The rabbit broke from the clump of scrub at my father's feet -- a scrambling streak of brown against a grassy backdrop of mottled greens and umber. Startled, my 11-year-old heart leaped, and I froze with a shotgun in my hands.
In a smooth arc, my dad drew his .22-caliber revolver from its holster and fired a single shot that caught the rabbit on the fly and sent it tumbling into a heap of stew meat. One shot. At a range of 10 yards. With a pistol, no less.
"Better to miss than not shoot at all," he said, as he holstered the gun. "You think about it too long, and the chance will be gone."
In March, my father died when his heart gave out at the relatively young age of 65. Forced into early retirement from a white-collar government job, he had spent most of his last decade drunk and brooding in a rundown frame house on the edge of the New Jersey Pine Barrens.
I remember him now on that frosted autumn morning on a hillside in upstate New York above my grandfather's farm. It was here, in the hard splendor of the Adirondack Mountains, that my dad learned to shoot and kill, trap and skin, till and reap. He had acquired self-sufficiency before he was 16.
Why, then, his final broken condition?
If history tells us anything it is that we are all shaped by the times in which we live. And the past 50 years have not been kind to men like my father, according to a new book by feminist author Susan Faludi, "Stiffed: The Betrayal of the American Man" (William Morrow and Co. 647 pages. $27.50).
An inspired work of new wave anthropology, "Stiffed" weaves together decades of historical fact, statistical measures, conventional wisdom and uncommon insight from unlikely sources to reveal deep and troubling truths about the state of American manhood.
At its core, the book is powerfully convincing that a large segment of the male population who once proudly called themselves "working class" or "middle class" or "world class" have been getting screwed. And we have only just begun to ride the resulting psychosocial tilt-o-whirl.
All of this will strike a great many critics as heresy or hell broth, depending on whether they come from the left or right. And come they will. Academic nitpickers who have never held a wrench, feel-good Wall Street boosters fat on overvalued stock and the usual babbling ideologues. All will gather round the stake chanting her name.
It should come as some comfort to Faludi that the truth is on her side.
Stripped of their usefulness in the transition from a brawny industrial economy to a feminized service-based workplace, "downsized" in post-Cold War defense industry cutbacks, haunted by memories of stalemate in Korea and previously unthinkable defeat in Vietnam, American men have been swinging from rage to confusion to indolence.
"If men are masters of their fate," Faludi asks, "what do they do about the unspoken sense that they are being mastered, in the marketplace and at home, by forces that seem to be sweeping away the soil beneath their feet."
What they do is drink. And brood. And look for someone to blame.
They're the so-called "Angry White Males" who bolstered the ranks of Republican zealotry in the past decade, unleashing Newt and Rush and former California Gov. Pete Wilson -- the anti-immigrant demagogue and affirmative action buster.
For their support, the working stiffs were repaid with GATT and NAFTA and the accelerated exportation of their jobs overseas. And it wasn't just blue-collar Caucasians who lost their standing.
In one of the saddest passages in Faludi's book, a middle-aged aerospace engineer laid off from McDonnell Douglas because of defense cutbacks is reduced to handing out snack samples at grocery stores, dressed in a Mr. Peanut costume. His wife dumps him. Then, he loses that job too.
He is "The Incredible Shrinking Man" made real, a bona fide master of the universe shriveled into a cartoon shell.
Similarly, the African-American and Hispanic shipyard workers of Philadelphia, Long Beach and Portsmouth who busted their asses to keep the U.S. armada afloat were thrown overboard into the cold chop of the new world order -- obsolete skills in hand.
Don't worry about those mortgage payments, fellas. There's jobs galore down at the mall. As Willy Loman put it in "Death of a Salesman": "A man who can't handle tools is not a man." But what of the man who has tools and no place to ply them?
In Faludi's construct, the "promise of prosperity" handed down gift-wrapped to these men by the generation that crushed the Axis aggressors in World War II and built the suburban Shangri-Las of Levittown, N.Y., and Lakewood, Calif. is now revealed to be a box of worms.
The gift-givers have been left disappointed in their progeny's inability to make good on the legacy. And the receivers are alternately racked by guilt and furious that they were lied to.
The result has been a rending of the relationship between fathers and sons, husbands and wives -- and between men and the social compact that granted them security in exchange for honest sweat and faith in wise leaders.
The new gelded fathers beget broken sons who shoot up schoolyards and street corners, gang rape girls for sport, gobble dope and fill up the nation's dungeons as fast as they can be built. Disillusioned wives file for divorce, then compete against their former spouses for jobs.
Old guard feminists may chide Faludi, their wayward daughter, for shedding tears on behalf of the oppressor class. Reagan conservatives will whip out their rhetorical six-shooters to defend the myth that chopping wood and scalping the stock market have renewed their frontier vigor. And a great many men weaned on bankrupt masculine ideals will find it all too much to contemplate.
But in the Age of Irony -- when virility now comes in a pill advertised by a war hero who got passed over for the presidency in favor of a weepy, draft-dodging sex fiend from a town called Hope -- Faludi's "Stiffed" seems already to have been outstripped by current events.
A few weeks ago, I traveled to upstate New York and stood on the hill where my father had so deftly shot our dinner 30 years ago. There was that familiar autumnal snap in the air. But everything else had changed.
The farm my grandfather toiled to assemble is now gone, all 250 acres -- subdivided, auctioned off, seized by tax collectors or reclaimed by the surrounding wilderness. Strangers now live in his house.
One by one, his sons had been lured away by the gleaming promise of adventure and prosperity beyond the covered bridge at the foot of the hill. And they never returned.
For my dad's part, he took a job as a technician at a federal aviation proving ground. It was important work, he always said, vaguely related to the fight against The Reds. But as the threat of foreign enemies subsided, the boast began to ring hollow.
Then came the RIF order, a congressionally mandated Reduction In Force that downsized him with a certificate thanking him for "34 years and three months of service to the people of the United States of America."
It was too late to go home. The farm was already gone. And the fleeting hare of his youth had long since crested the top of the hill.
Jim Haner is a reporter for The Sun. He previously worked for the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Miami Herald.