The Chronicles of Major Peabody Read online

  “It’s not a matter of money, Red,” the Major said. “There’s so much pork in the budget Congress has authorized that I could fund a rocket expedition to the moon. The Voyage of Discovery should come in well under Congressional estimates. I’ve got plenty of money, but I’ve run into a lot of other problems.

  “First of all, the OSHA people won’t give their approval to the project. They want me to carry eighty more oars in case the boys break or lose some. They want me to provide every man with a Coast Guard approved life jacket. They insist every man be issued a supply of sun block and Polaroid glasses to protect them from ultra violet rays. Ultra violet rays! Hell, Red, they haven’t even been discovered yet.

  “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. If I tried to carry half the stuff OSHA is requiring, I’d have to rebuild the boat. It would be so big the boys wouldn’t be able to pole it up the river. Talk about a Catch 22. They won’t let us leave St. Louis unless we have a boat so big that we can’t leave St. Louis.

  “That’s not all. The EPA is giving me fits.

  “They want an Environmental Impact Study and won’t let me go until they get one. Environmental Impact Study! Impact on what? Nobody knows what’s out there. How on earth can we give them an impact study when no one knows what is going to be impacted? Another Catch 22, Red. The EPA wants an Impact Study before they’ll let me leave St Louis and I can’t give them an Impact Study unless I leave St. Louis and get to the places where the ‘impact’ is to be ‘studied.”

  President Jefferson looked out the window and mused, “I like that phrase, ‘Catch 22’, Nate. I sure hope it will some day inspire Joseph Heller to write a novel and use it as the title.” Major Peabody disregarded him and continued with his litany of complaint.

  “The only success I can report,” he said, “is with the EEOC. I’ve made a deal with Toussaint Charbonneau. He’s a French trapper. He’ll come with me and bring one of his wives along. She’s a Shoshone Indian woman named Sacagawea. That will take care of both of the EEOC’s ethnic and gender diversity objections.

  “I suspect I’ll have some kind of a Union problem. The Barge Polers, Beaver Skinners and Mountain Men’s Local #1739 is trying to organize us. If they’re successful, I’m sure they want to cut us down to 12 hour days and you know what that will do to out time schedule. And how in hell am I going to provide health and dental care when I’m half way up the Columbia River?

  “To make matters worse, today I got a certified letter from the anti-gun people. I’m sure you know all about them. They’re the ones who argue that if the Minute Men didn’t have guns, they wouldn’t have killed all those Brits at Concord, Lexington and Breed’s Hill. Their letter says they’re going to raise absolute hell if we take muskets, side arms, knives or swords with us. They claim they have a lot of support from Massachusetts politicians. Massachusetts, of all places! Have they forgotten so soon?

  “I’d hate to see the Brits or the Russians or the Spaniards take control of the West Coast, Red, but I’ve had it right up to here with the politicians, the special interest groups and the bureaucrats. The only reason I agreed to head up this expedition was because of the reports of the great dove and Prairie Chicken hunting out on the plains. If I can’t bring a shotgun with me, I’m not going. I hate to leave you in the lurch, Red, but I QUIT.”

  Then the Major put on his coonskin hat and left the White House.

  It’s Not All Roses

  As an attorney in the Trust Department of Smythe, Hauser, Engals and Tauchen, one of Philadelphia’s prestige law firms, I prepare complex documents intended, for the most part, to govern post-mortem distributions of large amounts of money. I therefore deal with people who own large amounts of money.

  One such client was William Henry Peabody. Sensitive to his son’s profligate ways, he created the Peabody Spendthrift Trust. William Henry has gone to his reward. The beneficiary of the Trust, Major Nathaniel Peabody, is the black sheep of that prominent and affluent family. Though he is not affluent, (certainly not affluent at the end of the month) Nathaniel Peabody somehow seems much happier than my moneyed clients.

  To tell the complete truth (something an attorney will occasionally do) I think I envy him. He owns no real estate or automobile so he doesn’t automatically think all plumbers and auto mechanics are members of Ali Baba’s team of forty thieves. He has no dog or wife to feed or maintain or take to the veterinary clinic. His tax returns are uncomplicated. He has no reason to follow the stock market or worry about its fluctuations.

  Major Peabody has no need to plan the management of his income for periods longer than 31 days. Though often penniless as the end of a month approaches, he knows his Spendthrift Trust remittance will, like the cavalry, arrive in the nick of time to save him on the first day of the ensuing month.

  Last week at the office, I momentarily stopped trying to analyze one of the various incomprehensible provisions of the U S Tax Code and looked out the window at the blowing February snow storm. I was working under stress. I was living in a cold, gray unattractive clime. Peabody was in Mexico, probably enjoying a Margarita while stretched out in the sun next to some 5 Star hotel pool, filled with Latin beauties. He was, I concluded, the luckiest man in the world.

  Then Charlotte brought the mail and I found an envelope with a Mexican postage stamp. I opened it, read it and realized the Major, too, had his problems.

  * * * * *

  Dear Counselor:

  This expedition has been a complete disaster. It began on a very bad note. Jerry and Alice Koenig invited me to spend the evening in their home. The plane left very early in the morning and Jerry had agreed to take me to the airport.

  Of course, I brought a small token of my appreciation to recognize their kindness. That small token took the form of a bottle of single malt Scotch whisky. While browsing in a liquor store, I came upon a brand name previously unknown to me. It is called “Sheep Dip” and is an eight year old unblended product. In a moment of whimsy, I bought it and delivered it to my hostess.

  Now, please understand, neither of the Koenigs drank Scotch. From time to time, I brought them quality distillations of that product, secure in the knowledge that they would never drink any of it and I would have a secure supply of acceptable libation whenever I visited them. However, buying the Sheep Dip was grievous error.

  Alice and Jerry were quite taken by the name and label, so they decided to sample it. They liked it. Now they drink Scotch, including the stuff I leave with them as tokens of my appreciation. I have unwittingly destroyed a watering hole where I was previously assured of an appropriate supply of appropriate drinking material.

  With that kind of a beginning, I should have suspected a disaster of even greater magnitude awaited me. At the airport, I dropped my suitcase on my great toe and, during the flight, the pain increased. I was limping when I met Jim Zimmerman in the Dallas airport. He was to be my hunting companion.

  We changed planes and, together, flew to Santa Cruz. When we arrived at Santa Cruz, my toe was swollen and it hurt. I no longer limped. I hobbled. I had to carry my own baggage through Customs, to the taxi, into the Colonial Hotel and up the stairway to our room. Every step was an agony.

  This morning, with difficulty, I could get out of bed, but I couldn’t get a stocking on my foot - let alone a walking boot. That offending toe, I am convinced, knows the location of every nerve in my right leg. Whenever I move my foot, I pay for it. I missed breakfast and explained my condition to Zimmerman. After assuring me that my agony might possibly cause him a sleepless night, he happily left for the shooting fields.

  Zimmerman is excessively enjoying my discomfort. He finds it delightful - so delightful that I have reassessed my opinion of him. I am now convinced that he has only one redeeming quality. He holds the mistaken opinion that he is capable of successfully playing Cribbage for money.

  The Colonial Hotel is a Half Star Hotel located on the outskirts of Santa Cruz. As the name implies, it must have been built during the colonial p
eriod - the early colonial period. It has two storeys, twenty rooms and a questionable water supply.

  It is more than adequate if you are interested in a quick meal and a place to sleep between hunts. It is not the place to spend time if the slightest touch or movement of the big toe is a cause of great pain.

  When not rented to the unwary, I’m sure the management uses this room as a breeding ground for rats which, I suspect, are sold to laboratories for experimentation purposes. By the looks of this place, they must enjoy voluminous sales and are probably making a mint off the project.

  In response to my numerous requests, a hotel doctor appeared late in the afternoon. We had an interesting conversation.

  “I believe I have broken my toe. This one.” (I pointed at it.)

  This one?” he asked and touched it.

  “OUCH. Yes.”

  “Hmmmmmmmmmmm”

  “Should I put ice on it?”

  “Yes. That might be good.”

  (End of consultation.)

  In a little while the maid brought me two kinds of pills, a supply of ice and an ice pack. In response to my request, she brought me reading material (a biography of Francisco “Pancho” Villa, written in Spanish) and a tall glass. From time to time, I very carefully take ice from the ice pack, put it into the tall glass and add some single malt Scotch to kill any microbes that might be in the ice. From time to time, she returns to bring more ice.

  When Zimmerman came back from the afternoon hunt, he spent too much time telling me the shoot was magnificent and explaining its joy in detail. He showered and left after announcing he was going to a restaurant famed for its cabrito asado. He said he’d stop at the local MacDonalds and bring me a hamburger in case I wanted a midnight snack.

  I am alone, listening to the pitty-pat of falling water. It is not raining. Water is dripping from the shower head in the bathroom and I can’t get up to tighten the damned faucet.

  I’m laying on my back with my bare foot resting on a towel. It is bare because my big toe violently objects to the weight of a sheet that might otherwise cover it.

  I’m trying to keep that toe entirely motionless. The task is complicated by the swarm of resident flies that insist upon constantly crawling all over it.

  Lord knows what tomorrow will bring.

  Peabody

  Other Books by Galen Winter

  500 WILD GAME AND FISH RECIPES (Editor)

  LEGENDARY NORTHWOODS ANIMALS -

  A Farcical Field Guide

  BACKLASH - A Compendium of Lore and Lies (Mostly Lies)

  Concerning Hunting, Fishing & the Out-Of-Doors

  THE BEST OF THE MAJOR

  THE AEGIS CONSPIRACY

  BACKLASH II - Tales Told by Hunters, Fishermen

  and Other Damned Liars

  THE JOURNALS OF MAJOR PEABODY

  SUMMER OF 38