The Journals of Major Peabody: A Portfolio of Deceptions, Improbable Stories and Commentaries about Upland Game Birds, Waterfowl, Dogs and Popular Delusions. Galen Winter
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.