for sure, a childhood obsession in my day, long gone now. I next rode into the school K - 12 campus. The elementary school playground was empty. All that beautiful play equipment sat idle.

I peddled on and on through the complex, but not a soul in sight, not on the tennis courts or on the track around the football field. So, I stopped to “speed” walk, as I call it, on the artificial turf, going from one end zone to the other, dodging imaginary tacklers as I ran kick-offs the length of the field, scoring a touchdown every time. You can do this when there’s no one around. And there wasn’t!

There also wasn’t anyone on the Little League or the high school baseball fields, nor on the soccer practice grounds. No one was playing a pick-up game of baseball. Kids don’t play pick-up games today, for the most part. Everything is organized these days, maybe with a little too much parental involvement. Not like my day, when no one but the players and the coaches showed up for Little League games. How could they; we played in the afternoon when dad was at work and mom was tending to things at home.

But mostly, we played pick-up (sand -lot) games: baseball, football and basketball. Even if there were only two of us, we could devise a World Series game with Mickey Mantle at the plate.

I still had no idea for an article. It felt like I was in a Stephen King novel where I was the only person left in an empty town. I guess I’ll give it another try next weekend. All I can offer is this, my lack of anything interesting to comment on. Nothing going on in town; nothing going on in my head. 

The old coot eliminates a sock problem. Published in NY on Sept. 10, 2025

 The Old Coot skips the socks.

By Merlin Lessler

I'm in the YMCA in Florida, sitting on a bench in the locker room, getting dressed after swimming laps in a 24- lane, outdoor pool. Why am I in Florida? In August? I had to do some mid-summer yard work, to keep bushes from overtaking the house so I came down for a couple of weeks.  It’s exciting to sit and watch the thermometer move toward 100, and then keep going. At least for a guy from the north country. While I was in the YMCA locker room, a guy on the other side of the room was groaning and grunting as he struggled to put on his socks. An old guy, like me. He finally got them on and then swore, “Darn it! I put on my dirty socks, not the clean ones I brought with me,” and started the whole process over again. I hadn't gotten to my socks yet; it can be quite a challenge for an old guy to get a sock started over his toes. But I did just fine; I skipped the socks and put on my sneakers. Socks are overrated.

Then, a younger guy came in; he got dressed standing up, socks, shoes, pants and shirt. I looked over to him, and like the guy in the Progressive Insurance TV commercial who is told to stop talking to strangers and acting like his parents.” I said, “I'm so jealous. I haven't been able to do that for 20 years.” He laughed and said he was 52, and already could tell that his time of getting dressed while standing up was coming to an end.

He’s smarter than I was at that age. I remember getting dressed like that at the Binghamton YMCA when I was in my 50’s. Three old guys sat on a bench nearby working hard to get dressed. One of them broke the ice. “Sonny, enjoy it while you can. Your time to sit on a bench to get dressed is coming.” I never forgot that encounter. Even now, I can clearly picture the three of them sitting on that bench, but the image in my mind, now has me sitting alongside them.

The dressing problems I had back then were to avoid mixing plaids with stripes, not getting into my clothes. Now, beside the sock issue, it’s avoiding going around with a T-shirt, or pants with an elastic waistband on backwards.

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