April 15, 2015 Article

The Old Coot checks out, checking out.

By Merlin Lessler

So there you are, in line at a grocery store, patiently waiting as your items get scanned into the cash register, Boing! Boing! Boing! one after the other; the UPC code is recognized and accepted by the mechanism that cashes you out. Every once in a while, an item won’t Boing. The clerk wipes off the bar code and tries again. That usually does it. If not, she quickly enters a long string of number from the package and goes to the next one. It takes just over a minute to check out 50 items. Still, we impatiently rock back and forth from one foot to the other, anxious to get our bags and get out the door.

How different this scene was a few decades back; each item had a price tag stuck to it, not a bar code. The cashier had to turn the item this way and that to find it, enter it into the cash register, while under the pressure of an eagle-eyed shopper checking her every move. Often saying, “Hey! You overcharged me on that can of corn; it was 36 cents; you rang up 63 cents. The adjustment was made on the next item; the math was done in the clerk’s head and explained to the eagle eyed shopper, “The ham is $3.96; I took off 27 cents to fix the overcharge for the corn.” Checking out 50 items took five minutes or more back then.  And, get this; the clerk had to figure out how much change to give the customer, all by herself. The cash register didn’t do it; she did it in her head. It was like this everyplace, not just grocery stores. School kids today would be hard pressed to figure out how much change to give someone who paid for a $16. 25 purchase with a 50-dollar bill. They can write a sentence about the mathematical manipulation and show four ways to arrive at an answer, but I doubt they could multiply, add and subtract in their heads like cashiers did before “smart” cash registers came along.

Going farther back in time, the check out process was even more tedious. The grocer would write the price of each item on a brown paper bag with a #2 pencil. He’d sum the column and come up with a total. Change was made in a drawer under the counter with slots for tens, fives and ones, and pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and half-dollars. Most neighborhood grocery stores couldn’t afford a cash register. Payment was made in cash. No checks or credit cards back then, though many mom and pop operations ran a tab.

Next time you are in line behind five people with a cart full of groceries, multiply 5 minutes times each person to find out how long you’d be there in the good old days. (You can do that in your head can’t you?) If my old coot buddies did this, it might stop them from grousing about the high tech society we live. Sometimes a trip down memory lane makes you appreciate the present.   

April 8, 2015 Article

The Old Coot can’t mutter.

By Merlin Lessler

Back in “the day” people in polite society muttered under their breath. It started when they were kids and their mother said, “Put away that Monopoly game and go clean your room!” That’s where the “mutter” came in, “Yea, well you’re a Stupid Head!” It was muttered “under the breath,” so mom knew you said something, but not what. It made you feel better after getting bossed around, but not in trouble for the cardinal sin of “sassing back.” Your parent might ask, “What did you say?” You’d lie, and say, “Nothing.” The “mutter” under your breath thing was an important component in maintaining a civil relationship. It provided relief for frustration without causing full-blown confrontation. Fortunately, it’s a technique that’s been adapted to our modern technological society. Kids don’t mutter under their breath, but they are masters at “text” muttering. They reply, for example, to mom’s text to, “Get your fanny home right now, young lady,” with, “Yes mom, on my way. Love you; yash (you’re a stupid head). Parents don’t know they’ve just been sassed. If they Google for a meaning, they won’t find it. It’s a secret cipher that the best code breakers have yet to crack.

It’s nice to see that the mutter tradition continues. It’s healthy for kids to express their frustration at being bossed around by adults, and yet, keep things civil. I’m sure our mothers knew exactly what we’d muttered when we were growing up, but they were wise enough to let it drop. Overt sassing, if detected, could not be ignored, and often resulted in a slap “upside” the head.

Old coots don’t mutter. The world would be a better place if we did, but we don’t. It’s because our hearing prowess fades as we age and when we try to mutter it comes out at full volume. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of,” we’ll try to mutter to the waitress who just informed us we’re too late for the early bird special, but it comes out loud. We ruined her day, but it wasn’t our intent. After this happens a few times we come to realize that we’re not muttering and we kind of like how it feels. So we stick with it.

We don’t text well, at least not proficiently enough to end a message with a YASH.  Our deteriorating hand-eye coordination makes us hit the wrong keys and anything could come out in our message; we don’t check our work before sending it and probably would insult the recipient. Which we want to do, but secretly. We’d end up with a black eye. And, that’s just another peril of being an old coot. 

April 1, 2015 Article

The Old Coot’s new car is even bossier than his old one.

By Merlin Lessler

My car makes me lie. A message appears on the display screen after I start it, forcing me to acknowledge that looking at the screen can result in a serious accident. Then, it bullies me into promising to only make changes to the radio, the heater and the GPS when the car is stopped. And, to read the safety instructions in the navigation manual. The message won’t clear until I press “agree” on the touch screen. I lie; I press it.

My car is bossy. My old one bossed me around too, ordering me to check the tire pressure, get gas, etc., but I had some say. Now, I’m at the mercy of an over protective nanny running things from someplace behind the dash. The dealer says it’s an integral part of the car and can’t be altered, that all new cars are like this. It sounds to me like a lawyer thing, so car manufacturers are protected when I get in an accident. Even if that’s true, they didn’t have to make it so bossy. 

The other day I wanted to go fishing. I was on the third floor in a hotel along the coast of Florida. I stepped out onto the balcony and used the car’s remote to unlock the doors. That way, I could leave the key (a $300 black box that’s more a computer than a key) in the room and still get my fishing gear out of the trunk. I sure didn’t want to lose the key in the surf. I’m not sure footed on dry land; put me waist deep in a surging ocean and I’m sure to topple over, and destroy the key. When I got down to the car, the doors were locked. “My aim must have been off,” I told myself, and climbed the three flights of stairs back to my room. This time I made sure the lights blinked, letting me know the door lock message was received by the car. I went back down, ready to land a big Pompano; the doors were still locked. The car didn’t want me to leave it unlocked for more than 30 seconds. I had to fish with a $300 key in my pocket. I was nervous and the fish knew it. I didn’t catch a thing. 

It got me again, when I pulled into a parking spot overlooking the ocean. I wanted to sit there, sip my coffee and listen to the radio. The car wouldn’t let me! The radio wouldn’t play unless I started the car, which you do in this model by stepping on the brake and pushing a “start” button. The “key” just sits in your pocket and tells the car it’s OK. Then, by mistake, I pushed the start button without stepping on the brake. The dash lit up and the radio came on. The screen behind the speedometer scolded me, “Step on the brake stupid, if you want the car to start.” I ignored it since I’d inadvertently accomplished my objective. But then, the main screen put up a message. It ordered me to shut off the radio; I was running down the battery. I ignored that message too. It went away after a minute or so. Then, it came back, scolding me again; it repeated itself every few minutes and got so bossy I gave up and went outside to a bench as far from the car as I could get and enjoyed the surf. I’m in the market for a low tech, 1954 Ford. If you know where I can find one, let me know (Bill Wonder?). 

March 25, 2015 Article

The Old Coot can’t handle a schedule.

By Merlin Lessler

Someone will ask an old coot like me, “Do you want to get together next week for lunch?” I reply, “No, sorry; I’m tied up next week.” Tied up? With what? A busy seven-day agenda? Absolutely not. Most likely, it’s a single thing for the week. A dentist appointment on Wednesday at 9 o’clock, for example. That’s the way old coots are. We can only do one thing a week. The pressure of two or more items on our calendar is more than we can mentally handle. Even the one thing can cause an anxiety attack

Monday rolls around and the activity clock begins. It’s a long “to-do” list for most people. For us old coots, it’s time to start fretting about that 9 o’clock dentist appointment on Wednesday with Pam. We putter our way through the day, doing this and that, trying to keep our mind off the obligation hanging over our head two days hence. Now mind you, it’s not the dentist procedure that causes the anxiety, it’s the fact that we have to do something, at a specific time, on a specific day. We’re used to doing whatever we want, whenever we want. We put a lifetime of a calendar running our lives behind us. The life that started when we turned 5 and had to go to school. It grew from there; Little League practice, piano lessons, Cub Scouts. We grew up, got married, had kids and the daily agenda grew with us. Then, the kids grew up and left and we grew old, retired and found ourselves like preschoolers again, with nothing on our schedule.

After 60 years of an agenda, we embraced the new found freedom. People ask, “What do you do all day?” At first, we feel guilty and rattle off a list of activities: work out at the gym, house repairs, volunteering, Rotary, Elks, etc. It’s a boilerplate list that we spit out to cover our guilt over having nothing to do. That’s how it starts, this retirement thing. Some people can’t handle it; they get a job, sign up for everything in sight. But, a true old coot gets over that guilt trip pretty fast. We’re busy, but on our terms. We’ve had a taste of what it’s like to be 5 years old again and we like it. Ask us to put something on our calendar and we resent it, even stuff we love to do. The answer is always, “Maybe, I’ll have to check my schedule for the week.” (We might have room to do one thing. But, it will have to be pretty good to get us to write it down.) 

And, when the day comes, to do the one thing on our calendar, we initiate the old coot appointment strategy. It’s called, get there on time. If the appointment is for 9 o’clock and entails a 30-minute drive, we leave the house at 8 o’clock. Just in case we run into traffic, a detour or the car breaks down. It’s part of the oath we take when we’re sworn into old coothood; be on time, and better yet, be early. So, there I sit in the dentist’s office with a 30-minute wait. When it’s over, I climb out of the chair and walk to the counter with gleaming, professionally cleaned teeth. I breathe a giant sigh of relief; my calendar is clear. But, the revelry comes to a sudden stop as I go to leave and the secretary says, “Don’t go yet, Mr. Coot; we have to schedule your next appointment.” I shriek, and run out the door.    

March 18, 2015 Article

The Old Coot explains doctor talk.

By Merlin Lessler

“This is going to kill! It will hurt so bad, you’ll wish I knocked you out first!” That’s something you never hear a doctor say. Instead, you hear, “You’ll feel a little pinch, then a slight burning sensation.” And, no matter how many times you’ve experienced this rouse, you still believe it. “This time,” (you say to yourself), “It will be true.” How can it not? Right there on the wall, framed in polished oak, is the physician’s college diploma. And then, there’s that language switch from English to Latin to explain your condition. Who can question the credibility of someone speaking Latin, a stethoscope hanging from their neck, a diploma on the wall and all decked out in a white lab coat? It kills, this little pinch and the slight burning sensation that follows, but we play our part in this one-act play, by saying, “That wasn’t so bad. ” It’s only when we get to the parking lot that we admit the truth and scream at the top of our lungs as we writhe in pain on the black top.

We’re introduced to this technique when we’re naïve little kids. It starts with all those shots (the ones that will feel like a little pinch). My rude awakening came when I was four-years old; I had my tonsils out. The big lie that day was, “They are going to wheel you into the operating room, place a flower on your nose; you’ll take a little sniff and fall asleep.” I believed it! Until the nurse strapped a mask to my face and that horrible odor of ether engulfed me, removing all the possibility of a fragrant flower lulling me to sleep. I was also promised all the ice cream I could eat after it was over. It was five full days before I could swallow a small sip of water without shrieking in pain.  

But, the little white “medical” lies have their place. Unfortunately, they go away when old coots are the patients. They don’t pull their punches with us. - “I don’t know what that lump is on the side of your nose; I’ve never seen anything like it.” – “You say it hurts when you bend over; don’t bend over. – “Do you have a living will; you should. And soon.” -  “And, while you’re at it, you might want to sign a do-not-resuscitate order.” -  Or, my favorite; the one I’ve heard at least 25 times over the last fifteen years, “You have to expect that at your age. “ But Doc, I wasn’t “expecting” any of this stuff,” I whine, as he helps me to the door with a fistful of new prescriptions. Then I read the warning label and realize the magic pills are the biggest lie of all!

March 11, 2015 Article

The Old Coot unveils your future.

By Merlin Lessler

This is a heads up for those of you over 50 and heading toward Old-Cootville. People younger than 50 don’t think they’ll ever get there, that their youth is eternal. But you people in your 50”s have come to realize, “Yes, I will get old someday!” Your body has provided enough evidence at the mid-century mark to know it’s true, though you cling to the belief that it is way, way off in the misty future. It is! In years. But, those decades will fly by so fast your head will spin, like mine does every day when a mirror, a limp, or the failure of some body part shows signs of malfunction and slaps me “up-side-the-head” with a, “I told you eons ago that this was comings.”

The funny thing about it is you never fully accept it. If you are a jogger, you switch to speed walking and then just plain walking. Golfers learn to live with scores 5, 10 or 15 strokes higher than when in their prime. You give up showing your children and grandchildren how you can still do a running front flip in the back yard. Handrails start to come into use. You adjust. Sort of, but still think in the back of your mind that it’s a temporary aberration, you’ll soon recover and be your old self, that your trick knee will shape up and you can do some moderate jogging. Then, you cross the street and a car coming fast around the corner gets you scurrying to the curb; you finish your escape with a limp and a new pain that reminds you of the lie you’ve been telling yourself.

Still, you continue to think, this old man thing might be temporary, because the aches and ailments ease up, even disappear, but soon enough, new ones come your way. That sore knee feels OK but now your neck won’t turn to the left. The stiffness lessens and your foot gets floppy, making you stumble every other step. It goes away and a series of leg cramps hit you every time you sit for any length of time. Usually in a public place like a restaurant where you have to jump up to kick it out, much to the chagrin of your dinning partners. It’s a game of Russian roulette. You never know what’s going to come out of the barrel in the old-man-gun.

So you’re 50, and now depressed, because some old coot read your tarot cards. It doesn’t have to be that way. You can look at it as the greatest adventure of your life; on par with climbing Mount Everest. It’s just that the elevation isn’t quite as lofty, just to the top of a set of stairs. You don’t hear me complaining. I look on it as one of those “glass half full” things; it could be a lot worse; my memory could fail and I’d start to repeat myself, or my memory could fail and I’d start to repeat myself.

March 4, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is a matchmaker.

By Merlin Lessler

A lot of single people sign up with E-Harmony-Dot-Com, Matchmakers or some other such organization in search of the perfect mate. They fill out complicated questionnaires, then a computer program produces a list of likely matches: people with similar backgrounds, worldviews and other characteristics that supposedly determine long-term compatibility, but they miss a critical screening tool, the old coot coffee shop test.

It works like this. You get a candidate’s name from the match making company, then arrange to meet at a coffee shop (Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts are the best for this process, but other places that have lines and require choices will work too). Tell the prospect to wear a red scarf and you’ll do the same. Get there early, hide the scarf and sit in a discrete location where you can watch the line. If the candidate is a type “X”, they will walk to the counter and say something like, “I’ll have a medium coffee, cream, no sugar,” and hand the clerk cash or a credit card and complete the transaction. (If it’s a Starbucks they can’t say medium with cream; they have to say “Grande, with room, and put the cream in themselves at the little table off to the side.)

A type “Y,” on the other hand, will only step up to the counter after the person behind them in line taps them on the shoulder and says, “It’s your turn.” The clerk says, “How may I help you?” Y stares back with a look that makes you think they were asked to name the capital of North Dakota and its population. After an awkward pause, Y responds with, “What’s good?” Now understand, Y has been in line for many, many minutes, gazing at the menu, the racks of donuts and the display case of specialty treats. The server responds with, “Everything! What do you like?” And, starts making suggestions. The banter goes back and forth. Suggestions are discarded, one by one. Eventually, Y changes from a “don’t-know-what-I-want” customer to a fussy customer. “I’ll have a medium coffee, one-half regular and one-half decaf, two and one-half sugars, a shot of espresso, a squirt of whip cream, half & half on the side and make sure you add some ice. Your coffee is always too hot.”

And yet, it’s not over; it’s time to pay, which comes as a shock to Y. He/she (this isn’t a sexist thing; both men and women can be a Y.) starts to fumble, patting pockets or digging deep in a purse, finally locating cash or a credit card to present to the clerk. Payment is made and then Y says, “Oh! I need a bagel; what kind do you have?”  The whole process starts all over again. The people in line behind Y look at each other and roll their eyes.

Now, it’s time for you to decide whether to put on the red scarf, or not. No matter how it comes out, at least you’ve had an interesting people-watching experience. Us old coots do it all the time. We’re not looking for a mate; we just love watching the show.