The Journals of Major Peabody Read online

  Peabody reacted by contacting the lovely Stephanie for advice on how to convince me to allow advance payments of his monthly stipends. The lovely Stephanie and I met to confer prior to the initiation of legal action. The contractual limitations on Peabody’s ability to get early distributions as well as the rights of the residual beneficiaries and my duty to protect the trust corpus were explained. I gave the lovely Stephanie a copy of the trust instrument.

  After studying it, her attorneys concluded the document was carefully drafted and contained no loopholes through which Peabody could squeeze. The Major’s attempt at legal action ended before it began. It also began my personal association with the lovely Stephanie. It has never ended (though, some of my friends believe it never really started.).

  In spite of the (to him) disagreeable conclusion of his threatened lawsuit, Major Peabody, the lovely Stephanie and I remain good friends. Occasionally, the Major invites both of us to dinner at Bookbinders. Those invitations are usually extended during the last week of a month when Peabody is short of cash.

  Privately, the lovely Stephanie tells me how much she appreciates the fact that Major Peabody does not insult her by adopting the male chauvinist insistence on grabbing the check. He allows her to pick up the bill. (In deference to maintaining my reputation with other customers who may be watching, the lovely Stephanie graciously allows me to pay the bill.)

  The lovely Stephanie also appreciates the Major’s sensitivity to other important issues of the Women’s Rights movement. I’ve heard him tell her the women’s tees at the golf courses should be destroyed since they suggest an inequality between the sexes. I’ve heard him tell her the popular trout fisherman’s artificial fly should be re-named The Royal Coachperson. I’ve heard him tell her the Federal Department of Interior’s Fish and Game people should be chastised for assigning 25 points to the drake Mallard and only fifteen to the hen.

  If the lovely Stephanie has a minor flaw detracting from her perfection, it might be her strident attitude in regard to matters concerning women’s rights and the equality of the sexes. Though the thought has occurred to me, I’ve never had the courage to suggest the Major might be putting her on.

  I’ve certainly never hinted at my growing belief that men and women really are different. Women do strange things. They give peculiar anniversary gifts for one thing. I thought she knew I didn’t hunt.

  * * * * *

  The Major crouched in a duck blind on a backwater of the Mississippi River near La Crosse, Wisconsin. He smiled as he thought of a dinner conversation with the lovely Stephanie.

  In a few weeks, she had told him, it would be exactly five years since she and the Major’s Trustee first met. Peabody took advantage of her comment to point out the traditionally established anniversary gifts were demeaning to women. The historically proper presents for an eighth anniversary (electric appliances), the ninth (pottery) and the thirteenth (lace) as well as the various gem stones were, in the Major’s opinion, “based on the archaic attitude that the head of the household should give housewifely sops to the little woman”.

  Major Peabody went on to state: “This disparaging affront to women should be ended and assigned to the obscurity it deserves”. Then, after mentioning the classic gift for the fifth anniversary was something made of wood, he said: “Stephanie, my dear, why don’t you strike a blow for equality and instead of awaiting for some depreciating gift from your man, give him the anniversary present? And I know just the thing to give him.”

  The Major’s reverie was broken when a flock of Bluebill, flying in their un-patterned and disorganized manner, came into sight. They responded to the Major’s calling and came directly to his blind. They set their wings and slipped air as they dropped towards his newly acquired set of two dozen wooden decoys.

  The decoys were a gift from the attorney who managed his Spendthrift Trust at the Smythe Hauser Engels & Tauchen law firm. (Major Peabody had to promise he would never tell the lovely Stephanie where or how he got them.)

  The Education of a Grouse Hunter

  On September 30, Major Peabody and I flew to Wisconsin. I accompanied him because I was obliged to personally deliver his trust remittance on the first day of October at 12:01 a.m. - the date when he would be in a deep woods cabin, awaiting sunrise and a day of hunting the Ruffed Grouse.

  We went through customs in Milwaukee’s Billy Mitchell Airport. After signing an affidavit swearing we brought no oleomargarine with us and denying we had ever been members of an organization dedicated to the overthrow of the cow or advocating the abolition of beer drinking, we were allowed to enter and Peabody bought an out-of-State hunting license.

  The Major’s three friends, dressed in their hunting togs, were waiting at the airport. They drove us to a backwoods cabin in the Central Wisconsin Conservation Area. The Major called it a cabin. I’d call it a shack. I was being charitable. It was only one small step above a hut.

  On the following morning, I delivered the Major’s check, but couldn’t immediately return to Milwaukee for the flight to Philadelphia because “it was inconvenient”. All of the men planned to hunt together on November 1. No one found it convenient to take me back to Milwaukee before the afternoon of the second day of November. As a result, I had to spend a day and a half in the Central Wisconsin woods. As a result, I felt an overpowering urge to “go hunting” with Peabody and his friends.

  I am not a hunter. I’m afraid of guns and I’m afraid of dogs. They enjoy barking at me and snarling at me and threatening me. Before the Wisconsin Ruffed Grouse trip, if you mentioned the term Bonasa Unbellus, I would have presumed you were talking about the head of a New Jersey crime syndicate. Nevertheless I wanted to spend the day hunting with Peabody and his friends.

  If I didn’t “go hunting”, I would have to spend the entire day alone in the cabin, surrounded by wild animals. One look at that cabin convinced me snakes could easily crawl into it. They might have been in it at that very moment. I wondered if scorpions came that far north. I knew any sized black bear could easily knock the door down with one blow of its huge, razor sharp, clawed paws. When I heard the ominous sounds of distant drums, I decided I would be safer if I were surrounded by armed men. Hence my decision to “go hunting”.

  One of the men offered to let me use his back-up shotgun. I didn’t want to touch the thing and tried to refuse it on the grounds of not having a Wisconsin hunting license. The host claimed it was all right. He hadn’t seen a game warden in the vicinity for over ten years. Peabody said it was all right because I could afford to pay the fine and buy a replacement shotgun if one was confiscated. My objection was overruled.

  My first day of hunting was an educational experience. I learned about grouse and grouse hunting and grouse hunters. Peabody’s hunting companions consisted of a dentist, a publisher and a lawyer. (I understand it is usually necessary for grouse hunters to bring their own attorney with them.)

  These men were my professors. I learned the scientific name for the Ruffed Grouse was Bonasa Umbellus. I learned the male grouse attracts the female by drumming his wings against his chest. That explained the drumming sound I had heard and I was relieved to learn the bird seldom attacks a human being.

  That evening, in a poker game celebrating the coming hunt and substantially adding to the expenses of my trip, I learned grouse hunters are probably scoundrels and have to be watched when they deal the cards. I believe they were all trying to distract me from my game when they told me things like - on average, the grouse has 4,400 feathers - if you don’t count the down.

  Peabody describing the theories of the hunt. The dentist, nicknamed “Old Bang, Damn, Bang, Damn”, the Major told me, ascribed to the “shoot and shoot and never aim” philosophy. The publisher (they called him “Slow Motion”) had the reputation of swinging his gun barrel along a bird’s line of flight until it was far beyond gun range. He was an adherent of the “aim and aim and never shoot” philosophy.

  During the next day’s hunt, my instruct
ion continued. Finding me walking at the end of the line of hunters, the Major taught me to walk between the two men who owned hunting dogs. He explained it by saying the dogs will hunt in front of their owners and you’ll get more action than will any idiot who hunts at the end of the line

  I learned about grouse. If undisturbed by a hunting dog, they are capable of sitting as quietly as the guest of honor at a funeral. You can walk up to them or even past them before they flush. When one unexpectedly exploded from the underbrush beneath my feet, I learned to drop my gun, fall to the ground in alarm and panic and throw my arms over my head in a protective fashion.

  The first time one of them erupted from beneath me. I found myself imploring Jehovah to please save me and promising, in exchange, to attend church every Sunday for a year. Five minutes later, when my heart rate was still a bit elevated and my palms still a bit moist, the bribe offered to Jehovah was reconstituted to provide for church attendance every other Sunday for six months.

  I also learned how to carry a shotgun in grouse covert. While the “port arms” position is favored by many hunters, I like the less popular “cross arm” carry. With the gun cradled in the crook of my arm, at the sound of an exploding grouse, I was able to jump and turn in mid-air without dropping the shotgun more than half the time.

  However, it was the “shoulder carry” that produced my success. With my right hand on the breech mechanism, I swung the two barrels of the shotgun up and backwards until they rested on my shoulder. At that moment, a bird flushed from right behind me and I panicked. I clenched my fist and inadvertently knocked off the safety. As I covered my head and reverently shouted out the name of deity, I squeezed the trigger and the gun went off.

  I was surprised when the dog named Pfizer (a Lab, of course) ran back past me, found the unfortunate bird, returned and executed a perfect hand retrieve - to Major Peabody. Since the other members of the party knew he hadn’t fired, he graciously handed the grouse to me and said “Nice shot”.

  I was proud of that Ruffed Grouse. Later, upon closer examination, I found it contained 4893 feathers - not counting the down. This was more than ten percent over the average for the species and, thus, a trophy specimen. I decided to have it mounted, but, after many hours of tedious work, I was able to replace no more than 2000 of the feathers. The bird was beginning to smell and I abandoned the project.

  Where is Thy Sting

  Major Nathaniel Peabody is the sole beneficiary of the Peabody Family Spendthrift Trust. It was established to insure him of a comfortable life. Major Peabody and the trust instrument have different definitions of the term “comfortable life”. The Major thinks it means “whatever he thinks he needs”. The trust document, however, clearly defines the amount of his monthly stipend.

  Unable to negotiate an increase in the amount of his first-day-of-the-month remittances the Major has been forced to compromise. He lives quite frugally - if you don’t count aged single malt Scotch whisky, imported cigars and every conceivable expenditure vaguely associated with shotguns, hunting equipment or hunting expeditions.

  Some of Peabody’s expeditions take him to exotic places in Europe or Africa or Latin America and are quite expensive. Others are more informal and less costly. Where Peabody hunts depends entirely upon the amount of cash contained in the cigar box he hides under his bed. Last month, the cigar box was nearly depleted. Peabody wanted to go to Maine. He came to me and explained the reason for his trip.

  Unruly gangs were taking over large tracts of land in the northern part of that State. Behaving in a generally riotous manner, they violated the rights of the local inhabitants by disregarding No Trespassing signs and adversely possessing some of their properties. The Sheriff flatly refused to act on any of the complaints registered with him. He contended he had no jurisdiction because woodcock are considered to be migratory waterfowl and, as such, the problem was one for the federal government. Everyone knew it was an excuse. The sheriff was afraid of them.

  According to Peabody, a friend, Jim Zimmerman, owned a cabin and a few forties in that part of the State. It was October and Zimmerman’s property was infested with migrating wood-cock. Outraged by their presence and desperate for relief, the man decided to take the law into his own hands. He bought a shotgun and a case of 7 ½ chilled shells and prepared to defend his property.

  Days later, though his upper arm was black and blue, Zimmerman had failed to reduce the woodcock population. (Afterwards, he claimed he had only been trying to frighten them.) Zimmerman called Major Peabody and Doctor Carmichael, begging them to join him and a few friends and rid his property of those damned birds.

  With this lengthy explanation and an appeal to “my well-known charitable impulse to help a fellow human being in dire straits”, Peabody asked for an additional piece of the trust corpus in order to make his trip “more comfortable”. It wasn’t the end of the month. I refused his request and gave him a lecture on the need to more carefully control his expenses. Peabody had to undertake his expedition with no help from the trust monies.

  * * * * *

  The following day, Peabody and Carmichael met with the group convened at Jim Zimmerman’s cabin. They formed a Vigilante Committee and sworn to maintain the peace, be kind to widows and orphans and drive the woodcock from the County. Peabody’s initial impressions of the Committeemen were, by and large, favorable.

  Their shotguns and hunting clothing did not have an unused look and one of the men brought dosages of top quality medicinal single malt Scotch to be used in the stead of the blended stuff provided by the camp. After paying for his air transportation, the Major’s delicate financial condition did not allow him to provide for his own refreshments. His liquid funds were insufficient.

  One of the Committeemen, however, did not pass muster. He was the camp cook. The Major had not seen a more disgusting, shifty-eyed and untrustworthy looking specimen since he visited the United States Senate. (This assessment of the man was confirmed when the cook admitted he was a banker from Milwaukee.)

  The next day’s hunt was successful. The Vigilantes had reason to believe - once their presence was more widely known - the hated woodcock would abandon the area with fear and trembling and decide to quickly migrate south, leaving the good people of Maine in peace.

  After another good day in the field, when the hunters returned to the cabin, the Major’s opinion of the cook proved to be correct. The man was unreliable. He neglected to bring a supply of soda crackers and milk for the pre-dinner hors d’oeuvres. His lack of planning forced him to provide substitutions. Without consulting the other hunters, he prepared smoked oysters, ground round steak with onions and pepper on dark rye bread, aged cheddar cheese, and a clam dip with whitefish roe.

  Peabody did not bring the man’s failing to the attention of the others. The hunters were all good sports and used to adversity. They accepted the substitutes without complaint and proceeded to relax and review the day activities. By the time they were called to the dinner table, the sun was down, the kerosene lanterns were lit and the Major was telling a story about a gun with a crooked barrel and a constipated owl.

  Perhaps it was the dim light - or the beverage - or the distraction caused by the stories. Major Peabody had not paid attention to what was going on about him. He had the fork inside his mouth before anyone was able to shout a warning.

  The cook had soaked a dozen dead woodcock breasts in a marinade. Then he put them inside the woodstove oven. They lay there in that terrible heat for almost two hours before he took them out. Then, without warning or notice any kind, he served them to the entire company - just as if woodcock were edible.

  Peabody doesn’t like the taste of woodcock. No, that isn’t right. Peabody detests the taste of woodcock. He has often warned me to turn and run if anyone suggests I take even the tiniest taste of one. He has assured me the flavor of the bird is improved by soaking it in kerosene for five days and then throwing it away.

  Thought Peabody spit the disgusting woodcock onto hi
s plate without swallowing, the taste lingered in his mouth and in his memory. It had been a very close call. I’m sure it was this brush with catastrophe that caused Peabody to consider his own mortality and begin to “make provisions”.

  As soon as he returned from Maine, he called on Peter Klemmens to take care of his mortal remains. Peter Klemmens is not a funeral director. He is a taxidermist. Peabody was impressed by his work when he saw a deer head mount Peter had done over twelve years ago. Not one hair had fallen out. “When the time comes”, Peter has agreed to stuff the Major for eight dollars an inch.

  Peabody felt he had done a good job in negotiating the price. He proudly told me how he was changing his ways and watching his non-hunting expenses.

  Providence

  Major Nathaniel Peabody and two companions were in a hunting lodge in northwestern Uruguay. They came to hunt the Perdiz runing in the fields surrounding Hector Sarasola’s hunting lodge and the Gray Spotted Pigeons clouding the skies above it. The lodge’s ads assured the hunters they could fire at least two cases of shells per day. Hector confirmed that promise and assured them they would arrive in Uruguay during the most productive part of the season.

  This was not the first time Peabody hunted with the other men. They became acquainted in a field full of pheasants in South Dakota. A second meeting took place in a Minnesota grouse camp. This would be their third reunion.

  A small chartered plane carried them from the airport at Montevideo to the city of Mercedes where a waiting truck delivered them to Sarasola’s Lodge and their countryside hunting grounds. After promising to re-convene for a pre-dinner period of libation and relaxation, the men went directly to their assigned quarters. The outlook for the three day hunt was most promising.