Author Archives: gail chumbley

A 1040 Kind of Day

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Lola is not a good traveler. She slept all day in the backseat of the car, and decided to impersonate a hood ornament at the foot of the bed all night. Lola is our little dog, and we were driving to Spokane for a book talk at Aunties Books.

Needless to say, I was pooped.  If I got four hours of sleep I’ll jump the Snake River Canyon on a Vespa. Finally around 9:00 A.M. I gave up and dragged myself out of bed, careful not to wake the poor thing as she was exhausted from posing all night.

Chad and I threw ourselves together and with my folks went to lunch at the Kalispel Casino in West Spokane. My 81-year-old father steered his sedan into one of about a billion handicapped parking spots. The Kalispel Indians clearly know their clientele.

We fell into the cane and wheelchair race to the front double doors, and stepped inside the vast, carpeted lobby. Immediately my ears picked up the ching-ching of the slot machines, and my nose, the scent of cigarette smoke. It was good to be back in the world of hedonistic excess.

Ahead of us, about a dozen people were queued up before a kiosk where a lone employee frantically tapped on her computer. Without looking up from her keyboard, she repeated the casino’s policies and benefits to each patron at the counter. I figured that the folks waiting patiently and politely, listening to her officious chatter had forgotten more about casino gambling than she knew. Still, to her benefit, she kept the line moving quickly and no one fell from their walkers, or canes, collapsing onto that smoky carpet.

Soon, resting my elbows on that granite counter, the receptionist rapidly tapped on the computer keys with her acrylic nails, explaining, “It’s tax day, so I am applying 1040 points to your card.” She continued to add more points for this and for that until I had about a million points. She then ended her spiel by concluding, “You must use up these points by tomorrow at this time, or lose them.”

First of all, I had no idea what reward the points represented. It sure didn’t go to money in the slots, (I tried that angle right away). Second, we were only visiting for maybe an hour, and the phantom points, representing some unknown prizes, were superfluous anyhow.

After eating in the buffet, my husband, my mother, and yours truly, headed for the bling-bling, ching-ching of the casino floor. Now that experience added another layer to this make believe universe. We were searching for those slots that promised extra spins until winning. Scouting the islands of “Double Diamonds,”  and “Pirate Heaven,” my husband located a cluster of “penny” machines. I place penny in quotes because it takes a dollar’s worth of pennies to play each spin.  Clever casino slot machine designers! And I won on that thing. I won. I had no idea how I’d won because the icons of Thor, Freya and the rest of those Norse big shots appeared to have been thrown together with no order at all. But I didn’t argue with the falling-change sound effects racking up the dough.

But the biggie of the day came as we were about to head to the parking lot. We turned a corner of blinking, noisy electronic poker machines to an extraordinary tableau. On the end, nearest to me sat an elderly woman.  Her legs were crossed, she wore a red pantsuit and full makeup.  Her dark hair was neatly arranged and a cigarette hung from her lips at a jaunty angle. One upholstered stool down from her, sat an obese younger man in a t-shirt and sweats, both stretched over his shapeless girth. I couldn’t make out his face because it was covered in an oxygen mask, connected to a case-style tank. They paid no attention to each other, though both were certainly on two ends of lung disease.

An art house Fellini movie wouldn’t have touched this patchwork of weirdness.

We returned to my folks house, where I wisely took a nap.  At six we arrived at Auntie’s Bookstore, where I gave my talk on River of January. With my feet firmly grounded in reality, I signed books for my friends, some strangers, and my wonderful former students who came from their colleges to see their old teacher.

It was a taxing day in many ways, but it was a good day, too.

Books are available at www.river-of-january.com

Vision and the Bottom Line

 

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It was early September, and the high school was holding our annual open house. The idea behind this yearly ritual was to prove to the parents that we teachers were educated, human, and approachable. I must confess that I hated coming back to work after a long day, but when it was over I was always glad I came. 

One evening stands out distinctly among the others. Blabbing away about some Civil War general, or Cold War president, the last bell rang, closing the evening program. One father wanted to continue the history discussion, despite the PA thanking the public for attending. In a clear cockney accent he called out across the rising crowd, “William Wallace (Braveheart) was actually an English nobleman!”

“Oh. I never heard that before,” I hollered back, thinking people sure love salacious rumors. But I was wrong about the parent as a rumor-monger, and over the course of the school year we became good friends.

Now, I’m not going to reveal names because I don’t have his permission, but he was hiding away in our little corner of Idaho. And as we became further acquainted I found out, to my astonishment, that my friend worked as a tour director for a famous, very famous, and venerated guitarist.  Yup, that’d be the one.

My friend explained to me that his path was set early 1960’s London, when, as a young man he stumbled into the growing music scene. He became a driver for a new English band, which over time introduced experimental symphonic touches to their music. (A-choo Moody Blues, gesundheit!). When my friend motored around with Justin Lodge and the boys, they played clubs out of their beat-up van. He recalled rolling that old van onto a Channel ferry for engagements on the continent. As he reminisced about his early days, his voice grew sentimental and affectionate describing his starving days with an emerging English band.

Telling his story, still in his cockney dialect, my friend’s tone suddenly turned cooler. Explaining how the group finally signed their first record contract he came to realize that that event marked the end of the magic. Once the “suits” took over the music business the wonder evaporated, the energy deflated.

It’s Friday morning here in the beautiful mountains of Idaho. We have five hundred copies of River of January in the back of my car. We have sold a few, and buyers have emailed me about how much they enjoyed the read.

Writing this book felt a lot like love. Finishing the manuscript and holding the volume in my hands was a powerful moment. So where does the heart turn the work over to the bean counters who are only interested in money? I can’t seem to bring myself to Barnes and de-Noble-ize my work.

Book publishing is a fixture of the real world, and I understand that fact. But is it still possible to “mom and pop” creative projects in a corporate universe? Can business savvy folks appreciate the beauty and the passion expressed by a hungry band or in my book, River? Do they even give a damn? Surrendering control of the fruit of my intensity to cold, indifferent hands feels like negligence and abuse.

This writer can’t seem to shake the message of that transplanted Englishman from the East End. Is turning over my passion to decision-makers seated around generic oval tables the beginning or the end of creativity?

Consider purchasing River of January today.  www.river-of-january.com 

 

What’s My Motivation?

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Alfred Hitchcock answered his actors succinctly when they posed the above, titled question.  The film maker glibly snapped, “your salary.”  Witty, yes, charming, of course–it’s vintage Hitchcock.  But he held a director’s secret, he understood his own vision and the contribution each player made to the overall story.  

In the midst of promoting River of January, I have been trying to find moments to scratch out ideas for the sequel. The effort isn’t as easy as I hoped. Attempting to work out the characters choices and actions has become puzzling and complicated. It’s not difficult to track what they did and when they did so, but the why is shrouded in speculation. This mystery is annoying, because I am the writer and need to fully understand the ‘why’s” behind the protagonists behavior. And, well, honestly I sometimes don’t know why I do what I do, today. The human heart frequently confounds reason.

So, Hitchcock’s snide retort isn’t very helpful to my current situation. The passionate nature of the characters in River have dropped a monumental job on my thinking processes. I assumed that prior patterns of behavior in the first book, continued into the second. But the archives indicate another story.

The first act in book one, is only a prelude to the intensity of book two, and I need to get a handle on these people before they push me over the edge.

So, what was their motivation?  I’ll let you know when I know.

The Free Market of Ideas

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I belonged to the National Education Association for nearly the entire run of my teaching career. At first, when I started work in the classroom, two considerations drove my membership: potential lawsuits from parents, and because I came from a union household.

Born and raised in the second half of the twentieth century–I came of age during the halcyon days of blue collar workers across the United States. The burgeoning middle class had grown profoundly, sparked by the break-neck industrial production of World War Two. My father, in particular, was a steelworker, laboring over pots of bubbling aluminum alloys, a dangerous task, but made safe by mutual negotiations between labor and management. 

Teaching is a different kind of work, yet still requires extraordinary vigilance and management skills to ward off problems. The public can be brutal to teachers, especially when they believe their kids are mislead, or mistreated. For example, in my very first year in the classroom a parent called me out for teaching that the Electoral College actually elects the president. This father accused me of being a liar. Stunned, the episode taught me a more powerful lesson–simply because adults produce children, that does not guarantee worldly wisdom. So I joined the union for academic protection.

My only fear in the three-plus decades I worked with teenagers was censorship. That one day my principal would walk into my classroom and say, “Gail, you can’t talk about that.  Parents are complaining.” Smothering truth, glossing over unsavory events, or avoiding topics altogether is a sobering prospect. At best this renders schools no more than fast food joints, where you can “have it your way.” At worst censorship is an Orwellian nightmare where truth is subjugated for political reasons.

Last night the board of my old district voted to ban a book. In a split vote the board ruled for a full removal of the novel from a sophomore elective reading list. A grandmother did not like the “f-bomb” used in the manuscript, nor the sexual elements in the work.  She cried for the cameras. Now all of the Sophomores, (thousands of them) in the district are denied the benefit of learning this author’s thoughts and ideas, a chance to empathize with the writer’s struggle. Because a grandmother doesn’t like the content of the book. What power.

The kicker is that one can’t kill ideas. And valid ideas, well written and heartfelt, are enormously powerful too. (Maybe more powerful than a weeping grandmother.) No one individual should be able to make that decision for the vast numbers of students whose parents want their children well-rounded and compassionate.

The notion that a miniscule voice can leverage wide-reaching censorship chills me to my core. As a new writer, I must express my truth as I have experienced it. If a person, such as a grandmother doesn’t like my message, or any other writers, don’t read the book. Don’t let your kids read the book. There is more harm inflicted on society, when in the free market of ideas, the tough ones are oppressed.

Smoke and Mirrors

A week ago today I presented my first talk on River of January. Conscious thought ceased, my mouth filled with alum–but, luckily some old teacher training kicked in.

I soldiered through the musical opening, the introduction song where the computer speakers didn’t work. You know, that opening. Quickly abandoning the hushed song, I dove quickly into the power point. And the audience seemed to like what they saw and heard. I measured that success in the number of eyes open, and the astonishing fact that no one tried to escape. Still, I realized later that I forgot to read an excerpt from the manuscript, and the idea of doing so never cross my thoughts.

Yet, in light of surviving this first foray into book promotion, I asked the Arts Center Director for an endorsement. His name is Greg, and what he sent left me wondering if we were at the same event.  His words were so very kind and flattering. His letter reminded me of my teacher evaluations–where an administrator would assess my teaching while observing my classroom. Later, reading the review, I’d always think, “fooled ’em again.”

To repeat, I am grateful for my teacher training.  When things go badly, I adjust and move forward.

 

To Whom It May Concern,

We were honored to host Gail Chumbley as part of our performing series for a discussion of her novel, River of January. Gail’s presentation highlights the true story of her In-laws through an engaging hour of oral storytelling, slides and music. She uses her years of teaching experience to creatively capture the audience’s attention and bring her subjects to life. Our members were thrilled to view personal family treasures and photographs Gail utilized in her novel. We appreciated the opportunity to ask her questions and visit with her one on one to learn more about the art and craft of researching, writing and publishing her work.

Gail’s presentation is a must for those interested in literary arts or exploring the history within River of January, as this novel is also a story of America. I highly recommend Gail as a speaker for your group or organization.

Sincerely,

Greg ——

Chairperson

Nice, huh?!

By the way, alum is a horrible powder that sucks up all the saliva in one’s mouth, leaving an iron-clad pucker.

 

Coming Soon!

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Happy Friday. 

A suggestion was made (by my daughter) that I ought to post my speaking engagements. Clearly the March 22nd date has come and gone, but more are in the offing. It’s fun to talk about River of January–there are so many dimensions to the story, so many avenues to explore!

My program has been designed as a multimedia affair, with music, slides, and discussion.  And yes, wine, if the setting is right for libations.

We are still in the discussion-stage with other bookstores and libraries.  As soon as those dates are set, I will update the times and locations.

March 22, 2014 @ the Garden Valley Center for the Arts.  6:00 PM in Garden Valley, Idaho

April 4, 2014 @ the Garden Valley Library.  7:00 PM in Garden Valley, Idaho

April 15, 2014 @ Aunties Books. 7:00 PM in Spokane, Washington

April 26, 2014 @ Hyde Park Books.  1:00 PM to 4:00 PM in Boise, Idaho

May 5, 2014 @ the Shadle Park Public Library.  7:00 PM in Spokane, Washington

May 12, 2014 @ the South Hill Public Library.  6:00 PM to 8:00 PM in Spokane, Washington

May 20, 2014 @ the McCall Public Library.  7:00 PM in McCall, Idaho

Clutter as a Lifestyle

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Company was coming.  A group of kids from school were driving up from town to visit their old teacher–me. The idea that they cared enough to make the hour-plus journey was nice.  However, our house is small and very difficult to keep tidy.  And the worst part of trying to apply order is my propensity for little piles of clutter.

Okay, not so little piles of clutter, and they have many brothers and sisters.

A person with a properly wired brain would probably not have allowed the paper nests to have materialized in the first place. In that same thinking, the stacks would have been sorted into some order and stored properly for later use. Yet, for me, that’s too hard.  It is much more efficient to hoist the mess up, plopping the stack alongside the others in my room from earlier projects. After all, bedroom doors close nicely.

I am not a lone offender.  My husband’s “office” is on our dining room table. He has important crap lying there.  And if I even look like I am contemplating a drive-by hoist he nearly dives on to the tabletop to protect his domain. The combination of two clutter-ers in one little cabin equals double the upheaval and chaos.

So, as I began, company was coming.  We had a stage to set.  And it’s tricky to negotiate the exact re-settlement for my husband’s “important” stuff. For me, the shove and run is efficient and fast. For him, if a paper is one inch from where he left it, the poop hits the prop. “I can’t find that list of passwords. Where did you hide it this time!”

“Look over to the right,” I holler back.

“Oh. Okay. Quit moving my stuff, Gail!”

“Where we going to put plates, Chad?”

And so on. At least with my system, the formidable heap makes the hunt more exciting. Finding that precise paper far more gratifying.

I worked with a woman years ago who gave me another useful hint. The ironing moves easily from the couch to the dishwasher if there’s a knock on the door. Good to know.

Concerning the visit from town, that went well. These were my students, and they had survived the catacombs of junk in my  old classroom. From our slight of hands, they most likely saw the house as clean. 

We clutter-ers are misunderstood people. Unlike hoarders, we can see the mess, and are sensitive to public opinion. My guilt is ever-present. The pressure becomes so unbearable at times, that I succumb and clean something.

Oh, and one more thing–River of January is ready for pre-order.  Go to http://www.river-of-january.com