The Journals of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  “Oh,” I questioned in return.

  “Surely Doc Carmichael told you? Surely you know how contagious that disease is? Didn’t he tell you the dreaded sickness strikes thirteen days after initial exposure? We had dinner together at Bookbinders. Wasn’t it about tens days ago. You’re going to catch whatever I had in another few days.”

  I sat there with my mouth wide open. Of course, I knew I was going to get whatever terrible disease the Major just survived.

  Peabody slowly shook his head. “I don’t envy you my boy. I know what you must face. It’s quite debilitating. Look on the brighter side. It’s only four days. Then you’ll be able to leave the confines of your apartment. You’re young and you’re strong. I believe you’ll live through it.”

  * * * * *

  Major Nathaniel Peabody left the law offices of Smythe, Hauser, Engels and Tauchen. He descended to the lobby. As he left the building, he was joined by Doctor Carmichael.

  “Everything go OK, Nate?”

  “It went as smooth as silk, Doc. In another few days, he believes he’s going to get whatever you told him I had. He thinks he won’t be able to leave the bathroom for another four days. He even called the caterer to get chicken broth and crackers delivered to him.”

  “How about your check?”

  “He’s convinced he won’t be able to deliver it to me. It’s due in five days and I told him you were taking me to South Dakota. He made me promise not to tell anyone. I’ve got the check in my pocket.

  “I’ll never drink another cup of chicken broth in this lifetime, but it was worth it. The duck hunting is great in Nicaragua and we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Warning Signs

  It was in Upper Michigan. The Ruffed Grouse season was in full swing. The two German Wirehairs had performed brilliantly during the day. The evening meal (grouse, of course, with wild mushrooms) had been delicious. The dishes were washed and the libations and cigars had been distributed. What more could a man want. A poker game?

  Nathaniel Peabody, Doc Carmichael, two Yoopers and a Troll were at the table.

  For the benefit of the uninitiated, a Yooper is someone who lives in the U P - Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A Troll is a someone who lives in Lower Michigan, south of the bridge that crosses the juncture of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron and connects the two parts of the State. In other words, a Troll is a creature who lives below the bridge.

  The game was Seven Card Stud. One of the Yoopers was dealing. He held the deck, waiting for the bets as the Troll waved his hand to disburse a bit of the cigar smoke. The players had five cards, two down and three up. The Major already had a heart flush. He could read no warning signs indicating anyone might be working on a full house. Peabody hoped no one would recognize the danger of his three heart face cards.

  “Old camp cooks should be respected,” the Major observed as he tried to distract his companions from recognizing the threat. “If you overlook their criminal records, their dreadful diseases and their slovenly ways, they can be convenient additions to hunting camps.”

  “I know what you’re up to,” Charlie Ainsworth said. Charlie was one of the Yoopers and the camp cook. “You’re complimenting me because you want me to get more snacks.” He had a Queen up and he bet a dollar. Then he went into the kitchen area and returned with another bag of Fritos. He dumped them into the empty bowls.

  The younger man at the table was the Troll. He threw a dollar into the pot and voiced an objection. “Junk food,” It almost sounded like swearing. He refused the Fritos and took a trail food bar from his pocket. After a few unsuccessful attempts to open the plastic, he ripped it apart with his teeth and took a bite from it.

  “This is a multi-grained food supplement,” he announced. “It’s been scientifically engineered to provide the very best nutritional elements needed by the human body. It’s good for you. It’s a wonder any of you old guys have managed to live so long - what with all the poisonous stuff you eat.”

  Peabody again checked his hole cards, trying to leave the impression they were so valueless he had forgotten what they were. He slowly shook his head, muttering, “I don’t know why I do things like this,” and he dropped a dollar into the good sized and growing pot. Charlie Ainsworth picked up the plastic wrapper the young man had dropped on the table. “I tried one of these once,” Charlie admitted. “If I remember correctly, it tasted like artificially sweetened saw dust.”

  Charlie read through the list of ingredients. “Let’s see - the crust contains potassium bicarbonate, simulated flavors, micro crystalline cellulose, carrageen and guar gum. Does anyone have the vaguest idea of what they are? The filling is made of glycerol, more simulated flavors, sodium alginate, sodium citrate, calcium phosphate, methylcellulose, malic acid and coloring. Glucose and fructose sugars and other stuff is scattered about, too. Doesn’t sound very healthy to me. Must be another example of better living through chemistry.”

  Peabody joined the conversation. He was happy to do anything to distract the others. “I’ll take my chances with ptomaine poisoning and liver flukes rather than expose my system to mixtures of soy beans and chemicals that taste like linoleum. I don’t have to worry about cholera, typhoid, e-coli or the Black Plague. Aged single malt Scotch Whisky kills germs, fungi, bacteria and viruses.”

  The sixth card was dealt. It looked like the Troll was working on a straight. Peabody was happy to watch him raise Charlie’s bet. Doc Carmichael dropped. And the Major continued his chatter.

  “Homo sapiens has been around for half a million years. We’ve been successful and, so far, at least, have established mastery of all other forms of life. We’ve managed to attain our present elevated status by eating natural foods. Only recently has it been …” he pause to find the right word “…enhanced, I think that’s the term they use, by the addition of chemicals.

  “True, our wiring, our plumbing and our muscular structure do wear out long before those of the Galapagos tortoises, the parrots and some kinds of trees, but, I hasten to point out, tortoises, parrots and trees don’t add chemicals to their food.”

  “You could be right, Major,” Charlie said. “But you’ll have to admit it - modern food with all of its additives, makes a camp cook’s life a lot easier. I don’t have to peel potatoes anymore. I can get them straight out of the box. All I have to do is add some milk and butter and they don’t taste bad.”

  The last card was dealt. Peabody glanced at the Troll. He had his hands on the pile of cash in front of him and he was looking to this right. It was a sign. He caught his straight and was waiting to pick up the pot. Charlie bet his Queens, the Troll raised, Peabody re-raised. Charlie and the silent Yooper both got the idea. They quickly dropped out of the competition. The Troll took the last raise. Peabody smiled and called.

  “Chemicals can retard spoilage,” he admitted. “And, yes, they may make the camp cook’s life easier. However, you can’t convince me they produce anything that’s good to eat. I’d rather get my food from the Farmer’s Market than from a DuPont factory. You’ve got to be smart enough to read the warnings. Have you ever read the label on that freeze dried flaked potato box?”

  “I’ll read it right now,” Charlie answered. He left the table and went into the kitchen area. Peabody watched as he put on his glasses and took the box of instant potatoes flakes from the shelf. “Sodium Pyrophosphate,” he read from the list of ingredients on the side of the box. “What’s that stuff, Major?”

  “Figure it our,” Peabody told him. “What’s a pyromaniac?”

  Charlie scratched his head. He split the word in two. “Pyro maniac,” he repeated. “That’s a fire bug. Pyro must mean fire.”

  Peabody nodded in approval. “Right you are, Charlie. What do you know about phosphate?”

  Charlie answered right away. “That’s a fertilizer. You put it on the lawn to make the grass grow green,” and slowly repeated the key words. “Pyro… Phosphate… fire… fertilizer… makes the grass grow green.” He worked his way to a frigh
tful conclusion. His eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. “You know,” he announced, “I believe somebody has been burning cow manure and putting it in the mashed potatoes.”

  Peabody tipped over his cards, showing the flush. The Troll looked sadly at his cards and tossed them into the discard pile.

  * * * * *

  There is a lesson to he learned. When Major Peabody pays no attention to his cards and engages in irrelevant conversation, keep your hand on your wallet. Read the warning sign and muck your cards immediately.

  Mephitis Mephitis

  From the time he was big enough to carry a .410 ga. shotgun, Major Nathaniel Peabody has spent a substantial portion of his lifetime on lakes, in fields and in the woods, usually accompanied by a hunting dog and looking for pheasant, grouse, partridge, geese, ducks and various other kinds of game birds. In all such matters, he is both knowledgeable and experienced.

  Before I was assigned the uncomfortable job of managing the Peabody Spendthrift Trust, my own experience with the fields and woods and lakes was limited to golf courses and water holes. The 12th hole bordered on a forested lot and my slice often took me into the woods where I spent considerable time searching for golf balls. (That experience served me well when the Major took me mushroom hunting. I had experience finding those little round things.)

  On the first day of each and every month following my first meeting with Major Nathaniel Peabody, I have personally delivered his trust remittance check. During the days (and sometimes weeks) prior to that delivery, Peabody has spent his monthly allotment and is without funds. During these periods, I’ve provided him with numerous restaurant meals, bottles of the Macallan and boxes of imported cigars. In return, he has taught me what I know about the great out-of-doors.

  I do not want to know about the great out-of-doors. Vicious snakes, quill throwing porcupines, wolves and hungry bears come to mind. Moreover, I’m not too sure I fully appreciate the teaching methods Major Peabody uses.

  Early in our acquaintance, before I learned of Peabody’s intense dislike of cocktail parties, a mutual friend, the lovely Stephanie, invited us to an afternoon affair at her Main Line country club. The Major agreed to attend only after subtle cajoling and, finally, outright threatening. Throughout the afternoon, he tried, desperately, to avoid showing it, but he was out of his element and quite ill at ease in the golf club and cocktail party ambient.

  In an attempt to make him feel comfortable, the hostess searched until she found a guest who claimed to know all about the denizens of the forest. He was a college zoology Professor. She led him to the Major, performed the introduction and quickly escaped. They were left to endure each other’s presence and painful conversation for at least fifteen minutes.

  I came upon them in time to hear the stranger break an awkward silence with the information that Mephitis Mephitis was the Latin designation for the skunk. Another few more seconds of silence followed before Peabody unenthusiastically responded, “I didn’t know that. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  The Professor and the Major used my approach as an excuse for parting company. They did so with what appeared to be mutual relief. Frankly, I was impressed by the man. Surely, someone who could use terms like “Mephitis Mephitis” must be a true outdoorsman. Later, as we drove back to Philadelphia, I mentioned that admiration. Peabody snorted.

  “I can’t imagine what crime I committed in some previous existence to justify the agony I had to suffer this afternoon,” he said. “Three hours in a cocktail party, compounded by a lengthy conversation with a pompous dilettante is infinitely more painful than being tortured by the Apaches and staked out over a hill of fire ants.”

  “Oh, come now, Major. Apparently, you don’t like cocktail parties,” I guessed, “but the Professor surely must know a lot about skunks.”

  Again, Peabody snorted. “The only way to know wild life is through personal observation and association - not by way of watching laboratory tests, studying statistics, reading text books and memorizing Latin terms. I heard nothing from the fellow to suggest he had ever worn out a pair of boots or run from a moose in heat.” He paused and then explained: “I mean the moose being in heat, not the Professor.”

  We drove on in silence for a few minutes while I thought about Peabody’s comments. “Just how does one associate with a skunk?” I asked. “How does one get close enough to observe them? Both activities require a certain proximity to the animal. Given its reputation of being armed with the most powerful of chemical weaponry, both association and observation seem dangerous and not to be undertaken by a prudent man.”

  Peabody was ready for the question. “With the possible exception of college professors enjoying some large federal government polecat study grant, anyone who purposely seeks out association with a skunk should be confined to a lunatic asylum. I except university professors because, if they were to be put away, logic would require the Congressmen who created the study grant to be put away. If Congressmen are to be committed, the Sanity Commission should send the people who elected them to the same asylum. Half the population of the United States would be in padded cells.”

  Peabody didn’t give me an opportunity to respond. He continued his educational lecture. “Contrary to general perception, the life of the hunter is not always a bed of roses. The shotgunner, in particular, puts himself in harm’s way every time he engages in a hunt. Mosquitoes, wood ticks and No Trespassing signs are but a few of the challenges he must overcome. Of course, the skunk must be included within the list of perils.

  “As you have suggested, hunters don’t seek out skunks. They usually come upon them by accident. However, at times, the skunk seeks them out. I doubt there is a text book to instruct the student on where to empty the skillet containing grease from the breakfast bacon. The neophyte camp cook may merely pour it on the ground next to the kitchen tent door flap. He will do it only once. He will learn skunks like bacon grease.

  “There is no treatise warning the shotgunner not to shoot a skunk with 7½ chilled bird shot. The shotgunner who does so will learn it upsets the skunk. He will also learn skunks have a very short fuse and, when upset, react instantaneously. The result of such a reaction will be indelibly etched in the hunter’s memory.

  “And there is the time honored adage: When a skunk comes into camp, everyone else leaves. Do you think that maxim was written by some college professor who, with a pad of paper and a pencil in hand, watched an experiment he set up in some Maine backwoods? I don’t think so. I think it may have been a conclusion drawn by a group of shotgunners who had to evacuate a tent in the middle of the night when visitors with white stripes down their backs appeared in their midst to enjoy a meal of bacon grease.

  “Is there a book explaining a method to safely get rid of skunks living under a cabin? I doubt it.” The Major went silent and seemed to be considering the question. I considered it, too. If the skunks “went off”, the cabin would be unlivable. Perhaps it would have to be burned down. After a few minutes, I broke the silence.

  “Is there a way to get rid of them without the risk of what you call an ‘instantaneous reaction?” I inquired.

  “I know of only one safe way,” Peabody answered. Again, he was silent and offered no further explanation.

  “And that is?” I prompted.

  “It may seem strange to the uninitiated,” he said, “Get some law books. Throw them under the cabin. It works. I’ve tried it.”

  “Major Peabody!” I exclaimed. “You don’t expect me to believe a few law books placed under a cabin will drive out the skunks.”

  “No. Of course not, But the books will attract lawyers. When the lawyers crawl under the cabin, the skunks will leave.”

  * * * * *

  Over the years I’ve tried, unsuccessfully to learn to avoid stepping into one of Major Peabody’s bear traps.

  Delusions

  It had not been a pleasant day for the pheasant hunters. The rain started a half hour before sunrise and continued, alternating
between light rains, drizzle and, occasionally, misting. Major Peabody rejected a ten o’clock invitation to go out into the mist with two young intrepid souls who picked up scatter guns, called a dog and left the cabin.

  The men spent over an hour in the field before returning to the cabin. They were cold and soaked and representative of what Noah Webster’s dictionary really meant when it defined the word “bedraggled”. The only thing they got was a disgusted look from the Springer Spaniel reluctantly accompanying them.

  “It’s not a fit day for man or liberal,” one of the men complained. “You and your bright idea,” the other one snarled. They changed into dry clothing, wiped and oiled their weapons and toweled down the dog, while constantly complaining and expressing their feelings with short bad language phrases.

  The hunters who stayed in the cabin knew any misconceived attempt to hunt anything but ducks in this kind of weather was an exercise in futility. Still, they shared their companions’ unhappiness. The damned weather was keeping them from hunting, too. They took a modicum of solace from knowing they, at least, had remained dry.

  Major Peabody voiced no complaints. He busied himself by ladling out bowls of venison chili simmering on the flat top of the pot bellied wood stove. The miserable hunters ate and became more comfortable, being warmed up by the heat from the wood stove and by the jalapeño peppers in the chili. Their complaints, however, continued unabated. Expletives, describing the rain and the wind, punctuated all conversation. By mid-afternoon, a sullen silence settled on the cabin.