Category: Columns

Columns

Thor’s final days a lesson in listening

Cindy Hval

n May 30, we found out our beloved cat Thor had a nonoperable tumor, and his nine lives were about to run out.

When I shared the news in a previous column and on social media, people responded with great compassion. Many wrote that they had enjoyed my accounts of his adventures over the years and felt like they knew him. Others shared their heartbreaking stories of pet loss. Each missive provided connection and comfort.

What I’ve learned over the past month is this – despite their solitary, independent nature, cats absolutely do communicate with their humans. In his last two weeks, Thor let us know exactly what he wanted.

Moist deli-roasted chicken breast?

Yes, please.

Canned cat food?

No, thank you.

Tender smoked turkey breast?

More, please.

A once-favored kibble?

Nope.

Special cat treats from Trader Joe’s?

Yum!

Loving words and soft pats from me and Derek?

Aaaaah.

A comfy spot on a soft blanket on the foot or our bed?

Purrrr …

He was equally clear about activities.

The slick Houdini, who often bolted through every open door, enjoyed one last warm evening in the backyard. Cat harness and leash attached, he basked in the sun, rolling over and over in the comforting grass. He nibbled on a blade or two, but he mainly just soaked up the rays that bathed his suddenly fragile bones.

But when next we tried to take him outdoors, he sat by the back door and refused to budge. Derek carried him out to the yard, but Thor declined to wander.

Derek carried him back to the deck and removed the leash. Thor went straight to the door and asked to go inside.

I suspect he felt his frailty and knew the wild outdoors was no longer safe for his ailing body.

What do you say when there are no words?

Taking a note from Thor’s book, we showed him how we felt. We held him. We stroked his once lush, now straggly fur. We looked into his eyes and slowly blinked.

And when he hid under our bed, we listened. We understood he was saying, no more, please.

Even rambunctious Walter heard the message. Our junior tabby usually delights in pouncing on an unsuspecting Thor, but he seemed to understand that pouncing was out. Instead, he scooted under the bed and crouched next to Thor in silent solidarity.

A short time later, Thor took refuge beneath the dining room table. Derek didn’t try to coax him out. Instead, he stretched his 6-foot-2 frame beside him on the floor.

Thor mewed.

“I know, buddy,” Derek replied, tears coursing down his cheeks. “It’s time.”

I called the vet to schedule Thor’s last visit for later that afternoon. As I ended the call, thunder cracked, and a heavy rain fell. A fitting finale for a cat named for the god of thunder.

When I pulled into the driveway after work, he was perched on Sam’s windowsill, watching – waiting for me to come home. As sick as he was, he still managed to climb up to his favorite lookout on the window ledge.

Out of habit, I quickly shut the door behind me lest he make a run for it. But his sprinting days were done. Instead, Thor waited for me to pick him up at the entryway.

There would be no dreaded cat carrier for this trip. I wrapped his frail frame in an old beach towel and carried him to the car.

His ears perked, and his nose wiggled as he sniffed the rain-scented air. As we drove, he tucked his head under my chin, his eyes wide while he watched the passing scenery.

We kept our promise. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes for the final time was the faces of the people who loved him.

When we left the vet’s office, Derek silently pointed to a rainbow shimmering across the horizon. It seemed the heavens offered Rainbow Bridge just for Thor.

Oh, yes, cats communicate with their people.

And it’s important to listen – even when they say things we don’t want to hear.

Things like goodbye.

RIP Thor Heyerdahl Hval, Feb. 5, 2011, to June 18, 2024.

Columns

Saying no to online shopping

Cindy Hval

As if requesting a straw with my water at restaurants isn’t quirky enough, my friend Sarah recently discovered I have another quirk.

I don’t shop online. Ever.

“How can this be?” she asked. “You’re an introvert. You can order groceries without ever leaving your home, yet you go to the grocery store every week!”

Sarah shops almost exclusively from her phone or computer. Food, household products, clothes, shoes and even undergarments are delivered to her door.

She does enjoy supporting local businesses by browsing at the small shops in the Garland District, and she buys most of her books at Wishing Tree Books in the South Perry neighborhood. But everything else, from broccoli to breath mints, comes from online vendors.

I am an introvert who has to extrovert a lot for work, so she’s right in assuming that given a choice, I’d rather avoid people-ing during non-work hours. However, scratch-cooking and meal planning relaxes me, and honestly, I don’t trust strangers to pick out my produce.

I’ve seen Instacart shoppers toss heads of lettuce into their gigantic trolleys without looking for rusty brown spots. I’ve watched as they shove packages of rib eyes into plastic bags without checking for moderate marbling.

To be fair, how could a stranger know how marbled I like my steak or how ripe I want my cantaloupe?

As I told another friend, “I don’t want anyone else thumping my melons. I can do it myself.”

She guffawed but knew exactly what I meant.

While I don’t exactly love loading up on toilet paper and bottled water at Costco, free samples are back! This is a great way to find out if you should indulge in that pricey Havarti or stick with the giant block of cheddar.

Of course, I always buy something there that’s not on my list. But gosh darn it, I needed that cute black-and-white skort and those huge fluffy beach towels, each one large enough to enfold two adults!

And my Fred Meyer forays often change up pre-planned menus. Recently, I found some gorgeous hothouse tomatoes (not on my list) and a sale on whole wheat pasta. I scrapped the planned grilled chicken and salad and decided to make pasta pomodoro.

Sure, I could have had tomatoes delivered via Instacart, but it was seeing their lush ripeness that made me want to cook with them.

Food aside, I can’t imagine ordering clothes online. For a writer, I’m pretty unimaginative. I can’t picture how a blouse or a pair of slacks will look on me by gazing at a photo.

I know you can return online purchases, but I don’t want the hassle. I’d rather grit my teeth, go to a store, and try things on in the fitting room.

But the most compelling reason I prefer to shop at brick-and-mortar stores is screen exhaustion. I spend five days a week at my desk in front of my computer. If I’m not at my computer, I’m on my phone, calling, texting or Googling. The last thing I want to do at the end of the day or on a weekend is spend more time online.

I don’t want to look at a picture of a peach. I want to feel its soft fuzz and weigh the heft of it in my hand. Instead of clicking on an image of a floral bouquet, I want to see what’s blooming at Trader Joe’s.

I guess I really do want to stop and smell the roses.

Pushing my chair away from my desk, grabbing my car keys and heading to the shops gives me a welcome disconnect from screen time.

Even better, it allows me to connect with my neighborhood and the people who live and work in it. A box left on my doorstep can’t do that.

Columns

Thor’s Last Adventure

Cindy Hval

When it came right down to it, the choice between another kid or another cat proved easy for my husband.

It was 2011, and we’d just watched the movie “Thor.” Though I’m not a big Marvel Universe fan, I was enamored with the film and the title character.

“We have four sons, and not one of them named Thor,” I said after viewing the film. “We either need a second cat or a fifth son.”

A week later, we were at PetSmart looking at a batch of adoptable kitties. Three brothers frolicking in their cage caught my attention. Well, two of them frolicked – the third watched his brothers from afar. The litter had been abandoned by the side of a road, and the Spokane Humane Society christened the kitten who’d caught my eye “Alex.”

Our second son, Alex, then 18, had recently flown the family nest. Though the hole in this mama’s heart and home was far larger than kitten size, the tabby with the grumpy face captivated me.

Thor’s Gotcha Day, 2011

The newly christened Thor Heyerdahl Hval joined our family. He immediately gravitated to our 3-year-old tuxedo cat, Milo James. The attraction was not mutual. After sulking beneath our bed for a few days, Milo adjusted to the newbie. They forged an uneasy alliance until Milo’s death six years ago.

A year passed before we felt ready to welcome another kitten to our home. We thought another cat would enliven Thor’s senior years. Well, Sir Walter Scott certainly enlivened everything around our house. Thor, however, has never been a fan of the junior kitty. Wary tolerance is about all he can muster.

For 13 years, Thor has exerted his unique influence on our family dynamic. The food-motivated tabby mastered the trick of rolling over at the cajoling (and treats) offered by our son, Alex.

Chopsticks proved too difficult to master, but he sure tried!

Thor also sits up for treats. In fact, he’d do anything for food except stay inside.

Though his default facial expression is one of perpetual grumpiness, he’s been the most agreeable, docile cat – unless the door is open. Then, all bets are off.

The lure of the wild calls to this indoor-only cat, and our family has spent many aggravating and anxious hours attempting to lure the adventuring Thor back home.

Last week, we got the heartbreaking news that his wild walkabouts and longsuffering endurance of Walter are coming to an end.

Several weeks ago, Thor began shunning wet food – a puzzling problem for our always-hungry boy. When he barely nibbled his dry kibble, I took him to our trusted veterinarian.

I dreaded the visit because I knew something was wrong – very wrong.

It turns out Thor has a large tumor on his abdomen.

“I’m so sorry,” said the vet. “There’s nothing we can do.”

My heart shattered as I gathered my sweet boy in my arms. His once hefty frame has dwindled from 13 pounds to a scant 10.

While science cannot mend him, love and medicine can make his last days easier.

I tempt his waning appetite with kibble and treats. I lure him to sustenance with bits of tuna, salmon and canned chicken. With Derek’s help, I administer steroids and opioids to ease his pain.

And we put his harness and leash on him and take him to the backyard to let him nibble grass and bask in the sun. At night, he curls up at our feet in our bed.

We are keenly aware that it will soon be time to help him on his way to his final rest.

Until then, Thor welcomes my kisses and tilts his head for chin scratches. I think he understands when I tell him how much I love him, and he trusts my promise that we will be with him for every moment of his last grand adventure.

All Write, Columns

Things My Husband Says

Cindy Hval

This column has been 38 years in the making. In fact, it’s been brewing so long it’s hard to know where to begin.

By now, most readers are familiar with my semiregular compilations of #ThingsMyMomSays – the hashtag I use to keep track of my mother’s amusing musings. But far more voluminous, due to 38 years of close proximity, are #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

Derek has often been cited, quoted and otherwise featured in the 18 years I’ve written in this space. When his buddies ask if he minds being mentioned in such a public format, his standard response is: “As long as she gets paid for it, I’m good.”

Fingers crossed that holds true after today’s column because honestly, he’s provided enough material for a novella-size memoir. See, I’m married to an extrovert who processes almost all of his thoughts audibly – even when he’s sleeping. So much so, “He’s Been Talking in His Sleep” is a category of its own. Other categories include, “Derek’s Malapropisms” or “Dadisms” as our sons call them, “Life According to Derek” and “Married Life.”

I’m sure there are more categories, but I’m already running out of space, so without further ado, here are #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• In the middle of the night, Derek said something I didn’t quite catch.

“What?” I asked.

“The whole town disappeared,” he said.

“What town? Where?”

“I dunno. I think it was Deer Park.”

At this point, I realize he’s asleep.

“Do you think it was the Rapture?” I asked.

Then came his emphatic reply: “God. Does. Not. Rapture. Zucchini.”

He rolled over and started snoring, but I was awake most of the night worrying about all the zucchini being left behind.

• I was awakened shortly after dawn by Derek’s garbled screaming. I poked him awake. “Are you having a bad dream?” I asked.

“No,” he mumbled. “Winning a prize.”

“A prize for what?”

“Loudest scream,” he says, and rolling over he added, “Now, I don’t know if I won.”

• Around 1 a.m. on a different night, I woke up to him singing “Happy Birthday.”

Laughing, I nudged him. “Why are you singing ‘Happy Birthday?’ ”

“Because it’s nice,” he said.

Then he sang it again.

Derek’s Dadisms

• “I wouldn’t feed that to a dead horse.”

• “I almost bit the farm.”

• “He looks like an uncle I never met.”

• Him: “Don’t forget we need to go to Mad Dog.”

Me: “Where?”

Him: “Angry Dog. The Brewery!”

Me: “You mean Laughing Dog?”

Him: “WOOF!”

• Derek: “I told him I’m tired of you poo-haing me.”

Me: “What did you tell him?”

Derek: “I said, I’m sick of you poo-haing me!”

I think he meant poo-pooing.

Life according to Derek

• While discussing insecurities, my husband confessed, “I’m insecure that my ninja skills have deteriorated.”

“I didn’t know that you even had ninja skills,” I replied.

“See? This is why I’m insecure,” he said.

• Derek had a buddy over to discuss home improvement projects. This is what I overheard.

“Dude, did I ever tell you about the time I got beat up by a blind guy?” Derek asked. “All those fights in middle school and I get taken out by a blind guy in my 40s!”

P.S.: It was at a Bob Dylan concert.

• Read this headline to my husband, “Surprised nun gives birth”.

“Is she surprised she’s a nun?” he asked.

• Potty training our twin grandsons proved educational.

Me: “It’s so cute that the boys wave goodbye to their poop when they flush the toilet.”

Him: “Doesn’t everyone?”

Married life

• I dreamed I had another baby boy. I was in the hospital and looked down and there he was!

“Did you see that?” I said to Derek in my dream. “The baby’s already here!”

In the morning, I recounted my dream to Derek.

His response?

“I hope we got a discount for self-delivery.”

• I got what I thought were aftershave samples in the mail.

I gave them to Derek, who liberally dabbed himself before we went out to dinner.

“How do I smell?” he asked.

“Oh no!” I said. “That is definitely perfume!”

“But you GAVE it to ME!”

“I’m so sorry! I guess I don’t read French very well,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Don’t blame me if dudes are hitting on me all night.”

• Him: “I was trying to replace the toilet paper when the spring shot out, and I dropped the brand-new roll in the toilet.”

Me: “Are you attempting to explain why you never replace the toilet paper?”

Him: “It was a mega roll. It made a BIG splash! Toilet water everywhere!”

• The first thing my husband said to me this morning: “Hey honey, check out this headline, ‘Journalists drink too much, are bad at managing their emotions and operate at a lower level than average, according to a new study.’ ”

This conversation prompted a new hashtag #wearestillmarried.

Let’s hope that remains true after this column!

Columns

This post was brought to you by coffee

Cindy Hval

It started with magic.

A toy coffee pot filled with brown liquid that “disappeared” when you tipped it to pour. I’d take my “Magic Pouring Perk” around the table when my parents had friends over after church and pretend to top off their cups of Sanka.

I usually got tips for my service, but what I really wanted was to sample the Sanka.

Alas, I wasn’t allowed a sip. Mom said coffee (even decaf) was an “adult beverage.”

And so, it wasn’t until college that I fell in love with the brew that continues to make mornings bearable.

I worked as a waitress, and one Saturday morning, I poured myself a mug from the large urn we brewed it in. It was so dark and strong, it took my breath away.

“Put some cream in it,” a fellow server advised.

I did, and as I sipped the earthy, milky beverage, I felt energized. The Friday night fog lifted. I cradled that brown mug and knew my life had changed.

At home, my parents favored Taster’s Choice. The instant coffee tasted like brown water when compared to the rich restaurant roast, so I confined my caffeine consumption to work hours. This was several years before drive-thru coffee stands sprouted throughout the Northwest.

Not long after I met coffee, I met my husband. His dad had immigrated to the U.S. from Norway at 19 and preferred his coffee so strong you could almost chew it. Consequently, Derek wouldn’t touch it.

We were given a Proctor-Silex 10-cup coffee maker for a wedding gift. We were too poor for Folgers (which, at the time, I considered the epitome of fine coffee), so I bought store-brand medium roast in large cans. About this time, flavored creamers became popular, and that’s all it took for Derek to convert.

By the time our kids came along, Spokane had gone Starbuck’s crazy. It seemed like there was a coffee drive-thru at every corner, so we sampled lattes and sipped mochas. I’m not a fan of those sweet drinks, but our coffee shop experiences introduced us to the flavor of freshly roasted whole beans.

Coffee drinking is a sophisticated slippery slope. As our earning power increased, so did our taste in java. One Christmas, we got our first coffee grinder. No more store brand cans, no more fancy Folgers, now we let Millstone beans rain into bags at the grocery store like we used to let jelly beans fill sacks at the candy shop.

Our sons drank coffee from their early teens, and our youngest took over the brewing operation in middle school.

We burned through coffee makers and grinders at an astonishing rate – each one a bit fancier. Derek, the former java-shunner, became a connoisseur, purchasing machines too complicated for my limited technical abilities.

Self-preservation led me to purchase my first Keurig machine. If, for some reason, my husband or son failed to brew the beverage (or worse, drank it all before I got up), I had to be able to procure my own.

The benefits and risks of consuming coffee continue to be debated, which is why an S-R headline caught my eye.

“How drinking coffee may lower your risk for diabetes.”

According to the Feb. 28 story, each cup of coffee a person drinks (up to 6 cups) lowers the risk of developing Type 2 diabetes by about 6%.

As someone with family members who’ve had Type 2 diabetes, I pay attention to the latest research regarding the disease.

The article went on to explain that coffee is a rich source of polyphenols – compounds in fruits, vegetables, and whole grains that are known to confer health benefits.

“A cup of coffee also contains fiber – up to 1.8 grams, or roughly half the amount you’d find in one serving of broccoli.”

To which I say, Duh! It’s made of beans!

According to the story, experts recommend that healthy adults consume no more than four or five cups of brewed coffee daily. Studies show that two to five cups is the range in which people are most likely to see health benefits such as a reduced risk of diabetes, heart disease and some cancers.

As I type this, the intoxicating aroma of French roast wafts from my Wonder Woman mug. I’m glad science says my morning brew is good for me, but I already knew that. It makes walking, talking and working possible every day.

Now that’s magical.

Columns

The ongoing embarrassment of life with a StupidPhone

Cindy Hval

I may be old enough to remember rotary phones, but like many Gen Xers, I’ve adapted to technology.

The whole Blackberry thing bypassed me, so when I got my first cellphone, I used the text function the way God intended – slowly picking through the alphabet with my pointer finger.

Hipper friends whizzed out messages using the two-thumb method, while I just shook my head. My thumbs don’t work that way.

I employed proper punctuation and grammar and eschewed texting lingo except for an occasional LOL or OMG. Seriously, how much time would I save by typing “u” instead of “you?”

But with more and more of my work and personal communication done via text, I realized my hunt-and-peck method took too much time.

Then I discovered the little microphone on my phone transcribes my spoken words to text. It should be a terrific time-saver, but unfortunately, I didn’t get a smartphone – I got a stupidphone. How else to explain the mortifying messages it regularly sends? Messages I then must decode and resend to the recipients.

For example, the exciting news of my first book’s publication got garbled. I sent an announcement to those in my contact list. Instead of “Publisher wants ‘War Bonds’ for spring catalog,” my pals were informed, “Publisher wants your buns for spring catalog.”

I’m unable to share the replies because most of them were GIFs and emojis unsuitable for print.

My phone can’t even get my name right.

Talk to text changes Cindy Hval to “Cindy of All.” I was OK with that, but lately, it learned a new trick. I texted a source and it identified me as “Cindy Evolved from The Spokesman-Review.” I’ve just decided to go with that and am considering amending my business cards.

When I tried to tell my husband I had an interview at the Jundt Museum it turned into Bundt Museum. We don’t have one of those in Spokane, but I’d cover it if we did.

On several occasions, my shortcut landed me in hot water with Derek. For example, every time I talk-text about meeting my friend Jill for lunch or Happy Hour, Jill becomes JOE.

“You spend a lot of time with this Joe guy,” said Derek. “Should I be worried?”

Then I tried to let him know one of his favorite Van Halen songs was playing.

“Daniel Santa got in my car, and Hot for Teacher came on the radio,” I texted.

“So. You took Santa for a ride?” he asked.

It went downhill from there and I still don’t know who Daniel Santa is.

Speaking of Jill/Joe, recently, I tried to confirm a lunch location with her, and “On Monroe, for heaven’s sake,” became “On Monroe, we’re having sex.”

I guess you can see why Derek’s worried.

Even Dame Agatha Christie isn’t spared. Talk-text changed “There’s a new Agatha Christie on Prime” to “There’s a nude Agatha Christie on Prime.”

No one wants to see that.

Once, I tried to confirm a spa appointment, and my phone changed it to spay appointment. So, I guess I’ve been fixed.

Sometimes, my mishaps end up in our family lexicon, like the time I let our son, Sam, know I’d made some treats.

“I saved you some fudge in a Ziploc bag in the fridge. The white time is butter dum fudge. It’s new and it’s really good.

  • kind
  • rum

Good grief.”

Haha! You talk texted that didn’t you?” he replied.

Now, every Christmas I make Butter Dum fudge.

I should know better, but I often use the talk-text feature to post on social media. I invented a new sandwich when “Patty Melt” became “Party Melt” on a food blogger’s Instagram account.

When I tried to vent my frustration to a friend about my latest phone-induced embarrassment, “talk to text” turned into “talk to test.”

Apparently, that’s an exam I continue to fail.

Columns

First Valentine’s Day Deflating

Cindy Hval

My husband and I have reached the time of life when downsizing seems prudent. No, I’m not talking about selling our home or offloading possessions, I’m talking about reducing our waistlines.

Keeping track of things like blood sugar looms ever more important as we age. That’s why, when Valentine’s Day approached, I suggested we skip the usual exchange of chocolates.

Derek agreed, but I could tell by the twinkle in his eye he had something else in mind. More on that in a minute.

We’re in our second year as empty-nesters, and we continue to adapt.

During the years our sons lived at home, Valentine’s morning was special. They awoke to a lace-topped table filled with heart-shaped dishes of cinnamon, cherry and conversation heart candies. A card and a box of chocolates waited at each place and, when they opened the refrigerator, they discovered that Cupid had magically turned the milk pink.

Even after the older boys moved out, they stopped by to get their cards, candy and hugs from Mom. With the departure of our youngest last year, for the first time in 25-plus years, Cupid skipped our frig, and the heart-shaped dishes and lace tablecloth remained tucked away.

We were back to where it began – just the two of us.

That’s not to say our first Valentine’s Day as man and wife was especially romantic, but it was certainly memorable.

As newlyweds, we attended college full-time and worked three jobs between the two of us to keep our Love Boat afloat. I knew we couldn’t afford to go out on Valentine’s Day, but I did my best to make it special.

When Derek arrived home late on that fateful Feb. 14, I’d roasted two tiny Cornish game hens with potatoes and herbs and set our wobbly card table with a vinyl cloth and our wedding gift stoneware. I’d placed a small box of chocolates and a red enveloped card at his place.

“This looks nice,” he said, kissing me.

Then he noticed the card and heart-shaped box.

“Oh! It’s Valentine’s Day?”

At that, I burst into tears, ran the six steps to our bedroom and collapsed on our waterbed, heartbroken.

“Don’t cry! I’m sorry I forgot! I’ll be right back!” Derek yelled, slamming the apartment door behind him.

I was still face-down on our now-soggy bed when he returned.

He switched on the bedroom light and announced, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Babe!”

Sniffling, I sat up.

That’s when he thrust a helium-filled balloon into my hand. I tugged the attached ribbon, looking for the card.

There was no card.

No candy.

No flowers.

Just a Pepto Bismol-pink balloon.

Our waterbed got even waterier. My bewildered and exhausted husband went back out and returned with a card. We ate cold game hen and potatoes and made up the way newlyweds do.

Our sons know this story well, as I’ve shared it as a cautionary tale (future daughter-in-laws will thank me.)

Yet this year, when I suggested skipping the exchange of chocolates on Valentine’s Day, Derek nodded.

“But balloons are OK, right?” he asked.

Columns

No matter how old, a kid still needs Mom when illness strikes

Cindy Hval

This summer, our son, Sam, got sick.

Really sick.

ER visit sick.

He lives in Odessa, Texas, and teaches English at Odessa College. Nothing prepares you for having a sick kid, so far from home.

Thankfully, a friend took him to the hospital. Sam suffered through a miserable bout of gastroenteritis that antibiotics cured, but an MRI showed another issue. A large nodule had formed on the left side of his thyroid. Eventually, surgery became necessary.

It wouldn’t be his first stint in the OR, but it would be the first one he remembered.

Twenty-four years ago, Sam was born with 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.

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.

His recovery was nothing short of miraculous, but any mom will tell you that the trauma of being separated from your newborn is one that lingers.

That’s why when his thyroid surgery was scheduled for Jan. 9, Derek and I immediately booked a flight and reserved a hotel room. Sam insisted that we didn’t need to come. It was outpatient surgery, and friends offered to drive him and care for him post-op.

You’d think he’d know me better by now. No child of mine is going to recover from an operation without my homemade chicken noodle soup to speed up the healing process. Maybe you can mail soup, but you can’t Fed Ex mom’s kisses and hugs.

Besides, I hadn’t been to his new home. Derek had moved him, but I longed to see his apartment and city. I wanted to visit his office and meet his colleagues and friends,

We arrived in Texas on a blissfully sunny day. While the temps in Spokane steadily dropped, Sam showed us his favorite haunts and took me on a walk at Odessa’s Memorial Gardens Park, where the thermometer topped 67 degrees.

The next day, we visited his workplace. We met his dean and the colleagues we’d heard so much about. The college sports a replica of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and Anne Hathaway’s cottage on the campus. Shakespeare in West Texas!

That evening, I cooked a giant batch of soup – enough to see him through his recovery, with extra to stash in his freezer.

His surgery took place in San Angelo – a two-hour drive from Odessa. We met with the surgeon, who explained that the nodule would be biopsied while Sam was on the operating table. If it was cancerous, they’d remove his entire thyroid. If it wasn’t, only the left side would be removed.

I paced the hospital halls while we waited, beset with memories of my newborn, intubated, isolated, in a NICU room filled with machines that kept him alive. While I knew this surgery wasn’t remotely as serious, it was difficult for me to separate the images of my helpless baby from the independent 6-foot-2-inch young man he’d become.

Finally, the surgeon met us in the waiting room. He said the surgery went “perfectly,” and there was no sign of cancer. A blood check at his post-op visit will show if Sam needs to take medication or if his remaining thyroid would produce enough hormones.

A few hours later, our son was eating chicken noodle soup at home. His incision was sore, and his throat hurt, but other than that, he felt OK.

In fact, the next day, he insisted on taking us to his favorite walking trail at the University of Texas Permian Basin. He and I walked a windy 3-mile loop, pausing to take in the student-built Stonehenge replica, view the cactus garden and peer at the George H. W. Bush house. Bush moved to the 800-square-foot house in Odessa with his bride Barbara and 2-year-old son George W. in 1948. In 2004, the house was relocated to its current site at UTPB.

Sam slowed down a bit after that outing, but we spent plenty of time soaking in the warm Texas sun on his veranda and we got in a few more walks.

While he fretted about the time and expense of our trip, he was glad we came. At the airport, he enveloped me in a huge hug.

“Thank you for the soup and for taking care of me, Mom,” he said.

The truth is I couldn’t NOT be there. Though once he fit snuggly in my arms and now he towers over me, he’ll always be my baby boy.

Just don’t tell his students that.

Columns

Kindness is the best gift

Cindy Hval

A few days before Thanksgiving, I had one of those too-much-too-little days.

Too much traffic, too many crowded stores and too little time between appointments. I pulled into my bank’s parking lot and noticed the drive-thru line was several cars deep. I decided to park and go inside. Both tellers were helping people, but I was next in line.

While I tapped my foot and glanced at my watch, the teller nearest me engaged in a long conversation with an older gentleman named Jimmy. Honestly, I was annoyed that they were still chatting when his business concluded, and the line grew behind me.

Then I tuned into their conversation. It sounded like Jimmy’s wife was dying and might not make it to Christmas.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy,” the teller said, patting his hand.

The urgency of my errands and appointments paled as I thought of a friend facing her first Christmas without her husband. Another just lost her dad. Yet another is grieving his mom.

And Jimmy?

Maybe this was the first time he’d been able to tell someone what his holidays looked like. Maybe this was the first time someone slowed down enough to listen.

Blinking back tears, I finished my banking and left, but not before noting the teller’s name.

I’m thankful for kind people like Rayna at Chase Bank. And I’m grateful for humbling encounters like this to remind me that while I’m rushing from one appointment to the next, hurting people are all around me, and there’s no greater calling than kindness.

As soon as I had a break that day, I phoned and asked to speak to the branch manager. Too often, we’re quick to call to complain instead of compliment. I wanted to let them know about their stellar employee.

The manager was gone for the week, so I sent an email. But Rayna answered the phone, and I got to tell her how much witnessing her kindness inspired me.

During the holidays, many of us feel the pinch of those too-much-too-little days, but kindness is one thing we can never have too much of.

Columns

Recipe for easing worry

Cindy Hval

Many years ago, on a bitterly cold January afternoon, I sat down to write a column about soup because January is National Soup Month.

Like many columns, this one had a mind of its own and turned into an essay about worry.

I wrote, “Making homemade soup is great therapy. In fact, it’s become my surefire stress reliever. Nobody does worry like a mom, and mothers of teenagers are in a league of their own. If worry were an Olympic sport, moms would own the medals stand.”

Now, with our four sons safely past their teenage years and on their own, I assumed our pleasantly empty nest would become a fret-free zone.

Wrong.

Not only do I still occasionally worry about my kids, I now worry about my aging mother. How’s that for the circle of life?

August is too hot for soup, but recently, after an extremely stressful day, I stood in my kitchen surrounded by bowls, pans, veggies, chicken breasts, lemons and spices. I needed some cooking therapy.

Some people stress-eat. I stress-cook, and the recipe for the day was lemon-herb chicken, broccoli and potato sheet pan dinner.

Place a sheet pan in the oven. Preheat to 425 (leave pan in the oven). Cut Yukon gold potatoes into chunks and toss with olive oil, salt and pepper in a large bowl. Remove the pan from hot oven and coat it with cooking spray. Spread potatoes on the pan and roast for 15 minutes.

Mom is losing her teeth and for various reasons isn’t a candidate for dentures. With one lone upper tooth, she’s distressed about her appearance and afraid she won’t be able to eat. At least once during every visit, she asks, “What about my teeth? I don’t know where they went. Everyone asks me what we’re going to do about it.”

And I explain again the importance of caring for her remaining teeth and remind her of all the good things she still can eat – like potatoes.

In a large bowl, combine chicken breasts with olive oil, salt, pepper, parsley, rosemary and garlic powder. Grate the zest and squeeze the juice from one lemon and toss with chicken. Thinly slice the second lemon.

The tangy smell of lemon makes me think of my oldest son and his love for sour things. Ethan and his friends planned to float the Spokane River later in the week. They don’t have tubes or floaties; they just wade in and float. I’m pretty sure he’ll forget sunscreen, but he’s 33. At some point, you have to stop sending “don’t forget the sunscreen” texts. At least I know he’s a good swimmer. Those years of lessons paid off. But the river is unpredictable.

In the bowl used for potatoes, combine broccoli florets with the remaining oil, salt and pepper. After the potatoes have roasted, carefully remove the pan from the oven. Add the broccoli and stir to combine with the potatoes.

Our youngest son Sam doesn’t care for broccoli much – or roasted potatoes. As I cook, he’s driving to Dallas from his home in Odessa, Texas, for a getaway. Tollways. Traffic. Unfamiliar city. Did he top up the coolant in his car? Are Google Maps up to date?

Clear four spots on the pan for the chicken and add to the pan. Scatter lemon slices over. Roast for 15 minutes.

Zach is working on his new album. Our third-born would love to quit his day job to make music full-time. He’d also like a steady girlfriend. It occurs to me that most of my worries are about my three single sons. I wonder if when they are partnered like Alex, I’ll worry less.

Remove pan from oven and brush chicken with soy sauce; roast until the chicken is cooked through and the veggies are tender, about five minutes more.

As I set the table and cleaned the kitchen, my heart felt lighter and my mind clearer. I often pray while I cook, and that plus the absorption of the tasks helps me chop, measure and mix my concerns into bite-size pieces.

Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com. Hval is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation” (Casemate Publishers, 2015) available at Auntie’s Bookstore and bookstores nationwide.