Author: Cindy Hval

Cindy Hval is the author of "War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation." and a columnist and correspondent for the Spokesman Review newspaper in Spokane, Washington. Her "Front Porch" column offers humorous, often poignant commentary about life, love and raising sons-- not necessarily in that order. Contact Cindy at CindyHval@gmail.com
Columns

Hval holiday movie favorites range from classic and cozy to controversial

Cindy Hval

Years ago, I wrote a column about how much I dreaded my kids’ annual holiday concerts.

The boys were all in grade school, which made for a marathon of recorder recitals, jingle-belling, beginning orchestra and choir concerts.

The heat I took for that one included a couple of letters to the editor about how Mrs. Hval obviously doesn’t value music education.

I remain unrepentant. It’s been more than a decade since I attended an elementary school concert, and I do not miss them.

A few years later, I wrote about my least favorite Christmas songs. At the top of my list? “Happy Xmas (War Is Over).”

Yeesh! From some readers’ reactions, you’d think I’d been an accomplice in the death of John Lennon.

After that, when the holidays rolled around, I kept my column topics on the safer side of the page. Fresh Christmas trees vs. artificial, holiday lighting, and sentimental Christmas ornaments all went to press with nary a tirade to the editor.

Safety is overrated, and I’ve never written about Christmas movies, so here goes. (And yes, we own all of these movies. Should livestreaming fail, we’ll still be jolly.)

Firstly, I have reluctantly come to accept that “Die Hard” is a Christmas movie. After all, the setting for all the mayhem and swearing is Christmas Eve, and holiday music and décor are featured.

If savagery and bloodshed get you ho-ho-ho-ing, then 2022’s “Violent Night” is for you. It stars David Harbour as Santa Claus (an immortal Viking warrior) who’s suffering from holiday burnout in the worst way. But when a gang of mercenaries takes a family hostage, this unsaintly Nick springs into action.

These are the things one watches when one has given birth to four boys.

That’s not to say my family is averse to the sweetness of the season. We usually watch both “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “Miracle on 34th Street.”

If neither of those films awakens your Christmas spirit, you might as well change your name to Scrooge.

Ditto for “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” The wonky little tree and listening to Linus explain the true meaning of Christmas never fails to evoke happy sighs.

On the lighter side, we usually kick off the season with “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation,” which offers some of the most quotable lines in holiday movie history.

At least once during December, you’ll hear me quote Clark Griswold, “This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here.”

Or his long-suffering wife, “I don’t know what to say, except it’s Christmas, and we’re all in misery.”

“Home Alone” is always fun, and “A Christmas Story” is a beloved family classic. We have an actual leg lamp in our living room, beaming the “soft glow of electric sex,” out into the neighborhood. And one year, our son, Zach, got an “Official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle.”

He didn’t shoot his eye out, either.

“Elf” is currently off our rotation, because we watched it one too many times. Even so, I usually utter “SANTA! Oh my God! Santa, here?! I know him! I know him!” at least once or twice.

“Jingle All the Way” is another Hval family favorite, in part because my husband owns almost every Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

Our second son actually bought Derek a Turbo Man action figure, and often one of us will say, “Put that cookie down!” (If you don’t say it with Arnold’s Austrian accent, you’re doing it wrong.)

Surprisingly, the most polarizing movie in our collection seems to be “The Polar Express.”

Critics hated its CGI animation, and it does take a bit of getting used to. For us, the story is strong enough to distract from the creepy North Pole elves and a little too much Tom Hanks. (Yes, it’s possible.)

Based on the Caldecott Medal-winning book, the film tells the story of a boy’s magical train journey to the North Pole, where he rediscovers the true spirit of Christmas.

One of the most poignant quotes comes from a fellow nonbeliever named Billy, who says, “Christmas just doesn’t work out for me – never has.”

People who believe in the spirit of Christmas can hear Santa’s sleigh bells ring, but for the boy, the bells are silent.

The train conductor explains, “Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”

During the journey, the boy embraces the magic of the season and receives the first gift of Christmas from Santa–a sleigh bell.

At the movie’s end, the boy, now a man, says, “Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.”

Several years ago, I interviewed Santa at the Southside Community Center. He gave me a shiny silver sleigh bell.

I am so glad I can still hear it ring.

Columns

Readers share their first jobs

Cindy Hval

Last month, I wrote about my adventures babysitting a toddler named Chuck and asked readers to share stories about their first jobs.

Kelly Kelly bypassed babysitting in favor of employment at a drive-in theater in Boise, Idaho. While she didn’t take care of a sticky toddler, the situation in which she found herself one night was considerably stickier.

“My cousin and I worked at the snack counter. We wore paper hats and striped button-ups to serve popcorn and Coca-Cola,” she wrote.

Kelly, just 14 at the time, lived in nearby Meridian. Uber didn’t exist in 1977, so she often hitchhiked to and from work.

In the 70s, the 15 miles from Meridian to Boise was a long, empty stretch with nothing but farmland and horses. Late one rainy night, she set out for home, hoping to hitch a ride, but no cars passed.

Finally, she saw a police car approaching. Hitchhiking was illegal, but she was so happy to see it, she stuck out her thumb.

To her shock, the officer drove on by.

“I have no memory of how I got home, yet the memory of that cop car driving by is as fresh as if it didn’t happen almost 50 years ago,” Kelly said. “I never went back to the drive-in and still wonder what kind of person leaves a little girl in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with their thumb out.”

Like me, Maggie Sullivan’s first babysitting gig proved memorable.

She was 15, and her responsibilities extended over a New Year’s weekend in the late 50s. The parents, eager to escape, offered no instructions other than to take care of a massive pile of dirty laundry in the living room.

“The 12-year-old was well-behaved, but not helpful, the 5-year-old frequently ran through the house yelling ‘diarrhea!’ and I didn’t understand the toddler’s babbling at all,” she recalled.

With little in the cupboards or fridge, she fed the kids cereal and sandwiches for seven meals.

“The worst episode was the toddler running barefoot through the dining room and suddenly screaming and turning red,” Sullivan wrote. “He eventually pointed down, where I found a thumbtack embedded in his foot.”

Her experience worsened when the parents came home drunk, and the dad tried to kiss her when he drove her home.

“Without apologizing, he dug out some bills from his pocket for 50 hours of my work and time. The amount? $6.”

Linda Carroll saw strawberry fields forever at 13. It was 1962, and her family was planning to visit the World’s Fair in Seattle.

Her parents didn’t have a lot, and her mother told her that if she wanted spending money, she’d have to earn it.

She got a job picking strawberries, waking up at 4:15 a.m. to gulp down breakfast so that she could reach the fields near Havana St. and Marietta Ave. by 5 a.m. Her back-breaking efforts netted her $1.25 per flat.

Carroll doesn’t recall how much she made in total, but she does know she spent some of it at the Crescent to buy the latest fashion, a skort – shorts with a short, flared skirt over them.

“The one I chose had narrow strips in a rainbow of colors, and the skirt had tiny crystal pleats,” she wrote. “The perfect item to wear to the Fair in July.”

Walt Pulliam’s first job was a busboy in the Seattle Center food court just a few years after that World’s Fair.

In addition to clearing tables, he was responsible for giving breaks to the young women who operated the Bubbleator.

The Bubbleator was a large, bubble-shaped hydraulic elevator with transparent acrylic glass walls operated from an elevated chair. It was built for the 1962 World’s Fair.

“I sat in a space-age looking captain’s chair with a large panel in front of me that epitomized something out of the worst science fiction movie sets,” he recalled. “Lots of toggles, buttons and switches.”

Of course, none of them actually did anything except for the one that operated the door and the button for the three floors of the building.

However, those switches provided ample opportunity for Pulliam to mess with obnoxious kids.

“I’d direct them to a toggle or button to hold down for closing the door while I operated the actual control,” he said. “Invariably, I would let up on the control just before the door finished closing, which would cause the door to reopen. Everyone would look at the kid and blame him for not being able to simply hold a button down.”

Nicki Boures’ first job was at The Spokesman-Review.

“I started as a ‘foot messenger’ delivering newspaper display ad proofs to the downtown businesses in the morning,” she wrote. “Typically, I’d return to the businesses in the afternoon to retrieve the proofs with any corrections before being printed. Tear sheets of these ads, once printed, were also a part of our delivery day.”

Eventually, she worked as a clerk in the advertising department.

“I probably would have retired from the Spokesman had I not accepted a job in Anchorage, Alaska, at the Anchorage Times.”

Our first jobs teach us valuable life lessons. We learn how to get up early and show up on time. We problem-solve on dark roads, in strawberry fields or in a glass-enclosed elevator.

Those experiences shape our work ethic and give us a glimpse of what the future might hold.

Fourteen years after my debut babysitting gig, I gave birth to the first of four wild boys. At one time or another, every single one of them was just as sticky as Chuck.

All Write, Columns

Stuffing Wars

Cindy Hval

When it comes to our Thanksgiving menu, I stick to the basics.

My brother and his wife bring a sweet potato casserole, I bake apple and pumpkin pies, and we serve turkey, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, rolls, olives, pickles, and my favorite – – stuffing.

I buy Mrs. Cubbison’s cornbread stuffing and bake it in the oven (not in the turkey) just like Mom did.

To quote “The Mandalorian,” “This is the way.”

This has always been the way until about five years ago, when my husband’s friend told Derek about the stuffing he makes and gave him the recipe.

It’s called ‘Dan’s This is What Stuffing Will Be Like in Heaven.’

After reading the ingredients, I strongly disagree that this is what will be served in Paradise.

I’m a stuffing purest. The dish should be all about the seasoned bread cubes, copious amounts of butter, and a bit of sautéed celery and onion to give it crunch.

No oysters.

No olives.

No oranges.

Dan’s recipe doesn’t contain any of the above. Instead, it calls for dried cranberries, two boxes of wild rice mix and ground sausage.

Pork sausage!

But Derek wanted to try it, so I bought the ingredients.

He made his version, and I made mine. On Thanksgiving, we served both.

I tasted a small bite of the foreign stuffing. The flavors and the textures were all wrong. I didn’t mind the mushrooms or slivered almonds, but I shuddered at the sausage and cranberries.

Imagine my surprise when our guests LOVED the “new” stuffing. They raved about it. Even our sons were huge fans. Oh, they all ate my version, too, but there’s no denying Derek’s was a hit.

Now, every year, we serve both kinds. If there happens to be more of my traditional stuffing left over, I’m good with that. I eat it cold for breakfast the next day, and if I’m lucky, the day after that.

Dan’s ‘This Is What Stuffing Will Be Like In Heaven’ Recipe

(This is transcribed exactly as received. What size can of mushrooms? Derek uses 8 ounces and it works. What oven temperature? I stick it in with my stuffing at 350 degrees.

1 pound good ground pork sausage from the meat counter, NOT Jimmy Dean

8 cups dry bread cubes

2 cups sliced celery

1 cup chopped onion

1 can sliced mushrooms, drain; save juice 1cup or more!

Slivered almonds

1 egg

1 or 2 (or 3) cans of chicken broth

2 boxes of stove-top type herb and butter flavored long grain and wild rice mix or equivalent

1 cup or so cashews

½ or 1 cup dried cranberries (Craisins)

Brown almonds in a frying pan with light oil (olive) – move ‘em around so they don’t burn. (They will go from perfectly browned to burned really fast).

Set aside. Snack on these while you prepare all the following.

Fry sausage, chopping it up as it browns – save drippings!

Prepare rice according to directions, set aside.

Chop up celery and onion, set aside.

Put celery, onions, mushrooms (drained) and drippings from sausage in frying pan; add some salt, pepper and butter; simmer for a few minutes until slightly cooked, but still crisp.

In a large bowl, combine the rice, sausage, almonds, all the vegetables and the drippings they were simmering in, and add the bread cubes. Mix this around for a few minutes to get all the dried bread moistened. Throw in the cashews and the dried cranberries. Mix some more. Add mushroom juice and as much chicken broth as needed to get the proper consistency; moist and sticky, no dry bread cubes. Throw in an egg for good luck. Mix more. Keep in mind that when you heat it up in the oven, it may dry out some, so, chicken broth.

Put stuffing into a covered pan or baking dish and bake to heat it up before serving.

Feeds one person for three entire days.

Mrs. Cubbison’s Corn Bread Stuffing

(Oven-prepared as per the back of the box, the way God intended.)

1 box (12 oz.) corn bread stuffing

1 cup (2 sticks) butter

1 cup onion, diced

1 cup celery, diced

1¾ chicken broth (or water)

1 egg, beaten

Preheat oven to 350.

Spray a 9-by-13 (3-quart) casserole dish with cooking spray.

In a large 5-quart saucepan, melt butter on medium heat. Add vegetables and sauté until translucent. Remove from heat.

Add stuffing mix and gradually stir in chicken broth or water. Add salt and pepper to taste. For richer stuffing, add a well-beaten egg and mix thoroughly.

Pour the stuffing into a greased casserole dish and bake for 40 minutes. Remove the cover for the last 15 minutes for a crispier top.

Columns

Soundtracks for Daily Life

Cindy Hval

In a world where music streams from apps like Pandora and Spotify, I listen to music at home the old-fashioned way.

No, I don’t spin vinyl albums on a turntable or pop tapes into an eight-track player, but I do own a stereo with a five-disc CD changer.

Our youngest son worked his way through college at Best Buy, and one of the last times he used his employee discount was to buy this sweet stereo for me.

He kind of had to if he wanted to eat.

My family knows cooking is how I unwind after a long day, and I can’t cook dinner without my tunes.

Sure, I can stream music from our television, but that dilutes the joy of sorting through our CD library and selecting the mix I want to hear for the week.

Every Monday, my fingers explore the options that heavily favor the best music era ever – the 1970s and ’80s.

Oh, I have plenty of albums from classic crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, but the bulk of my collection stems from my childhood and teen years.

Why yes, I do have John Denver’s “Greatest Hits.” Gordon Lightfoot’s and Olivia Newton-John’s, too.

The Bee Gees, Bon Jovi, Billy Joel and the Eagles are well represented. But every week, at least one of the CDs in my stereo reveals my passion: movie soundtracks.

Some people love show tunes from Broadway musicals. To me, those mostly original songs feel more confined to the stage and the storyline, while movie tunes can captivate us right where we are.

Soundtracks make my toes tap, and I discovered long ago that cooking and dancing aren’t mutually exclusive.

From the original “Shrek” soundtrack, which introduced me to the band Smash Mouth, to the iconic before-my-time tracks from “Stand By Me,” the musical mix of old and new delights me.

I found the “Stand By Me” CD at the Spokane Symphony Associates Upscale Sale, and bought it primarily so I could listen to Buddy Holly sing “Every Day.” If that song doesn’t make you smile, even after a deadline-filled day, not much will.

Other oft-played albums bring happy memories of the movie experience.

“Footloose” came out in 1984, midway through my freshman year of college. My best friend and I saw it at the now-defunct North Division Cinemas.

When the reprise of the title track played, we leapt from our seats and danced in the aisles, and soon a large crowd joined us.

It’s hard to beat memorable moments like that, which may be why “Footloose” is my phone ringtone.

Derek and I loved the Joel and Ethan Cohen movie “O Brother Where Art Thou” when we saw it in theaters in 2000. Allison Krauss’ vocals add depth and resonance to the amazing soundtrack.

“Guardians of the Galaxy” included a great remix of classic songs like “Hooked on a Feeling” and “Fooled Around and Fell in Love,” while “The Greatest Showman” featured nine original songs. Its single “This is Me” won a Golden Globe for Best Original Song.

But the movie soundtrack that most often headlines my home rotation is “La La Land.”

At the 89th Academy Awards, the film won Best Original Score and Best Original Song for “City of Stars.” The tune’s multiple renditions in the film never fail to capture my emotions, and John Legend’s “Start a Fire” adds the perfect coda to the end of a long day.

Tonight, as Emma Stone sings “Audition (The Fools Who Dream)” while I chop vegetables for a simple stew, I’ll likely pause to take a few twirls around the dining room.

Here’s to the ones who dream

Foolish as they may seem

Here’s to the hearts that ache

Here’s to the mess we make.

It’s a lovely soundtrack for everyday life.

Columns

First job, a sticky situation

Cindy Hval

I was 10 when a neighbor knocked on our door. She needed someone to watch her toddler son while she took her dog to the vet. My mother volunteered me.

I don’t know what she was thinking!

As the youngest of four, I had zero child care experience, unless you count my Baby Tender Love doll. I showered her with tender love until her drink -and -wet feature malfunctioned. When I gave her a bottle, she wet the back of her head instead of her diaper and I lost interest.

Nevertheless, I made my way across our shared backyards and entered my neighbor’s home to meet Chuck. (I’m not actually sure that’s his name. It might have been Charles. 1975 was a long time ago.)

The tot, clad only in a filthy T-shirt and a sagging diaper, eyed me warily and took a slug of milk from his bottle.

My first task was to help my neighbor give a pill to her giant dog.

“Let’s get him on the kitchen counter,” she said.

I weighed about 60 pounds. The dog weighed considerably more.

You might be horrified to think of a large dog on a kitchen counter, but the counter was more horrific.

It was as filthy as Chuck and actually stickier.

Aware that I was on the clock and earning 50 cents per hour, I did my best to help heft the animal (Great Dane/Mastiff/mini horse?) to the counter and closed my eyes while she jammed something down his throat.

He got down from the countertop unassisted, and Chuck’s mom said, “OK, I’ll get him in the car and be back in an hour. If you need anything, call your mother.”

And off she went without a word of instruction regarding the care and feeding of her child.

I took stock of the situation. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Congealed remnants of macaroni and cheese stuck to bowls. Mushy Lucky Charms floated in milky water, and a pot with a layer of calcified pork and beans attracted a couple of desultory flies.

I had never been in a dirty house.

My mother’s only full-time job was to wage war on dirt. Dishes were washed and dried by hand immediately after every meal. Clothes were washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday. (I was responsible for pillowcases and my dad’s handkerchiefs). I’m not sure what chores occupied the rest of her week, but I do know the kitchen and bathroom floors were scoured on Saturdays because that’s when I dusted the living room.

I wandered into our neighbor’s living room, and Chuck pointed at the TV. Obligingly, I turned it on and flicked through the four channels, landing on “As the World Turns.”

This was my grandpa’s favorite program, seconded by “The Lawrence Welk Show.” I’d never seen an episode, but I figured if it was good enough for Grandpa, it was good enough for Chuck.

Chuck seemed to agree and sprawled out on the crunchy carpet. I didn’t know carpet could crunch, but this one did.

I chose a spot on the dog-haired covered sofa between piles of what I hoped was clean laundry.

I don’t know why Grandpa liked “The Guiding Light.” It bored me to tears, and Chuck, having finished his bottle, climbed up on my lap.

By this time, his diaper sagged nearly to his ankles, but unlike Baby Tender Love, the back of his head was dry – sticky but dry.

Bravely, I dug through the pile of clothing next to me and uncovered a diaper. Then I called my mom, because I’d never changed a diaper. She told me, “For heaven’s sake, just take off the wet one and put the clean one on, and no, I’m not coming over there to show you how!”

I suspect I’d interrupted her mid- “All My Children.”

Chuck and I figured it out. Then I looked for a book to read to him and found a stack of magazines beneath a collection of mostly empty Olympia beer cans.

Between issues of Star magazine and Soap Opera Digest, I found a copy of Penthouse, which, to my surprise, did not feature decorating tips for fancy apartments.

“Do you have any books, Chuck?” I asked.

No response.

I looked down to see he’d fallen asleep on my lap. I sat still, afraid to move, and that’s where his mom found us a short time later.

She scooped him up and carried him to his crib. Then she gave me $1.50 and told me she’d call me again when she needed a sitter.

I ran back across our yards, stashed my money in my purple kitty change purse, and told Mom that my child care career was over.

“I will never change another diaper!” I vowed.

Of course, as a teen, I had countless babysitting jobs, because my parents made me pay for my own Lip Smackers and Love’s Baby Soft perfume.

However, I didn’t babysit for the neighbors again – they moved that summer.

I hope Chuck grew up to be a fine, less sticky man.

Columns

Obituaries: snapshots of lives in the community

Cindy Hval

The heartwarming response to my revival of Shawn Vestal’s periodic obituary columns revealed that I’m not alone in my appreciation of the portraits obits paint of our community.

After the column ran, I came across a comment on my Facebook page from a former S-R photographer.

“Obituaries are the history of our community and stories that the newspaper has missed,” he wrote. “Possibly the best and most relevant content in the paper.”

Here are a few more of those stories.

Susan Emry died at 71. She captured her future husband’s attention at a party by saying supercalifragilisticexpalidocious backwards. He charmed her by tuning his harmonica in orange soda.

Together they raised three children, teaching them to be charitable, truthful, grateful and forgiving.

She loved numbers and good food, and her parting words were often “Go be great today!”

Mike Lewis died on Aug. 18, but his stories live on. He often held court at the dinner table, regaling his family with tales of his childhood. He told of the time he worked an entire summer on a farm for an ice cream cone. He dug a basement by hand, had a pitchfork run through his thigh while hiding from his cousin in the hay, and once had to paint the bottom of his feet black, so it looked like his shoes had soles.

In addition to his stories, his reliability became his legacy. Mike showed up for his kids and grandkids. Games, recitals, birthdays – if it was important to them, it was important to him. Through gestures big and small, he was available, involved and supportive. His steady presence left a lasting impact.

Leaving a legacy of a well-lived life is a worthy goal, and that’s what was said of Chad Manley.

The lifelong music lover died at 53, but his memory echoes with wit, kindness, hard work and sacrifice.

His obituary says, “Cancer may have caused Chad’s death, but it never defined his life.”

He spent his final year making lasting memories with his wife, reconnecting with old friends, and listening to birds sing. Even while enduring daily radiation treatments, he said, “I’m not dying – I’m finally living.”

Lena Windishar was not only beloved by her seven children but also by their friends.

Her kids learned to dance because she and her husband, Frank, danced in their living room and taught them.

They learned how to be fully present for others, watching Lena care for her parents, and experiencing her focused attention over a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

She was so full of life that it took a while for her to say goodbye.

Her last four years were spent in and out of hospice care. She’d appear to fail, only to come raring back. Her obit put it this way: “Seriously, does anyone get kicked out of hospice? Lena did, three times.”

While usually focused on others, she did indulge in a bit of self-care by purchasing salty/crunchy snacks for herself and stashing them away.

At the reception following her funeral, salty snacks were served.

Sometimes an obituary hits close to home.

On Sept. 14, we lost our neighbor, Brian Chaffee, at 69.

We’ve lived next door to the Chaffees for 32 years and raised our families side by side. Brian kept a finger on the pulse of the neighborhood and was always ready to lend a hand. He and Derek enjoyed long over-the-fence chats.

This summer, I ran into Brian on my afternoon walk. We caught up on our kids and grandkids, his face beaming with pride as he spoke of his family. He said he was walking to get in shape for “motorcycle season.”

Brian loved riding motorcycles with his sons, and that’s what he spent the last day of his life doing. His death following a race was an unexpected shock.

His obituary offered a snapshot of the life he lived and the people he loved, but I would add just one more thing.

He was a good neighbor.

All Write

They’ve got your alibi

Cindy Hval

You never know when you might need a good alibi, and if you live in the Indian Trail Neighborhood, you have one handy.

Alibi is the latest venture from restaurateurs and real estate agents Bill and Deb Weisgerber.

The ’70s-inspired bar in the Sundance Plaza shopping center features craft cocktails, carefully curated beer and wine selections, shareable apps and light bites.

“I grew up in kitchens,” said Deb Weisgerber. “My dad was in the food and beverage industry, and he would take me to work with him.”

At 19, she bought her first house, outfitted it with a licensed commercial kitchen, and launched Sandwiches to Go.

“People faxed me their orders and I made and delivered their sandwiches – mostly downtown.”

When she hired an employee and learned how complicated labor and industry regulations can be, she closed the business.

In 2003, she and Bill opened a coffee stand on Northwest Boulevard. They painted the building pink and christened it Deb’s Espresso, eventually opening two other locations.

When she saw a space in the Garland District on Craigslist, she decided to try her hand at bartending and opened the Drinkery.

They closed one coffee stand, and the bar proved so successful that they sold the other two.

In 2015, the couple found a spot in the Logan Neighborhood and opened the Foxhole, a pizza joint.

“It was a flop,” she said. “We had pizza and jello shots, but nobody came in – the kids preferred Jack and Dan’s.”

So, they returned to the Drinkery.

“We fixed up the building and it was wildly successful,” Weisgerber said. “I worked there every day.”

After selling the business in 2020, she was ready for a different career and got her real estate license.

“I love real estate – I plan to do it far beyond retirement age, but it doesn’t offer me the creative outlet that the bar/restaurant industry does.”

While shopping at Safeway on Indian Trail Road, she saw a “for lease” sign on the door of the former Happy Trails to Brews tavern.

“I saw endless possibilities for this space,” Weisgerber said.

The biggest struggle was coming up with a name, so she crowd-sourced on Facebook and landed on Alibi.

“After that, everything came together,” she said. “Bill and I handpicked the furnishings, the dishes, the glassware and the furniture.”

The once red walls got a coat of black paint, and Bill added wainscoting and built liquor shelves behind the bar.

Weisgerber shopped for vintage furniture at local antique stores, where she discovered a painting of a ’70s-era girl that matched the vibe she wanted – a dark, moody hideaway.

Guests enter through a roped-off area advising the venue is exclusively for 21 and older, past a couple of rattan outdoor sofas and tables.

Backlit liquor shelves and soft, colored lights under the bar top create a welcoming ambiance. A big birthday wheel at the far end offers birthday guests an opportunity to spin it and win prizes. The cozy bar/dining area seats 49.

Craft cocktails made with high-end liquors serve as the drink menu’s centerpiece.

The Midnight Confession incorporates WhistlePig Piggyback Rye while the Cover Story offers a refreshing sip that includes Prosecco, St. Germain, lime and mint.

“We use fresh-pressed juices and herbs in a lot of our drinks,” Weisgerber said. “I’m also very passionate about wine, and we have a good selection of wine and bubbly. We have six draft beers, mostly local, but no domestics.”

A small kitchen meant creating a small menu that still offers bites to please every palate. House-made dips provide a tasty snack or starting point for a meal.

For example, house-smoked salmon stars in a dip topped with lemon and capers. Served with rice crackers and a selection of fresh veggies, it pairs deliciously with any cocktail.

“We smoke our own salmon and chicken,” Weisgerber said.

Handhelds include a smoked chicken quesadilla that comes loaded with black beans and pepperjack cheese and is served with house-made pasta salad.

The French onion grilled cheese features Gruyere, Swiss and caramelized onion jam. It’s served with a Caesar salad and a side of rich au jus for dipping. The buttery sourdough holds up well to the gooey cheese and savory sauce.

A trio of entrée salads offers hearty options and shareables include flatbreads and charcuterie.

“I’m proud of the menu,” Weisgerber said. “Keeping your menu and your hours consistent and providing quality service is the key to success.”

In addition to food and drink, Alibi offers plenty of evening entertainment options. There are a variety of events happening nearly every night, including live music, trivia and karaoke.

While Weisgerber would love for Alibi to become a neighborhood hub, she also hopes the classy venue will become a destination spot.

“It’s a beautiful space and pretty enough to make a drive worth your while,” she said.

Columns

Adventures in Austin

Cindy Hval

We sat squished together, our suitcases gripped between our knees.

A wall of humanity teetered in the aisle and blocked every window view. Each seat was crammed, forcing latecomers to stand and grasp for handholds as the bus shuddered and lurched down the highway.

I raised my eyebrows at my husband, and he grinned.

“It’s an adventure!” he said.

When Derek found out his annual business conference was in Austin, Texas, this year, he suggested that we go a couple of days early and have our youngest son meet us there for the weekend.

Sam lives in Odessa, Texas, which is about a five-hour drive from Austin. Plus, we’d be there just two days after his 26th birthday!

The trip costs quickly added up, so when Derek learned our hotel didn’t offer a shuttle from the airport, he proposed public transport.

“Look!” he said. “We can catch the bus outside the terminal under the giant blue guitar and the tickets are just $1 a piece!”

The transit website showed a sleek bus with room to stow our luggage.

What we boarded looked like an STA leftover circa 1990. Even more concerning, when I told the driver where we wanted to get off, he shrugged and shook his head.

Nevertheless, trusting our Google Maps, we settled in for what we thought would be a 15-minute ride.

It’s been a while since I traveled by bus, but in my experience, when the bus is full, the driver doesn’t stop for additional passengers. This logic escaped our driver, who pulled up at EVERY STOP, even when there weren’t any seats left or any straps to hang onto.

Thirty-five minutes later, we got off at what we hoped was our stop. Google said it was a four-minute walk to our hotel. So, we set off, dragging our roller bags behind us.

Surrounded by the towering skyscrapers of downtown Austin, my trusty navigator tried to orient us. We didn’t realize our hotel was BEHIND us. After walking for several minutes with no Hyatt Regency in sight, I spotted it while crossing the Congress Avenue Bridge.

We trudged down a set of concrete steps and found the Ann and Roy Butler Hike-and-Bike Trail, which winds around Lady Bird Lake in the heart of the city. I’d read about the trail and was eager to explore it, but didn’t realize it was unpaved and that I’d be lugging my suitcase along it.

Minutes later, we were outside the back of our hotel, looking at the beautiful pool.

“Let’s use the pool entrance,” I said.

But Derek declined, opting for the front door. He quickly regretted that choice when we discovered construction meant we’d added another quarter-mile to our “adventure.”

Eventually, we dragged our sweaty selves (it was 92 degrees) and our dusty luggage into the lobby.

Sam arrived an hour later. By then, we’d recovered enough to add another mile to our walking total, and we hoofed it to the Rainey Street Historic District.

The lively area is known for its quaint early 20th century bungalows now transformed into hip bars with live music. Strings of lights around dining patios sparkled, a street magician dealt a deck of cards on the corner, and restaurant hosts beckoned guests from the sidewalks.

You’d think my BBQ-loving spouse would have his heart set on brisket, but instead, he led us to Bangers Sausage House and Beer Garden. Men in lederhosen twirled dirndl-clad gals to polka tunes. Not quite how I’d pictured our first meal in Austin, but the food was delicious, and as we left, a country group replaced the polka band.

Saturday morning, Sam drove us to the state capitol. We explored the extensive grounds populated by moving memorials (the Texas African American History Memorial is breathtaking) before taking a self-guided tour of the building. It’s the sixth-tallest state capitol, and as we peered down from the legislative level, we saw a bridal portrait shoot in the works.

Ready for some brisket, we hit Terry Black’s Barbecue. The line wound from the sidewalk, through the expansive patio, and into the building. The eatery is run with military precision. We followed instructions and soon took loaded plates to a picnic table.

That evening, we got a little batty. The Congress Avenue Bridge is home to the largest urban bat colony in the world, with an estimated population of 1.5 million. Female Mexican free-tailed bats raise an estimated 750,000 pups each year at the bridge. Every night from around mid-March to early November, the bats emerge from under the bridge and blanket the sky as they head out to forage for food.

Our hotel was just steps away from the prime viewing point. Not long after sunset, the bats emerged, swirling and swarming high above our heads. It’s quite a spectacle, and while I’m not fond of bats, I’m even less fond of mosquitoes, so I appreciated their efforts.

Sam returned to Odessa on Sunday, and that evening Derek’s conference began. For the next two days, he attended meetings, received industry updates, and met with fellow business owners from across the nation.

Meanwhile, I basked under the brilliant blue skies and balmy 90-degree temps beside the pool, treated myself to a spa day, and read to my heart’s content.

When it was time to check out, I asked if he planned another airport bus ride.

“Nope,” Derek said. “Sam downloaded the Uber app on my phone.”

It seems my husband’s appetite for adventure had been amply sated.

All Write

These Recipes are “To Die For”

Cindy Hval

The comfort of a bowl of slow-simmered chicken soup.

A whiff of cinnamon from snickerdoodles just out of the oven.

The tang of homemade ranch dip on a crunchy chip.

Food is the gateway to memory. A bite of rich chocolate Texas sheet cake can evoke your favorite aunt, who brought that dessert to every family gathering and church potluck.

A new cookbook features recipes for all of the above and more, sourced from surprising locations – cemeteries around the globe.

“To Die For: A Cookbook of Gravestone Recipes” (HarperCollins, 2025) features 40 recipes, along with interviews and full-color photographs. What began during author Rosie Grant’s digital archives internship at the Congressional Cemetery in Washington, D.C., became a viral sensation when she started cooking real gravestone recipes and sharing their stories via TikTok.

“I was finishing my master’s in library in information science at the University of Maryland and started a TikTok channel (@ghostlyarchive) about what it’s like to intern at a cemetery,” Grant said.

She came across other social media accounts that featured recipes carved on headstones.

“I love to cook and I love to eat, so I tried three of the recipes and posted them,” she said. “People started reaching out.”

The first recipe she tried came from Naomi Odessa Miller-Dawson’s grave in Brooklyn, New York. Miller-Dawson’s gravestone resembles an open book with her spritz cookie recipe etched in the stone.

While the monuments list ingredients, they don’t often include instructions. Thus, Grant didn’t realize that she needed a cookie press to make spritz cookies.

She laughed and said, “I made pretty much every recipe incorrectly! I now own multiple cookie presses.”

When she’d gathered 20 recipes, publishers expressed interest in a cookbook.

Eventually, Grant ended up with 40 “To Die For” recipes.

The author didn’t just make the recipe; she visited each cemetery featured in North America and photographed the gravestone. She interviewed family and friends of the deceased and often cooked with them, whether in person or via Zoom.

“I made spritz cookies with Naomi’s family,” she said. “They were so generous with their time!”

Gravestone recipes are rare, but the author discovered one right here in Spokane County.

You can find Marty Woolf’s recipe for ranch dip on his headstone at Saltese Cemetery in Greenacres.

An avid golfer, Woolf grew up in Spokane Valley. After graduating from dental school, he and his young family relocated to New Mexico to work alongside his brother and his best friend.

In 2022, he fell ill unexpectedly and died a few days later. His obituary in The Spokesman-Review read, “There are few people in this life that when you meet once, you never forget them. Marty was the sweetest husband, most loving father, and best friend to countless people.”

Grant contacted his sister-in-law to learn more about Woolf. She discovered his nickname was Dr. Death, and he loved to share recipes.

“Dr. Death’s Ranch was something he loved to make,” said Grant. “When I visited his grave, someone had left a can of Mountain Dew beside it.”

When staging the food pictures, photographer Jill Petracek took care to add subtle nods about the deceased. In the photo of the ranch dip, a glass of Mountain Dew sits nearby.

Surprisingly, a few of the recipes in the book came from the living.

“These women were preplanning,” Grant said.

Before Peggy Neal’s husband died, they prepared their headstones together. As an avid hunter, his side featured game animals.

“What do I want to be remembered for?” Neal thought. “Well, I am darn proud of my cookie recipe!”

So, the recipe for Peg’s sugar cookies was etched into the marker, and the book features a photo of a smiling Peg next to it.

“I got to cook with Peggy in Arkansas,” Grant said.

Likewise, Cindy Clark Newby’s recipe for No-Bake Cookies is on her headstone.

“I thought about what my family would feel when they visited my grave,” she said. “I pictured them laughing when they saw I’d put my cookie recipe on there.”

From a chocolate chip cookie recipe on a book-shaped headstone with “Cookie Book” on the spine, to a marker featuring a handwritten chicken soup recipe, Grant uncovered the stories of ordinary people remembered for the way they fed and gave to others.

She urges readers to document their own recipes and food histories and included resources to assist them.

Traveling to cemeteries throughout the country and recreating cherished recipes allowed Grant to understand the role of food in preserving memories, as well as fostering a deep appreciation for the loving legacies etched in stone.

“It’s a testament to who these people were in life – generous and giving.”

Columns

At 94, Mom keeps me on my toes

Cindy Hval

Recently, I took Mom to an emergency dental appointment. We pulled up next to the Spokane Party Bus.

Hoping to mitigate her anxiety, I asked, “Wanna get on the Party Bus?”

“No thanks,” she replied. “They’d probably take you and leave me behind. Plus, I didn’t brush my teeth this morning.”

This even, though I’d called to remind her to brush them 10 minutes before I picked her up.

Caring for a 94-year-old lady with dementia can be a lot like dealing with a recalcitrant preschooler – equal parts exasperation and amusement.

I prefer to focus on the fun, so I’m glad that for many years I’ve been tracking her humor with the hashtag #ThingsMyMomSays.

April 2016

Mom explained a bit of family faith history.

“Your grandma and grandpa had a mixed marriage. Her dad was Lutheran, and his dad was Baptist. One sprinkled, the other dunked. Neither dad was happy about the marriage, but they came around and became great friends.”

April 2018

Mom had a panic attack during her oral surgery appointment, so the paramedics were called.

She was in good spirits after a few hours in the ER – except for her missing socks. Somehow, they’d misplaced her socks.

She put her underwear on over the hospital-issued panties.

“They’ve got my socks, so I’m keeping their underwear,” she said.

June 2018

Today, I noticed her birthday balloons from March had finally deflated.

“I guess they died before me after all,” she said. “We were neck-and-neck for a while.”

May 2019

I told Mom the dining room was serving French dips for dinner.

“Well, they better not expect me to speak French!” she said.

September 2020

During our visit today, I reminded her to pull her mask up over her nose.

“It’s kind of big,” I said.

“My NOSE?” she replied. “I can’t help it. I got the Schmidt schnoz.”

May 2021

I found Mom in the lobby looking lovely in a yellow sweater. She’d visited the hair salon and had her photo taken because it was the facility’s picture day.

“I told them I didn’t need my picture taken because my kids take too many of me.”

“But these are professional photos,” I said.

“Well, that doesn’t mean I’ll look any better,” she said.

October 2021

This week, I cleaned out one of the cupboards in Mom’s kitchenette.

It was overflowing with Ziploc bags, plastic bags, foil, and used plastic lids with straws.

“Any idea why you’re saving all this?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“You never know, I might get invited to a picnic.”

Which doesn’t explain anything, but it made me laugh.

January 2022

I helped Mom fill out a reflection about 2021. A sample question: “What did you learn last year?”

Mom thought it over.

“I don’t think I learned anything. I’m just trying not to forget what I already know.”

“How’s that going for you?” I asked.

“Who are you again?” she replied.

April 2025

I picked up a couple of dirty shirts in Mom’s bedroom.

“I’ll take these home and wash them,” I said. “The laundry service is iffy here, but I learned from the best. The only thing you tried to teach me that I haven’t mastered is ironing.”

“Oh, honey, I really need you to learn how, now,” she said.

“Why?”

“I need you to iron the wrinkles from my face!”

July 2025

We were talking about a mutual friend who refuses to get hearing aids. Mom says there’s a lady at her dining table who won’t wear hers and then says, “What? What?” when people are talking.

“I put mine in first thing every morning, so I can hear everything,” Mom said.

Then she shrugged.

“Of course, I still have NO idea what’s going on.”

A couple of weeks ago, while going over the weekly activity calendar with her, I spotted something intriguing.

“Oh! Two Gray Cats are going to do a show next week,” I said. “I’d like to see them.”

She sighed and patted my hand.

“Cindy, you do know they’re not really cats, don’t you?”

She may be 94, but Mom is still keeping me on my toes.