Category Archives: Uncategorized

To Jamie At 70

Paling around with you Jamie I always knew something fun, risky, or outright naughty was in store. Boy did you pack some serious confidence in our capers, plus displayed an endless capacity for kindness.

Being this is your birthday I’ve been thinking over our shared escapades and memories, and three moments stand out from our school years.

It must have been around 1968 or ’69 I had a slumber party in our basement. OJ was there, and pretended to sleep while we put her hand in warm water to make her pee. Hilarious. But the high point of that night happened when some boys showed up at the window in the downstair’s bathroom. It was BB, remember him? There were also some other guys but B was the one you ushered through the window.

My heart fell into my feet because my parents were just up a floor and easily could have caught us. Also, your gutsy move in bringing a popular boy into my house was pretty damn cool. And that is a daring that simply reveals your audacity, even as a pre-teen.

Besides B was cute-I can see you nod as you read.

Sometime later, I’m sure there was snow on the ground, you called, inviting me to spend the night at your house. You laid down some big time pressure for me to convince my mom to let me come over. God knows what deals I had to negotiate, but I knew this invite was more of a summons, and I couldn’t refuse. When I got there you were pleased, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. In the living room you turned and put on an album on that stereo in the corner, then handed me the cover. It was the White Album, and you were the first person I knew who bought it. I can’t describe how much that meant, the kind consideration you extended by sharing that treasure with your lucky friend. I still think about that night, especially if a song from that album plays. Thank you again, it was a summons worthy of honoring.

Cocolalla Lake was the site of your most memorable achievement. If you recall my dad took us to our lake cabin in his truck and dropped us off. Debbie W came along and someone else. Maybe you remember our fourth. At any rate, after he left we all talked about how to get beer. We pooled our cash and you walked across the lake to the Sagle Market with somebody, maybe our fourth. All of 16 years old, you must have exuded that Jamie confidence and returned with the goods—a case of Coors. And we had quite the party, peeing outside and playing music at top volume.

A couple of days later my dad came to collect us, again in his truck, and we had tied up 24 beer cans, carefully weighing them down with the garbage we had to haul out.

Sitting on each others laps, it was, after all the early 1970’s, so who needed for seatbelts? As dad hit 60 miles per hour the trash bags started to whip open in the back, and sure enough beer cans popped out like a bag of popcorn. The jig was up and my stomach, once again, fell into my feet, but not you, Jamie. You sat serenely enjoying the drive. I swear you have cast iron nerves. At any rate we returned to Spokane with a much lighter load of trash, and wonderful memories of our weekend.

My dearest friend, your strength, intellect, and creativity made a deep impression on me back in those early days as I am sure it has for many others you have befriended through the years. Enjoy a most happy 70th and continue that honorable path you forged when we were just little girls.

Love you,

Gail

PS-My dad never said a word about the beer cans.

Never Forget

Martin Niemoller

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

—Martin Niemöller

German pastor and critic of Hitler and a concentration camp survivor.

The People Who Own It

And that — that brings me to the second mode of civil disobedience. There’s a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart that you can’t take part! You can’t even passively take part! And you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus — and you’ve got to make it stop! And you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it — that unless you’re free the machine will be prevented from working at all!!

Mario Savio, December 2, 1964

The GOP no longer pretends to care about the American people. Icons of wealth and raw power, along with compliant political figures parade in and out of Mar-a-Lago without a self-conscious blush. Former Trump critics now kiss his ring out of fear of disfavor and losing access to power. Many in the press are fearful of Trump as well, evident in the resignation of Ann Tenaes from the Washington Post over the paper’s censoring a critical Bezos cartoon, while NBC has threatened to jettison its progressive sister MSNBC.

At least smiling Ronald Reagan tried to demonstrate some kind of fidelity to American principles as his administration catered to the same rich and powerful.

This incoming crowd isn’t even trying to fake concern.

While America drowns in floods and burns in fire, both symptoms of advanced climate change, Mr. Musk has purchased access to Trump so Tesla can bring in cheaper, skilled technicians for his business operations. Not alone in his subservience, Mr. Zuckerberg too, along with Mr. Bezos, and Sam Altman, have made significant donations to Trump’s campaign while the world drowns and burns. These 21st Century tycoons intend to purchase the vain new president’s favor and clear the way for less public responsibility, and garner even more profits.

You see, in MAGA-world Trump is never wrong. Wrong doesn’t exist. The title “felon” carries no shame among supporters, nor rape, fraud, insurrection, or theft of sensitive US intelligence. Trump’s malfeasance is more a badge of honor with his supporters than a deal breaker.

American propriety and concern for the United States are sentiments of another, past era. Statesmanship, decency, and integrity are long gone. In the last days of the 2024 campaign Donald Trump mimed oral sex with his microphone, and no one at the rally appeared offended, not even so-called Christians. In any reality would President Carter had done such a thing? Would President Bush? Moreover, MAGA supporters self-righteously wrap themselves in neo-fascist certainty, nurtured by a steady diet of propaganda and misinformation. There is no longer a bottom.

Overseas enemies are delighted. Putin and Xi have waited a lifetime to overrun the United States. That simple fact should give us all pause on the political state of the nation. The Kremlin and Beijing are reveling in the certainty of easy access to the inner sanctum of American security.

And why wouldn’t they be?

Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg has made known he will no longer fact check posts plastered across his site. This is the same Mark Zuckerberg who threw Trump off Facebook not so long ago for disseminating misinformation. That Zuckerberg seemed to care about the country that has made his fortune. Adding insult to injury this same 21st Century robber baron announced the company will no longer practice diversity in hiring Facebook employees.

His decisions are unacceptable and unAmerican.

Though it certainly makes no difference in the larger scheme, I have decided to take a tiny seed of action by closing my Facebook account. As a writer, Facebook is a convenient way to publish my work as it appears also on Threads and Instagram. However, as Mario Savio so eloquently stated in 1964, I can no longer participate. My spirit is thoroughly sick and outraged with the alarming direction the Republican Party has eagerly chosen to sell out our nation for their 30 pieces of silver.

Though the gears and wheels have been replaced by motherboards, and circuits, the principle holds. The machine requires the public to participate, to provide the metaphoric oxygen for it to survive. And it is down to us alone, the American people. We must demand fair play and decency from the powerful.

If you feel the same please share this post, I know I can’t be alone in my objections.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir River of January and River of January: Figure Eight. Chumbley has also written three plays, Clay, Wolf By The Ears, and Peer Review, exploring the life of Henry Clay, the advent of chattel slavery, and four visits to DJT from past presidents.

chumbleg.blog

A Good Deal

A painting by Valeriy Franchuk, “Harvest of famine” (2000)

A Reblog.

NBC news recently ran a piece on Trump meeting with Ukrainian President Volodymir Zelenskyy. In a video clip Mr. Trump announced that he had spoken with Zelenskyy about opening talks with Vladimir Putin to end the conflict between the two countries. Trump stated to the cameras that Russian President Vladimir Putin would give Ukraine a “good deal.”

Mr. Trump does not know nor does he care about Ukrainian history. If he did, the president would understand that negotiating with the Russian leader is unthinkable, a non-starter. To understand why is to look not only into Ukraine’s recent past but back into the 1930’s.

Putin’s first attempted assassination targeted Ukrainian President Viktor Yushchenko. In 2004 Yushchenko narrowly escaped death after surviving dioxin poisoning, a combination of toxic chemicals which left him weakened and permanently disfigured.

Putin, as a former KGB operative is a master of murder, and why the International Criminal Court has an arrest warrant for him.

An impulsive hustler by nature Trump shows little interest in the crimes of Vladimir Putin. After the recent meeting in Alaska, Trump again called on Zelenskyy to make a deal with Putin. That the Russian has targeted Zelenskyy in numerous assassination attempts on multiple occasions, including three failed hits in one week is of no consequence.

However this narrative reaches back further to the early Twentieth Century, when another strongman, Josef Stalin rose to power.

Following the 1924 death of Bolshevik leader Vladimir Lenin, Stalin coldly and efficiently murdered his own rivals consolidating his power as an absolute despot.

Launching his Five Year Plan, Stalin’s vision for economic prosperity, he ordered collectivization of Ukrainian farms, seizing land and harvests for Russia’s consumption. Calling farmers Kulaks, a pejorative name, Stalin justified his actions by fabricating enemies, complete with mass arrests, show trials, executions, and deporting thousands to Siberia. In that period alone thousands of Ukrainians perished in freezing rail cars, or worked to death in frigid Siberian work camps.

The total number of transportation deaths remains unknown.

However transport was not the worst weapon employed by Stalin. Ukrainian Communist party workers not only stole seasonal harvests but also the seed for future planting.

A genocide followed.

From 1930 through 1933 millions of Ukrainians starved to death or resorted to cannibalism due to Stalin’s disastrous Five Year Plan. Production dropped under the forced collective effort, and the Communist leader had to find scapegoats for the disaster, so he pinned blame on the farmers. Kulaks were dying in massive numbers on purpose to undermine the Kremin’s economic plan.

Stalin insisted he was the victim of treachery.

Called the Holodomor, (death by hunger) as it is remembered, cost the lives of somewhere between 3.5 to 5 million Ukrainians. Adding that number to those deported to Siberian gulags it is safe to say that the Ukrainian people suffered a monstrous horror.

Ukrainian memories and justifiable outrage remain vivid.

As for that ‘good deal’ with Vladimir Putin, President Zelenskyy is not interested. The Ukrainian President has no faith in Russian promises, and is not impressed by Mr. Trump and his previous effort to shake Zelenskyy down for corrupt political ends.

Today thousands more Ukrainian soldiers and civilians have lost their lives fighting this Putin-engineered war, but with national memory to guide them Ukrainians will not back down. Ever.

Independence from Russian oppression is relatively new and very fragile, and that nation will never surrender on Trump’s assurances of a ‘good deal.’ The people of that battered nation know better.

So should we.

This is the web site of the Ukrainian Embassy in DC if you’d like to make a contribution.

https://www.ukrainehouse.us/

Gail Chumbley is a history educator and writer.

Beyond The Symbols

Patriotic symbols, music, and the Pledge of Allegiance recited at a solemn ceremony can be deeply moving. A simple presentation of the flag at a formal function can be awe-inspiring. The lone, austere notes of Taps played at a military funeral elevates a moment into sacred reverence.

The sounds and symbols of American devotion are powerful.

Still, as commanding as recitations, patriotic colors, and America the Beautiful can feel, deeper symbols in our shared history can reveal so much more.

In his book, Washington’s Crossing, historian David Hackett Fischer introduces his volume with a discussion of Emmanuel Leutze’s famous painting of the same name. Fischer guides the reader through elements in the painting, noting passengers figure by figure as they frantically navigate the frozen Delaware River on that long ago Christmas night. 

Why is this particular work especially moving? Because at that juncture, December 25, 1776, the Revolutionary War looked to be flaming out after barely a start. Defeat had dogged Washington’s Continentals after being chased off of Long Island, and driven out of New York City the previous summer. As Washington planned his surprise Christmas attack, victorious Redcoats had settled into winter camp in New York City.

Humiliated, Washington knew he had to strike hard and he had to win.

Viewing his situation with the “clarity of desperation” the General ordered an assault on Hessian (German mercenary) held Trenton, New Jersey. The Continental army would have to use the element of surprise fighting against a better armed and better fed opponent. Risky to the extreme, Washington knew we, meaning America, for all time, was dependent upon his actions that night.

As for the painting, the artist depicts freezing soldiers huddled in a boat with more watercraft in the backdrop. From the starboard side, (to the right of General Washington) sits an oars-man, distinctly Black, putting his back into his strokes, ploughing through dangerous ice floes. Behind him, facing forward at the bow, is another swarthy figure, perhaps a Native American. He is desperately kicking ice with his left boot while handling a sharpened pole to break open a passage through the impossible crust. To the foreground an immigrant (a Scot by the look of his hat) studies the river’s surface closely as he pulls forward to port, while another behind him, in fisherman gear, studies the treacherous water. Others are made up of rustics, one at the tiller, along with a wounded passenger.

General Washington centers the painting as he is the central figure of the drama. Behind the General is Major James Monroe, and another rugged frontiersman by the looks of his garb. Both men are grasping a 13-star (Betsy Ross) flag, in a grip that elicits an attitude of determination and desperation, with perhaps a bit of warmth. Below both flag bearers sits a WOMAN, yes, a woman pulling her oar with an analytic eye upon the clotting water.

Black, Native, white, immigrant, the highborn, the humble, men and women, yesterday, today, and the future: all of our American lives balanced on the gamble played that night in 1776.

The point I believe Leutze is trying to convey is that we all don’t have to be the same. No one has to agree on the details of our beliefs to ride on that boat. The truth is Americans all have and had different realities and ambitions: differing views of liberty. Still, all onboard had to carefully respect each other’s space and not overturn that fragile vessel, Liberty, for we must stay afloat and row in the same direction. It is in all our interests to do so.

And that metaphor of America, that boat, tested our resolve on one of the nation’s most critical nights. Inspiration doesn’t come any better than from Leutze’s allegorical Washington’s Crossing.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, River of January, and River of January: Figure Eight. Chumbley has also penned two stage plays, Clay, and Wolf By The Ears, concerning the life of Senator Henry Clay, and an in-depth examination of the beginnings of American slavery. Gail is currently working on another piece, Peer Review, best described as Dickens A Christmas Carol meets presidential history.

A Rendezvous

One central  philosophy guided my years of American history instruction. The story had to feel personal to each student, after all it is their country. For the unit on World War Two, I aimed to act as a bridge between my grandparents generation to the kids seated before me. While growing up, my grandparents played a large part in shaping my world view, as the old folks often shared their life experiences. Each had a unique tale on how they committed to fight totalitarianism abroad in the 1940’s, and defend democracy at home. 

All the following accounts involved inconvenience, sacrifice, and interruptions to family life. At that singular moment all they knew was to serve their country, and defeat foreign tyranny. 

A new dark age lay in America’s defeat.

This is Ray Turner, born in 1905 in Hammond, Illinois. This young man migrated west, joining family members in Northern Idaho. Ray soon found his way to Spokane, Washington, where he found work as a postal carrier. Stopping for lunch along his mail route he met a waitress in a downtown cafe, Ailene Peterson, a single mother of one, and after a while they fell in love. Marrying in the fall of 1941, the newly weds, while on a Sunday drive caught a breaking news bulletin on the car radio that the Japanese had attack on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. Ray turned his automobile around, motored back to Spokane, and joined the Coast Guard the next morning. Stationed out of Willapa Bay in Tokeland, Washington, Ray and the crew of the USS Manzanita patrolled the extensive, rugged Pacific coastline of Washington and Oregon monitoring for Japanese vessels. And it was aboard the Manzanita that Ray remained until August,1945 when he mustered out of the service and returned to Spokane. After a life of grandkids, holidays, and fun on his lake property, he retired from the US Postal Service, passing away in 1974.

Kurtz Olson hailed from Wing River, Minnesota, born on a frigid day in January, 1905. Kurtz, as the youngest of seven children took up welding as a young man, and made a fair living during the difficult Depression years. This photo, take in the 1930’s, (Kurtz on the left) indicates that Hitler was considered harmless and laughable. That certainly changed in 1939, and after the Pearl Harbor attack brought America into the war, Kurtz packed up his wife and family and traveled west to Tacoma, Washington in search of war work. Kurtz spent his days dismantling scrap metal in a welding yard preparing the steel for conversion to ships, planes, tanks, and other war materiel. After the war Kurtz moved his family to Spokane, where he welded, owned a series of mutts, cut firewood with his son, and grandson’s. Kurtz passed on in 1989. 

IMG_0791

This GI is Joe Tucker, this snapshot taken somewhere in France around 1944. Born in Craig County, Oklahoma in 1907, Joe found himself back in uniform at the ripe old age of 37, much older than the 18 and 19 year-olds in his outfit. Joe had actually been in the army until 1939, receiving his first discharge before the war. Making his way to the Pacific Northwest he too, settled in Spokane where he met and married a widow with three children. His daughter from his first marriage lived in the city, as well, and he wanted to remain near her. Working for the Northern Pacific Railroad, with his new, larger family, Joe joined the Washington National Guard for the extra pay guard duty brought in. After Pearl Harbor the US Government nationalized the Washington Guard, and off he went to war. After training stateside, then stationed in the south of England, Joe found himself on Normandy Beach on June 7, 1944, D+1. Surviving those first days he and his fellow Guardsmen suffered through the Battle of the Bulge, finally winding their way to Germany. On one particular night, Joe stood guard duty somewhere in Germany. He heard his sergeant grouse was the soldier on duty asleep? The reply was no, it’s Tucker, and he’s awake alright. (Joe liked telling that story). Eventually Joe shipped home to reunite with his family in 1945.

From her waitressing job, Ailene Peterson, turned Ailene Turner followed her new husband Ray to the Washington coast. Traveling with her young daughter Ailene looked for war work as well. Born in 1914, in Clinton, Minnesota, Ailene had married quite young, desperate to leave her father’s stump farm in North Dakota. Husband #1, Joe Tucker had failed her, and with her young daughter in tow, sought refuge with family members in Spokane. It was in Bremerton, Washington that she found employment wiring mine sweepers for America’s Russian allies, (she said they were very rude). In later life, Ailene proudly mentioned that her work never had to be redone. She always wired it right the first time. In an operators cab of a crane, Ailene noticed the girls below waving their arms and jumping about. Shutting down the motor she heard them yell that the Japanese had surrendered, and the war was over. Ailene scrambled down from her seat, and joined the victory celebration. She, too, along with Ray returned to Spokane until her death in 1990.

Besides being my grandparent’s, and generously sharing their remarkable stories with me, what else did these people share in common? They put aside their personal lives to step up in defiance of fascism and authoritarianism. They knew that service to America, to our democracy, was their first duty.

Retelling my grandparent’s war-time sacrifices to my history students added a vividness to the coursework that encouraged the kids to do the same with their elders. That, once again is how I bridged the war years to now, making it personal for students. 

President Roosevelt had characterized that moment as America’s “Rendezvous with Destiny,” and those people rose masterfully to the challenge. And despite all the hostility to democracy today, we cannot surrender to those forces, and betray our forebears who stood up to defend our way of life.

Perhaps now is our “Rendezvous with Destiny,” and this time all we have to do is vote for the Democrat over the wannabe dictator.

Once again, a new dark age lay in America’s defeat. 

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Both are available on Kindle. Chumbley has also penned two history stage plays, “Clay,” and “Wolf By The Ears.” She is the co-author of “Dancing On Air,” and feature length screenplay, and is working on “Peer Review,” for the stage, a series of short plays where DJT meets real presidents from the past.

gailchumbley@gmail.com