Tag: Christmas

Columns

Readers share their favorite holiday films

Cindy Hval

I’m a Christmas purist. No tree, décor, tunes or movies until the day after Thanksgiving.

However, the takedown lasts a bit longer.

We need the space for our New Year’s Day party, so the tree comes down first. Next, I pack away the Christmas CDs. Gradually, I tuck the nativity, angel choirs, garlands, candles and linens into their red plastic bins. That’s where I put the holiday movies, too.

But this year, thanks to my readers, I’m going to watch Christmas movies through January – maybe even February.

Readers reminded me of beloved films I’d forgotten about or didn’t realize were holiday movies, and they introduced me to some I’ve never seen.

Before we get to the movies, one note I received was in regard to my long-ago column about school winter concerts and it offered validation on my controversial stance.

J. Scott Miller’s father, a clarinetist, taught music education at WSU and served as the president of the Washington State Music Educators Association.

“He required all four of his children to learn at least one instrument,” Miller wrote. “But he never attended our school concerts. He simply could not stand listening to students murder even the mediocre music our school bands and orchestras played.”

However, his dad made an exception when Miller’s eldest son played the trumpet in an All-City Music Concert at the Arena.

“Of course, it was impossible to distinguish any single player’s performance from the hundreds of others, but he put on his game face and complimented our son on his performance,” Miller recalled. “He then told my wife and me, politely, that he would never attend another.”

Vindication, even if delayed, is still sweet.

Back to movies.

Vickie Hertz wrote that she and her husband, Steve, recently enjoyed the comedy “Fred Claus,” starring Vince Vaughn as St. Nick’s troublemaking older brother. But “The Snowman” is the California transplants’ favorite.

In 1970, Steve got an offer to play baseball for Gonzaga University. When they exited the plane via an outdoor ramp that January, they stepped into winter.

“The feather-light snow falling from a black winter night sky was mesmerizing. What a perfect place to come to, to go to school and play baseball. I’m not kidding, it was magical,” Vickie wrote.

That’s why “The Snowman,” a wordless, animated story about a boy who builds a snowman on Christmas Eve that magically comes to life at midnight, remains at the top of their holiday film rotation.

Ann Carey always watches “Love Actually,” (a quintessential millennial-era ensemble romance), “The Holiday,” and “Serendipity.”

“Serendipity,” a 2001 rom-com starring John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale, is one of my favorite films, and I own it; however, I had completely forgotten that the movie begins and ends at Christmas. I can’t wait to watch it again!

I haven’t seen “The Holiday” (2006), which features two women from different parts of the world who exchange homes for two weeks during the Christmas season to escape their heartbreaks. I’m adding it to my watchlist.

This year, Carey snuck in “Sleepless in Seattle,” which begins on Christmas Eve, and the more New Year-related “When Harry Met Sally …,” as an homage to actor/director Rob Reiner.

In addition to mentioning some classic staples, Caryn Alley included “The Christmas Chronicles,” with Kurt Russell, which our family loved.

She also added “While You Were Sleeping,” which I’d forgotten is set during the holidays, and a new one to me, “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” It’s a Hallmark movie, and we don’t have the Hallmark channel, so let me know if I’m missing out.

Jennifer Davis mentioned the action-comedy “Red One,” which we streamed at home, and she reminded me of the wonderful 1947 Cary Grant movie “The Bishop’s Wife.” I’m on the lookout to add that to our collection.

At her suggestion, I’m also on the hunt for another 1947 rom-com, “It Happened on 5th Avenue.”

Scott Thompson thought he was streaming a war drama when he came across “Joyeux Noël” from 2005. Like the award-winning musical “All is Calm: The Christmas Truce of 1914,” the film tells the moving story of the spontaneous ceasefires that occurred between Scottish, French, and German troops in the trenches of World War I, who left their weapons behind for one night to share stories, drinks, and carols.

“The real life drama shows how the power of Christ’s birth can transcend human endeavors – if only for an eve,” Thompson wrote.

Of course, I’m going to watch it, and I’m not going to wait until next Christmas.

The darkness and cold of a Northwest winter can be wearisome. Watching hope-filled Christmas movies seems like a lovely way to dispel the gloom.

I guess I’m not a Christmas purist after all.

Columns

Hval holiday movie favorites range from classic and cozy to controversial

Cindy Hval

Years ago, I wrote a column about how much I dreaded my kids’ annual holiday concerts.

The boys were all in grade school, which made for a marathon of recorder recitals, jingle-belling, beginning orchestra and choir concerts.

The heat I took for that one included a couple of letters to the editor about how Mrs. Hval obviously doesn’t value music education.

I remain unrepentant. It’s been more than a decade since I attended an elementary school concert, and I do not miss them.

A few years later, I wrote about my least favorite Christmas songs. At the top of my list? “Happy Xmas (War Is Over).”

Yeesh! From some readers’ reactions, you’d think I’d been an accomplice in the death of John Lennon.

After that, when the holidays rolled around, I kept my column topics on the safer side of the page. Fresh Christmas trees vs. artificial, holiday lighting, and sentimental Christmas ornaments all went to press with nary a tirade to the editor.

Safety is overrated, and I’ve never written about Christmas movies, so here goes. (And yes, we own all of these movies. Should livestreaming fail, we’ll still be jolly.)

Firstly, I have reluctantly come to accept that “Die Hard” is a Christmas movie. After all, the setting for all the mayhem and swearing is Christmas Eve, and holiday music and décor are featured.

If savagery and bloodshed get you ho-ho-ho-ing, then 2022’s “Violent Night” is for you. It stars David Harbour as Santa Claus (an immortal Viking warrior) who’s suffering from holiday burnout in the worst way. But when a gang of mercenaries takes a family hostage, this unsaintly Nick springs into action.

These are the things one watches when one has given birth to four boys.

That’s not to say my family is averse to the sweetness of the season. We usually watch both “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “Miracle on 34th Street.”

If neither of those films awakens your Christmas spirit, you might as well change your name to Scrooge.

Ditto for “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” The wonky little tree and listening to Linus explain the true meaning of Christmas never fails to evoke happy sighs.

On the lighter side, we usually kick off the season with “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation,” which offers some of the most quotable lines in holiday movie history.

At least once during December, you’ll hear me quote Clark Griswold, “This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here.”

Or his long-suffering wife, “I don’t know what to say, except it’s Christmas, and we’re all in misery.”

“Home Alone” is always fun, and “A Christmas Story” is a beloved family classic. We have an actual leg lamp in our living room, beaming the “soft glow of electric sex,” out into the neighborhood. And one year, our son, Zach, got an “Official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle.”

He didn’t shoot his eye out, either.

“Elf” is currently off our rotation, because we watched it one too many times. Even so, I usually utter “SANTA! Oh my God! Santa, here?! I know him! I know him!” at least once or twice.

“Jingle All the Way” is another Hval family favorite, in part because my husband owns almost every Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

Our second son actually bought Derek a Turbo Man action figure, and often one of us will say, “Put that cookie down!” (If you don’t say it with Arnold’s Austrian accent, you’re doing it wrong.)

Surprisingly, the most polarizing movie in our collection seems to be “The Polar Express.”

Critics hated its CGI animation, and it does take a bit of getting used to. For us, the story is strong enough to distract from the creepy North Pole elves and a little too much Tom Hanks. (Yes, it’s possible.)

Based on the Caldecott Medal-winning book, the film tells the story of a boy’s magical train journey to the North Pole, where he rediscovers the true spirit of Christmas.

One of the most poignant quotes comes from a fellow nonbeliever named Billy, who says, “Christmas just doesn’t work out for me – never has.”

People who believe in the spirit of Christmas can hear Santa’s sleigh bells ring, but for the boy, the bells are silent.

The train conductor explains, “Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”

During the journey, the boy embraces the magic of the season and receives the first gift of Christmas from Santa–a sleigh bell.

At the movie’s end, the boy, now a man, says, “Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.”

Several years ago, I interviewed Santa at the Southside Community Center. He gave me a shiny silver sleigh bell.

I am so glad I can still hear it ring.

Columns

Savoring the Special + Wedding Tales

Cindy Hval

For The Spokesman-Review

As breakfasts go, on the day after Thanksgiving, it doesn’t get much better than homemade pumpkin pie with a large dollop of whipped cream.

Ditto on the day after, the day after.

“Well, that’s it until next year,” I said, as my fork slid into the last creamy bite of spiced pumpkin.

I scooped up bits of flaky pie crust and sighed.

So did Derek.

“Your pumpkin pie is so much better than store-bought,” he said. “How come you don’t make it more often?”

A valid question, since you can buy cans of Libby pumpkin year-round, and I’ve always got piecrust ingredients in the pantry.

“Pumpkin pie is only for Thanksgiving,” I replied. “Like sugar cookies, shortbread and fudge are only for Christmas.”

He sighed again and took our plates to the sink.

That conversation got me thinking. What if we had pumpkin pie every month? Or listened to Christmas music before Thanksgiving? Or enjoyed a batch of fudge in the summer?

An artificial Christmas tree could remain in your living room all year. My mom’s retirement facility does this with a small tree in their vestibule. They decorate it for the seasons – hearts in February, flowers in the spring, sunglasses in summer, etc.

But anticipating once-a-year treats and digging out holiday heirlooms to display are all part of savoring the joy of the season.

By the time you read this, there may be a few pieces of Irish cream or butter rum fudge left in our fridge, and there might be a cookie or two in the larder, but that’s it. On New Year’s Day, we invite the whole Hval clan over to devour all the Christmas treats, so we can start the New Year with a fridge filled with vegetables and other wholesome foods.

As I type, the refrain of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” plays softly from my computer speakers.

”I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!”

Now, that’s a holiday sentiment I’d like to enjoy every day of the year.

Readers share wedding party memories

In my Dec. 5 column about my wedding appearances, I invited readers to share their wedding party memories.

My friend, Jill, is batting 50/50.

“I was a maid of honor and a bridesmaid,” she said. “One of the marriages stuck – one didn’t. Both weddings were lovely, though at the rehearsal for one of them, the officiant, who was also the groom’s dad, kept warning us bridesmaids to behave ourselves on the wedding day. I don’t know what he feared we would do. We were all married and had small children at that point. We were far too tired for any crazy stunts.”

Marcia Cocking appeared in a slew of weddings. Her many roles included flower girl, Junior bridesmaid, and maid of honor. She remembers every dress she wore!

“My yellow dress with a short cape (from her first flower girl role) has been a fun dress up for my 5 granddaughters,” she wrote.

Ditto a red dress and a white brocade gown.

“As a senior in high school, I wore a deep pink dress for my brother’s wedding. The dress also made an appearance at my Senior Prom with my future husband.”

In her sixth wedding appearance, she wore a flowered, lined dress as a bridesmaid in an August afternoon garden wedding.

“It was heavy and 100+degrees,” wrote Cocking. “It was nearly unbearable, in spite of the huge blue hat to complement the dress.”

That hat has also been a hit with her granddaughters.

Retired pastor, David Sutton, offered another perspective. He estimates he’s officiated 200 nuptials and has plenty of interesting tales.

“For example, the backyard wedding where the couple had 3 dogs and the grass was not mowed or cleaned up. Folding chairs on uneven turf, an old utility table for an altar, the participants wore clean bowling shirts with matching cut-offs. The dogs got loose in the middle of the ceremony!” he wrote. “Or the Hawaiian style outdoor wedding. The couple was about to light the Unity Candle just after I said, ‘And these single flames will light the one candle that represents the love you have for each other at this very moment and will last forever.’”’

And then a gust of wind extinguished the candle.

“I was best man at two weddings, co-star in three,” wrote Tom Peacock. “None lasted but I switched up to being a photographer at weddings that have had a much better success rate. Out of 6 weddings 5 are still going, the only one that isn’t, interestingly was a peacock-themed wedding, so perhaps my personal wedding experiences somehow affected that one. If I ever get married again maybe I should have you in the mix for a better success story.”

As I said, I’m sure my flower-strewing talents can be resurrected – the bouffant hairdo not so much.

Columns

Christmas with chaos, but no jelly

Cindy Hval

My husband narrowly avoided a “Jelly of the Month Club” situation at work over the holidays.

A couple of weeks before Christmas mail delivery to his Hillyard-area business came to a standstill. A disaster at any time when you depend on getting paid by your customers, so you can pay your employees, but especially concerning over Christmas.

Derek worried that instead of bonuses, he’d have to give his employees memberships to a Jelly of the Month Club just like Clark Griswold received in “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

Movie fans know that didn’t end up well for Griswold’s boss.

Equally troubling was the absence of our sons’ Christmas gifts. I’m not an online shopper, so Derek buys gifts the kids put on their Amazon wish lists, while I purchase presents at local stores. He always has the packages delivered to his business because his locked mailbox is more secure than our home curbside box. No mail delivery from USPS meant no packages, either.

When a week passed with nary an envelope in his box, Derek sent an employee to the neighborhood post office to find out what the problem was.

After waiting in a long line of unhappy postal customers, he was able to get a stack of mail, but no packages.

“They’ll come tomorrow,” the harried worker told him.

It seems like many area post offices, the Hillyard branch was critically understaffed and completely overwhelmed.

The packages didn’t arrive the next day. Nor did any mail. Another week went by and Derek went to the post office and picked up a huge stack of mail. The packages?

“They’ll be delivered by Christmas Eve,” the employee assured him.

On Dec. 23, our sons’ gifts arrived (but no mail).

I thought Derek would be relieved, instead, he was sad.

“Your gifts didn’t come,” he said.

I hugged him.

“My birthday’s in February. I bet they’ll be here just in time.”

But the meltdown of mail delivery is no laughing matter. I’m glad Derek was able to pay his bills and his employees, but another customer at the post office was missing needed medication. For those who live on slim margins, the lack of a check can mean no money for rent, utilities or groceries.

As USPS still struggles, another catastrophe loomed. Our son was scheduled to return to Texas via Southwest Airlines on Dec. 29.

On Dec. 27, he woke us with the news that Southwest had canceled his flight and said they couldn’t rebook him until Jan. 13!

His was just one of more than 2,500 flights the airline canceled within four hours that morning. Sam has classes to prepare for and was due back in his office on Thursday. He and Derek found a flight on American Airlines that would get him home on Tuesday.

I couldn’t complain about an extra five days with our youngest, but my heart ached for friends stranded far from home.

Stressful situations like these serve as reminders to check our attitudes. Are we being kind to the airline workers and postal service employees who are on the front line of customer frustration? Are we finding things to be thankful for amid the chaos?

And honestly, a one-year subscription to a Jelly of the Month Club isn’t the worst thing in the world – especially if you’ve stocked up on peanut butter.

All Write

Making room for new traditions

Cindy Hval

A few weeks ago, I received this note from a reader:

I have been searching for a column you wrote about Christmas traditions. My mother had it posted on her refrigerator for years to remember each Holiday Season and your wise words of wisdom.
When she passed, I took the column for myself, but the first paragraph had been torn out. The second paragraph reads: “This new year, I’m going to hold on to traditions that fit our family and let go of the old ones we’ve outgrown, etc.”
I am now the age of my mother with grown daughters/sons-in-law/grandkids and have continued to heed your suggestion of compromise. I was discussing the article with my daughters yesterday and they remember the article on grandma’s refrigerator. Could you send me the entire article for us? I am not sure of the year it was published but it must be older because the paper has turned yellow.

It’s hard to believe I wrote this column TEN years ago! I’m reposting it here because sometimes we all need a reminder that often we have to let go of the old to embrace the new.

Cheers!

Four Hval boys many Christmases ago.

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 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 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 okay, 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.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com.

Columns

Sometimes you just need Christmas to linger awhile longer

Cindy Hval

Perplexed, he peers into our dining room from his perch on the deck, a red Christmas ornament dangling from his ear.

Rudy the Reindeer rarely sees this far into January.

That’s because I’m a by-the-book kind of holiday decorator.

In my home, Christmas music, movies, and décor are forbidden until the day after Thanksgiving. That’s when the autumn wreaths go down, and the Christmas greens go up. Our everyday boring, white stoneware dishes are packed away, and my fleet of Pfaltzgraff Winterberry is deployed.

All the artwork on my living room walls is replaced by Santas, skis and holiday prints. I pack away the garland of harvest leaves from atop the piano and unearth evergreen garlands dotted with twinkling white lights.

Out come the Nativities, the Norwegian Christmas candelabra, and of course, the leg lamp replica from our favorite holiday film, “A Christmas Story.”

I’ve finally embraced the artificial – our tree goes up when our sons join us for post-Thanksgiving Turkey Noodle Soup. We appreciate having all hands on deck to trim the tree, not to mention hefting heavy holiday bins from the basement.

The hanging of the greens occurs outdoors as well, with lighted garlands and small wreaths draped along our stair railing and around the front door, a small lighted tree replacing my cat figurine on the front steps, and a wreath with a burgundy bow bedecking the door.

After hanging the snowflake garland above the backdoor slider, Derek affixes Rudy the reindeer to his watchful post on the deck.

But what goes up must come down. Preferably on Jan. 2, and certainly no later than the Feast of Epiphany (Jan. 6 this year for those keeping track at home).

Like I said, I’m a stickler for rules and am counted among those who groan when my neighbors leave limp holiday inflatables in their yards well past the New Year.

However, as 2020, blessedly drew to a close, I surveyed the glimmering green and red warmth of our home. Our sons had untrimmed the tree before the New Year chimed, but I was left to dismantle the rest of Christmas alone, and frankly, for the first time I can remember, I wasn’t done with Christmas.

I wasn’t ready to dim the evergreen lights and quench the candelabra. I love our ski-themed wall, with the cross-country Santa figurine, swooshing on the table below.

And to my surprise, the leg lamp has grown on me, and I enjoy switching it on as darkness falls, knowing Derek will see “the soft glow of electric sex” welcoming him home when he pulls into the driveway.

Since our oldest son’s birthday is Jan. 8, I always keep the Winterberry dishes out until after his cake has been cut. That way he can eat birthday cake from a plate that says, “Joy” or “Cheer” or “Wish.”

But this year, Ethan enjoyed his birthday dinner among all the other Christmas decorations I hadn’t begun removing.

After his celebration, I slowly filled the green and red bins. Walter, our junior tabby, inspected each bin from within, as I carefully wrapped candles, glassware and greenery.

Derek was even slower to remove the outdoor décor, not that there was much to take down. Our youngest son, his usual holiday helper, was busy with work and school this year, so no lighted candy canes, reindeer or trees dotted our front yard. Even so, he was reluctant to remove the garlands and wreaths.

We didn’t talk about it much.

He didn’t complain about the bins stacked in the dining room, even though he knows I’m a creature of order, not clutter.

I didn’t mention the outdoor lighting that lingered until this past week.

Honestly? I think this year with the world so filled with discord, disharmony and despair, had left us drained. But the beauty that is Christmas, reflected in simple lights and cheery decorations, offered a much-needed lift to sagging spirits.

As I write, the holiday bins are neatly stacked in the basement, the greenery gone from the front door. But Rudy still peeks at us from the deck each evening as we sit down to dinner, and I smile when I close the blinds.

To heck with rules.

Rudy can stay as long as he wants.

Columns

Loafing around with the bread thief

Cindy Hval

The rustling sound gave me pause.

Taking a sip of coffee, I lowered the newspaper and looked around the bedroom.

Crackle. Crackle. Jingle. Jingle.

The bell gave him away, because it’s too early for one of Santa’s reindeer.

I flung my cozy quilt aside, knelt on the floor, and lifted the bed skirt.

That’s where I found Walter manhandling (cathandling?) a half-loaf of bread. His sharp teeth had punctured tiny holes in the bag, and the bread was mostly squished.

“Walter!” I yelled. “Bad kitty!”

This wasn’t our 7-month-old kitten’s first foray into bread theft.

Some weeks earlier I’d awoken to a similar scenario. Derek had surprised me with a lovely breakfast in bed before he left for work. It was still too early for me to get up, so I dozed off after enjoying it. Apparently, wanting to demonstrate that he, too, was capable of serving me breakfast, Walter dragged an entire loaf of bread to the bedroom.

The loaf was bigger than he, and he couldn’t hoist it onto the bed, so he decided to squeeze it beneath.

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I loudly expressed my displeasure.

Baffled, Walter cocked his head, gazed at me with sorrowful eyes, and gave a small chirp which I interpreted as, “How come Dad gets kisses when he brings you food in bed, and I get yelled at?”

With no room on our kitchen counters for a bread box, we store bread on top of our refrigerator. After all, none of our other cats had ever ventured up there.

Of course, none of our other cats have decided to jump on our ceramic stove to watch our son cook macaroni and cheese.

Thankfully, Walter wasn’t burned, but Sam was pretty traumatized. I suggested in the future he should stay by the stove while the water boils, just in case.

In addition to on top of the fridge, we’ve taken to storing our bread in the microwave – anything to keep Walter’s paws off our loaves.

Evidently, he’s addicted to the crinkling sound of plastic, because he’s also smuggled an entire bag of miniature marshmallows to our bedroom. When I caught him with the marshmallows, I discovered his stash of plastic grocery bags under our bed.

But our furry Jean Valjean still prefers to focus his thievery on bread.

I spent Sunday making sausage with my sisters-in-law. When I returned home, Walter met me at the top of the stairs, licking his chops.

I hustled to the microwave and opened the door. The bread was still there. Then Thor, our senior tabby, strolled into the kitchen, also licking his whiskers.

They watched me to see if treats were forthcoming, but I was not in a treat-dispensing mood.

“Walter,” I said. “What have you done?”

He gave a pleased little trill and sauntered toward the bedroom with his tail held high. I followed and found a trail of crumbs leading to a Ziploc bag of mangled cornbread.

He’d managed to climb on top of the refrigerator, snatch the Saturday supper leftovers, take the bag to our bedroom, tear a hole in it, and share the spoils with Thor.

Who knew cats like cornbread?

“Walter,” I muttered. “You are working your way to the top of Santa’s naughty list.”

Rubbing his head on my ankles, he purred and stretched out on top of my feet. Apparently, he’s of the opinion that being utterly adorable automatically earns you a spot on the nice list.

However, his hopes to find his stocking stuffed with a loaf of bread may be dashed on Christmas morning. At this rate, all Walter’s getting is a lump of coal.

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Columns

Home for the holidays at Hutton Settlement

Cindy Hval

There’s no place like home for the holidays and for 32 children, Hutton Settlement is the place they call home. Earlier this year, I got to know four of those children.

My friend, Tom McArthur, asked if I’d interview the kids with him for a special edition of the Northwest Profiles television program.

First, a bit of background.

Hutton Settlement was founded by Levi Hutton, a wealthy businessman who made his fortune in the North Idaho mines during the early 1900s. Hutton was an orphan and so was his wife, May Arkwright Hutton. After her death, he decided to use some of his fortune to create a true home for kids like him instead of the institutions that were common at the time.

This year, the settlement celebrated its centennial with a slew of events.

In July, a bronze sculpture by artist Vincent DeFelice was unveiled, and Babe Ruth’s granddaughter, Linda Ruth Tosetti, threw out the first pitch at the memorial baseball game.

Babe Ruth, himself an orphan, had heard about the settlement and visited Hutton in 1924 during an off-season with the New York Yankees.

In late October through early November, a play written by Tim Rarick premiered at the Spokane Civic Theatre. “A Place to Call Home” told the story of the settlement’s founding.

And on Oct. 31, Northwest Profiles devoted a half-hour program to the history of Hutton. The program, which aired on KSPS-TV and kicked off the show’s 33rd season, featured the four children I interviewed with McArthur.

HUT05

Tom McArthur and Cindy Hval at KSPS-TV studios with Hutton Settlement residents.

Gavin McArthur, 16, Roxy Fredericksen, 14, and Trinity Kinville, 11, shared their stories of how they came to live at Hutton, and what the settlement means to them.

Gavin said he and his brother were being raised by their dad. One morning when he was about 4 years old, he heard a knock at the door.

“My dad opened it up and a bunch of police officers stormed in. My brother and I were scared. We ran and hid under a bunk bed. It turns out that he (Dad) was arrested for using drugs at the time. I found out later that he suffered from schizophrenia and mental illness.”

After going through several foster homes, the brothers ended up at Hutton.

“I could tell right away these people are here for me — they’re trying to help me, nurture me and take care of me,” he said.

Roxy said her mother and father argued frequently.

“It was really bad. And then one day my mom, she’s like, ‘Oh you’re not gonna be living with me anymore,’ ” Roxy said.

When she was 7, she moved to Hutton and her two younger sisters soon followed.

Trinity had a similar story.

“When I was just little, our father abused me and my mother,” she said.

The abuse continued when her younger siblings arrived.

“When I was 8, my mother died from an overdose. I lived with my grandma and grandpa for a year,” she said. “One day our uncle came and said, ‘I just found this great place online, and I have friends who used to work there. It’s called Hutton Settlement.’ That summer we started visiting, and we ended up moving to Cottage Two, and I’ve lived there since.”

Each of the children shared their memories of going up the long tree-lined drive at the settlement, and of the love and warmth they found with Hutton’s shelter.

When asked what they’d like to say to Levi Hutton, Roxy said, “Thank you for making this place where I can be myself and have a loving caring family. I didn’t have that before.”

Trinity reflected on what she’s learned since coming to the settlement.

“God loves everyone,” she said. “Even when times are tough it can get better. It will get better. And even if you don’t feel like it, someone’s always there by your side.”

In this season of the year when hearts yearn for home and family, the kids at Hutton Settlement are profoundly grateful for the acceptance and love they’ve found.

“Hutton Settlement to me is a place to call home — a place to call family,” Gavin said.

Columns

Gifts That Keep on Giving

Cindy Hval

The tree’s been taken down, the heavenly host wrapped in bubble wrap. Winterberry dishes are back in their boxes, and the last Christmas cookie crumb has been devoured. But I still have lots of holiday joy to anticipate.

That’s because on Christmas morning, my husband gave me some gifts that keep on giving – he gave me gift cards to a few of my favorite places.

I can already hear some of you groaning.

“Gift cards are for those too lazy to shop!”

“Gift cards are so impersonal.”

“Who wants to open a piece of plastic on Christmas morning?”

The answer to that is ME!

For many couples gift-giving can be incredibly stressful. High expectations meet limited resources. Subtle clues misread. Misunderstandings run rampant.

Example: Just because I needed a set of kitchen scissors, did not mean I wanted to find them under the tree on Christmas morning.

Some couples abandon gifts all together and focus on their children, or donate cash they would have spent to local charities.

That’s all well and good, but Derek and I enjoy giving presents to each other. It’s fun to watch your loved one’s eyes light up when they open a gift that delights them.

For example, this year Derek found a leg lamp under the tree – a replica of the one in our favorite holiday film “A Christmas Story.”

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Of course, this led to a discussion about whether this was a seasonal display item, or something that should shine from our living room window all year long.

Like I said, gift-giving can be stressful.

Moving on.

Years ago, we figured out that taking the time to write a list of things we’d enjoy receiving eliminates disappointment, while still keeping surprises alive. You see, we don’t buy each other everything on the lists, so the receiver still doesn’t know what will end up under the tree.

And there’s always off-list purchases like the leg lamp.

When our nest finally empties, things may change. Our sons might not gather around the tree on Christmas morning. There might be grandchildren we’d rather dote on or trips we’d like to take. Traditions have to match whatever stage of life you’re in.

Which brings me back to gift cards.

Derek knows I have a hard time spending money on myself. Nine times out of 10, I’ll see something I like or need and talk myself out of buying it. It used to drive him crazy that I’d dither over buying a new pair of jeans.

“Just buy the jeans!” he’d say.

But I’d demur.

“I’m sure I can find them on sale, somewhere else.”

Then he discovered when he gives me gift cards, I actually enjoy using them.

They gave me permission for small luxuries I normally avoid – like picking up coffee at a drive-thru.

And no, giving cash is not the same thing at all.

The best gifts show how well the giver knows the recipient. Derek understands if he gave me cash, I’d spend it on someone else or give it away. He also knows my favorite shops. He’d never give me a Cabela’s gift card, and I’d never buy him one from Victoria’s Secret (though he really seems to enjoy my purchases from that particular store).

Equally important, we both are happy that our hard-earned dollars stay local instead of being sucked into the endless emptiness of the Internet.

Surprisingly, a survey conducted by Consumer Reports determined that more than 25 percent of all gift cards given are never used.

That’s not the case in our house.

The last scrap of crumpled wrapping paper may have hit the recycling bin, but I’ve got a couple of envelopes set aside with my name on them. At some point, probably next month, I’ll pick up a coffee, drive to a spa for a relaxing massage, and then indulge in some guilt-free shopping.

I’m all about the anticipation, and gift cards can make the magic of Christmas last long after the tinsel – and the leg lamp – have been packed away.

Columns

Sizzling Sisters Sausage Sunday (Go Pig or Go Home)

Cindy Hval

If you don’t want to know how the sausage gets made, you should stop reading now. Seriously. Recently my sisters-in-law and I had our annual Sizzling Sisters Sausage Sunday.

Forty pounds of pork butt, 6 pounds of ground beef, 5 pounds of pork fat, 6 pounds of potatoes, 6 pounds of onion, assorted spices, a secret ingredient, a fair amount of wine (for us, not the sausage) and many inappropriate jokes later, we have sausage. Lots and lots of sausage.

Each year my sister-in-law Camille Jordalen and her Norwegian husband, Kjell, host our family Christmas Eve gathering, which I call “The Festival of Strange Norwegian Meat.”

While steamed Brussels sprouts, boiled potatoes and my favorite, mashed rutabaga, make an appearance, the real star of the annual feast is meat – specifically pork with a side of lamb.

I’ve never been able to embrace the salty tang of pinnekjøtt (cured lamb ribs) but I look forward to ribbe (pork ribs with a thick layer of fat), Swedish meatballs, Swedish potato sausage and two Scandinavian sausages – medisterpølse and medisterkaker.

I’m not exactly sure how the Swedes got involved in our Norwegian meal, but I suspect my mother-in-law and her Swedish heritage had something to do with it.

For several years we bought the potato sausage from Egger’s, but then my sister-in-law, Susie Hval, got a meat grinder. She wanted to try her hand at making homemade bratwurst, and once she conquered that, she was ready for a new challenge.

“Why don’t we make our own medisterpolse and potato sausage?” she asked.

And thus a tradition was born.

Camille makes the medisterkaker on her own because that sausage is formed into patties and fried. The other two are link sausages, which is where the teamwork, fun, and double entendres come in. We’ve given birth to 11 sons between the three of us. Trust me when I say there isn’t a sausage joke we haven’t made or heard. This is also probably why our spouses vacate the house when Sizzling Sisters Sausage Sunday commences.

I suspect watching their wives grind 40 pounds of pork butt and squeeze it into slippery sausage casing makes them a bit squeamish. By the way, those casings are made from pig intestines. Go pig or go home, that’s what we always say.

With our aprons on and hair pulled back in messy buns, we get down to business Pioneer Woman style.

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Pork and pork fat is sliced and diced and fed into the grinder. Onions and potatoes are added for the potato sausage.

“This always reminds me of the Play-Doh barber shop,” Susie said.

She’s right. The meat coming out of the grinder looks just like the hair coming out of the figures’ heads in the Play-Doh Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop of our childhoods.

After two rounds of grinding, we’re ready to squeeze the meat into the casings. The casing is slid on to an attachment on the grinder. It’s a delicate operation because if the sister who is pushing the meat through pushes too fast, sausages can rupture.

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Once we have a long rope, we’re ready make links. This involves a process I call “swinging the sausage” which is Susie’s specialty. Much like jumping rope when we were kids, she swings the sausage till the ends are tight and ready to tie.

Tying the slippery ends is challenging, especially when your hands are coated with pig fat, but we manage to get it done. Actually, Susie manages to get it done. Camille tried tying, but struggled, and I’m a disaster at balloon-tying, so I don’t even attempt it.

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For the potato sausage, the casings are pricked with little holes, so they don’t explode upon cooking. This is my job.

While we work we catch up on life and family – that is when we aren’t talking to ourselves. We’ve discovered that each of us tends to keep a running commentary when we’re concentrating, much like we’re the hosts of our own cooking shows. This works great when working alone, but it does get a bit confusing when cooking with others.

Seven hours flew by and at the end of the day we had freezer bags full of sausage, ready to be browned and served on Christmas Eve.

We sampled the sausage and agreed that each year it tastes better. And that secret ingredient? It really isn’t much of a secret – it’s love with a hefty dash of laughter.