The Old Coot sliced on a slant. Oops? Published in Owego NY on 4/29/2026

 The Old Coot pans the diagonal cut.

By Merlin lessler

I just finished a stressful computer glitch the other morning, I needed some comfort food. I decided on a slice of toast. I ran the bread through two cycles, to get it dark, but not quite charred. It reminds me of making toast over a fire in my camping days. It’s a tricky task to get it just right. I put it on a plate in front of me; buttered it and cut it in half. For some reason, unknown to me, I cut it on a slant. Something I rarely do.

I usually cut things in two, on a line that is parallel to the sides. It’s one of those things you do without thinking, like putting on shoes and socks. You usually do the same foot first, slip on the sock and then either the shoe or the other sock. Some people slip on both socks first, then their shoes. It’s the same sort of thing with pants and shirts: right leg first, right arm first or the opposite. Whatever, you usually do the same thing every time when you get dressed. When you do think about it, you get confused.

So, there I was with a piece of toast that I’d purposefully cut on a slant. Some people always do a slant cut, some always do a straight cut, converting a square into two rectangles. Other people don’t cut toast or sandwiches at all. They eat them intact. I don’t know what to say about people who cut off the crust; that’s the best part.

When I was a soda jerk in high school at Soldo’s Rexall Drug Store I learned the quarter cut. That’s how we made a BLT. We cut the finished product on a slant, twice, stuck a toothpick into each quarter and set them on a plate with potato chips in the center. To me, it was a work of art. Every once in a while, I do that myself every once in a while on a trip down memory lane to my high school days.

But, back to that slant-cut piece of toast. It’s not a good way to cut when you want to dunk the toast into a cup of hot chocolate. It won’t fit properly; just the tip. That’s all I’ve got. I just talked myself into two more slices of toast and a cup of hot chocolate. No slant cut this time. Why not, I’m a skinny guy, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t gain weight. I’m not complaining, or bragging, just stating a fact. I can’t hop, skip or jump either. That’s the stuff that happens when you’re an old coot.

Comments? Send to - mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot has coffee elbow. Published 04/22/2026 in upstate NY

 The Old Coot asks, “Tennis anyone?”

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m sitting on the patio at a Starbucks in Ormond Beach, watching two little birds hop around picking crumbs from the cracks between the tiles. Not too exciting you say. You’re wrong. It is. For an old coot, anyhow. It’s a nice distraction from a changing world. When you’re young, you can’t wait for change – to graduate from school – to get a job – to get married – to get your own place – to buy a new car. Eventually, you go the other way; you don’t want change; you want things to stay the way they are. That’s when you officially become an old coot. You’ve decided that most changes are not for the better. (for me)

 It means another friend has moved away. It means your favorite restaurant went out of business. It means you’ve heard yet another clerk say, “They don’t make that anymore.”  You just want to cover your ears and block out the changes that pop into your life in an endless parade: eggs are bad for you, coffee is bad for you, meat is bad for you, your mower can’t be repaired, and the new ones won’t start unless you squeeze the handle.  CHANGES = UGH!

 Today’s change is my elbow. The right one, to be specific. It hurts. It’s a new pain; I never had it before. So, I sit here drinking coffee with my left hand, dribbling a few drops on my clean shirt, distracting myself by watching two little birds have their breakfast. Eventually, I’ll have to get back to the elbow and try to puzzle it out, to wonder why I didn’t appreciate it last week when it felt so good.

 When I’m asked what I did to cause the problem, my answer will be the same answer I’ve had for every other new issue. “Nothing!” I did a couple of push-ups. I took out the garbage. I hosed off the car. I raked some leaves. I really didn’t do anything to it! I hate this conversation because it always ends up with the same response from everybody: my doctor, my wife, my friends. “You’ve got to expect that at your age!”

 I’ve learned to deal with these things. I’ll tell people it's tennis elbow. I won’t mention that the last time I played tennis was in 1991 when my 17-year-old daughter, Amy, beat me for the first time. That’s when I invented tennis elbow and used it as an excuse to save myself from further embarrassment. Now, the pain that I faked so long ago has finally arrived. I think I figured it out as I sat here watching the birds. The pain comes from constantly walking around with a container of coffee in my hand. My elbow finally gave out. I have coffee elbow!      

The Old Coot doesn't cross at the corner. Published 04/15/2026

 Where did the Old Coot cross the street?

By Merlin Lessler

Most mornings I leave the coffee group I hang out with, walk a quarter of a mile through a parking lot at a shopping plaza and then half way across a busy four-lane street to a small island space between the two lanes going north and the two lanes going south. I wait there, and when no cars are coming, I hustle the rest of the way across. I use the word hustle loosely, because my stride is anything but.

Anyhow, from there, I walk back toward the intersection that I avoided by crossing in the middle of the block, take a left down the sidewalk to the beach and then onward, either north or south for a half-mile or more, depending on what the tide is doing. When it’s low tide, the beach is wide and flat; at high tide it’s narrow and on a slant, not a good way to walk for an old coot. That’s what dictates how far I will go.

I cross paths with an old guy on my walk; one day I found him crossing the road in the same spot I do. (He’s 90, so I can call him an old guy.) We’d nod and say good morning most times, but that day, I said, “Jack, I see you cross in the same spot I do.” He smiled, and said “Oh yeah; if you cross at the traffic light, even with a green pedestrian arrow, you can get run over by a car turning right on red.” Drivers only look to the left to make sure no cars are coming, and then bolt to the right and into the crosswalk.

Us old guys know how to cross. Everyone is taught to never cross in the middle of the block, always at the corner. Jack and I figured out it is outdated advice, and wrong. Downright dangerous! It’s a safety rule that hasn’t been brought up to date; it doesn’t take the “right-on-red” rule into consideration. A lot of people have been hit, hurt, even killed, crossing at the corner. My friend. Daren got dumped off his bike by a right-on-red turner; he was just sitting there with the front wheel in the crosswalk, waiting for a chance to go. I’ve had a few close calls myself. But not anymore.

 The problem is even worse, now that pedestrian crossing lights have been installed at hundreds of thousands of intersections across the country. Part of a federal pedestrian safety effort. People push the button, wait for the “go” signal, and think it’s safe to cross. It is, until a right-on-red driver is sitting at the stop light and in a hurry. The rule that a pedestrian has the right of way, is no longer in play. It’s been replaced with, “Walker beware!”

The Old Coot gets off track. Published in Owego NY 04/08/2026

 The Old Coot gets off track (as usual).

By Merlin Lessler

I write to laugh at today’s world and my ineptness to adapt to it. Sometimes I get off track and stuck on grievance, again and again, but eventually that helps me accept it. I kept getting stuck on how hard it is to open things sealed in plastic or bottles with tops that are too small to grip. I’ve aired those complaints so often the issue has become an amusement. When I’m confronted with it, I laugh out loud as I struggle to open something.  

I also write with a “Pass-the-Wisdom-along,” theme, in an attempt to give people headed toward old age a glimpse of the issues they will face, a roadmap to help prepare for the inevitable. And, to learn to laugh at themselves rather than fret over it on the steps along the old age path.

The old age journey is much easier in Japan where the elderly are respected, even revered. The journey is different here in our youth-oriented society. Old coots are either invisible to young people or a joke. We learn to laugh at ourselves along with them, knowing their day will come. If you laugh at life in general and old age in particular, the journey in all its absurdity is a more pleasant way to travel.

I stumble around with a lack of balance caused by neuropathy in my feet and legs. But I do get around, and pretty well. Especially if I’m using a walking stick or simply touching something nearby. Any stable object or a person’s shoulder will do. I learned that technique from my friend Doc Williams, who gave a talk on balance at a Rotary meeting several years ago. He especially stressed using a stick rather than a cane, so you walk upright.  

I’m scratching my head at this point, wondering what I was trying to get at in this article. You would think that after writing over 1500 old coot essays, I would be able to stay on track, but I can’t. I put a pen in my hand, grab a piece of paper and off I go. Often not knowing where. The stuff spins out on its own and I take credit for it. Sometimes something good, sometimes something bad, and often something I never expected.

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot learns the Irish Goodbye Published in upstate New York

 The Old Coot does a disappearing act.

By Merlin Lessler

I read an article in the Wall Street journal by Alison C. Cheperdak titled, “In Defense of the Irish Goodbye,”-  (leaving a party without saying goodbye may be the most polite option) The title really caught my interest because I know the consequences of saying goodbye: it will engage the “Goodbye Process,” a term I coined and explained in a 2005 Old Coot article. In a few words, it extends leaving for many, many, minutes, from a man’s viewpoint. When his wife says it’s time to leave, he thinks they will be finding the hosts, saying thanks and goodbye. But for his wife, it means going to everyone she had a conversation with, rehashing it and saying good bye, plus thanking the hosts. At minimum, the process takes 15 minutes. The husband is standing with her, figuratively tugging at her sleeve saying, “Can we go now, can we go now?”  Like a five-year-old would do in a store with his mother. The male/female roles can sometimes be switched, but that’s not my experience!

For years I have been accused of doing a disappearing act. I'd be at an event with a lot of people and eventually someone would ask, “Where did Lessler go?”  -  “Oh, he’s gone. He just leaves.” I learned long ago whether it’s a cocktail party or just a bunch of people at a bar, if you say you’re leaving, they always try to stop you. “Come on, have one more!” Not me. I just disappear. (When I’m by myself. I can’t get my wife to join in.)  I never knew it had an official name – “Irish Goodbye.” Now I do.

The journalist says it's almost rude not to do that sometimes; if you're at a wedding for example. The bride and groom go table to table having a little chat with everybody and finally get to sit down to enjoy the reception. But, they are interrupted all the time by people coming over to say goodbye and redo the same conversation they already had. Would Emily post approve? Maybe? You just have to read the room. If your absence won't be noticed, you're in the clear. If leaving without a goodbye could cause confusion or concern, a discrete farewell whispered to the host strikes the perfect balance between tradition and convenience. My behavior has finally been validated. Thank you, Wall Street Journal.

 Ps. If you’d like to read the original 2005 Coot article explaining the Goodbye Process in full, just e-mail a request to me at mlessler7@gmail.com and I’ll e-mail you a copy.

The Old Coot roamed free. Published in Owego NY

 

The "young" Old Coot roamed free.

By Merlin Lessler

I was listening to Will Shortz, the Puzzle Master on NPR, a few Sundays ago. He invites over the phone) one of the people who successfully solved the previous week’s puzzle. This week’s winner was a young father. He introduced himself, said where he lived and what NPR station he listened to. Will asked him what he did besides solving word puzzles in his spare time. The contestant hesitated for a few heartbeats and then said, “I have a seven-year-old daughter who plays soccer and a nine-year-old son who’s an indoor rock climber. That keeps me pretty busy.

I’m sure it does. That’s the normal way with kids these days. Parents attending and traveling all over the place to “organized” sport activities, taking turns bringing healthy snacks and drinks for the kids – carrot sticks, spinach balls, tofu candy, wheat stalks and crab grass. At least that’s what I imagine it to be, since I don’t really know what a healthy kid’s snack is. At any rate, no pizza and soda for these guys!

 I was lucky, I grew up in a world where kids handled their own sports activities. Parents were not involved. Little League was the only organized sport for kids in the 1950’s. I played on the Elks team in Binghamton, New York. We got a spaghetti dinner at the Elks clubhouse at the end of the year. That was our healthy snack for the season. Never was there an adult in the bleachers, just siblings and bored kids looking for something to do. It wasn’t because of lack of parental interest, but because the games were played on weekday afternoons during summer vacation, unlike the games today. Mom was home; dad was at work.

All our sports were unorganized - played in back yards, empty fields or unused park areas. We chose up sides and did our own officiating. The game was adjusted to match the number of participants and the location. The handle of our baseball bat was usually wrapped in tape, because some “idiot” hit the ball on the label and cracked it. A serious No-No! The ball often had been taped up too, having lost its cover; we couldn’t afford the two bucks to buy a new one. Most of our income came from redeeming deposit bottles. Sometimes we even had to share gloves, tossing ours to a kid coming out of the dugout when we ran off the field for our turn at bat.     

We were lucky, my generation. We walked out the back door with a bat on our shoulder and a mitt in our hand, or carrying a football or basketball. Our mom said, “Be careful,” on our way out. That was the extent of parental involvement. At least in my neighborhood.

The Old Coot reached drinking age? Published in Owego NY and elsewhere on 3/17/26

 The Old Coot proves he over 21.

By Merlin Lessler

My friend Roy is 86 years old. He says 86 going on 87. When you are in your eighties, you give your age just like little kids do. If you say to a four-year old, “I hear you are four years old now.” He will reply, “No, I’m four and one half.” (I’m 83 ½ myself). Anyhow, Roy bought some hard cider at a high-end grocery store near Cornell University the other day. He couldn’t buy it unless he proved he was of legal drinking age. I’m sure he chuckled. I did when he told me about it. And to make it worse, the clerk requested proof from his eighty-four year old wife, who was standing next to him. She didn’t have her driver’s license with her. The manager had to be summoned to allow the purchase. It’s frustrating that companies don’t trust their employees to use their judgment with company policies when it’s obvious that someone is over 21. They make the rules ironclad. No bending allowed.

I run into the same thing every year at Watkins Glen during the vintage racing car festival. The main street through town is closed to traffic so the original Watkins Glen sport car races can be reenacted on the original race course route that went through the village. Several spectators were hurt and one was killed in 1952, bringing to an end racing through town. The sponsors then built the present day race track on the hill above the village.

At the festival, the streets in town are littered with a large array of early sports cars. Beer stands litter the area as well and the “no open container” law is suspended. It cost five bucks for a small beer in a flimsy plastic cup. But not for me; I go to the gas station in the middle of it all and buy a giant can of Miller Lite for $2.29. I get proofed, but I’ve done it enough times to expect it and have my driver’s license ready. A small inconvenience for twice the beer and half the price.

The trouble we now face is that more and more customer interaction functions are being handled by artificial intelligence. Those idiot savants aren’t as smart as the developers claim. But you can be sure of one thing. Roy and I are going to show ID for the rest of our lives, no matter how many wrinkles we get. It’s always going to be, “Their way or the highway!”