Jebediah Hanson was a seasoned standardbred horseman, veteran of many fall fairs and other such occasions where the old men gather to swagger and wager on which one of the horses that they think is the fastest. He had come to the track as a youngster, lured by the colour and flash of it, but also by the harsh language and hard drinking that permeated the barns, tired of the goodness of his religious upbringing, brought on by his righteous parents. And he did well at the track, becoming a favourite in his early teen years, and it was as if nature smiled on him, because he stayed a small man, and so was favoured to ride the horses he came to love. And he gained in success as a young jockey and rose through the ranks.

I pretty well lived at the pool hall back in my younger days, much to the grief of my good parents, who thought that such places were dens of iniquity where great and wondrous transformations were carried out on young boys to make them turn from the Lord and smoke cigarettes and curse and swear like old salts from the sea. It was a curious sort of place for certain; and one where the Lord was surely not safe. There was for sure lots of cursing and swearing and smoking of cigarettes and there were occasional bouts of drinking and gambling, but I took the attitude early on that it was all in good fun -- maybe not good, clean fun, but fun all the same. I revelled in it -- much to the grief of my parents, who were probably right in what they thought.

He felt kind of awkward as he stood backstage waiting to accept the award. It was true that he had spent a lifetime striving for something such as this. And he felt a certain satisfaction at what he had achieved.

Still, he felt there was something missing, and he knew what it was. And even though he had taken everything life had offered, he couldn't help but wish there could be that one thing more; and he had felt something of that throughout virtually his whole life, and while it was true that it didn't cause him any real concern, nor had it for some time, he still felt a little tug of emptiness when it came into his thoughts. “Professor Billings?” a voice asked, interrupting his thoughts.

My husband says he loves me -- and maybe he does -- but he’s a drinker and he’d love anybody that’d put out two or three times a week for him. Not that I mind, ‘cause I always like a good tumble as well as the next person. But it’d be better if he weren’t so much smellin’ of drink, and if he weren’t forty pounds overweight. Which he is on both counts.