Author Archives: gail chumbley

Signposts

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In Barry Levinson’s nostalgic film, Avalon, the central character, Sam, an old, old man shares a personal existential crisis. He tells his grandson of a walk he took around his old Baltimore neighborhood, and how he sadly found nothing he remembered, nothing familiar, no landmarks from the past. He explained that his distress was finally lessened when he found his now-deceased wife’s childhood home, and the old place was still standing. Sam admitted that until finding that old house, he worried for a moment that he never existed.

On Tuesday I led a book talk on River of January. The setting for this presentation was an assisted living facility, with an  older group of listeners. At first my audience stiffly withheld their reaction to the story, clearly reserving their judgement. This audience quietly measured my credibility, waiting politely before offering any encouragement. Lucky for me, as the story progressed, the weather in the room shifted dramatically. Tossing out an Ethel Merman reference here, and a Bela Lugosi picture there, knowing smiles and nods rippled across the room. Adding a Howard Hughes anecdote for good measure, the listeners and I became one–kindred spirits–celebrating the names and cultural references of another era’s childhood. Their earlier caution was cast aside as memories surfaced, validated in story and song.

I’ve delivered the River of January talk to many groups in the last year; service clubs, libraries, and book stores. But senior facilities are fast becoming a favorite venue. The slide show and period music especially draws the older crowd enthusiastically into the story. On one particular slide, for example, a handsome man sits in the foreground, smiling directly into the camera. I like to point out this individual, identifying him as the young French actor, Maurice Chevalier. The ohs and ah’s are audible from the seats. It funny, but in other settings, projecting this same slide, the reactions are markedly different. Blank expressions seem to say “Should I know this guy?” So it is with great pleasure that I can validate this historic story with people culturally moored to the time period.

Drawing references to the past, both visually and with music means something tangible to elders. Satisfied faces momentarily lose age, wrinkles and graying hair. A child’s wonder shines from bright, animated eyes, as we share together the journey back in time to the world of Helen and Chum.

By the end of the presentation my friends at the assisted living facility treated me as an insider. These folks were in no hurry to leave and lingered long afterward to share their own reflections of years gone by. They talked of their experience using terms they believed I would understand. “Goody Goody” wafted from my cd player, serenading and livening the closing clean up. My husband tended to the packing, because I had people to visit, and stories to hear. In the glow of the presentation, accompanied by the melodies of another era, joy colored our personal exchanges, as these seniors beamed in the knowledge that indeed they, and their times are remembered.

Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January, available at www.river-of-january.com and on Amazon.

 

I Wouldn’t Change A Thing

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One of my earliest recollections is kneeling on the cold basement floor in our Spokane house, lining up plastic Yankee infantry against an equal number of plastic Confederates. My brother would narrate the battle that was about to break loose, building up the suspense and drama that was destined to follow. But the art and beauty of the exercise was in the meticulous preparations, lines crafted and lovingly placed by my brother, an expression of his deep reverence for the past. And our fascination wasn’t limited to the basement, but rose upstairs to the rest of the house.
Our childhood dinners consisted of meals cooked for quantity, not quality, my mother bending over backward to please her crew of picky eaters. One brother only liked tomatoes, no lettuce. Another wouldn’t eat onions, and I wouldn’t eat potatoes, (I’ll get fat!). My mother should have tossed a loaf of white bread and peanut butter on the table and said to hell with us. But in truth, our dinners weren’t ever about the cuisine. That table was a place of interaction, debate and information. And we, my parents and three brothers talked about all sorts of topics; politics, swing music, classical music, FDR, and JFK. My mother knew every actor and singer ever filmed or recorded, so popular culture also had a rich review over those dry, bland hamburgers. My younger brothers typically listened and chewed, passively soaking up the banter as a normal dinner conversation.
My childhood memories are mainly a potpourri of All-American road trips. Slides of Montana’s Lewis and Clark Caverns, the Little Bighorn Battlefield, Yellowstone Park, and Wall Drug, flash on the screen of my memory. These destinations were of such value to my folks; that they packed up a station wagon, replaced later by a truck and camper, crammed in their four noisy kids, and made many magical history tours. I especially remember standing on Calhoun Hill near Hardin, Montana, wondering how Custer missed the massive Sioux and Cheyenne encampments. Constructed in 1805 on the Pacific coast, Fort Clatsop, Oregon sheltered the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Visiting the site permitted me to physically touch this stockaded sanctuary of another time.
Wonder became permanently hotwired into my temperament.
A degree in American History came as no surprise to anyone. As in medical families, military families, or law enforcement families I followed my childhood path, nurtured in a family that treasured our nation’s history. As though I had been handed Diogenes lamp, illuminating past events became my present-day pursuit. I had to share this passion with others. This journey of discovery was not a solitary enterprise. So earning a secondary teaching certificate set my future into motion, allowing a way to disseminate the fire I felt for the past.
What a ride! I am now at the other end of my teaching career, and can honestly say that I even loved the tough days. I made a living out of being myself, constantly reinforced with a sense of liberation, and vindication. Magic happened after that tardy bell rang. And I knew then as I know now, that there was no cooler place to work than in my classroom. Who needed Hogwarts, I had Lincoln! Service projects came to life behind that door, efforts such as the Veterans Oral History Project in conjunction with the Library of Congress—fund raising for the World War Two Memorial—donations to support local history museums, and the yearly spray of flowers for the Vietnam Memorial each Memorial weekend.
And most gratifying of all was the connection students made to an earlier America. They grew beyond what they could see, feel and touch. They became more than just themselves. I can recall an essay on Richard Nixon where a girl ruled his desire to win at all costs, cost Nixon his place in history. Another student who pointed out that after Washington’s humiliation at the 1754 Battle of Fort Necessity near present-day Pittsburgh, later foreshadowed the President’s crack down on the 1794 Whiskey Rebels in the same location. The student pointed out that Washington would not be made a fool twice in the same place forty years later. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.
Those voila moments transcend the past to a present relevance. How Washington used his few military strengths to undermine the military strengths of the British in the Revolution. How Ho Chi Minh used those same strengths to undermine the same American efforts in Vietnam. Likewise how British violation of American trade lead the US into the War of 1812. And later how German violation of American trade lead the US into World War One. The examples are vast and instructive, processed with the same reverence and regard as my brother and his toy soldiers.
Now, in retirement, an entire archive of historic primary sources have fallen into my lap. An original story has come my way detailing a young ambitious couple who challenged the Twentieth Century and left a notable trail. I have been handed a micro-history narrative, to add to the larger picture of America. What an unexpected gift for this history addict!
Writing River of January has fed my soul. It turns out that Chum, my main character, rubbed shoulders with aviators Howard Hughes, and Amelia Earhart, and even actress Kathryn Hepburn. And from his words and records, he barely took notice of their celebrity. Helen, the other main character, knew “Red Hot Mama,” Sophie Tucker, the dashing Frenchman Maurice Chevalier, and a very young Humphrey Bogart in his first film. Those people were her peers and she rolled with that crowd on an equal footing.
This story grips my heart. I’ve was groomed from my parents dinner table to craft such a book. This Saturday missive is perhaps my long overdue expression of gratitude. I am thankful for my hardwired passion for earlier times, and how vital a role the past eternally plays. I am grateful that I value ideals, ideas and vibrant lives over material possessions . . . I will never be poor. I thank the Lord my heart is enriched by remembering what came before.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the creative non-fiction work, River of January

AP History: Learning to Think

 

My computer was on the blink, and a friend came over to fix it. Sitting around the table, waiting for some curative program to download, we got to talking about all the world’s problems. Soon enough the discussion moved to kids and education. Frustrated, he had just left a math position at an alternative high school, while I had just retired after a long career in public schools. We found we agreed on many, many points. In particular he still felt exasperated by the constant refrain of, “I’ll never use this (Algebra) again. Why should I have to learn it?

Now believe me, there was a time that I would have joined the ranks of complainers, because math was not, and has never been my strong suit. Today however, I’ve changed my mind about this age old gripe, realizing it wasn’t about math at all. With new eyes I looked at my math-computer friend and answered, “You were simply trying to teach him how to think–how to use steps to problem solve.”

And that, in my humble opinion, is the essential purpose of educating young people in all disciplines.

I spent over half of my career, before retirement, teaching AP US History, and Sophomore Honors History. This accelerated teaching assignment changed my approach and my philosophy of education almost at once. Rather than listing a fountain of facts to little test takers, I instead became a trainer of thinkers.

Embracing a new sense of purpose, classroom instruction no longer meant listing chronologies of events and dates, (though these have a place in coursework) but on how to synthesis those facts into a broader, deeper, meaning. Students were required to sort through diverse pieces of information, measuring facts into a larger coherent idea, a political viewpoint, an economic trend, or an emerging social movement. Let me illustrate.

In a simple compare/contrast question the kids had to examine the expansionist policies of Presidents Thomas Jefferson, and James K. Polk. Jefferson doubled the size of America in 1803, while Polk stretched the nation to the Pacific coast by 1848.

With a line down the middle of a piece of paper, students listed every fact concerning both presidential policies. Next they examined those facts: Louisiana Purchase through a treaty with France . . . Lewis and Clark Expedition . . . War with Mexico . . . land acquisitions of the Mexican Cession . . . opening of California, the Oregon Territory, etc . . . With all that listing and sorting of facts, the students drew conclusions from the historic record.

If done properly learners were able to make some solid observations regarding Jefferson’s diplomacy in his negotiated French real estate deal, versus Polk’s use of military force with Mexico. In this exercise students also developed a competent writing style, finding a distinctive voice while crafting conclusions; a literary flair.

Eventually, kids would find both presidents wanted the same thing—western land. But they realized Jefferson’s approach was more peaceful, or more principled, and France was too powerful to provoke, while later President Polk cast aside negotiations, opting for war against a weaker foe, (or something like that).

The art of teaching critical thinking, and expository writing takes lots of discipline, dedication and tons of practice. And to be honest, some kids simply weren’t willing to take that risk, resistant to that advanced coursework. Some parents balked, believing that teachers shouldn’t ask so much of their young ones, and GPA’s were too valuable to imperil with such a tough class. I understood the hesitation; critical thinking takes a bit acquire.

And I, too, often worried and stewed over my students’ progress, often perceiving poor performance as a personal failure. I sometimes considered lowering my standards so everyone would get an “A,” and I would be their favorite teacher. 

There were many tears throughout the school year, a fair share of grumbling, and resentment to the rigor. Still, by June the majority of my students had persevered, becoming accomplished independent thinkers. They had bravely risked a relentless “boot camp” curriculum, and prevailed.

To drive home their achievements, I’d ask the kids to read some of their first essays from fall quarter, and compare the writing to more recent pieces. They were pretty proud of themselves, satisfied they could take on the world. From the beginning of the year to the end, these students never realized how accomplished they could, and eventually did become.

The point is that, we, as teachers, and also as parents, must expect more from our kids beyond showing up to class, and staying awake. Young people must stretch themselves to reach those aspirations. Frankly, if we expect nothing from our students, that is what we’ll get, nothing.

As one student later confessed, “I learned my education is my responsibility.”

Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January and River of January: Figure Eight. Both books available on Kindle. Chumbley has also authored the stage play, “Clay,” and “Wolf By The Ears.”

gailchumbley@gmail.com

Head and Heart

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“Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man & his god, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, thus building a wall of separation between church and state.” Thomas Jefferson, January 1, 1802

President Jefferson did not mince his words. He drew a clear distinction between what is personal and sacred, and what remained secular and public. History had taught Jefferson that invoking the Almighty usually ended in bloody holy wars, rendering effective civil government unworkable. Of all the founders, President Jefferson grasped the importance of detaching faith from law.

If you follow my blog you already know I’m not a big fan of Jefferson. His actions, as well as his writings on race alone, provide a legacy of duplicitous thinking. For example the practice of beating young slaves daily was of no matter to the master of Monticello. But on the issue of natural rights, his Lockean take on the social contract– Jefferson’s views ring with authority.

This morning the Idaho Legislature killed a bill in committee that would “Add the Words,” (protecting the LGBT community) to the Human Rights Act in Idaho. Following three days of impassioned testimony from supporters and detractors, HB2 fell in a 13-4 vote. A significant amount of testimony came from various churches on both sides of the issue. The fearful tended toward the shrill, impassioned by their emotions. One fellow, in particular, ranted that his wife shouldn’t have to share a public bathroom with a transgender individual. He was so riled up the committee chair admonished him to control himself. His answer, “Well Praise the Lord.”

Now the Gay community in Idaho didn’t seek this fight. These folks have done their best get along in society. The term ‘closeted’ comes to mind here. The threat of eviction, job termination, and outright violence has demanded a covenant of silence. However, over time, the preponderance of social, economic, and political mistreatment has galvanized this movement for simple justice. These citizens have had enough. They ask for equal protection under the law in explicit, measurable language to deter the countless harms endured, that were so eloquently enumerated in this week’s testimony.

As a student of American History I understand this disconnect between contending factions. We are a nation founded under the tenants of the Enlightenment. Jefferson actually lifted John Locke’s language when he described ‘natural rights’ which he articulated as ‘certain unalienable rights.’ And at the same time America is one of the most religious nations in the world. Always has been. The trick is remembering to separate these two competing voices of law and of faith. Even my debate students were taught to keep God out of the tournaments. Once invoked, the open exchange of ideas is over. God has spoken.

For the longevity of the American Creed, our law makers must use their heads when shaping legislation. When kneeling to pray, worship with all of your  heart. I do.

But please leave those competing, conflicting, diverse, religious convictions at the door of the halls of law. Contending voices achieve nothing but a counter productive cacophony of discord.

And next time . . . Add the Words.

Gail Chumbley is a retired history teacher and the author of the nonfiction work, River of January

Hear Me For My Cause

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I wish to speak to-day, not as a Massachusetts man, nor as a Northern man, but as an American, and a member of the Senate of the United States. It is fortunate that there is a Senate of the United States; a body not yet moved from its propriety, not lost to a just sense of its own dignity and its own high responsibilities, and a body to which the country looks, with confidence, for wise, moderate, patriotic, and healing counsels. It is not to be denied that we live in the midst of strong agitations, and are surrounded by very considerable dangers to our institutions and our government. The imprisoned winds are let loose.

The above words were powerfully delivered by Senator Daniel Webster on the 7th of March, 1850. The occasion concerned the Fugitive Slave Act, a piece of explosive legislation forcing the return of runaway slaves to the South. Webster truly fell on a political sword to keep our nation whole. Notable in his grand eloquence was his specific reverence, and deference to the chamber Webster addressed, the august United States Senate.

I found myself quite uncomfortable viewing the State of the Union on Tuesday night. Each year, this duty is clearly defined for America’s Chief Executive. Article 2, Section 3 of the U.S. Constitution mandates that the President shall . . . give to Congress Information on the of the State of the Union . . . The word is “shall,” not “may.” So it was with personal distress, that we all witnessed such bad behavior from the right side of the aisle.

Beginning with the President’s first State of the Union message in 2009, and the appalling “you lie” heckler, conduct from the opposition has deteriorated. Senator Webster’s expressions of propriety and dignity have been replaced by frat boy behavior, apparently condoned by party leadership. Texting, chatting, applauding inappropriately is, well, just embarrassing to this student of America’s distinctive political legacy.

As a teacher, that blatant disruptive rudeness would have sent you to the hall. And speaking of classrooms, why should any student show respect for any institution when elected role models behave so badly, so publicly. I’ve seen you at 16, you’re the boneheads in the back row, working overtime to shift the attention from the focus of the lesson to your own self important, corrosive conduct. To validate the lowest kind of public behavior is the last example our students need in this divisive era. Demonstrate honorable behavior, show some restraint, if only for the great legislative leaders who served and sacrificed before you. Conduct yourselves with the dignity your office represents.

If, indeed, the majority party aspires to national leadership you must be a party worth following. Last night represented and celebrated the best thinking on the part of our nation’s Framers. This condoned pack mentality to publicly belittle the sitting President, does not serve your future aims.

As the first president, elected in 1860 from your emerging party once stated,  “All members of Congress swear their support to the whole Constitution—to this provision as much as to any other. “

In his 7th of March Speech, Webster explained to his listeners the urgency of his words. The Senator continued,

I speak to preserve the Union.
Hear me for my cause

Gail Chumbley is a retired History educator, and author of River of January. Available on Amazon

September Song

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This was our first book talk of the new year. We left the house around noon to travel to a small senior facility with an equally small number of residents. I held low expectations of selling any books, but hoped to brighten up the day for a few folks. We had earlier decided to focus on retirement homes because River of January touches on many events that this elderly generation finds familiar.

Finally securing a couple of extension cords my projector flickered on, illuminating an empty wall, and the power point show began. The nurses aides rolled in some residents in their wheel chairs, where they remained quietly seated for the duration. Two other people wandered in at the same time and began a turf war over the ‘good’ chair. The gentleman didn’t move, nor did he say a word, but he meant to sit in that chair. The woman who demanded that same seat kept insisting that it was HER chair. Watching the showdown, I was reminded of how ornery my kids could get, fighting over preferential seating, either in front of the television, or riding in the car. In this instance, the feisty woman prevailed, and the old guy had to settle for the love seat. Once he settled into the cushions, he promptly fell asleep–for the whole presentation.

Two other fellows seemed to enjoy the pictures and the talk. As images of Helen Hayes and Maurice Chevalier flashed on the wall, I caught both respond with slight nods and faint smiles. Another woman sitting apart, back in the corner appeared very sharp, seeming to deliberately separate herself from the her failing comrades. Perhaps I sympathized with her, hiding in that corner, when our victorious friend from the ‘chair wars’ piped up, “I saw this show on tv!”

When I attempted to engage the group with rhetorical questions, they just stared, eliciting next nothing. And in a brief moment of insight I decided that these  people had given enough in life. I was there to bless their day, perhaps make it better for that short time, than it otherwise might have been. All was as it should be, I was in the right place at the right time.

After I finished the program one of the quiet gentleman from his wheelchair tried to speak. His voice was quite weak with age and poor health. He was difficult to understand. Listening hard, reading his dry lips I made out B-24’s. “You flew B-24’s in the war?” I asked. He nodded and smiled. I took his hand, shook it and said, “Thank you sir for your service.” He whispered a couple more unintelligible words, and I smiled in return.

Time is a demon. For these people, idle hours can feel an insufferable burden. Still, sealed up inside their frail bodies exist dramatic stories, from dramatic lives already lived in full.

The old standard, September Song captures the beauty and melancholy of those facing a day identical to the day before, until those days run out.

Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December
But the days grow short when you reach September
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time for the waiting game

Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days I’ll spend with you
These precious days I’ll spend with you

I am looking forward to our next retirement home visit in February.

Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January. Visit the website at www.river-of-january.com

At Amazon

West Palm Beach

logbook2An excerpt from River of January for your Sunday evening.
At first he told himself that Howard Hughes’ good wages kept him in West Palm Beach. But Chum also knew his curiosity played a big part in remaining at the field. The famous tycoon was already a legend in aviation, as well as in motion pictures, and the young pilot had long admired self-made men. And though he looked forward to his new job, he was just as eager to watch the millionaire up close.
Over the next few weeks, Chum noticed that Hughes followed the same pattern each day. His driver motored up to the hangar in a Cadillac LaSalle, closely shadowed by another large Oldsmobile. The famed pilot stepped from the backseat, unfolding all six foot four inches of him. At same time, an entourage of followers poured out of the second car, casually circling the celebrity.
Chum also noticed that the aviator only spoke to his head mechanic, nodding frequently while he smoked a cigarette. Then Hughes and company inspected the rest of the facility—the tall tycoon facing the ground, continuing to acknowledge his lead man’s comments.
If he looked up, Hughes sometimes nodded to Chum or to the other men in the hangar. Then with this morning ritual finished, Mr. Hughes and his retinue returned to their waiting cars and drove off to other unknown destinations.
On one especially stifling afternoon, Hughes unexpectedly turned up at the steamy buggy hangar, departing from his usual routine. Caught off guard, the crew quickly picked up their tools and bustled around, appearing busy. Hughes seemed not to notice.
Instead the famed pilot looked at his head mechanic and loudly announced, “These gentlemen and I,” pointing to his cohorts, “are leaving for Los Angeles. Since that plane,” Hughes stuck his thumb toward the Waco still on the tarmac, “was used, we will travel by rail.” A few of the boys glanced Chum’s way.
“Yes, sir, don’t worry about a thing here, sir,” the foreman answered. Hughes nodded again, and he and his associates left the field in a caravan of black autos.
“Wonder which beautiful actress Hughes is meeting.” A young grease monkey sighed as he twirled a ratchet around his finger.
“Jean Harlow, you think?” said a kid still staring out the hangar doors.
“My money is on Paulette Goddard,” added another, plunking coins into a soda machine.
“Back to work, boys.” The head mechanic laughed. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Chum smiled. Just the phrase, “back to work,” began to amuse him. As far as he could see the commotion was all “make work” instead of real industry. He was becoming restless from boredom.
After Hughes’ dramatic exit, the crew mostly loitered around the hangar, sweating in the muggy heat—listening to the radio, smoking, sipping cokes, and playing cribbage. After a week of this meaningless inactivity, the young pilot, staring blankly into an immaculate engine, abruptly resolved, “As soon as I’m paid, I’m gone.”
Three monotonous days later, Hughes and his party surprisingly reappeared at the field. The aviator had apparently changed his plans at the rail switching station in Jacksonville and never turned west. Still, Hughes’ return made no noticeable impact, and the days continued to drag on: Cokes, cigarettes, cribbage, and heat.
While he was perched on a ladder examining another pristine Lycoming engine, Chum heard his name from across the facility.
“Over here,” Chum called back, “Up on the ladder.”
“Telephone call, buddy,” a mechanic hollered. “In the hangar office.”
“Thanks, JJ,” he yelled, climbing down.
The voice on the line hollered, “Chum? That you, sport?”
Chum paused, trying to place the echoing but familiar voice. “It’s me, boy, Hugh Perry.”
Recognition lit Chum’s eyes,
“Hey Mr. Perry, good to hear your voice. How are things up north?” Perry worked as the executive of sales for Waco Aircraft in Troy, Ohio, the company that manufactured his airplane.
“Well, now, I’m real good Chum, and business is pretty good. In fact, that’s what I’m calling about.”
Chum felt his pulse quicken. “What can I do for you sir?”
“You know, you did so damn good in that race and, well, would you be interested in working for us, Chum?”
Feeling his spirits begin to soar, Chum had to ask, “What would the job entail, Mr. Perry? Would you want me in Troy?”
“No, no, wouldn’t do that to you, Chum, Troy is no place for a dapper gent like you,” Perry chuckled. “We have this new model and there is some interest for it in South America. Smiling, Chum sensed the skies were opening and the archangels were tuning up a hallelujah chorus.
“That sounds real attractive, Mr. Perry. I think I would be interested in a job like that,” even his voice smiled.
“And here I thought you would be all star-struck, slumming it with Howard Hughes,” Perry laughed. “But when this position came up, your name was the first to come to mind. I thought I would give you first refusal.”
“I’m glad you did Mr. Perry, and your timing is pretty good, I was thinking about a change anyway. Guess I miss my Waco,” Chum laughed. But before hanging up, the young pilot suddenly wondered, “Mr. Perry, what equipment are the South Americans interested in?”
“Keeping up with our new aircraft are you, kid?” Perry sounded pleased.
“I guess I have, sir.”
“Well, the Brazilians are very eager about a new fighter plane we’ve developed.”
“A fighter?” Chum repeated, baffled.
“I know, I know—don’t understand what they would need it for either.”
Chum quieted in thought, wondering who could possibly threaten Brazil. “You still there, kid?”
“Yeah, Mr. Perry, I’m here. Just strange to imagine any South American trouble that would require machine gun strafing.”
Shaking off that concern, Chum again became enthused. “You shipping the demo model to Roosevelt Field?”
“At the moment the plane’s with the Navy. They want to test it, too,” Perry explained. “Our agreement was three months for those flyboys to check it out. We’ll ship it down to Rio de Janeiro after the military is done with it.”
Chum hung up the office telephone, and stood motionless, absorbing this implausible change of fortune. Chum slowly walked out of the office, stopping to appraise the entire, immense working space.
Mechanics continued to poke around the equipment, the lead man in the far corner looked over a clipboard, a cigarette, ash dangerously angled, wedged between his right hand fingers. Silently, the young pilot made his decision and headed out the open hangar door, leaving behind Ailor’s Waco Cabin, still parked to the side of the facility, and away from Howard Hughes and his West Palm interests. With a sense of elation, he cheerfully hiked the three miles to his hotel, collected his belongings, and caught a taxi to the train depot.
Restored, and back in control for the first time since the air race, Chum looked forward to returning to New York.

Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January. The book is available at www.river-of-january and on Amazon.com