Major Nathaniel Peabody is not a cold weather person. About the time of the Winter solstice, I see the beginnings of a decidedly negative change in his attitude. It displays itself first in late December with a “bah humbugging” of the yuletide season. In January, it intensifies. Complaints of the gray skies, soot covered snow and slush punctuate his conversations. In February, the Major shows signs of melancholic depression. He begins to stray from reality in early March. His eyes film over and he begins to speak, wistfully, of dogs and shotguns.
Doctor Carmichael has diagnosed this malady. He claims a peculiar strain of DNA found in some men make them susceptible to what he quaintly refers to as “Cabin Fever”. The drug companies have been unable to find an antidote for the sickness, but, fortunately, the disease and all of its symptoms disappear soon after the advent of the vernal equinox.
From January through March, whenever I deliver the Major’s first of the month Spendthrift Trust remittances, I spend as little time with him as possible. Being with him for any period of time during the first quarter of the year is a dreary experience unless he has been able to temporarily avoid the contagion by embarking on a shotgunning expedition to some warmer climate.
Last Winter was one in which the Major was confined to his Philadelphia apartment without any seasonal interruption. He invited me to dine with him and, in spite of my knowledge of his usual wintertime wretched attitude, I accepted. Someone, I thought, had to lift him from what I was sure was his then current mood of dark dejection. I destroyed my budget by investing in a bottle of 25 year old Macallan single malt Scotch and bravely made my way to his living quarters.
I hung my overcoat and hat in his closet, turned and saw the lovely Stephanie approaching me. She gave me a very brief kiss on the check and said “Happy Birthday.” Yes, it was my birthday, but I had no suspicion the Major would plan a surprise party. He seated me next to the fireplace in his own favorite wing backed chair and treated me as if I were a lord.
The lovely Stephanie brought me a goblet of Chardonnay and the Major, showing not the least sign of melancholia, kept it filled. For just a moment, I had the suspicion the Major had some hidden agenda behind all this kind treatment. I quickly dismissed the thought as being unworthy of me.
The dinner was excellent. Peabody browned chopped onions, garlic and pieces of Ruffed Grouse dredged in flour. He added mushrooms, basil, thyme and parsley and skillet cooked them in white wine and lemon juice. Wild rice and asparagus spears covered with Béarnaise sauce completed the entrée. A brace of Pedro Domecq Fundador brandies followed and I was, indeed, quite mellow when we retired to the living room.
The lovely Stephanie disappeared into the kitchen only to immediately re-appear with a candle decorated cake inscribed with the message “Happy Birthday, Darling”. The lovely Stephanie is not given to expressions of infatuation and the inscription on the cake convince me I was making progress with her. I made a wish and blew out the candles. No, I won’t disclose the wish I made.
I opened the presents. The lovely Stephanie gave me a five year membership in the Greater Philadelphia Area Bird Watcher’s Society. She is on the Board of Directors and actively participates in its projects. She heads the Society’s as yet unsuccessful attempt to get the State legislature to enact a law requiring all cats to be fitted with tiny electronic devices that sounds a loud alarm whenever the animal comes within ten feet of a bird.
Though she considers the killing of any kind of bird to be a tragedy of huge proportion, the lovely Stephanie likes Major Peabody. She finds him charming. Though she may suspect the truth, she has convinced herself Peabody enjoys walking in the woods and fields. She doesn’t mind him taking a dog with him, but would be happier if he didn’t carry a shotgun. When he is in her presence, the Major is careful to avoid any talk of hunting. He does nothing to abuse the delusion that he is merely enjoying healthy out-of-doors exercise.
The Major gave me a box of 25 H. Upmann cigars, a duck call and a tape designed for instruction in its use. The gift of the cigars didn’t surprise me. I don’t smoke. Peabody knew he’d get the entire benefit of that present.
I was alarmed by the gift of the duck call. l suspected it was meant to give the impression I liked to kill ducks. It looked to me like Peabody was trying to destroy any possibility of my developing relationship with the lovely Stephanie. I decided to immediately mount my defense. “Whatever might this be?” I questioned, hoping to convince the lovely Stephanie that I was not a duck hunter.
“It’s a duck call, silly,” she responded. “The Major and I thought you should have one.”
I was thunderstruck. The lovely Stephanie and the Major thought I should have a duck call? Was she serious? Was she underwriting the hunting of ducks? Had Peabody somehow convinced her it was alright for me to become a duck hunter? Peabody saw my confusion and provided an explanation for her curious behavior.
He explained duck calls were tools that should be carried and used by all serious bird watchers. As soon as I became expert in its use, he said, members of the Greater Philadelphia Bird Watcher’s Society, including the lovely Stephanie, and I could visit lakes and wetlands where I could call in ducks and others could count them, take pictures and ooh and ahh as, in beautiful formation, they gracefully sailed over our heads.
The lovely Stephanie’s enthusiasm was almost unlimited. “Major Peabody makes such marvelous suggestions,” she purred, smiling at him. I tumbled to what Peabody must have had up his sleeve. The dear old fellow had become a match-maker. He cleverly arranged a way to give me opportunities to be close to the object of my affection. Perhaps the lovely Stephanie and I could plan weekend trips to distant marshes.
Thus motivated, I eagerly dedicated myself to the business of becoming an expert in the art of duck calling. It was not an easy task. After a full day at the office, I’d return to my apartment and spend a few hours listening to the tapes and blowing on the duck call. There was some unpleasantness when neighbors called the police. I was forced to cease and desist or face the consequences of a citation for Disturbing the Peace.
Major Peabody came to my rescue. He allowed me to practice in his apartment and hinted that an occasional bottle of single malt Scotch might be an appropriate recognition of his assistance. The Major’s neighbors had become accustomed to strange noises coming from his apartment. At various times in the past, they lodged complaints against him, but his abilities to fend off the authorities, together with the subtle revenges he was able to exact, conditioned them to grin and bear it - or, at least, to bear it.
During practice sessions with Peabody and Doctor Carmichael, I soon realized my duck calling was much better than the doctor’s. In reality, the doctor’s calling did nothing more than frighten ducks away. Over the ensuing summer months, I became an even more expert in the art and you can imagine my satisfaction when the Major told me I was ready to move from practice session to real tests in the field.
Peabody and Doctor Carmichael allowed me to accompany them on their opening day duck hunting expedition. I sat between them in their blind and proved my ability to convince ducks to come into gun range. Since then, I’ve traveled with them to many sloughs and waterway, honing my ability to attract ducks and bring them in for closer observation. Peabody tells me that by next spring, given continued field experience, I will be ready to call ducks for the members of the Greater Philadelphia Bird Watcher’s Society. I am sure the lovely Stephanie will be impressed.