So, I have written many times about ageing. Nothing particularly novel, nor inspiring, my ambition always being tilted toward amusing rather than informing my readers. I find myself most often writing my blogs deep down in some well worn rut, a road travelled by many millions of people already, most of us joined by perhaps one common experience. Getting older. There is nothing I can say that is new to them. All I am left with is, what is new to me. Which brings me to this past weekend.

I was driving down from Nanaimo to the Fuller Lake Arena, just south of the small town of Ladysmith, BC. My five year old grandson Freddy was about to start hockey for the first time, and I was keen to be there. I picked up a coffee at a Tim Horton’s drive through and set out on my way, reflecting as I drove the thirty minutes on my lifelong relationship with hockey.

I smiled as I drove, knowing that a million other Canadians were doing exactly the same thing in every town big and small, across our country. Taking their children to the local arena, helping them get dressed, lacing up their skates and cheering them on as they all stumbled onto the ice, not quite knowing what all the fuss was about but “Mom and Dad seem very keen on me doing this, so I better give it a try.”

There are in fact few things more quintessentially Canadian, than our love of hockey. It is profound and embraces Canadians far beyond the natural reach of the sport itself. I imagine rugby to be all of that for Kiwis, for example. We see a reflection of ourselves and how we want to be perceived; resourceful, dogged, athletic, courageous, tough, unbending, values driven, humble and imperfect. These values are what we teach our children and hockey is a place where millions of our children first learn them. Of course, the sport is imperfect, as is the human experience but we relentlessly strive to make it better.

Driving to hockey was an experience I had replicated each September since 1981, when my oldest Jono was just four, and beginning his own hockey journey. My son Toby took up hockey at the same age and my daughter Sophie, a few years later and they will each have separate memories of driving to hockey with me. It is not just the game itself, which is flat out intoxicating when you get good at it. It’s getting to the arena, getting better, winning, losing, striving, failing, achieving, making friends, the changing room, the stinky hockey equipment, the games, the road trips, the tournaments and the time you spend that is yours, with your mum or dad getting to the games.

Tim Horton’s for those of you who don’t live in Canada is a national fast food chain, serving coffee, pastries and breakfast sandwiches. One of the companies most successful marketing campaigns nailed ‘me’, a grandfather sitting in the stands holding a cup of Timmies coffee, silently, proudly watching his grand child on the ice. That was me. They understood the cultural authenticity of the sport. The ad campaign resonated across the country.

Tim Horton himself, was a rock jawed, tough-as-nails defenceman with the Toronto Maple Leafs, a storied NHL hockey franchise. His jawline, scarred face and crew cut wordlessly described what a tough Canadian looked like. I was eight when I emigrated from England to Canada and vividly remember watching Tim Horton playing on our black and white TV on Hockey Night in Canada, each Saturday.

“Oh, so that’s what a Canadian looks like.” I quietly noted to myself as my path to becoming Canadian began.

But I digress, as is so often the case these days. Here’s what I really wanted to talk about. There is much not to like about getting older. I am 75 now and those of you who have followed my blog for any length of time (tonywithacaptitalt.ca) will know that I have spoken often, and at length, chronicling what I experience as ageing. So at this stage I am left to simply revisit those blogs and report to you that indeed my knees are worse and I am peeing more now in the middle of the night, and my senile purpura is more unsightly than ever, but one suspects that such meanderings will not hold your attention for very long.

So to the point.

And there it was, hiding in plain view, something I could not have experienced until I was older, ’bout 75 or so, seems about right. I smiled as the thought grew in my mind, as I was driving down to the Fuller Lake Arena that morning, Tim Horton’s coffee in hand. If my knees are to get worse, if I will never again sleep through a night and if my runway is increasingly short, then what is it I should embrace?

It is gratitude, a profound thankfulness that I have lived to this age in good health, surrounded by a wonderful loving family, who have always held me tight. I have come to understand how lucky I am. Hockey has helped my see that. It has been a common experience that runs through and binds generations together, in unseen ways, but ways that strengthen our bond.

I took a photo of Freddy and I that morning. His smile is as big as his face and I couldn’t be happier. It is what ‘gratitude’ looks like. I have that same photo with my son Jono, my son Toby and my daughter Sophie. Perhaps they’ll take the same photo one day.

I always made sure the Tim Horton’s logo was showing.