Author’s program note! Do you know the great Irish tenor John
McCormack? If not, your grandmother surely did. “I tell you Mary Louise,
he has the voice of an angel, an angel…” One of the multitude of songs
he popularized and made his own was the famous tune “Silver threads
among the gold”. You couldn’t listen without a tear or two dropping
gently on your lap… no matter who you were or what your situation. There
was that in the singer and his song that made even the most stoic
lachrymose.
And so I have selected for the occasional music to this article,
“Silver threads among the gold”, perhaps the most popular ballad of the
period starting with its copyright in 1873 right into the 1920s. The all
affecting lyrics are by Eben E. Rexford, music by Hart Pease Danks.
You’ll find it in any search engine. Go now; find it; listen more than
once and sniffle… because this music, these lyrics, this article are all
about….. you….. the you getting older and stranger by the day…. you old
coot, you.
Pity the poor coot.
I want you to know — and coot lovers worldwide demand that I tell you
— the coot is an honorable, hard working, entirely meritorious fowl. It
is a medium-sized water bird in good standing, well known and
up-to-date in its membership in the rail family Rallidae. They
constitute, and proudly too, the genus Fulica with eye-catching
predominantly black plumage. They are common in South America, Europe,
and North America, too.
Now hear this: they vigorously oppose the appropriation of their good
name to describe eccentric or crotchety persons and are herewith filing
a declaration and grievance with the United Nations. They aver and make
clear: there is nothing wrong with coots in general, and old coots must
be venerated, never, never derided and made the object of ridicule and
derision. However some more insightful coots realize the only bad
publicity is no publicity… and so these progressive birds use the
expression themselves with glee and impunity.
Are you an old coot?
Consider the case of my honorable father and his telephone answering
machine. Over time, this once pristine and useful device has
deteriorated. First the machine lost about one in ten calls; then about
one quarter of the calls went unrecorded… until now the number of lost
calls and messages is hovering at a perfect 100%. It is just about
impossible to leave a message for him.
When told of this situation, as he now constantly is, he says “I
know. Other people tell me that.” And each and every one of these folks
wishing for immediate connection with my venerable sire says the same
thing: “You need a new answering machine.” But my father has a firm
response based on his current age (86), likely check-out date, and a
gnawing belief he will not get his full and complete money’s worth out
of any new answering machine… and so the matter rests from day to day…
his standing as an old coot now entirely secure and certain. What’s
more, if he was to get as a gift, for Christmas say or his next
birthday, a telephone answering machine, he probably could not be
induced even to take it out of the box, for, after all, he didn’t really
need it; his current machine, despite its foibles and idiosyncrasies is
still working, never mind that it only performs its necessary function
at the most intermittent of occasions.
Out of range.
The same is true with Dad’s O*Keefe and Merritt range. It’s, 25,
maybe 30, years old, or even more. And whilst it is no doubt a fine
company producing a fine product, this particular product has seen
better days; to the extent that it cooks the food he likes hot and just
so only about half way. And this, as one may well imagine, irritates the
old fellow. But because he is not just an old fellow but an old coot,
he is not about to let that range go; after all it still cooks about
half his food reasonably well.
And so, instead of calling the Sears appliance center or other venue
offering stoves at fetching prices, he called….. O*Keefe and Merritt to
see if they had the part that was defective on his unit. The
representative he ultimately connected with laughed aloud when he gave
her the part number, “Honey, we haven’t produced that part for over 25
years.” And that should have been that… trip to oven store at once… new
machine to be installed next Thursday.
But old coots don’t think that way…. no indeed.
All but useless… still good enough for coots.
If there’s a penny’s worth of value left in any object, no matter
that that object can not do the job you need done, a coot, any coot,
will die rather than lose that value. That’s why dear old Dad, not only
did not get a new range, but told the flip wench that he would keep
looking for the part until he found it. Then he called a couple of
repair places to see if they could help; they couldn’t. This continued
until he had the bright idea of going to Ebay, and there the matter
rests because he doesn’t know how to use Ebay and daren’t ask me because
he already knows what I’ll say and getting rid of the friggin’ stove is
just the beginning.
I’d make him chuck the toaster that doesn’t quite toast… “but I only
got it 15 years ago, and it should be good for another 5,000 pieces at
least…”
The typewriter he hasn’t used, not to type a single letter or address
label in a couple of decades at least… “but it’s an Olivetti, top of
the line”… Then the punch line, “They discontinued this model years ago,
and you can’t get ribbons anymore.” Of course.
Even the bromo seltzer in the medicine cabinet… that he picked up for
“Just a penny, I tell you” at the estate sale of my great grandmother,
the sale held when I was just 13 or 14 or so; (I’m 64 now). Then, in
1959, it was already over 20 years old. But she’d say when people told
her to get rid of it, she’d say with horror, “Why, what an idea, Lura
Marshall”… and then these unanswerable words: “You never know”… and
these unanswerable words were rendered with the hauteur of a queen… or
at the very least of someone who knew a great, dark, secret, like maybe
it was a poison reserved for her Satanic rites. But it was worse, far
worse than that.
Now I know what that secret is.
You see, that bottle of bromo seltzer arrived the other day,
compliments of my father who decided he needed the space, but absolutely
couldn’t throw this away. Why, it was owned by his own grandmother.
When I opened that box, I knew; I knew not only I wouldn’t… I couldn’t throw it away.
And so I came to know.. and now I tell you the secret, that ..
becoming an old coot is a matter of heredity, genetics, not choice,
which makes me a Young Coot.
Thus I called Poor Old Dad (it took over a dozen attempts to reach
him on his wonky answering machine) and promised I’ll find him that part
if it takes a year, or more; he’s right, that range is far too valuable
to discard, and new ones cost the earth.
You don’t have to have silver threads among the gold to know that,
although I most surely do. Why if I find that part, and I shall, that
range has at least 20 good years left…. Dad says he’s leaving it to me…
*** Your comments on this article are invited.
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