Category: Columns

Columns, War Bonds

The Scrapbook

Cindy Hval

It’s been almost six months since my first book, War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation was released. I’ve signed hundreds of copies, but at a recent reading I was asked to sign something that brought tears to my eyes.

A sweet lady approached me before the event began and said, “I’m wondering if you will sign something for me?”  And she pulled out a bulging scrapbook from her basket.

War Bonds at Fairwood

It was filled with clippings from from my Spokesman Review newspaper column, The Front Porch.

“I’ve been saving them for years,” she said.

So, I blinked back tears and happily signed her scrapbook.

Writers are nothing without readers. To think my columns mattered enough for her to save delighted me. It also made me happy that my next book will be an anthology of those columns. Who knows? Maybe in a few years I’ll be doing another reading at that venue and this time I’ll have my own “scrapbook” of sorts, to sign.

Columns

Saying goodbye to Betty

Cindy Hval

Today’s Spokeman Review column.

Betty Schott (seated) wears a lei at a ceremony in 2014 to commemorate the 73rd anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor.

I loved to listen to her talk.

Though soft-spoken, Betty Schott, 98, had a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of humor. She smiled easily, laughed often, and called me “honey.”

But when her husband of 76 years died in May 2014, her smile faded and the quips didn’t come as quickly.

Adjusting to life without her beloved wearied her.

On Sunday, Betty died, 80 years and one day from the anniversary of her first date with Warren Schott.

I met the Schotts in 2007 when I interviewed them for my Love Story series. It was the start of a friendship that spanned eight years and immeasurably enriched my life.

From the beginning, a no-nonsense Warren assured me their story was no romantic tale. In fact, all those years ago, when a friend offered to set him up on a blind date with Betty, Warren scoffed, “Don’t do me any favors.”

He was a young sailor, not in the least interested in finding true love. But on July 4, 1935, love found him in the form of a beautiful, petite North Central High School graduate named Betty Forest.

They were married April 2, 1938, at the Wee Kirk O’ the Heather chapel at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Los Angeles.

When I attended their 75th anniversary celebration, Betty quipped, “Well, we got married in a cemetery and honeymooned in Death Valley, so we got all that out of the way!”

But as Pearl Harbor survivors, the Schotts saw more than their share of death.

Warren had been sent to the Naval Air Station at Pearl Harbor shortly after their marriage. Betty was determined to join him and worked until she earned her passage. She arrived on Ford Island in 1939 and they settled into a tiny apartment near Battleship Row.

Their bedroom overlooked the island’s runway, so they were accustomed to noise, but the sounds that woke them on Dec. 7, 1941, were unlike any 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.”

Warren 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!’ ”

While Betty filled fire extinguishers with other civilians in a supply warehouse, Warren had the grim job of pulling the dead and injured from the harbor. The men he pulled out of the water were covered in oil. Afterward, Betty discovered, “They got rid of every towel in my house trying to help clean them up. Finally they took down my kitchen curtains and used them.”

Over the years, they talked about everything, but on one topic Warren remained silent. “He never talked about the people he pulled out of the oily water that morning,” Betty said. “Never.”

It was often painful for them to share their memories. “Slamming a door for days after the attack would make you jump,” Betty said, recalling the terrible noise and confusion they experienced.

But the Schotts felt it was their duty to tell their story and to honor those who died that day.

Though they didn’t think their 76-year marriage was anything remarkable, they were tickled that their story was included in “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.”

When I visited with Betty in December while working on a story about the 73rd anniversary of Pearl Harbor, I returned some photos she’d let me use for the book.

She reached up and patted my cheek with her soft, timeworn hand. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” she said. And it felt like I’d received a blessing from my grandmother.

What I remember most was my last visit to her home – the home Warren had built, the home they’d shared for 65 years.

The plaque I’d seen years earlier still hung in the kitchen. It read, “Happiness is being married to your best friend.”

Warren’s death had left her adrift. She missed him so much, and she swore sometimes she could still see him sitting in his chair. She’d blink or turn her head and he’d be gone, but his presence was so real to her, his voice so compelling. Her own voice quavered when she said, “Every night at 11 p.m., he’d say, ‘Honey, now it’s time to go to bed.’ ”

That’s why I would not be at all surprised if on Sunday morning, Betty heard him whisper, “Honey, now it’s time to come on home.”

And of course she went to him. How could she not? She said, “He’s been my best friend for 77 years.”

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.

Columns, War Bonds

Books and the stores that sell them are in good hands

Cindy Hval

In today’s Spokesman Review column I write about what I’ve observed in bookstores across the area.

It seems the dirge lamenting the demise of printed books and the stores that sell them was sung a bit too soon.

Last month, the Christian Science Monitor featured an article about the rise of independent bookstores.

“After a precipitous fall, indie bookstores are making a quiet, but sure, comeback,” the correspondent wrote. “In fact, the number of independent bookstores has increased 25 percent since 2009, according to the ABA (American Bookseller Association). What’s more, sales are up, too.”

And the Associated Press reports that e-books sales have leveled off, leaving print books as the most popular medium of choice.

As someone who’s spent a lot of time in bookstores lately, I’ve had an eyewitness view of this phenomenon.

Since the February release of “War Bonds,” I’ve spent many weekends signing copies or doing readings at stores across the region, and what I’ve seen is enough to warm even the most skeptical writer’s heart.

The most wonderful thing I’ve observed is that bookstores seem to be a destination for young families. On a recent Saturday at a Spokane Valley store, scores of kids still dressed in soccer uniforms browsed the shelves with parents in tow.

A miniature Spider-Man clutched a stack of books. He raised his Spidey mask just long enough to ask his mom for “just one more, please, please, please!”

At another venue, a little boy marched up to my table. “Are you a famous author?” he said.

“I don’t know about famous, but I’m an author,” I replied.

He slowly traced my name on the cover and then shouted, “Dad! Dad! I met a famous author and her name is Cindy!”

From my vantage point, I watch the expressions as people enter. Some are focused and frowning. They have a specific purchase in mind and want to dash in and out.

Then there are what I call “my people.” They enter with bemused expressions, with no certain destination in mind. One woman took a deep breath and said, “I love the smell of books!”

These folks wander from shelf to shelf, picking up a book here and there, stroking the covers, reading the flaps. Sometimes they leave with a stack of books, sometimes just one, but they always leave smiling.

As you’d imagine, I get a fair number of questions while parked at a table near the front of a store. The most common one being, “Did you write this?”

At least that’s a question I feel confident answering.

The second most frequently asked question is, “Where’s the bathroom?”

I’ve also been asked what woodworking books I’d recommend and if I have a favorite travel book. Thankfully, there’s usually a sales associate nearby.

Then there was a youngish man who stopped and asked about my book. When I mentioned I write for The Spokesman-Review, his eyes widened and he said, “I was written about in an opinion column, once.”

Intrigued, I asked why he was featured and he launched into his tale of woe.

“See, I was working at the KFC and this old, cranky-looking dude came in. He was like, totally, old and totally cranky and I didn’t want to make him crankier, so I offered him the senior discount. BOY! Did he get MAD! Then the next week, there I was in his column and he’s complaining about the KFC kid offering him a discount. I was like, dude, you’re already old and cranky, take the damn discount!”

I hope that gentleman doesn’t mind being featured in yet another newspaper column.

At one store, a couple stopped to have a book signed. She said the bookstore was part of their date night. “We have dinner and then come here,” she said.

Now, that’s romantic!

But not everyone who enters a bookstore is there for the printed word. Most stores sell gift items, music and movies, too. That explains the conversation I had with a man about my own age.

He stopped and asked about my book. I gave him my spiel. He nodded, smiled and said, “I don’t read.”

Taken aback, I said, “Not even magazines or newspapers?”

“Nah,” he said. “I just don’t like reading.”

But for every nonreader there are others like the little tyke in his Spider-Man costume, clutching a stack of books and begging for just one more.

From what I’ve observed, books and the businesses that sell them are in good hands.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists

Columns

Falling For You

Cindy Hval

This column first ran in the Spokesman Review November 12, 2009

I made a painful discovery on Spokane’s mean streets a couple of weeks ago. You might say it just hit me: Falling down hurts a lot more at 44 than it does at 4.

Now, I’ve been walking and talking, sometimes even while chewing gum, for quite a few years. I don’t mean to boast, but it’s a skill I’ve worked hard to develop, and I’m pretty darn good at it. Yet, as my editor and I left a downtown coffee shop, I suddenly found myself facedown in the middle of the street.

After hearing about my accident, a journalist friend shook his head and said, “Well. That’s one way to trim the newspaper budget.” But I think I would have noticed a hard shove.

All I know is one minute I was walking and talking and the next I was flying. Kind of. My takeoff was good, but my landing needs a bit of work.

When I described what happened, a young friend exclaimed, “Oh, not the run-fall!” Apparently, the run-fall, as opposed to the stumble-fall, slip-fall or windmill-arms-almost-fall, is the most embarrassing kind of public tumble. Who knew?

In the few seconds it took for me to launch myself from sidewalk to street I had time for one thought: I hope I don’t spill my coffee. It was good coffee.

Alas, my coffee and I both splattered on Cedar Street. As I scrambled to my feet, I could hear my mother’s voice echoing inside my head. “Pride goes before a fall, dear.” I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but I was very proud of my ability to simultaneously walk and converse. Mom is always right.

My editor rushed forward, horrified. “Are you all right? You hit hard! You need ice!”

Actually, I felt OK at the time, just a bit shaken. “Am I bleeding?” I asked. But aside from a sore knee and a rapidly swelling cheekbone, the only blood appeared to be a few spots on my lips. Which were also rapidly swelling. Asphalt works even more quickly than Botox, but the application is probably more painful.

“I’m OK,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment.” And off I tottered to my car. After checking the damage in my rearview mirror, I decided to heed my editor’s advice to get some ice. I canceled my meeting and drove home.

Then the fun really started. Apparently, I was wearing the ladies version of Toughskin jeans, because my pants had nary a nick. My knee however, was a bloody, bruised mess. While that hurt, examining my face in the mirror was far more excruciating.

My new Angelina Jolie lips sported scuff marks around the edges and the swelling along my cheekbone was growing more colorful by the minute.

After swallowing several ibuprofen tablets, I applied ice everywhere I could and lay down. I felt like a fresh salmon packed for shipping. I then called everyone I knew to report my misfortune, but it’s hard to talk with a bag of ice on your mouth. Frustrated and bored, I decided to get back up. That’s when I discovered I hurt all over. I wondered if I’d been hit by a truck while prone on the pavement.

When my husband and kids got home I received appropriate amounts of sympathy and even a kiss from one of my teenagers, which almost made the fall worth it – almost. In the following days, my facial swelling receded, but my shiner sported an ever-changing rainbow of colors.

I grew used to pitying glances in the supermarket and snarky cage-fighting comments from friends. One quipped, “Well, no one can say you’re just another pretty face.” Interestingly, my husband managed to avoid appearing in public with me for an entire week.

So, now I’m mostly healed and have resumed walking and talking at the same time. I’m not yet brave enough to chew gum, but that will come.

Meanwhile, readers might want to say a prayer that I’ll stay properly balanced as snow-and-ice season continues. I don’t want to have to chronicle another mishap. After all, columns like this can give journalism a black eye.

Columns

Workouts offer a Wii fit of frustration

Cindy Hval

Knowing that every year my New Year’s resolution is the same (to regain the figure I had at 21) this Christmas my husband thoughtfully provided a gift to get me going in the right direction. No, I didn’t find a personal trainer under our tree, nor did I discover a gift certificate for liposuction. Instead, Derek bought me a Wii Fit Plus.

Wii Fit is an exercise-themed game made by Nintendo. You step on a balance board and it measures your weight, tests your balance and tells you your fitness age. The Wii Fit Plus is an enhanced version of the original game. I think the “Plus” means extra frustration at no extra charge.

Our 10-year-old technology expert set up the system for me. Following the instructions, I stepped on the balance board. Within seconds a message flashed on the television screen: “Unbalanced!”

As if that weren’t offensive enough, what followed was worse. My Wii Fit age? Forty-nine. Since that birthday is still five years away, I’m afraid I’ve muttered some uncomplimentary things about my Christmas gift.

I felt better when I discovered I could create my own personal trainer. I named him Sven. He’s a little pale and pasty and his lips don’t move when he talks, but he says positive things like, “Wow! You’re good at that!”

Of course, he said that when I was doing the deep breathing exercise, but it’s nice to have one’s skills appreciated.

The feedback wasn’t as encouraging when I proceeded to some of the more strenuous activities. The program lets you play a variety of games to work on areas like balance, strength training and aerobics.

As my children howled with glee, I attempted to head soccer balls without getting beaned by panda bears or shoes. I missed almost every soccer ball, but was repeatedly struck by the objects I tried to avoid. I think it’s disrespectful for children to laugh at their mom when she gets hit on the head with a soccer cleat.

So, I stepped off the balance board to tell them that. When I resumed the activity, a message flashed across the screen, “I know you took a break during this exercise, but don’t worry, it will get easier.”

That’s just disturbing.

The kids stopped laughing when I aced the step aerobics workout. Jane Fonda and I mastered this routine in the early ’90s. They were also somewhat subdued when I demonstrated my Rhythm Kung Fu competency.

But then I tried Rhythm Boxing. My audience distracted me. If it had been a real match I would have been KO’d in the first 10 seconds. I didn’t fare any better at Hula Hooping, and the Yoga routine exhausted me. I decided to take a break for a couple days.

Not a good plan.

An even worse idea was checking my fitness age at 10 p.m. on Sunday night. The stupid game said I was 62! I’d aged 13 years over the weekend. I blamed it on my kids being home for Christmas break. Well, that and Christmas cookie consumption.

But I didn’t give up. Sven and I are working out every day and the kids aren’t allowed to watch. I just wish my Wii trainer would get a tan and some new exercise attire. Still, he seems pleased with my progress. Yesterday, he said, “Well, persistence isn’t a problem for you, now, is it?”

That persistence is paying off. My latest fitness age is 38! I may never again have the figure I had at 21, but I won’t stop until my Wii Fit Plus tells me I’m 29.

I wonder if I can get that on my driver’s license?

This column first ran in the Spokesman Review, January 7, 2010. Sven and I broke up shortly thereafter.  But I’m pleased to tell you we’ve reconnected and are back to monthly workouts.

Columns

A baby changes everything

Cindy Hval

In the midst of unearthing Christmas decorations, I surveyed the downstairs family room. Actually, “wreck” room is a more apt description. Green and red bins burgeoning with tinsel and ornaments perched precariously on tabletops. Blue bins overflowing with winter garb towered with ominous instability in opposite corners. And stacks of paper on the floor revealed last year’s resolution to stay current with filing has been a dismal failure.

Overwhelmed, I looked for a place to sit. And then I saw it – my rocking chair. Banished to the basement when my youngest grew too big to cuddle comfortably with me in its confines.rocking-chair-cushions[1]

I removed the mountain of snow pants and ski gloves that had buried it and sat down and began to rock. As I swayed, I remembered the first time I saw this chair, on a Christmas morning 20 years ago.

Our first baby was due Dec. 31. We’d prepared a blue and yellow nursery to welcome our little one. A bassinet covered with lacy white netting waited in one corner. Under the window, a changing table stocked with diapers and soft blankets stood ready. But one thing was missing – a rocking chair.

Money had been tight as we prepared to live on one income, and we’d cut back on our Christmas spending. After exchanging gifts, my husband said, “Oh, I almost forgot! I left a present downstairs.”

Bewildered, I followed him to the basement, and there it sat – an oak rocking chair. Derek had purchased it unfinished. Each night after work, he’d lovingly labored on it, smoothing rough edges and coating it with a warm brown lacquer. Somehow, he’d sneaked it into the house without my knowledge.

I threw my arms around him and sobbed. “Better try it out,” he said. So I sat down and began to rock. It was perfect. I don’t think I stopped smiling the rest of the day.

Late that Christmas night, I awoke with that vague discomfort all expectant mothers feel as their time draws near. I heaved my hugely pregnant form out of bed and waddled to the nursery. The rocking chair beckoned, bathed in the glow of the moonlight.

As I sat down and began to rock, the baby responded, squirming, stretching, his small feet doing a tap dance on my ribcage. I whispered words of welcome and wonder to him and prayed for his safe arrival.

I knew life would be different after this child’s birth, but all those Christmases ago I couldn’t have imagined the many ways I’d never be the same.

A baby changes everything.

Through the nursery window on that Christmas night, I watched snowflakes drift lazily down, illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlight. And I thought of another mother 2,000 years ago, who swayed on a donkey’s back as she traveled to Bethlehem.

Her discomfort must have been magnified by the harshness of her journey. Surely, just like me, she must have contemplated her child’s birth. She must have whispered to him and wondered about him, while her back ached with every passing mile. And like all mothers, she couldn’t have imagined how different her life would be the moment she held him in her arms.

A baby changes everything – sometimes even the world.

Merry Christmas.

Columns

Christmas Traditions Grow Along With Kids

Cindy Hval

10363967_808050315900264_1669020257946437512_n[1]When Tevye and the cast belt out “Tradition” in “Fiddler on the Roof,’ they’re singing my song.

I, especially, love the ritual, familiarity and comfort of holiday traditions. For me, it begins on the day after Thanksgiving. While many folks shop til they drop on Black Friday, I decorate til I drop.

My sons unearth the red and green plastic tubs bulging with garlands, angels, Santas and candles, and lug them to the living room. Then I pop a Christmas CD in the stereo and spend the day awash in memories of Christmas past.

Each item from the Play-Doh nativity set, to the Homer Simpson Santa Claus, to the chipped and scratched snowman dishes has a story.

This year I’m making room for new stories by learning to hold less tightly to treasured traditions.

Actually, the process began a couple of years ago with the Christmas tree. Since our boys were tiny, Derek has taken them to Green Bluff to cut down a tree. But our sons are now 21, 19, 17 and 12. Finding a time when everyone has the day off from work to make the trek to the tree farm became impossible.

Derek eyed fake trees, but the younger boys and I rebelled. We reached a compromise: a freshly cut tree from a local tree lot. We also gave up trying to find a night that everyone would be around to trim the tree. I don’t feel too bad about that. Six people, two cats and one tree can create a lot of Christmas chaos.

Other changes have been more difficult to embrace. For 26 years I’ve celebrated a traditional Norwegian Christmas Eve with my in-laws. The feast is a smorgasbord of Norwegian foods and delicacies, but the real flavor comes from the gathering of extended family.

My father-in-law loved Christmas Eve. He was in his element at the head of the table with his wife by his side, surrounded by his four children, their spouses, and his 14 grandchildren. His booming laugh and warm bear hugs made everyone smile.

This was our first Christmas since his death. Instead of ignoring the empty space his absence has left, family members shared their favorite Papa memories. And in the light that shone from his grandchildren’s eyes – in the echoes of their laughter – Papa’s presence was felt once again.

When we got home, no one mentioned leaving cookies out for Santa. That’s OK, Santa’s trying to slim down. Besides, I’m pretty sure our kitty, Thor, would eat them before Santa got a chance.

Christmas morning is different now, too. Santa still leaves filled stockings outside each boys’ bedroom door, but our oldest has to drive over from his apartment to get his.

In years past, four little boys would clamber on our bed at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning and dump their stocking bounty out for us to see.

I don’t miss the crack of dawn part.

And Sam, 12, informed me last year, “You know we all open our stockings while you’re sleeping and then stuff everything back in and take them to your room. You do know that, don’t you?”

Yes, I know that, because my sister and I did the same thing when we were kids.

The six of us still gather around the tree and read the Christmas story from the Bible before the unwrapping begins, but now there’s less unwrapping. I’ve discovered the older the kids – the smaller the presents. Unfortunately, smaller tends to equal more expensive.

Even so, I don’t really miss hundreds of Legos strewn across the floor, or tiny GI Joe guns getting sucked up the vacuum cleaner.

Clinging to traditions no longer current, is like trying to squeeze a squirming toddler into last year’s snowsuit. It won’t fit and someone will end up in tears.

This new year, I’m going to hold on to traditions that fit our family and let go of the ones we’ve outgrown. I don’t want to cling so tightly to the past that my hands are too full to embrace the present.

This column first ran December 29, 2011

Columns

Remembering the children of Newtown

Cindy Hval

20141214_130929This column first ran in the Spokesman Review, December 20, 2012

By the time you read this it will be almost a week since the horrific shootings in Newtown, Conn. Columnists, pundits and politicians will have opined, analyzed and commented. Graves will have been dug. Memorial services held.

The initial shock and horror has faded, muted by holiday happenings. After all, life goes on and sorrow dims.

As the reports unfolded Friday I sat stunned at my desk – each detail more heartbreaking than the last. Finally, I got up, put on my coat and headed out. I had Christmas shopping to do.

I stopped to watch the children laughing and shrieking in the play area at NorthTown Mall. Usually, I bypass the raucous place as quickly as possible, feeling profound gratitude that I no longer have to pause in my errands to let wiggly toddlers blow off steam. But on Friday the sight of their exuberant energy gladdened me.

Then I caught sight of a glittering Christmas tree with gaily wrapped packages beneath it. Suddenly, all I could think of were the festive packages lying forever unopened under Christmas trees in Connecticut. I quickly left the mall and went home, anxious to be there to greet my kids when they returned from school.

It was a rare day because I saw all four of my sons. My oldest stopped by to do laundry, and my second-born dropped off a vehicle he’d borrowed. I drank in the sight of them, bearded stubble and all, remembering their smooth baby faces that I once covered with kisses.

My heart broke yet again, thinking of eight mothers whose sons didn’t live to hear them nag, “Are you ever going to shave?”

Somehow we all got through the day didn’t we? We made it through the unending media reports. We hugged our children tighter. We cried communal tears. We prayed. We lit candles. We raged. We wondered. For a brief moment our nation was united. Sorrow can have that effect.

But the days wore on. The details offered no rhyme, no reason. The pro- and anti-gun folks hurled invectives and recriminations at each other. Politicians seized platforms, and many of us just wished the nightmare would go away.

And it will. Unless you lost a loved one in Newtown, Conn., the memory of this event will blend into a collage of other senseless tragedies. However, one name will be etched in our collective memory: Adam Lanza.

This is what haunts me the most. Why do we remember the killers when the victims and their families deserve to be forever enshrined in our consciousness?

Do you remember the names of anyone who died at Columbine, aside from the shooters? Have the faces of those who perished in Oklahoma City vanished from your memory while the face of Timothy McVeigh burns brightly?

So, Friday I went back out. I bought a 2012-dated ornament, wrapped it and placed it under our tree. On Saturday, when the names of the victims were released, I covered the small package with glittery name tags. The tags read: For Benjamin, Emilie, Grace, Noah and so on – 20 names in all.

On Christmas morning, this gift will remain under our tree. It isn’t meant to be opened. It’s a memorial of sorts. I will pack it away with the Christmas decorations and place it under the tree next year, and the year after that.

I don’t want to forget what happened on Dec. 14, 2012.

The children who died deserve to be remembered. It’s the only gift I have to offer them.

Columns

Critiquing Christmas carols filled with peril

Cindy Hval

First, let me be perfectly clear. I do not hate John Lennon. Just because I opined that “Happy Xmas (War is Over)” is one of the worst Christmas songs ever, does not make me a Lennon-hater – or worse a Beatles-basher.

I also loathe “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas,” but no one has accused me of being a hippo-hater. Yet.

The brouhaha began when I posted my opinion about the worst Christmas songs via various social media sites. One Facebook friend wrote, “Nothing any member of The Beatles has ever done is the worst of anything. Ever. Period. The end.”

Many agreed, but one friend remarked that Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” is pretty dreadful.

The situation worsened when I attempted to explain my disdain for “Happy Xmas.” I wrote, “Every time I hear the refrain ‘So this is Christmas and what have you done,’ I want to scream, WHAT HAVE I DONE!? I have baked, cleaned, shopped, wrapped, mailed, cooked, cleaned, baked and shopped like a madwoman. THAT’S WHAT I’VE DONE.”

To which a commenter at Huckleberries Online replied, “Um, I think John meant “What have you done FOR OUR EARTH AND MANKIND AS A WHOLE.”

I am pretty sure this commenter wasn’t trying to make me feel better.

But it wasn’t all bitter bickering in social media land. In fact, many posted Christmas songs far worse than the two I’d mentioned.

Notably, “Please Daddy (Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas),” a truly terrible twangy John Denver nightmare featuring the refrain, “Please Daddy, don’t get drunk this Christmas, I don’t wanna see my Mama cry.”

Not exactly “Joy to the World,” is it?

Others mentioned least favorites included anything by Alvin and the Chipmunks, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” and “Dominick the Italian Christmas Donkey.”

I could swear my ears began bleeding after listening to Dominick hee haw his way through the first verse.

Some folks’ choices surprised me. For instance, a couple of people referred to “Baby It’s Cold Outside” as the holiday “date rape” song. While I love this duet, I concur that it definitely has a creepy element. Listen, if your date says she has to leave, it really doesn’t matter how cold it is outside, let her go.

But for sheer tragedy, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” is pretty hard to beat. So many horrible issues raised for an innocent tot. Is Santa cheating on Mrs. Claus? Or worse yet is Mommy cheating on Daddy? If Mommy and Santa get married will I have to move to the North Pole?

Don’t even get me started on “Then I saw mommy tickle Santa Claus, underneath his beard so snowy white.”

Talk about inappropriate. Who knew Christmas tunes could be filled with such morally questionable messages?

Sometimes songs with even the most positive of messages are disliked. One blog commenter expressed disdain for the Band Aid classic “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” The commenter wrote, “Answer: No, because they are starving African non-Christians, you moron.”

Even sentimental contemporary ballads aren’t universally liked. “The Christmas Shoes,” for instance. This sad song tells the tale of a little boy who wants to buy a pair of shoes for his dying mother. “I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight,” he explains.

Apparently, disliking this song is almost as unpopular as not enjoying “Happy Xmas.” A blog commenter wrote, “… saying that you aren’t moved to tears by ‘The Christmas Shoes’ is like saying you and the devil operate a dog fighting ring together.”

Lesson learned: Opining on Christmas music can be as combustible as decorating a dried out tree with lighted candles. The next time I ponder posting musical opinions; perhaps I should just leave it a “Silent Night.”

Columns

The Legend of the Christmas Tree Meltdown

Cindy Hval

??????????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