by Galen Winter
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Cover
Major Nathaniel Peabody
Disappointment
Women’s Rights
The Education of a Grouse Hunter
Where is Thy Sting
Providence
Sweet Charity
Rain
The Future is Before Us
Shorty’s Story
The Madness of Peabody
Genetics
Justice
The Social Animal
The Dread Disease
Warning Signs
Mephitis Mephitis
Delusions
Global Warming
A Snug Man with a Buck
Carpenter Ants
All About Loons
The Dog Whisperer
Don’t Fool Around with Major Peabody
The Spiney Pig
The Supernatural
Crime and Punishment
Play the Cards You Hold
The Sure Thing
Allergies
It Ain’t Necessarily So
The Grasshopper and the Squirrel
Finding the Boar’s Nest
The Lesser of Two Evils
The Peabody Proposal
Compromise
Is There Life Before Death
Other books by Galen Winter
Back cover
The Journals of
Major Peabody
A Portfolio of Deceptions, Improbable Stories and Commentaries about Upland Game Birds, Waterfowl, Dogs and Popular Delusions
by
Galen Winter
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
The Journals of Major Peabody: A Portfolio of Deceptions, Improbable Stories and Commentaries about Upland Game Birds, Waterfowl, Dogs and Popular Delusions
Copyright ©2012 by Galen Winter
ISBN-13 978-1-927360-85-9
First Edition
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Winter, Galen, 1926-2012
The journals of Major Peabody [electronic resource] : a portfolio of deceptions, improbable stories and commentaries about upland game birds, waterfowl, dogs and popular delusions / written by Galen Winter – 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-927360-85-9
Also available in print format.
I. Title.
PS3573.I565J68 2010 813'.54 C2010-905786-4
Additional cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
The stories contained herein were first published in Shooting Sportsman magazine.
Extreme care has been taken to ensure that all information presented in this book is accurate and up to date at the time of publishing. Neither the author nor the publisher can be held responsible for any errors or omissions. Additionally, neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the publisher.
Publisher:
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
www.ccbpublishing.com
For James Louis Larson
Major Nathaniel Peabody
The Peabody name has been present in the New World since the very beginnings of the Virginia colonization. The family has had a remarkable history - tobacco and cotton at first, then land, then investment banking and, always, philanthropy and public service. As is the case in all reputable families, occasional black sheep make their appearance. Major Nathaniel Peabody, USA, ret. is an excellent example.
The first entry in Major Peabody’s list of life priorities is: Game bird hunting. Game bird hunting is also the second through (at least) the tenth item on that list. His life revolves around shotguns, dogs, hunting expeditions, hunting accessories and anything vaguely associated with bird hunting. All insignificant items - like food - are further down the list.
This explains why Major Peabody is incapable of managing money. It’s not a good explanation, but it’s the only one available.
For decades the prestigious Philadelphia law firm of Smythe, Hauser, Engels and Tauchen has represented the interests of the Peabody family. (I use the adjective “prestigious” because I am a junior member of the firm.) The Peabody Estate is substantial. I mean it is SUBSTANTIAL. Estate Planning is one of my law firm’s areas of expertise and I was assigned the responsibility of drafting the Peabody Family Spendthrift Trust.
In the course of drafting that document, I had the opportunity to meet with the elder Peabody. He was well aware of his only son’s frightful irresponsibility in matters financial. He gave me specific instructions designed to limit Nathaniel Peabody’s ability to attack the corpus of the trust.
During his lifetime, Major Nathaniel Peabody would receive a generous monthly stipend, but (1) The amount of the remittance could not be increased, (2) The payment had to be delivered to the Major on the first day of the month, and not a moment earlier, (3) No prepayment of any kind would be allowed and, (4) No pledging or alienation of any remittance or segment of the trust corpus would be allowed.
I met Major Nathaniel Peabody in September of 1986 during the probate of the Jefferson Peabody Estate. It was not a pleasant meeting. The Major wanted a lump sum distribution of his inheritance. I could not allow it. He asked for a series of advance payments of his monthly installments. I could not allow it. I showed him the trust document, explaining its terms in detail.
Peabody was disappointed. He blamed me for his disappointment and, seeking revenge, I believe, he insisted on strict adherence to another portion of the trust provisions. As a result, I, as the Trustee of the Peabody Family Trust, must personally deliver his check at 12:01 a.m. on the first day of every month. Wherever the Major is at that time, I, too, must be there.
I am not a hunter. I’m not an outdoors man. I’m a city boy. Dogs don’t like me. They bark at me. They snarl at me. I think they want to bite me. I’m afraid of all wild animals, like wolves or bears or porcupines or rabbits (many of them are rabid). I’m afraid of insects like wood ticks or mosquitoes or other crawling, biting things that carry terrible diseases. Nevertheless, on the first day of every month, when Peabody is usually in a tent or in a cabin in some uncivilized wilderness area, I must be there.
It hasn’t been a bed of roses. However, it has not been without its pleasant moments. Through Peabody I met his hunting companion Doctor Carmichael. It’s always nice to know a medical person who can determine if you have any of the new diseases the people on television discover and spend weeks warning us of the awful threat they represent. And it was the Major who introduced me to the lovely Stephanie.
Today I consider Peabody to be a good friend. Whenever the evening before the first of the month finds him in Philadelphia, we often dine together (at my expense because he is usually without funds). Later, we return to his apartment for night caps and conversations. I believe he considers me to be his friend, although, occasionally, I suspect he still blames me for the limitations on his ability to get his hands on the bulk of the Peabody estate.
Disappointment
I am convinced the senior partners of the Smythe, Hauser, Engels and Tauchen law firm decided to test my metal when they assigned me the task of managing the Peabody Spendthrift Trust. The trust instrument specifically requires remittances to be delivered on the first day of the month. That means I, personally, must deliver his check.
At the end of the month, Major Peabody is often “in the field�
�. That means I often have to spend month-end evenings in backwoods cabins or tents, waiting for the stroke of midnight when I can hand Peabody his remittance and, as quickly as possible, return to civilization.
The first time I ever fired a gun was after the Major conned me into accompanying him on a Cuban duck hunt. Of course, I couldn’t hit anything and when I returned, I had trouble with the Canadian Customs people. They accused me of smuggling because someone stuffed Cuban cigars down the barrels of my then new, but now confiscated Arrieta shotgun.
All my recollections of that trip are bathed in discomfort and distress. I remember the annoyance of not being able to appreciate the abusive camaraderie of the Major’s hunting companions. I remember the irritation of being forced to eat black bean soup. I remember being terrified by the unprofessional looking system of bare and actively sparking electric wires running to the shower head and carrying current for the purpose of heating the shower water.
I remember the evenings listening to Major Peabody and his friends as they talked about the various calamities they experienced during hunting expeditions. I most vividly remember the stories about encounters with ferocious animals and the deadly poisonous Cuban spiders and snakes and scorpions found in the immediate area of the rice field where we hunted. No one complained about those dangers. In fact, they all seemed cheerful about their misfortunes and perils - particularly if I seemed frightened by them.
I don’t believe I’ll ever understand hunters, but, then, I was born and raised in a Philadelphia suburb where golf and duplicate bridge were infinitely more respectable than shooting at things with shotguns.
* * * * *
I was in the Philadelphia airport, waiting to pick up Major Peabody and drive him to his apartment. The flight from St. Louis was on time. As Peabody came through the tunnel and into the waiting area, he cordially greeted me. We walked toward the luggage carousel and his conversation was light and infectiously jovial. Clearly, he was in a good mood.
“You must have had a good hunt,” I observed. “How many turkeys did you kill?”
“Not one. I didn’t even fire the gun.” He smiled, apparently enjoying some private recollection. “I ran out of cigars and single malt,” he said, still smiling, and showed only modest displeasure when reporting: “My host provided only blended Scotch.”
Knowing Peabody’s affection for imported cigars and aged single malt Scotch, the Missouri turkey hunt must have been a disaster. I wondered why he was in such good spirits. Then it came to me. “The Poker Gods smiled on you?” I asked. Peabody gave me a stern look supported by a pained expression. He answered my question with the statement: “I believe that’s my luggage coming down the chute.” I felt it prudent not to pursue the subject.
As we drove to his apartment, the Major avoided comment about the Missouri hunt. Still, his demeanor was that of a happy and satisfied man. Curiosity was killing me. After parking the car and bringing his baggage into his quarters, I could stand it no longer. “I’m sorry the turkey hunt was a disappointment.” I expected the Major would describe the hunt and the disappointment and, thus, satisfy my curiosity.
Peabody was sitting in his wing backed chair next to the fireplace. “Disappointment? Disappointment?” he said, as if the thought never occurred to him. “I was in no way disappointed.” He reached for the humidor containing his H. Upmann cigars. “I believe you’ll find some of the Macallan under the sink,” he said, casually. I took the hint and soon returned from the kitchen with a brace of Scotch and waters.
“Disappointment,” he began, “is a product of improper expectation. ‘Hope springs eternal from within the human breast’ and when it is not fulfilled, hope ends in disappointment. A realist limits his expectations. Therefore, he limits his potential for disappointment. Hunters sometimes miss.” He looked at the tip of his cigar, indicated satisfaction with the way it was burning and amended his statement.
“No. That’s not right. Hunters often miss. They very often miss. Down deep, they don’t really expect to hit what they shoot at. They are, thus, not disappointed when they miss, but they are elated when they happen to hit whatever they’re shooting at.
“Duck hunters have learned to expect the worst. Even though the TV weathercaster has confidently promised a Saskatchewan Screamer bringing cold Canadian air, blustery winds and, probably, driving huge flight of late Bluebill before it, duck hunters go forth in pre-dawn November mornings expecting a day of calm, warm, bluebird weather.
“Turkey hunters, on the other hand, are always ready to experience the cold and the rain that keep them inside the cabin and the turkeys hunkered down, unmoving in the thickest of cover.” (Now I know what happened in Missouri.) “Only the most naïve hunter expects a weatherman to tell the truth.
“Hunters know the elements and the fates conspire against him. The smarter ones avoid the disappointments by expecting their forays to end in disaster or, at best, discomfort. Thus insulated, misfortune brings no disappointment and their occasional successes bring them great satisfaction. That is the reason for the truism; ‘All hunting trips are good. Some are better than others’.
“This does not mean the hunting fraternity sails through life without problems. I have been visited by bitter disappointment more than once. I embarked upon the sea of matrimony, expecting a calm and serene voyage. Soon buffeted by blackened skies, gale force winds and steep, angry swells, I suffered violent mal de mer.
“You may not believe this, but in my youth I harbored the insane expectation that the printed word was accurate. The particular text I have in mind appears on page 163 of the 1966 edition of The New Hunter’s Encyclopedia. I still remember it: ‘Experts claim that a skunk can be captured without danger of ejection if the tail is grasped and held down, possibly on the theory that the animal will not foul its own tail.’ I vividly recall my extreme disappointment when I tested the theory.
“To avoid the destroyed hope which, surely, will result if you believe newspapers or any written publication, I suggest you begin by refusing to read the Congressional Record. Personally, I’m never surprised by those in political office. I expect so little of them there is no outrage they can commit that might cause me to be disappointed in them.
“But you, Counselor, live in a lawyer’s world. You are constantly involved in planning to bamboozle judges, mislead juries, outwit tax collectors, and starve widows and orphans through manipulation of Spendthrift Trust provisions. What great expectations all of you must have. But, in every case, one lawyer wins and one lawyer loses. That means half the lawyers must be terribly disappointed when justice triumphs.”
Peabody set his empty glass on the stand beside his chair and prepared to rise. “As I said, disappointment is the product of improper expectation. For example, during last night’s unfortunate experience at the poker table, I was sustained by the knowledge that you fully expected to invite me to dinner. It is an entirely proper expectation and I won’t disappoint you.”
We went to Major Peabody’s favorite restaurant.
Women’s Rights
Never let it be said Major Nathaniel lacks proper respect for the female of the species. He neither derides their abilities nor considers them to be inferior to the male animal in any way. Frankly, I believe he is just a bit afraid of them. (Personally, I think men have good reason to be afraid of women.) His attitude may have been formed by the experiences he amassed during his short term marriage.
The Major’s election never to re-marry supports my thesis. I believe he fears a wife might insist he become a better man and change what she would most probably consider to be his errant way of life It almost happened during his first venture into what turned out to be a very stormy relationship.
During the marriage, Peabody’s Lefever 20 ga. gathered dust and complained of disuse. The Major was forced to start a savings account. In spite of the fact of his careful cleaning of the necklace after he retrieved it, his then wife insisted he get rid of his dog just because it had eaten that fav
orite bit of her jewelry. After the divorce Peabody felt like a slave who had been liberated. Undoubtedly, his ex felt the same way.
This does not mean the Major dislikes women. On the contrary, he enjoys their presence, but he has adopted the classic position enunciated by William Claude Dunkenfield who claimed: “A woman is like an elephant. I like to look at them but I wouldn’t want to own one.”
Major Peabody believes in the equality of the sexes. He treats women in the same way he treats his male associates. This gets him into serious trouble with some members of the opposing sex, but others enjoy his fairness and his company. A case in point is the desirable and somewhat unattainable, lovely Stephanie.
The lovely Stephanie’s family and the Peabody family have been friends for generations and she and I have been affianced for over five years. She is intelligent, independent and very committed to the causes of Women’s Rights. It is her insistence on independence which has, I believe, delayed any formal ceremony legalizing our union. I’m sure she believes marriage amounts to some sort of surrender.
It was Major Peabody who was instrumental in first bringing us together. He had been invited to participate in a Western Hemisphere shotgunning expedition. It was to start with goose shooting in Greenland and then move south to Labrador for duck. The succeeding stops were: Upper Michigan for Ruffed Grouse, Iowa for pheasant, Mexico and Colombia for dove, Uruguay for Perdiz, Argentina for goose, and then back to Philadelphia for recuperation.
The mere thought of such an expedition was enough to cause Major Peabody to salivate. It was a once-in-a-lifetime hunt and he intended to participate. Of course, it was a very expensive undertaking. Of course, the Major had no backlog of funds available to support the costs of the five week project. When he asked for an advance from his Spendthrift Trust, of course, I had to again show him the terms of the Agreement which specifically allowed no advances of any sort.