Category: Columns

Columns

A change of address

Cindy Hval

I’m a fiercely loyal person.

I’ve cheered for the Seattle Seahawks since Chuck Knox came on board as head coach.

I’ve been married to the same man for 40 years. I’ve shopped at the same grocery store for the same amount of time, even after they moved an inconvenient distance from my home.

Speaking of, I’ve lived in the same house for 33 years.

The same stylist has done my hair in the same style for about 15 years. It’s probably time for a new ’do, but not a new stylist.

A friend gently pointed out that fierce loyalty might be another way of saying I’m change-averse.

Fair point, especially in light of recent circumstances that foisted change upon me.

Approximately 27 years ago, we got our first home computer – a big, bulky Gateway. So long ago that my first email address was AOL and we had a dial-up connection. At the time, I was pregnant with our fourth kid and only used email to stay in touch with out-of-town family and friends. Remember the days before social media memes when we would send each other funny jokes/stories?

My husband decided we needed a family email address. He discovered a free version of Juno and created an account: D for Derek, C for Cindy, and our last name. That’s what I’ve used ever since, even though Derek changed his personal email long ago.

By that time, I’d launched my freelance writing career and all of my work contacts were tied to Juno, so I persevered and paid to upgrade to a professional account.

Fast forward to a year ago, when that account was repeatedly hacked. If you received a note supposedly from me with the subject line Cindy Hval invites you … I’m sorry.

I spent the past year changing my passwords every few weeks. At my age, I’ve only got so many passwords left in me!

Equally annoying, the Juno spam filter never worked, so I was constantly flooded with bogus links to recipe sites and political junk.

When my account got hacked again last month, a few days before we left for vacation, I’d finally had enough.

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” may be my motto, but Juno email was well and truly broken.

Since I already had a Gmail account (cindyhval@gmail.com), I opted to make the switch.

That’s when I discovered changing your email address is almost as labor-intensive as changing your physical address.

I started with a bang by sending this note to everyone in my contact list: “I’m ending my relationship with Juno. It turns out breaking up isn’t hard to do.”

Except, unfortunately, it is because I forgot the “l” in Gmail when I sent the first batch.

Then I realized everything from my bank account to my healthcare providers to my library card was tied to that email. Even worse, businesses make it very difficult to update your email address. I’ve ended up unsubscribing from a lot of stuff and hoping I can figure out how to resubscribe later.

Navigating a new email program is like learning to speak Italian or French. All of my tidy, easily accessible folders have to be replicated in an unfamiliar layout. And sooner or later I’m going to have to sync it with Microsoft Outlook.

I am not good at syncing.

On the bright side, I haven’t had to create a new password in several weeks!

For now, if you need me, I’ll be crossing off my old email address and inking my new one onto approximately 300 business cards because I’m too cheap to order new ones.

Au revoir, Juno. Vive le changement!

All Write, Columns

With zucchini, looks aren’t everything

Cindy Hval

Our first zucchini of the season proved puzzling.

It started like a normal green squash, but instead of getting longer, it got progressively plumper.

My husband, Derek, checked the garden marker he’d staked by the plant.

“It’s the same kind we get every year,” he reported.

We kept an eye out for her sprouting sisters and noticed the same development. They looked like normal zucchini until they reached about 4 inches, and then they just ballooned.

I posted a photo on Facebook and discovered we’re not the only ones with oddly shaped squash. Several gardeners reported similar results.

Spokesman-Review gardening columnist Pat Munts weighed in: “The smoke forces the bees into hiding, which affects pollination.”

Others opined that inconsistent watering early on, cross-pollination, or mixed-up seeds caused the deformity.

Since Derek was a Queen fan back in the day, I found the perfect name for our unusual crop.

“What we’ve got here are Fat Bottomed Girls,” I said.

The most important thing is, though they look odd, they taste great!

I chopped some up into a rich, savory Cheesy Zucchini Casserole topped with buttery Ritz crackers.

A large bowl of grated squash turned into two delicious loaves of Cheddar Chive Zucchini Quick Bread and two loaves of Chocolate Chip Zucchini Bread.

I have quite a repertoire of zucchini bread recipes, so it was fun to add a new chocolate chip version.

Bottom line? This year’s crop may be plump and slightly unwieldy, but they cook up well, and my freezer is filling with enough baked goods to last until next year’s harvest.

Cheesy Zucchini Casserole

9 zucchini, peeled and sliced (I usually use medium size; obviously this year I had to Google how many cups that might be! Also, sometimes I don’t peel them and it works out fine.)

1 large onion, chopped

½ cup (1 stick) butter

1½ cups shredded cheddar cheese

3 eggs, beaten

Salt and pepper to taste

48 Ritz or other buttery round crackers, crushed

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 2-quart casserole dish.

Boil zucchini and onion in a large pot for about 10 minutes; drain. Add butter, cheese, eggs, salt and pepper. Transfer to prepared baking dish and sprinkle cracker crumbs on top.

Bake in preheated oven for 1 hour.

Cheddar, Chive and Zucchini Quick Bread

I always double this recipe. One for the table and one for the freezer.

1½ cups shredded zucchini

¼ cup chopped chives

2 large eggs

¾ cup sour cream

¼ cup butter, melted and cooled

1½ cups shredded cheddar cheese

2 cups all-purpose flour

1½ teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

Mix zucchini, chives, eggs, sour cream and butter well before mixing in the cheese.

Mix flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt.

Combine the dry ingredients with the wet ingredients, then pour the batter into a greased 9-by-5-inch loaf pan.

Bake in a preheated 350-degree oven until a toothpick pushed into the center comes out clean, about 50 to 60 minutes.

Remove the dish from the oven, then add cheese and chives on top. Bake for an additional 10 minutes.

Remove from oven and cool.

Remove from pan and slice. Top with butter and enjoy.

Chocolate Chip Zucchini Bread

2 medium zucchini, grated (about 3 cups)

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup canola oil

1½ cups sugar

2 large eggs, beaten

2 teaspoons vanilla

1 cup chopped toasted walnuts (optional)

1 cup mini chocolate chips (Make sure you get mini chocolate chips. Regular chips tend to stick to the bottom of the pan.)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees and grease two 9-by-5-inch loaf pans. Place zucchini in the center of a clean dish towel and wring out any excess water.

In a large bowl, combine flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. In a separate large bowl, combine oil, sugar, eggs and vanilla. Whisk until smooth. Stir in zucchini.

Add about a third of the dry ingredients to wet ingredients, stirring until just combined. Add remaining dry ingredients in two more installments, stirring until just combined each time. Fold in walnuts and chocolate chips.

Divide batter evenly between 2 prepared loaf pans and bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 50 minutes. Cool in pans 10 minutes before inverting onto wire racks to cool completely.

Columns

Distilling life into a go-basket

Cindy Hval

On Aug. 1, ash coated the deck like the merest skiff of snow.

Blackened embers alighted willy-nilly on the garden, gazebo and lawn.

My husband picked one up.

“This looks like part of a page from a ‘Harry Potter’ book,” he said.

Earlier in the day, my friend Carol called.

“Honey, you’re in the Level 2 evacuation zone,” she said.

We’d just returned from a trip to see our grandkids and were looking forward to a relaxing day at home.

Of course, we’d watched the plumes of smoke billowing across the brilliant blue skies, but the air was clear. We knew about the growing Old Trails fire, but hadn’t downloaded any apps. After all, we lived miles from the blaze, and our neighborhood filled with ’70s- and ’80s-era split-level homes and ranchers was safely nestled between two bustling thoroughfares.

I had to Google what Level 2 meant. It indicates “get set” and signifies a serious and immediate threat to your area from a hazard such as a wildfire. You must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice because conditions can worsen rapidly.

Derek was working in the yard.

“We’re at Level 2; we should probably pack something,” I said.

He shrugged.

“I’m watering the garden.”

Worried about my brother and his wife who live in Indian Trail, I checked the evacuation maps. They were in Level 3 “go now.” Likewise, Derek’s two sisters and their families in the Whitworth area.

I lugged photo albums from cupboards while texting everyone. My sisters-in-law decided to stay in their homes and keep watchful eyes on the fire maps. My brother and his wife inched their way down Indian Trail Road with hundreds of others, as planes dropped pink fire retardant and homes blazed around them.

Meanwhile, I discovered we have way too many photo albums. My firstborn’s baby pics alone fill three! The albums are big and heavy. What to pack them in?

I hurried downstairs and fetched my biggest laundry basket and the cat carrier.

Oh no! One carrier – two cats. Since Walter is almost impossible to get into the carrier, I decided we’d put Freya in it and “purrito” wrap Walter in a blanket if we had to go.

Since we travel a bit, our toiletry bags were ready to go. I shoved them in my canvas beach tote with a change of clothes and the cats’ dishes and food.

Grabbing another tote, I stuffed in some pajamas, a pair of tennis shoes, and a box of contacts.

Derek had come inside, so I asked him to get our important documents.

“All of those are replaceable,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

That’s when I realized he couldn’t easily access important documents like the deed to our house, car titles, and our marriage license.

“You need to organize your filing cabinets,” I said.

“Now?” he asked.

Instead, I asked him to get some clothes for our “go-basket.”

He handed me a T-shirt, two pairs of underwear, and two pairs of socks, and put his laptop case next to the basket.

That night, we let the cats sleep with us and kept our phone alerts on.

In the morning, friends checked in. One offered us a place to stay if we had to evacuate, another shared what she’d packed in her go-bag. That’s when I realized I hadn’t packed my wedding rings or any other jewelry.

As Sunday dragged on, the fires blazed, and our evacuation status remained unchanged. Throughout the day, I added and removed items from the basket. The cat food and dishes went back to the kitchen–water bottles and toothbrushes went in the basket. Work documents, recipes and current photos were all backed up somewhere in the cloud.

On Monday, we left our house for the first time since Friday. I drove to the Valley for an appointment and took our go-basket with me. Since Derek’s office is closer to home, he was in charge of grabbing cats and laptops if our situation worsened.

For us, it didn’t. Our family members stayed safe, and so did our homes. We were fortunate, but hundreds in our community were not. And so we grieve alongside them. Find practical ways to help when we can. Share lists of resources. Listen to their stories.

As I write, it’s been a week since Derek called me to the deck to see the ash, to touch the fragile embers, to bear witness to the devastating damage those charred windblown fragments represented.

I’ve emptied our go-basket of everything except the photo albums. I’m not yet ready to tuck them back into cupboards.

It’s amazing how small your idea of what you need becomes when faced with the enormity of your community’s catastrophic loss.

Columns

I found my role models in the obituary pages

Cindy Hval

Reading newspaper obituaries offers more than just a snapshot of our community and the people who graced it. Those column inches often introduce me to new role models.

Navy veteran Judith Renee Lasswell was just a year younger than me when she passed away in January.

Her obituary suggests that the best way to honor her values and her memory is to support and frequent your local library. Wherever Lasswell lived, she got a library card.

“Also, enjoy a good glass of wine, watch a movie (extra points if it’s scary), and of course, pet all the dogs.”

Those seem worthwhile goals, but I’m going to pet all the cats, too.

Patricia Kearsley had a keen ability to live in the moment. She’d stop her afternoon to dance to the Pointer Sisters on a tiny trampoline.

She felt comfortable in groups, but she also appreciated a quiet moment with a good book in her big blue chair. (Note to self: Buy a big blue chair.)

Kearsley became “Poppy,” a beloved grandma known for her sense of humor and always having orange slice candy on hand.

Her family writes that it was devastating to watch Alzheimer’s steal her spirit, but offered the following comfort.

“She imbued her friends and family with her sense of fun, adventure, and thoughtfulness, and the Patti party will continue, even though she’s gone.”

Sharon Clark had a rare gift for bringing joy into ordinary moments – often by making up songs on the spot, filling car rides and daily routines with laughter.

Going to a movie with her must have been a hoot. It seems she was famous for smuggling in a personal pan pizza or candy to mix into the popcorn.

The candy I can see – but a personal pan pizza shows absolute ingenuity!

Ruth “Mary” Kyle sounds a bit like my mom.

“She showed love by feeding you, worrying about you, and making sure you were properly dressed for the weather.”

Raised by her grandma, some of her happiest memories were of time spent in Granny’s garden, picking cucumbers and onions and nibbling green beans and snap peas fresh from the vine.

Those simple pleasures continued into her adulthood. She always had a bowl of cucumbers and onions chilling in the fridge.

Her obituary speaks of her legacy.

“She leaves behind not only those who loved her, but the laughter of summers by the pool, the smell of fresh bakery sweets, and the quiet memory of Granny’s garden – cucumbers, onions, and all.”

Kathryn Routson was known for fun and for her wild, independent spirit.

Growing up in the Canadian Rockies, she danced the polka at her parents’ parties, raced her father’s Chevy truck against the neighborhood boys (and won), and she petted a wild bear on a dare. A photo of the encounter reveals a can of beer in her other hand.

I don’t aspire to pet a bear, but I would love to be remembered the way her family thinks of her. “Kathy’s eyes were often happy.”

Rosa Lee Kendall Morin is described as the kind of person who said yes more often than no, faced life directly and loved a good adventure. She had grit and she wore it proudly.

She believed deeply in showing up – whether that meant across town or across the country, often with a cake. She loved fiercely, laughed easily and taught by example that resilience and kindness are not opposites but partners.

Morin accepted people as they were, found humor in the absurd and had little patience for pretense. If something needed doing, she did it. If something was difficult, she faced it. And if something was funny, even inappropriately so, she was the first to laugh.

Meeting these women through the descriptions their friends and families share in the obituary pages offers a roadmap to a well-lived and well-loved life.

I just wish I knew Sharon Clark’s secret for getting a personal pan pizza into the movies.

Columns

Books and a Bride

Cindy Hval

A text I recently sent to my two oldest sons was factually accurate, but a bit eyebrow-raising.

“Your brother just married your brother!”

On July 3, our son Zach officiated at the wedding of our son Sam. I got a bit excited when I texted our older two, who weren’t able to join us in Texas for the festivities.

The ceremony, witnessed by close family and a handful of friends, was beautiful in every way.

Sam grew up in newsprint. He started first grade the same year I began writing Front Porch columns – much of his life documented in column inches. His three older brothers frequently appeared in print, but as the youngest by five years, Sam was around a lot more.

The knowledge that he was our grand finale in the parenting circus imbued many milestone moments with added emotion.

Some marked with sweetness – his first wobbling steps. Some with relief – no more potty training!

However, gratitude is the real reason I’ve documented so many of his milestones. You see, we weren’t sure if he’d get to have them.

Sam was born with a congenital diaphragmatic hernia. A hole had formed in his diaphragm during gestation, allowing his stomach and intestines to move into his chest cavity, crowding his heart and lungs. Our newborn was given a 50/50 chance of survival.

At 3 days old, he underwent surgery to repair the hole in his diaphragm. After a three-week stay in the neonatal intensive care unit at Sacred Heart, we brought him home.

During his final follow-up visit with the surgeon, we discovered that though he’d been born with only one lung, he now had two. It seems he’s been a bit of an overachiever ever since.

In 2018, he graduated from Mt. Spokane High School, and two years later, he received his Bachelor of Arts from EWU, thanks to the Running Start program. He earned his master’s from the university in 2022. Shortly thereafter, he accepted a job in the English Department at Odessa College.

Last fall, a new teacher joined the department, and soon Susan’s name was mentioned in every call home.

“We’re just friends,” he insisted.

That lasted about a month. He proposed on Thanksgiving. See what I mean by overachiever?

While waiting for true love to move from Bakersfield, California, to Texas to find him, he authored two novels. “The Deep Dark Place” was published in February by Cloaked Press and is available on Amazon, at bookstores, and at Spokane County Libraries.

Shortly before the wedding, he learned his second novel, “The Gospel of Dust,” had been accepted by the same publisher.

We’re enormously proud of all of our sons, but over the years, I’ve worried that Sam’s precarious start and precocious nature have made them feel overshadowed.

Then I remember that they’ve witnessed each milestone with me. How they’ve celebrated the youngest one that was almost lost to them, but now irrevocably part of their band of brothers.

I opened “The Deep Dark Place” and re-read the dedication to his three older brothers.

“What a privilege it was to once be boys.”

Sam’s marriage marks a new chapter in a story that continues to bring joy and gratitude in equal measure to all of us.

Columns

The Space Between Grief and Joy

Cindy Hval

Bags of Horehound candy and golden butterscotch discs.

Pond’s cold cream and Centrum Silver vitamins.

A pair of soft, brightly colored socks.

In the month since my mom’s passing, I’ve absentmindedly placed these items in my cart.

Turns out shopping for Mom is a hard habit to break.

Grief is a fascinatingly fluid thing. The day I put the cold cream and butterscotch candy in my cart, I realized my mistake, put the items back and left the store without purchasing a thing.

Small things can remind us of big losses, and sadness is sneaky. Meeting with a funeral home director brought nary a tear, but baking Mom’s brown sugar cookies the next day opened the floodgates.

Then I remembered who those cookies were for. Our youngest son was bringing his fiancée home to meet the family. The trip had been planned for months. While Sam was sad that Susan wouldn’t meet his Grandma Shirley, he was excited for her to meet us and to show off his hometown.

Baking is my version of killing the fatted calf. After the brown sugar cookies, I baked chewy chocolate cookies and chocolate chip cake bars. When I discovered Susan would be celebrating her birthday with us and that she loved chocolate, I made sure I had the ingredients for a Texas sheet cake on hand.

With a full freezer and a fuller heart, I welcomed our son and his wife-to-be.

I’ve spent the majority of my adult life in Hval’s House of Boys, so I admit I was a bit nervous and a bit giddy at the thought of having a girl in the house for an eight-day visit. I needn’t have worried because Susan fit effortlessly into our family.

Guess what? You can be sad and miss your mom and still joyfully fall in love with your future daughter-in-law.

It was fun to see Sam in full tour guide mode. In short order, Susan experienced Zip’s fries and tartar sauce, Yoke’s jojos (my kid likes his spuds), followed by a visit to Riverfront Park, including a ride over the falls.

They stopped by Derek’s shop, got a peek at The Spokesman-Review newsroom, and met the gargoyles atop the Chronicle building.

Sam took her to his favorite indie bookstores and showed her the Eastern Washington University campus, where he earned the degrees that brought them together. (They both teach in the English department at Odessa College in Texas.)

His brother, Zach, and his wife, Naselle, took them to Sandpoint on Memorial Day, and Susan survived meeting all of the extended family who live in the area in one epic backyard picnic.

There were board games, s’mores in the Great Gazebo and movie nights, but all too soon, it was time for them to fly home and finalize their wedding plans.

Meanwhile, we had other preparations to make.

On June 19, we placed Mom’s urn next to my dad’s at Fairmount Memorial Park and celebrated her long, well-loved life. Our family shared memories and “Mom stories,” and while there may have been a smattering of tears, we mostly laughed. Laughter is our family legacy.

As you read this, we are celebrating the wedding of Sam and Susan. I’m confident there will be lots of laughter and perhaps a smattering of happy tears.

The space between grief and joy is whisker-thin.

For me, that space has been filled with peace and a profound thankfulness for the blessings I’ve enjoyed and the delightful anticipation of the love that lies ahead.

Columns

#ThingsMyHusbandSays: The Month of Derek

Cindy Hval

We’re more than halfway through June, or as I call it, the month of Derek. With his birthday falling in the first week of June and Father’s Day shortly thereafter, we just celebrate him all month long.

In honor of his month, here’s another installment of #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• Been awake since about 5 a.m., when Derek rolled over and announced: “It’s in my pocket.”

His lips were an inch away from my ear, so I heard him loud and clear.

“What? What’s in your pocket?” I asked.

“I said it’s in my COAT pocket,” he replied.

Then he rolled over (OK, I gave him a nudge) and slumbered on.

• It seems that the middle of the night is when he does his best remembering. A while ago, he woke me at 2 a.m.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you something.”

“Whaaa?” I mumble.

“You have two new reviews of ‘War Bonds’ on Amazon, and they’re both five stars!”

I look at the clock.

“That’s great, but why did you have to tell me at 2 a.m.?”

“Because I just remembered.”

Derekisms

• “It’s like those annoying Pia Chet commercials.”

Me: “What?”

Him: “You know those darn Pia Chet plant thingies.”

• On why he forgot something: “I’m sorry. It went in one brain and out the other.”

• We were talking about a book that was made into a movie.

“Wasn’t it by Keevin Sting?” he asked.

And that’s how I’m referring to Stephen King from now on.

• “We’re not all cutthroat-hearted!” Derek lamenting the media portrayal of business owners.

Life according to Derek

• My husband is in denial about nodding off in church. “I was drifting off into prayer,” he said.

• Me: I get a lot of my best writing ideas when I’m in the shower. Do you get good ideas in the shower?

Him: When I’m in the shower, I wash my hair. It doesn’t take long.

• As the conversation in the dining room reached ear-splitting Hval decibels, I implored Derek to use his inside voice. “I’ve got the window open!” he replied.

• Watching a show set in Arkansas. “I lived in Arkansas,” he said.

“You lived in Alabama,” I replied.

“Same thing,” he replied.

• My husband’s theater reviews are quite succinct. Here’s what he had to say about the traveling production of “War Horse.”

“I feel sorry for the guy who had to be the horse’s ass all night.”

Married life

• Enumerating the ways he’s broadened my education: “Just think, if you hadn’t married me you would know nothing about Van Halen. NOTHING!”

• Him: I’m grilling hot dogs for dinner. Want one?

Me: You know I don’t eat hot dogs. I’ll just have a bite of yours.

Him: I’m grilling you a hot dog.

• Gym closure plus bad weather forced an indoor workout. I told Derek I don’t think I can do “Buns of Steel” anymore. “That’s OK,” he said. “I prefer Buns of Cushiness.”

• Me: I’m going to Costco to get gas. The last time I did this, I almost died because an idiot driver came inches away from hitting me.

Him: You can’t die. I didn’t buy you any life insurance. Now, I can die. In fact, if I die before 62, you’ll be set. You’ll probably get a younger man.

Me: Absolutely not!

Him: Really? You wouldn’t get a hot hipster?

Me: And risk a man bun and husband who looks better in capris than me? Are you kidding? But I’d definitely get another cat.

Him: Damn. I’m living on borrowed time.

• When your husband forgets that you are empty nesters and agrees to buy 30 pounds of ground beef – packaged in 2-pound increments no less!

“What were you thinking?” I asked. “We eat ground beef maybe once a month, if that!”

“Well, you make really good meatloaf,” he said. “I like meatloaf.”

• Every week when I visited Mom, I noticed a fellow always left his door propped open with his cane.

“I wonder why he does that,” I said to Derek.

“He’s probably hoping to get lucky,” he replied.

So, now I have to outlive my husband because somebody has to keep an eye on him.

Columns

Boys’ rooms get new life

Cindy Hval

When our youngest son moved to Texas almost four years ago, we didn’t fall into the empty-nester stereotype and convert his room into a home gym.

After all, he returns home a couple of times a year for long visits.

The room across from ours also remained untouched – unless you count everything from our bedroom closet that we placed there “temporarily” while Derek began building a walk-in closet.

He got sidetracked by other projects, and the room that was once occupied by all four of our sons became the “junk room.”

Then on Thanksgiving, Sam got engaged. Not only would he come home in May, but he’d be bringing the beautiful Susan with him!

Just like that, we had motivation for renovation.

First, Derek needed to finish the walk-in closet so we could clear out the junk room. That became the most labor-intensive part of our home makeover. We had everything from seasonal clothes to photo albums to boxes of china in there. And tools. Lots of tools that he wanted to keep nearby.

We agreed that the room would become a guest room/home office for Derek and that Sam’s old room would be transformed into a guest room with updated paint, lighting and furnishings.

The only glitch in our grand plans was that Derek wanted to do all of the work himself. With the spring visit looming, I balked at the idea that he could finish a closet and two bedrooms before Sam and Susan arrived. (There was also the matter of the unfinished shower in the downstairs bathroom.)

You don’t stay married for 40 years without learning the art of compromise.

My husband agreed to gut and redo the upstairs room, while I took charge of the downstairs room. This was great because I’d already hired a contractor to paint it.

When Sam moved, the sticky tack he’d used to hang scores of posters had left gouges and removed the paint in many places. The cobalt colored walls were scarred and stapled.

He’d attempted to paint his closet doorknobs red, cats had bent the blinds, and the ceiling light was dated. Only the lovely wood floor that Derek installed when he built the room still looked good.

I chose a soft, powder blue paint. In two days, the contractor painted the room and refreshed the molding and the closet. The result? A dark, outdated room transformed into a bright and airy space.

Derek installed new blinds and lighting, and then the real fun began –decorating.

The only new furniture I bought was a bed, an end table and lamps – everything else I sourced from our home.

A white shoe shelf from our old closet fit perfectly in a corner and holds books, games, movies and a few teacups.

My mom’s antique washstand became a TV stand. An easy chair from my office, draped with a soft white blanket, made for a cozy reading spot. I repurposed wall art from other rooms and bought a large white-framed mirror. A throw rug and blue-and-white bedding completed the transformation.

Meanwhile, Derek wasn’t having quite as much fun (or at least not what I consider fun). He’d removed the aging gold carpet in preparation for new laminate flooring, but a pesky squeak in the floorboards drove him crazy.

That squeak woke the babies who once slept there every time I’d tiptoed in to peek at them.

Derek wasn’t having it. He ripped up part of the subflooring, and after much YouTubeing, many nails and some creative language, he vanquished the squeak.

Before he could lay the new floor and paint the dingy white room light gray, there were holes to fill and texturing and priming to do.

Oh yeah, he also removed the horrible popcorn ceiling that adorned many houses built in the ’60s and ’70s.

After days and days of dust, he emerged and said, “Yeah. I’m not doing that again.”

Finally, he got to have fun. He brought up Sam’s bed and desk, and together we figured out how to haul our old pine TV armoire upstairs. The addition of my mom’s bookcase means Derek finally has a place to display his collection of shot and beer glasses.

The aging white ceiling fan/light was tossed, and he found a cool low-profile industrial-looking version online.

The day before the kids arrived, Derek installed the shower door.

Whew! Our empty nest transition is complete.

No home gym. No craft room. No shrine to childhoods long past. Just inviting rooms ready to welcome visiting kids and grandkids.

It was worth the wait.

All Write, Columns

Celebrating a lifetime of Mom’s love

Cindy Hval

On Mother’s Day, Mom and I had a lovely chat.

Though bedbound and in hospice care at her assisted living facility, her eyes lit up when I knelt beside her.

Alzheimer’s stole a lot from her, but not the memory of me.

I scooted close and we linked arms – her skin still so silky soft. As Derek snapped a photo, I said something that made her laugh.

“You’re just like your dad,” she said. “He made me laugh so hard!”

The cloudiness cleared from her beautiful, pale blue eyes, and she looked deeply into mine.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you so much!”

“I love you, too, Mama,” I said.

And I kissed her and told her we’d be back soon.

When I woke up Friday morning, I had a mom. A few hours later, I didn’t.

At 95, her death wasn’t unexpected but still a lot to process – especially since I saw her every Friday afternoon. I had her laundry washed and folded in a basket by the front door.

She’d waited 31 years to be reunited with my dad, and for the last few years, dementia drastically diminished the quality of her life.

Her world shrank, and so did she.

“I’m not hungry,” she complained. “But they say I don’t eat enough.”

“That’s OK, Mama,” I replied. “Guess what? You don’t have to clean your plate. You just eat what you want.”

And between moments of her fretting that “Jesus doesn’t want me,” there was love, prayers and so much laughter.

My file of #thingsmymomsays brims.

Here are a few reminders.

February 2021

Mom wasn’t sure how old she’ll be next month, and when I told her 90, she gasped.

“Well, that’s it then,” she said. “That’s about as high as I can count.”

April 2023

I shared the most recent pictures of the grandkids with Mom. She said, “Oh, they call you Aunt Cindy, right?”

I said, “No. I’m Nana Cindy, their grandma.”

She put my phone down.

“HOW DID YOU BECOME A GRANDMA!?”

“Well, Mom, when a boy loves a girl …”

“Stop right there!” she said.

And we laughed until we cried.

May 2023

“I’ve lived a long time, and I am amazed by the things I can remember, and then I’m amazed about all the things I’ve forgotten. I guess I’m pretty amazing!”

February 2024

Mom adjusted her recliner.

“Boy, that sounds creaky,” I said.

She nodded.

“I know, but I just creak along with it.”

May 2024

As previously mentioned, Mom’s lift chair creaks along with her, or as she put it today: “I’ve got sound effects to go with my sound effects.”

March 2025

Mom was in good spirits today.

The kitchen made her a special cake for her birthday. She said it was too pretty to eat.

It was pretty hard and stale, so I offered to toss it.

“Not yet,” she said. “It still looks good!”

I asked if she was going to enter the talent show at the end of the month.

“I think I’ll just sit right here in my chair,” she said. “I’m really good at it. I’m probably the best chair-sitter here.”

May 2025

Today, Mom was grateful for the view from her window – especially the trees.

It put her in a poetic frame of mind.

“Poems are made by you and me,

But only God can make a tree,” she recited.

If my 94-year-old Mom can be thankful and recite poetry, don’t you think the rest of us need to up our game?

February 2026

Mom is missing a lot of socks, so I bought her some new pairs for spring.

“You have a lot of single socks,” I said.

“I know,” she replied. “And I still have two feet.”

Long pause.

“So far, anyway.”

While the things my mom said bring smiles, it’s who my mom was that leaves an aching hole in my heart. Honestly, I’m not sure who I am, now that I’m no one’s “Baby Girl.”

This weekend, while sorting through the outpouring of kind condolence messages, this one from a dear high school friend and bridesmaid in my wedding brought comfort and rang so true.

“I am so sorry. I loved your mom,” she wrote. “Of all the Moms, yours was the sweetest and the funniest. You’ll be together again.”

Shirley Burnett, March 21, 1931-May 15, 2026. Beloved wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and friend.

Columns

The kids are more than all right

Cindy Hval

In 2006, the editor of the Voice section asked if I’d like to interview a future high school graduate.

“It’s for the grad tab,” he said. “You just interview the kid and keep it short. If you like it, I’ll have you do a couple more.”

Even though I’m a lifelong subscriber to The Spokesman-Review, I had no idea what the grad tab was. Maybe it was a new annual feature. Maybe I just ignored it because my kids were fairly young, but as a fledgling freelancer, I needed the work, so I agreed.

I interviewed Tim, a Ferris student who was earning his pilot’s wings. Tyrel, a Liberty High School footballer, who taught vacation Bible school and volunteered at the Spangle food bank. And Samson, a Mead student who used a wheelchair for six years, underwent a risky brain surgery and was able to walk down the aisle when he was crowned homecoming king.

The stories hooked me, and I’ve been writing them ever since.

My four kids grew to dread my seasonal graduation grumpiness. The extra work didn’t make me grouchy, but writing about students who overcame debilitating loss, physical impairments, mental health issues and trauma led me to compare them to my healthy, well-loved sons.

Not fair, I know, but certainly understandable.

After all, they’d heard me interview teens on the phone and watched the tears roll down my cheeks as I spoke with kids whose mom or dad had died and wouldn’t be there to snap a photo of their cap and gown-clad grad.

They’d watched me lace up my shoes and head out to walk off the rage that I felt after hearing about the abuse inflicted on boys and girls by adults who were supposed to care for them.

Of course, not every student profile is about young people overcoming hardship. Some teens are bright, high achievers, looking toward their futures with purpose; those stories are equally relevant and inspiring.

They also inspired me to check my kids’ grades online, which none of them appreciated. Let’s just say we all breathed a sigh of relief once all four of them successfully graduated.

This year’s graduation section runs on June 3, and I hope you’ll take the time to read about the wonderful teens poised to vault into their futures.

Of the 10 students I interviewed, two dealt with dyslexia, two have cerebral palsy, one is visually impaired, one has a connective tissue disorder, one lost a sibling to addiction, and one has a sibling with ongoing mental health issues.

All shared a singular commonality – each one looks to the future with excitement and optimism.

Conducting these interviews made me feel nostalgic and curious about what happened to the three young men I profiled in 2006.

They’re now in their late 30s, which made me feel ancient. I did a little internet digging and am happy to share the rest of their stories.

Tim did indeed become a commercial airline pilot. Tyrel pursued his dream job and is a project engineer at a local construction company. Homecoming King Samson was a Fulbright Scholar, a graduate of UC Berkley School of Law and served as editor-in-chief of the California Law Review.

Over the years, I’ve written anywhere from three to 12 grad profiles each issue, resulting in close to 200 features. I’ve found a double-stranded thread that weaves through every story.

One strand is the incredible resilience of these teens, and the other is that an adult, whether family member, teacher, coach or counselor, saw value in them.

Twenty years after writing my first student feature, these stories still leave me humbled and hopeful.

The kids are all right – and so, we will be, too.