March 27, 2013 Article

The Old Coot likes whales, sort of.

By Merlin Lessler

 Save the whales! It’s a bumper sticker that’s been around for years. I never really understood the mass appeal of the pro-whale PR campaign. I like whales. I guess. At least I never met one I didn’t like. Except the one that swallowed Geppeto when he was searching for Pinocchio. That had me bummed out until my mother turned the page and finished the bedtime story. But still, I didn’t understand the passion that drove “whale lovers” to buy whale paraphernalia and to paste stickers on their car bumpers.

Then, the light came on in my head, the day a pygmy whale beached itself in Ormond by the Sea while I was on a mandatory old coot trek to Florida. The beach was mobbed with onlookers as a group of marine biologists tried to revive and coax the poor thing back into the water. Traffic was backed up for miles in all directions as people rushed to watch, and to help lift, shove and push the whale back to the safety of the sea. But, the whale was having none of it! “I came here to die; leave me alone!” Finally, the lead biologist euthanized the poor guy. Everyone left in a funk. Including me.

It made me wonder some more about this widespread fascination with whales. Especially considering the vast quantities of tuna, shrimp, clams, lobster and other marine life we consume. That’s when the light in my head grew bright. We feel empathy for whales because we are growing larger and becoming more whalelike. Our urge to protect and save whales is an urge to save one of our own. 100 years ago we were drawn to monkeys, those skinny, energetic relatives of ours. They had a huge following in zoos, carnivals, circuses and on the shoulders of organ grinders wandering the streets in downtown areas. Now, skinny active monkeys are out; fat lumbering whales are in.

 It gives me hope. Old coot hope. For decades ours has been a youth focused society. Unlike other cultures around the world that hold their elders in esteem, we scorn our seniors, especially old coots such as myself. It’s young actors and athletes that are esteemed in America. But, hope is in the air. Our society is aging, and like the whale lovers who are drawn to something akin to themselves, the aging sector will soon dominate public policy and begin to embrace the old coot branch of the human species. Save the Whales signs will be replaced with Save the Old Coots! I can’t wait!

March 21, 2013 article

The Old Coot learns the ropes.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I was in a Starbucks in Ormond Beach, Florida the other morning, watching a serpentine line of people inch along from outside the front door to the counter. I was in old coot heaven: people to watch, a cup of coffee on the table in front of me, pen and paper at the ready and an eclectic mix of characters parading by.

 

It made me realize what a fussy bunch we are, us Americans, when it comes to our morning elixirs. It used to be simple. You saddled up to the counter in a diner and nodded your head, “Yes,” when the waitress asked if you wanted coffee. Now, you face a team of specially trained mixologists who scurry back and forth behind a laboratory counter fumbling with a collection of machines and product dispensers that hiss, grown and clatter. “How may I help you,” is responded to with, “I’d like a hazelnut espresso with non-fat milk, sugar free syrup, organic soy milk and hold the whip cream.”  - or -  “Give me a mocha light coffee frapuccino.” There I sat with my simple container of coffee, far out of touch with the rest of the world.

 

I’d had all I could handle when I was at the counter and said, “I’d like a coffee to go.” -  “What size? Tall, Grande or Venti?” I only recognized one of the three choices so I went with it, “Tall,” thinking I’d get a big one. Tall, as it turns out, is the small size. I didn’t care; I just wanted to get my coffee and get out of line. But, it was not to be. “What kind of coffee, sir?” the chemist asked, as the impatient line behind me shuffled from one foot to the other in unison. “Just regular coffee,” I meekly replied. Not good enough. The technician rolled her eyes and asked, “Do you want dark roast, medium (pike place), vanilla blonde or caffe’ misto?” My cheek twitched and my words came out in a stutter, “The medium will be fine.” It sounded safe. But, my ordeal wasn’t finished, not yet. “Do you want room, Hon?” she asked, while filling my cup from a spigot on a space age machine on the back counter. “Pardon,” I responded. “Do you want room for cream?” she answered, rolling her eyes for a second time. That, I understood, I nodded a  “Yes,” took my order and did the walk of shame over to the cream and sugar station.

 

Even that, wasn’t simple. I had to paw through a collection of thermos bottles to find what I wanted: whole milk, 1% milk, half and half, soymilk. I grabbed the half and half, poured some in my cup (even more on the counter) and moved to a table off to the side. I was exhausted. It felt like I’d just endured an oral exam for a doctorate degree. So, I sat for a minute to recuperate and then started moving my pen around on a piece of blank paper. When I finished, I stood up and prepared to leave. The last thing I heard was someone ordering an iced caramel macchiato espresso with an extra shot. I was shocked! It was me!

March 13, 2013 Article

The Old Coot tells a fish story.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I’ve told a lot of “fish” stories in my day, but never one involving fish. Not until now. This one began a month ago when my friend John from Preston Canada took me on as a project; he volunteered to teach me how to fish. It was pretty basic stuff. I knew which end of the rod to hold but that was about it. He loaned me a rig and began the process on the beach behind our hotel. How could I fail; I had the entire Atlantic Ocean at my feet.

 

Day after day, we stood in the surf, casting out, waiting, waiting, waiting. Then reeling in to see if the hooks were still baited. Every so often, John pulled one in, a Whiting. Meanwhile, Ray, from Chicago, twenty yards to our north, reeled them in, one after the other. A bunch of Whitings and every now and then, a nice 5 or 6-pound Pompano.

 

This pattern went on for an entire month. John averaged 2 or 3 a day, I caught 1 every other day and Ray reeled in a pail full, a five-gallon pail. We used the same bait, the same rigging, the same spot on the beach. Some days John and I would sneak out early and take Ray’s spot. No fish! He’d stroll out to our spot and within minutes get a bite. Then another, and another.

 

Still, I ate fish. Not just the few I caught, but the ones Ray tossed in my bucket on his way back to the hotel. Then it happened. (This is where the fish story begins) It was Ray’s last day. He decided not to fish, just to soak up the atmosphere. John went out early. He had two poles going in Ray’s favorite spot. I stumbled out later, juggling my pole, a 5-gallon bucket, a pole holder, a portable lounge chair, my Kindle and a Grape NeHi.  My plan was to lay back and read; the fishing pole would be a prop. I wasn’t about to stand next to it, staring at the tip to see if I had a bite for two hours like I did yesterday.

 

No! This day I was going to be a beach bum. Ray spotted me lumbering across the sand and ran ahead to a spot I’d fished 10 times with no luck. He traced a big arrow in the sand pointing out to the ocean and wrote. “Fish,” next to it. “Fish here he said.” What the heck! I thought, and stuck my rod holder in the sand, set up my folding lounge chair. John looked over and said, “Don’t get your hopes up. Nothing going on here today.”

 

I cast out, an awkward, high flying, pop-up, stuck the rod in the holder and stretched out in my lounge chair, settling in for a long stay. I glanced over at the rod and saw it starting to twitch. Then it jerked. I jumped up out of the chair. (Actually I lumbered to my feet like a newborn colt making his legs for the first time.) Ray and John were talking and looking off in the other direction. I grabbed the rod, irritated that my leisure had been interrupted and started reeling. I reeled and pulled, reeled and pulled. Not exactly sure what I was doing. Finally, it broke the surface, a beautiful pompano. My first one ever. John looked over in disbelief. Ray just smiled and pointed to my feet. I was standing on the arrow. Later on, Ray showed me how to filet it. It’s a little tricky with a pompano. He cut; I watched. My job was to bag the fish after he cut it up and to put the filet knife back it its sheath. The extra sharp filet knife! I dropped it and looked down to see where it landed. There it was, standing straight up, sticking out of the top of my foot. But, I knew I could handle it. John, my fishing partner, was the same John who taught the old coot “cheapness and self medication” seminar a few weeks earlier. I pulled out the knife, splashed on some mouthwash and applied a square of duck tape over the wound. Proving once again, you can teach old coots new tricks!

 

How an old coot fishes.

 

 

Wow! It works!

 

March 6, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is a smart dresser?

By Merlin Lessler

 

Which sock do you put on first? The right or the left? I bet you don’t know, not for sure. It’s one of those things you do without thinking; your subconscious takes charge. Even if you try to figure it out the next time you get dressed, you still won’t know, because you’ll be thinking about it.  You won’t find out what your body does until you’re an old coot. 

 

Old coots know which sock they put on first. For me, it’s the right one. It’s the easiest. I hop on my left foot and pull it on. I can’t do that with my left sock. When I hop on my right foot I lose my balance and topple over. I try it every once in a while, but the minute I pick up my foot I tilt out of control and head for the floor. I’d make a lousy stork!

 

So, I’ve adapted. I hop on my left foot and put on my right sock. Then I put my left foot up on a chair or the bed and pull on the sock. Eventually, I won’t even be able to do that. I’ll sit on the floor and get dressed like a toddler.

 

Some people don’t put on both socks at the same time. They put on a sock and a shoe, and then the other sock and shoe. Archie Bunker and his son in law Michael had a big fight about this on an “All in the Family” episode. Archie insisted the right way was to put on a sock and a sock, then a shoe and a shoe. Michael was of the sock and a shoe, sock and a shoe persuasion. So, Archie called him a Meathead!

 

This sock business is important, at least to us old coots. It’s a critical part of our day. It’s not as easy as it once was, back when we didn’t give it a thought. Especially, on a day when our back is acting up. If we drop a sock on the floor, we’re in big trouble. We can’t bend over and pick it up or slip it on like regular people. We have to get a coat hanger and either pick it up, or try to nudge it on to our foot. That’s why you see us going around every once in a while wearing a single sock. It means we gave up trying to get it off the floor or got distracted and forgot to put it on. Sometimes, we go around with our pants on backwards. It happens on a bad back day too, when getting dressed properly is beyond our capability. A day we don’t discover the error with the pants until after we’ve put on our shoes. An old coot is never going to take his shoes off and put them on again just because his pants are on backwards!

 

So, I ask you, once again. “Which sock do you put on first?” If you don’t know the answer, consider yourself lucky. If you do know the answer, well, you’re an old coot like me!  

February 27, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is an “A” student!

By Merlin Lessler

 

I’m here again, for a semester at the Old Coot School of Science. I’m still an undergraduate, even though this is my fifth year in snowbird training. I thought I knew all the old coot tricks. That is, until I met the two senior professors teaching this year’s courses. Last year I learned how to save a sock with a hole in the toe by cutting it straight across and sewing it up, avoiding the painstaking nuisance of darning. I also learned how to beat the line at early bird specials by using crutches purchased (cheap) at a thrift store and faking a stumble near the door. The competition is tough, but if you do your homework, you can beat out the people in wheel chairs and walkers. You just have to watch out for the old ladies with canes. They won’t hesitate to use them. I have the lumps and bruises to prove it!

 

This year the focus was on thrift, “Cheapskate 101.” An advanced course in how to avoid spending money. Professor John, of Canada, formerly of the Netherlands, taught the first section. He’s the same professor who taught the sock preservation course last year. This year’s session taught us how to reduce our medical expenses. I won’t bore you with the details, but here’s an example to give you a feel for the course. Professor John took a tumble, as old coots often do, tearing open a large flap of skin on his arm. Go to the ER? Wait an hour for a sleepy resident to tell you that you need stitches? DUH! And, another hour for him to come back with a suture kit? No! No! and NO! We learned to do what John does, splash mouthwash on the wound and wrap it in duct tape. This method leaves a scar, but scars are good conversation starters, especially for old coots who specialize in talking about their ailments.

 

Then, visiting Professor “Don” from the Ohio branch of the University took over the training. His topic was, “Don’t be too cheap; it can cost you.” He explained the importance of setting limits. He told of a personal experience where excessive “thrift” turned into disaster. It happened when he was kayaking down the river near his home. He spotted a fishing lure hanging from a tree branch. “Wow, a free lure!” He paddled over to it and reached up just as a gust of wind came along, snagging his finger on the hook, piercing it. Three hours later he walked out of the ER. (Obviously he’d been dozing in class while Professor John was lecturing). He ended up having a series of x-rays to make sure the hook hadn’t nicked the bone, was injected with Novocain so it could be extracted, was sewn back together, suffered through a tetanus shot and was handed a prescription for an expensive antibiotic. All that, and he didn’t even get to keep the fishing lure; it was ruined in the extraction process. I still have two more courses to complete, but I’m well on my way to the 15 credits I need to complete my degree. I’m shooting for a major in Cheapness and a minor in Public Nuisance.

February 20, 2013 article

The old coot asks, “What’s so special?”

By Merlin Lessler

 

I have an issue with the “Today’s Specials” that many restaurants offer. The ones that are scribbled on a sign out front or on a chalkboard near the hostess stand.  “Today’s Special – Cow lips, poached in a special sauce with a hoof salad on the side.”  At least, that’s how I hear it when “My-name-is-Jimmy-I’ll-be-your-server-this-afternoon” describes the mush that comprises the special of the day. If it’s so special, why isn’t it served all the time?

 

Today’s specials are like hot dogs; it’s what they do with the left over stuff. They don’t want to waste it, so they make it into hot dogs, or in the case of restaurants, into “Today’s Special.” It’s usually at a special price too, about twenty dollars more than the entrees on the regular menu.

 

I’m not welcome in most of the restaurants that offer a “Today’s Special because I ask for a “customer’s special” instead. “What’s that?” the waiter will ask. So, I tell him. “I’d like ½ a BLT, a dozen French fries and 1/2 glass of ice tea. (I know what my tank will hold and I don’t want to over fill it.) “I don’t think we can do that,”(Jimmy-I-wish-I-didn’t-get-this table) will respond. “Sure you can,” I assure him. “Put one slice of bread in the toaster, cut it in half when it pops up, butter it with a dollop of mayo, add a slice of bacon, a half slice of tomato and a piece of lettuce. Put it on a plate and stick a toothpick in. Throw 12 french fries in with another order and add them to the plate. Pour ice tea in a glass to the half way point. You can do it! It’s easy.”

 

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check.” A minute later I see the chef peek out the little window in the kitchen door. His look says it all’ “Oh darn! It’s that old coot again.” Pretty soon the manager comes over. “Is there a problem sir?” That’s what his mouth says, but his body language says something quite different. Something unprintable! “No problem,” I respond. “I just want less food and drink than your normal portions consist of. Can’t a customer get what he wants, something right off the menu, just less of it? I’m trying to avoid becoming a whale.”

 

I get the “It’s highly unusual” speech. And, then the “Just this one time” concession. I don’t understand the problem in giving us what we want instead of what they want. It doesn’t seem to be a problem when I ask Dillon at the Barleycorn for a half glass of Yuengling, or Bob at the Cellar to split a burger and put it on two plates, or Diana at John’s Fine Food to get me three slices of American cheese and two slices of German bologna. That’s why I like small towns. They let you get what you want. Everyplace else, you get Today’s Special

February 13, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is afraid to repeat.

By Merlin Lessler

 

It’s funny how a certain word, a seemingly innocuous word, can send you reeling. “Repeat” is such a word for me. An “ugh” word. It started in grade school, as it was called back when I attended Public School #13. I served my sentence for 7 years, from kindergarten thru 6^th grade. I got out on good behavior, because REPEAT was a threat the teachers hung over my head. “Print neatly or you will have to REPEAT your work!” – “Write on the top line of your paper, I will not shoot spit balls in class, and REPEAT it 100 times.” And, “Pay attention or you’ll have to REPEAT 3^rd grade.” They used it to get us to stop saying ain’t. They used it to make us memorize that 9 times 7 was 63. And, they used it to make us behave.

 

Every time I was sent to the dreaded cloak room for acting up, that long narrow closet at the back of the classroom, I was reminded that I might have to REPEAT the grade if I didn’t shape up. I lived in a state of dread! Even the kids whose papers were plastered with gold stars were under the REREAT gun. Good marks didn’t guarantee you’d get promoted.

 

But, I also figured out if you were REAL bad, your behavior could trump your poor grades. It might even guarantee your promotion to the next grade. The teacher would move you along so she didn’t get stuck with you for another miserable year. It’s why the bully that started kindergarten with me, kept moving ahead, in spite of spending more time in the hall, the cloakroom and the principal’s office than at his desk in the front row, within an eraser throw from the teacher.  

 

It wasn’t just in the school where the REPEAT word haunted my generation. It popped up all over the place: when I mowed the neighbor’s lawn (for the grand sum of one dollar) and left a few islands of tall grass between the rows, I was told to REPEAT the whole job. When I mumbled, “Damn,” under my breath and was ordered to REPEAT what I’d just said; it got me sent to my room for the afternoon with the awful taste of Ivory soap in my mouth. REPEAT dominated my childhood. Especially, when I was within reach of a mother (any mother) or a teacher. They claimed to have eyes in the back of their heads and I believed it. I couldn’t get away with anything.

 

Now, I’m the one using the REPEAT word, preceded by the WHAT word. It can’t be my hearing can it? It has to be that people are talking softer these days. Maybe they communicate by text message so much that their vocal chords have dried up. TV sets, too, don’t seem as loud as they once did. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s global warming. All I know is I’m saying REPEAT all the time. REPEAT haunted me as a kid and now it’s back, haunting me as an old coot.