When I was in my first career, working where the streets are paved with gold, I'd hunt grouse, pheasants and rabbits in a wonderful place called the Beverley Swamp north of Hamilton, Ontario. It was no upland Valhalla but lovely country of hardwoods, vacated old farms, a few run-out vineyards, the first black walnuts I had seen, coming from a tiny fishing village in Nova Scotia.

There weren't many hunters, either---this was 50 years ago with lot better places to hunt elsewhere---but one thing I noticed quickly was who they were: steelworkers, tool-and-die men, machinists, guys who worked with brain and brawn in the factories and steel plants of Hamilton and environs. Not a professional or formally educated in the bunch.

These guys had it made, all with a good standard of living, five-days-a-week jobs, good guns and gear, covered with all the distinguishing marks of happy and contented men. A couple invited me to their golf club---I'm not a golfer---but I went and it was something like the site of the Masters in Georgia. None of my professional and self-employed friends ever had the time to live.

Last edited by King Brown; 02/20/07 06:17 PM.