Monthly Archives: December 2020

The Clarity of Desperation

With only days until Christmas 1776, General Washington watched the snow fall and the ice thicken as his suffering army melted away. Earlier that year, in July, that same Army had been humiliated by the Red Coats, chased off Long Island, pursued through Manhattan, barely escaping across the Hudson River into New Jersey. 

The General had been flanked by overwhelming British forces and his inexperienced Patriot army simply panicked and ran. Furious at their conduct Washington threatened to lead another assault himself, however, cooler heads prevailed as his staff convinced him otherwise. 

Amongst King George’s red coated regulars were legions of Hessians, hired guns from the German kingdom of Hesse-Cassel. Their presence on the field infuriated the Americans, as if the King couldn’t bother to keep the conflict British. These mercenaries were especially brutal, taking a psychological toll on Washington’s volunteer army by making use of flashing, saber-like bayonets. 

But Washington had a few cards of his own to play. Contemplating retreat while still on Long Island General Washington had ordered Colonel John Glover, a New England mariner, to collect enough vessels to ferry his surviving soldiers west to Manhattan, then over the Hudson into New Jersey. With campfires blazing to fool the redcoats, Washington successfully evacuated his army waiting to board for the last boat.

The inexperienced American army was preserved.

Still, demoralized, and outgunned, the Continental Army appeared defeated and despondent. The general consensus among all was the war was hopeless, a lost cause, the Patriots esprit de corps vanished. 

By winter, Washington’s command appeared to be unraveling. Inadequate food, too few supplies, and support sapped the army’s endurance. Worse the Brits, flush with currency, settled into cozy New York accommodations and enjoyed the hospitality of the city’s loyalists community. 

With circumstances conspiring against him-the weather, scarcity of supplies, and outgunned by enemy Hessians, Washington had to act as he faced a critical moment. Writing to his cousin, Lund, the General poured out his anguish. 

. . .your immagination can scarce extend to a situation more distressing than mine—Our only dependance now, is upon the Speedy Inlistment of a New Army; if this fails us, I think the game will be pretty well up . . .

Out of desperation Washington confessed what he termed as the “clarity of despair.” He had to act.

First Washington sent for an operative who sold provisions to the nearby Hessians. This Patriot spy came into camp and apprised Washington on the disposition of King George’s contracted killers billeted in nearby Trenton. These Germans were settled in for a Christmas celebration, assured that the Americans were all but defeated. 

In his second order, Washington commanded Colonel John Glover, once again, to requisition every boat the yankee seafarer could find. Between the intelligence report and vessels secured, his men were mobilized for a surprise Christmas morning assault on Trenton. 

Once again, Glover pulled off a miracle amphibious operation. And once again, General Washington was the last man on the last boat. In two files the suffering Continental Army marched, braving more than just the weather.

His forces arrived by first light. 

The unsuspecting Hessians were throughly routed in the surprise assault, that in the end provided the Patriot cause with a desperately needed victory.

The revolutionary cause again breathed life. 

So as you enjoy the warmth of the season, remember those who struggled before that the people could have a new nation. On Christmas in 1776 Washington’s army marched through the inky, icy cold, hungry, fretting for their families, yet committed to the long game of founding a nation. 

We have done this before. Much like General Washington our desperation makes our choices clear. Recent scholarship estimates that during the Revolutionary War only 1/4 of the American population supported independence. There are more of us holding to Constitutional norms today. Stay the course this moment isn’t the last.

Merry Christmas.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Both titles available on Kindle. Gail has recently completed a stage play, Clay, on the life of Henry Clay, Peer Review, where four former presidents meet 47, and Wolf By The Ears, an examination of the events leading to chattel slavery.

Steal This Letter #2

Let me be brief. What the GOP is attempting with this frivolous lawsuit concerning the 2020 election is dangerous and cynical. Party fidelity is certainly an American hallmark, but not at the cost of our political system. This dangerous precedent, pursued in a moment of expediency chips away at the foundation of our traditions.

The Constitution quite clearly established the rules on elections, and has endured since 1788. This moment of danger is more crucial to our nation than any excuse for undermining the transfer of power. 

Clearly the steps taken by the Republican Party reveals an organization with nothing to offer.  Ruthless partisanship is as much an epidemic as any virus. 

Each state has verified no irregularities in voting exist, choosing instead to act on one fallible man’s loose talk. The Framers did not dedicate their lives and fortunes to establish a government that dissolves on the whims of any person or moment. The United States relies on people of good will to respectfully honor election results. 

As reluctant as I feel about using this analogy, Adolf Hitler was elected chancellor in 1933 in a free election, only to turn around and outlaw free elections.

Stop this now. Your party will lay in ruins if you forget who we are as a people. The process in presidential elections could not be clearer than stated in Article 1. 

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight,” and the stage play, “Clay.”

A Burst of Joy

He looked an awful lot like Andrew Jackson. A long, craggy, narrow face, a shock of white brushy hair, and an irascible temperament. That was my paternal grandfather, Kurtz Olson. Despite his throwback, no-nonsense, narrow persona I found him endlessly interesting and somehow quite endearing. 

The youngest of seven children to Swedish immigrants Peter and Matilda Olson, Kurtz was born in Wing River, Minnesota in 1905. Though I don’t know much about his early Minnesota upbringing, I do know that he had a mercurial temperament, no attention span, and restless feet. Grandpa frequently uprooted his family, first moving house to house, then state to state, reaching the Pacific coast.

During the worst of the Depression years Grandpa worked as a welder, and scrap metal dealer. My dad like to remind us that with so many people jobless, Kurtz had lots of work repairing and parting out junked automobiles. One of my favorite snapshots from his early years is Grandpa and another man posing with axle grease below their noses. The two were making sport of Hitler, who in the 1930’s was still viewed as an object of jest. Grandpa Kurtz is smirking, knowing he’s naughty, and thoroughly enjoying himself. 

During the Second World War, he and my grandmother moved the family to Tacoma, Washington. With the “Arsenal of Democracy” in full swing, Kurtz had plenty of metal work on the coast. After 1945, he again uprooted and moved his family to Spokane, Washington, where cheap hydro power had opened plenty of post-war employment. 

Still, Minnesota remained the holy land. Always impulsive, Grandpa would hop in his truck and make sudden pilgrimages home, blowing straight through Montana and North Dakota, usually 24 hours or so to reach the open arms of his Minnesota family.

For Kurtz it was as if traveling from Paris to Versailles, but a hell of lot further. 

Unlike my immediate family, where I was the only girl, Kurtz lived in a decidedly female home. My aunt and grandmother typically sat for hours at the kitchen table, reading the Enquirer and movie magazines while talking shit about nearly everyone else in the family. Poor old Grandpa. Those two women tied that poor man into knots, riling him up with nonsense and fantom outrage.

It wasn’t that my Grandfather was unkind by nature, but he was easy to wind up, perceiving the world in black and white, dictated by those two judges presiding at the kitchen table.

Fortunately, despite those women bad-mouthing me, my brothers and the rest of the extended family he liked me. And I liked him.

In a fleeting, incomplete memory I see him waiting under street lights at the Spokane Greyhound bus depot. We all must have been meeting a relative from Minnesota or Seattle. In a burst of joy I remember shouting “Grandpa,” as I sprinted to him, where he scooped me up into a hug. Another vivid moment I recall was his truck pulling up in front of our house, and Kurtz coming to the door wearing nothing but that smirk, and bright red long johns, with laced Red Wing boots. What a character.

Speaking in a NorthAmerican Scandinavian cadence (yah, you betcha) made some of his comments worth remembering.

“First they call it yam, and then they called it yelly, now they call it pree-serfse.”

And Kurtz always had a dog. There had been Corky, Powder and Puff, Samantha, and Cindy among many others. Samantha was an especially smart Border Collie. After finding herself thrown on the floor of Grandpa’s truck one too many times, she figured out how to brace herself on the dashboard. He would roar up to yellow traffic lights, then stand on the brakes to avoid a red light. My god it was perpetual. My guess is he needed a new clutch about every three months, casualties of his Mr Magoo style of driving. At any rate, Samantha his wise co-pilot learned to watch the traffic lights and prepare for impact. 

Pulling up to his house on some forgotten errand I saw my grandpa splitting wood in the backyard. Across the fence, next door, a neighbor dog set up a ruckus barking my way. I called out, “You be quiet over there,” to which my grandfather observed, “He doessent underschand you. It’s a Cherman Shepard.” Then he laughed, and so did I.

My children didn’t know Kurtz. And for that I’m sorry. They missed a true original. I suppose that is my job, and the job of all of us Boomers to share these kind of stories. We bridge the years between that Depression-era, World War Two generation to our Millennial children and our grandkids. They won’t know if we don’t tell the story. And since it’s December, I’ll sign off with this Kurtz Olson Christmas anecdote.

On Christmas Eve in about 1936-37, my grandpa packed up the family for an evening service at the Lutheran Church. Being good Swedes they had placed traditional candles balanced on the boughs of their live Christmas tree. Somehow in the bustle they left some candles lit. By the time they returned the house was gone replaced by a fully engulfed fire lighting up the night.

They lost everything. In an ironic twist my grandfather the welder somehow overlooked the flames of his yule-tree. That incident remained an inflection point in Olson family lore.

Now he’s long gone, as is my dad and other family members. But through the written word he remains as vivid as his humor, his voice, and his presence in my memory.

Merry Christmas. 

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight” three plays on history topics, and a screenplay based on her books.