The first printed advance review copies of War Bonds! You can preorder your own copy here!
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
Pearl Harbor memories burn brightly for this couple
Warren and Betty Schott pictured here in Honolulu, in 1941, had an apartment just up from Battleship Row. Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 11 of War Bonds, describing their eyewitness account of that terrible morning:
The couple was used to noise, but the sounds that woke them on Dec. 7, 1941, were unlike anything they’d heard before. Betty pulled on her robe and looked out the bathroom window.
“Warren!” she called, “there’s smoke and fire at the end of the runway.”
At first he didn’t believe her. But at his wife’s insistence, he went to another window and spotted a plane flying low overhead. “I saw the red balls on the wings of the plane,” he said. “I watched that plane torpedo the USS Utah. I said, ‘Betty, we’re at war!’”
They hustled out of their quarters and stopped to pick up a young mother and her two kids who lived downstairs. “It was total chaos,” said Warren of the surprise attack. “We didn’t know what to do.” The horrific noise of bombs, planes and machine gun fire added to the overwhelming terror.
Warren gathered everyone in the neighbor’s car and took off for the administration building. “Barbara and I were in our nightgowns and robes, and shrapnel was falling from the sky,” Betty said.
“The road was shredded by machine-gun fire,” Warren said, as he recalled their frightening journey. Steering the vehicle away from the strafing fire of a Japanese warplane, he found shelter in a supply building. There Betty, her friend and the children, waited out the first wave of the attack. “They put us to work immediately, Betty said. “We unloaded guns and filled fire extinguishers.”
The couple was used to noise, but the sounds that woke them on Dec. 7, 1941, were unlike anything they’d heard before. Betty pulled on her robe and looked out the bathroom window.
“Warren!” she called, “there’s smoke and fire at the end of the runway.”
At first he didn’t believe her. But at his wife’s insistence, he went to another window and spotted a plane flying low overhead. “I saw the red balls on the wings of the plane,” he said. “I watched that plane torpedo the USS Utah. I said, ‘Betty, we’re at war!’”
They hustled out of their quarters and stopped to pick up a young mother and her two kids who lived downstairs. “It was total chaos,” said Warren of the surprise attack. “We didn’t know what to do.” The horrific noise of bombs, planes and machine gun fire added to the overwhelming terror.
Warren gathered everyone in the neighbor’s car and took off for the administration building. “Barbara and I were in our nightgowns and robes, and shrapnel was falling from the sky,” Betty said.
“The road was shredded by machine-gun fire,” Warren said, as he recalled their frightening journey. Steering the vehicle away from the strafing fire of a Japanese warplane, he found shelter in a supply building. There Betty, her friend and the children, waited out the first wave of the attack. “They put us to work immediately, Betty said. “We unloaded guns and filled fire extinguishers.”
Today, Betty dropped a lei at the new Pearl Harbor Survivors Memorial in Spokane, Washington. Warren passed away in March. They’d been married 76 years when he died.Hard To Keep Up With the Greatest Generation
Went to return some photos to Charlie and Mable Mitson this week. Their story is told in chapter 31 of War Bonds.
Charlie, pictured here in France, 1945, served as a paratrooper during WWII. After the war he entered the newly formed Air Force and became a pilot. He flew combat missions during the Korean and Vietnam War.
When I arrived Mable gave me a hug. I asked where her husband was. She said,”Oh, he’s installing a hot water heater at our grandson’s house.”
Charlie is 90.
There’s a reason we call these folks the Greatest Generation.
The Legend of the Christmas Tree Meltdown
In the annals of Hval holiday lore, one story is guaranteed to get trotted out each Christmas. My children call it, “Mom’s Christmas Tree Meltdown.” I call it, “Too Many Children, Not Enough Tree,” but whatever its title, the tale marks an embarrassingly Grinch-like episode in my holiday history. My family finds the story hilarious. I do not.
The exact year of this event is unclear, but I think our sons were 4, 6 and 8 because they all remember it. Thankfully, Sam was not yet born, so he didn’t witness the debacle.
When our boys were little, our tree-trimming tradition was that they decorated the bottom and backside of the tree. In my opinion this strategy was sheer genius. It allowed the boys to participate and hang their nonbreakable ornaments, while I got to create my imagined Martha Stewart-like perfection on top.
I’m not sure what happened that fateful year. Boys on a sugar-fueled high induced by candy canes, frosted Christmas cookies and marshmallow-topped cocoa may have had something to do with it. I’m sure belated bedtimes because of winter break contributed. And it’s possible that I might have taken on a little too much in order to create the Best Christmas Ever for my children.
In fact, it may well be that this Mama was running on too little sleep, not enough caffeine and disastrously high self-expectations. Whatever the cause, the meltdown occurred (though I quibble with the term “meltdown,” it was more of a momentary lapse of sanity).
The boys and I had lugged boxes of ornaments upstairs and each son was poring over his collection of paper snowflakes, toilet paper tube angels and crookedly cut candles. Derek, having untangled the lights and garland, was supposed to photograph this festive holiday tradition. Thankfully, in the chaos that ensued, he forgot, so there is no photographic record of me shrieking red-faced at my startled offspring.
As the boys rushed to find prime spots for their handmade creations, some shoving ensued. Allegations flew.
“Hey! He moved my angel!”
“I did not! It fell down by itself!”
“Don’t touch my snowflake! MOM! HE TOUCHED MY SNOWFLAKE AND NOW IT’S TORN!”
I tried to stay on top of the escalating situation by assigning ornament stations. “Ethan, you decorate the top backside of the tree. Alex you do the middle. Zack you can hang your ornaments of the front bottom branches.”
This didn’t go over well.
“Hey! How come Zack gets to put his in the front?” Alex yelled.
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “Why do ours get stuck in the back?”
“Mine are the beautifulist,” Zack opined.
A barrage of “are not’s” and “are too’s” evolved into more shoving, which morphed into wrestling. The tree tottered and began to sway. Someone yelled, “DOG PILE!”
And that’s when I lost it.
“Stop it! Just stop it!” I screeched. “BACK AWAY FROM THE TREE, NOW!”
At this point the narrative gets muddied. Some say I canceled Christmas and told the children Santa wasn’t coming. Others say I threatened to take every toy in the house and donate them all to the Goodwill. Another version has me informing my offspring that I brought them into to this world, and by golly, I can take them out.
All I know is at the end of my rather impassioned speech a silence fell.
“Um, boys why don’t you go play in your rooms for a bit,” Derek suggested. Three pajama-clad boys shuffled quietly from the room.
“Honey,” began Derek. I glared at him. He too, shuffled silently from the room.
I finished hanging my Victorian ornaments, but the Christmas spirit had left the room along with my family.
Mortified, I hoped we all could forget this episode ever happened. That hope vanished that Sunday as I checked kids into the church nursery. One of my husband’s friends dropped off his daughter. “Hey Cindy,” he said. “Heard you had quite the Christmas meltdown the other night.”
That’s right; my husband had shared the story with a few “close” friends. It couldn’t have spread any faster if I’d written a column about it.
Now, the tale of “Mom’s Christmas Tree Meltdown” has achieved legendary status. I guess I should be thankful “meltdown” is used in the singular tense.
Much has changed in the intervening years. Sam’s arrival meant four boys trimming the tree. The addition of two cats added to the excitement. But now, there are only two boys left at home to decorate the tree.
This year, I surprised them. “Why don’t you guys do the whole tree,” I said.
“Really?” Sam asked. “Even your ornaments?”
“Yep,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Zack asked.
I nodded and they set to work. They didn’t group the angels at the top like I do. And the dated ornaments aren’t in sequence, but you know what? I wasn’t even tempted to rearrange a thing. In fact, I think it just might be the beautifulist tree we’ve ever had.
It’s taken me awhile, but I’ve finally learned a perfect Christmas isn’t about the synchronicity and symmetry of the ornaments on the tree and it certainly isn’t about the gifts beneath it.
For me, the Best Christmas Ever is about treasuring each moment with the hands that made the ornaments, the arms that wrap me in warm embraces and the hearts that still love me – Christmas Tree Meltdown and all.
This column first appeared in the Spokesman Review, December 26, 2013
Meet an Eyewitness to the Beginning and the End of WWll
I had the incredible honor of interviewing Bud Garvin, 99, this week. Bud was eyewitness to the beginning of WWll at Pearl Harbor and was liberating a concentration camp in Germany when the war ended in Europe. 
Omaha Beach– The Battle of the Bulge– Bud was there. Though he’ll celebrate his 100th birthday next month, his recollection of his time of service is still sharp. He is a gracious, funny and generous man and I count myself beyond blessed to have spent time with him.
More wit from the Greatest Generation
This weekend I called the wife of a 99 year-old Pearl Harbor survivor to schedule an interview. She repeated the details back to me and I said, “You’ve got it.”
She laughed and replied, “Honey, I lost it so long ago, I don’t even remember having it!”
When I’m an old woman, I don’t care if I wear purple with a red hat, I just want to be as fun and witty as these folks are. How wonderful to retain the ability to see the humor in life, even when other vision fails.
Sometimes relaxing is so stressful!
Clenching the steering wheel, I muttered while the tractor in front of me slowly puttered. A quick glance at the clock on my dash confirmed my fear – I was going to be late for my relaxing getaway at the Coeur d’Alene Casino Resort.
The muscles in my neck tightened, my jaw clenched – the masseuse would have her work cut out for her.
I’d hoarded the spa gift certificate and overnight stay coupon for a rainy day, and on a sunny October Friday that day arrived.
The previous Sunday our pastor had preached a sermon on rest – a reminder that God created both work AND rest, but sometimes we aren’t very good at the latter.
That would be me. I squirmed in the pew as I thought of all the times I’d said yes to work projects with deadlines that cut into quiet time.
As a wife and mother, I try to ensure my family gets the focus and attention they need from me, but I’m not nearly as vigilant about carving out time for myself. And honestly, I like to be busy. Too much down time makes me nervous. Busy means I’m accomplishing – achieving – isn’t that the American ideal?
On that fateful Sunday, I’d just wrapped up an extensive project for a national magazine and hoped to take some time off. But Monday a new client beckoned with intriguing assignments and a lucrative contract. I’ll take a break next month, I thought, looking at my full calendar. Maybe even a week off.
Then I checked the expiration date on my gift certificates. Suddenly, relaxation had a deadline! I couldn’t let these thoughtful gifts go to waste. So, with that Sunday sermon ringing in my ears, and with my family’s encouragement I took a Friday off, planning to enjoy a drive to the CdA Casino, loosen up with a soothing massage, have dinner with a girlfriend and truly unwind with an overnight stay.
The problem with that scenario began with an email. Foolishly, I checked my messages before loading my overnight bag into the car. One simple query ate into my morning and my “day off” dwindled to an afternoon off.
Still, when I got behind the wheel the sun was shining and I had wonderful things to look forward to – those things did NOT include a traffic jam led by a meandering tractor.
By the time the fellow pulled off to the side of the road, a long line of casino-bound cars snaked behind him. And then I missed my turn. When I finally arrived I had five minutes to make it to my massage.
I schlepped by bag to the front desk, only to find the one group in front of me had questions – lots of questions about rooms, about restaurants – you name it, they asked.
I fidgeted. I fumed. I fussed. When I finally reached the check-in desk I asked the helpful staffer to notify the spa that I was running late.
After tossing my bag on the bed, I rushed down to the spa, where they kindly called the restaurant and moved my dinner reservations back. When I was finally ensconced in a plush robe I texted my friend, informing her of my tardiness.
Who knew relaxation could be so stressful?
It turns out I’m not alone in my struggle with carving out respite time. How else to explain that today – the one day the year Americans set aside to contemplate our blessings, has now been infiltrated by businesses and consumers angling to get a jumpstart on Black Friday sales?
Glossy ads beckon us to give thanks by driving to malls and opening our wallets.
Perhaps shopping equals R&R for some, but I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea that consumerism trumps time off.
Today, my brother and sister-in-law are hosting Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve baked two apple pies and a have green bean casserole ready to pop in the oven. Amid the bustle of family, food and football, I plan to relish the slower pace of this national holiday.
It may be at the table or it may be when the house has emptied – but sometime today I’m going to take a deep breath and not think about what comes next. I’m going to intentionally put deadlines, dessert and dirty dishes from my mind and relax, savoring the feast and the fellowship.
Work can wait. So can shopping. For once I’m going to excel at rest.
Happy Thanksgiving.
This column first appeared in the Spokesman Review, November 28, 2013
Thankful for those who serve
This Thanksgiving I’m so very thankful for the 35 World War ll veterans and their wives who shared their stories with me in “War Bonds.”
Folks like Melvin Hayes, pictured here with his son, Butch while home on a brief leave.
Folks like Melvin Hayes, pictured here with his son, Butch while home on a brief leave.
Melvin was 27 when he was drafted and had to leave his wife and son behind. Holidays are an especially difficult time to be separated from loved ones.
Tomorrow, as you gather ’round your tables, perhaps one of the things you might be thankful for are the men and women who served or continue to serve, their country so selflessly.
I know I am.
Amazing Women Served in World War ll
Violet Shipman Roskelly
Women like Violet Shipman Roskelly donned uniforms and served their countries with grit and determination.
This British war bride met her husband when they were both serving their respective countries. She wasn’t too impressed with American GI’s. “They were a bit too friendly for me,” she said.
That changed when she met Fenton Roskelley while on a walk in Cornwall. You’ll read their story in Chapter 3 of War Bonds, “The Luck of the Draw.”
For years after our initial interview my phone would ring and this lovely British voice would say, “Cindy? Darling, it’s Vi. How ARE you dearest?”
Vi died July 27, 2012.
Dying Vet Rallies
The most amazing thing happened yesterday. I’m still processing it. This summer I wrote about my visit to WWII Vet Nick Gaynos. Nick was on his deathbed. Here’s the column I wrote about that visit.
Yesterday, I went to return his photos. His caretaker met me at the door. “Come in,” she said, smiling. Her eyes sparkled. “Nick’s at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. He’ll be so happy to see you!”
Stunned, I just looked at her. “But. He was dying!” I said. Shaking her head she said, “I know! But not anymore. He’s 96 and the only medication he takes is vitamin supplements!”
I walked into the kitchen and there sat Nick, now with a scruffy beard. “Hello, there,” he said. Tears filled my eyes. I said, “Oh, Nick, I came to see in July, but I don’t think you knew I was here. I just held your hand for a bit.”
His eyes clouded. “Tex died, you know.” (His wife had died on June 3rd.) “Yes, I know. I’m so sorry.” He sighed. “She was an amazing woman.” I spread out the photos that will be used in War Bonds.
He lingered over Tex’s picture. “Oh, I knew I was in trouble when I saw her.” I pointed to a photo of him with two other soldiers. “Ah,” he said. “California. Those two had come down from Washington to inspect my operations.”
Laughing, I said, “It sure looks like you were in charge.” He replied, “Well. That’s the way I always looked.”
We visited a bit and I promised to return to bring him his copy of War Bonds. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
So am I, Nick. So am I.
Cindy Hval 