Old Coot in a downhill crash. Article # 1036 (Tioga County Courier & Owego Pennysaver)

 The Old Coot was in a fix.

By Merlin Lessler

 Do you remember being a kid, peddling along on a bike, minding your own business and your pant leg gets caught in the chain? You couldn’t peddle forward; you couldn’t pedal backwards. The chain was locked in place. Bikes back then had coaster brakes that engaged when you pushed the peddle backwards; most bikes today have hand brakes (except for some cruiser and city bikes). All you could do when your pant leg got caught in the chain was keep going forward, knowing you were going to tip over and skin your knee or elbow when you came to a stop.   

 My worst “pants-caught-in-a-bike-chain” experience took place when I was ten-years old and coming down a steep hill on Denton Road, headed for a busy Vestal Ave at the bottom. I had one chance to save myself; I had to turn off onto a cinder construction road that jutted to the side, one block from the bottom. I knew I would fall when I made the turn, and most certainly would get banged up, but it was my only hope! Faster and faster, I sped down the hill, flying by the Daley’s house, then the Almy’s house and finally past my friend Woody’s house, who was gawking at me as I flew by. I steered toward the construction road and closed my eyes. That’s all I remember. Then, a neighborhood woman yelled out her kitchen window, asking me if I was OK. I looked down at the blood and cinder mosaic on the side of my leg, the skinned elbow on my arm and my torn pant leg, now free of the chain. “I’m OK!” I shouted, got to my feet, picked up my bike, straightened the handlebars and peddled home. It was my third session that week with a bottle of Merthiolate. I can still feel the sting.      

 Now, I find myself back on a bicycle, rolling down a hill, out of control with my pant leg caught in the chain. Except, this time the bicycle is metaphysical and the hill is life, rapidly spinning by. That’s what it feels like to be old, any kind of old: 30-old, 40-old, 50, 60, 70 or 80-old like me. No matter what part of the age hill you are coming down, the scenery is flying by way too fast. And, worse yet, there is no side street to pull off into. 

 So, what’s my point? I don’t know. Someone asked me the other day if I remembered getting my pants caught in a bicycle chain when I was a kid. And, like a typical old coot, I turned it into a philosophical treatise on the meaning of life. How’s your bike ride going? Is your pant leg inching closer to the chain?

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com or visit blog -www.oldcootwisdomblogspot.com   

The Old Coot is out front on the porch. (7/5/2023)

 The Old Coot is watching.

By Merlin Lessler

 Nobody’s out front! On their porch! Mostly! I ride my bike here in the village, through nearby communities and along my favorite route, Marshland Road. Quite a few houses have porches, but I hardly ever see anyone sitting on them. Oh sure, there are a few exceptions sprinkled here and there. I almost always see Joe, next to the Parkview Inn on his porch when I ride by early on Sunday mornings. And, later on, I see Kim reading on her Front Street porch, patiently waiting for the day when her house is finally raised above flood level, Nancy, is on her Paige Street porch and a handful of others. But for the most part, people are in back of their houses when they go outside to relax.

 We recently moved to a house with a large, wrap around porch. I’m out there all the time. It’s where I eat breakfast & lunch, read, doze and people watch. I can see everyone walking and driving by, and they can see me. I’m probably becoming a village legend - that weird guy who’s always out on his porch.

 Oh well, I’ve been called worse. But I have to admit, I’m loving it out there. I also get to see a train rumble past a dozen or more times a day. Clang! Clang! Clickety! Clack! It can be mesmerizing. Feeling stressed? Watch a train. Even an electric, scale model train can have the same effect.   

 I had one on a shelf that went around the office in our old house. I ran it all the time, especially when reading a book in my recliner (with my eyes closed). Now I do the same, but out on the front porch with a full-size train.

 I guess I’m just a nosy old coot. Who wants to see what’s going on. Out front! Things like: the number of cars that run the red light in front of our house, or turn right on red without stopping, people walking for exercise, going to work, or to shop in the village stores. It’s better than the reality shows on cable TV. Unlike them, it’s real.

The Old Coot is rocking. A Tioga County and Owego Pennysaver article of 6-28-2023

 The Old Coot is safely in his rocking chair.

By Merlin Lessler

 In 2008, I surveyed the public swings in our area. To see if there might be a good place for an old coot to enjoy the thrill of flying through the air. I found a good prospect behind the elementary school. Four swings hung from a high center bar, promising a long glide path. I hopped on, pumped hard to achieve maximum distance from the ground, then laid back to face the sky and let the swing work its magic. It wasn’t as nice as I expected; the wooden flat seat I grew up with had been replaced with a wide rubber strap that squished my hips together, so much so, I aborted the mission after only a few minutes. It was like being in a vice.

 I checked all the parks and found one with a wooden seat, in Hickories Park by the river, next to a pavilion. I’m sure the picknicking family had a good laugh at the old coot swinging and leaning back to face the sky, flying through the air. When I got home, I conjured up a wooden seat that would fit over the rubber strap and went back to the elementary school where I could enjoy myself without hearing a chorus of chuckles.

 We moved in May and in the process, I stumbled on that wooden seat adaptor, hidden under my workbench in the garage. I decided to update my swing set invention, in hopes of finding a place to “fly through the air.” The results were discouraging.

 There are no swings at all, in Hickories Park. And, the swings everywhere else are “height challenged,” with a mere eight feet from the top bar to the ground. The swings by the Little League Park are the only exception, twelve feet high. All are equipped with that miserable, hip pinching rubber strap.

 Swings are the victim of an overprotective and litigious society. Dangerous! Too high! The wooden seats were outlawed to protect a kid who wander into their path, something most of us in my generation did, at least once. Today’s playgrounds are safe, but no fun for an old guy who would like to swing. Seesaws (teeter-totters) are gone too. Even the ground has been deemed a danger, replaced with a surface of wood or rubber chips. I guess I’ll have to settle for a ride on a rocking chair on my porch.  

 Complaints? Sent to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot says too many names. Published June 21, 2023 (Owego Pennysaver, Tioga Co. Courier)

 The Old Coot doesn’t know your name.

By Merlin Lessler

 I hear people say they can’t remember names all the time. It’s not just old coots either; it’s folks of all ages. I’ve finally figured it out; we’ve got too many names to deal with these days, And, too many variations and different spellings.

 When I was a kid in grade school (elementary school to you younger folks) there might have been a couple dozen names in common use for boys and girls. Names like Tommy and Bobby, Jimmy, Kay, Judy, Betty, at least on the playground. Once inside the classroom, they became Thomas, Robert, James, Kathleen, Judith and Elizabeth. Basic names, no matter in or out of the classroom.

 Not any longer. There are hundreds more today with variations that go on forever. A simple name like Alice, which is hardly used any more, has been replaced with Alyce, Alicia, Alisha, Allie, to name just a few. Take every common name from my generation and pull out a dozen or two variations and you have a tsunami of name choices. I have enough trouble remembering if the guy I’m talking to is Greg or Craig. Two different, somewhat common names, that sound the same to me.

 A few years back, I solved my problem with men’s names. When I meet one for the first time, they say their name; it immediately flies out of my head. So, I say, “Hi, nice to meet you, do you mind if I call you Tim.” Most of the time, they look at me funny, for a minute, but often say, “OK; I guess.”

 Toms are Tims; Roberts are Tims, everyone else too. Unless they are a Mike. For some reason I can remember men named Mike and can quickly recall it when I see them. Thankfully, there are a lot of Mikes out there. That, plus the Tims I rename, makes my life a lot easier.

 So, if you are worried that your mind is failing because you can’t quickly pull someone’s name out of the cobwebs in your head, not to worry! You’re probably OK. There are just too many names to deal with these days.  

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

No more free postage. Coot article of 6/14/2023 Tioga Co. Courier, Owego Pennysaver

 The Old Coot wants to end “Franking.”

By Merlin Lessler

 Free postage! (Franking) That’s what we grant the members of the United States Congress. So they can communicate important goings on in Washington. Free printing too. I guess it sounded like a good idea when it started. A small perk, so the men and women we elected could let us know what they were up to. Back when a three-cent stamp and a mimeograph black and white letter got the job done. Back before the political office became a lifetime career, not a few months sabbatical from the work world where they earned their living.  

 It’s time to reverse the franking (free postage) privilege. To give us free postage, so we can let them know what we expect of them for a change. A chance to express opinions for or against the latest “bright idea’ kicking around in the cigar smoked, back rooms at the Capitol. Any letter we send, addressed to congress, should be franked. And, no more free, one-way communication from them, with free design & artwork, professional phrasing and glossy printed propaganda, posing as electorate communication, when it really is campaign propaganda. If they ever get around to doing our work in the House and Senate, we might then consider reinstalling their franking privilege.

 It's our fault! We let this happen. It’s called Privilege creep. Starts out small, grows a little each year, and here we are, paying to be told what a great job they are doing. It’s time for a Franking change!

 Comments – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot & the Cough Bully. Article published 6/7/2023 Tioga County Courier, Owego, NY Pennysaver

 The Old Coot & the bully.

By Merlin Lessler

 Got a little cold coming on? With a tickle in your throat? That teases you into a cough, or two, or three? Now take that tickle to a public place – a group dinner you couldn’t get out of. You have one thing on your mind, suppress the urge to cough; resist the tickle. The activity around you is a blur. You sip water to kill it, but the tickle makes its presence known. You do a small, “Ahem,” to quiet it down. You’re OK for a minute, but you have to stay focused on the cough bully lying in wait in your throat. He’s in a recliner; his hands are behind his head, as though sunning himself on the beach, thinking, “I’ll wait, and get him when everyone’s eyes are focused on him.” 

 Been there? Done that? Maybe, in the dentist’s chair? The barber or hairdresser’s chair? Or, in any up close and personal situation. Like church. The movies. Or, worst of all, on a crowded airplane. It’s like that prom pimple that pops out on the end of your nose. Or, that canker blister on you lip, before a first date. Add the two together and throw in a bad hair day and you have the Triple Dipple Bully of Cruelty.

 I can think of another element to add while at dinner with a cough bully. The ice cream headache. Somehow, you make it through the main course. Without too many instances when you couldn’t keep the menace at bay. You order a dish of ice-cream, in hopes to sooth the monster. But you eat it too fast, and a stabbing pain strikes your forehead and temple: the dreaded ice-cream headache. It distracts your attention from the tickle in your throat and now you are wincing in pain and coughing at the same time. All is lost!

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot Article of June 1, 2023 (Owego Penny Saver & Tioga County Courier

 The Old Coot lost his status.

By Merlin Lessler

 I had to switch my watch to my right arm the other day. There was a cut on my left wrist, and the watch kept opening it up when I bumped into something. I had a hard time seeing the face of the watch when it was on my right wrist.  It was unnatural to twist my arm to see the dials. Actually, no dials, just numbers: 7:22 as I write this. The watch is blank until I pull up my arm from the side and twist it. Then it shows the time, but goes blank 10 seconds later.

 I solved the problem; I put the face of the watch on the inside of my right wrist. It really is the most efficient way to wear a watch – you hardly have to move your arm to check the time. I only recall two kinds of people wearing watches that way: nurses and people in the military. Nurses, so they can see the second hand when checking someone’s pulse. Soldiers, so they can hold a rifle in a firing position and still see what time it is.

 Many people gave up their watches when cell phones went mainstream. They used their phone; the time was right there in their hand. They were lured back, when the Fitbit and the Apple watch went on the market. I had a Fitbit for a few years, but I had trouble seeing the display when I was out in the sun. I replaced it with a cheaper watch that isn’t quite as smart. It tells the time, my pulse rate, how far and fast I walk, but nowhere near as much as the real smart watches. I don’t care; I can see the numbers in bright sunlight, and the ten second delay lets me use it as a flashlight in the dark. 

 It now rests on the inside of my right arm, giving me some status, like that of a nurse or a soldier. A better image than that of an old coot. But it came to a quick end when a young guy (in his thirties) saw it and asked me, “What war were you in? The Civil War or World War one, Ha Ha?” I’m not feeling so smug now. I think I’ll get out my dad’s old pocket watch. No one will even know what it is when I pull it out to check the time. Maybe they’ll think it’s a new electronic device. I’ll have status again.