The Old Coot leans to the left. (Published 10-28-2026 in ny state)

 The Old Coot leans to the left

By Merlin Lessler

 I found myself listing to the left the other day. It’s not the first time I reported this issue, but it’s been a while.  I noticed it as I walked across the street (jaywalking, of course) and saw my reflection in a store window. I was on a tilt, like a ship in high seas, about to capsize. This was yet another old coot affliction that came my way.

 It all started with a sore knee. Like all old knees, abused by running and weekend warrior sporting activities at a time in life when old age seems a far off rumor, they flare up every once in a while. No big deal. Treat it kindly for a few days and the irritation goes away. (A few weeks if you don’t behave.) So, the tender knee started me on a list to the left. Then I slept wrong on my shoulder. It joined my knee in protest. My framework adjusted and increased the list.

 My back didn’t like being pulled out of kilter, so it joined the chorus, increasing the angle of my lean to 15 degrees. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. “Ok, I’m a little crooked. So what?” Like that old poem about meeting a crooked man, who walked a crooked mile that we recited back when memorizing poems was still a part of the curriculum in public schools. But there is a “So what,” when you’re an old coot. Listing to the left can set you up for a fall. If you step off a curb with your left foot your weight shifts in that direction and you aren’t ready for it, down you go. An old coot lying in the gutter.

 One fall should be enough to get you used to your left leaning tendency, but us old coots reside in a state of denial and usually forget the affliction that affects us at the moment. It takes several close calls before we adjust. Eventually, the knee gets better, the shoulder returns too normal and the sore back reluctantly goes along. Presto! We’re standing straight again. As straight as an old coot can anyhow. We gloat a little, and brag to our self, “I won another one!” We know something new will come our way; it’s just a matter of time. But that’s part of the fun, the adventure of living in an old coot body. Might as well enjoy it.

 

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Old Coot Tattoos! (Published in NY and Penn on 10-21-2026

 Old Coot tattoos are different. By Merlin lessler

Tattoos are quite popular these days.  You see them wherever you go. – A name – a scene – an animal- a symbol – some expression that tells, “This is who I am.” Most of my old coot friends are tattoo free. We don’t decorate our skin; we decorate our clothes.

I don’t know what’s going on here – my clothes seem to be magnetically charged positive, while food and drinks are charged negative. As soon as I get a roll of spaghetti wrapped around my fork, the attraction process engages. I hardly lift it from the plate on a journey to my mouth and a splash of spaghetti sauce flies over and lands on my shirt. I don’t notice it, so the food stain imbeds into the fabric, later to be joined by salad dressing, topped off with a smear of chocolate cake frosting.  

My wife looks over at me, reports the stain process under way on my shirt and I make a lame attempt to remove the stain by dipping my napkin in water and have at it. Sometimes, a waitress notices what I’m doing and brings over a small glass of soda water to help with the removal process. It doesn’t work on magnetized old coot stains. A table mate digs in her purse and hands me a Tide Stick. That doesn’t work either.

I leave the table, proudly sporting my new Old Coot tattoos. Sometimes I attempt to cover them up with my arms, but I look like an idiot with them draped at odd angles across my chest that yield strange looks from the other diners. Some guys hike up their pants to cover up a stain. That’s why you see some of them with their pants pulled up to their arm pits. I’m not going to do that. I’m just going to proudly sport my “Tats” and show everyone I went out to dinner.  

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Old Coot's many kinds of friends. (Published 10/14/26 in NY)

The Old Coot has many kinds of friends.

By merlin lessler

 I have all “kinds” of friends. Most people do. The number of different kinds is intriguing to me. Such a simple word, “friend,” can have so many variations. I have two kinds of “oldest friends” – one is Woody; we’ve been friends since we were three years old. The other is Lester; he turned 101 in August.  We have coffee most mornings when I’m in New York for the summer. The shoe is on the other foot when I’m in Florida; I’m the oldest friend to the guys I have coffee with there.

Other kinds of friends I have are: work friends, neighborhood friends and walking friends (people I cross paths with quite often on the sidewalks). We say Hi to each other, or have a short chitchat. I also have bike friends – people along the route I bump into quite frequently, Similar to sidewalk friends. But we rarely stop and chat. I have locker room & swimming pool friends at the YMCA and the high school where I swim laps. I have “lifelong” friends, those people I may not see for long periods of time, but when I do, it’s like we saw each other yesterday. They stretch as far back as elementary school days.

Now, to the tricky ones – girlfriends and boyfriends. I’ll take the male perspective and hope not to ignite a “Men are from Mars - Women are from Venus” squabble. I use the generic term – girls. I’m not going to refer to someone’s relationship partner, as his woman or lady friend. That just sounds weird to me It’s also tricky due to the number of forms these “girlfriend” relationships can take.  A guy might say, “This is Betty; we are dating.” Or, “This is my friend Betty.” – “This is Betty, my fiancé.” – “This is my partner, Betty.”

Sometimes these introductions get too detailed. “We live together.” – “We have a kid together.” “We’ve been engaged for 35 years. One encounter I had with a guy who was in a complex relationship got totally flustered when introducing her. (not married, have a kid, sometimes live together, might get engaged someday). On and on he went, struggling to explain their complex relationship. I finally said, “I’ll just call her your cousin and leave it at that.” He thanked me.  A few years later I ran into him; he introduced her as his wife. I couldn’t help myself and asked, “So is it legal to marry your cousin in this state?” He may not be my friend anymore. Casual friends, family friends, ex-wife’s friends. It is a big list, these different kinds of friends we have. I’m sure you can add several more, but my brain is on overload at this point. So, I’ll end right here.   

The Old Coot's world is getting thinner. (Published in nys on October 7, 2026)

The Old Coot says his world is thinning out. By Merlin Lessler

My world is getting thinner and thinner. Paper bags are so thin they can’t hold groceries. They bust apart. The clerk tells you to hold the bag under the bottom. That’s good advice, but how do you do that with two or three bags. Some bags have handles, making you think they are stronger, but  they tear right off if you put more than a loaf of bread and a bag of potato chips inside. Forget that bag of sugar. It’s not just bags, all paper. products are thin and weak. Cardboard boxes for example. There is no “board” in the cardboard. They bust apart just as easily as the paper bags There is one good thing about them; they are easy to tear apart to fit into a recycle bin.

 It seems everything is thinner: toilet paper, paper towels and napkins so thin you can see through them. Shirt material is thinner. And, what happened to 100% cotton? Most denim in jeans is thin too, made with stretch synthetic junk. They used to stand up without you in them. Not anymore! Water bottles are so thin they crunch up when you grasp them to take off the top. A top that is so slim, you can barely grip it. When it breaks free, you are rewarded with a geyser. Even my skin is thinner. But I can only blame that on Father Time.

Our entire population has become thin-skinned too, getting mad at each other when on opposite sides of an issue. Band aids are thinner. So thin, they ball up before you can get them in place. And, what happened to that little red thread you pulled to get the band aid out of its envelope. I can just imagine some corporate scrooge getting a bonus because of how much money it saved.

How about skinny pants & slim pants. Less material, more profits. The slim ones aren’t too bad looking, but put a man in a suit with skinny pants and he looks like he’s wearing balled up leotards. There are many things that are thin, everything but our waistlines!

The Old Coot misses the garbage men! (Published in southern tier of NY on 09/23/26)

 The Old Coot misses the garbage men. By Merlin Lessler

I miss the garbage men. They’ve disappeared! I put the garbage and recycle containers out. A vehicle from a Star Wars movie comes by; a mechanical arm shoots out, hoists them in the air, dumps them into an enclosed tank and drives away. It’s kind of dull. I miss the actual garbage men. Two workers hanging off the back of the truck as it rattles down the street, a third team member driving, maneuvering through traffic and stopping at every residence. The pickers, hopping off before the truck comes to a full stop, running to the cans, yanking off the tops, racing back and dumping out the contents, then back to the curb, putting down the cans and slipping the top on (sort of) and moving on to the next neighbor. The process is repeated by a recycling crew later in the day

It was like an Olympic event! This was happening on both sides of the street, so the guy handling the opposite side, not only raced back-and-forth but had to dodge traffic at the same time. It was done with speed and delicacy, comparable to a ballet dancer fluttering across the stage. Our garbage service was handled by Taylor. Their guys went at full speed, all the time, in all kinds of weather. The heck with the Postal Creed, the Garbageman Creed was that in overdrive. I miss the clatter. I miss the conversations that took place from time to time and handing off a Christmas card with a tip in the envelope.

I miss the human element. A few years back I had a rare reaction to cholesterol medicine that I’d been on for years. It caused severe weakness in my arms and legs. I was the poster child for, “I’ve fallen and can’t get up.” Early one morning, I slipped to the ground getting into my car. I sat there on the road next to it, unable to get up. A woman driving by stopped to help, but she couldn’t get me up. She ran to the house and got my wife to come out, but the two of them couldn’t do it either. Then, along came one of Taylor’s garbage trucks. A tall skinny guy hopped off the truck, picked me up and put me back on my feet, as though I weighed 10 pounds. He said, “Have a good day,” hopped on the truck and left. I got better. I don’t need that service anymore, but I sure do miss the garbageman that got me up, and all the garbage men in general.

The Old Coot's first day to school, 1947 (Published 09/16/2026) in NY

 The Old Coot notes the differences.

By Merlin Lessler

First day of school circa; 1947. It was our turn, my friend Woody and me. We were five years old. The “older kids” who got us there were seven years old. My sister and his brother. We played on the playground outside the side door until the bell rang. We lined up with the rest of the kids until the principal allowed us to enter. Once inside, my sister pointed the way to the kindergarten classroom where Mrs. Shopper, the kindergarten teacher, stood by the door to welcome us. That was it!

After that first day, we got to school on our own, on a route that started on a path behind my house, went through a dormant farm field to a sidewalk that brought us to a cross walk on a busy street.  A 4^th grade, student patrol boy, equipped with a white belt across his chest and a silver badge helped us to make it safely across. Sometimes, a city police officer was stationed there as well. We learned a lot about life on those travels to and from school with the other kids in the area. It helped make us street smart, at least in the kid world.

I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but where I witness it, getting to school is a totally different story. School starts with orientation sessions where kids and parents learn the ropes and the rules. Bus transportation is provided for kids outside of walking distance, but many don’t take advantage of it. A parent drives them to school and picks them up every day! Long lines of vehicles crowd the school driveways and often spill out onto neighboring streets. The kids hop out of the car sporting backpacks, holding nutritious breakfast bars and are guided by the principal, teachers and security personnel to the school entrance. That’s a lot of adult involvement. We did it on our own. Today’s parents are more hands on, or as some call it, “Helicopter parents!” Kids today, can’t do anything by themselves, without “supervision.” Our parents were more at arms length. I think we had it better.

The Old Coot can't spell (Published in Owego, NY on 09/09/26)

 The Old Coot can’t spell. By Merlin Lessler

I recently finished reading “History Matters,” a collection of historian David McCullough’s essays and speeches. Not only is it a pleasant read, but highly educational too. So much so, that it should be included in the curriculum of every high school in America. I pulled out a couple of historical quotes that made me feel better about myself. Both have to do with the spelling of English Language words. It’s something I struggle with to this day. It started when I skipped ahead from second grade to third grade in the middle of the school year. On the first day in third grade, I faced a ten-word spelling test that I hadn’t had a chance to study for. I misspelled several words, but one has stayed with me all these years – CITY. I spelled it c-i-t-i, the way it sounded to me. I got a big fat “F.”

McCullough included two spelling-related quotes in his essays. The first was from Andrew Jackson – “I never had much respect for anyone with so little imagination as to be able to only spell a word one way.” The second, from an anonymous source remarking about Thomas Jefferson – “Jefferson can spell the same word two or three different ways in the same letter.”

I somehow feel vindicated, knowing I have famous company in my inability to spell. I’m constantly asking my wife Marcia, “How do you spell …..”. The spelling of two words in particular constantly baffle me – Bureaucracy and Octogenarian. (Even auto correct couldn’t spell that last one; I had to look it up in the dictionary.)

I have a dislike for bureaucracies. Thus, I frequently need to use the word since I often write about my latest confrontation with one. It’s the front-line employees who take the brunt of it from the incensed customers/citizens that can’t see why their organization can’t bend a rule when it makes so much sense. The rule makers, far up the ladder in corporations and government, are the real culprits. They don’t trust their employees to make exceptions and be guided by the Golden Rule – “Treat others the way you want to be treated.” It’s just that simple. Break a rule every once in a while.

Octogenarian is a term I like to use, to classy up how I refer myself. I throw it out there all the time. “I’m an octogenarian.” It helps when I want to go to the head of a line. It gets me through TSA in the airport and on to the plane in rapid fashion. Enough said. My misspelling of Boughacracy and Ogentenarian will haunt me forever.

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