Gypsies, Tramps and Beans

Today at the dog park Henry asked if I married above my station. Of course I did. It’s not as if I was born in the wagon of a travellin’ show, but really anyone who lived in a stationary house made out of bricks was a step up. If it takes three generations to make a fortune and three more to lose it, that would put Dan at the top of the line. How will he accomplish this? And with whom will he procreate to produce the useless heir who will begin the slide back to working at Green Giant?

Our son’s already remarked on how Rich and I are working all the time. This is true for Rich. When he’s not at the Fort he’s volunteering at the dojo, sweeping the floor or, given the Pontius Pilate complex he’s developed from sleeping with a Catholic, washing something. It’s not the same for me. My associate Colin does most of the work while I walk Nim. Perhaps I am the lazy third generation bent on squandering the family fortune. Will my fiscal turpitude leave Dan with only some useless RRSPs, a wool cupboard and a silver-plated Knights of Columbus sword?