Listen, I am keenly aware that men, most men, have significant shortcomings. Life forces that awareness on all of us in the end, which is what I am closing in on, as it turns out. The end, that is. So while I am able I wanted to come to the defence of men, specifically Grumpy Old Men.

Having left Kelowna BC after sixty-two years I now find myself living in Nanaimo BC, knowing few people other than my two youngest children who live down here, their families and a few friends in our summer refuge at Deep Bay, about an hour north of Nanaimo on the east coast of Vancouver Island. Among other things, I really do miss my friends at the Dairy Queen Dog Park in West Kelowna, a great mix of men and women and of course their dogs. I call the morning group, the ’10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ a touch redundant, that I will give you but signature it became. But this is about men, so I need to confine my thoughts.

I miss Clayton, a Grumpy Old Bugger if ever there was one. He’s sore, his best before date stamped some time ago as with all of us and he’s always the first to arrive for the 10am gathering. Truth is he’s always early. I think Clayton thinks that it is ‘The 9:30a Small Dog Dog Park Group’ but that aside he was always there first.

“Morning Clayton”

“Morning Tony”

“How are you today?”

“Alive.”

And for the women reading this, that is what amounts in the world of Grumpy Old Men to a full, robust and engaged conversation. Spare it might seem, to those who would otherwise talk more but to Grumpy Old Men such as Clayton and I, no more need be said. It is simply enough to sit beside another man who for the most part understands our place in the world and the path we have followed, for us to end up in essential silence, side by each at a dog park in West Kelowna. No words needed. It is a silent knowing. I love that about men.

“So you were a prison guard?”

“Sure was Clayton.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah, I knew that.”

Again, no more need be said. It is one of the great efficiencies we learn as men. Words should be used sparingly, to do otherwise is just asking for trouble. Although, for those who know me, you will no doubt be thinking something like,

“This is rich! Tony is always talking. He never stops talking. What is he going on about?!”

True that. Equally true, that talking too much has left me in hot water most of my life. I just happen to enjoy ‘talking’, in whatever form it takes.

I miss Terry as well. He came from Ontario a couple of years ago with his wife Marion. She is delightful. And very fit, I am told. By her. But this is about men, so it is Terry of whom I speak. Now Terry has a kind of Kevin Costner look about him. Well if Kevin was a little chunkier and sported a fine goatee, he would have but what stands out about Terry is how goshdarn friendly he is.

“Morning Tony”

“Hey Terry, how you doing today.”

“Great. Say aren’t you leaving Kelowna soon?”

“Sure are.”

“We’re going to miss you around here. Actually we’ll miss Edith (our French Bulldog). Not you so much.”

Howls of laughter followed from the group. It is men like Terry who’ll get you every time. You just don’t expect that kind of ribbing from nice guys like him. So it hits you square before you can duck. What’s not to miss?

And that’s what men do so well. They pull each others leg and show no mercy in the pulling. It’s not intended as an insult, it’s actually intended to do quite the opposite; it’s a nod to belonging, a sort of membership, in this case membership in ‘The 10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’. Besides pulling my leg is way easier than saying something like, “Hey, we’re going to miss you. Hope we can stay in touch.” That’s what women do. You know, heartfelt, sincere, meaningful, direct, all that sort of thing. Yeah, not so much men and sure as heck not Grumpy Old Men. I miss them all. I’m sure you can understand.

So naturally, now that I find myself in Nanaimo I’m thinking that perhaps I should find another dog park down here. For Edith of course. Well, easier said than done because not all dog parks are created equal. Some are overrun with dogs! What’s that all about? Some reveal covens of women, talking away the way they do, raising an invisible but real enough barrier to newcomers. I’m good with that of course, just that I’m not a woman so it’s an issue for Edith and me. But with the appropriate diligence of a man long retired and with no pressing appointments, that one can remember at least, I redoubled my search.

And there it was. The Valhalla of Dog Parks, the Departure Bay Dog Park in Nanaimo. Sure there is a beautiful grassed field, several hectares in size, sloping down toward the bay, BC ferries gracefully slipping in and out of the harbour, the backdrop a gorgeous view of the ocean. Sure, whatever but that is not what qualifies the Departure Bay Dog Park as a great dog park for Edith and me.

Dan and Morris do that. A couple of Grumpy Old Buggers, right out of central casting. Craggy faces etched with life’s lessons, limping and sore, the result of life’s wear and tear. ‘Best Before‘ stamped on their creased foreheads. Both sporting caps that had seen better days, not unlike them. And they were exactly what I was looking for. I didn’t know them from Adam of course, so I chose to go with my ‘go to’ line. What the hell, what did I have to lose?

“Hello.”

Morris was the first to turn.

“Hello, how are you?”

His friendly tone revealed he was genuinely welcoming, perhaps even hungry for new company, as one might expect of two men who sit beside each other at the Departure Bay Dog Park day after day, each morning at 10am, without fail. Of course, that is the reason men become increasingly sparing in our chit-chat with one another as we age. Failing minds aside, we need to make it last.

“Have a seat” Dan gestured at a spare chair, a universal sign of welcome. This was going well.

“And I have a rag you can use to wipe off the rain.”

Another clear signal. This was going to be good! As an aside, that rag? That rag harboured all manner of pestilence, so filthy it was, and remains so to this day. But be clear on this, it was a test. Was I really made of good Grumpy Old Man stock or was I going to turn my nose up at the offered rag? I passed the test. No words needed.

“No, not that one.” It was Morris.

“Broken back.” The sparing language of Grumpy Old Men. In the hands of men like Morris and Dan, it’s a beautiful thing to witness, a minimalist oral exchange. No need for more. If you fail to heed the warning, then fool you are. More words wouldn’t save you from yourself.

Everything was looking favourable. I went home and told my wife about Dan and Morris. I tried to paint a picture for her, recalling one of my favourite TD Canada Trust TV ads, where two Grumpy Old Men sat on a bench outside a TD branch, smack talking the ‘young people these days’.

“How did Edith get on?”

Didn’t she get it. This never was about Edith, this was about ME.

“I think she did okay, I wasn’t watching her much.”

“That I can see, she is filthy!”

I looked down at Edith, forlorn and covered, no caked as she was with dark Departure Dog Park mud. I hadn’t noticed.

“Right, well I’ll watch out for her when we go back.”

And back I went, the next day. And there they were, Dan and Morris.

“Hey good to see you back, we didn’t scare you away.”

Morris and Dan both laughed. No words needed, it was ‘we’re glad to see you again’ in any language.

“Thanks. Hey, is there a mud hole here?” I asked, the earlier scolding still fresh in my ear.

“Got into trouble at home did you?”

And again they laughed, in some sort of coordinated and diabolical Grumpy Old Men harmony. Morris pointed to a clump of upturned plastic seats.

“Edith has found it again.” He was laughing like a school boy. Once again Edith was covered head to toe in dark Departure Bay Dog Park mud. I had no choice. I laughed as well.

“That where chairs with broken backs go to die?” I asked quizzically, looking over at a clump of five upside down plastic chairs, doing what they could to cover a huge mud hole. Unsuccessfully. A filthy Edith standing testament, caked yet again in mud, her tail wagging joyfully.

“Sure is. Pull up a seat. Use this rag.”

“Not that one. Backs broken.”

These two were a well oiled pair, anticipating what each other was about to say, finishing their sentences for one another. The beautiful choreography of two old friends. Relentless in their leg pulling humour, giving as good as they got, enjoying every bit of it, they had what I was looking for; friendship and a sense of membership, of being welcome. Grumpy Old Men turns out do that quite well.

You know it’s not easy tracking down a laugh, knowing that Life has the last one but good for us for trying. In any event, it’s what we do well. And Grumpy Old Men do it better than any of the rest of you.

Let’s face it, getting older sucks. Flat out. And ‘it beats the alternative’ doesn’t help very much. Not when knees ache, backs hurt and things that used to work just fine thank you very much, lose some reliability. Yes, I’m searching for a euphemism right now and in a world of euphemisms ‘reliability’ will have to make do.

So since we’re speaking of euphemisms, when ‘Mr. Reliable’ began to show signs of ageing, as is inevitable with all men, I visited my doctor. She was fantastic, if not a little bemused by men like me.

“You Tony, I’m onto you. My male patients spend the first half of their lives trying to kill themselves and the second trying to stay alive. You guys are all the same.”

She said it without rancour, nor to tell me off. She was smiling as she spoke, as though it was an endearing quality of men. Well, I’m going with ‘she was smiling’, it might have been mocking but who wants to start a sentence with ‘she was mocking.’ I just think men are a confusion to all women, medical doctor or not. Of course we are. Try being one.

“But here I can help with your ‘reliability’ concerns.”

So there I was, prescription filled, ready for bed anticipating a delightful evening of carnal pleasure with my wife. Armed as I now was, what could could possibly go wrong?!

Blue. Blue it turns out, is what could go wrong.

Viagra is a blue pill. Now what is it about men’s prescription pills? Is there just an oversupply of blue dye? Is it because they’re for men and ‘blue is for boys’, some sort of sexist retribution played on us by an anonymous, man hating feminist working in Pfizer’s lab? What is it with men’s pills being blue. Not all of them but enough to make me think blue is the ‘go to’ for men’s medication. Certainly is true of Nytol for example. Picture this. Tony all fired up (sorry didn’t mean that to be so graphic, do what you have to do to un-think that description).

Tony all fired up, a blue Viagra pill beckoning on the night table, a blue Nytol right beside it, essentially indistinguishable, neither by shape nor colour, in the moody lighting of our boudoir. Yes, that’s right, it happened. I took the first pill and eagerly waited signs of approval from ‘Mr. Reliable’. And, nothing. Crickets. Not a thing. If anything, I felt a little drowsy. So somewhat disappointed, the night of revelry unfulfilled I reached over and took the remaining pill on the nightstand, the ‘Nytol’.

And thanks for asking. Yes, indeed I had a good nights sleep, awaking in the morning with ‘Mr. Reliable’ firmly shouting at me, something like,

‘WHAT THE HELL MAN! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!” 

Forgive the block letters. I mean ‘Mr. Reliable’ was was really shouting! My explanation that it wasn’t my fault, that both pills were blue, fell on deaf ears. He was in no mood to listen. Who can blame him? Tell you what, it is not easy being a man and it takes years before you’re ready to be a Grumpy Old Man. Getting older it turns out, takes years.

You know here’s the thing. God Bless Us and all our failings. The Grumpy Old Men in your family have spent their entire lives navigating a changing social, political, cultural and economic landscape. Now don’t get all up in my face, I get it, most men do. The changes were decades in the making, even longer overdue and they have changed things for the better. But it has been overwhelming at times for my generation of men and the Grumpy Old Men we have become. The world into which we were born is gone, a world in which the roles and expectations of men were more clearly defined and understood. 

This world we’ve had to figure out on the fly, searching for our place in an evolving, constantly moving new order, unsure of our footing, the ground emulsifying beneath us, all the while needing to maintaining our sense of what it is to be a man. It has been quite a ride; confusing, frustrating, fulfilling and exhilarating at one and the same time. For all this change to happen men have had to do our part, in no small measure giving up much of what we knew, the expectation being that we would find our place in what we didn’t yet know. Now do you see? This thoroughly convoluted sentence a perfect metaphor for our own generational confusion. But hey, good for us! We have never stopped trying.

Or perhaps it is just bad writing. I’ll give you that.

For me I now know what being a man is. Or what a Grumpy Old Man is, at least. And it is not what I thought a man to be earlier in my life. Words fail inevitably for there is an unseen part of being a man, which is illusory but real. But to be a man is to be fair and mindful, strong when asked or needed, wise where possible, humble where not, inquisitive and open minded. It is not with the loudest voice that manliness is announced, it is with the firm conviction that comes with doing the right thing. I know this is incomplete, a conceit even to try but hey, I’m on a roll here.

Thank you for reading the idle musings of my muddled mind. I enjoy no particular wisdom on these things of which I speak, but reflecting back up on my journey from callow youth to the newest member of the Departure Bay Dog Park, gives me pleasure.

Besides, as you might imagine, the spare conversational stylings of my new group of Grumpy Old Men friends at Departure Bay leaves me a little wanting.

So I write.