Category: Columns

Columns

Soldier left lasting impression

Cindy Hval

11222012327060032108057A_t210[1]Staff Sergeant Matthew Henrick Stiltz

His face stared out me from the photo album. Dark hair with straight bangs falling across huge green eyes. A goofy grin and a Nintendo controller clutched in his hands.

Taking a sharp breath, I blinked rapidly as my eyes filled with tears. He looked so much like my son Alex they could have been twins.

Not all stories can be told in 1,000 words or less. Sometimes the nuances don’t match allowable column inches. Every once in awhile, the rest of the story stays with me – an unwritten, but ever-present ghost.

Today’s story about Matt Stiltz, for example.

When a local credit union decided to name one of its scholarships after the Shadle Park grad who was killed while serving in Afghanistan, I called his parents, Mark and Terri Stiltz, to see if they’d be willing to be interviewed.

They agreed, but during the course of our conversation I learned that it wasn’t an easy decision for them. After Matt’s 2012 death, he was featured in a flurry of newspaper and television news stories.

Strangers reached out to Mark and Terri, sending mementos, cards, even memorial dog tags. Military specialists shepherded them through the process of retrieving Matt’s body and funeral arrangements. Gold Star families sent a beautiful quilt. “We were embraced by a new family,” Mark said.

All the attention proved both comforting and unsettling. While thankful for the interest in their son, they know he’s just one soldier out of thousands who’ve lost their lives in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. Are those stories being told, they wondered?

Having their picture in the newspaper made them feel uncomfortable. Mark said, “We haven’t done anything special.”

Sometimes reporters are accused of journalistic voyeurism – of peering into private moments and broadcasting them to the world. And sometimes it feels that way as I sit with grieving parents or spouses, carefully documenting their heartbreak. But I believe the death of a bright 26-year-old man isn’t just a loss for his friends and family – it’s a loss for the community and for the country he loved and served.

Mark and Terri were so transparent with me that I wanted to be equally frank. I explained the short shelf life of media interest. “Honestly, five years from now it’s unlikely anyone from the newspaper will be calling,” I said. “And the only people who will remember Matt are those who knew and loved him.”

So, we sat at their kitchen table with photo albums and Matt’s baby book in front of us. Stories and memories tumbled out. Some made us laugh. One of Matt’s chores was cleaning up after the dog in the backyard. He developed a special outfit to deal with this task.

Terri said, “He’d put on his scuba mask and snorkel and attach two empty two-liter pop bottles to his back.” That’s right. He’d developed a dog clean-up breathing apparatus.

She continued, “He’d put on gloves and off he’d go. He wore this every time! I wish we’d got a picture of him in it.”

Turning a page, I came to the photo that took my breath away. “He looks so much like my second son,” I said.

The photo blurred as I gazed at it. That grin. That game controller. That glint in his green eyes.

Taking a breath, I quickly turned the pages to see pictures of Matt playing his trumpet or celebrating birthdays. I began to get a sense of the boy he’d been.

A lasting sadness for his parents is that since he joined the military immediately after graduation, they never really got to know the man he’d become. “The military grew him up,” Mark said.

Soon it was time to go. I thanked them for allowing our readers a glimpse of the person behind the Matthew Stiltz Scholarship.

As I drove away the tears I’d blinked back returned. I realized I hadn’t been truthful when I’d said five years from now, the only people who would remember Matt were the people who knew and loved him.

I never met him. But I know I’ll never forget him.

Staff Sergeant Matthew Henrick Stiltz

B. August 5, 1986

D. November 12, 2012

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.

This column first ran in the Spokesman Review, April 3, 2014

Columns

I Left My Heart in Houston

Cindy Hval

Hval 19He leaned his head against the window as the plane powered up for takeoff, and when the ground slipped away, his face split into a familiar grin.

At 21, our son Alex was enjoying his first flight. While it was fun to share the experience with him, my feelings were decidedly mixed. Derek and I were taking him to his new home in Houston.

I’m not a newbie when it comes to kids leaving the nest, but I’ve never had a son fly so far. Alex and his older brother, Ethan, 24, have always lived within a few miles of the family home. Houston is 2,123 miles from Spokane by car. I know. I checked.

The fact that this is the right choice for Alex and a great opportunity for him didn’t dull the ache in my heart. Flying is expensive and time-consuming, and it will probably be a year before we see him again.

The trip wasn’t all gloom and despair. We laughed at the airport when Derek got flagged for special attention by the TSA agent. “Sir, do you have anything in your crotch area?” the agent asked.

Derek looked bewildered. I could see so many possible – but inappropriate – replies flashing through his mind. Alex and I collapsed in a fit of giggles, while Derek calmly endured his pat down. “I’ve had Army physicals,” he said. “That didn’t even come close.”

Soon we were buckled in and on our way. It doesn’t surprise me that this son is the first to move so far from home – I’ve spent many years chasing him. I yelled “Slow down, Alex!” so much he thought Slowdown was his first name.

He’s always been fearless. He never found a tree high enough, a skateboard ramp steep enough, a roller coaster fast enough. Unfortunately, that same fearlessness propelled him headlong into some bad choices, and now at last he’s ready for a fresh start.

While I wish he could have that new beginning closer to me, I’ve supported and encouraged this move. He won’t know the strength of his wings until he tests them.

After a long day of travel we found an Italian restaurant within walking distance of our hotel. We laughed and traded stories and remembrances throughout our meal, trying our best to not make it seem like a last supper.

The next day, we loaded the rental car with all our son’s worldly goods – at least those we could afford to fly out with us, and delivered Alex to his new digs.

We spent some time touring the area, but we all knew we were putting off the inevitable. At last, Alex wrapped his arms around me in a fierce hug. “I love you, Mom,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Derek and I walked to the car and sat there for a long time. Neither of us felt confident enough to navigate a strange city with tear-filled eyes. I turned to my husband, “Can you believe he said, ‘Don’t worry, Mom!’ You’d think after 21 years, he’d know me!”

My husband shook his head. “It’s time to let him go, Cindy.” And with that he started the car. “Let’s go to Galveston!” he said. And we hit the road.

Less than an hour later we were on a ferry watching dolphins play and pelicans swoop in to catch fish in the bay. We took a long walk down acres of sandy white beach. We walked in silence for the most part – each lost in our own memories of our dark-haired boy.

Watching the waves crash and break along the shore soothed our tender hearts. We stood on a jetty for the longest time until the wind picked up and the spray sent droplets our way. I took Derek’s hand. “This was a good idea,” I said. And I didn’t mean just the Galveston outing – I meant our decision to help our son launch into a brave, new life.

We spent the next day in San Antonio. And at each stop from the Alamo, to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Odditorium, to the delightful shops and restaurants along the famed Riverwalk, we’d turn to each other and say, “Next year… .” Or “Alex will love this … .”

If baby birds need to fly from their nests to strengthen their wings, then perhaps mommy and daddy birds need to strengthen their hearts by letting their little ones fly.

All I know is my heart didn’t break when our flight took off and circled the sprawling city. How could it? I willingly left a piece of it in Houston, and it will still be there for me next year when I return.

This column appeared in the Spokesman Review, May 15, 2014.

Columns

Front Porch: Sometimes, a glimpse can say so much

Cindy Hval

Writers see stories everywhere.

In a little boy in full pirate regalia standing under an oscillating front yard sprinkle.

In an overheard conversation at the grocery store. “It’s not his baby. I don’t care what she says!”

In a tattered “Missing Cat” flier fastened to a streetlight with pink duct tape.

These bits and pieces of everyday life call to us and beg us to fill in the blanks – to uncover the rest of the story.

Flags flying at Washington State Veterans Cemetary

One place in particular teems with tales – the Washington State Veterans Cemetery in Medical Lake. Each year on Memorial Day weekend, after placing flowers at my father-in-law’s grave, I wander among the headstones and wonder about the people buried here.

Harold Schoessler lies here. According to his gravestone, he was “Washington State’s last horse soldier.” Born in 1918 and died in 2013, I would have loved to hear his stories.

The marker of a World War II Army private reads, “I have ways to make you laugh Blackie.”

Is this a quote from a book or a movie? If so, I haven’t found its source. More likely, it’s an inside joke known only to the deceased’s family and friends. I wish I could have met this fellow.

Another marker intrigues. Someone’s beloved wife’s final resting place is engraved, “I have the floor.” Perhaps this is her way of getting the last word.

Other epitaphs offer simple statements that give a glimpse into both the deceased and into the family they left behind. As the wind snapped the cemetery flags, I read, “He’s happy high on a windy hill.” This soldier’s family picked the perfect spot for him.

In the scatter garden, where families scatter their loved ones’ ashes, some markers give me pause. One says, “I never promised you a rose garden.” Another reads “Sorry, I am late. Love Son.” And a third states, “It’s been a lot of laughs. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be seeing you around.”

I walk in silence and ponder the lives represented here – the stories that ache to be told. Though I’ve never aspired to write fiction, I can certainly understand the lure. What would it be like to weave an entire tale from the fragments of an idea, from the whispers of the graveyard, from the snippets of an overheard conversation? Therein lies magic!

But on the way home from the cemetery that afternoon, I discovered sometimes you don’t need the rest of the story – sometimes just a glimpse is enough.

Traffic was heavy as we made our way from Medical Lake to north Spokane. We pulled up at a stoplight and I saw a frail, elderly woman sitting on a rock in front of a bank. She held a cardboard sign. I couldn’t read all of the writing, but one word stood out – “Desperate.”

As we watched, a woman parked her minivan at the bank and approached the lady with the sign. She sat on the rock next to her for a minute or two, then went to her van and opened the trunk. She’d obviously been shopping at the nearby Costco and was ready to go camping, because her trunk overflowed with groceries and gear.

She pulled a can of soda from her stash and got a cup of ice and brought it to the elderly lady. As the light turned green and we drove away, I looked back to see the two, sitting side by side on the rock.

Just like at the cemetery, my mind raced with unanswered questions. Why was the old woman desperate? What prompted the busy mom in the minivan to stop?

A Bible verse floated into my memory, “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

And then I realized the details didn’t matter. I’d just “read” an entire story – a sermon, in fact.

I’ve driven that intersection many times since, and I keep my eyes peeled for that elderly lady. I haven’t seen her. But I’m hoping her story had the happiest of endings.

This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review June 5, 2014.

Columns

Front Porch: When the tubby tabby’s on a diet, life is hard

Cindy Hval

Note: Cindy Hval is on vacation this week. Milo, her personal assistant and the senior cat of the Hval house, is filling in for this week’s column.

All I wanted was a snack. I mean, is that so much to ask considering the starvation rations I’ve been placed on because of Thor’s weight issues? He gets fat and I have to suffer. It’s just not right.

I called to her from the hallway. “Meeeeow!” I said. She didn’t even look up from the computer. So rude! So, I asked again more forcefully.

No response. Just the clicking of her fingers on the keyboard.

Maybe her hearing is going. I sat next to her ankles and explained the situation. “Meeeow, meow, MEOW!” I said.

“Be quiet,” she replied. “I’m on deadline – and you just ate.”

The nerve! Obviously, she wasn’t getting my message.

I jumped up on her desk and looked her in the eye while explaining my dire dietary needs. She just put me on the floor and patted my head. So patronizing. I then jumped on the food tub and knocked the measuring cup to the floor. It toppled with a satisfying clatter.

“I’m starving here,” I said. “I’m gonna faint! I need food NOW!”

She sighed and snapped, “Fine. Then YOU can write this week’s column!”

And off she went – without feeding me.

Like I don’t have enough responsibilities around this place. I am busy from morning till night. My day starts early because I have to rouse Zack and Sam. One of them is supposed to feed Thor and me, so I wake both of them because it doubles our chances of getting fed in a timely manner.

Then I have to tell her that I’ve been fed. Usually she’s still in bed, so I sit on her chest and give her the morning update. I throw in a few kisses and tickle her ears with my whiskers. I have to do this or she just falls back asleep.

By this time Thor is acting sleepy, so I chase him around the house. Upstairs, downstairs, under beds, on top of tables. For a chunky cat, he sure can run. He thinks I’m trying to kill him, but I’m not. I just need to remind him who’s in charge around here.

I’ll never forget the day they brought him home. The shock is seared in my memory.

The family had been out for the evening and I’d kept watch over the house like usual. They think I’m sleeping on the back of the sofa, but I’m not. I keep one eye open on the bird situation – also the dog situation and the strange cat situation.

It’s a lot of work. Every so often a dog comes in our yard and I have to run all over the place from window to door to window to alert everyone to the intruder.

Even worse is when the mangy Manx from up the street comes over. He saunters into my backyard like he owns it. Even though I’m not allowed to go outside, it’s still MY yard! He thinks he’s all that because he’s an indoor/outdoor cat, but he’s not. He’s just scruffy and dirty and has a terrible attitude.

Anyway, I’d just relaxed when the family returned and they’d brought me a present – a huge carpeted tree for me to climb on! I was so excited! I jumped up to the top and surveyed my domain and that’s when I saw him – a tiny ball of tabby-striped fluff.

I couldn’t believe it. I jumped down to the floor and he bounded up to me and tried to kiss me. He actually put his paw on my face.

I ran over to her and climbed into her lap. “You’re not serious, are you?” I asked. “You’re not going to let this kitten-thing stay. It’s just a joke, right?”

She rubbed my cheeks and scratched my chin and said, “Oh, look! Milo is so happy to get a little brother!” It’s like she doesn’t even know me.

He’s NOT my brother. I had brothers and they were not tabbies of below-normal intelligence, like this thing called Thor.

I slipped into the bedroom and hid under the bed. I stayed there a good long while, hoping they’d get rid of that thing. But they didn’t. And I got hungry, so I came out.

But I digress. Trying to slim down Thor by chasing him all over the house is just another one of the jobs added to my already overfilled schedule.

Probably my most important job is ensuring Dad gets enough attention. I don’t know where he lives during the day, but he’s gone for hours and hours. When he comes back, I rush to the door to greet him.

When he gets ready for bed, I jump up and give him extra head rubs. After he’s settled, I curl up on his head. The poor guy has so little fur up there, I worry he will catch cold. So even though he pushes me and says stuff like, “Knock it off, Milo!” I stay in position. I want to keep him around because when she starts talking about kittens, he says, “No more cats.”

Obviously, he and I are the only ones with any sense around here.

Oh, look, she’s back and she’s opening the food tub!

I should just ignore her. I should just sit in her chair and pretend I don’t hear the rattling of food as it pours into my bowl. But if I do that then Thor will eat all of his and mine, too. I can’t let that happen – fat cats die young and I actually kind of like the tubby tabby. Let’s keep that just between us, OK?

This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review on July 19, 2014.

Columns

Front Porch: Feline’s perspective: He’s fluffy, not fat

Cindy Hval

Editor’s note: Cindy Hval is on vacation this week. Her intern, Thor, the junior cat in the Hval household is filling in for this week’s column. Cindy will return next week because she’s out of vacation days – and cats.

I’m happy to have this chance to correct the lies that have been printed about me. If I had money I’d get a lawyer and sue but I don’t, so I’ll set things straight in this column.

First: I’m not fat. That rumor started when I was taken to a horrible place called “The Vet.” They did unspeakable things to me and then the lady told Mama, “He needs to lose weight.”

I guess the car still smells like my reaction.

You’d vomit, too, if you were poked, prodded and insulted. As to my other reaction, well cars should come with litter boxes for heaven’s sake! I didn’t know if I’d get out there alive and stress makes my bowels overactive.

Food is important to me, I admit it. I love the food that gets put in my bowl! And the food that’s in Milo’s bowl, and the food that’s in the kitchen, and the food that’s in the dining room, and the food that lurks outside. That kind of food you have to catch and I’m not allowed outside. More on that later.

Before The Vet said I was fat, Mama used to give me treats. Milo says cats aren’t supposed to sit up and beg. He says it’s “conduct unbecoming to felines.” What does he know? Milo only eats the food in his bowl and popcorn. That’s it. Milo is weird and has no taste buds.

All I know is, I used to just sit at the treat cupboard and look at Mama. Then she would say, “Does Thor want a treat? Is Thor a good boy?” Those aren’t even hard questions! And I was like, “DUDE! Yes, I want a treat. Of course, I’m a good boy!” And I’d stand up and take the treat from her fingers.

It was a good life till that nasty vet ruined it. I wish they’d put me in HER car.

Milo is also embarrassed that I roll over for Alex. I’m like, come on, it’s not that hard. Alex says, “Roll over Thor! Roll over!” in this cute high-pitched voice and I roll over. I mean, I’m already lying down. What’s the harm? Milo says I should have my cat card revoked. I don’t even think there is such a thing.

Sometimes, if no one’s looking, Mama still gives me treats. She’s my favorite person because when I was a baby she saw me in a cage with my brothers and she reached in and picked me up.

We’d been abandoned – all of us. So, I know there are bad humans out there – worse than those who say you’re fat. There are people who would leave a litter of kittens beside the road. But Mama picked me up and held me under her chin and I was so happy I purred as loud as I could, so she took me home.

I’m still a little confused about my name, though. Most people call me Thor, but Zack calls me Thorla the Hutt, Stevener, Stinky and Dopey. Mama calls me Baby Kitty Boy, so I’m pretty sure that’s my real name.

Contrary to what’s been reported, I have other interests besides food – water for one. Every morning after breakfast I sit by Mama’s bed and wait for her to get up. She lets me drink out of the bathroom sink. It’s the best water in the world!

Then she turns on the shower. I used to sit on the edge of the tub to make sure she didn’t drown, but once I lost my balance and fell in. That wasn’t fun. Mama screamed and I jumped out and ran into the bathroom door. I had water in my eyes and didn’t know it was closed.

Now, I just wait on her towel and keep it warm. It’s my job. My other job is to sit on her shoes so she can’t go anywhere. She’s always going places and I worry she won’t come back, so I sit on her shoes. It’s hard work. She’s got a lot of shoes and I’m never sure which ones she’ll wear.

My current hobbies include napping, bird-watching and squirrel surveillance – which leads me to my true passion – the great outdoors! I want to go outside more than anything. I know I’m not fat because I can be out the back door before anyone notices I’m gone. I’m stealthy and I’m fast.

I want to eat grass and the bugs in the grass. I want to snack on some birds or squirrels, but I’m never allowed. You want to know why? It’s because of The Vet, that’s why. She says, “Indoor cats are healthier and live longer than outdoor cats.” And my family believed her!

Once when I was little no one noticed I got out, and it snowed. I got scared and hid under Dad’s old car. It was stinky and I got oil on my fur. When they finally found me I was too scared to come out, so Dad got a broom and pushed me out. Then he gave me a bath in the kitchen sink. It was awful! I like water but not all over me.

When I sneak outside I ignore everyone when they call me – except Dad. When he yells my name I run as fast as I can inside. I remember the broom. I remember the bath. Trust me you don’t mess with a guy who’s not afraid to give a cat a bath. Plus he growls. I didn’t even know humans could growl.

So, that’s my story. I was abandoned but I got rescued. I’m not fat, I’m just fluffy. And aside from The Vet trying to ruin my life, I’m one contented cat.

This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review July 3, 2014.

Columns

Front Porch: Don’t sweat summer’s hot flashes

Cindy Hval

In Spokane we have two seasons: Complaining About the Cold and Complaining About the Heat.

We’re smack in the middle of “It’s too hot!” season, but for once I’m not whining about the soaring temperature.

My family is shocked by this development. Usually, once the thermometer hits 80, I crank up the air conditioning, brew gallons of iced tea, and use the phrase “I’m melting!” repeatedly.

I actually have a medical diagnosis to explain my aversion to the heat. My family moved to Guam when I was a year old. According to my mother, I promptly broke out in an awful rash. She took me to the doctor and he said, “She’s allergic to the sun.”

Who knew you could be allergic to a star? I think I’m also allergic to James Franco, but that’s another column.

I asked my mom how they treated my allergy. She said, “I just put baby oil on you and tried to keep you in the shade.”

Difficult to do when you live on a Pacific island.

I guess I got over my sun allergy, but it came with a side effect – an aversion to sweat. Sunshine on my shoulders didn’t make me happy – it made me whiny. The feeling of moisture beading on my forehead or trickling down my back made my skin crawl. This meant as a teen, I couldn’t enjoy the sun-bathing rites of passage my friends adored.

They’d spray their hair with Sun-In or lemon juice, slather baby oil all over their bodies and lay in the sun for hours.

I tried to keep up with the trend, but could only last a few minutes before the heat and perspiration got to me. Plus, it was so boring!

I went through my teen years with pale skin and dark hair that smelled citrusy, but never lightened.

This sun/sweat antipathy appears to be hereditary.

My firstborn son quickly developed sweat-triggered whininess. As a toddler, the minute the sun shone anywhere near him, he’d moan, “I’m fweaty! Make fweaty stop!”

For awhile I thought he’d changed his name to Freddy, but I figured out what he meant when he pointed to his glistening forehead.

Being sweat-averse made aerobic exercise challenging, but I still managed to letter in basketball in high school. Basketball has the advantage of being an indoor sport – no sun in my eyes, plus the game was so fast I didn’t have time to notice any perspiration. Even if I did notice, I wouldn’t complain because if anyone whined, the coach made us all run extra laps.

As an adult I embraced tanning beds for awhile. I could nap and listen to my MP3 player and emerge with a satisfying glow. Then my gym replaced tanning beds with some sort of noisy stand up rotisserie machine. No thanks.

Now, of course skin cancer warnings dominate headlines. The yellow orb in the sky is something to be feared, and the use of tanning beds is frowned upon. Teenage girls get orangey spray tans instead of baby oil, a blanket and the backyard.

Not surprisingly, Vitamin D deficiency is on the rise and many sun-avoiders now take supplements to replace what they used to get from spending time outdoors.

Just when sun-worshipping is no longer popular, I’ve come to love the feeling of its warmth on my skin. It happened gradually. I started timing my daily walks for maximum sun time and minimum scorching. Tricky to do this week when the best time to walk was probably before I got out of bed.

Maybe my bones are getting older, but what once felt searing and unbearable, now feels warm and benign. I sit in our backyard gazebo with my legs in the sun and my face in the shade and read for hours.

I still don’t like triple digit temps, but I find the 90s tolerable and the mid-80s actually enjoyable. My family is amazed by this transformation. “Mom is outside AGAIN,” Sam will announce and his brother just shakes his head.

As I talked about my newfound love of the sun a friend opined, “Maybe this is God’s way of preparing you for menopause.” Stunned I stared at her. “What?” she said. “It’s going to happen sooner rather than later.” She then launched into a litany of misery that she’d endured. “It’s awful! But we all survive it somehow,” she said.

Great. Apparently, there’s a third season looming on my horizon – Complaining About Hot Flashes.

This Front Porch column originally appeared in The Spokesman Review July 17, 2014.

Columns, War Bonds

Column: Grateful to have told WWII veteran’s story

Cindy Hval

The fading late afternoon sun, blurred by the haze of wildfires, fell softly across the foot of his bed. A smoke-tinged breeze wafted through the open French doors.

His once-commanding frame seemed frail against the stark whiteness of crisp sheets and rumpled pillows. I stood quietly beside him, a writer at a loss for words.

Nick Gaynos was dying.

The World War II veteran and Pearl Harbor survivor had endured many things, but the loss of his beloved wife, Tex, was proving too much for his heart to bear. After more than 70 years with her, he doesn’t want to be here without her.

I met Nick and Tex in 2010 when I shared their Love Story with newspaper readers. His regal military bearing and her gorgeous red hair and sense of style made them one of the most elegant couples I’ve interviewed.

They laughed and bantered throughout the afternoon, recalling how they met in the Bamboo Room of the Hotel Californian in Fresno. Nick spotted Tex through some bamboo fronds and was immediately smitten. He told his friend, “See that redhead? I’m going to marry her!” His buddy replied, “No way!” Gaynos said, “I’ll bet ya $10.”

Six weeks later he collected that $10 as he walked down the aisle to marry Tex.

His smile faded when he recalled the horror of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The young private was in charge of air/ground communications at Hickam Air Field on Dec. 7, 1941.

He was asleep in his bunk when the earsplitting scream of airplane engines and the rat-a-tat sound of bullets strafing the barracks woke him. Grabbing his pants, he scrambled out the door.

As he ran down the beach back toward his duty station, a Japanese Zero strafed the sand around him. He hit the ground and covered his head. Gaynos said he felt a hot breeze and heard a whistling sound inches from his ears. He looked up and saw the face of the pilot as he flew alongside him. The pilot grinned.

When Gaynos got up he discovered a large piece of shrapnel next to him. “I grabbed it,” he said. “It was still hot from the explosion.”

After Pearl Harbor he was sent to Officer Candidate School and quickly moved up through the ranks. He married Tex in 1943 and enjoyed a long military career followed by a successful second career in real estate.

On a recent day, I came to tell him that their story will be included in a book I’m working on and to collect photos for the project. His daughter warned me that his health was fading and he wasn’t expected to live much longer.

His caregiver greeted me at the door and Gaynos opened his eyes briefly when I entered the room, then he sighed and turned away.

I sorted through the photos, selecting the ones I needed, and when his caregiver went to photocopy them, I approached his bed.

“Nick,” I said.

His eyes fluttered and he slowly raised his hand. I took it and he wrapped his fingers around mine. His eyes fell shut, but his grip on my hand was firm.

I told how I admired Tex, and how much I appreciated that after talking about the awfulness of war, we were able to laugh together at the silly jokes and stories they shared.

“I’ve never forgotten that you told me that a sense of humor is vital to a marriage,” I said. “Thank you, Nick. Thank you for serving your country, for loving your wife, for sharing your memories with me.”

He sighed and released my fingers.

I heard his caregiver returning to the room, so I bent down and kissed his brow – taking a liberty I’m sure Tex wouldn’t mind.

According to recent statistics, World War II veterans are dying at a rate of 555 a day. Time is running out to tell their stories. But in this case, not only did I get to share this hero’s story, I also got to say goodbye.

As I drove away, my eyes blurred and the tears that had threatened all afternoon fell.

The tears weren’t of grief, but of gratitude.

This column originally appeared July 31, 2014 in the Spokesman-Review.