The Journals of Major Peabody

by Galen Winter

  Peabody fully expected to be trapped and unfed in his apartment for another day and a half. Contemplating his wretched financial condition, he stared out of the kitchen window. The antics of a squirrel living in the apartment building’s backyard oak tree caught his attention. He watched as it came down the tree trunk. It paused while looking around to make sure no wolves or raptors were lurking nearby. Satisfied it was safe from attack, it busied itself digging in the frozen turf, looking for acorns planted sometime during the previous autumn.

  The Major watched the squirrel’s search. It dug here and there without result. He remembered watching the same squirrel during the late summer and fall as it harvested acorns from its tree home and planted them all over the yard. “It worked so hard to lay in supplies to provide winter meals,” the Major mused. “Now, when hunger strikes, it is faced with the problem of remembering where it buried its provisions.”

  After a few minutes, the squirrel gave up. It stopped looking for the acorns and ran up a pole capped by a small, flat platform. It was a bird feeding station and the squirrel often stole seed from it. Like the Major’s refrigerator, the feeding station was barren. Nevertheless, the squirrel sat there, apparently contemplating its own miserable situation.

  At first, Peabody decided the squirrel was a very smart rodent to, at least, attempt to provide a cache of food for use when things were tough. He castigated himself. “I could have regularly shoved a few dollars into a shoe or under the mattress or some other such place where it would be safe from the bankers. If I ever needed it, I could search my apartment and, unlike that squirrel, I’d be able to find where I hid my rainy day fund. Then I’d have the wherewithal to provide for my end-of month meals.”

  Another moment of thought, however, brought a disturbing question to him. If he set aside money to provide for his very often late-in-the-month poverty, from whence would such money come? To create that fund, Peabody would be forced to reduce (or, worse, eliminate) the purchase of some of his standard monthly necessities.

  Yes, he could built up a reserve, but it meant he would not be able to buy things like that extra case of 20 ga. shells now resting in his closet - or that box of cigars (now nearly empty) laying on the end table next to his wingback chair - or that liter of The Macallan now standing all alone in its usual place beneath the kitchen sink (and, incidentally, in desperate need of replenishment). Peabody blanched at the thought of foregoing those purchases and immediately changed his opinion of the squirrel.

  “A dumb animal, that’s what it is,” he said aloud. “It spends countless hours creating a food supply. He hides acorns for future use and then forgets where he puts them. It sits there on a barren bird feeder, probably realizing it would be much better off if it had eaten the acorns when it first found them.

  “If that squirrel were magically changed into a human being, it would probably do something foolish like giving part of its Spendthrift Trust check to some banker or broker and then die with a big bank account. Think of all the shotgun shells, all the fine cigars and all the single malt Scotch it would have missed.”

  At that moment, the back door of one of the building’s ground floor apartments opened. The sound startled the squirrel. It leaped from the feeder and scurried up the oak tree. The Major, from his kitchen window, and the squirrel, from the safety of its perch on a high branch, watched a lady come out of the building with a coffee can half full of sunflower seeds. She dumped them on the empty bird feeder and returned to her apartment. As soon a she disappeared, the squirrel descended and made straight for the seeds.

  “Perhaps that squirrel is smarter than I thought,” Peabody mused. “All it has to do is make its presence known and some human will appear with enough food to appease its pangs of hunger. The squirrel depends upon others to save it from starvation. It’ll stay fat all winter.” Another thought occurred to Peabody. For the first time, he smiled. He picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  “Hello, Doc,” he said. “It’s a gloomy, cold and dismal time of year. I thought you might need some cheering up. I know I do. I’ll bet George the Third is depressed. You can’t take him to a game farm for a workout in this kind of weather.” Peabody paused while Doc Carmichael gave a report on the dog’s current unhappy mental attitude. Then the Major resumed his attack.

  “I’ve been thinking about last fall,” he said. “Those were great days - chasing Ruffed Grouse in Pennsylvania and Maine. We went to Wisconsin, too, didn’t we?” Carmichael took over the conversation for a few moments. Then it was the Major’s turn. “Have you eaten all the grouse you put in your freezer?’

  He paused for Carmichael’s response and then continued. “Good, Doc. Good,” he said. “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you bring a few over here? I’ll cook ‘em up and we’ll have a feast.” Carmichael’s answer to Peabody’s proposal was affirmative and enthusiastic.

  “And while you’re at it,” Peabody added, “bring some flour and whatever kind of wine you like - and a couple of potatoes - bakers.” He answered Doc Carmichael’s next question with: “No, Doc, no. I don’t need mushrooms or Bay leaf, but I’m a bit short of the Macallan.”

  Peabody replaced the phone in its charger. He smiled. “The lawyer gets back late tonight. He’ll provide tomorrow’s dinner. Let’s see. I’ve got coffee and enough money to buy a pound of hamburger a loaf of bread and an onion. That will take care of breakfast and. lunch.”

  Peabody nodded and thought: “You can learn a lot from a smart squirrel. Make your presence known and, properly handled, someone will bring you a good meal.”

  Finding the Boar’s Nest

  Major Nathaniel Peabody was not in his apartment. He hadn’t been there for three days. I didn’t know exactly where he was, but I suspected he was hunting somewhere. It was nearing the end of the month, so I knew I’d soon learn where he was camped. He’d make contact and tell me where I should deliver his Spendthrift remittance. I hoped it was someplace that didn’t require a passport.

  I waited in my office. I waited and waited. The intercom buzzed. I picked up the phone and heard: “I’m at the Boar’s Nest. Bring Upmann and Macallan. Friday. Six. Evergreen (click).” Translated into English, Major Peabody told me he was at a hunting camp in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He asked me to meet him at a roadside tavern (The Evergreen) at 6 p.m. on Friday and bring a supply of H. Upmann cigars and Macallan single malt Scotch.”

  I’ve been at the Boar’s Nest. Twice. The first time, I rented a car in Iron River and followed the map drawn by the Major and tried to find the place. My success was limited due to the quality of the map and the myriad of logging roads looping and criss-crossing through the dark the frightening forest.

  At one point during that first visit, after the sun had set, I could see Coleman lantern lights shining off in the distance. I knew I wouldn’t be able to find a road leading to them so I abandoned the car and walked cross-country toward them, hoping (no - praying) it was the Boar’s Nest. That decision led to an unfortunate encounter with a skunk.

  The second visit was not without complications. The car rental people recognized me and remembered the problems they had in de-odorizing the vehicle. They refused to let me hire any of their cars, but were kind enough to direct me to the local taxi company.

  When the driver got as far as the Evergreen Inn, he took one look at the rutted trail leading from the tavern to the Boar’s Nest and would go no further.

  I met a friendly “Yooper” in the Evergreen. He was acquainted with the Boar’s Nest, and, after a few bottles of beer, agreed to take me to the camp. I won’t forget that trip. It was crowded in the front seat of the man’s well-used pick-up truck. It was crowded because, in addition to the two of us, it was occupied by the Yooper’s large dog. I believe it was part Labrador Retriever and part Budweiser Clydesdale. The animal was overly friendly and convinced it was a lap dog. It had bad breath.

  On this trip, I was no longer a greenhorn. I knew the origin of the word “Yooper” (i.
e. a person from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula - i.e. a person from the U P - i.e. a Yooper). I also knew enough not to stop at the car rental agency in Iron River. They hold a grudge. A taxi took me to the Evergreen Inn.

  It was four in the afternoon and the place wasn’t crowded. A lone customer sat on a stool at the other side of the bar. I decided against ordering a martini for fear of being identify as a “flatlander”. (That’s a Yooper word meaning: a peculiar citified stranger from Lower Michigan.) I ordered a beer, intending to nurse it until Major Peabody appeared and drove me safely though that rabbit warren maze of two rutted trails surrounding the Boar’s Nest.

  A few minutes later, a flame orange capped hunter entered the tavern. He looked at me and immediately yelled out a greeting. “Hi Stinky.” It was Steve, one of the Major’s Yooper pals. I met him on my first visit to the Boar’s Nest. “Bring me a martini, Jake,” he said to the bartender. “Give my buddy whatever he’s drinking,” and he sat beside me. “Get here OK?” he asked. “Any skunk trouble?’ Then he chuckled.

  “Is this the guy you told us about?” Jake asked as he poured out a martini. “Stirred, not shaken,” he explained to Steve who nodded his approval and answered: “Yah, this is the guy.”

  Jake went to get me another beer, and yelled over his shoulder. “Don’t bring him in here if he finds another skunk. Leave him out in your truck.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘leave him out in my truck’? I wouldn’t let him in my truck. I’d tie a rope on him and let him run along behind me.”

  Those pleasantries taken care of, I was introduced and described as “a lawyer from Philadelphia”.

  The bartended extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Jake Green. I own the place. If you see any ways it can be improved, don’t tell me about it. I’ll sell it to you and you can make any changes you like.”

  The Yooper on the other side of the bar took it all in and decided to join the conversation. “Jake. Whaddaya mean letting a lawyer in here? You’ll give this dump a bad name.”

  “It can’t get any worse,” Jake admitted. “I let you and this bum in.” I thought he might have been talking about me, but he waved his hand toward Steve. Then, in too loud a voice to be confidential, he said to me “Be a little careful with Steve. He’s a sensitive type. The only job he can get is sports writing for the local paper. He doesn’t want respectable people to know he’s sunk so low, so keep it under your hat”

  “Yah’” then unnamed Yooper agreed. “The only story he ever wrote worth reading was that one about you finding the skunk - and that was two years ago.”

  I protested. I told them I hadn’t been looking for a skunk. I admitted being lost in the woods and I admitted it scared the hell out of me. Anything can happen to you when you’re on some UP logging trail in the middle of the night. Mosquitoes can bite you. You might get malaria. Snakes can sneak up on you. A bear can kill you and eat you. You can step on a skunk.

  The three Yoopers looked at each other. For a split second, I thought they smiled, but they all solemnly nodded in agreement. Somebody said it was my turn. (That means it is my turn to buy everyone a drink.) I did so and the third Yooper came around the bar and joined us. His name was Dudley - or Marvin - or something. All three men offered suggestions.

  When driving down strange logging road, Steve told me, always take the right hand turns going in and the left hand turns going out. Dudley or Marvin said I should always take the left hand turns going in and the right hand turns going out. As a heated argument ensued, I expected a fist fight, but the contenders calmed down when Jake said it was his turn.

  Dudley or Marvin told me he used to get lost a lot back in the days when he had a Tates Compass. It always pointed to the southeast. After he threw it away and bought one that pointed to the north, he never again got lost. He advised me never to buy a Tates. (The Tates Compass Company motto is; He who has a Tates is lost. That doesn’t seem to be a good company motto.)

  Everyone agreed there are a lot trees between cars on Upper Michigan logging trails. Jake once got stuck and didn’t have a “come-along” or even an ax to help get unstuck. He waited some time before he remembered how to get help. When he explained it, both Steve and Dudley or Marvin, corroborated the method and recommended it to me.

  Whenever Jake finds himself in that kind of trouble, he goes to the side of the road and begins to relieve himself. He tells me nearly every time he does it, a car containing a bunch of women drives past. Then he said it was my turn again.

  * * * * *

  By the time Major Peabody arrived at the Evergreen Inn, it was after ten o’clock. He came in search of me because he and his friends at the Boar’s Nest thought Steve must have driven into a ditch or got lost. (They’d sent him to pick me up.) The Major was surprised to find him with me and Jake and Dudley or Marvin. Peabody tells me we were standing in a circle and facing each other with arms interlaced as if we were imitating a 1930’s football huddle. He says we were singing.

  I don’t remember any of it.

  The Lesser of Two Evils

  Philadelphians who do not migrate south in the wintertime resign themselves to hunkering down and surviving in the wet, miserable, bone chilling cold assaulting the city when January and February arrive and make them pay for their decision to live there. I am not comfortable in any place where water freezes in the streets and, at the first opportunity, turn itself into slush. As the temperature drops, my distress increases.

  The Philadelphia weather was not the only factor accounting for my foul mood. I waited at the Smythe, Hauser, Engels & Tauchen Law Offices, expecting a (collect) telephone call from Major Peabody demanding the delivery of his Spendthrift Trust remittance.

  Peabody enjoys torturing me by insisting I deliver his end-of-month check to some terrible, frightful location. I fully expected his phone call would come from north of the Arctic Circle where he would be hunting Musk Oxen or whatever he and his shot gunning friends hunt in some treeless, freezing place. It would probably be where the northern sun stays below the horizon and the mercury disappears into the thermometer’s bulb.

  It was, therefore, a pleasant surprise when he informed me he was in a camp in the warm desert outside of Gila Bend, Arizona, patiently awaiting delivery of his check. He told me I should bring four bags of ice cubes and a box of Dominican Republic cigars. He also told me the hunting season was in full swing and the California Quail were plentiful.

  In a nanosecond, my world was bright and filled with promise. The prospect of basking in the Arizona sun immediately destroyed my dark mood. When Charlotte made my flight reservation, she multiplied my cheerful spirits by adding an additional three days to the usual two day trip, pointing out the need for additional time because I might need a few extra days to find Major Peabody in the trackless desert.

  Charlotte is a smart secretary. By giving me additional time in sunny Arizona, she insured herself of a great year-end performance review and the concomitant increase in salary. At the same time, she got rid of me for a week. As I said, I had been in a particularly nasty mood.

  An early morning flight brought me to Phoenix. I hired a four-wheel drive vehicle and drove to Gila Bend. Following Peabody’s directions, an hour later I found a camp consisting of a mobile trailer home, a tiny pop-up tent and a kind of portable gazebo - four aluminum poles stuck into the ground with netting around the sides and topped by a blue plastic roof.

  The gazebo contained two large ice chests and two tables. One of them supported a number of plastic cups and a number of differently labeled bottles. The other was surrounded by fold-up chairs. Major Peabody sat in one of them. As I entered the gazebo, he asked if I brought the cigars. I handed the box to him. Then he asked if I brought the ice. I went to the Bronco, returned with the bags of ice cube and emptied them into the Styrofoam chests. Then he inquired into my health and well being.

  My immediate chores completed. I sat in the gazebo, smiled, exhaled and enjoyed the Arizona desert. What wonder-fully aust
ere scenery. What a quiet and peaceful place. How nice and warm.

  Wordlessly, the Major offer me a cigar. He knows I don’t smoke. I declined and he unwrapped it and lit it up. For a time, not a word was spoken. I was almost reluctant to break the silence when I announced my intention to spend the rest of the week in the Major’s company, enjoyed the perfect climate of the Sonoran desert.

  Peabody seemed to stiffen. I thought I recognized an anxious look cross his face - an expression of surprise, of apprehension, of angst, perhaps of fear. It must have been my imagination. It was gone in an instant.

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy your vacation from Philadelphia,” he said, rather flatly. Somehow, the tone of his voice left me with the fleeting impression he was not enthusiastic about my decision to spend the days with him here, surrounded by the beautiful desert scenes. Of course, it occurred to me I might be imposing on him and his fellow hunters.

  “Perhaps there’s not enough room for me,” I ventured.

  “Not at all. Not at all,” Peabody immediately answered. “There’s no room in the trailer, but we can shuffle the supplies and gear around in that pop-up. I think we might make a cozy nest for you.”

  “I can sleep in the Bronco,” I offered. “I can crack open the window and use the back seat. It’s a bit cramped, but I can get along.” The thought of spending four days coiled up in the back seat of the Bronco was not one calculated to fill me with joy. You have no idea of how much I hoped Peabody would argue with me. He did, thereby proving there is, in fact, a Supreme Being.

  “No you can’t sleep in that Bronco,” Peabody argued. “You’d be too uncomfortable. You’d never get a good night’s sleep. Besides, I don’t think that car has been scorpion or tarantula proofed. Vehicles get hot in the daytime sun. At night when it gets cooler, scorpions and tarantulas like to crawl, inside warmer places. No, it would be better if you zipped up the pop-up and slept there.