Recently I had to take my 87 year-old mother to the oral surgeon.
The tooth extraction went fine. The paperwork, not so much.
Here’s the latest episode of my Front Porch.
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
The Highway to Hell is paved with Ritz crackers
The great folk at Spokane Talks have made the Front Porch segments their own YouTube spots. Plus they’ll be posting a direct Front Porch link on their website.
So, if you happen to fail to tune in to Fox 28 on Sunday nights at 6 PM, now you’ll have a handy link and never have to miss the view from my Front Porch.
Here’s last Sunday’s episode about my rock-n-roll journey and how I found out what the “rock-n-roll sign” actually meant. And why you should never try to connect the dots on a Ritz cracker.
The Night the Lights Went Out in North Spokane
Our family recently went through a very dark time.
It came on suddenly, without warning. One minute we were relaxing after dinner, taking respite from the heat of the day in our cool air-conditioned home, discussing our Netflix pick of the evening, and the next minute our world stopped.
My reading lamp flicked off. The fans and air-conditioner stilled, and the wails from downstairs let us know our sons’ electronics had been disrupted.
Power outages are rare in our neighborhood. The power lines are underground, so when outages do occur it’s usually something on Avista’s end and we’re quickly back online.
Neither Ice Storm 1996 nor any of the recent windstorms disrupted our happy home. While all over the city food spoiled in freezers and propane lanterns flew of the shelves at sporting goods stores, we merrily went on our well-lit way.
So. Nobody panicked Thursday evening.
I mean, the most recent blip in our grid lasted all of a minute.
We peered out the window and saw our neighbors’ porch lights were off, and no lights shone from any windows. Our street lamp was out.
“Looks like it’s the whole neighborhood,” my husband said.
Feeling confident that the outage had been called in, the four of us gathered in the living room to await the resumption of our normal routines.
It was 7:45.
Thirty minutes later, Sam, 18, said, “Well. This sucks.”
His brother sighed. “I just got my new guitar pedal set up.”
We scanned our phones for Twitter posts about the outage, but nothing appeared.
I updated my Facebook status.
“No power in North Spokane. We’ve been forced to sit in our living room and talk to each other. #HELP!”
My friend, Beth, replied, “Surely your phones have some charge left in them.”
“Obviously,” I replied. “But we’re conserving our batteries for social media. #priorities”
The thought of being cut off from the world chilled us. We hastily checked the charges on our phones and Kindles and reported the results.
“We should be OK for a few hours,” Derek, my husband, said.
Slowly the Twitter and Facebook responses trickled in from other North Side folks. Apparently, our little corner of Spokane was the only area affected.
As the sun started to set in the smoky sky, I gathered candles and piled them on the dining table.
And not a moment too soon. Darkness fell quickly. Our son, Zack, put new batteries in my three pillar candles, as I fumbled in the dark cabinet for candleholders for my motley collection of wax tapers and votives.
Flickering candles don’t emit much heat, but it had been a really hot day. The house grew stuffy. We opened the windows, but there was no breeze, just smoke.
“Everybody to the gazebo,” I announced. “If the power’s still out at 10, we’ll make s’mores.”
This mom always has s’mores ingredients on hand during the summer months, and suddenly the boys were rooting for continued darkness.
Derek had wisely installed solar lights along our deck and stairs, so nobody stumbled on the way to the gazebo.
I remembered we had a battery-operated light that can be attached to outdoor umbrellas. Using our cellphone flashlights, we ransacked the storage room until we found it. Derek went out to light the fireplace while I gathered chocolate bars, marshmallows, graham crackers, paper plates and napkins.
We roasted marshmallows and enjoyed our sticky snacks as music from Zack’s iPhone filled the night. Our flickering fireplace was an oasis of light in a neighborhood shrouded in dark.
A big truck rumbled past, and we hurried to the front yard to see an Avista crew examining the box across the street. After a few minutes they got back in the truck and drove away.
We were still in the dark, but no one wanted to go to bed without some information.
At 10:45, I finally called Avista.
A nice man confirmed that they were aware of the outage and had sent a truck out, but the crew had to return for supplies to fix the problem.
The reason I hadn’t seen anything on social media is because only 45 homes had been affected.
“We estimate power should be restored in two to three hours,” he said.
The boys and Derek were ready for bed, but I had a problem. I can’t go to sleep unless I read for at least 30 minutes.
We’d recently bought a rocking chair for the deck. I scooted it over to the solar light on the railing, and Derek affixed the umbrella lamp low enough on the stand so I could see the pages of my novel.
Around midnight, I went indoors, carefully snuffing out the few candles still lit. I brushed my teeth in the dark and climbed into bed.
An hour or so later, the blinding glare of my reading lamp jolted me awake, and the rumble of the air conditioner filled the house.
We had survived the Great Spokane Power Outage of 2018 with marshmallows to spare.
I think our pioneer ancestors would be proud.
What’s a newspaper columnist doing on TV?
Now, that’s a great question.
When the folks at Spokane Talks invited me to try my hand at television commentary. I thought about how I’d fit this in with my weekly newspaper deadlines, monthly deadlines for a marketing client, finishing up my second book (Tiaras & Testosterone), and keeping up with my husband, sons and two cats.
Two episodes in and I’m still thinking about it. Obviously, I’m thinking on air:)
This week I tallied the results of my childhood wish list. If you want to hear about ’70’s fashion, bikes with banana seats, and the Second Coming click here. The Front Porch starts at the 22 minute mark.
Next week I’ll tackle the devil’s music!
Tune into Spokane Talks, Sunday nights at 6 on KAYU Fox 28.
Oh, the faces you will make on network TV
August 12 marked my network television debut on Spokane Talks on KAYU Fox 28.
Let me tell you, nothing prepares you for seeing your face on a big screen TV! It’s enough to make one want to stick to the blessed anonymity of keyboards and newspaper columns.
Honestly, taping my Front Porch segments aren’t as painful as they appear on TV.
If you missed the program you can watch it here. The Front Porch segment starts around the 21:45 mark.
Then maybe you can interpret what was happening here:
It’s all fun and games ’til that camera starts rolling!
Tune into Spokane Talks, Sundays at 6 PM on KAYU FOX 28.
Boys and Backyard Buried Treasure
Lightning McQueen has definitely seen better days.
His front wheels are missing, as are both headlights. His rear tires are packed with dirt and his big eyes on the windshield peer through a layer of dust. His red paint job has faded into orange, and his plastic body is cracked in places. Years of exposure to sun and snow will do that to a car.
My husband is building a retaining wall at the back edge of our property, and his shovel had unearthed the abandoned toy.
“Look what I found,” Derek said, cradling the car in his hands.
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Like an archeologist on a dig, he’s discovered the remains of a previous civilization. He’s been working hard to eradicate the evidence that small boys once roamed wild in our backyard, but this is something he’d missed.
When we moved into our home in 1993, both the front and back yards were a mess of weeds and clover.
Derek focused his attention on the front first, so our boys took possession of the back. That summer, my dad bought them a swing set, and we installed the first of many plastic wading pools.
Very little swinging happened on that swing set. Instead, the slide was used as a launching point for cars, toys and boys. The tandem swing made it easier for them to scale to the top of the set, the better to terrify their mother.
The boys grew. The grass came back. The swing set fell apart. And a series of bigger pools kept them occupied during the summer.
Squirt guns, bicycles, skateboards and toys littered the yard making navigation perilous for parents.
When our four boys grew bored with toys and things with wheels, they took up digging in the barren patch of ground where the previous owner had attempted to garden. Bordered by railroad ties, the spot offered ample space for industrious boys to play in the dirt.
I worried about the holes they dug with plastic shovels getting too deep, the tunnels getting too long, but Derek just said, “Boys gotta dig.”
However, even he was surprised to find they’d used a few of his two-by-fours to shore up a gaping gash in the ground.
The boys grew. They mowed the grass. They stopped playing in the dirt. And Derek built a beautiful cedar shed where the swing set once stood.
Our two oldest sons moved out and their dad built a beautiful deck, and we added a gazebo, and raised bed gardens. The retaining wall is just another step in the beautification of our kids’ former playground, and it seems Derek had stumbled upon a toy graveyard while constructing it.
“I’ve been finding a lot of green army men,” he said. “I rebury them with full honors.”
But it didn’t seem right to leave Lightning in an unmarked grave, especially since it looks like he’d been the victim of violent crime. Someone had used permanent marker to print “Help Me…” on his hood, leading us to conclude the toy had been carjacked and possibly held for ransom.
The printing looks exactly like our second son’s writing, and our youngest son, Sam, was a huge fan of the movie “Cars.” He was 6 when the first movie was released, and he went “Cars” crazy.
He had a Radiator Springs play set and the full fleet of cars from the film. But Lightning was always his favorite. In fact, if I venture into his teenage lair, I know I’ll still find at least two versions of Lightning McQueen that he’s not ready to part with.
Derek went back to work on the wall, leaving the dirt-encrusted car on the deck railing. Weeks later, it’s still there, parked facing our outdoor dining area, where Lightning can watch the boy who loved him come and go.
Last night, I swear I saw his eyes shining through their dusty coating when Sam sat down to dinner.
And then old Lightning smiled.
Goodreads Giveaway Equals Happiness
Like most writers I’m an avid reader. I’m never without a stack of books on my nightstand and usually have a book in my car or purse, too.
When you read a lot, it can be hard to keep of what you’ve read and what you want to read.
Enter Goodreads. It’s a delightfully easy way to track your reading, keep up with your favorite authors and discover new authors.
Goodreads also offers frequent book giveaways. Publishers ship the book directly to the winner and there’s no obligation to read or review.
I only enter giveaways if the book is something I really want to read or it’s by a favorite author. I’ve entered a lot of giveaways and last month I was notified that I’d won a copy of “Aunt Dimity & The King’s Ransom” by Nancy Atherton. I was beyond thrilled!
The “Aunt Dimity” books are exceptionally well-crafted, delightful British cozies and I haven’t missed one.
This week my doorbell rang and the UPS man handed me my copy of “The King’s Ransom.”
I admit it.
I hugged it. (At least I didn’t hug the UPS man.) Then I whooped. And might have hollered.
My teenager rolled his eyes, but I didn’t care. Books make me happy. And free books make me even happier!
If you haven’t joined Goodreads yet, you really should. You can follow your favorite authors *hint* Cindy Hval and connect with other readers.
Who knows? You may even win a free book
Still dating after all these years
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Glancing at the clock, I fastened my earrings and scanned the room for my gold sandals. My date was on the way to pick me up, and I didn’t want to keep him waiting.
Honestly, he wouldn’t complain too much if I did. He’s kind of used to it. We’ve been dating for 33 years.
Yep. My husband and I still date, and with our nest gradually emptying, we’ve resumed dates that actually involve leaving the house and going someplace other than Home Depot or Albertsons. Dates that require advance planning which translates into eager anticipation.
When our boys were little, date night meant putting them all to bed by 8, enjoying a candlelit dinner at our dining room table and renting a movie from Hastings. It also only happened once a month, due to sheer busyness and exhaustion.
This year, with more freedom in time and budget, we’ve instituted weekly dates. Dinner and a movie are nice, but we’ve upped the ante on our adventures. As a result, we’ve been exploring and enjoying our hometown.
For example, late this spring when the Spokane River was at its peak, we dined on the patio at Clinkerdagger’s, shopped in the Flour Mill, spied on the marmots scampering on nearby rocks and snapped a selfie with the river behind us.
But dates don’t need to be spendy. One hot sunny Saturday, we played tourist and explored Manito Park in all its glory.
We encountered some real tourists in the Perennial Garden.
“Spokane is just like a mini-Seattle!” one of them exclaimed.
Them there is fightin’ words to this hometown girl, but Derek distracted me by pointing out a large butterfly perched nearby.
We skipped the Duck Pond because many years ago, our son, Alex, took an unplanned dip in the pond’s murky waters during a family picnic. We’re still traumatized by the memory of trying to clean duck poop off the kid in a park bathroom.
“I told him not to run on those rocks. They’re slippery, I said,” Derek muttered as we skirted the pond.
See? Traumatized.
Our weekly dates have also included local attractions that we’ve always meant to get to, but never had the time – the Spokane Valley Heritage Museum, for one.
When we read the museum was hosting a traveling Smithsonian exhibit, “Mail Call,” we took a Friday afternoon off from work and checked it out.
The exhibit tells the history of the military mail system and featured personal stories of service and family bonds, told through documents, photos, audio recordings and handwritten letters.
We were charmed by the unique museum and its friendly staff.
Last Saturday, we enjoyed a lingering summer date in the West Central neighborhood.
We started the evening with appetizers at The Wandering Table in Kendall Yards, and then wandered across the street to the Maryhill Winery tasting room.
The Maryhill patio, liberally dotted with umbrella’d tables, is quickly becoming our favorite spot to unwind, enjoy a glass of wine and soak in the spectacular views of the river, downtown and the Centennial Trail.
From Kendall Yards, we drove west to a Spokane landmark – Doyle’s Ice Cream Parlor. Though he’s lived in Spokane more than 40 years, Derek had never been to the iconic seasonal shop.
We sat in the red Adirondack chairs out front, enjoying huge scoops of licorice ice cream and watching the steady stream of people ebb and flow from the busy shop.
As we savored each bite, we had our usual marital discussions of what the work week ahead looked like, the status of our August vacation plans, and where we’d like to go on future dates.
We’d saved the newspaper’s guide to area parks and plan to start working our way through a list of parks we want to explore. Sunday’s story on city staircases gave us some new destinations to contemplate.
Sure, sometimes dates are simply Netflix, pizza and jammies at home, but going out on the town adds intentional enjoyment. Especially, when you have the day circled in red on your calendar.
Anticipation. That’s what makes dating so much fun.
Like Andy Rooney but with better brows
I’m really excited about my latest adventure!
Beginning August 12, I’ll be part of the program Spokane Talks on Fox 28 Spokane.
Every Sunday at 6 PM, the half hour show offers news, views and conversation.
My three-minute Front Porch segments will end each program. Kind of like Andy Rooney on 60-minutes, but with well-groomed eyebrows and no, “Didya ever wonder…”
I hope you’ll tune in to find out what the view from my Front Porch is like.
It’s usually rather sunny!
Apology Accepted?
The crash happened in a split second. One minute my husband was driving down North Monroe Street, and in a flash a sedan darted out in front of him from a side street.
By the time he hit the brakes, he had hit the car, which spun 180 degrees, ending up with its back end in the southbound lane and its front end in the northbound.
Stunned and shaken, he pulled over in a nearby church parking lot. An off-duty fireman stopped to see if he was OK while others checked on the teenage girl and her passenger.
Derek drives an F-150 truck, and it hit the rear passenger door of the small sedan. All of the car’s airbags deployed. Amazingly, no one was injured.
“What were you thinking?” Derek asked the driver.
She said she had seen him signal to change lanes on the busy four-lane section of Monroe and thought he was turning. She thought she had time to make it across the intersection.
She thought wrong on all counts, and her mistake could have had a much higher price than just the inconvenience of damaged vehicles and time spent on insurance paperwork.
In the following days, Derek wavered between anger and relief. Several weeks later when the dust and the insurance had settled and his truck repaired, he received a letter from the girl.
“I’m sincerely sorry for the accident I caused. I’m very grateful you’re OK. This accident made me realize how very short life is – your life could be taken in any minute.”
The note seemed genuine and heartfelt, and whether her mother made her write it or not, the effect on Derek was liberating. He had already moved past anger, but her words allowed him to think more kindly of her.
A sincere apology will do that.
Wouldn’t the world be a better place if that happened more often?
Instead, sorry/not sorry has become a hashtag on Twitter, a popular Demi Lovato song, and a featured phrase in everyday conversation. Sorry/not sorry is what you say when you acknowledge your words or actions may have upset someone, but you really don’t care.
Huckleberries columnist Dave Oliveria refers to insincere mea-culpas as “ap-hollow-gies.”
It’s like when my boys were fighting and someone’s feelings, body, or toy had been hurt, and I’d admonish the offender to tell his brother he was sorry.
“Sorry,” the culprit would mumble.
The word was right, but often the body-language – arms folded, eyes-rolling, shoulders shrugging – revealed the kid was less than repentant.
That kind of apology usually resulted in further consequences. Even so, an “I’m sorry” rendered because a kid doesn’t want his video game privileges revoked, doesn’t get to the heart of the matter.
And speaking of hearts, there are times when even the most genuine mea culpa cannot mend or alleviate the pain of damage done.
Think of the courtroom apologies proffered by people who have killed or maimed someone while driving drunk. Or the relationships broken by betrayal. Or the workplace gossip that results in job loss.
While saying sorry may be the right thing to do, it doesn’t automatically translate into forgiveness.
And sometimes we can be haunted by the apology we never received.
Many years ago, someone close to Derek treated him very badly. Harsh words and untruths were spoken. He waited for an apology or even an acknowledgement of wrongs done.
It never came.
Eventually, Derek chose to forgive this person. It had little to do with the offender and everything to do with my husband’s peace of mind.
Forgiveness is a choice, and so is asking for it.
The letter from the young driver demonstrates what it means to acknowledge harm done and accept responsibility for it.
“I know I’m young and learning. I know that this was my fault, and I take full blame,” she wrote. “This has helped me look at life from a different perspective. I appreciate every moment for what it is. Once again I apologize.”
Apology accepted.
Cindy Hval 