Last night I travelled to a seniors' residence to watch my son's high school band perform a Christmas concert. I don't know whether it's because I'm just naturally an inordinate suck-up or that now, at 49, my golden years no longer seem so far away, but I really like hanging around my "elders."

I think a big part of my affinity for the blue-rinse set is they seem to be the last generation to whom manners meant something. I don't mean to say that all people currently over the age of 70 are Emily Post cut-outs. Bombast, after all, is the well-earned privilege of the elderly. My dad makes Rush Limbaugh look like a shrinking violet. But even their crankiness and anger stem from an innate sense of fair play.

Remember, these are people who came from a time when disputes were often settled man-to-man in the schoolyard ... or woman-to-woman, under a hair dryer.

They're people whose moral codes and values were shaped largely by two of the most catastrophic events the world has ever known; the Great Depression and the Second World War. They're people who remember what honour and dignity are all about. A person from mom and dad's generation knows how to take an insult with grace. They can hold a grudge longer than the Hatfields and McCoys, but they'll still be able to greet the transgressor with a polite, if glacial, smile. Don't ever underestimate how much strength that takes.

Retaliation is easy, rising above an offence takes real moxy. There's a reason you never hear about random shootings in seniors' homes. You never read about old Gus Larson wheeling by Wilf Patterson's room and putting a cap in his wrinkled ass because Wilf "dissed" him by taking the last bowl of tapioca pudding. It's tough to "diss" a senior. Almost impossible. Because most of these people are studies in respect and manners. It's how they were raised.

When the band arrived last night, most of the residents were still at dinner in the cafeteria. The room had to be cleared before the band could set up and play. With only one elevator and dozens of walkers, strollers and wheelchairs, the scene in the lobby should have been pandemonium. The crowd was thicker and greyer than the ticket booth at a Bobby Vinton concert. And yet there was no jostling, no pushing or shoving, no frayed nerves or lost tempers. There were a lot of "excuse me's," "thank you's" and "pardon me's."

And things moved along just fine.

The other delightfully notable absence was cellphones. Not once during the concert were we treated to someone's annoyingly cute and oh-so-personal ring tone. All heads, silver and otherwise, were up, focusing on the band and the music and the event, not down in their laps ... tweeting and twittering. Lord, what an ironically apt word that is.

As I read these words now, I'm a little startled to hear the "old fart" voice of my father coming through more and more as my own. Startled, but not necessarily displeased. Times change, no question, but I still believe some things should remain timeless. Things that represent the best of us. Things like manners and grace and respect. You can still find these things. They usually come in a small, wrinkled, silver package. And they're precious. Very precious.