The Chronicles of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  As the women approach the table, the Major was rattling the ice cubes in his empty glass, hoping to attract the attention and remedial effort of one of his newly found friends. The leader of the ladies brigade came up from behind him and the tall, skinny one spoke.

  “I suppose you will want one of us to refresh your drink and wait on you hand and foot,” she said. There was no hint of humor or cordiality in her voice. Taken by surprise, the Major turned and made some innocuous comment. The lady disregarded it and began a confrontation by claiming she knew he had an unblemished history as an unreconstructed, male chauvinist.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, madam” Peabody said, putting the emphasis on the first syllable of the last word. “You falsely accuse me, MAdam,” he said. “Of course, I believe in equal rights for women. To suggest otherwise distresses and is painful to me.” The woman smiled, leaned toward him, stuck her chin out just a bit and informed him that she was a friend of his ex-wife and knew better. Peabody ignored the woman. He turned and addressed his new friends.

  “The equality of the sexes is a concept I heartily endorse and recommend it be adopted by one and all. Had the idea of “Equal Rights” been universally adopted, the marriage to which the MAdam refers might have been saved. Unfortunately, it ended before the merits of the idea of equality between the sexes had been completely understood and accepted. Yes, I must admit, the MAdam is correct. My short term marriage ended in divorce.

  “Like most men, I’ve never understood women. One of my friends gave a wedding present of three dozen Herter decoys. Looking back at it, I have the suspicion my ex did not appreciate the gift and, somehow, blamed me for her discontent. Strange.” He paused and saw the men nod in agreement. He didn’t see two of the women behind him throw unsmiling and thin lipped, but meaningful glances at Peabody’s friends. He, however, did see the two women move to stand behind the men who, it turned out, were their husbands.

  Ignoring the women, Peabody continued his discourse. “My wife brought the divorce action and it came as a surprise and disappointment to me.” The Major then assigned the real cause of the divorce to his wife’s failure to observe the concept of equality between the sexes.

  “Given the fact that men and women are equal,” he argued, “why should the bride receive wedding gifts which only she can use - gifts like silverware, kitchen utensils, scrub boards and the like? Peabody could feel the heat and animosity emanating from the tall, thin woman standing beside him. Nevertheless, he continued.

  “Men and women are equal, period. Grooms should be able to get a wedding present of three dozen Herters decoys without repeated complaints from brides whose memories of such occurrences fade not but remain forever fresh and vibrant.”

  “My ex’s Petition for Divorce claimed my association with smelly dogs, my terribly bloodthirsty shotgunning expeditions and what she described as my uncouth hunting associates had destroyed all potential for connubial bliss. Perhaps some of you may have witnessed the spouses of some of your friends voicing that same kind of trifling complaint?”

  None of the men answered the question. They sat motionless, looking uncomfortable.

  “Frankly, I thought she was being unfair,” Peabody said. “I hadn’t complained too bitterly when she hauled me off to cocktail parties where I was forced to associate with dilettante liberals. I hadn’t objected too strenuously when she insisted I attend operas where tenors or sopranos would yell out many, many times that they were dying before that happy event occurred and the final curtain dropped. One properly aimed shot would have immediately finished off the singer and allowed the audience to return home 10 or 15 minutes earlier.”

  One of the men nodded vigorously until his wife elbowed him in the ribs.

  “I put up with my wife’s avocations,” the Major said. “Being entirely committed to the philosophy of equality between the sexes, I expected she should put up with mine. I expected equal treatment from my wife but, obviously, she did not accept the philosophy of equality between the sexes.”

  Without turning to face her, Peabody told the tall skinny woman: “I hope, MAdam, this will set the record straight and destroy the canard that I am not in favor of equal treatment for women.”

  There was no response. The aggressive woman retreated and the other two wives hustled their husbands from the table, leaving the Major alone, gently rattling the ice cubes in his empty glass.

  * * * * *

  Two weeks later, Major Peabody got a telephone call from the men present during his confrontation with the tall, skinny woman at the Bucks County Garden Party. They extended a most cordial invitation to join them on a trip to Winisk on Hudson Bay. The goose hunting, they assured him, would be excellent.

  Exercise

  Some people have good health. They jog and watch their diet and take vitamins. Some of them work out on the beach or inside a gym. I don’t go to the gym, but I believe it is important to exercise regularly. Each morning before breakfast, it is my usual practice to don a sweat suit and run the three mile course I’ve measured out from my apartment door.

  The condition of Major Peabody’s health concerns me. He shows no outward signs of deterioration, but I’m sure he would be healthier and happier if he would exercise. The Major, however, opposes such a suggestion. He considers exercise to be work and he doesn’t enjoy work. When I explained my jogging regimen to him, he feigned astonishment. “How can you possibly enjoy good health if you have to work at it,” he asked.

  “It’s good for me,” I answered. “I’ll live longer.”

  Peabody lit another Dominican Republic cigar, blew a line of smoke into the air and answered: “Oh? Are you sure? Your jogging exposes you to life threatening dangers. You might get hit by a speeding automobile as you run down the street. You might be mugged while running, alone and unarmed, in a city park. The police may see you running, presume you have committed some heinous felony and, as is their custom, shoot you dead without warning.”

  The best I could do in way of defense was to say: “Oh, come now, Major.”

  Peabody blew another cloud of smoke into the air. “If you manage to evade those forms of early death,” he said, “I suppose you might be able to add a few years to the time allotted to you by the mortality tables, but I wonder - is the game worth the candle? I doubt it.” He took a pencil and a pad from the end table beside him and spoke to himself as he made some notations.

  “Let’s say it takes you an hour and a half to perform your despicable daily act of jogging. That would include preparation time, running time and the time you spend leaning against the side of your apartment building gasping for breath when you’ve finished your three mile course.

  “One and a half hours a day - 365 days per year - 30 years,” he murmured. He looked at the results of his calculation, nodded and said to himself: “I’ll have to add a bit to take leap years into account and a bit more for the extra distances you’ll have to run because of the times you are being chased by vicious dogs.”

  After a few more calculations, he handed me the pad and said, “There you have it young man. Study it. The conclusion is unmistakable. You’ll spend about two years of your life jogging. That’s about equal to the few years all that running will add to your life expectancy. It looks like a wash to me. Besides, you’ll probably spend those extra two years strapped to a wheel chair in some nursing home, babbling and drooling on yourself.”

  What can you do with a man like that? He could buy a stationary bicycle or a home treadmill, but he won’t. He spends all of his money on trips to Canada or Argentina or North Dakota or Maine, wasting good exercise time by walking miles over some tundra just to build a blind and shoot geese or by chasing a dog that’s following a running pheasant when he could be staying in his apartment getting healthy exercise on a stationary bicycle.

  As long as I’m complaining about him, I’ll tell you something else. The Major doesn’t visit a doctor for an annual check-up. I’m many years his junior and I go twice a year. He
hunts with Doctor Carmichael. It wouldn’t be a great inconvenience if he would drop in to the doctor’s office from time to time. I’ve often tried to get him to make an appointment for a general physical. Those attempts have all been unsuccessful, but I persevere.

  Last week, after a dinner at Bookbinders, we returned to his apartment for a night cap. I again took the opportunity to bring up the subject of exercise and its positive effects of Peabody’s longevity. There was a reason for initiating that conversation. I had an ulterior motive. Come hell or high water, I intended to get the Major to schedule an appointment with Doctor Carmichael for a full physical examination.

  “Young man,” the Major said to me, “If you are to be insured of a long, happy and healthy life, there are three rules you must follow. First - You must assiduously avoid Funeral Directors. If you can push off all dealings with them for eighty or more years you will have attained the objective of longevity.

  “The second rule is intended to insure your happiness. If you want to lead a life free from stress and trouble, you must avoid lawyers.” Peabody noticed I winced and added: “Let me be clear. If you will recall the aphorism ‘lie down with dogs, get up with fleas’, you will never be tempted to associate with any lawyer who has abandoned private practice in favor of politics.

  “Regarding attorneys engaged in private practice, there is good advice contained within the Italian proverb: ‘A rat in the jaws of a cat is much better off than a client in the hands of a lawyer.’ If you are to be happy, avoid all professional association with them, too. They are capable of committing terrible outrages - like withholding Trust Fund remittances.”

  I winced again and the Major noticed it again. “On a selective basis, however,” he conceded in deference to me, “it’s all right to dine and have social dealing with them. They tend to be pleasant companions in camp and in restaurants.” I felt a bit better until he added: “They are especially welcome at the poker table where they have, very often, contributed to my happiness.” I winced again.

  “And, finally,” he said, “my third rule is designed to promote good health and avoid premature aging. The rule is simple and easy to follow. To maintain a sound body, never seek out the services of the medical profession.”

  I now realized my task of getting Peabody to visit Doctor Carmichael would be doubly difficult. Nevertheless, I would not give up. Perhaps, I thought, I can appeal to his manhood. “Major,” I said to him, “you can’t really believe that. You aren’t afraid to visit a doctor’s office, are you? Is that it? Are you afraid of doctors?”

  “Of course I’m afraid of doctors,” he answered. “Any sane person is afraid of them. How many times have you seen someone visit a medico with some common complaint - like high blood pressure or chest pain. The doctor gives him some pills and scares the living bejaysus out if him. It doesn’t take long before the poor fellow worries himself into a heart attack and dies.

  “I’ve noticed,” he went on, “that doctors never make mistakes when they diagnose an ailment. If they say you’ve got German measles, you die of German measles. Never mind the rumor that you also had malaria and tuberculosis.” Peabody paused and studied the coal at the end of his cigar. “Do I need to point out,” he observed, “that the attending physician is the one who fills out the death certificate.”

  It was obvious that all subtle suggestions to get the Major to agree to a medical examination were destined to fail. I decided to be blunt about the matter. “Major Peabody,” I began, “When was the last time you visited a doctor? Isn’t it about time you went to see Doctor Carmichael for a check-up?” I was surprised by his answer.

  “For your information,” he said. It was only three months ago.” Then he blew a smoke ring. “Doc Carmichael said I had a particularly virulent, but then latent form of pneumonia. In his report he described me as a carrier - kind of a Typhoid Mary.”

  This was, indeed, disturbing news and I asked about his current state of health.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he answered. “I am in perfect health and I was in perfect health then, too. You see, it was the first week of the duck hunting season. After the judge read Carmichael’s medical report, he excused me from jury duty and the Doc and I were able to go to Maryland for the opening day of the season.”

  I know when I’m beaten. I gave up.

  Nightmare

  “In answer to your question, my boy,” said Major Nathaniel Peabody, “there are many reasons why a man hunts. In the millions of years following mankind’s decision to supplement its diet of grass and roots with meat, hunting has been indelibly stamped into the psyche of everyone who is able to successfully capture birds and animals.

  “Historically, Homo sapiens hunted only for food. With the advent of canned goods and super market grocery stores, the foodstuff motivation for the hunt has markedly declined. Nevertheless, man’s primal urge to hunt has not been bred out of most of us. The people who have lost whatever it is that creates that urge will never be able to fully understand why men hunt.

  “Moreover, there are still many good people who prefer meals of pheasant or wild duck or Ruffed Grouse or venison over meals of soy bean and chemical laced viands injected with artificial coloring to make them look palatable. I am one of them. You would be, too, if you carefully read the list of unnatural ingredients printed on the boxes of the junk sold in supermarkets.

  “Of course, men hunt for many reasons other than securing healthful foods or following the ancient genetically stamped impulses that lead them to dogs and shotguns and fields and lakes and woods. Some men hunt to have an opportunity to ‘knit up the raveled sleeve of care’. They want to get away from brain numbing television programs and talking head newsmen who feel they must do their best to scare the hell out of them on a daily basis.

  “The next earthquake will cause California to sink into the Pacific. Its screwball inhabitants will drown, polluting the sea and killing all the fish. A comet will strike the earth and we will all be in for it. The ice cap will melt, but New York City will not end up under water. The liberals will take over Congress. Everything you eat will cause cancer.

  “If those threatened cataclysms aren’t enough to cause an epidemic of diarrhea or bleeding ulcers, wives threaten you with additional dire consequences if you don’t haul the garbage to the curb.

  “Is it any wonder rational men want to get away from that kind of civilization induced stress and take a silent walk with a good dog in a field containing pheasants or seek out the peace of an early morning spent in a duck blind watching the sun rise or simply enjoy the beauty of the fall colors of a grouse covert, far from the madding crowd?”

  The Major paused for a second before looking directly at me and adding: “There is also an advantage in getting away from people who persist in asking silly questions.”

  Being thus chastised for asking the question, I intended to let the matter drop, but Peabody wasn’t inclined to do so. He blew a smoke ring and watched it float in the air. “In my own case,” he continued, “I suspect a part of the reason for my attraction to shotgunning is my search for peace of mind. If I didn’t have frequent opportunities to get away from people and cities, I’m afraid I might become vituperative, sarcastic, anti-social, and develop curmudgeon-like tendencies.”

  I did not make any of the more obvious comments.

  “We live in an era when too many people insist on controlling our lives,” he said. “So-called experts, social engineers, weird college professors and high school drop-out actors insist they know what is best for all of us. If our wimpy politicians think they can gain a single vote by doing it, they will support and pass the most insane legislation. Unless we have occasional opportunities to call “Time Out” and develop a healthy sense of skepticism, we run the risk of becoming brainless sponges, absorbing as truthful whatever nonsense is thrown at us.”

  “And,” I ventured, “just what has all of that that got to do with why you hunt?”

  “The point is so obvious,” P
eabody responded, “it doesn’t need explanation. Let me explain it to you. When I am hunting no one can tell me I can’t enjoy a cigar or own a 20 ga. Lefever or relax with a glass of The Macallan. I even have the ability to descry the movement toward monolithic government without fear of being pilloried or accused of holding politically improper attitudes and sentenced to a term in prison. Hunting puts me in an environment where I can experience a feeling of freedom and, my young friend,” he continued, “this country wasn’t made by social engineers and bureaucrats. The men who tamed the wilderness did it without much help from them.”

  “Like Lewis and Clark’s Voyage of Discovery?” I said.

  “Exactly like Lewis and Clark’s Voyage of Discovery,” the Major answered. “That was a time in our history when men were on their own. Lewis and Clark’s expedition wasn’t subjected to governmental micromanagement. They organized their expedition without some bureaucrat telling them what to do. Imagine the fun they must have had. Unfettered exploration. I wish I had been with them.”

  That night Major Nathaniel Peabody had a nightmare.

  * * * * *

  “How are you Nate?” the President asked as he arose from his desk and extended his hand in greeting.

  “I’m fine, Red,” Major Peabody responded. Only President Thomas Jefferson’s closest friends called him ‘Red’. “Well, perhaps I’m not so fine,” the Major admitted. “I’m having trouble with this Voyage of Discovery thing.”

  Jefferson was having his own troubles. Some people thought he paid too much for the Louisiana Purchase. The press was attacking him. Protesters were marching in the streets. They were carrying signs like: ‘Jefferson Just Wants a City In Missouri Named After Him.’

  “What is it, Major?” the President asked. “Do you need more money? I don’t think we can expect much from Congress. Damned politicians! Most of them are only interested in re-election. A bunch of Senators are already raising Cain. Half of them want to get rid of me. Some say I wasn’t properly authorized to buy anything from Napoleon. They want to have hearings and start an investigation.”