The Old Coot saved Old Blue! - Published 02/19/25 Tioga Co. Courier, Owego Pennysaver and elsewhere

 The Old Coot saved “Old Blue.”

By Merlin Lessler

 My favorite shirt is 38 years old. A blue, oxford cloth, button down collar specimen. It’s an old timer, like me. In fact, we’re the same age if you reverse the numbers. The main issue with it is a frayed collar; it’s officially not allowed out in public. I’ve tried, but didn’t get away with it. Even when I used some blue painter’s tape to cover the fray. The problem is, my wife has an eagle eye. So, Old Blue is under house arrest and in “work shirt” status. If I’m not careful, that will be my status as well. The shirt and I have history. It went to work with me, on vacation, to parties and once to an opera, which neither of us got much out of.

,It was a Tommy Hilfiger creation; I purchased it in his outlet store run by his sister in Elmira, New York. As far as I know, it was the only outlet that sold his high end clothes at bargain basement prices. Probably, because Elmira was his home town and he wanted to share his fashions with the local people. He put Elmira on the map as did Mark Twain, who wrote Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and other books in a cabin on his wife’s sister’s farm where he summered for many years. The cabin now resides on the campus at Elmira College; he resides nearby, with his wife, in Woodlawn Cemetery.

 All of us old coots have some favorite old clothes, hidden in the back of our closets. The ones we’ve saved from donations to thrift stores or town dumps. I miss those clothes that were sacrificed in that manner, but having Old Blue still with me makes up for it. Thanks Tommy, for 38 great years.   

 Comments? Complaints? Send to the paper or to  mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot reads and dozes. Published - 02/i2/2025

 The Old Coot is a “read-dozer.”

By Merlin Lessler

I have acquired a new pastime. I call it “read-dozing.” I’m a reader, primarily books and newspapers. I’m also a napper. When I first started working, and getting paid for it, I found myself a little sleepy between 2 and 3 in the afternoon. I worked for Compton Industries, an electronic firm whose primary business was calibrating oscilloscopes for IBM corporation. After we finished adjusting the devices, we set them up in a test room to “age” the calibration since some adjustments would wander out of spec after initial use. The room was warm, from the heat generated by a sea of oscilloscopes. They also emitted a gentle hum, produced by their internal fans.

I had to go into the “aging” room to check and readjust the calibration every afternoon. Between the warm temperature and the hum of the fans, it was difficult to stay awake. So, I didn’t. I napped, just like I did in high school study halls, with my forehead nestled in my hand and my elbow on the desk. I figured the teacher thought I was concentrating on reading information in a text book on the desk. Once in a while, my arm would buckle, and my head would come crashing down on the desk, waking me up and scaring the kids around me.

Anyhow, my naps in the “aging room” started a lifelong habit of dozing in the afternoon for 10 minutes or so to snap me out of the doldrums and let me be more productive than I otherwise would have. Now that I’m unemployed (retired) and out of high school, there are no impediments to my napping routine. I read a few pages; then doze off for a few minutes. I often dream about the story I’m reading and move the plot along. When I wake up and start reading again, I discover that my dream version was way off. I read; I doze; I dream - I read and doze again. It’s a great pastime! Try it; you’ll like it.

Old Coot gives public speakers advise.- published 02/05/2025

 The Old Coot pans public speakers

By Merlin Lessler

 Public speakers need public speaking lessons. It’s embarrassing to watch.  Take a politician (they do most of the blah, blah, yacking) standing at a podium to talk about a new bill he or she is introducing. Something they claim to be passionate about. They constantly look down at their speech notes, saying something like. “I am so (looks down) pleased to introduce Bill number (looks down) S-527, which will (looks down) once and for all, revitalize our small businesses.

 It's especially annoying when they are expressing sympathy for the victims of a mass shooting. You have to read notes, to say how sad you feel for the victims and their families? Really? (You can’t just speak from the heart?)

 It’s not just politicians – It’s police chiefs, CEO’s, school superintendents and many other public spokespersons. Put a podium in front of them, and their head starts bobbing. Speakers who use tele-prompters are just as annoying, staring off into space as they speak.

 Football coaches don’t use notes when interviewed at half time and are asked, “What does your team need to do to get back in the game?” Then comes the typical response. “We have to move the ball down the field and put some points on the board.” DUH! Maybe THEY should have notes to come up with more relevant responses. Those reporters need lessons too, so they can ask questions that don’t evoke stupid answers.

 Anyhow, public speaking and public questioning need a revamp. It’s a social skill that was taught in grade school in my day. We were made to stand and answer a question or go to the front of the class and give an oral report on a book we read. Or, in my case, to explain to the class why it wasn’t acceptable to send spit balls through a straw to the girls side of the room. I learned to speak in front of an audience, but not to stop sending spit balls.   

The Old Coot is arm crossed! (Published 1/29/25)

 The Old Coot’s arms are crossed.

By Merlin Lessler

At coffee the other morning, one of the “klatsch” boys asked me why I had my arms folded. Was I cold? I didn’t know I had folded my arms. I guess I did it without knowing. I wasn’t cold. It’s just another trait that emerges when you are an old coot. Changes like this happen and we don’t notice. We walk funny, groan when we get up from a chair; when we glance in a mirror, we see a memory of what we used to look like, not an old man’s face. It’s a long list of oddities that we are blessed with. Cheapness is a big one. It’s a perspective thing. We remember when a BabyRuth candy bar cost a nickel, a pizza was a dollar, and a Pepsi was ten cents. When we look at a restaurant bill, it’s a shock, especially when we calculate a 20% tip that amounts to what we once paid for the entire meal.  

 So, I now cross my arms all the time. Sitting at a red light, I look down and my arms are crossed. In the bleachers at one of my grandkid’s soccer, lacrosse or football games, I sit with my arms crossed. Watching TV, sitting by the pool. You name it, any idle time, I’m arm crossed.

 I wasn’t always this way. I only crossed my arms when I was cold. Brrr! Or, when I was looking down at one of my daughters watching TV instead of picking up her toys. It’s a bad habit; it makes you come across as a rude, angry person. I remember how I felt when the teacher in our elementary school looked down at me with her arms crossed. I knew I was in trouble and was going to be sent to the cloak room or the principal’s office. Now, I project that same image as I sit or stand, unaware that my arms are crossed. In Finland, it’s seen as a sign of arrogance. I’m going to start keeping my hands in my pockets. It won’t be easy.  My mother would yell at me when I was a kid, “Get your hands out of your pockets.” It’s one of those things you never forget, even decades later when you’re an old coot.  

The Old Coot doesn't like being nagged. Published Tioga County Courier and others on 01/22/25

 The Old Coot shrugged off a nag.

By Merlin Lessler

 First we stuck in a toe, then two and now our whole foot is into the use of an electronic nag. It started innocently enough, with Fitbit, which came out in 2009. It counted steps, distance and calories burned. It nudged us to get moving, something our obese, out of shape society needed. Then, it became a competition. “I did 5,000 steps today!” – “I did 10,000.” “Oh yea, I did 20,000!” Now, those enjoyable walks through neighborhoods, towns and parks became something the “step counting” devices nagged us about.   

 They evolved to measure everything. And, Nag! Nag! Nag! “You only got 5 hours of “good” sleep last night,” the App might scold. “And, you’re way under your goal of 10,000 steps a day this week. Your heart rate never made it to the recommended exercise level; so, you didn’t achieve the full benefit of your effort.”

 It’s not just steps and sleep. The nanny Apps scold us on much more; swimming, biking, running and sleeping to name a few. Studies of these electronic monitoring devices conclude that they are counterproductive. “Your goal to maintain an average speed of 20 Mph on your bike ride ended in failure! You only hit 18 MPH!” How does a message like that make you feel? Not good. It puts you into a funk and raises anxiety when you ride, trying to achieve a pre-set goal. The focus is on hitting the target, instead of enjoying a pleasant, relaxing journey on your feet, in a pool, or on a bike. Even a trip into dreamland..

 The fun is gone. I have to stop this discourse and attend to a nag. My $35, knock-off, fitness watch is reminding me that I have not hit my 5,000 step goal. I don’t mock the people who use electronic nags; I’m a victim myself. But, I’m working to stop. That’s why I dropped my 10,000 step goal to 5,000. I now can ride my bike and swim without tracking. I once weaned myself out of an Oreo cookie addiction and I can do this too. If I can do it, so can you. Start slowly; lower your goals. Eventually, you can go back to a watch that just tells the time. That’s enough anxiety to live with.

The Old Coot says it's all in a name. Published 1/15/25

 The Old Coot says just call me Coot.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve had dealings with some pleasant and interesting people over the last few months. A profitable exchange with Coin Dealer Scott, a better than imagined outcome with Tree Trimmer Mike and an always competent outcome with Insurance Agent Woody. Some of my Florida interactions took place with Real-estate Michael, Car Dealer Iancu and Builder Mike.

I guess you can see the pattern here. Every person’s name was preceded by their profession. A little weird isn’t it? At first glance anyhow. But not if you put it into the context of how we address select, so called professionals. It’s not Chuck Schumer, it’s Senator Schumer or Congressman Smith and Congresswoman White. College teacher Cawley is Professor Cawley or Doctor Cawley. Most of us save the use of “Doctor,” for medical doctors, but some PHD graduates refer to themselves as doctor too. Even some with just an honorary degree. I’ve made up the names to protect the innocent. The ones like Doctor Brown who says, “Please just call me Bill.”

 We don’t live in a monarchy where people are forced to address royals like King Charles or Prince William and a whole litany of other regal designations. This is good old America where we are all equals. We are free to call everyone by name, not title. But, maybe the title first and then name is the way to go. I’d like it if it applied across the board. I’d have no trouble calling the mechanical genius who fixes my car, Auto-Mechanic Joe. Or the craftsman who handles all the household repairs on my residence, Carpenter and Handy Man Lee.

 My preference for using vocational titles for everyone would not set well with the crowd that gets that special treatment. Politicians and college professors would be insulted by our lack of respect. Some of them anyhow. They wouldn’t want to be in the Joe Blow category where the rest of us reside. They’d claim, “I worked hard and long to get here” (in the privileged class). Not any harder than a Master Plumber or cabinet maker or the McDonald’s CEO, who started out flipping burgers and earned his way to the top..   

 As for myself, I’ll stick with my “Joe Blow” status and happily be referred to as Old Coot, or like many of my friends do, just plain Coot.

Old Coot wants a coffee warm-up. Published 1/08/25

 The Old Coot gets a warm-up.

By Merlin Lessler

I was in a brand new Starbucks near Disney World the other morning. It was early, I was one of only three people inside. Everyone else was at the drive-thru window. I cashed in some “stars” for a free Grande, dark roast coffee (that’s medium in the rest of the world) plus a sort of toasted bagel with sort of cream cheese. I sat there reading the Wall Street Journal on my I-Pad, a gift from my daughter and son-in law in 2016. It’s a gift that keeps on giving.

Anyhow, after half an hour I had a quarter cup of cold coffee left. I went to the counter to get a “warm up.” I asked the server to add a splash of hot coffee to the remnants in my cup. Refills are free if you are a gold card member, which I am. He gave me a puzzled look, then turned to the new coffee making mechanism. It grinds, it perks, and it dispenses, all by itself. It’s a gadget that was developed to make the process brainless, run by artificial intelligence, the craze that has taken over the world. It gurgled, growled, hissed a bit and poured the dark liquid I’m addicted to into my cup. Not a warm up! But an overflowing fill up. He handed the overflowing cup to me and apologized for the results. I thanked him for trying, went to the restroom and poured half the contents down the sink, leaving a trail of spillage along my route.

How different the world has become. It constantly makes me reminisce about the good old days, when you went to a diner for coffee and toast, or whatever, and the waitress came around with a pot of hot coffee to give customers a warm up. It still goes on, at diners like the Harris Diner in Owego, New York. Sometimes, it’s not the waitress who comes around, it’s a customer who goes behind the counter, grabs a pot, and wanders table to table giving people a splash of hot coffee. I’m a lucky guy, to have a foot in both worlds. One, where the machine is not as intelligent as portrayed and gives me a chuckle, and the other, where people are better at the task.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com