by Glen Chilton
But then it all starts to fall apart. The short walk from the train station was pleasant enough, but as we approached Logan Square, we faced the disturbing image of a large community of homeless persons living at the center of a fountain, now dry. The academy itself scared me, reminding me of the sort of Home for Naughty Boys that my parents pointed out when I was young as a way of frightening me into good behavior. If not quite a late-nineteenth-century reform school, then perhaps a penitentiary for wayward Walmart employees.
At the main entrance, Jane and I were directed through an improbable series of hallways to a reception desk near the back. There we were issued with the customary VIP visitor passes and waited for the collections manager, Dr. Nate Rice, to gather us up. He led us through the catacomb of nonpublic areas to the bird collection. Rice unlocked the cabinet of extinct treasures to reveal three of the collection’s five Labrador Ducks, explaining that the other two were on public display. “Shall I measure these three first, and get to the two on display later?” I asked. Rice got a really embarrassed look and said, “Uh…” “Is there going to be a problem, Nate?” I continued. “Uh…” continued Rice. Despite having given him nine months’ notice of my arrival, and despite my reminder two months before my arrival, and then again eight days before the big day, Rice still hadn’t made arrangements for me to have access to the ducks on public display. I settled in to examine the first three ducks, while Rice left to put in frantic calls to folks in the exhibitions department.
Labrador Ducks 35, 36, and 37
When it comes to Labrador Ducks, the folks at the academy seem to have inherited some rather slipshod bookkeeping. And so, after a lot of digging and prodding, here is what I have managed to figure out about the ducks in Philadelphia. Late in the nineteenth century, the academy had three Labrador Ducks—two immature drakes and a hen. Fast-forward seventy years, and a fourth duck appears on the records, this time an adult male. Today the collection includes a fifth duck, another adult male. All five are taxidermic mounts.
More than a century ago, leading ornithologist Whitmer Stone had a good look at the three ducks in Philadelphia. He concluded that the female and the immature male with slightly more white on his breast (catalogue number 5579) were probably from the same collection, as they were mounted in the same fashion. Based on his knowledge of labels and stands, Stone speculated that they were from a collection in the Pennsylvania or New Jersey area, “most likely by Krider or Cassin,” who were probably important people in their day. The female was one of the two specimens locked away in the public display area.
The tag around the leg of the immature male in this pair originally had a 鞒 symbol, but this had been imperfectly erased and replaced by a 鞒 symbol. In ink, the tag also read NO DATA. He is in rather rough shape, with broken tail feathers and a damaged right leg. The glass eyes were in need of cleaning. A repair job on the bill suggests that the taxidermist might have started with an imperfect specimen. Some sort of compound had been applied, presumably to patch up holes, but that material had blistered, leaving the bill warty. A few feathers on the back of his head stuck out, as though the bird was facing into a very strong headwind.
Stone wrote that the second immature male specimen “was procured by Dr. Thomas Wilson, through Verreaux, and was probably included in the collection of the Duc de Rivoli. This bird was presented to the Academy by Dr. Wilson with the rest of his collection.” This specimen is known today by catalogue number 5577. Stone wrote about a small label attached to the specimen’s leg that didn’t have any worthwhile data. I found a small card on the specimen’s base indicating that the specimen may have come from the Sanford collection, possibly with a link to Berkley through Beck. All of that may mean something—or nothing. He is, however, the best specimen of the three in the research collection, mounted in a posture that suggests alertness, but with a sense of economy of space. Strangely, his legs and bill are varnished and look almost like carved wood.
The third duck in the research collection, catalogue number 30245, is one of the two adult males. A tag on his right leg suggests that he was acquired from the Carpenter Collection. A similar notation appears in Hahn’s 1963 summary. All of this suggests that the adult male on public display is the one the academy picked up most recently, from person or persons unknown. The drake in the research collection had beaten-up feathers and his legs and bill were inexpertly painted and varnished. The taxidermist had mounted his body too close to his feet, and his head too far from his body. The specimen’s eye sockets and the base of his bill are greasy, and he was given yellow glass eyes too big for his head, making it appear as though he has an overactive thyroid gland. Poor sod.
I was feeling more and more down as Rice made repeated trips to my workspace without any good news about the two specimens locked up in the public galleries. Rice probably comes from good Christian stock, and may even have done some good and noble deeds in his day, but on that particular day I was just about ready to make disparaging comments about his parentage and his chances of achieving everlasting salvation. It was then that I realized I was coming down with a stinking great head cold, probably something that I picked up on the flight over the Atlantic. With ten days of touring ahead of me, the timing wasn’t good.
Labrador Ducks 38 and 39
At this point, there seemed to be nothing else for it. On the third floor of the museum’s public galleries, at the end of the endangered species hall, I looked into the glass-fronted display cabinet that contained a handful of extinct birds. It wasn’t a big cabinet, depicting a rocky cliff face, with a two-masted sailing ship in the distance. Small it might be, but it contained some great treasures—a Great Auk, two Eskimo Curlews, and my two Labrador Ducks. I felt sick, and it wasn’t just because of my building cold. My quest to examine and measure each and every stuffed Labrador Duck in the world looked to be at an end. After thirty-seven Labrador Ducks, here were two that I couldn’t examine at close quarters. They were just a few inches away from me, but on the wrong side of a sheet of glass. I could even see the door at the back of the display through which I could gain access, if someone would just hand me the key. I made notes about what I could see from the wrong side of the glass. Their bills appeared to have been painted in black, custard yellow, and baby blue, and the legs were painted gray. The female was better lit than the male, and her tail and flight feathers were less worn than in most specimens.
Then I backed up a couple of yards, sat on my camera case, and watched to see if anyone looked at my ducks. Most of the museum’s patrons were members of school groups. Almost all strolled by the display without a second glance. Two skinny boys in baseball caps, a year or two from the start of their college days, looked at the display for a full ten seconds while being teased by a tangle of hormone-fueled girls of the same age. Then a couple in their seventies came by. They spotted the ducks and took a good long look. Perhaps they had the patience of age. Perhaps they were a bit more sympathetic to the plight of Labrador Ducks, being a little closer to extinction themselves. After twelve seconds, they wandered away.
When I left the academy, Rice had my business card in hand, with the telephone number of our hotel and our room number. Rice had promised he was going to try really, really hard to get me access to the display ducks before Jane and I left Philadelphia the following morning. Well, I suppose we all live in hope.
I met up with Jane and we dragged our bags to our hotel, which, luckily, had a bar, where we downed beer and sandwiches for lunch. Maybe I could poison my cold virus with alcohol. Maybe I could drown my unflattering thoughts about the academy. I flirted briefly with the lady behind the bar, most of our conversation circling around professional wrestling.
Looking to improve our image of Philadelphia, Jane and I set off for the Rodin museum. After Paris, if you want to see sculptures by Rodin, Philadelphia really is the place. A wealthy patron, Jules Mastbaum, had paid for the recasting of Rodin’s greatest works and the construction of a building to house them, but, reg
rettably, Mastbaum checked out before the work was completed. We rented headsets to get the best possible Rodin experience. We learned that because of poor eyesight, Rodin had developed into a rather tactile fellow. We saw The Thinker, The Burghers of Calais, and The Gates of Hell, which I had always suspected were somewhere in Pennsylvania. There were also a couple of fine statues of what can only be described as soft-core lesbian porn. So, overall, a really great place.
My cold was rapidly getting worse, and it seemed as though I had two options. I could go for a run and risk making the illness much worse, or I could pamper myself a bit, catch a nap, and miss the opportunity to see more of Philadelphia on foot. I went running. Being fond of running over bridges, I ran through Philadelphia’s central core, aiming for the Benjamin Franklin Bridge over the Delaware River. As I approached, a sign warned cyclists and pedestrians to use the bridge at their own risk. Only sensible, I would have thought. However, the city of Philadelphia had ensured that I would be at no risk whatsoever, blocking all pedestrian access to the bridge with a massive chain-link fence and padlock. Back at the hotel, the little red “message waiting” button on the bedside telephone remained resolutely unlit. Come on, Nate. Show me what you can do!
After a shower, it was time for Jane and me to drown my sorrows and germs further. We found a nice little pub with good beer on tap. We chatted, drank, and watched a couple at the next table go through a dance of seduction. I told Jane that, as a behavioral ecologist, I liked to interpret the behavior of people courting. The young lady was pretty good at it, playing with her hair, and touching his wrist when her companion made a joke. He was pretty hopeless at it, failing to be amused by her little quips, and moving away every time she tried to move closer. By the time we left the bar, his chances for a little action were rapidly approaching nil. Jane suggested that he might be gay; I suggested that he might be dim-witted.
Back at the hotel, I checked the little red light on the telephone one more time. No luck. Thinking that Rice might have left a message with the front desk rather than on the answering machine, I went to ask the fellow at reception. “Is the red light on your telephone lit up?” he asked. I had to admit that it wasn’t. “Well then buddy, you haven’t got a message.”
Jane and I had Saturday morning to discover Philadelphia. In full tourist mode, we sought out the historical quarter of Philadelphia. At Christ Church burial ground, established in 1719, we found Benjamin Franklin’s grave, inexplicably covered with coins. The headstone for Gerald J. Connelly Jr. (1927–1991) celebrated his life as a seaman, soldier, and safecracker. Huh? Most headstones marked the remains of persons who had passed away long before Connelly began his life of crime. Benjamin Rush (1745–1813), a signatory to the Declaration of Independence, was described as a heroic physician, teacher, and humanitarian. Captain John Shaw (1772–1823) was recognized as showing “integrity above suspicion, and honor without blemish.” Colonel Benjamin Flower (1748–1781) was apparently “punctual.” When my time comes, I just hope that my mourners can think of something more complimentary to say than that I managed to show up on time.
To see the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall, Jane and I stood in line for thirty minutes for an overly enthusiastic grope by security personnel. Entirely dissatisfied with their own lives, members of the security group took delight in making senior citizens walk back and forth through a metal detector, removing belts and wrist watches and eyeglasses until they didn’t make the machine beep anymore. “But I’ve got a metal hip,” explained one silver-haired lady. The Liberty Bell, placed in the Independence Hall tower in 1753, called members of the Pennsylvania Assembly to debate and vote. Somewhere along the line it developed a God-almighty crack. The bell is now housed in its own center, surrounded by security personnel. An old fellow in a white baseball cap neatly summarized the Liberty Bell for me. “Well, there she be!” It’s a big bell with a big crack, and no one gets to ring it anymore.
We moved on to Liberty Hall. “The Birthplace of the Nation,” it is the spot where delegates from the American colonies formed the First Continental Congress. As the tour began, a ranger of the National Parks Service told us, “No food, no drinks, no chewing gum—there is a garbage bin to your right. Use it!” He went on in this friendly tone. “Cell phones must be turned off. Stay with your tour group. Take a seat against the wall. I will be checking tickets for the eleven-forty tour!” Jane and I were part of a group of sixty-four. Some of the visitors were from Russia and given explanatory pamphlets. Presumably in Russian. I wanted to ask for a pamphlet in Scottish for Jane, but I was a bit frightened of the pretour guard, er, guide.
This fellow was replaced by a ranger who was to guide us around the site. Undoubtedly, she had auditioned for every comedy club along the Eastern Seaboard, and, failing to get even a single gig, settled for giving talks for the Parks Service. She was abrasive. Had she just stumbled in from killing a bear and not yet found her shampoo or a hairbrush? For a comedian-wannabe, she was surprisingly self-conscious, unable to look any of us in the eye.
The tour began. “You can learn a lot about life from George Washington,” she said. I pondered what those lessons might be. Visit your dentist regularly to avoid a mouth full of badly fitting false teeth; or, don’t claim to have thrown a silver dollar across the Potomac River when everyone knows the river to be a mile wide; or, don’t let your physicians remove five pints of your blood in an attempt to heal you? This ranger clearly felt that being an enthusiastic supporter of America meant being an enthusiastic critic of Great Britain. “I don’t want to pick on the monarchy, but let’s talk. The Queen knows she’s gonna die. Right? So what does she do? ‘So long?’ ‘Good luck?’ No! She gives the crown to her son. I mean, let’s get real. So, anyway…” She didn’t seem too keen on the French, either: “So we owe France twelve million dollars for the American War of Independence, and George Washington says, ‘So long, guys!’ So you know what Washington tells them? I mean, this is true. He tells them, ‘No way!’ I mean it!” To give her credit, she taught me that George Washington was one of only six persons who signed both the Declaration of Independence and the American Constitution, eleven years later.
Rice never got back to me, and the two specimens on public display in Philadelphia remained unmeasured. I consoled myself with the knowledge that the world’s largest stash of Labrador Ducks awaited me just up the coast.
I HAD FACED considerable difficulty booking us into a suitable hotel in New York City. I had used the internet to look for something close to the natural history museum and other touristy attractions without breaking the bank. It seems that “close” and “cheap” are mutually exclusive options in NYC. We were faced with three alternatives. We could book into a youth hostel at seven persons to a room, a flea-bag hotel with fewer stars than Guantánamo Bay, or something way beyond our budget. I swallowed hard and booked us into the final, rather posh, option. Even so, I had to book a room with just one bed to keep costs down. Jane had been pretty good when I told her about sharing a bed.
As we checked in, a fellow in a tuxedo was playing a piano in the lobby. The massive floral display behind the reception desk was real, as were the jade plants in the lobby windows. As we got off the elevator and aimed for our room, a lady in a fur coat pointed at us and said to her companion, “Oh, look, Dolores! Backpackers!” I so badly wanted to say, “Oh, look, Dr. Caldwell! Boors!” I should have—but I didn’t.
My head cold was settling in for a long stay, and I was crashing quickly. Jane convinced me to join her in downing a couple of beers in a bar just around the corner from the hotel, which proved to be blessedly free of smokers. The venue was full of happy noise, and to be heard with my croaky voice, I had to stick my lips inside Jane’s left ear hole. The beer was good, and probably killed a few germs.
As much as I wanted to discover the Big Apple, I was rapidly running out of steam, while Jane was just getting revved up for a big Saturday night. So while Jane got glammed up for a night of adventure, I crawled i
nto bed. I was awakened at 11 p.m. by a telephone call from a man who insisted on speaking to his girlfriend, Caroline. I explained that Caroline wasn’t in my room. “Well, this is room 704, isn’t it?” I explained that he had the room right but the occupants wrong. When he demanded to know which room Caroline was in, he heard some very, very rude words, followed by the slam of the telephone handset. I was awakened again at 1 a.m. when Jane couldn’t fit her key in the lock.
Over breakfast the next morning, I got the synopsis of Jane’s Saturday-night adventures, which began with the words: “I love this city.” She had started off with a taxi ride to a bar-and-grill combo. She plunked herself down next to a fellow from Ireland who claimed to be a technical advisor to the Secretary-General of the United Nations and owner of a Paris newspaper. The fellow bought Jane drinks and then a meal. Then the barmaid bought her a drink. Jane was one popular Scot. As the evening wore on, she met a composer, an accountant, the owner of a bowling alley, a pediatrician who also played French horn, and a tall, blond, gorgeous massage therapist. The party moved on to a nearby nightclub. Jane danced to salsa music, which isn’t often heard in Scottish pubs.
