Author
Harvey Shaw at the wheel of the USS Kwajalein, 1944
Just received word that this handsome sailor died October 7. Harvey Shaw was a kind and gentle man who dropped out of high school during WWII and enlisted in the US Navey because he liked to swim!
He was proud to have served his country, but even prouder of his 64-year marriage to his wife, Bonnie and of their six children.
Rest in peace, Harvey. Thank you for your service and for sharing your story with me.
This handsome solidier is In Washington DC today visiting the World War ll Memorial, courtesy of Inland Northwest Honor Flight. Rusty Clemons was stationed on Bougainville Island during the war.The story of he and his bride, Marie, is featured in War Bonds in a chapter titled “Dishpan Hands.”
In 2010, I accompanied a group of Pearl Harbor Survivors during an annual Armed Forces parade in my hometown. The reaction of the crowd to this small group of heros showed me just how much Americans value the men and women who served our country during WWII and solidified my desire to write War Bonds.
Here’s the column I wrote about that event. 
Ray Daves, Cindy Hval and Denis Mikkelsen
When I received an invitation to appear in this year’s Armed Forces Torchlight Parade, I had mixed feelings. My only previous parade experience hadn’t gone well.
In seventh grade I rode on our church youth group’s float in Moses Lake. The theme? Daniel in the Lion’s Den. I had a major crush on the guy chosen to be Daniel, so I agreed to ride on the float. I pictured myself as one of the angels sent by God to shut the lions’ mouths. Instead, they made me a lion, complete with furry suit and painted-on whiskers. My mane was made of cardboard, and I kept poking my fellow feline’s eyes with every turn of my head.
Did you know Moses Lake gets very warm in the spring? I sizzled and sweated through the parade and my black whiskers ran like polluted rain down my cheeks. Then I started sneezing. The “den” was made out of hay bales, those being plentiful in Moses Lake. That’s how I found out I’m allergic to hay. By the end of the parade my eyes were swollen shut, and “Daniel” hadn’t even noticed me growling at his feet.
However, the Torchlight parade would be different. The theme was “Freedom is not Free,” and instead of a float made of hay bales I’d been ask to accompany the Pearl Harbor survivors on a military truck. I’ve written several stories about these incredible folks over the years, and they’ve kind of adopted me. I was so honored by the invitation, I would have said yes even if they wanted me to wear a lion costume.
So on parade day, I boarded the truck with five Pearl Harbor survivors ranging in age from 86 to 93. Among them: Warren and Betty Schott, who were both on Ford Island when the bombs began to fall.
Denis Mikkelsen who was sleeping aboard the USS West Virginia and woke to the sound of chaos. When the order came to abandon ship he dived into the harbor.
Sid Kennedy at the Naval Air Station Kaneohe, watched the planes swoop in. “Look at the show the Army’s putting on,” he’d said. Then he saw the red circles on the aircrafts’ wings.
And Ray Daves was on his way to breakfast when he looked up to see the first bomb hit Ford Island. He prayed, “God, don’t let it get my friend, Jim.”
The memories of Dec. 7, 1941, are seared into the minds of this small band of survivors. Each year their number dwindles, yet those who are able agree to appear in the parade, not for cheers or accolades, but to honor the thousands of Americans who did not survive the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Joining us on the truck were the survivor’s family escorts and Jean Flechel, widow of a Pearl Harbor survivor. The sun warmed us as we waited for the start of the parade and at last we began our slow trek through city streets.
Much has been said and written about the decline of patriotism in America and how younger generations don’t seem to honor the flag and our country the way our forebears did.
This may be true, but it certainly wasn’t what I observed that night. Almost without exception men, women and children leapt to their feet as our truck went by. Teenage boys took off their ball caps, men saluted or put their hands over their hearts and the applause was deafening. Amid the clapping I heard shouts of, “God bless you!” and “We love you,” but mostly what I heard were these words shouted over and over again: “Thank you! Thank you for your service.”
I heard teenage girls scream as if Justin Bieber was in town. I watched grown men weep and small children wave and clap while others stood somberly at attention as the truck passed.
Some may believe our country has lost its way and its citizens no longer value the tenets upon which our nation was built. But what I experienced in the company of American heroes that night, filled me with hope.
Maybe we haven’t forgotten what is most important, after all.
Writers see stories everywhere.
In a little boy in full pirate regalia standing under an oscillating front yard sprinkle.
In an overheard conversation at the grocery store. “It’s not his baby. I don’t care what she says!”
In a tattered “Missing Cat” flier fastened to a streetlight with pink duct tape.
These bits and pieces of everyday life call to us and beg us to fill in the blanks – to uncover the rest of the story.
One place in particular teems with tales – the Washington State Veterans Cemetery in Medical Lake. Each year on Memorial Day weekend, after placing flowers at my father-in-law’s grave, I wander among the headstones and wonder about the people buried here.
Harold Schoessler lies here. According to his gravestone, he was “Washington State’s last horse soldier.” Born in 1918 and died in 2013, I would have loved to hear his stories.
The marker of a World War II Army private reads, “I have ways to make you laugh Blackie.”
Is this a quote from a book or a movie? If so, I haven’t found its source. More likely, it’s an inside joke known only to the deceased’s family and friends. I wish I could have met this fellow.
Another marker intrigues. Someone’s beloved wife’s final resting place is engraved, “I have the floor.” Perhaps this is her way of getting the last word.
Other epitaphs offer simple statements that give a glimpse into both the deceased and into the family they left behind. As the wind snapped the cemetery flags, I read, “He’s happy high on a windy hill.” This soldier’s family picked the perfect spot for him.
In the scatter garden, where families scatter their loved ones’ ashes, some markers give me pause. One says, “I never promised you a rose garden.” Another reads “Sorry, I am late. Love Son.” And a third states, “It’s been a lot of laughs. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be seeing you around.”
I walk in silence and ponder the lives represented here – the stories that ache to be told. Though I’ve never aspired to write fiction, I can certainly understand the lure. What would it be like to weave an entire tale from the fragments of an idea, from the whispers of the graveyard, from the snippets of an overheard conversation? Therein lies magic!
But on the way home from the cemetery that afternoon, I discovered sometimes you don’t need the rest of the story – sometimes just a glimpse is enough.
Traffic was heavy as we made our way from Medical Lake to north Spokane. We pulled up at a stoplight and I saw a frail, elderly woman sitting on a rock in front of a bank. She held a cardboard sign. I couldn’t read all of the writing, but one word stood out – “Desperate.”
As we watched, a woman parked her minivan at the bank and approached the lady with the sign. She sat on the rock next to her for a minute or two, then went to her van and opened the trunk. She’d obviously been shopping at the nearby Costco and was ready to go camping, because her trunk overflowed with groceries and gear.
She pulled a can of soda from her stash and got a cup of ice and brought it to the elderly lady. As the light turned green and we drove away, I looked back to see the two, sitting side by side on the rock.
Just like at the cemetery, my mind raced with unanswered questions. Why was the old woman desperate? What prompted the busy mom in the minivan to stop?
A Bible verse floated into my memory, “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
And then I realized the details didn’t matter. I’d just “read” an entire story – a sermon, in fact.
I’ve driven that intersection many times since, and I keep my eyes peeled for that elderly lady. I haven’t seen her. But I’m hoping her story had the happiest of endings.
This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review June 5, 2014.
Note: Cindy Hval is on vacation this week. Milo, her personal assistant and the senior cat of the Hval house, is filling in for this week’s column.
All I wanted was a snack. I mean, is that so much to ask considering the starvation rations I’ve been placed on because of Thor’s weight issues? He gets fat and I have to suffer. It’s just not right.
I called to her from the hallway. “Meeeeow!” I said. She didn’t even look up from the computer. So rude! So, I asked again more forcefully.
No response. Just the clicking of her fingers on the keyboard.
Maybe her hearing is going. I sat next to her ankles and explained the situation. “Meeeow, meow, MEOW!” I said.
“Be quiet,” she replied. “I’m on deadline – and you just ate.”
The nerve! Obviously, she wasn’t getting my message.
I jumped up on her desk and looked her in the eye while explaining my dire dietary needs. She just put me on the floor and patted my head. So patronizing. I then jumped on the food tub and knocked the measuring cup to the floor. It toppled with a satisfying clatter.
“I’m starving here,” I said. “I’m gonna faint! I need food NOW!”
She sighed and snapped, “Fine. Then YOU can write this week’s column!”
And off she went – without feeding me.
Like I don’t have enough responsibilities around this place. I am busy from morning till night. My day starts early because I have to rouse Zack and Sam. One of them is supposed to feed Thor and me, so I wake both of them because it doubles our chances of getting fed in a timely manner.
Then I have to tell her that I’ve been fed. Usually she’s still in bed, so I sit on her chest and give her the morning update. I throw in a few kisses and tickle her ears with my whiskers. I have to do this or she just falls back asleep.
By this time Thor is acting sleepy, so I chase him around the house. Upstairs, downstairs, under beds, on top of tables. For a chunky cat, he sure can run. He thinks I’m trying to kill him, but I’m not. I just need to remind him who’s in charge around here.
I’ll never forget the day they brought him home. The shock is seared in my memory.
The family had been out for the evening and I’d kept watch over the house like usual. They think I’m sleeping on the back of the sofa, but I’m not. I keep one eye open on the bird situation – also the dog situation and the strange cat situation.
It’s a lot of work. Every so often a dog comes in our yard and I have to run all over the place from window to door to window to alert everyone to the intruder.
Even worse is when the mangy Manx from up the street comes over. He saunters into my backyard like he owns it. Even though I’m not allowed to go outside, it’s still MY yard! He thinks he’s all that because he’s an indoor/outdoor cat, but he’s not. He’s just scruffy and dirty and has a terrible attitude.
Anyway, I’d just relaxed when the family returned and they’d brought me a present – a huge carpeted tree for me to climb on! I was so excited! I jumped up to the top and surveyed my domain and that’s when I saw him – a tiny ball of tabby-striped fluff.
I couldn’t believe it. I jumped down to the floor and he bounded up to me and tried to kiss me. He actually put his paw on my face.
I ran over to her and climbed into her lap. “You’re not serious, are you?” I asked. “You’re not going to let this kitten-thing stay. It’s just a joke, right?”
She rubbed my cheeks and scratched my chin and said, “Oh, look! Milo is so happy to get a little brother!” It’s like she doesn’t even know me.
He’s NOT my brother. I had brothers and they were not tabbies of below-normal intelligence, like this thing called Thor.
I slipped into the bedroom and hid under the bed. I stayed there a good long while, hoping they’d get rid of that thing. But they didn’t. And I got hungry, so I came out.
But I digress. Trying to slim down Thor by chasing him all over the house is just another one of the jobs added to my already overfilled schedule.
Probably my most important job is ensuring Dad gets enough attention. I don’t know where he lives during the day, but he’s gone for hours and hours. When he comes back, I rush to the door to greet him.
When he gets ready for bed, I jump up and give him extra head rubs. After he’s settled, I curl up on his head. The poor guy has so little fur up there, I worry he will catch cold. So even though he pushes me and says stuff like, “Knock it off, Milo!” I stay in position. I want to keep him around because when she starts talking about kittens, he says, “No more cats.”
Obviously, he and I are the only ones with any sense around here.
Oh, look, she’s back and she’s opening the food tub!
I should just ignore her. I should just sit in her chair and pretend I don’t hear the rattling of food as it pours into my bowl. But if I do that then Thor will eat all of his and mine, too. I can’t let that happen – fat cats die young and I actually kind of like the tubby tabby. Let’s keep that just between us, OK?
This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review on July 19, 2014.
Editor’s note: Cindy Hval is on vacation this week. Her intern, Thor, the junior cat in the Hval household is filling in for this week’s column. Cindy will return next week because she’s out of vacation days – and cats.
I’m happy to have this chance to correct the lies that have been printed about me. If I had money I’d get a lawyer and sue but I don’t, so I’ll set things straight in this column.
First: I’m not fat. That rumor started when I was taken to a horrible place called “The Vet.” They did unspeakable things to me and then the lady told Mama, “He needs to lose weight.”
I guess the car still smells like my reaction.
You’d vomit, too, if you were poked, prodded and insulted. As to my other reaction, well cars should come with litter boxes for heaven’s sake! I didn’t know if I’d get out there alive and stress makes my bowels overactive.
Food is important to me, I admit it. I love the food that gets put in my bowl! And the food that’s in Milo’s bowl, and the food that’s in the kitchen, and the food that’s in the dining room, and the food that lurks outside. That kind of food you have to catch and I’m not allowed outside. More on that later.
Before The Vet said I was fat, Mama used to give me treats. Milo says cats aren’t supposed to sit up and beg. He says it’s “conduct unbecoming to felines.” What does he know? Milo only eats the food in his bowl and popcorn. That’s it. Milo is weird and has no taste buds.
All I know is, I used to just sit at the treat cupboard and look at Mama. Then she would say, “Does Thor want a treat? Is Thor a good boy?” Those aren’t even hard questions! And I was like, “DUDE! Yes, I want a treat. Of course, I’m a good boy!” And I’d stand up and take the treat from her fingers.
It was a good life till that nasty vet ruined it. I wish they’d put me in HER car.
Milo is also embarrassed that I roll over for Alex. I’m like, come on, it’s not that hard. Alex says, “Roll over Thor! Roll over!” in this cute high-pitched voice and I roll over. I mean, I’m already lying down. What’s the harm? Milo says I should have my cat card revoked. I don’t even think there is such a thing.
Sometimes, if no one’s looking, Mama still gives me treats. She’s my favorite person because when I was a baby she saw me in a cage with my brothers and she reached in and picked me up.
We’d been abandoned – all of us. So, I know there are bad humans out there – worse than those who say you’re fat. There are people who would leave a litter of kittens beside the road. But Mama picked me up and held me under her chin and I was so happy I purred as loud as I could, so she took me home.
I’m still a little confused about my name, though. Most people call me Thor, but Zack calls me Thorla the Hutt, Stevener, Stinky and Dopey. Mama calls me Baby Kitty Boy, so I’m pretty sure that’s my real name.
Contrary to what’s been reported, I have other interests besides food – water for one. Every morning after breakfast I sit by Mama’s bed and wait for her to get up. She lets me drink out of the bathroom sink. It’s the best water in the world!
Then she turns on the shower. I used to sit on the edge of the tub to make sure she didn’t drown, but once I lost my balance and fell in. That wasn’t fun. Mama screamed and I jumped out and ran into the bathroom door. I had water in my eyes and didn’t know it was closed.
Now, I just wait on her towel and keep it warm. It’s my job. My other job is to sit on her shoes so she can’t go anywhere. She’s always going places and I worry she won’t come back, so I sit on her shoes. It’s hard work. She’s got a lot of shoes and I’m never sure which ones she’ll wear.
My current hobbies include napping, bird-watching and squirrel surveillance – which leads me to my true passion – the great outdoors! I want to go outside more than anything. I know I’m not fat because I can be out the back door before anyone notices I’m gone. I’m stealthy and I’m fast.
I want to eat grass and the bugs in the grass. I want to snack on some birds or squirrels, but I’m never allowed. You want to know why? It’s because of The Vet, that’s why. She says, “Indoor cats are healthier and live longer than outdoor cats.” And my family believed her!
Once when I was little no one noticed I got out, and it snowed. I got scared and hid under Dad’s old car. It was stinky and I got oil on my fur. When they finally found me I was too scared to come out, so Dad got a broom and pushed me out. Then he gave me a bath in the kitchen sink. It was awful! I like water but not all over me.
When I sneak outside I ignore everyone when they call me – except Dad. When he yells my name I run as fast as I can inside. I remember the broom. I remember the bath. Trust me you don’t mess with a guy who’s not afraid to give a cat a bath. Plus he growls. I didn’t even know humans could growl.
So, that’s my story. I was abandoned but I got rescued. I’m not fat, I’m just fluffy. And aside from The Vet trying to ruin my life, I’m one contented cat.
This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review July 3, 2014.
In Spokane we have two seasons: Complaining About the Cold and Complaining About the Heat.
We’re smack in the middle of “It’s too hot!” season, but for once I’m not whining about the soaring temperature.
My family is shocked by this development. Usually, once the thermometer hits 80, I crank up the air conditioning, brew gallons of iced tea, and use the phrase “I’m melting!” repeatedly.
I actually have a medical diagnosis to explain my aversion to the heat. My family moved to Guam when I was a year old. According to my mother, I promptly broke out in an awful rash. She took me to the doctor and he said, “She’s allergic to the sun.”
Who knew you could be allergic to a star? I think I’m also allergic to James Franco, but that’s another column.
I asked my mom how they treated my allergy. She said, “I just put baby oil on you and tried to keep you in the shade.”
Difficult to do when you live on a Pacific island.
I guess I got over my sun allergy, but it came with a side effect – an aversion to sweat. Sunshine on my shoulders didn’t make me happy – it made me whiny. The feeling of moisture beading on my forehead or trickling down my back made my skin crawl. This meant as a teen, I couldn’t enjoy the sun-bathing rites of passage my friends adored.
They’d spray their hair with Sun-In or lemon juice, slather baby oil all over their bodies and lay in the sun for hours.
I tried to keep up with the trend, but could only last a few minutes before the heat and perspiration got to me. Plus, it was so boring!
I went through my teen years with pale skin and dark hair that smelled citrusy, but never lightened.
This sun/sweat antipathy appears to be hereditary.
My firstborn son quickly developed sweat-triggered whininess. As a toddler, the minute the sun shone anywhere near him, he’d moan, “I’m fweaty! Make fweaty stop!”
For awhile I thought he’d changed his name to Freddy, but I figured out what he meant when he pointed to his glistening forehead.
Being sweat-averse made aerobic exercise challenging, but I still managed to letter in basketball in high school. Basketball has the advantage of being an indoor sport – no sun in my eyes, plus the game was so fast I didn’t have time to notice any perspiration. Even if I did notice, I wouldn’t complain because if anyone whined, the coach made us all run extra laps.
As an adult I embraced tanning beds for awhile. I could nap and listen to my MP3 player and emerge with a satisfying glow. Then my gym replaced tanning beds with some sort of noisy stand up rotisserie machine. No thanks.
Now, of course skin cancer warnings dominate headlines. The yellow orb in the sky is something to be feared, and the use of tanning beds is frowned upon. Teenage girls get orangey spray tans instead of baby oil, a blanket and the backyard.
Not surprisingly, Vitamin D deficiency is on the rise and many sun-avoiders now take supplements to replace what they used to get from spending time outdoors.
Just when sun-worshipping is no longer popular, I’ve come to love the feeling of its warmth on my skin. It happened gradually. I started timing my daily walks for maximum sun time and minimum scorching. Tricky to do this week when the best time to walk was probably before I got out of bed.
Maybe my bones are getting older, but what once felt searing and unbearable, now feels warm and benign. I sit in our backyard gazebo with my legs in the sun and my face in the shade and read for hours.
I still don’t like triple digit temps, but I find the 90s tolerable and the mid-80s actually enjoyable. My family is amazed by this transformation. “Mom is outside AGAIN,” Sam will announce and his brother just shakes his head.
As I talked about my newfound love of the sun a friend opined, “Maybe this is God’s way of preparing you for menopause.” Stunned I stared at her. “What?” she said. “It’s going to happen sooner rather than later.” She then launched into a litany of misery that she’d endured. “It’s awful! But we all survive it somehow,” she said.
Great. Apparently, there’s a third season looming on my horizon – Complaining About Hot Flashes.
This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review July 17, 2014.
The fading late afternoon sun, blurred by the haze of wildfires, fell softly across the foot of his bed. A smoke-tinged breeze wafted through the open French doors.
His once-commanding frame seemed frail against the stark whiteness of crisp sheets and rumpled pillows. I stood quietly beside him, a writer at a loss for words.
Nick Gaynos was dying.
The World War II veteran and Pearl Harbor survivor had endured many things, but the loss of his beloved wife, Tex, was proving too much for his heart to bear. After more than 70 years with her, he doesn’t want to be here without her.
I met Nick and Tex in 2010 when I shared their Love Story with newspaper readers. His regal military bearing and her gorgeous red hair and sense of style made them one of the most elegant couples I’ve interviewed.
They laughed and bantered throughout the afternoon, recalling how they met in the Bamboo Room of the Hotel Californian in Fresno. Nick spotted Tex through some bamboo fronds and was immediately smitten. He told his friend, “See that redhead? I’m going to marry her!” His buddy replied, “No way!” Gaynos said, “I’ll bet ya $10.”
Six weeks later he collected that $10 as he walked down the aisle to marry Tex.
His smile faded when he recalled the horror of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The young private was in charge of air/ground communications at Hickam Air Field on Dec. 7, 1941.
He was asleep in his bunk when the earsplitting scream of airplane engines and the rat-a-tat sound of bullets strafing the barracks woke him. Grabbing his pants, he scrambled out the door.
As he ran down the beach back toward his duty station, a Japanese Zero strafed the sand around him. He hit the ground and covered his head. Gaynos said he felt a hot breeze and heard a whistling sound inches from his ears. He looked up and saw the face of the pilot as he flew alongside him. The pilot grinned.
When Gaynos got up he discovered a large piece of shrapnel next to him. “I grabbed it,” he said. “It was still hot from the explosion.”
After Pearl Harbor he was sent to Officer Candidate School and quickly moved up through the ranks. He married Tex in 1943 and enjoyed a long military career followed by a successful second career in real estate.
On a recent day, I came to tell him that their story will be included in a book I’m working on and to collect photos for the project. His daughter warned me that his health was fading and he wasn’t expected to live much longer.
His caregiver greeted me at the door and Gaynos opened his eyes briefly when I entered the room, then he sighed and turned away.
I sorted through the photos, selecting the ones I needed, and when his caregiver went to photocopy them, I approached his bed.
“Nick,” I said.
His eyes fluttered and he slowly raised his hand. I took it and he wrapped his fingers around mine. His eyes fell shut, but his grip on my hand was firm.
I told how I admired Tex, and how much I appreciated that after talking about the awfulness of war, we were able to laugh together at the silly jokes and stories they shared.
“I’ve never forgotten that you told me that a sense of humor is vital to a marriage,” I said. “Thank you, Nick. Thank you for serving your country, for loving your wife, for sharing your memories with me.”
He sighed and released my fingers.
I heard his caregiver returning to the room, so I bent down and kissed his brow – taking a liberty I’m sure Tex wouldn’t mind.
According to recent statistics, World War II veterans are dying at a rate of 555 a day. Time is running out to tell their stories. But in this case, not only did I get to share this hero’s story, I also got to say goodbye.
As I drove away, my eyes blurred and the tears that had threatened all afternoon fell.
The tears weren’t of grief, but of gratitude.
This column originally appeared July 31, 2014 in the Spokesman-Review.
Cindy Hval 