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Author Archives: gail chumbley
My Rock, My Refuge, My Library
To all of the wonderful libraries in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho my deepest thanks! Gail Chumbley, “River of January.”
There was only one entrance off of the main arterial into the library parking lot. It wasn’t quite 10:00 AM yet, but spaces were filling up fast.
On foot, bebopping up the sidewalk, dressed completely in black, ear buds stuffed under his stocking cap, was the happiest Goth in creation. His belly jiggled over his black jeans, keeping time with his silent/screaming music.
A young mother followed close behind, a stack of books awkwardly vised under one arm, and she clutched her baby with the other, cautiously balancing both loads. Both visitors gathered at the same sealed entrance. The time was 9:58.
Old, young, the well dressed, alongside tattooed Walmart shoppers were preparing for their morning visit to the public library. How wonderful.
As the doors finally slid apart, this mass of incongruous patrons flocked inside, striding with purpose and authority to their appointed places. A no-nonsense aura filled the…
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Sorrow Mixed With Holiday Cheer
Christmas, 1965, I’m the sailor girl, he’s in blue plaid
We sat at the dining room table, my father having cleared a corner where we could both work. Agreeing to combine our efforts, we decided to write out both his and my Christmas cards in one fell swoop. These days, my visits to the folks come around more frequently—either flying or driving the three hundred miles to spend a few days back in my childhood home. And I didn’t mind addressing that stack of cards, especially with my dad sitting faithfully next to me making the job that much more special.
It’s my brothers who do the heavy lifting around the old homestead. My middle brother, in particular, visits nearly every day, pruning the shrubs, cutting the lawn, shoveling winter snow, and answering those midnight calls for transportation to the hospital which are also growing more frequent.
My youngest brother passes his weekend visits with on-sight, live-in chores. Heavy furniture moved, manure bags hauled, and removing and returning Mom’s giant window box cover, an aluminum contraption, some eight feet long. When those chores are finished, number three son whisks my father off to look at cars, both vintage, and new because they both like cars . . . a lot.
They take it easy on me when it comes to manual labor. My main job is to hang out with the folks and just go with the flow. On one earlier stay my Mom decided we should head out to the local mall. Happy to make the foray into retail-land, I wrestled her wheeled walker into the car, jockeyed for entrance onto the freeway, and we spend the afternoon simply looking around the stores, making time for a little overpriced coffee at the mall coffee spot. On this trip her sudden impulse for fun surprised me. All three of us sped the opposite direction on Interstate 90, to the Coeur de Alene Indian Casino, for some noisy, smoky, slot machine therapy.
If Caesar Milan is the Dog Whisperer, then my mother is the Slot Machine Whisperer. Stooped and round-shouldered, that little dynamo of a woman, cane in hand, cruises through islands of blinking, ringing machines, moving as smoothly as R2D2, but with more tenacity. She says ripe machines beckon to her, and damn if it isn’t true. As I sit beside her, losing my mortgage payment (at an identical machine) Mom turns ten bucks into a sweet fifty in a heartbeat. And she can get an awfully cocky for an old lady.
Bending over my work, back at the table, my Dad and I subtly figure out a production line. I copy last year’s addresses from a stack of cards, one by one, jotting them onto fresh envelopes. Stuffing this year’s card inside, I scribble into a spiral notebook each recipient for his records. My father then presses both the return address sticker and postage stamp on to the envelope corners and seals them up. This system is efficient and should have processed smoothly, except that my parents are now eighty-three, and their friends and close relatives are getting up there, too.
“This one is wrong. He’s in assisted living now. Oh, and he died just before Thanksgiving, poor guy. Say, can you put a line through that first address, and write in the new one?”
“Sure. It will still get where it’s going,” I assure him.
“She died a few months ago.” He sighs. “I’d better look at those envelopes,” he reaches for last year’s batch, “and I’ll get my address book.” Dad didn’t want to waste any more stationary. So by the time we were done with his cards, the final number had thinned down considerably, and he looked a little sad.
Despite that bitter-sweet atmosphere of sorrow mixed with holiday cheer, I found our time huddled at the end of that table somehow uplifting. Clearly our effort underscored that our lives can be measured as a series of losses. The loss of youth, of extraordinary moments too quickly expired, of dear friends, beloved pets, and the dearest of family members who leave us far too soon.
Still there was really no place I’d rather have been at that moment. I’m sixty years old and still I got to sit with my sweet, lovable, ever-constant dad, at a table we’ve shared since I was a little girl.
A precious gift indeed, in this season of joy.
Gail Chumbley is the author of the memoir, River of January also available on Kindle
Time is Fleeting!
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Sale on Kindle for 99 cents!
“A Modell of Christian Charity”
“We must entertain each other in brotherly affection. We must be willing to abridge ourselves of our superfluities, for the supply of others necessities. We must uphold a familiar commerce together in all meekness, gentleness, patience, and liberality. We must delight in each other; make others conditions our own; rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work of the same body. So shall we keep the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace.”
Governor John Winthrop, Massachusetts Bay Colony 1630
Happy Thanksgiving.
Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January available on Kindle and at River of January
“It’s A Beautiful Cover”
So it’s only four minutes of fame. I’ll take it.
GC
A Wedding Is Announced
Eighty two years ago today Helen and Chum married in Manhattan. Vows were exchanged at the “Little Church Around the Corner,” on East 29th and 5th Avenue. Formally known as The Church of the Transfiguration, this congregation opened its doors to show people, a group commonly shunned by other, more proper, churches in the city.
And He Stood Up
Asked by my old high school, I had the privilege of speaking to young people on the eve of Veterans Day. My remarks appear below.
Thank You for inviting me today—It’s good to be back at Eagle High.
On October 23rd, a few weeks ago, U.S. Master Sergeant Joshua Wheeler of Oklahoma was fatally wounded in a rescue mission freeing Isis-held hostages in Iraq. He died after rushing into a firefight to support the allied Kurdish soldiers he had trained and advised. Secretary of Defense, Asthon Carter, later described the chaotic events that cost this soldier’s his life.
“As the compound was being stormed, the plan was not for U.S. … forces to enter the compound or be involved in the firefight. However, when a firefight ensued, this American did what I’m very proud that Americans do in that situation . . . he ran to the sound of the guns and he stood up. All the indications are that it was his actions and that of one of his teammates that protected those who were involved in breaching the compound and made the mission a success.”
The death of Master Sergeant Wheeler spared the lives of 70 Isis prisoners scheduled for mass execution the following morning.
Wheeler ran to the sound of the guns. Now I can’t speak for our service men and women, and when I was asked to give this talk, I had to confer with those who have made that solemn commitment. My questions were misleadingly simple . . . why did you choose a military career? What persuaded you to risk yourself for potentially dangerous service?
I wanted to try and understand that burning force of purpose, of unquestioned focus to duty, detach from self preservation for the welfare of others. I wondered how personal fear could be swallowed when, as Secretary Carter explained, “Wheeler involved himself in the firefight.” Where does this nobility of character draw from? Where do these individuals come from—the few that can’t sit on the sideline when duty calls them from their homes?
The answer, strikingly enough, is right here, in this auditorium. Home. Here. No, not someone else from somewhere else. Here. And people, that is where America has always found It’s defenders, from every town and city.
A number of Eagle students have, from many graduating classes, chosen the disciplined military life. Once wiggly kids who, warming the same seats you now occupy, resisting, as you most surely are, the urge to check your cell phones, daydream about the newest version of Halo, or wonder if Bogus Basin ski hill will open before Thanksgiving. They were kids just like you.
Now I don’t pretend to know the name of every Eagle Mustang who has volunteered for service, but I’d like to mention a few.
After earning a college degree as a civilian, 2004 EHS graduate Captain Greg Benjamin was commissioned an Infantry Officer, sending him north to Ft. Wainwright in Fairbanks, Alaska. From this first posting, Greg has served, so far, two Central Asian tours, first in southern, then in eastern Afghanistan. He wants you to know that he loves the training opportunities he’s experienced so far–Ranger School, Airborne, and Air Assault Schools, and leadership training. When I asked Greg, now married with small children why he chose to place himself in harm’s way, he replied, “I want to take the fight to our country’s enemies, leading America’s finest young men and women in combat and training. And change the lives of people in some of the worst places on the planet.”
Captain Joe Peterson, EHS class of 2005, made his decision after high school too. “I had a number of teammates from Eagle’s Lacrosse team one year ahead of me go to a service academy . . . and this kicked-off my thought process in a serious manner. I’d always held the belief of service, but this made the choice tangible for me . . . I received an invitation to visit the University of San Francisco and their ROTC department. I decided to accept.” Joey was posted in installations ranging from Fort Sill, Oklahoma, to Ft. Lewis, Washington, across the Pacific to South Korea, and Central Asia as a platoon leader in Kandahar, Afghanistan overseeing all aircraft and artillery surrounding that area. Reflecting for this talk Joe added, “It was trying at times, but . . . I am proud of my service and it added a value and perspective to my life . . . it has opened doors that are unbelievable.”
Second year West Point Cadet, Colt Sterk described his heartfelt desire to be part of something he termed, “Larger than myself.” Cadet Sterk, EHS class of 2013 explained, “When I was 14 I was given the honor of presenting a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, (in Arlington Cemetery). The nameless soldier in that tomb willingly lay down his life for me, a stranger. I felt a debt of gratitude. Since then I’ve always felt I was called to serve. A senior cadet told me when I was a freshman, ‘Colt in everything you do leave a footprint.’ By that he meant make an impact even if it’s only a little bit. Is it hard? Absolutely. But I know it’s where I’m meant to be.” Colton wants you to know that he visited Israel last summer for ten days studying the Israeli Palestinian conflict, and the implications in that region for the United States, and for the US Army. This semester Colt is attending the US Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado on cadet exchange—jumping out of airplanes, and on gliding tactics. He just earned his jump wings after completing the requisite five jumps.
Colby Hyde, EHS Class, 2010 shared a different response. He said, “We are fortunate in this country that military service is not an obligation. We are unfortunate, however, in that we do not often appreciate the sacrifice of those who volunteer on our behalf. Eventually I realized that I didn’t want to be comfortable. Comfort leads to boredom and ignorance, I thought, and life is too short to accept either of those. When someone suggested applying to West Point, I could not resist. I applied, was accepted, and have never left. My life now is not comfortable by any means, and I know the hardships are yet to come. That said, I am more satisfied with my life than I ever was before. I have taken part in New York City memorials for fallen 9/11 responders, and traveled with active duty units to the deserts of Death Valley to help them prepare for combat in Afghanistan. I have traveled across Southern China, can speak, read, and write Mandarin Chinese.
I am thankful for everyone who has served me along the way, from my parents to my teachers, and I only hope I can return the favor in the years to come.” At the end of his letter, Colby added, “I have not done anything for our country yet, but I promise I will. Cadet Colby Hyde graduates from the Military Academy at West Point in 2016.
Tomorrow is Veterans Day. Now I am not here to tell anyone to enlist in military service. Truly, the life of a soldier, marine, or sailor isn’t suited for everybody. At this point in your life you should be dreaming about double diamond ski runs, video games, and Harry Potter marathons with your best friends. And also, to be frank with you, that depth of courage and commitment to duty blooms in the hearts of only an extraordinary few.
What I do want you to reflect upon when you exit this auditorium is that Captain Greg Benjamin, Captain Joey Peterson, Second year Cadet, Colton Sterk, and third year Cadet, Colby Hyde, and many, many other Eagle High School alum have solemnly sworn to protect you. And consider as well, that this oath assures these few will run toward the sound of danger–for us—just as Master Sergeant Josh Wheeler of Oklahoma.
We have remained the land of the free, because we are also the home of the brave.
Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January, a memoir.
Gail Chumbley 