Here’s my thesis. I think old men are undervalued and unseen for the most part. So for the past few years I have been watching old men, observing them in their natural habitat. That became all that much easier the moment I became an old man myself.

Actually I’ve been a keen observer of men and their behaviour all my life. Not an astute observer particularly just a keen one through each passage we navigate, the next as interesting as the last and as revealing both to ourselves and to others. I never harboured any thoughts that I knew men nor that I was better in any way, I was simply interested in our behaviour, observable as it was. All that aside the one generation of males that have caught me by complete surprise are old men. We’ve been called all manner of nick names which when I was younger felt like a perfect fit. But they’re not. It’s as though we’re not seen.

Old men are funny and I should say for context, when I say old men I do include myself. As I’ve aged I’ve found myself among various groups of men in all manner of gathering places such as pubs and dog parks, gyms and changing rooms and one thing I’ve come to understand about old men in those places is that they are funny. Without fail some one of them is telling a funny story or asking very guy questions.

I was recently in a changing room after swimming in Nanaimo BC. About ten men went about their business in various states of undress, not paying much mind to the business at hand but all listening to one of their buddies.

“Hey have any of you guys lost a friend yet?’

I was surprised at the question if only because they were all at least seventy. I should have thought the answer would have been obvious.

“No”

“No me neither”

A chorus of responses to the question.

“Well God Damn if Jim didn’t just die. Remember him. That bastard lost 150 pounds last year. I even gave the old bugger a bunch of my dress shirts that had shrunk in my closet. I hadn’t worn them for years!”

They all laughed at the obvious joke.

“Yep, off to Uclulet this weekend. Sixty of us are loading onto a boat he owned and spreading him on the ocean. Bastard would have loved that.”

And there it was pure, unfiltered old men being old men. No explanation required because they all understood what it is to be an old man. Resigned of course but not feeling sorry for themselves. Not uncomplicated but straightforward and always, always tracking down a laugh to help with the ever harsher realities that come with getting old.

Last week I was on a stationary bike at a local gym once again minding my own business although aware of the close company. The guy beside me was eighty-five if he was a day. A buddy of his approached him to say ‘hello’ and as he did so accidentally kicked a bucket on the floor.

“Don’t kick the bucket.” the old man beside me said out loud.

And before his friend could respond he had broken out into a hearty laugh.

“Don’t kick the bucket” he repeated and laughed again. The ‘joke’ was passed down the next five cycles and everyone of the old men riding them burst out laughing.

“Oh, right” his friend replied “Well that’s why I’m working out”

And more peels of laughter.

It was fantastic. It was old men spitting at the Devil, all getting the joke all of us realizing of course that the joke is actually on us.

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 Old Men.

We lived in Kelowna BC for sixty years and I still miss my friends at the Dairy Queen Dog Park in West Kelowna, a great mix of men and women and of course their dogs. It’s not there any longer but my memories are. I called the morning group, the ’10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’ which was as names go a touch redundant but it worked.

Clayton was a founding member. I miss Clayton, a grumpy old man if ever there was one. He was sore, his best before date stamped some time ago as with all of us. He was always the first to arrive for the 10am gathering. Truth is he was always early. I think Clayton thought it was ‘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 but to the Clayton’s of our world no more need be said. It is simply enough to sit beside another man who for the most part understands your place in the world and the path you’ve followed, to end up in essential silence, side by each at a dog park in West Kelowna. No words needed. It was a silent knowing. I love that about men.

“So you were a prison guard?”

“Sure was Clayton.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah, I knew that.”

That in the world of old men is for many a complete and robust conversation. No more words needed. 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 few years ago with his wife Marion. She was delightful. And very fit, I am told. By her. But this is about men, so it is Terry of whom I speak. Now Terry had 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 gosh darn friendly he was.

“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, when I found myself living in Nanaimo I was thinking that perhaps I should find another dog park. Not for me of course for Edith our French Bulldog. 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 Maurice 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.”

Maurice 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. And call me Mo.” It was Mo.

“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, 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 Mo.

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

Mo 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.

Old men it turns out do that quite well.

Now if they would just learn to be less miserable.