Author
I mean, what’s the point of embarrassing moments if you can’t share your humiliation with the world?
Thankfully, the time I inadvertently modeled my lingerie for a road crew wasn’t captured on YouTube, so you’ll have to settle for this retelling.
Clink here for the fully-clothed totally respectable view from my Front Porch.
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I rarely blog book reviews, but this lovely book has a World War II theme and I adore a good love story with some deeper historical contexts.
Plus, we just watched the recently-released Netflix movie and to my joy the movie was wonderful and very much in keeping with the book.
Until I sat down to write this, I hadn’t realized that the author, Mary Ann Shaffer, died before the book was published and that her niece helped her finish it.
The added poignancy made the story feel that much sweeter.
So. Surprise!
This isn’t a book review. Just a recommendation to read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society AND watch the movie. You’ll be glad you did.
The latest Front Porch television segment features a sordid tale involving pig-kissing and macramé.
Watch the episode here and be sure to tune into Spokane Talks on Fox 28 Spokane, Sunday nights at 6 PM.
Next Sunday I’ll talk about how I learned to wear a bathrobe when retrieving the newspaper from my Front Porch.
Let’s just say the view from my porch can be quite revealing.
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Derek and Cindy Hval at the beach in Crescent City, California
When your youngest child who recently graduated from high school with honors utters such a simple wish, well, what parent wouldn’t want to fulfill it?
Sam is 18, and the window for family road trips is rapidly closing. His desire to see the redwood forest quickly became the focus of our family vacation.
Derek looked at maps and I booked hotels, and last week we returned from a trip that included the ocean, Shakespeare, waterfalls, the Columbia River Gorge and of course, ancient trees.
First I’d like to know what happened to all the Volkswagen Beetles? Every road trip from my childhood resulted in sore shoulders as my siblings and I played “Slugbug” or, as we called it, “Bugslug.” Our kids played it on family trips, too. But we traveled hundreds of miles and didn’t see a single Beetle till we returned to Spokane.
It’s probably just as well, because Sam was the only kid on this trip and you really shouldn’t punch your parents. Or your kids.
We picked Ashland, Oregon, as our central destination, making the grueling drive in one day. Smoke shrouded the landscape across Washington and into Oregon.
Speaking of Oregon, we thought the recently-passed gas law meant we could pump our own gas. Nope. Apparently, it varies by city or county. Derek opted to try at every fill-up, but was rarely successful.
Ashland is home to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Derek and I had enjoyed a trip there several years ago, and had been anxious to return. We wanted Sam to see a play and mulled the options. The outdoor Allen Elizabethan Theatre is iconic and offers a fabulous experience, so we bought tickets for “The Book of Will,” which was slated for that theater during our stay.
The smoke-filled skies had me worried. The theater had canceled several performances due to poor air quality. Our hotel clerk said in the event of bad air, they move the play to the high school auditorium. Not at all what we were hoping for.
But first the redwoods. The Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park is just a two-hour drive from Ashland, so we crossed our fingers as we set off from the smoky city in the morning.
As we crossed the border into California the skies cleared. Who knew we’d have to drive to California to breathe fresh air?
We wound our way through the primeval forest, carefully avoiding gawkers who pulled over on the side of the narrow road to take pictures. Stopping at the Hiouchi Visitor Center 9 miles east of Crescent City, California, we picked up a map and directions to Stout Grove, a half-mile loop walking trail.
The stillness of the redwood forest is surreal. The immensity of the towering trees, the soft sunlight filtering through ancient branches, adds a unique hush, making the grove seem more like a church than a forest.
Indeed, a short time later while exploring a side trail, I happened upon a partially hidden makeshift memorial – a small cross made of sticks and a photo of a bearded man. I imagine this must have been his favorite place.
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Sam and I did get the giggles counting how many times Derek said the word “huge.”
Crescent City is a short drive from Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park. We cruised into the sleepy town looking for a lunch spot with an ocean view.
“Why don’t you drive that way?” I suggested to Derek, pointing at the ocean in the distance.
Amazingly, the street ended at small parking lot with steps leading down to the beach. Even more amazing, we had the whole beach to ourselves! From old growth forest to tide pools, sand, waves and driftwood in 20 minutes.
After beachcombing, we found a harbor-side restaurant, and a chorus of barking seals serenaded us while we ate.
The smoke was clearing in Ashland the next morning, so we spent the day shopping and walking through Lithia Park. I hesitantly made reservations at an outdoor dining spot, but I needn’t have worried. We sat down to dinner under brilliant blue skies and later, stars twinkled above us as we watched the play in the outdoor theater.
In fact, the only rain we encountered was a light drizzle at Multnomah Falls on the way to Hood River the following day.
The rain didn’t dim the beauty of the falls, but it did close the path to the highest point.
We spent the last day of our trip exploring downtown Hood River, and then relaxing in the sun and the wind on the beach, marveling at the windsurfers, riding the waves.
Like most busy families, we’d started vacation tired and stressed. Each of us wrestling with worries both big and small.
But something happened.
Was it when we sat on a piece of driftwood, staring out at the vast blueness of the Pacific Ocean while the waves lapped the shore at our feet?
Was it when we walked through the silence of the ancient redwoods while the sun filtered through the foliage of God’s cathedral?
All I know is the cares and concerns that once loomed so large seemed to shrink, to lighten, to dissipate into the wonder and beauty of nature.
It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
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Cindy and Derek walk through the redwoods
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Cindy Hval 