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Category Archives: Biography
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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
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
ROJ Website
http://www.river-of-january.com/Need some good cold weather reading? Follow the link and relive the adventure of River of January
West Palm Beach
An 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
The Crazy Gang
Excerpt from River of January
. . . “We made our first trip to the Palladium, they lettered my name on the billboard “Helen Thompson, Our Saucy Soubrette” whatever that means. I thought it was cute. Anyhow, we entered the theater through the back entrance and met a lot of the cast. Such nice people, too. They told us that “The Crazy Show,” that’s what they call it, has been coming back to the Palladium for years. This group of comedians is known, together, as the “Crazy Gang” and made us feel very welcome. They explained that the same crowds return each season to see their old friends in the show. We felt pretty excited opening night when Jans and Whalen took the stage after the all-cast extravaganza and began their routine. Harry Jans told the one about the soldier who had survived mustard gas and pepper spray becoming a seasoned veteran. No one laughed. The audience hated them. No one booed, and they clapped a little when Jans played and sang, “Miss Porkington Would Like Creampuffs.” Remember that silly song? Other than that polite response, not a snicker sounded in the whole house. Then I went on stage and performed a widow comedy monologue; black gown, the whole bit, and I bombed too. With all those spotlights trained on me, if it hadn’t been for the coughing and murmuring I would have thought the theater empty. It was horrible— nauseating— I couldn’t believe how miserably we failed. WE LAID AN EGG!
After the show some of the regulars took us out for drinks. I wanted to run back to the hotel and hide. They led us to a nice pub, but I felt so shook up I could hardly light my cigarette. They explained that English audiences often don’t understand American humor. In particular, my widow act seemed more offensive than funny. “Too many widows after the Great War,” one comedian named Eddie Gray told me. “Not funny to families with loved ones who died in the trenches.”
River of January is available at www.river-of-january.com or at Amazon.com
Air Race, Willie Whopper Cartoon, 1933
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S66wOkha0aU
A vintage piece of celluloid from the Golden Age of Aviation. This cartoon has it all: racism, sexism, the boy hero, the hairy villain, and a hot girl (Earhart, sexy?). Reminded me of the pod races in Star Wars. This whimsical cartoon premiered the year Chum won his air race, “The Darkness Derby.”
River of January is available on Amazon.com and www.river-of-january.com
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The Great Silver Fleet
The Silver Fleet in a Golden Age!
This photo is a DC3, part of Eastern Airlines “Great Silver Fleet” of passenger liners. The plane is on display in the Air and Space Museum at the Smithsonian. We had suspected that Chum had flown this aircraft, but weren’t quite certain. Finally, I had the chance to look over his logbooks and matched the tail number to this plane. Chum captained this particular aircraft in February, 1946, six months after the war ended. If you find yourself on the National Mall, you can duck into the Air and Space, where you’ll find this beauty still on exhibit.
Brussels, November, 1932
From the new memoir, River of January . . .
Booked at the Palace Hotel in Brussels, the show’s new variety lineup fused seamlessly. First the star, Mistinguett, with the ballet troupe opened the evening program. Helen, unable to dance both with her friends and in her solo, chose the latter. Happily, it became a crowd favorite. Though she would have liked to dance with the company, Helen knew the ovations she garnered were well worth watching the opening from the wings. Next on the bill was synchronized dancing from American Earl Leslie and his line of hoofers, followed by the other company entertainers and their specialties.
The program closed with the full cast in a colorful, peacock-inspired, extravaganza. It featured Mistinguett center-stage, supporting a headdress of colossal feathered plumes of blue, turquoise, and purple, shimmering above her blonde hair. Her “Beauties” were costumed in silvery tutus, sequined halters, and tight, sparkling caps, each sprouting over sized silver feathers, flanking their star from both sides.
The male dancers, in black tuxedos, peeked out between each feathered girl. Under the dazzling lights, the symmetrical tableau moved patrons to their feet, applauding and shouting for more.
For a second night more flowers appeared, and this time a note accompanied the gift on Lillian’s dressing room table. As she again picked up the vase and turned toward the trash bin, Carmen stopped her, “At least read the note first, Lillian.”
“Yeah Lil, c’mon!” the other dancers chanted.
“Who wrote it?” asked Grace.
“Is it signed?” wondered Carmen.
Rolling her eyes, the dancer huffed dramatically, then slit open the note with a nail file and read in a flat, monotone:
You were really wonderful in your solo specialty and all through the review and I do want once again to ask you if you will let me pilot you through town in my car when and for as long as you may care. Should you not care to see or know me, please allow these flowers to tell you of my admiration, and remember that you have a person who cares for you in the little city of Brussels.
“But I didn’t have a solo,” Lillian exclaimed. “The only one who had a solo was…”
The girls stood silently, and then all eyes shifted to Helen. Lillian laughed once—a bit annoyed, and handed the vase to her friend, saying, “I believe these belong to you.”
Banter erupted again, now aimed at Helen.
“Jeepers girl, he admires you!” and “Wonder who it is that cares for you in this little city, kid?”
Helen took their teasing in stride, curtsying and blowing kisses. But when the dancers began chatting about the imminent cast party, Helen lowered herself onto a rickety stool and read on. “I feel I must say that I am not an ‘old butter and egg man’ … I am just twenty-eight and not too ugly … My only fault is that I think you are my ideal.”
Her eyes lingered on the words “my ideal.” Unexpectedly charmed, Helen appraised this communiqué with new eyes, and decided to follow the mysterious sender’s written instructions on how and where to meet him.
She dressed quickly and quietly to avoid any friendly needling. Helen hurried out the dressing room, heaving open the steel stage door into the quiet alley behind the theater.
Stepping to the corner of the building, she peeked around to the snow-lined, busy street. Helen carefully studied the faces of the bundled up after-theatre crowd crunching by, and scrutinized moving and parked automobiles. From her vantage point, She soon spied a grey Packard, emitting white-blue exhaust from a quietly idling engine. Scanning the note again, Helen felt certain that the young man would be waiting in that car. Her stomach faintly roiling, she stepped forward, trying to distinguish the driver through his frosty door window.
Helen realized, “Oh, he looks nice,” and shyly continued to approach his vehicle. The driver stepped out of his door, all smiles.
“You must be Lillian,” he beamed, “I am Elie. Elie Gelaki,” he added, bowing to kiss Helen’s gloved hand. She noticed that the young man’s voice formally articulated his clear English.
She bashfully smiled and felt her face grow warm. “Actually, I’m Helen,” she clarified. “I do hope that I am the one the message was meant for…”
Elie Gelaki unexpectedly gazed at her forcefully. “I meant you.”
The two stood self-consciously beside the running automobile.
“Why don’t I take you inside this café? It is quite cold tonight.”
“That would be lovely, Mr. Gelaki,” Helen smiled, more relaxed.
The young man gently took hold of her arm, explaining, “I’m Elie, and this street is quite icy.” He courteously escorted the dancer into a nearby coffee house.
“So you are the Helen Thompson on the bill, not Lillian Ward,” he said after they were seated. “I am sorry about the confusion. I hope it was of no embarrassment to you.”
“No more than usual,” the dancer laughed. “My friends spend more time teasing each other than dancing.” She paused, changing the subject. “Tell me about yourself, Elie.”
“I am a native of Palestine. But now I live here, in Brussels, with my mother and two sisters. My dear father has been for dead for some time.” He noticed Helen suddenly frown. “Did I say something offensive?”
“No. I’m sorry. My father died some years ago, too.” Helen’s own grief abruptly gripped her heart. After Floyd Thompson died, after his funeral, she knew something truly good had vanished forever from her world.
Her frown turned into a sympathetic smile. His face glowed in reply
Elie changed the subject. “I have recently founded a new photo company. I call it Polyfoto International,” he stated proudly. “At this time I am expanding my interests in Europe, across North America, and on into Asia.
“What type of photography do you specialize in?” Helen politely asked.
“ I will accompany you into my studio and photograph your lovely face. Then you will know,” Elie responded.
While he chatted about his life and work, Helen studied the Belgian. He wasn’t terribly tall, and had a clear complexion, subtly suggesting a childhood of freckles. His thick hair ranged from light brown to dark blonde and he combed it back off of his forehead. Elie gazed at her from olive green eyes speckled with glints of brown and gold. Though he seemed a serious man, he smiled broadly as he spoke in his appealing English, and his laughter was deep and friendly.
“Would you consider joining me for lunch tomorrow?” he asked. “I would be happy to guide you on a personal sightseeing tour of the city afterward.”
“Love to,” she answered promptly, drawn toward this young man. Elie thanked her with a happy grin.
The troublesome doubt dawned on her later, as she tiptoed into her dark hotel room.
“He’s Jewish,” she whispered to herself. “My mother would just die if she knew I was seeing a Jew.”
Yet, despite all the prejudice against Jewish people, she liked Elie and decided to give the young man a chance. He seemed nice, and she wanted to see the sights around Brussels.
River of January is available on Amazon and at www.river-of-january.com
Gail Chumbley 