The Old Coot doesn't know? Tioga County Courier Article of July 14, 2021

 

The Old Coot knows the answer.

By Merlin Lessler

 Among the hardest three words to say, are, “I don’t know.” We hate that we don’t know something, when asked. So, we march ahead with an answer. Sometimes we condition it with, “I believe….” – I’ve been told….” – “I heard….” – “The word on the street is….” Or, we lie. Fake it! Make up an answer and hope it doesn’t come back to haunt us.

 Why is it so hard? To say those three little words? (This is where I should say, “I don’t know.” But off I go with an answer). We can’t say those three little words because of our egos. We’ve just been complimented by the asker, who thought we would know the answer. We hate to lose face and say, “I don’t know.”

 Politicians don’t have that problem. They never say they don’t know. Instead, they respond with a delaying tactic, “That’s a great question.” That compliment to interviewers throws them off guard. It’s called the “flatter and distract” technique. Then off they go on a long round of blather and never answer the question.

 This phobia isn’t a male or female thing. Both sexes are equally guilty of not being able to say, “I don’t know.” It’s even harder to say than, “I was wrong.” Which is what you are setting yourself up for when you answer a question with fiction rather than fact. Fortunately, saying you were wrong got easier when some clever person, probably a politician, invented the phrase, “My bad.”

 Somehow, this takes the sting out of admitting you are wrong. We hate to be wrong, but we hate even more, to admit it. Saying, “My bad,” solves the problem. I’d love to meet the person who came up with it. I asked Google. I was sure it wouldn’t know and would just throw up a bunch of web sites, which is another way of saying, “That’s a good question.” That’s what I got. I picked the one that said it came from the 1995 movie, “Clueless.” If that’s wrong, it’s “My bad.”

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The Old Coot knows when to lie. Tioga Co. Courier Article (July 7, 2021)

 

The Old Coot’s pants are on fire.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m a liar. Everyone is, but it’s something that a lot of people won’t admit. Not me! I even lie to my doctor. I’m not alone. Many of my fellow old coots do too. It starts right off when the doctor walks into the little room where you’ve waited, staring at gruesome pictures on the wall, for the longest ten minutes of your life. “How are you doing, Mr. Coot. Any issues?” What kind of question is that? To ask of an old man. Of course, there are issues, all of which I’ve come to accept over my “golden” years, and know how to live with. So, I lie, “I’m doing great!”

 “Any chest pains?” – “Not really.” Just the normal ones I get every once in a while – some could be heart related – most are old age related – indigestion or muscle aches from screwing in a light bulb. I’ve lived with these chest things for years, so no sense letting that cat out of the bag. I have a few stents – put in five years ago, so I’m an expert at listening to my body. If I didn’t lie, I’d be in for a round of unnecessary tests, probes and a battery of appointments spending endless hours in waiting and examining rooms. So, for my own good, I lie.

 “You up in the night a lot?” – “Sometimes; no complaints.” Sometimes? What a lie – how about every night! That’s the norm for an old coot. No sense in getting into a new round of appointments with a urologist. I’m not bringing up the subject until the rug between my bedroom and the bathroom starts to wear thin.

 “How are you sleeping?” – “Good. No problem.” What a lie! – I love my 11am nap – the 3pm doze reading a book – the TV shows after dinner that I mostly sleep through. I sleep in bits and pieces so by bedtime I don’t go down for a solid stretch of time. Bad sleep habits (patterns) are the norm for us old guys. No sense admitting it and setting myself up for a session at a sleep clinic, listening to a bunch of old guys snoring.

 All through the doctor visit –Lie! – Lie! – Lie! But these are healthy lies that many old coots have mastered. We’re dealing with medical professionals who have studied, but never experienced, the ins and outs of old age. It’s not a science. Old age is an art. Give me an 80-year-old doctor and I will stop telling lies.

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The old coot doesn't like dog owner's image - Tioga County Courier 6/30/2021

 

The Old Coot makes a request.

By Merlin Lessler

 This is my only complaint about dog owners. Call it a PSA (public service announcement). Some of you are making our species look bad, walking around with a leash in one hand and a bag of dog poop in the other. I’m not against dogs, just the image that some of you are creating, though very much appreciating that you pick it up! Most of you, anyhow. As a matter of fact, I love dogs. Cats too. I’ve had dogs since I was three years old and my parents let me keep a stray that had been wandering around the neighborhood for weeks. They got quite a surprise three weeks later when “Lassie” delivered seven pups in our basement. We kept one and named him Topper because he left the litter, climbed to the top of the stairs and poked his nose into the kitchen.

 So then we had two dogs, mother and son. Lassie was an unrelenting car chaser. My father, a design engineer, rigged up all sorts of contraptions using wire coat hangers and twine to try to retard her ability to race after a car. To no avail. She eventually was adopted by a friend of my father who lived in the country where traffic was extremely light. This was the 1940’s after all. There were such places then.

 Topper was at my side for eleven years, except when I went to church or to school. Otherwise, he was my constant companion – in the woods camping and building forts, at the ball field playing pick-up games. Even to downtown Binghamton, waiting outside a store or the movie theater. No leash; he just plopped down by the door and waited.  I had that first love of my life until I was 14 and he passed away.  

 I’ve had a succession of dogs for most of my life; I don’t have one at the moment, but when I feel the need for some canine interaction, I go to the dog park or to my daughter’s house. There is nothing like a greeting from a dog – a happy show of affection, no strings attached. Even if you are an old coot.

 That’s a long route to get to my point, but I’ve been taking lessons from Andy Haefer on how to string out a short story. He’s leaving town, moving to Georgia, so I plan to carry on his storytelling tradition. Back to the point! I’m asking the dog owners who are walking their dogs and carrying a bag of you know what, to put the bag in an old purse with a shoulder strap or in a small messenger bag, so the aliens who watch us from their UFO’s don’t assume that dogs are the superior life form. It’s up to you to save us Earthlings.

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Old Coot can see clearly now. Tioga County Courier Article (06/23/2021)

 

The Old Coot solves a problem.

By Merlin Lessler

 I have NO glasses! I’m squinting as I write this, too lazy (or stubborn) to get up and go hunting for one of the six pairs I’ve strategically placed, so I’ll never be without. Not to mention another half-dozen pairs on standby, in a drawer in the kitchen. All of them are the same - 2.00 power, cheap, reading glasses.

 Six pairs scattered around the house so I’ll never be without, yet much of the time I’m glassesless (a word of my own invention, by necessity). It happens because I take the ones I’m using on a trip – like when I get up from my office chair to go to the garage to do something that suddenly pops into my head. (Because I have the, “Got to do it now or I’ll forget syndrome”) I have a pair in the garage, but since I’m carrying a pair on the top of my head, I don’t use the “garage” glasses. 

 Next stop, the kitchen. I set the office glasses down next to the kitchen glasses. Later on, when I go to back to the office, plop down and fumble for glasses on the desk; they aren’t there. Which is why I’m squinting as I write this. My normal scribbles are bad enough. Without glasses, they are completely illegible. 

 Eventually, every stopping place in the house (or car), will be void of glasses. I’ve taken them someplace and set them down without thinking – on the washing machine – in a coat pocket now hanging in the closet. Or worse, sitting atop my head, unbeknownst to me. Six pairs will be classified MIA, forcing me to bring in the reserves.

 But, the end of this dilemma is at hand. I bought a string necklace thing that I’ve attached to my favorite pair. Now, I have glasses no matter where I go in the house. I swore I’d never use one of these eyeglass necklace things; thinking they were for old fogies. Well, if the shoe fits, wear it. I’m an old foggy, but now, one who can read no matter where I am in the house. I won’t wear it in public; I have an image to maintain, tattered as it is.

 I have a similar problem with pandemic masks. I keep one in the car to use in public places. Quite often I’ll mistakenly bring it into the house. The next time I go out, I won’t have a mask; it isn’t in the car like it should be. I’m mask-less, and thus denied entry to some of the places I wanted to stop at. Fortunately, the mask mandate is fading away and I won’t be tempted to buy, and then wear, a mask necklace, similar to my glasses one. I have eleven pairs of glasses for sale, now that my eyeglass necklace is in the game.  Check the want ads in your local paper. They are cheap and going fast.

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Old Coot makes a stink - Tioga County Courier Article 6/16/2021

 

The Old Coot lives with nature, but not well.

By Merlin Lessler

 I caught a skunk today. I was hoping to trap one of the squirrels that moved into the attic space above our bedroom. I guess they got tired of camping and decided to try “glamping” for a change by moving in with us.

 It’s my second skunk. I caught the first one almost twenty years ago. It was considerably more docile than the one I caught today. I covered the trap over that first skunk with a towel and carried him out to the driveway without any fuss. My smelling mechanism was tip-top back then so I know for sure the little guy hadn’t sprayed. I had an old MG with a luggage rack on the trunk so I fastened the covered have-a-heart trap to the rack and took him for a tour of the village and out to the countryside. He looked over at me when I pulled off the cover and opened the door. It wasn’t a mad, I’m going to spray you look; it was a look of contentment. He slowly sauntered out of the trap and into the woods.

 I wasn’t so lucky today; this skunk was hopping mad. He took one look in my direction and sent a healthy dose of deodorant into the air. I ran to the garage for an old tarp and tossed it over him and then went downtown to the Owego Kitchen for coffee with the boys. I wanted to see if they detected any skunk smell on me. I told them what happened, but they said I didn’t smell any worse than usual. Maybe a little better.  I don’t have the MG anymore and I couldn’t risk putting a mad skunk in the car, so I slipped him into a wheel barrel and gave him a ride to a new home near the river. I used a long stick to remove the cover and open the trap door. He was still furious, but thankfully he opted to run for his life rather than take the time to say good-bye and express his displeasure again. 

 We’re still working on our squirrel problem. We’ve trapped a half dozen or so, but their noisy racket in our bedroom ceiling still wakes us up most nights. Our house is 216 years old and has spaces you can’t get into, unless you are a squirrel. And, we can’t figure out how they are getting in there. We’re forced to trap them outside the house and hope we get the guilty parties. If I had a choice, I’d trade a skunk problem for a squirrel problem anytime. At least the skunks prefer the great outdoors.  

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Brr, that water is cold! - Old Coot Article - Tioga NY County Courier

 The Old Coot took a dive.

By Merlin Lessler

 I took a swim the other day. It wasn’t planned. Some people would classify it as a fall, something they keep track of when you’re an old coot. I call it an unexpected immersion.

 The Johnson’s Pool people were here to “open” our pool. I usually do it myself but my wife decided I’m too old to pull the cover off without falling in or creating a mess with the junk that lies on top of the cover. I hate it when she’s right! So anyhow, the Johnson pool crew had the cover off, all the plugs removed and were prepping the filter and pump mechanism, a short distance behind the pool. I was backing around the edge, blasting the maple tree helicopters away from the edge of the pool with a hose. It was a chilly afternoon; I dressed for the weather in jeans, a winter sweater and a jacket.

 It was the least I could do, this little housekeeping chore. As I backed around one of the corners, which are rounded off, I miscalculated and backed right over the edge into the pool.  I used to take a dip with my son when we took off the cover in April or early May. It was a tradition – 2 brave souls in 50 degree water. I was a lot younger in those days; my son Zachary moved out on his own and the tradition came to an end. Until now! Our pool is the smallest that Johnsons ever installed, at least at the time -10 feet by 20 feet, 5 and 1/2 feet deep in the deep end.

 I wasn’t in any danger as I took my unplanned dip in the 49-degree water that had just been treated with three gallons of chlorine. With supervision and yelps from my wife, I paddled to the shallow end and climbed out, a drowned rat coughing from chlorine fumes. My cell phone decided to stay in the pool, sinking to the bottom in the deep end. Now, I have a new one. And know for sure, that the rice-in-a-bag treatment for a wet phone doesn’t work for one that took a long swim.

 I hope I haven’t started a new pool opening tradition. I can’t afford to buy a new cell phone every year.

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The Old Coot doesn't get it. A Tioga County Courior article of 6/02/21

 

The Old Coot is an old dog.

By Merlin Lessler

 I don’t know if it’s true or not – the saying – “You can’t teach old dogs new tricks.” I do know it’s true for me. I can’t learn or adapt to anything new. Take the way the media describes the different generations; baby boomers, generation -X, Gen-2, Millennials and the like, and then assigns characteristics to a group and predicts how they will behave in certain situations. Whenever they do that on TV, I yell at my screen, “What are you talking about?”

  I’ve had the terms explained to me; I’ve worn out the Google icon on my cell phone looking them up, but the meaning never sticks. My high school graduating class, Binghamton Central High School class of 1960, is in a generational designation that doesn’t fit. We’re part of the “Silent Generation,” people born between 1928 and 1945. Those of us born during the war (me and my high school cronies) were unaware of what was going on in the world or of the day-to-day restrictions the population endured to support the war effort (gas rationing, lack of building supplies, no new cars and limited supplies of grocery items). We have nothing in common with the members of the Silent Generation born in the 1920’s and early to mid-1930’s. They have very distinct memories of life in that era. We’re more like Baby Boomers (those born between 1946 and 1964), but we’re not allowed in that club.

  I don’t like generational labels. And, not just because I can’t remember what they mean. They don’t make sense; the way attributes of different aged people are clumped together. Take “Millennials,” for example – people born between 1981 and 1997. They are now aged 24 to 40. The two halves of that age group are like night and day when it comes to predicting how they might behave in various situations.

 Here’s how I look at the generations, in terms I think most people can understand. Terms that are tried and true. Or were, until the media started talking down to us by using sociological terms instead of everyday language. My groupings start with babies, then moves up the age chart: toddlers - little kids – pre-teens – teenagers – college kids – young adults – middle agers – seniors, and finally, old coots & nice little old ladies. These are age clumps that have fairly similar outlooks on life, behaviors and opinions. This is coming to you from an unproud member of the Silent Generation. We’re not silent at all. We’re notorious for airing our half-baked opinions on today’s society and how much better things were in the good old days. But you know that if you made it this far.

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