The Old Coot shoots par. (Tioga County Courier Column 11-25-2020)

 

The Old Coot takes note, of a note book.

By Merlin Lessler

 I watched the Master’s Golf Tournament last week. In November! Not May! No fans! No azaleas! Just golfers, PGA officials, TV videographers and members of the exclusive (for-profit) Augusta National Golf Club. It will forever be known as the Pandemic Masters. It’s always a treat to watch the pros demonstrate how the game is supposed to be played. You can’t help but notice the fat notebook in the golfers back pants pocket that they take out and study before each shot. The book contains a map of the course, showing key terrain features, the contours of the green, obstacles, location of sprinkler heads and other useful points of reference.

  It’s a guidebook of the highest level; it also includes notes made by the golfers on each round. They learn from their mistakes as they progress through the four rounds of a standard tournament. I can’t imagine what it would be like to look down at a logbook, look up to get the lay of the land, check the wind, know how far you can hit each club in the bag and then execute a shot. The book wouldn’t do me any good. I never know how far I’ll hit any club in my bag. Truth be told, I could get by with less clubs. I pretty much shank them all with equal frequency.

 My logbook, if I had one, would contain a single page. In big letters, it would say - “Keep your head down!” -  “Keep your eye on the ball (I tend to close my eyes at the last moment)!” And most important for me, #3 “Don’t try to kill it!” I never accomplish all three. My swing is in perfect agreement with the lyrics in Meatloaf’s hit song, “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.” That’s why my game is so interesting.  Each shot is a surprise.   

 The golfers that wait their turn on the tee, while my foursome tees off, often break out in laughter when I pull out my driver. It’s over 30 years old and the head is made of wood. The head is so small it looks more like a modern-day putter than a driver. I bought new clubs two years ago, but returned them after one round. Then, I slunk back to the Owego Open Door Mission Outlet Store and bought back my old ones. I’d donated them when I purchased the new ones. Fortunately, they were still there. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me; who would want them? Other than an antique dealer.

 Anyhow, I’ll stick with my old clubs and a one-page guide book. If I decide to add a second page, it won’t contain golf tips. – It will offer practical advice, suitable for an old coot like me. #1 - Your car is red and parked in the back row of the parking lot; don’t go looking all over for it #2 - Take your spikes off before getting in the car.  #3 - Tell everyone you shot par. (It’s not a lie; I always shoot par. Unfortunately, I reach that number at the 13^th or 14^th hole, not the end of an 18 hole round.) My friend Ray, who is a year younger than me, has been shooting his age every so often. It’s quite an accomplishment. I’m working on it, but I doubt I’ll make it. It’s not likely I’ll live to 150.   

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Old Coot needs the newspaper (and plastic bags) Tioga County NY Courier Article 11/18/2020

 

The Old Coot can’t live without the newspaper.

By Merlin Lessler

 The newspaper is under attack. It’s been going on for a long time. First, it was radio that took a crack, then TV joined in the siege. The newsprint industry survived. Even so, a ton of daily and weekly papers went out of business, small town and big cities alike. The demise really began over 60 years ago, after the Kennedy assassination. It made our thirst for INSTANT news insatiable. The baton was passed to TV. Now it’s the Internet, teamed up with smart phones. If you’re part of the hip, with-it crowd and someone asks you what’s going on or what the weather is going to be, you don’t reach for the paper; you get the answer from your phone.

 Prognosticators say the end is near. The newspaper is finished. The days of in depth, investigative reporting are over. I hope not. TV network news organizations thrive on the “30-second” report. Cable channels concentrate on 24/7 coverage of sensational news, boring us to death as they focus on the minutia. Magazines, loaded with ads, get a quick skim and retire to doctors waiting rooms. Newspapers get the story behind the story better than any form of media, but most of that is national in nature. We’re lucky; we have newspaper coverage in our local area, but much of the country doesn’t.

 How will it end? Nobody knows. But, even if you don’t read the paper for news, or use it to clip out sale coupons for “Oreos,” or don’t care about the critical role that newspapers play in a democracy, you still have a stake in the battle. Life without newspapers would be devastating. What would you wrap smelly fish in?

 And, how would you get your windows to sparkle, or start a fire? Old coots like me, thrived and prospered because of newspapers. Paper routes put a jingle in our pockets when we were kids. Newspapers were an essential element in our world: stuffed into the toes of our oversized, hand-me-down shoes and as temporary umbrellas when dashing through a downpour. Is there anything better than a snooze under a newspaper in a recliner chair or on a park bench on a sleepy summer afternoon? There is nothing that gives privacy like a newspaper draped over your head. How would we move without newspapers? What would we wrap the dishes in? How would we paper-train a puppy or line a birdcage? A paperless society would be a messy society. No more paper hats! No more paper sail boats, papier mâché figurines or blankets for the homeless on a cold night.

 I first wrote about this ten years ago, and things have only gotten worse. Now, we have another demise on our hands, Plastic Bags are in the death throes. We have a bag of bags on hand in the kitchen and garage; most people have a similar stash. The bags come in real handy when you have a mess to clean up, need to store things, tote stuff around and a slew of other uses. No newspapers! No plastic bags!  What’s the world coming to?

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What's in a name? Old Coot article of November 11, 2020 (Tioga County, NY Courier)

 

The Old Coot doesn’t know your name.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here I go again, sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. In the “Men are from Mars” -  “Women are from Venus” arena. The compulsion struck me when the politicians and media pundits were embroiled in debate over the nomination of Amy Coney-Barrett for the Supreme Court. It wasn’t the politics that caught my attention, it was the double last name that she was saddled with. The hyphenated Coney-Barrett. Her original last name and her former identity were lost in the shuffle. Lost to her husband’s last name and a hyphen, placing her name in a secondary position. The old Amy Coney became a missing person.

 Here's where I step in it; I just hope the water isn’t too deep. You be the judge. I throw down this gauntlet: you have a name - you keep the name. Unless you go into a witness protection program. I’ve felt this way for a long time, ever since my 10-year high school reunion, back when you could pick up a phone book and find people. Locating the boys from my class was relatively simple, but not the girls, the ones who were married; they disappeared, left the planet so to speak, phonebook wise anyhow.

 I wonder how us men would react if we had to give up our last name when we got married? I don’t particularly like mine, but I wouldn’t want to lose it. Even to a hyphen.

 I get it, the history of the custom; it goes back to a time when women were considered property. First, of their fathers and then, after they were “given” away in marriage, of their husbands. Many wedding ceremonies still ask the question, “Who giveth this woman”?

 Do we still think that way? I don’t think so! So, why is it so hard to give up the practice. Just asking. Merlin Lessler-Cady, (who I would be if the shoe was on the other foot).

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The Old Coot has many names - Tioga County Courier, Nov. 4, 2020

 

The Old Coot has an alias. Several!

By Merlin Lessler

 We acquire many names as we spin through life. The first one is “The Baby.”  How’s “The Baby” doing? Is “The Baby” walking yet? Has “The Baby” started teething? Then we move on to our birth certificate name or a nick name. In my case, I became “Butch.” Everyone in the neighborhood called me Butch, so often that I thought it was my real name. Then came kindergarten, I officially became Merlin, as in, “Merlin Lessler stop throwing sand at Butchy.” Butchy was really Peter, but somehow, he kept his street name. I was only throwing sand at him because he was a bully and had just yanked a toy truck out of my hands.

 I shrugged and accepted the Merlin label. Then came 1st grade; we were assigned seats, boys on one side of the room and girls on the other. The teacher prepared an alphabetical seating chart in preparation for the first day of school. I was assigned a seat on the girl’s side of the room. There I sat, in a sea of giggling, finger pointing first graders. The teacher finally noticed; she claimed she thought Merlin was an alternative spelling of the girl’s name, Marilyn. I got moved to the boy’s side, but she got even for having to redo the seating chart. She continued to call me Marilyn. This went on for weeks. Finally, I’d had enough. She asked “Marilyn” to come to the blackboard to write the spelling words. I stayed seated. She asked again. I didn’t move. Then again, this time with her face inches from mine. My reaction? “Marilyn? Who’s Marilyn? I’m Merlin! Everyone here knows that but you.” My insubordination earned me my first trip to the principal’s office. I had to sit in the cool-down room with Butchy, who welcomed me with a slug to the arm.

 That experience and the aftermath turned me sour on my unusual name. I spent the next several decades with different name tags: Nick, Knurling, Les, Shooter (as in pool player), Jim Steel (fake electrician) and several others, best of them being: Hubby, Daddy and Grandpa. I settled on Merl, and then finally embraced, and switched to, Merlin. It was like getting back together with a long-lost friend. It has some positives. I can go by one name, like Cher. I don’t need a last name; I’ve only met one other person named Merlin. It happened in a Starbucks in Florida. The clerk shouted out, “Merlin, your drink is ready.” I hadn’t ordered yet, so I knew it wasn’t for me. I went over and introduced myself. My first Merlin! When I see him now, he calls me, “Other,” as in, the “other” Merlin. It’s not hard to tell us apart. I’m the skinny guy; he’s the one in Teddy Bear pajama bottoms.

 Now, little by little, my Merlin moniker is slipping away. More and more people refer to me as the Old Coot, or just plain Coot. Finally, a name that’s a perfect fit. At least I don’t have to sit on the girl’s side of the room.

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The Old Coot is a blabbermouth. October 28, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot tells all!

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m a blabbermouth! Most old coots are. Tell us a secret and we go public! We love it when someone starts a sentence with, “Don’t let this out, but …..” – OR - “You can’t tell anybody this, but …” – OR - “We’re not announcing this yet, but …..” That’s a mistake, when you’re talking to a blabbermouth. Sometimes I write an article about someone’s embarrassing moment. I tell the story and end it with, “I can’t mention their name. It’s Daren Merrill. “ Or whoever made the mistake of telling me something they didn’t want published. I can’t help myself. It’s a sickness, Blabbermouthitis.

 Mike Coleman let it slip that he’d turned 50. I wasn’t sure how old he was until he presented me with a cane the other day. Not just a cane, an old coot cane, complete with a bicycle horn, a change purse, a pill box and two warning signs “A senior moment in progress” and “If found, please return to …” That’s when I learned he was over 50; he said he got the cane at his 50^th birthday party. He laughed as he handed it to me saying he knew I could put it to better use. He was right.  Did he want everyone to know he turned 50? I don’t know, but they do now.

 I plan to bequeath it back to him. He’ll need it someday. He has no idea how fast you go from fifty to eighty. Not that I’m eighty yet. I won’t say how old I am. I’m 77, a 77-year-old blabbermouth. When you’re a kid, it takes forever to go from ten to twenty, especially the period just before you’re old enough to get a driver’s license. It’s the longest period of your life. An eternity. But not so with fifty to eighty; those three decades fly by so fast your head spins.

 Mike will have to modify the cane; it works fine for me, but I’m six feet tall (or once was); he’s more like six foot seven.  I’m not sure if he wanted that publicized, but it’s too late now. Paul C., another coffee club attendee, confided something to me a week or so ago. I haven’t blabbed it yet, not because I’ve reformed; I just haven’t run into anyone to tell. It’s this darn pandemic. My lips are sealed, against my will.

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Old Coot was mentored - Tioga County Courier October 21, 2020 Article

 

The Old Coot learned from a master.

By Merlin Lessler

 Not every man becomes an old coot when he gets old. You need a mentor, a trainer, to make it into the old coot fraternity. It’s not easy. The by-laws are extensive and must be both memorized and put into daily use. It’s a long set of rules: complain about today’s society, talk about the good old days, share your medical knowledge with long winded descriptions of every procedure you’ve undergone and the list of all the ailments you are presently dealing with, insist on stopping during a conversation when you get stuck on the name of a person, place or thing until you come up with it. That’s a short sample of the old coot by-laws.

I was lucky; I started my training when I was in my late twenties under the guidance of a high-ranking member of the old coot society, Don Gipson of Patterson, NY. He was my boss at the time, well into his sixties. He passed along wisdom about aging, preserving your energy, the corporate world and the world at large. Those lessons served me well, on the job and in social interactions.

 Our corporate work day ran from 8am to 4:30 pm. Don strolled in at 9. He didn’t slink in like I did when I was late. No, he strode in with an attitude that proclaimed, “I’m early!” That was my first lesson: Attitude!  Think it and be it. In his case it was to preserve energy. He knew he had only so much, and that most days he’d be at meetings or community events well into the evening. “You’ll understand when you get older,” he told me.

 He taught me to be a skeptic of both, new ideas and existing ways of doing things.” If everyone was doing it, it was probably wrong.”  It took me a while to master this concept. I wasn’t as fast a learner as Jack Roskoz, a co-worker who also reported to Don. Jack became a “Contrarian” at an early age and it served him well as he shot up the corporate ladder.

 Don applied this “dare to be different” principle to everything, even a cocktail party. He and his wife Gert didn’t populate their dining room table with a selection of snacks and hors de vors like everyone else. They cooked a big turkey, cooled it down and set it on a platter in the center of the table. Everyone loved it, walking around the house socializing, while nibbling on cold turkey instead of a bunch of squiggly globs of whatever.

 Don solved the belt problem. I bet you didn’t know there was belt problem. I didn’t. I got dressed, slipped a belt through the loops and off I went. Not Don. He bought an assortment of belts at a thrift store and equipped all the pants in his closet with them. He wasn’t perfect; he had one flaw; he wore white socks with a black suit. It was similar to the belt thing. One color in the sock drawer eliminated a daily selection process. I was the emcee at his retirement party and presented him with a new pair of white socks. He didn’t get the joke. He’d been doing it so long he hadn’t given it a thought in years. His “attitude” skill was profound. He didn’t retire at 65, which was mandatory at the time. He convinced the company to change the rule, and stayed on the job for several more years. That’s covered under old coot rule #15 – If there is no good reason for a rule, throw it out. Now, I’m the mentor. I’m just having a hard time getting the “youngsters” I hang out with to listen to me. 

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Old Coots repeat. Tioga County Courier October 14, 2020 Article

 

Old Coots hears an echo.

By Merlin Lessler

 A friend of mine from the Starbucks coffee gang in Ormond Beach, Florida sent me a note the other day, just to say hello. (Due to the privacy regulations I can’t mention his name; it’s John Stewart.) He said there wasn’t much to report except that the group is now back inside Starbucks, but gone are the days of twelve people pulling up chairs and sitting around a coffee table for a group conversation. They now sit one or two at a table in a pattern that spreads across the room.

 The place is noisy. Hissing, clanging and banging exotic beverage appliances blast a symphony across the room that reverberates beneath a vaulted metal ceiling. It’s near impossible to carry on a group conversation in that atmosphere. He said they nod, as though they actually heard what someone said. Not that it matters much if they miss it. The same missive will come around again in a day or so, such is the conversation of old coots. 

 John is right in his observation; I circulate through three of these old coot coffee gatherings: one in Florida and two in New York. None of us pay close attention to what is being said. We’ve heard it before, so many times that we know the specifics better that the person telling it. We only listen so we can correct him when he gets mixed up with the facts. We jump in with gusto to point out the error. The usual response is, “Oh yea; you’re right; I didn’t finish first in the 10-K race, it was my cousin. But, I finished, and ahead of some of the runners.”

 These “stories” are recirculated so often that many times they are introduced with a disclaimer, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.” If you don’t respond quickly you get the re-run. Even then, it rarely stops them. They are then subject to unrelenting interruptions, designed to wear them down. Especially when they go off on a jag about their latest medical adventure. Now that I’ve come to the end of this article, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve said it all before.

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