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.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

 

 

Old Coot can't follow instructions. (Published 09/02/26)

 The Old Coot doesn’t follow instructions.

By Merlin Lessler

When you buy an item that requires assembly, you are going on an adventure. If you are lucky, the instructions will contain words. More often than not, it’s just a series of pictures. I have not assembled anything in this new world of instruction without “un-assembling” it a few times to get it right. And, what happened to screws and nails? I put some bookcases together last year that used fasteners I’d never seen before, taking me longer than I expected.

Some things today don’t come with any instructions at all. Most appliances seem to be like that, our Samsung range for example. It came with a QR code pasted to the oven door. We couldn’t figure out how to set the clock. Our daughter Alicia, with a chuckle, told us to just scan the QR code. We did. It took us to a website and instructed us to download an App. That’s how you set the clock, not on the range, but on the app. When we go from regular time to daylight savings time, it takes me forever to reset the clock because I can’t remember the name of the App or what it looks like. Multiple scrolls through the sea of Apps on my phone finally gets me there. (It’s called SmartThings, in case you were wondering. I thought Samsung was what I was looking for.) It should be called, “Instructions for Dummies.”

It’s just the opposite when it comes to automobiles. They come with a thick wad of instructions, often broken down into several booklets. You can’t use your instincts to work the smart screen or sometimes, to start the car, turn on the wipers and lights or shift from park to drive. You’re forced to dig out the manual, something you rarely did until twenty years or so ago. Back then, you could hop into any car and off you went. The controls were easy to find and use. Now, you need a lesson before you dare take off. What’s my point? Nothing! I’m just an old coot complaining about our modern world that continues to become less and less user unfriendly.

The Old Coot is losing his vocabulary. Published in the southern tier of ny..

 The Old Coot is losing his vocabulary.

By Merlin Lessler

There are certain words in the English language I can’t use anymore. It’s an old Coot thing. Words like “hop,” as in hop on a bike. I tilt mine at a severe angle, swing my leg so it barely makes it over the seat, straighten the bike back up so I can mount it and pedal away. But first, I feel for a pedal, push it up high, and then off I go, like a newborn colt trying out its legs for the first time. Another word is “dash.” If I applied for a Door-Dash job, they would have to replace the word dash with limp, shuffle and weave to the door.

Equestrian is another word I can’t use, not as it applies to me anyhow. I rode a horse on a trail in Utah at Zion National Park a couple years ago. His name was Frosty. It suited him to a tee. He was chilly, to say the least. He knew I was a hesitant rider and decided to make it my last time in the saddle. He kept trying to bite my leg and paid no attention when I pulled the reins. He bounced me along for more than an hour; I ended up with a nice blister at the bottom of my spine. I was never much of a rider anyhow. A horse I rode when I was a kid, bolted from the group, and galloped back to the barn. I ducked just in time to avoid smashing my head into the door frame. At my daughter Amy’s wedding, I led her on a white horse to an outcropping on a mountain in Colorado. The horse constantly nipped at and pushed me. No more equestrian antics for me.  

 

I can’t say “skip” anymore. Ten years ago, I got it into my head that I’d like to skip; it was something I loved to do when I was a kid. I skipped all over the south side of Binghamton. You can cover a lot of ground, and fast, when you skip. Close to running speeds. Ten years ago, it was still in my vocabulary. I tried it the other day. It wasn’t skipping; it was a jerk, wobble and stumbling kind of thing. Skip, as in skipping, is lost to my vocabulary. As is chin-up, hanging from a bar and pulling yourself up. That’s gone as well. I did 1/4 of one last week. What’s my point? Hang onto your vocabulary as long as you can.

 

The Old Coot looks back. (Published 08/12/2026)

 The Old Coot notices the old dress code.

By Merlin Lessler

Gerald R Smith, the former Broome County Historian and now Executive Director of the Tioga County Historical Society, had a column in the Binghamton Press a few weeks ago. It included a picture of a group of Endicott Johnson Shoe Company workers, circa 1935. The picture captured the images of fifteen workers and one foreman. The foreman was standing next to a rack of leather soles that the workers had carved out of thick, leather slabs.  He wore a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a tie and suspenders. It kind of surprised me.

Then, I looked at the workers; even more of a surprise. All 15 were in collared shirts, protected by work aprons; nine of them had on ties; two wore bow ties. One worker wore a derby hat, another wore an old fashion golf cap, sometimes referred to as a news boy cap. This crew was better dressed than most people you see in church today. Even better than some people at wedding receptions who call their dress style, casual chic. I’m sure none of those guys took their shirts to the dry cleaners, nor were they made from permanent press material. You can be sure they were cleaned in a ringer washer, hung out on a clothesline to dry and as you probably guessed, ironed by their wives. That’s the way it was in circa 1935.

My grandfather was a foreman at EJ’s in the early 1900’s. My mother worked in an EJ office in the 1930’s and I worked there in my teens during summer break, pushing around racks just like the one the foreman in Gerald Smith’s article was leaning on. Years later, I acquired three of those oak racks that became available after EJ went out of business. I removed the glue that had layered up over the years and refinished them. They were unique shelves for books, quilts and other vintage items that we collected. The only one left is in my daughter, Amy’s house, holding up quite well after 100 years of service. What’s my point? People were better dressed 100 years ago.

 

 

Photo From Gerald Smith’s column