In the Company of Old Men

Do you ever wonder about the stereotypes of “sweet old ladies” and “grumpy old men?” We see enough of it in Hollywood movies but I’m not quite taken in by this adage. I’ve watched elderly women in my life: in-laws, grandmothers, great aunts, and family friends, slowly morph humorless, sarcastic, and asinine personalities—those that children and adults alike run away from. I’ve observed these once reasonable, competent, no-nonsense women suddenly be reduced to barking at waiters, picking fights with retail sales people and launching world war III three upon their gardeners and I can’t shake off the image of that “little old lady” in attack mode with her trusty old handbag as the weapon of choice.

If aging is, in part, about declining powers, then shouldn’t men be taking it harder and than women, given our patriarchal social set-up? Yes, this is a generalization, but it remains a fact that more men than women work outside the home and hold higher positions of power in the work place. It follows logically therefore, that they should take ageing harder. Coming to terms with diminished capacities and accepting change are painful processes after all.

But the few and isolated encounters, which I have had with old men were nothing short of pleasurable. I should be so lucky!

I was at a dinner over at a dear friend’s home recently. It was an intimate coming together of his family: his three other siblings—all well within the age of forty; their spouses and significant others; their septuagenarian parents; eleven people in all. The setting—al fresco in their well-manicured garden—was perfect; the drinks, constantly flowing; the food—raclette and sausages—divine! But the evening’s piece de resistance was the company of his 77-year-old father, a charmer who has become even more gracious with age. He entertained us with down-home ease and warmth that had me truly disappointed when he took his leave.

He had about him that old world chivalry that we don’t find among postmodern men anymore. Being fussed over once in a while by a sweet man is heartwarming, and this he did to each of us with a genuine, uncontrived concern and a robust sense of humor. His conversations ranged from the ingenuity of African music; the merits of authentic tocino del cielo (a Spanish dessert); post-war Binondo; the pleasures of ice cold beer and pork asado for merienda just before taking in a double feature at the cinema in the old days; gardening and landscaping; to anecdotes about his children’s growing-up years.

I remember my affable professor and thesis adviser, Dr. Witold Krasowski, 20 years ago at Santa Clara University. He was chair of the Sociology Department at that time and I spent several hours a week during my final winter term in his office in consultation about my thesis. He was in his Sixties with a wild crop of silver hair, thick spectacles, and a penchant for hand-knitted sweaters with op-art designs—his wife’s handiwork, I’m quite certain. He had the patience of a preschool teacher, the wit and humor of an ace comedian and the compassion of a Carmelite nun.

Once, I was an hour late but had the legitimate excuse of figuring in a rear-ender because the car behind mine had lost its brakes. I didn’t expect to find him still waiting in his office. But there he was! He said he was certain something important had come up since I had never been late before. I pointed out my car’s crunched-up rear bumper, which was parked on the street right outside his office window in the O’Connor building. When he saw it he said, “Well, now I’m going to have my wife feed you dinner at home to make you feel a little better.”

I had called the University recently to inquire about him and was completely broken up to hear of his passing just months ago. I regret not once having told him what a wonderful man I thought he was. One thing I had learned from him and remember to this day is that “learning is its own reward”—something he repeated over and over every time I whined about the overwhelming amount of work.

Another incident that remains salient in my mind took place on a Baltic Sea cruise aboard the Radisson Silver Seas Mariner in 2002. I had met a most adorable Canadian couple, Don and Annette Latchman, who were retirees out to see the rest of the world. They were a handsome pair, mild of manner and deliberate of speech. I had several opportunities to sit with them at dinner and had come away from those encounters a little bit wiser.

Don is one-third of the world’s oldest surviving natural triplets, for which he says he received a certificate signed by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of Britain (Canada being once a British a colony). I had not previously known that they were Jewish, not that it mattered. But this information had a bearing on the succeeding events upon our arrival at St. Petersburg in Russia. We went ashore for some sightseeing and I had purchased a well-preserved KGB cap, complete with World War II pins and emblems, from a street hawker. I proudly presented the item to Don and Annette, unaware that members of Don’s immediate family were casualties of the Russian/German concentration camps. This was the reason for his family’s migration into Canada. I apologized to no end and later asked Annette why they even thought of coming to Russia. Annette replied, “Don wants his forgiveness of the Russian and German World War II atrocities to be complete.”

These old men are personalities I will tell my grandchildren about. They had a gentleness about them that may have come from their finally making peace with life. Gone is the brashness of youth, in its stead was an endearing, mellow countenance that exuded a relaxed aura. Old age in men seems to bring with it clarity of perspective and a sense of humor that tempers what may seem tragic to the inexperienced.
None of these men had temper tantrums and spontaneous combustions often exhibited by e agitated female senior citizens I know, when provoked by anything from a slight delay in restaurant service, minor appliance malfunctions to traffic injustices. Neither did they display any of that signature wry humor that old people are wont to dish out to anyone within ten feet of them. Nor did they spew sarcasm typical of the aged that says “I’ve paid my dues; now I can lose it anytime I feel like.”

My father is 67 and is never in a bad mood. My favorite Uncle, Daniel, now in his Eighties, is never without a smile on his face and never has anything unpleasant to say about anyone.

I think men are grumpy when they hit middle-age; right about the time they go through their mid-life crisis or what is medically known as andropause. After that, I sincerely believe that they come full circle and revert back to being made of “snips and snails and puppy dog’s tails.”