Why is the Old Coot stressed? Published in New York and Pennsylvania on April 9, 2025

 The Old Coot is stressed out for no reason.

By Merlin Lessler

 Us old coots are a creative bunch. We’ve gone through our childhood into adulthood and on to old coothood (which is similar to our childhood years) – Retired - on Social Security - Medicare and a pension (if we’re lucky). Our kids are grown, grandkids too. Life is simple, not a care in the world. Stress free!

 Or, should I say- seemingly stress free. In truth, we’re more stressed than anytime in our lives. We create it. Doctor’s appointment today! Will we get there on time? Will we run into a traffic jam? Will we find a parking spot? Will there be a line at the check in counter? A seat in the waiting room? All that, before we even get to the day of the appointment.

 But, we do get there. Miraculously! Half an hour early. Then we wait. What seems like an hour, looking around the room knowing every person there is ahead of us. Finally, we get escorted to the “little room.” An aide quizzes us, a bunch of, how are you doing and why are you here questions and then grabs your arm and squeezes it in what feels like a vice to get your blood pressure. Which is always high at that moment, at least for me. How could it not be, with all the stress of getting there? You explain it’s not high when we check it at home. They turn away, roll their eyes, and tell you they’ll take it again so they can let you go home. MORE STRESS!

 Now comes the hard part, waiting for the doctor. Or, more commonly today, a physician’s assistant or a nurse practitioner. How long will I wait? Will I remember all the things I wanted to ask? We have written them down, but when we pull the note out of our pocket, it’s the grocery list. The list for the doctor is back home, sitting on the kitchen table.

 So, all that stress to handle a simple task and it bore no fruit. We flunked! We have the exam and remember one or two things we wanted to ask, but know that when we get home, our wife is going to ask what the doctor said about X, Y, and Z. More stress. We say the heck with it, and go to McDonalds and wolf down a Big Mac, fries and a milkshake. No stress now. Cholesterol crowding the “high” line? So what!  We just don’t give a damn.      

 

 

The Old Coot has the side effects, not the benefit. Published in NY State (04/02/2025)

 The Old Coot has the side effects.

By Merlin Lessler

 If you watch regular TV, or even streaming TV, you can’t escape a barrage of ads for prescription drugs. I used to think of drug dealers as guys in back alleys, wearing top coats, selling heroin. Now, it’s pharmaceutical companies on TV pushing legal drugs; some are worse for you than the illegal ones. A lot of the supplements can have adverse effects too, or be of little value, but they aren’t required by the FDA to warn of the side effects.

 My main problem with these ads, as an old coot, is with prescription drugs. I watch the ad promo, but I also listen to the list of possible side effects. It’s hard because they are accompanied by wonderful, but distracting imagery. I may not even take the medicine, but I still experience many of the side effects. I get all the bad and none of the good. If old age had been advertised when I was young, with the possible side effects, I would have been better prepared.

 It should have been a subject in high school, along with the side effects of credit card use and other real life skills. Kids can parrot the state capitals, but can they explain how compound interest can compromise their life style? Or, that they will have to pay a plumber $100 to clean the screen in a faucet that they could do in two minutes themselves.

 I started writing this article to complain that I have some of the side effects of medicines I don’t even take; I ended up complaining about the lack of practical life skills in our school classrooms. I never know where this pen will take me when I sit down to write an article. It’s something Miss Foley, my high school English teacher never taught me, but apparently taught Rod Serling, creator of the Twilight Zone, who was her student too, eighteen years before I sat in the back of her classroom. If she had, or if I had paid attention, you wouldn’t have to suffer when my article wanders all over the place. Or maybe, it’s just an old coot thing. And no, I’m not comparing myself to Rod Serling, just the opposite.    

The Old Coot is from Mars, not Venus. Published in NY on March26, 2025

 The Old Coot escapes a male chauvinist bullet. By Merlin Lessler

 A few weeks ago, I commented on the differences between men and women ordering a dozen donuts. A Mars versus Venus thing. Men step to the counter and run through their selections at machine gun speed; Women, not so much. My long distance friend in Texas, David Kerby, said he would love to see the critical responses I would get from women. The only reaction I received was this one from Tracy Landrum. 

 Merlin-   I love this article! Your description of women couldn’t be more accurate, and I am one of them. I used to wait table for a living. I cringed when I saw a group of ladies come in. I knew they would select a table they believed would be the most comfortable; regardless if it was the only dirty one in the place. Women like the air conditioning adjusted, the blinds rearranged, and everything they don’t intend to use for their experience OFF the table.  After viewing a menu for some time, it’s time to place the order, and now they want to ask what’s good?  Women don’t want to set the server free to tend to another task while they hem and haw over what they should order…because then you won’t be available the moment they have decided what they want! (that could lead to missing out on group conversation).

 Ladies have got to get better prepared before stepping up to the line.  If you don’t know what you want, take YOUR time, not someone else’s.  Not everyone is amused by the hemming and hawing and fumbling for your money while they wait in line behind you. Honestly, women must realize they are holding up the valuable time of those who have already done their groundwork and are prepared!  Your observation here is dead on! Have you seen the Amazon prescription commercial where the man is 6th in line to pick up mom’s prescription (because she couldn’t just have it delivered by Amazon as he requested) and the man has to wait in line behind the woman who is purchasing a garden item at the pharmacy with no price tag on it? Haha, it captures some of the same behavior you describe here in your article.

 Women also love to touch items, smell them, compare them, stare at them, think about them. It’s a wonder any of us picked a mate! I love that I have a husband who will do the errand running and HE will be the one to get the order together, step right up, and “chop chop”, out with the order!  He has spent time learning what I like to eat at each restaurant, and isn’t shy to print up a menu at home for me to help speed things along before we go out.  I think it’s sweet and helpful. I don’t know if all women would agree with that, but it might be a helpful hint to the men who would like to speed things up. 

 Thanks for a good laugh, I always enjoy your articles.  Take Care, Tracey. Sent from my iPhone

The Old Coot loves his bracelet. Published March 19, 2025 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot loves his bracelet.

By Merlin Lessler

I was with my young friend Scotty the other day. He’s a kid, just became eligible for Social Security this past year. He noticed the black bracelet on my wrist. “What’s that all about?” he asked. I told him what it was. A “Your-wife- doesn’t- have- to- report- you- missing-after- you- crash- on- your bicycle and conk- out – when - an - ambulance- takes- you- to- the- hospital- and - you- don’t- come -home- bracelet.” Mine, provides my name, address, and my wife’s cell phone number.

I used to carry around a business card wrapped in clear plastic tape with her number on it when I swam laps at the college pool. It kept floating out of my pocket and the life guard would hand it to me when I got out of the water, with a huge grin on his face. Now, I have a medical alert bracelet with a nylon strap that doesn’t come off in the pool, when I’m on a walk or on a bike ride. You never know when you’re going to need, it if you’re an old coot.

My friend Paul from Michigan passed out on the beach in Florida two years ago. He didn’t have any ID on him. Who does, when they take a little walk on the beach in a bathing suit? Fortunately for him, he was only out for a few minutes and asked the ambulance to stop at his hotel so he could tell his wife where he would be spending the afternoon. Knowing how cool, calm and collected he is, he probably just said, “I’ll be at the hospital and might not be home for dinner.” They kept him for several days, spacing out a series of tests so they could maximize his medical bill.

My bracelet is so light and unintrusive that I hardly notice it. It cost me about $15 on-line at Amazon. Including the engraving. It’s so much better than having your family going from ER room to ER room in all the nearby hospitals, or worse yet, from morgue to morgue to identify one of the “John Dos” in the cooler. Well worth the price. Even for a cheapskate old coot like me.  

The Old Coot explains the waiting period. Published March 12, 2025 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot waits it out.

By Merlin Lessler

 Did I do this before? I can’t remember. Oh well. I witnessed an encounter between a mother and her teenage son in the grocery store the other day. It was a chance meeting; she came from home; he came from school. Her greeting brought me back to my own teenage days, “Why are you wearing that shirt? I just ironed it!” His face turned red, and his buddy didn’t help the situation when he said, “Oh Dude! Bad Boy!” And, chuckled out the side of his mouth. My mother said the exact same thing to me, every time I tried to sneak out of the house wearing a freshly ironed shirt.

Ironed clothes had to go through a waiting period (limbo) before they could be worn. I never knew how long the resting period was. It depended on my mother’s memory. If she could remember ironing it, it had to go back on a hanger and into the closet. (If I got caught, that is.)

 The same principle applied to new clothes. “You take off that shirt this minute young man. I just bought it!” All new things did time in limbo. When we got a new stove, the old one went into the basement. That’s where the heavy cooking took place. Better to lug stuff up and down stairs than to “wear out” the new stove. It also applied to baked goods. “Get your hand out of that cookie jar; I just baked those brownies!”

Ok, Ok; I get it. When I got old enough, my mother taught me to iron and turned the chore over to me. It’s a lot of work to iron things, but even when I did the ironing myself, she still made a stink if I slipped into something freshly ironed. I made a mistake a few years back and told my wife about how I had to let freshly ironed clothes rest when I was a kid. Today’s dress code is pretty casual; we don’t do a lot of ironing; we fold things. If she sees me put on something that was freshly folded (folded by her because I’m folding challenged) she yells over to me, “Why are you wearing that shirt; I just folded it,” and then cracks up laughing at how I cringe. I can’t help it; it’s a guilt feeling that’s ingrained in my subconscious. No matter how old you get, you still retain guilt from the past.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com or to the publisher.

The Old Coot is an eavesdropper. (Published in NY on 3/5/25)

 The Old Coot is an eavesdropper.

By Merlin Lessler.

 I was in a donut shop the other morning. It's a great place to observe human nature in action. I'm there every Sunday, to sip coffee and consume the one jelly donut I limit myself to each week. I sit there and read the book review section in the weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal. I'm often distracted by interplay between customers and employees. This particular one has well trained, friendly servers, in sharp contrast to the attitudes of some of the customers, who come in, in a sleepy, grouchy mood. By the time they leave, they are usually in good spirits.  From the intake of sugar, the stimulus of caffeine and also because of the cheery atmosphere created by the staff and especially the “hands-on” manager.

 She can fix any problem. For instance, I'd placed my order in my car, on my phone, for indoor pick-up. That way, it's sitting there waiting for me when I walk in. I grabbed the bag with my donuts inside, the container of coffee and sat down at my favorite table. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped, with my eyes focused on a book review. I reached into the bag, pulled out my donut and took a bite. It wasn't the jelly donut I'd craved. It was a glazed donut. A good donut, but not jelly. I went to the counter and explained my misfortune. The manager didn't blink an eye. She reached into the donut rack and handed me a jelly. She said she was sorry. I said I was sorry that I'd taken a bite without looking. She laughed, and told me to enjoy them both.

 Here's where I step into it! Commenting on the difference between men and women. On scant, unscientific evidence I learned from observing people ordering a dozen donuts. I didn’t set out to do this, but I overheard a man order a dozen donuts in a rapid fire manner. “I’ll have two glazed, two jelly, four chocolate frosted, two Boston cream, and two old fashion.” Bing, bang, boom, done! A few minutes later, an adult woman stepped to the counter, also to order a dozen donuts. “Let me have a jelly one.” Then, after a pause. “No, forget the jelly. Let me see. How about Boston cream? I love them; what’s your favorite?” Then, another pause. “I’ll have a glazed. How many do I have left?” Then she ordered a jelly. Well, you see how it went, and that’s before she fumbled around in her purse for her wallet.

 It's not the first time I’ve witnessed this scene. It’s an example of the “Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus phenomenon. My data sample is not statistically valid, but it’s what I observe, again and again. Enough times to produce an opinion and brace myself to be called a male chauvinist pig. That’s what happens when you’re an old coot.

 Comments? Be nice! Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot won't take the pill. Published in local New York papers on February 26, 2025

 The Old Coot took the Camel Cigarette, 30 day test.

By Merlin Lessler

 Take this pill! Sue the dirty bums! This is what our society has come down to. If you judge it by the ads on TV. No matter what’s wrong with you, there is a pill to fix it. No matter what happens to you, there is someone to blame, and someone to sue. This is a gripe I’m compelled to air every few years (11 in this case).

 Let’s start with the pills. “Don’t pay any attention to this list of side effects; the FDA made us reveal them.” That’s what the pharmaceutical companies would say at the beginning of their spiel if they were truly honest and forthright. Instead, they create an image so appealing as to obscure any negative input. One “pill” ad shows an attractive, middle-aged woman, now freed of her arthritic pain, leisurely swimming in warm tropical waters. She’s accompanied by a collection of happy friends and beautiful golden retriever that gently paddles in and out of the group. The waves gently lap the shore while the announcer’s melodious voice, quietly suggests that taking the medicine may increase your chances of a heart attack or a stroke and lead to death, or stomach and other intestinal problems, such as bleeding ulcers, which may appear without warning and also lead to death.”

  What the FDA should do, is make them show images of people experiencing the side effects instead of swimming around in paradise. Maybe then, we’d pay attention to just how risky these miracle cures are. But we don’t pay attention to the side effects. They hardly register. And, that’s OK, because the law firms that feed on our missteps, the ones who dominate our TV screens, are there to make sure we get retribution. They’re on our side! 

 And to think I thought the Camel Cigarette ads I grew up with in the 1950’s were unscrupulous, the ones in which they invited smokers to take a “30 day Camel” test. “Smoke camels for 30 days and discover for yourself what throat specialists discovered; not one single case of throat irritation in a coast-to-coast test of hundreds of people.” I accepted their invitation; I bought a pack of Camels. And, even though I was only ten years old, I was smart enough to quit after one day. Besides, if I got caught my mother would have killed me. There’s no pill for that!

 Complaints? Comments? Leave at mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot saved Old Blue! - Published 02/19/25 Tioga Co. Courier, Owego Pennysaver and elsewhere

 The Old Coot saved “Old Blue.”

By Merlin Lessler

 My favorite shirt is 38 years old. A blue, oxford cloth, button down collar specimen. It’s an old timer, like me. In fact, we’re the same age if you reverse the numbers. The main issue with it is a frayed collar; it’s officially not allowed out in public. I’ve tried, but didn’t get away with it. Even when I used some blue painter’s tape to cover the fray. The problem is, my wife has an eagle eye. So, Old Blue is under house arrest and in “work shirt” status. If I’m not careful, that will be my status as well. The shirt and I have history. It went to work with me, on vacation, to parties and once to an opera, which neither of us got much out of.

,It was a Tommy Hilfiger creation; I purchased it in his outlet store run by his sister in Elmira, New York. As far as I know, it was the only outlet that sold his high end clothes at bargain basement prices. Probably, because Elmira was his home town and he wanted to share his fashions with the local people. He put Elmira on the map as did Mark Twain, who wrote Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and other books in a cabin on his wife’s sister’s farm where he summered for many years. The cabin now resides on the campus at Elmira College; he resides nearby, with his wife, in Woodlawn Cemetery.

 All of us old coots have some favorite old clothes, hidden in the back of our closets. The ones we’ve saved from donations to thrift stores or town dumps. I miss those clothes that were sacrificed in that manner, but having Old Blue still with me makes up for it. Thanks Tommy, for 38 great years.   

 Comments? Complaints? Send to the paper or to  mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot reads and dozes. Published - 02/i2/2025

 The Old Coot is a “read-dozer.”

By Merlin Lessler

I have acquired a new pastime. I call it “read-dozing.” I’m a reader, primarily books and newspapers. I’m also a napper. When I first started working, and getting paid for it, I found myself a little sleepy between 2 and 3 in the afternoon. I worked for Compton Industries, an electronic firm whose primary business was calibrating oscilloscopes for IBM corporation. After we finished adjusting the devices, we set them up in a test room to “age” the calibration since some adjustments would wander out of spec after initial use. The room was warm, from the heat generated by a sea of oscilloscopes. They also emitted a gentle hum, produced by their internal fans.

I had to go into the “aging” room to check and readjust the calibration every afternoon. Between the warm temperature and the hum of the fans, it was difficult to stay awake. So, I didn’t. I napped, just like I did in high school study halls, with my forehead nestled in my hand and my elbow on the desk. I figured the teacher thought I was concentrating on reading information in a text book on the desk. Once in a while, my arm would buckle, and my head would come crashing down on the desk, waking me up and scaring the kids around me.

Anyhow, my naps in the “aging room” started a lifelong habit of dozing in the afternoon for 10 minutes or so to snap me out of the doldrums and let me be more productive than I otherwise would have. Now that I’m unemployed (retired) and out of high school, there are no impediments to my napping routine. I read a few pages; then doze off for a few minutes. I often dream about the story I’m reading and move the plot along. When I wake up and start reading again, I discover that my dream version was way off. I read; I doze; I dream - I read and doze again. It’s a great pastime! Try it; you’ll like it.

Old Coot gives public speakers advise.- published 02/05/2025

 The Old Coot pans public speakers

By Merlin Lessler

 Public speakers need public speaking lessons. It’s embarrassing to watch.  Take a politician (they do most of the blah, blah, yacking) standing at a podium to talk about a new bill he or she is introducing. Something they claim to be passionate about. They constantly look down at their speech notes, saying something like. “I am so (looks down) pleased to introduce Bill number (looks down) S-527, which will (looks down) once and for all, revitalize our small businesses.

 It's especially annoying when they are expressing sympathy for the victims of a mass shooting. You have to read notes, to say how sad you feel for the victims and their families? Really? (You can’t just speak from the heart?)

 It’s not just politicians – It’s police chiefs, CEO’s, school superintendents and many other public spokespersons. Put a podium in front of them, and their head starts bobbing. Speakers who use tele-prompters are just as annoying, staring off into space as they speak.

 Football coaches don’t use notes when interviewed at half time and are asked, “What does your team need to do to get back in the game?” Then comes the typical response. “We have to move the ball down the field and put some points on the board.” DUH! Maybe THEY should have notes to come up with more relevant responses. Those reporters need lessons too, so they can ask questions that don’t evoke stupid answers.

 Anyhow, public speaking and public questioning need a revamp. It’s a social skill that was taught in grade school in my day. We were made to stand and answer a question or go to the front of the class and give an oral report on a book we read. Or, in my case, to explain to the class why it wasn’t acceptable to send spit balls through a straw to the girls side of the room. I learned to speak in front of an audience, but not to stop sending spit balls.   

The Old Coot is arm crossed! (Published 1/29/25)

 The Old Coot’s arms are crossed.

By Merlin Lessler

At coffee the other morning, one of the “klatsch” boys asked me why I had my arms folded. Was I cold? I didn’t know I had folded my arms. I guess I did it without knowing. I wasn’t cold. It’s just another trait that emerges when you are an old coot. Changes like this happen and we don’t notice. We walk funny, groan when we get up from a chair; when we glance in a mirror, we see a memory of what we used to look like, not an old man’s face. It’s a long list of oddities that we are blessed with. Cheapness is a big one. It’s a perspective thing. We remember when a BabyRuth candy bar cost a nickel, a pizza was a dollar, and a Pepsi was ten cents. When we look at a restaurant bill, it’s a shock, especially when we calculate a 20% tip that amounts to what we once paid for the entire meal.  

 So, I now cross my arms all the time. Sitting at a red light, I look down and my arms are crossed. In the bleachers at one of my grandkid’s soccer, lacrosse or football games, I sit with my arms crossed. Watching TV, sitting by the pool. You name it, any idle time, I’m arm crossed.

 I wasn’t always this way. I only crossed my arms when I was cold. Brrr! Or, when I was looking down at one of my daughters watching TV instead of picking up her toys. It’s a bad habit; it makes you come across as a rude, angry person. I remember how I felt when the teacher in our elementary school looked down at me with her arms crossed. I knew I was in trouble and was going to be sent to the cloak room or the principal’s office. Now, I project that same image as I sit or stand, unaware that my arms are crossed. In Finland, it’s seen as a sign of arrogance. I’m going to start keeping my hands in my pockets. It won’t be easy.  My mother would yell at me when I was a kid, “Get your hands out of your pockets.” It’s one of those things you never forget, even decades later when you’re an old coot.  

The Old Coot doesn't like being nagged. Published Tioga County Courier and others on 01/22/25

 The Old Coot shrugged off a nag.

By Merlin Lessler

 First we stuck in a toe, then two and now our whole foot is into the use of an electronic nag. It started innocently enough, with Fitbit, which came out in 2009. It counted steps, distance and calories burned. It nudged us to get moving, something our obese, out of shape society needed. Then, it became a competition. “I did 5,000 steps today!” – “I did 10,000.” “Oh yea, I did 20,000!” Now, those enjoyable walks through neighborhoods, towns and parks became something the “step counting” devices nagged us about.   

 They evolved to measure everything. And, Nag! Nag! Nag! “You only got 5 hours of “good” sleep last night,” the App might scold. “And, you’re way under your goal of 10,000 steps a day this week. Your heart rate never made it to the recommended exercise level; so, you didn’t achieve the full benefit of your effort.”

 It’s not just steps and sleep. The nanny Apps scold us on much more; swimming, biking, running and sleeping to name a few. Studies of these electronic monitoring devices conclude that they are counterproductive. “Your goal to maintain an average speed of 20 Mph on your bike ride ended in failure! You only hit 18 MPH!” How does a message like that make you feel? Not good. It puts you into a funk and raises anxiety when you ride, trying to achieve a pre-set goal. The focus is on hitting the target, instead of enjoying a pleasant, relaxing journey on your feet, in a pool, or on a bike. Even a trip into dreamland..

 The fun is gone. I have to stop this discourse and attend to a nag. My $35, knock-off, fitness watch is reminding me that I have not hit my 5,000 step goal. I don’t mock the people who use electronic nags; I’m a victim myself. But, I’m working to stop. That’s why I dropped my 10,000 step goal to 5,000. I now can ride my bike and swim without tracking. I once weaned myself out of an Oreo cookie addiction and I can do this too. If I can do it, so can you. Start slowly; lower your goals. Eventually, you can go back to a watch that just tells the time. That’s enough anxiety to live with.

The Old Coot says it's all in a name. Published 1/15/25

 The Old Coot says just call me Coot.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve had dealings with some pleasant and interesting people over the last few months. A profitable exchange with Coin Dealer Scott, a better than imagined outcome with Tree Trimmer Mike and an always competent outcome with Insurance Agent Woody. Some of my Florida interactions took place with Real-estate Michael, Car Dealer Iancu and Builder Mike.

I guess you can see the pattern here. Every person’s name was preceded by their profession. A little weird isn’t it? At first glance anyhow. But not if you put it into the context of how we address select, so called professionals. It’s not Chuck Schumer, it’s Senator Schumer or Congressman Smith and Congresswoman White. College teacher Cawley is Professor Cawley or Doctor Cawley. Most of us save the use of “Doctor,” for medical doctors, but some PHD graduates refer to themselves as doctor too. Even some with just an honorary degree. I’ve made up the names to protect the innocent. The ones like Doctor Brown who says, “Please just call me Bill.”

 We don’t live in a monarchy where people are forced to address royals like King Charles or Prince William and a whole litany of other regal designations. This is good old America where we are all equals. We are free to call everyone by name, not title. But, maybe the title first and then name is the way to go. I’d like it if it applied across the board. I’d have no trouble calling the mechanical genius who fixes my car, Auto-Mechanic Joe. Or the craftsman who handles all the household repairs on my residence, Carpenter and Handy Man Lee.

 My preference for using vocational titles for everyone would not set well with the crowd that gets that special treatment. Politicians and college professors would be insulted by our lack of respect. Some of them anyhow. They wouldn’t want to be in the Joe Blow category where the rest of us reside. They’d claim, “I worked hard and long to get here” (in the privileged class). Not any harder than a Master Plumber or cabinet maker or the McDonald’s CEO, who started out flipping burgers and earned his way to the top..   

 As for myself, I’ll stick with my “Joe Blow” status and happily be referred to as Old Coot, or like many of my friends do, just plain Coot.

Old Coot wants a coffee warm-up. Published 1/08/25

 The Old Coot gets a warm-up.

By Merlin Lessler

I was in a brand new Starbucks near Disney World the other morning. It was early, I was one of only three people inside. Everyone else was at the drive-thru window. I cashed in some “stars” for a free Grande, dark roast coffee (that’s medium in the rest of the world) plus a sort of toasted bagel with sort of cream cheese. I sat there reading the Wall Street Journal on my I-Pad, a gift from my daughter and son-in law in 2016. It’s a gift that keeps on giving.

Anyhow, after half an hour I had a quarter cup of cold coffee left. I went to the counter to get a “warm up.” I asked the server to add a splash of hot coffee to the remnants in my cup. Refills are free if you are a gold card member, which I am. He gave me a puzzled look, then turned to the new coffee making mechanism. It grinds, it perks, and it dispenses, all by itself. It’s a gadget that was developed to make the process brainless, run by artificial intelligence, the craze that has taken over the world. It gurgled, growled, hissed a bit and poured the dark liquid I’m addicted to into my cup. Not a warm up! But an overflowing fill up. He handed the overflowing cup to me and apologized for the results. I thanked him for trying, went to the restroom and poured half the contents down the sink, leaving a trail of spillage along my route.

How different the world has become. It constantly makes me reminisce about the good old days, when you went to a diner for coffee and toast, or whatever, and the waitress came around with a pot of hot coffee to give customers a warm up. It still goes on, at diners like the Harris Diner in Owego, New York. Sometimes, it’s not the waitress who comes around, it’s a customer who goes behind the counter, grabs a pot, and wanders table to table giving people a splash of hot coffee. I’m a lucky guy, to have a foot in both worlds. One, where the machine is not as intelligent as portrayed and gives me a chuckle, and the other, where people are better at the task.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot engineers a solution. Published 1/1/25

 The Old Coot engineers a solution.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m not an engineer. At least not with a four year degree. I’m missing some credit hours. But, I am an “engineer,” with a small “e.”  A lot of people are. Engineering is mostly a mindset, the ability to puzzle things out. A technical degree provides a deeper knowledge to work with; you need it to design a bridge or an electronic circuit. But for a lot of other tricky issues in life, you just need the engineering mind-set.

That’s a lot of blah, blah to get me to the point – My greatest engineering accomplishment! It took place four years ago when I had a severe reaction to the cholesterol medicine I’d been on for years. I started to lose strength in my arms and legs, and didn’t really notice until the day I had trouble getting up a single stair. It’s all behind me now, the cause determined and eliminated; my strength is back to normal. (An 82-year old normal)

When I was in that weakened state, I had to use the full spectrum of my engineering ability to deal with it. Especially if I fell or slipped to the ground. I became that “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” person. I slipped down several times, when I was out on my own getting into the car. Once it was the garbage man who picked me up. Another time, it was a nice couple in a grocery store parking lot. The last time, it was a guy in a pick-up truck. I changed my technique; I started backing into the car seat, instead of stepping up and in. Duh! Took me long enough to figure that one out. Some engineer!   

My real concern was getting off the floor at home. Even when my wife was with me we sometimes had to get a friend to help. We went to a physical therapy center to see if there was a technique we could use. We spent an hour going through a laundry list of commonly used techniques. Nothing worked. I was too weak. I was determined to come up with a solution. I spent one whole night in a recliner chair, straining my brain to find a solution. Thinking, dozing, dreaming. That’s when I made my greatest engineering feat. I had a plan.

Now, to try it out. I asked my wife to get a small cooler from the garage. She looked at me like I was nuts. I get that a lot. The cooler was narrow, 6 inches high when it was placed on its side. I got down on the floor; I still had enough arm strength to crawl over to it. I slid it next to a lounge chair in the living room and was strong enough to sit up on the floor and up on it. From there, I pushed up another six inches and sat on the chair. It was too low for me to gain my feet, but the chair next to it, on four inch risers, was not. I slid across the first chair and up onto the second. From there I got to my feet. I was so proud of myself. I’d regained my freedom. No more, “Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up!” I could be left home alone; my wife got her freedom too. It was my greatest engineering feat ever!