Tag: Cindy Hval

Columns

Finding good advice and humor in the obituaries

Cindy Hval

Obituaries not only offer snapshots of our community, but they often include bits of wisdom, sound advice and flashes of humor.

Robert (Bob) Dunning, who died at 94, was known for his sharp wit, curiosity and endless supply of interesting facts.

He could tell you that ponderosa pines smell like vanilla and that cussing is scientifically proven to be therapeutic. Dunning didn’t believe in giving people 100%. His obituary summed up his philosophy thusly, “Give 60% most days, 80% on good days, and when you feel like giving 100%, it will feel like you’re giving 120%.”

I’m no mathematician, but that adds up for me.

Dan Zimmerman enjoyed a varied career. He was a photographer for Q6, a Washington State Patrol trooper and a lineman for Grant County Public Utility District.

But he also had a surprising claim to fame.

Zimmerman was one of the three “Whistling Midgets” from Davenport – a group whose unique talent earned them an appearance on “The Gong Show.”

Joyce Lee Nonnemacher’s talents didn’t garner a television appearance, but they made a difference in her community.

The Reardon resident never missed a chance to help at the Lincoln County Hospital Foundation’s annual luncheon. Her cookie jar was never empty, and her garden was always blooming. She was known for her kindness, humor, and her signature question to friends and neighbors: “Are you behaving yourself?”

As a farmer’s daughter, she waited to die until harvest and seeding were finished.

I would have loved to hang out with Marilyn Dollarhide because her mothering style mirrored mine.

The mother of seven could be a banty hen – quick to defend and protect her chicks, whom she loved fiercely. Her home was loud and filled with laughter, and there was always a place at the table for her children’s friends.

But as much as Marilyn loved the chaos of family life, she appreciated serenity when it arrived. She would say, “I love fall – my favorite colors are everywhere, harvest and fall work are done, the vegetable garden is put to sleep for the year, the kids are back to school, and my house is quiet during the day. A glorious season.”

I couldn’t agree more.

After writing for this newspaper for 20 years, it’s no surprise that the obituary section often includes folks I’ve interviewed.

When I saw Kathy Ludders’ notice, I thought her name seemed familiar. Then I read, “Kathy learned from her mother that everything is in walking distance, if you walk long enough,” and the pieces clicked together.

I interviewed Kathy and her husband, John, in 2021 for a story about their volunteer work with Dishman Hills Conservancy.

The couple met in 1966 on a blind date hiking in the Crystal Mountains of the Cascades. Over their 57 years of marriage, they hiked all over the world.

I enjoyed meeting Herb Genteman in 2024, when I wrote a story about his family-owned business, The Sports Creel – Spokane’s oldest ski store.

Genteman died in November. His obituary describes him as a “Hobie sailer, Heli-skier. Sand bagger, skins stealer. Cereal slurper, sidewalk sweeper. Entertainer, car detailer. A storyteller, so captivating, one never sees that punchline lurking just around the corner.”

If that’s not enough, he also had “a golf swing only Charles Barkley would envy, and a putter that opponents loved to hate.”

Larry Tobin died on Oct. 25.

We met when I wrote a story about him and his friends and their vintage Stearman biplanes. I had intended to keep my feet on the ground during the interview. However, Tobin insisted that I experience what it’s like to soar over Spokane in an open cockpit aircraft. It’s a thrill I’ve never forgotten, and I’m forever glad I listened to him.

Flight features prominently in Gary Cook’s obituary.

Cook had a passion for adventure, discovery and exploration.

His family wrote, “Gary leaves behind a series of partially-used frequent flier miles and a long-suffering family who consistently worried about his whereabouts until they received a phone call or postcard from remote corners around the world.”

They had this request: “In lieu of flowers, please book a flight somewhere you have never been, get outdoors, and toast the end of a long and very well-traveled road.”

Now, that’s good advice.

Columns

If I’d married the strong, silent type, there’d be no #thingsmyhusbandsays

Cindy Hval

It’s a new year, and my husband is still unintentionally providing me with plenty of column fodder.

Here’s the first 2026 edition of #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• Derek’s sweet tooth is legendary, but his dreams about baked goods can be disturbing. One night, I woke up to him mumbling about doughnuts.

“Doughnuts?” I asked, nudging his shoulder.

“Yeah, the big metal doughnut.”

Now, I’m really awake.

“What big metal doughnut?”

“The one from the sign. It’s too late, now.”

“Too late for doughnuts?”

“No, it fell off the sign, and I tried to stop it, but it crashed through the window.”

He rolled over and continued sleeping.

Me? I wanted to know if anyone got crushed by the big metal donut.

• Who hasn’t had a scary dream about dinosaurs? But Derek’s was oddly specific – and alliterative. He was yelling and thrashing around, so I woke him up.

“You’re having a bad dream,” I said. “Hush!”

Then I asked him what he was dreaming about.

“Triceratops,” he muttered. “In the tent! Not the BIG dinosaurs – little tiny ones.”

He sighed and rolled over, but I heard him muttering, “Little tiny triceratops …”

Derekisms

• Derek: I’m at Costco. Can I get you anything to eat?

Me: I’d love a nonfat yogurt swirl.

Derek: Where’s the yogurt squirrels?

I reminded him we don’t live in Idaho.

• He called our youngest son, Sam, to tell him about the business conference we were attending in Austin.

“All the headwigs are here early.”

• Him: I had Thanksgiving by myself in Flight School. I bought myself a Manhandler Dinner.

Me: Oh, my!

• I really hope some of his words become part of our national lexicon. Like this one: “People need to get off the political blandwagon.”

Life according to Derek

• Speaking of politics, after reading about yet another political sex scandal, Derek told Sam, “That’s the problem with mankind. They keep putting their wieners in the wrong places.”

• Reading online local news briefs to him is always entertaining. I read him one about a reported disorderly male Kung Fu fighting with traffic cones in a parking lot. His reply?

“I should go down there and help him; he’s probably outnumbered.”

• Me: How was your day?

Him: Pretty good till that truck ran into our building.

• His wildlife commentary makes road trips interesting.

“What the hell! A turkey just flew across the road! Did you see that? Who knew they could fly? Looked like a basketball flying across the sky!”

• Derek is also known for his critique of popular music. He especially loathes “Grenade” by Bruno Mars in which the singer vows, “I’d catch a grenade for ya.”

“When was the last time anyone threw a grenade at you?” fumed Derek. “I mean, my gosh, Bruno Mars has never been in combat. You don’t CATCH a grenade. What frickin idiot!”

Married life

• While organizing my shoe shelves the other day, I found a Hershey bar. I’d forgotten I’d stashed it there in the summer after the last time we made s’mores.

“Why did you hide a chocolate bar in your closet?” Derek asked.

“Every woman needs an emergency chocolate stash,” I replied.

“But it’s been there for five months!”

“I guess I haven’t had an emergency yet.”

“Well, you’re about to because now I know where you hide your stash.”

• Holidays can be stressful for husbands. One Christmas Eve, Derek was wrapping presents in the bedroom late at night. He came out looking agitated and poured himself a stiff drink. “This is gonna take a while,” he said. “A long time ago, I bought you a really cool gift, but now I can’t find it.”

(He eventually found it in his truck.)

• I was getting ready for work when I noticed something missing from a shelf in our bathroom. We had two Viking rubber ducks, but the lady Viking had vanished.

“Hey, what happened to Mrs. Viking Ducky? Have you seen her?” I hollered to Derek.

Silence.

Mumbling.

“What?”

“She was buried at sea,” he admitted.

He’d knocked her in the toilet when he went to flush early one morning and couldn’t retrieve her before she went down to her watery grave.

• We watched a movie where a young widow went to her husband’s closet and grabbed his flannel shirt to hold close. “I need to buy you some flannel shirts, so I have something to cuddle if anything happens to you,” I said.

“I’ll just wear my underwear for a week and put them under your pillow,” he replied.

His romance game may need some work, but his stellar quotability quotient more than makes up for it.

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

Readers share their first jobs

Cindy Hval

Last month, I wrote about my adventures babysitting a toddler named Chuck and asked readers to share stories about their first jobs.

Kelly Kelly bypassed babysitting in favor of employment at a drive-in theater in Boise, Idaho. While she didn’t take care of a sticky toddler, the situation in which she found herself one night was considerably stickier.

“My cousin and I worked at the snack counter. We wore paper hats and striped button-ups to serve popcorn and Coca-Cola,” she wrote.

Kelly, just 14 at the time, lived in nearby Meridian. Uber didn’t exist in 1977, so she often hitchhiked to and from work.

In the 70s, the 15 miles from Meridian to Boise was a long, empty stretch with nothing but farmland and horses. Late one rainy night, she set out for home, hoping to hitch a ride, but no cars passed.

Finally, she saw a police car approaching. Hitchhiking was illegal, but she was so happy to see it, she stuck out her thumb.

To her shock, the officer drove on by.

“I have no memory of how I got home, yet the memory of that cop car driving by is as fresh as if it didn’t happen almost 50 years ago,” Kelly said. “I never went back to the drive-in and still wonder what kind of person leaves a little girl in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with their thumb out.”

Like me, Maggie Sullivan’s first babysitting gig proved memorable.

She was 15, and her responsibilities extended over a New Year’s weekend in the late 50s. The parents, eager to escape, offered no instructions other than to take care of a massive pile of dirty laundry in the living room.

“The 12-year-old was well-behaved, but not helpful, the 5-year-old frequently ran through the house yelling ‘diarrhea!’ and I didn’t understand the toddler’s babbling at all,” she recalled.

With little in the cupboards or fridge, she fed the kids cereal and sandwiches for seven meals.

“The worst episode was the toddler running barefoot through the dining room and suddenly screaming and turning red,” Sullivan wrote. “He eventually pointed down, where I found a thumbtack embedded in his foot.”

Her experience worsened when the parents came home drunk, and the dad tried to kiss her when he drove her home.

“Without apologizing, he dug out some bills from his pocket for 50 hours of my work and time. The amount? $6.”

Linda Carroll saw strawberry fields forever at 13. It was 1962, and her family was planning to visit the World’s Fair in Seattle.

Her parents didn’t have a lot, and her mother told her that if she wanted spending money, she’d have to earn it.

She got a job picking strawberries, waking up at 4:15 a.m. to gulp down breakfast so that she could reach the fields near Havana St. and Marietta Ave. by 5 a.m. Her back-breaking efforts netted her $1.25 per flat.

Carroll doesn’t recall how much she made in total, but she does know she spent some of it at the Crescent to buy the latest fashion, a skort – shorts with a short, flared skirt over them.

“The one I chose had narrow strips in a rainbow of colors, and the skirt had tiny crystal pleats,” she wrote. “The perfect item to wear to the Fair in July.”

Walt Pulliam’s first job was a busboy in the Seattle Center food court just a few years after that World’s Fair.

In addition to clearing tables, he was responsible for giving breaks to the young women who operated the Bubbleator.

The Bubbleator was a large, bubble-shaped hydraulic elevator with transparent acrylic glass walls operated from an elevated chair. It was built for the 1962 World’s Fair.

“I sat in a space-age looking captain’s chair with a large panel in front of me that epitomized something out of the worst science fiction movie sets,” he recalled. “Lots of toggles, buttons and switches.”

Of course, none of them actually did anything except for the one that operated the door and the button for the three floors of the building.

However, those switches provided ample opportunity for Pulliam to mess with obnoxious kids.

“I’d direct them to a toggle or button to hold down for closing the door while I operated the actual control,” he said. “Invariably, I would let up on the control just before the door finished closing, which would cause the door to reopen. Everyone would look at the kid and blame him for not being able to simply hold a button down.”

Nicki Boures’ first job was at The Spokesman-Review.

“I started as a ‘foot messenger’ delivering newspaper display ad proofs to the downtown businesses in the morning,” she wrote. “Typically, I’d return to the businesses in the afternoon to retrieve the proofs with any corrections before being printed. Tear sheets of these ads, once printed, were also a part of our delivery day.”

Eventually, she worked as a clerk in the advertising department.

“I probably would have retired from the Spokesman had I not accepted a job in Anchorage, Alaska, at the Anchorage Times.”

Our first jobs teach us valuable life lessons. We learn how to get up early and show up on time. We problem-solve on dark roads, in strawberry fields or in a glass-enclosed elevator.

Those experiences shape our work ethic and give us a glimpse of what the future might hold.

Fourteen years after my debut babysitting gig, I gave birth to the first of four wild boys. At one time or another, every single one of them was just as sticky as Chuck.

All Write, Columns

Stuffing Wars

Cindy Hval

When it comes to our Thanksgiving menu, I stick to the basics.

My brother and his wife bring a sweet potato casserole, I bake apple and pumpkin pies, and we serve turkey, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, rolls, olives, pickles, and my favorite – – stuffing.

I buy Mrs. Cubbison’s cornbread stuffing and bake it in the oven (not in the turkey) just like Mom did.

To quote “The Mandalorian,” “This is the way.”

This has always been the way until about five years ago, when my husband’s friend told Derek about the stuffing he makes and gave him the recipe.

It’s called ‘Dan’s This is What Stuffing Will Be Like in Heaven.’

After reading the ingredients, I strongly disagree that this is what will be served in Paradise.

I’m a stuffing purest. The dish should be all about the seasoned bread cubes, copious amounts of butter, and a bit of sautéed celery and onion to give it crunch.

No oysters.

No olives.

No oranges.

Dan’s recipe doesn’t contain any of the above. Instead, it calls for dried cranberries, two boxes of wild rice mix and ground sausage.

Pork sausage!

But Derek wanted to try it, so I bought the ingredients.

He made his version, and I made mine. On Thanksgiving, we served both.

I tasted a small bite of the foreign stuffing. The flavors and the textures were all wrong. I didn’t mind the mushrooms or slivered almonds, but I shuddered at the sausage and cranberries.

Imagine my surprise when our guests LOVED the “new” stuffing. They raved about it. Even our sons were huge fans. Oh, they all ate my version, too, but there’s no denying Derek’s was a hit.

Now, every year, we serve both kinds. If there happens to be more of my traditional stuffing left over, I’m good with that. I eat it cold for breakfast the next day, and if I’m lucky, the day after that.

Dan’s ‘This Is What Stuffing Will Be Like In Heaven’ Recipe

(This is transcribed exactly as received. What size can of mushrooms? Derek uses 8 ounces and it works. What oven temperature? I stick it in with my stuffing at 350 degrees.

1 pound good ground pork sausage from the meat counter, NOT Jimmy Dean

8 cups dry bread cubes

2 cups sliced celery

1 cup chopped onion

1 can sliced mushrooms, drain; save juice 1cup or more!

Slivered almonds

1 egg

1 or 2 (or 3) cans of chicken broth

2 boxes of stove-top type herb and butter flavored long grain and wild rice mix or equivalent

1 cup or so cashews

½ or 1 cup dried cranberries (Craisins)

Brown almonds in a frying pan with light oil (olive) – move ‘em around so they don’t burn. (They will go from perfectly browned to burned really fast).

Set aside. Snack on these while you prepare all the following.

Fry sausage, chopping it up as it browns – save drippings!

Prepare rice according to directions, set aside.

Chop up celery and onion, set aside.

Put celery, onions, mushrooms (drained) and drippings from sausage in frying pan; add some salt, pepper and butter; simmer for a few minutes until slightly cooked, but still crisp.

In a large bowl, combine the rice, sausage, almonds, all the vegetables and the drippings they were simmering in, and add the bread cubes. Mix this around for a few minutes to get all the dried bread moistened. Throw in the cashews and the dried cranberries. Mix some more. Add mushroom juice and as much chicken broth as needed to get the proper consistency; moist and sticky, no dry bread cubes. Throw in an egg for good luck. Mix more. Keep in mind that when you heat it up in the oven, it may dry out some, so, chicken broth.

Put stuffing into a covered pan or baking dish and bake to heat it up before serving.

Feeds one person for three entire days.

Mrs. Cubbison’s Corn Bread Stuffing

(Oven-prepared as per the back of the box, the way God intended.)

1 box (12 oz.) corn bread stuffing

1 cup (2 sticks) butter

1 cup onion, diced

1 cup celery, diced

1¾ chicken broth (or water)

1 egg, beaten

Preheat oven to 350.

Spray a 9-by-13 (3-quart) casserole dish with cooking spray.

In a large 5-quart saucepan, melt butter on medium heat. Add vegetables and sauté until translucent. Remove from heat.

Add stuffing mix and gradually stir in chicken broth or water. Add salt and pepper to taste. For richer stuffing, add a well-beaten egg and mix thoroughly.

Pour the stuffing into a greased casserole dish and bake for 40 minutes. Remove the cover for the last 15 minutes for a crispier top.

Columns

Soundtracks for Daily Life

Cindy Hval

In a world where music streams from apps like Pandora and Spotify, I listen to music at home the old-fashioned way.

No, I don’t spin vinyl albums on a turntable or pop tapes into an eight-track player, but I do own a stereo with a five-disc CD changer.

Our youngest son worked his way through college at Best Buy, and one of the last times he used his employee discount was to buy this sweet stereo for me.

He kind of had to if he wanted to eat.

My family knows cooking is how I unwind after a long day, and I can’t cook dinner without my tunes.

Sure, I can stream music from our television, but that dilutes the joy of sorting through our CD library and selecting the mix I want to hear for the week.

Every Monday, my fingers explore the options that heavily favor the best music era ever – the 1970s and ’80s.

Oh, I have plenty of albums from classic crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, but the bulk of my collection stems from my childhood and teen years.

Why yes, I do have John Denver’s “Greatest Hits.” Gordon Lightfoot’s and Olivia Newton-John’s, too.

The Bee Gees, Bon Jovi, Billy Joel and the Eagles are well represented. But every week, at least one of the CDs in my stereo reveals my passion: movie soundtracks.

Some people love show tunes from Broadway musicals. To me, those mostly original songs feel more confined to the stage and the storyline, while movie tunes can captivate us right where we are.

Soundtracks make my toes tap, and I discovered long ago that cooking and dancing aren’t mutually exclusive.

From the original “Shrek” soundtrack, which introduced me to the band Smash Mouth, to the iconic before-my-time tracks from “Stand By Me,” the musical mix of old and new delights me.

I found the “Stand By Me” CD at the Spokane Symphony Associates Upscale Sale, and bought it primarily so I could listen to Buddy Holly sing “Every Day.” If that song doesn’t make you smile, even after a deadline-filled day, not much will.

Other oft-played albums bring happy memories of the movie experience.

“Footloose” came out in 1984, midway through my freshman year of college. My best friend and I saw it at the now-defunct North Division Cinemas.

When the reprise of the title track played, we leapt from our seats and danced in the aisles, and soon a large crowd joined us.

It’s hard to beat memorable moments like that, which may be why “Footloose” is my phone ringtone.

Derek and I loved the Joel and Ethan Cohen movie “O Brother Where Art Thou” when we saw it in theaters in 2000. Allison Krauss’ vocals add depth and resonance to the amazing soundtrack.

“Guardians of the Galaxy” included a great remix of classic songs like “Hooked on a Feeling” and “Fooled Around and Fell in Love,” while “The Greatest Showman” featured nine original songs. Its single “This is Me” won a Golden Globe for Best Original Song.

But the movie soundtrack that most often headlines my home rotation is “La La Land.”

At the 89th Academy Awards, the film won Best Original Score and Best Original Song for “City of Stars.” The tune’s multiple renditions in the film never fail to capture my emotions, and John Legend’s “Start a Fire” adds the perfect coda to the end of a long day.

Tonight, as Emma Stone sings “Audition (The Fools Who Dream)” while I chop vegetables for a simple stew, I’ll likely pause to take a few twirls around the dining room.

Here’s to the ones who dream

Foolish as they may seem

Here’s to the hearts that ache

Here’s to the mess we make.

It’s a lovely soundtrack for everyday life.

Columns

First job, a sticky situation

Cindy Hval

I was 10 when a neighbor knocked on our door. She needed someone to watch her toddler son while she took her dog to the vet. My mother volunteered me.

I don’t know what she was thinking!

As the youngest of four, I had zero child care experience, unless you count my Baby Tender Love doll. I showered her with tender love until her drink -and -wet feature malfunctioned. When I gave her a bottle, she wet the back of her head instead of her diaper and I lost interest.

Nevertheless, I made my way across our shared backyards and entered my neighbor’s home to meet Chuck. (I’m not actually sure that’s his name. It might have been Charles. 1975 was a long time ago.)

The tot, clad only in a filthy T-shirt and a sagging diaper, eyed me warily and took a slug of milk from his bottle.

My first task was to help my neighbor give a pill to her giant dog.

“Let’s get him on the kitchen counter,” she said.

I weighed about 60 pounds. The dog weighed considerably more.

You might be horrified to think of a large dog on a kitchen counter, but the counter was more horrific.

It was as filthy as Chuck and actually stickier.

Aware that I was on the clock and earning 50 cents per hour, I did my best to help heft the animal (Great Dane/Mastiff/mini horse?) to the counter and closed my eyes while she jammed something down his throat.

He got down from the countertop unassisted, and Chuck’s mom said, “OK, I’ll get him in the car and be back in an hour. If you need anything, call your mother.”

And off she went without a word of instruction regarding the care and feeding of her child.

I took stock of the situation. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Congealed remnants of macaroni and cheese stuck to bowls. Mushy Lucky Charms floated in milky water, and a pot with a layer of calcified pork and beans attracted a couple of desultory flies.

I had never been in a dirty house.

My mother’s only full-time job was to wage war on dirt. Dishes were washed and dried by hand immediately after every meal. Clothes were washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday. (I was responsible for pillowcases and my dad’s handkerchiefs). I’m not sure what chores occupied the rest of her week, but I do know the kitchen and bathroom floors were scoured on Saturdays because that’s when I dusted the living room.

I wandered into our neighbor’s living room, and Chuck pointed at the TV. Obligingly, I turned it on and flicked through the four channels, landing on “As the World Turns.”

This was my grandpa’s favorite program, seconded by “The Lawrence Welk Show.” I’d never seen an episode, but I figured if it was good enough for Grandpa, it was good enough for Chuck.

Chuck seemed to agree and sprawled out on the crunchy carpet. I didn’t know carpet could crunch, but this one did.

I chose a spot on the dog-haired covered sofa between piles of what I hoped was clean laundry.

I don’t know why Grandpa liked “The Guiding Light.” It bored me to tears, and Chuck, having finished his bottle, climbed up on my lap.

By this time, his diaper sagged nearly to his ankles, but unlike Baby Tender Love, the back of his head was dry – sticky but dry.

Bravely, I dug through the pile of clothing next to me and uncovered a diaper. Then I called my mom, because I’d never changed a diaper. She told me, “For heaven’s sake, just take off the wet one and put the clean one on, and no, I’m not coming over there to show you how!”

I suspect I’d interrupted her mid- “All My Children.”

Chuck and I figured it out. Then I looked for a book to read to him and found a stack of magazines beneath a collection of mostly empty Olympia beer cans.

Between issues of Star magazine and Soap Opera Digest, I found a copy of Penthouse, which, to my surprise, did not feature decorating tips for fancy apartments.

“Do you have any books, Chuck?” I asked.

No response.

I looked down to see he’d fallen asleep on my lap. I sat still, afraid to move, and that’s where his mom found us a short time later.

She scooped him up and carried him to his crib. Then she gave me $1.50 and told me she’d call me again when she needed a sitter.

I ran back across our yards, stashed my money in my purple kitty change purse, and told Mom that my child care career was over.

“I will never change another diaper!” I vowed.

Of course, as a teen, I had countless babysitting jobs, because my parents made me pay for my own Lip Smackers and Love’s Baby Soft perfume.

However, I didn’t babysit for the neighbors again – they moved that summer.

I hope Chuck grew up to be a fine, less sticky man.

Columns

Obituaries: snapshots of lives in the community

Cindy Hval

The heartwarming response to my revival of Shawn Vestal’s periodic obituary columns revealed that I’m not alone in my appreciation of the portraits obits paint of our community.

After the column ran, I came across a comment on my Facebook page from a former S-R photographer.

“Obituaries are the history of our community and stories that the newspaper has missed,” he wrote. “Possibly the best and most relevant content in the paper.”

Here are a few more of those stories.

Susan Emry died at 71. She captured her future husband’s attention at a party by saying supercalifragilisticexpalidocious backwards. He charmed her by tuning his harmonica in orange soda.

Together they raised three children, teaching them to be charitable, truthful, grateful and forgiving.

She loved numbers and good food, and her parting words were often “Go be great today!”

Mike Lewis died on Aug. 18, but his stories live on. He often held court at the dinner table, regaling his family with tales of his childhood. He told of the time he worked an entire summer on a farm for an ice cream cone. He dug a basement by hand, had a pitchfork run through his thigh while hiding from his cousin in the hay, and once had to paint the bottom of his feet black, so it looked like his shoes had soles.

In addition to his stories, his reliability became his legacy. Mike showed up for his kids and grandkids. Games, recitals, birthdays – if it was important to them, it was important to him. Through gestures big and small, he was available, involved and supportive. His steady presence left a lasting impact.

Leaving a legacy of a well-lived life is a worthy goal, and that’s what was said of Chad Manley.

The lifelong music lover died at 53, but his memory echoes with wit, kindness, hard work and sacrifice.

His obituary says, “Cancer may have caused Chad’s death, but it never defined his life.”

He spent his final year making lasting memories with his wife, reconnecting with old friends, and listening to birds sing. Even while enduring daily radiation treatments, he said, “I’m not dying – I’m finally living.”

Lena Windishar was not only beloved by her seven children but also by their friends.

Her kids learned to dance because she and her husband, Frank, danced in their living room and taught them.

They learned how to be fully present for others, watching Lena care for her parents, and experiencing her focused attention over a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

She was so full of life that it took a while for her to say goodbye.

Her last four years were spent in and out of hospice care. She’d appear to fail, only to come raring back. Her obit put it this way: “Seriously, does anyone get kicked out of hospice? Lena did, three times.”

While usually focused on others, she did indulge in a bit of self-care by purchasing salty/crunchy snacks for herself and stashing them away.

At the reception following her funeral, salty snacks were served.

Sometimes an obituary hits close to home.

On Sept. 14, we lost our neighbor, Brian Chaffee, at 69.

We’ve lived next door to the Chaffees for 32 years and raised our families side by side. Brian kept a finger on the pulse of the neighborhood and was always ready to lend a hand. He and Derek enjoyed long over-the-fence chats.

This summer, I ran into Brian on my afternoon walk. We caught up on our kids and grandkids, his face beaming with pride as he spoke of his family. He said he was walking to get in shape for “motorcycle season.”

Brian loved riding motorcycles with his sons, and that’s what he spent the last day of his life doing. His death following a race was an unexpected shock.

His obituary offered a snapshot of the life he lived and the people he loved, but I would add just one more thing.

He was a good neighbor.

Columns

Adventures in Austin

Cindy Hval

We sat squished together, our suitcases gripped between our knees.

A wall of humanity teetered in the aisle and blocked every window view. Each seat was crammed, forcing latecomers to stand and grasp for handholds as the bus shuddered and lurched down the highway.

I raised my eyebrows at my husband, and he grinned.

“It’s an adventure!” he said.

When Derek found out his annual business conference was in Austin, Texas, this year, he suggested that we go a couple of days early and have our youngest son meet us there for the weekend.

Sam lives in Odessa, Texas, which is about a five-hour drive from Austin. Plus, we’d be there just two days after his 26th birthday!

The trip costs quickly added up, so when Derek learned our hotel didn’t offer a shuttle from the airport, he proposed public transport.

“Look!” he said. “We can catch the bus outside the terminal under the giant blue guitar and the tickets are just $1 a piece!”

The transit website showed a sleek bus with room to stow our luggage.

What we boarded looked like an STA leftover circa 1990. Even more concerning, when I told the driver where we wanted to get off, he shrugged and shook his head.

Nevertheless, trusting our Google Maps, we settled in for what we thought would be a 15-minute ride.

It’s been a while since I traveled by bus, but in my experience, when the bus is full, the driver doesn’t stop for additional passengers. This logic escaped our driver, who pulled up at EVERY STOP, even when there weren’t any seats left or any straps to hang onto.

Thirty-five minutes later, we got off at what we hoped was our stop. Google said it was a four-minute walk to our hotel. So, we set off, dragging our roller bags behind us.

Surrounded by the towering skyscrapers of downtown Austin, my trusty navigator tried to orient us. We didn’t realize our hotel was BEHIND us. After walking for several minutes with no Hyatt Regency in sight, I spotted it while crossing the Congress Avenue Bridge.

We trudged down a set of concrete steps and found the Ann and Roy Butler Hike-and-Bike Trail, which winds around Lady Bird Lake in the heart of the city. I’d read about the trail and was eager to explore it, but didn’t realize it was unpaved and that I’d be lugging my suitcase along it.

Minutes later, we were outside the back of our hotel, looking at the beautiful pool.

“Let’s use the pool entrance,” I said.

But Derek declined, opting for the front door. He quickly regretted that choice when we discovered construction meant we’d added another quarter-mile to our “adventure.”

Eventually, we dragged our sweaty selves (it was 92 degrees) and our dusty luggage into the lobby.

Sam arrived an hour later. By then, we’d recovered enough to add another mile to our walking total, and we hoofed it to the Rainey Street Historic District.

The lively area is known for its quaint early 20th century bungalows now transformed into hip bars with live music. Strings of lights around dining patios sparkled, a street magician dealt a deck of cards on the corner, and restaurant hosts beckoned guests from the sidewalks.

You’d think my BBQ-loving spouse would have his heart set on brisket, but instead, he led us to Bangers Sausage House and Beer Garden. Men in lederhosen twirled dirndl-clad gals to polka tunes. Not quite how I’d pictured our first meal in Austin, but the food was delicious, and as we left, a country group replaced the polka band.

Saturday morning, Sam drove us to the state capitol. We explored the extensive grounds populated by moving memorials (the Texas African American History Memorial is breathtaking) before taking a self-guided tour of the building. It’s the sixth-tallest state capitol, and as we peered down from the legislative level, we saw a bridal portrait shoot in the works.

Ready for some brisket, we hit Terry Black’s Barbecue. The line wound from the sidewalk, through the expansive patio, and into the building. The eatery is run with military precision. We followed instructions and soon took loaded plates to a picnic table.

That evening, we got a little batty. The Congress Avenue Bridge is home to the largest urban bat colony in the world, with an estimated population of 1.5 million. Female Mexican free-tailed bats raise an estimated 750,000 pups each year at the bridge. Every night from around mid-March to early November, the bats emerge from under the bridge and blanket the sky as they head out to forage for food.

Our hotel was just steps away from the prime viewing point. Not long after sunset, the bats emerged, swirling and swarming high above our heads. It’s quite a spectacle, and while I’m not fond of bats, I’m even less fond of mosquitoes, so I appreciated their efforts.

Sam returned to Odessa on Sunday, and that evening Derek’s conference began. For the next two days, he attended meetings, received industry updates, and met with fellow business owners from across the nation.

Meanwhile, I basked under the brilliant blue skies and balmy 90-degree temps beside the pool, treated myself to a spa day, and read to my heart’s content.

When it was time to check out, I asked if he planned another airport bus ride.

“Nope,” Derek said. “Sam downloaded the Uber app on my phone.”

It seems my husband’s appetite for adventure had been amply sated.