Who is that guy? Old coot Tioga County Courier article of 11/23/2022

 The Old Coot meets his match.

By Merlin Lessler

I was on a cruise ship, sailing from Civitavecchia, Italy across the Atlantic to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. When I was approaching a set of glass doors I spotted an old guy coming toward me from the other side.  Not only old, but drunk, from the look of him. He listed to the right, staggered ahead a few feet and then listed to the left. Sure, the ship was rocking a bit, some swells were in the 10 to 15 foot range, so all us passengers had some difficulty walking in a straight line. But, this guy was all over the place.

 As I got closer to the glass doors I started to plan a route to avoid a collision, but every time I went to my right he staggered to his left. We seemed to be in perfect sync. When I was ten feet from the door I got a rude awakening. I wasn’t approaching a set of glass doors; they were mirrored doors. It was me I’d been watching, thinking it was some old drunk.

 Now I know why some of the people on the ship turned around and went the other way to avoid me looking like a drunk old coot. I was cold sober when I confronted myself in the mirror. I admit I have balance issues, caused by neuropathy in my lower legs and feet that causes those nerves to trick my brain, telling it I’m tilting to the left when actually I’m not leaning at all. The brain listens to the signals from my feet and makes a correction by pushing me to the right.

 So, I’m a little challenged when it comes to walking in a straight line; when you add a ship that rocks back and forth you get a drunk looking guy, staggering down the hall. I’m OK, now that I’m back on solid ground. The listing walk pattern is not that noticeable, especially if I’m carrying a walking stick to use as a reference point; it tells my brain to chill. If you confront me walking around town, don’t be afraid of the drunk coming your way. Look at my T-shirt that says, “I’M 80 – AND NOT DRUNK!”  

The Old Coot hits 80. A Tioga Co. Courier & Owego Pennysaver Article of 11/16/2022

 The Old Coot passes a milestone.

By Merlin Lessler

 This week I turned eighty. I actually considered myself at that milestone in May, when in 1942, my mother was three months “with child” and my kicking had begun, letting her know I was anxious to get going. In my mind, I was six months old when I emerged on November 15. Thus, this past May I started thinking of myself as an octogenarian, which was delightfully reinforced on Father’s Day when my wife, kids and grandkids executed a total surprise birthday at the Belva Lockwood Inn, in the Village of Owego NY, where I reside in a 217-year-old house – as creaky and cranky as myself.

 At any rate, in May, infused with that reinforcement in July, I adopted an eighty-year-old attitude – a trump card that I can play in fun and seriousness. It gains entry to many things – “Oops, I’m sorry, I’m eighty,” when I’ve stumbled into and knock over a display of mechanical toys in an antique store. That sort of thing. Along with special orders in restaurants and access to the children’s menu, where prices and portions are more suited to an octogenarian. (“I’m 80 and more like 8,” when it comes to dining out.)

 I couldn’t do that stuff when I was in my 60’s or 70’s. Not even at 79. But now that the calendar matches my mental state, a new world has unfolded for me on my journey through time. I loved it when I submitted this article, # 1,001. I started writing as the Old Coot in 2002. My goal was to see if I could come up with an article every week, for a year. Look mom! I outdid myself!

 I start an article with a “germ” of an idea, sit down with pen and paper and let my subconscious brain take over, often surprising myself with what it drags out. The process digs deep into the psyche and dregs up opinions I didn’t know I had. (A lot cheaper than lying on a couch in a psychiatrist’s office.)

So, now that I really am 80, and look back on all the stumbles it took to acquire a small source of wisdom, I’m just happy to still be in the game. In spite of traveling in a high mileage vehicle with over 27,000 days on the odometer. Mine, as everyone’s life, is a journey from ignorance to wisdom, if we only just get it when it stares us in the face, instead of waiting till it slaps us up-side the head. Thank you for reading.

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot blows his horn? A Tioga County and Owego Pennysaver article of October 19, 2022

 The Old Coot Wants a friendly car horn.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was driving down the street minding my own business the other day, well, that's not exactly true; I never mind my own business, but anyhow, I was tooling along when I saw a neighbor walking his dog. He waved and I pressed the horn, but it didn't make a sound. I didn't push it hard enough. I tried again, but nothing happened. It finally worked, but by then I was past him and coming up to a young woman pushing a baby carriage. She gave me a dirty look and sped up the street to get away from the "jerk" blowing his horn at her. This happens to me all the time. The horns on today's cars are rude.

I guess it's because the button sits on top of the airbag. When you want to push the horn, you have to shove the whole airbag mechanism hard enough to make contact with the horn circuit. You can't give it a gentle tap. You can’t toot a friendly hello; you have to slam your hand down and blast the horn. It’s why we have road rage in this country. It's not due to stress in people's lives; it's due to the crappy horns that the automakers install on our vehicles. Blaring horns make people mad.

 They don't have road rage in the Caribbean. I've been to several of the islands over the years and can attest to the lack of road rage. They have good horns on their cars, the kind that can give a friendly toot and they use them all the time. All it takes is one cab ride to get the picture. The driver toots, as he pulls out - toots as he approaches another car - toots when he turns - waves and toots when he asks to be let in at a busy corner. The horn is a friendly device in the Caribbean Islands.  

 I’m considering installing an auxiliary horn in my car, put a button on the dash so I won’t have any problem finding it. Then I'll be a friendly “Caribbean” driver, not a rude American. I'll be out there tooting to my friends, giving old fogies a gentle reminder that it's OK to go right on red. I did this to my father's car when I was a teenager, except I put the button under the dash so he wouldn't notice, and mounted a blaring truck horn in the engine compartment in an inconspicuous place. I used it to scare people, in the true spirit of a teenage idiot. The horn became history the day I blew it while I sat behind the wheel and my father had his head under the hood checking the oil. I just couldn't help myself. I wanted to see if the old guy could dance. He could. He waltzed me out of the car and stood watch while I dismantled the modification to his prized Edsel.

Old coot wants a new tune. A Tioga County Courier & Owego Pennysaver article.

 I like music. It doesn’t dominate my life but there are many songs I enjoy every day and more and more every year. But not Rap, or polkas. I just can’t get on board. There is one song I hate. I hear it a lot. Whenever I get to a venue while the band is setting up.

 It goes like this, “Check, check one, two, three - Check, check, one, two, three.” One verse would be fine, but most bands go through that single stanza time after time. It takes a lot of checking. I’ve asked the singers of that tune if they ever thought of trying different lyrics and mix them in. Like, “Test, test, A,B,C - Test, test Alan Bob Chuck.” That’s my crude suggestion; it’s most often ignored. I just hoped I could spark a bit of their musical creativity to come up with a different “Checking” protocol.

 It’s why I prefer bands with acoustic instruments. A lot less check, checking. They just tune their guitars and play. They do something else that I’m partial to - their volume doesn’t blast me out of the room. I’m told to get over it - it’s an old person’s complaint. But I’ve discovered that people of all ages have the same issue. They want background music that lets them carry on a conversation, not force them to shout and say, Huh,” over and over. Let loud music be the thing for concerts and let customers in a bar or restaurant, expecting background music, have the last word on the volume. It could happen if the band said, “Check, Check, Alan Bob Chuck. And, then let Alan, Bob or Chuck in the audience, decide if it’s too loud.

The Old Coot is fading away. A Tioga County Courier & Owego Pennysaver article of 10/05/2022

 Just call the old coot, “Shorty!”

By Merlin Lessler

 “The Incredible Shrinking Man” was a hit movie in 1957, at least for me and my 14-year-old friends. Now, I’ve discovered I too, am an incredible shrinking man. Incredible, because I’m becoming “The Invisible Man” as well. Just like the character in the comic book of the 1950’s of the same name. But, more about my invisibility later – first, I’ll deal with the shrinking factor.

 I was over six-feet tall when I graduated from high school. I stayed that way, for decades, I guess; I don’t know for sure because they don’t measure your height when you go to the doctor; they just weigh you and then ask how tall you are. I didn’t know I was shrinking. I had a disc in my back removed and lost some height. And, I got old, which is the big factor in this shrinking phenomenon. I asked the nurse to measure my height a few years ago. The measuring device is right next to the scale, but they don’t use it on adults. “You’re five-eleven and one-half,” she said. I was surprised; I’d slipped below the six-foot mark. The number I’d used on a multitude of forms and applications over the years was a lie.

 This year I asked again, and learned I’d shrunk even more – “You’re not quite five-eleven.” Our bodies settle over time, like those rusting hulks of old cars you see in the country, slowly sinking into the weeds. I needed to change my pant-leg size from 32 inches to 31, but they don’t make them in a 31. So, I now have a wad of cloth nestled on top of my shoes. I don’t know how far this will go; I just hope I’ll be around long enough to be called “Shorty.”

 Now back to my invisibility. People my age, strangers and acquaintances alike, smile, nod or say something like, “How you doing?” when we pass each other on the sidewalk. People under 30 look right through us old coots when we pass, as though we were invisible. I got used to it at first, but now it’s also people in their 40’s and 50’s who see right through me. Little by little, I’m becoming completely invisible. If you are walking down the street or sitting at a table in the Owego Kitchen and a voice from nowhere says, “Hi” Just reply, “Hi Shorty; how you doing?” and go about your business.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot's war with Father Time is ongoing. A Tioga Co. Courier And Owego Pennysaver article, 09/28/2022

 The Old Coot’s at war.

By Merlin Lessler

 I can relate to the war between Ukraine and Russia, in a way only an old coot can. I’m Ukraine and Father Time is Russia. America is the team of medical specialists, helping me withstand the onslaught. I’m bombed and attacked from the north, south, east and west. It’s a blitzkrieg that I face. One sector gets settled – my sore elbow repulses the attack and the Russians go after another with a missile raid, attacking the knuckles in my right hand, flaring up the once dormant arthritis. My knuckles are the focus of my attention and continue to ache because I use that hand all the time, to swing a hammer or a golf club, untwist the top on a jar or turn a screw driver. Though, it does come in handy when asked to perform an unpleasant task. “I’d love to help, but the arthritis in my hand is so bad I can’t.” Or, to explain why my golf ball went into the woods.

 When my hand is under siege, I get no help from America, except to be told to take a pill and ease up on gripping things. Then, Russia takes advantage of my preoccupation and starts bombing my knee. Making me limp and yell, “Ouch,” at every misstep. My hopes of getting aid from America are dashed when they say, “We can replace the knee, it is bone on bone after all.” But I don’t want a replaced knee, not yet, anyhow, so I shrug and say, “No thanks,” and work on it myself, with an elastic sleeve and PT exercises.

 But the Russians aren’t done with me. They go after the north quadrant, hitting me with red, itchy eye that feels like a speck of metal is stuck in it. America comes through this time with some defensive weaponry, a bottle of high-quality eye drop medication. In a few days, I’ve pushed back the Russian assault. All is calm in the north. Then, they bomb my memory, agility, balance and reflexes. My weakest sectors. But that’s where their air attack stalls. I can cope with the damage, but it looks like a long war ahead with no treaty in sight. That’s OK. I’ve prepared for this war all my life.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot goes the wrong way to the past. September 29, 2022

 Old Coot finds magic on Parker Lane’

By Merlin Lessler

 I drove down Parker Lane the other morning. It’s a narrow, one-way street in Owego, NY, well-marked, to keep cars from entering from Front Street. But that’s what I did! I’ve been told by locals, which I’m not, though I’ve lived here for 36 years, that Parker’s Lane wasn’t always a one-way street; you could enter from either end. I just had to see what that was like, so I defied the one-way arrow, and slowly worked my way to Main Street. It was a one block journey, but what a lovely ride.

 I swear it’s a magical port that takes you back in time, like it felt to me when I first wrote about in 2004. I’d defied the one-way sign back then, though on foot and in a swirl of an early morning fog. I swear I saw the shadowy figure of Justice Parker striding from his back door to an awaiting carriage, the outline of horses munching hay in his backyard and foundry workers shuffling to work with tin lunch buckets clutched in their hands. Smoke from ancient chimneys seemed to hang in the air.

 Parker Lane wasn’t always blessed with such a melodic name. In the early 1800’s it was called Camp Alley. Henry Camp owned the corner lot at Main St. where he operated a foundry that was destroyed in a fire. It was rebuilt on Front Street across from what is now the Parkview Inn. The foundry produced engines and machinery that were used in the local steamboats that hauled goods up and down the Susquehanna. It too, caught fire and burned to the ground. The fire spread and destroyed all the houses on both sides of Front Street from the bridge to the alley.

 Nathan Camp, Henry’s uncle, owned the parcel of land that abuts the alley on the west. He too, had an impact on the village, but his contributions were positive.  He started the first library in 1813, and was one of the founders of the Ithaca - Owego Turnpike Company, an endeavor that helped expand trade. He sold that lot in 1829 to Harmon Pumpelly, who built an impressive brick mansion, which still graces the site today. It eventually became the Residence of John Parker and his wife Stella Pumpelly. The street was renamed in Parker’s honor after his death in 1873. He was a 2-term congressman and a Supreme Court Justice. 

 It only takes a minute to walk down Parker Lane, but a minute in this time warp seems longer. You emerge relaxed, calm and ready for the day. A final irony greets you as you exit onto Main St. The street marker for Main, the longest most active road in the village is one foot long; the marker for Parker Lane, the shortest and least used pathway is twice as big. It may be that the hands of the sign maker were guided by a force beyond his control, a force that wanted to remind us that the lane is important too, a connection to the past. Take a minute some time and see if the magic is there for you.