Columns

Thankful for Every Milestone

Two weeks ago we sat in a classroom at Eastern Washington University, my husband’s alma mater.

“These chairs are way more comfortable than the ones we used to have,” Derek whispered.

I shushed him as the lecturer stepped to the front of the room and introduced himself.

Even though we know him quite well, we sat forward in our seats so as not to miss a word. The speaker was our youngest son, Sam, and we were there to watch him defend his master’s thesis.

Sam Hval defends his master’s thesis at EWU.

It was the final step to earning his master’s degree in English with an emphasis on literature and writing. Did I mention that Sam is just 22?

He started at EWU as a 16-year-old Running Start student. In six years, he graduated from high school, earned his bachelor’s degree, and now his master’s–and he didn’t incur a penny of debt.

The only help Derek and I gave him was housing him, feeding him and paying for his gas and car insurance. And maybe I threw in a few extra hugs and a listening ear when he decided to switch from education major to English.

As Sam introduced his thesis, “Navigating the Labyrinth of ‘House of Leaves’ Through a Postmodern Archetypal Theory,” I was stunned by his poise. In front of a panel of three professors and a handful of fellow grad students, he eloquently explained a new theory of literary criticism that he’s developed.

This from the kid who in first grade was sent to the reading resource room because his teacher felt he was lagging in reading skills.

This surprised me. Sam’s three older brothers and I had read to him since his birth and he was reading independently by kindergarten.

It turned out Sam found the first-grade reading material “boring.” When he understood the faster he progressed through “The Cat Sat on the Mat,” the sooner he could read chapter books, he suddenly didn’t need additional tutoring.

Our fourth son has been surprising us since birth.

He arrived on a golden September morning within an hour of our arrival at Holy Family Hospital. Weighing in at a hearty Norwegian 9 pounds, 9 ounces, Sam had his father’s broad shoulders and the trace of a dimple in his chin.

Soon after his birth we were told his time with us might be brief. Sam was airlifted to Sacred Heart Medical Center where he was diagnosed with congenital diaphragmatic hernia. A hole in his diaphragm hadn’t closed early in gestation. As a result, his internal organs pushed into his chest cavity, squashing his developing lungs. Only his right lung was fully formed. Our newborn was given a 50/50 chance of survival.

Twenty-two years later, the grief and terror I felt when I saw him in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit hasn’t abated. It’s still as sharp as the moment I was told he was so fragile, I could only touch his toe with my finger, and even my whispered “Mama’s here,” elevated his blood pressure to dangerous levels.

Obviously, this story has a happy ending. Sam survived. He grew. He thrived.

And he’d prepared us for the outcome of his thesis defense.

“I’ll either fail, pass with revisions, or pass,” he’d said.

After his presentation, attendees were invited to pose questions or offer comments. I may or may not have shared that after Sam had his wisdom teeth pulled, he’d asserted that the anesthesia had a minimum effect on him.

“It’s because I have a really big brain,” he’d slurred.

Honestly, when you invite your mother to this sort of thing, these kinds of comments are inevitable. As Sam’s older brother said, “Mom’s gotta mom, whether we like it or not.”

I may have been a teensy bit anxious as we waited in the hallway while the panel debated Sam’s fate. I needn’t have worried. He passed with no revisions.

After attending college for six years, Sam isn’t interested in pursuing a doctorate right now. Ideally, he’d like to teach at a community college or private university.

Who knows what the next year will bring?

But this I do know–the students who attend Mr. Hval’s classes will be blessed by a passionate instructor whose love of literature and language stems from both his intellect and his heart.

His time in our nest is drawing to a close. Over the years, I’ve battled the urge to smother, hover and over-mother, but I’ve not taken a moment of his childhood, nor his early adulthood for granted.

Each milestone is a gift I was never sure I’d be granted.

Derek, Cindy and Sam Hval

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 on Amazon.

Columns

Base Life: Military BRATS reflect

He walked in the door after work and dropped his Air Force cap on my head.

I don’t remember the moment, but my Mom snapped a photo. Toddler me gazes up at the camera, sassy-like, because how can you not feel sassy when you’re wearing Daddy’s cap and shoes with bells on them?

CIndy at two.

It was 1967, and we were living at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam. My memories of island life are few.

A spill off a swing that resulted in impacted sand in my eye and a trip to the E.R.

My oldest brother holding me over his head so I could put my feet on the ceiling and “walk like a gecko.”

The smashing, crashing sounds of tropical storms that battered our lanai and tossed our metal garbage cans into the street.

Our next duty station was Vandenberg AFB (now Vandenberg Space Force Base) in Santa Barbara County, California.

Again, my memories are fleeting.

Our first family dog – a mutt we named Riley.

Getting mad at my mom and hopping on my red tricycle. “I’m going back to Guam!” I yelled. Then I got to the end of the block and had to turn around. I wasn’t allowed to cross the street without a grown-up.

My first visit to Disneyland. The Tea Cup ride made me barf. It also made Dad queasy.

My early childhood was steeped in military life and ritual and in my last column about time spent at Fairchild AFB; I invited readers to share their memories of life on a military base.

Steven Stuart (retired Army) had an interesting experience in Berlin. He was stationed there from 1979-81.

“At the time we could go over to East Berlin through Check Point Charlie and the Soviets could come over to West Berlin,” he recalled. “They would come to our PX plaza, park and just sit in their cars. There were usually four of them in small cars, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes, and watching. I always wanted to go talk to one but was informed it was a no-no. It seemed odd that the folks we were sent to protect Berlin from were in our commissary parking lot.”

Frank Schoonover grew up on military bases as an Army BRAT. He explained where we got that term.

“ ‘BRAT’ is a common reference to the children of military members. It’s a term of endearment referring to a group who often endure hardships, frequent moves, school changes, long deployments of a parent and often inadequate government housing,” he wrote.

Like many of our military traditions, the term had its genesis with the British Army.

“It’s an abbreviation for British Regiment Attached Traveler and denotes those family members who could travel with their military sponsor,” he said. “Those of us who are military brats revere the epithet as a prized acronym.”

His memories include living in Fort Meade, Maryland, where his family shared a former garage with another family – the two dwellings separated by blankets strung on a clothesline. They also shared a single bathroom.

At Fort Bliss, Texas, they lived in what once had been a stable and still had raised blocks in the bedrooms that had been used for shoeing horses. But better digs were in store.

“Our ultimate castle was also at Fort Bliss,” he recalled. “We moved into a former WAAC barracks. The bathroom had 15 sinks, showers and commodes. My mother immediately limited use to three. Woe to anyone who used a fourth!”

Paddy Inman has fond memories of Hamilton Air Force Base in Novato, California. He spent his eighth-grade year there in 1959-60.

“It was the most idyllic year of my life,” he said. “Hamilton was the Air Force Command Headquarters on the West Coast, and it was demonstrated by the amenities afforded to all the base residents.”

Every building on the base from schools to the gym to clubs was built in the Spanish style – white stucco, red tile roofs, large wood doors with brass knockers, black wrought-iron railings, expansive lawns, smooth asphalt roads with curbing and lined with palm trees.

“It exuded the aura of a posh resort more than a military installation,” Inman wrote.

One of his first jobs was pin setting in the base bowling alley.

“We sat on a raised platform in the ball pit at the end of the alley and frequently had to dodge flying pins,” he recalled. “We were paid 10 cents per line and often worked as many as six hours in the pit. If we were fast and accurate, the bowlers would sometimes leave a tip for us at the front desk.”

One of his best friends and frequent companion was the son of the base commander, who had a powerful go-kart he rode on the base roads until the MPs picked him up and delivered him home.

“His most famous escapade was roaring down a long hill toward the base headquarters in his go-kart with another of our friends standing on the back saluting during the Retreat ceremony at 5:00 and being pursued by the military police,” recalled Inman. “His dad finally decided the go-kart had to go.”

Deborah Winter’s dad was a pilot in the USAF from 1954 to 1978.

She remembers living on base at Lincoln AFB, Nebraska, in the early ‘60s, where she’d lie awake at night comforted by the sound of jet engines.

“Mom would take me and my two brothers to the flight line to welcome my dad home from several weeks of ‘alert,’ ” she recalled. “As they taxied the B-47s, they would pop the cockpit canopy and wave at us.”

She learned to drive on an unused runway at Lajes Field, Azores.

Winter said the bases all had things in common: a close-knit community, other kids ready and willing to make friends quickly, meals at the Officer’s Club, and support for the wives and families when husbands were away.

That lifestyle made a lasting impression.

“Later on I would earn my own wings as a Naval Flight Officer and serve as a navigator in my squadron,” she said.

As Father’s Day approaches, my 27th without my dad, I scroll through black-and-white photos of him in uniform. My memories of his time of service may be fleeting, but the feelings the photos evoke linger–pride, gratitude and so much love.

Columns

Ritual Rekindles Memories of Life on Base

The echoing roar stopped us in our tracks.

Like everyone else in the parking lot of Fairchild Air Force Base Commissary, we craned our necks and watched the Thunderbirds practicing for SkyFest. It was the Friday before the air show and we were thrilled to get a sneak peek at the six F-16C Fighting Falcons soaring through the blue skies and darting in and out of fluffy white clouds.

I’ve spent a lot of time at Fairchild, beginning at birth. My dad served 24 years in the Air Force. My oldest brother and I were born at the base hospital. My second brother was born at a base in Montana and my sister in the Philippines.

After several moves, we returned to Washington when I was 5, and we always did our grocery shopping at Fairchild. Even after Dad retired and we lived in Ritzville and then Moses Lake, we drove to the base to stock our pantry.

I remember the old commissary that seemed more like a dimly-lit warehouse than a grocery store. Mom bought “GI bread” in its plain wrapper and Circus Peanut Butter that came in tall plastic jars.

I lived in terror that my friends would discover my sandwiches weren’t made from Jif and Wonder Bread. Still, that would’ve been better than them seeing the bologna in our refrigerator that came in a huge hunk. My dad hacked off crooked slices and when I’d decline a sandwich, he’d fry it up in a pan for breakfast.

Oh, to have a thinly sliced Oscar Meyer, Bologna, with pre-sliced American cheese sandwich in my Barbie lunchbox!

We didn’t just grocery shop at Fairchild. There were doctor visits, dental checkups and trailer rentals.

Yep, Fairchild has an Outdoor Recreation Center where active duty and retired military personnel can rent tents, trailers and everything you need for a family camping trip.

That is everything except a dad who can put up a tent and back a trailer into a campsite. Dad was not an outdoorsy kind of guy, so while mom “helped” (mainly by laughing hysterically) my siblings and I usually just pretended we were with another family.

Of course, I married a military man. Derek served 23 years in the Washington National Guard which turned out to be providential. Without our monthly trips to the commissary, our budget would have buckled under the strain of feeding four growing boys.

Nowadays, with just one kid at home, our trips to Fairchild are far less frequent, but our recent visit complete with thundering jets overhead was something special. We finished our shopping at 5 p.m. If you’re familiar with military life you know what that means.

As we were loading our groceries into the car “Retreat” began to play through loudspeakers across the base. The tune signals the end of the official duty day and is followed by the “Star-Spangled Banner” and the lowering of the flag.

The piping bugle call echoed and everyone, whether in uniform or not, stopped what they were doing and faced the nearest flag. All vehicles stopped. Those in uniform stood at parade rest, and the rest of us put our hands over our hearts.

It’s a beautiful thing to see a bustling military base come to a standstill. To watch older retired folks, young civilian grocery baggers, and men and women in uniform, united for a few moments of respect and reflection.

May is military appreciation month and we’re heading into Memorial Day weekend. Today, I’ve got “Retreat” set to play on my phone. At 5 p.m. I plan to stand and let my workday worries go. I’ll be thinking about the men and women in uniform across the world who are doing the same thing.

And I don’t have to be on a military base to feel profoundly thankful for their service.

Sam Hval places a pinwheel on his grandfather’s grave at Washington State Veteran’s Cemetery.
All Write

When What You Say Is Not What You Mean

So here’s a fun surprise. My story “The Trouble with Words,” featured in the latest collection from Chicken Soup for the Soul Too Funny! is featured on today’s Chicken Soup podcast.

The title of the podcast is When What You Say Is Not What You Mean. Amy Newmark shares a retelling of my mortifying Netflix and Chill debacle around the 4:40 mark.

You can listen to it on the link below or you find it on Apple Podcasts, Google Play, or wherever you get your podcasts.

https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=ADL3607376699

Columns

Taking the unexpected gifts of COVID-19 into post-pandemic life

On Jan. 17, 2019, Derek and I whooped, hollered, and danced at Northern Quest Resort & Casino as REO Speedwagon made us feel like teenagers again – albeit teenagers whose ears rang for hours after the high-decibel show.

We had no idea a global pandemic meant it would be three years before we’d return to the casino for an indoor concert.

On April 24, we eased our way back into the live music scene to see Chicago blues legend Buddy Guy. Clad in his trademark polka-dot shirt, he promptly tore into a number and busted a string on his guitar.

The enthusiastic crowd roared.

Guy, 85, delivered a lesson on the blues, tracing the history of the music and downplaying his part in its evolution.

Then he grinned

“I’m gonna play you a song so funky, you can smell it,” he said.

And he did.

Last week, we upped our funk level when we saw “Hamilton” at the First Interstate Center for the Arts. The promise of seeing this award-winning show is what prompted our purchase of Best of Broadway season tickets, oh so long ago.

While we’ve enjoyed the season, this is the show we’d most anticipated. Some things are worth waiting for and “Hamilton” is one of them. Who could have imagined a Broadway show about the architect of the American financial system would be such a phenomenon?

The stellar cast captivated the crowd with the musical’s mix of hip-hop, R&B and big Broadway sound and we were thrilled to see downtown Spokane bustling again.

I’m happy our calendar is again filled with all the activities we missed during the pandemic, but despite the fear, isolation and loss COVID-19 ushered in, the shutdowns also offered some unexpected gifts.

Recently, my friend Jill reminded me of our pandemic walks along the Centennial Trail. For years, we’ve stayed connected via lunches, coffee dates and countless happy hours. Suddenly, none of those things was possible.

So we took our conversation outdoors. Every week, we met at a trailhead and walked and talked – relishing in movement, in the beauty around us, in seeing another human face-to-face.

Spokane River seen from The Centennial Trail

Those outings were a bright spot in a dark, scary time.

It’s great to share a meal again, but I think we’ll lace up our walking shoes and hit the trail before our next happy hour.

Speaking of meals, weekly family dinners, including our two sons who don’t live at home, became sacrosanct during the shutdowns. Cooking is how I show love, so feeding these young men fed my heart.

Our little “bubble” of five savored the connection of familiar faces around the table, and we even brought back family game night. It gave us all something reliable to look forward to during an uncertain time.

Now that our activities have expanded, we’re considering making family dinner a monthly event instead of weekly. But I miss my grown-up boys, so you can be sure this mom will still regularly gather them around my table.

I got the hospitality gene from my mother. Not being allowed to see her for six months, even though she lives less than a mile away, was one of the worst things I experienced during COIVID-19.

When I finally received notice from her care facility that outdoor, masked visits were allowed as long as there was no physical contact, I immediately scheduled a visit.

We met under the portico.

“Oh, I can’t tell you how beautiful you look to me,” she said.

I laughed through my tears.

“Yeah, these masks make us all look good.”

Thankfully, now I can visit her room as often as I want, and though masks are still required, hugging is allowed.

While I’m delighted by the return of live entertainment and dining out, and all it means to our local economy, I hope I never lose the pandemic-sparked appreciation for things I used to take for granted.

The healing balm of a walk outdoors with a friend.

The boisterous conversation of a shared family meal.

The joy of a warm hug from my mom.

Perhaps I needed a pointed reminder that the things I value most don’t cost a dime.

Columns

Replacing one earworm with another

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I invited readers to share what they consider the most annoying songs ever, but I truly regret it. And so perhaps will you.

“Baby Shark” had been stuck in my head since we returned from visiting our 2-year-old twin grandsons, and I thought sharing my woe and inviting readers to share their own might be helpful. And it has been. It’s also been painful.

My sister reminded me that you don’t even need a television or radio to suffer the miseries of annoying songs. Take family road trips, for example. Our family took a lot of them. This was back in the dark ages when there were no cellphones or handheld video games to distract us. Instead, we played Bug Slug (Slug Bug to some of you), the license plate game, and I Spy.

When the games ran out the tunes began. Namely, “Ninety-nine Bottles of Coke on the Wall (we weren’t allowed to sing about beer) and “Alfalfa Hay,” a song in which every verse and the chorus features only two words….alfalfa hay.

The best part of this ditty is after every verse we chanted.

“Second (or 10th) verse, same as the first. A little bit louder and a little bit worse!”

Good times!

And a Facebook friend reminded me of the old standby, “Found a Peanut.” On road trips, we could milk that one for a good half hour.

“Found a peanut, found a peanut, found a peanut just now.

Just now I found a peanut, found a peanut just now.”

It’s no “Baby Shark,” but may well have been responsible for my mother’s hair turning gray.

However, readers have their own earworms that they seemed to take great pleasure in passing along to me. So, of course, I need to share them with you.

Pattie Felland wrote that many years ago, a friend gave her a cassette of “Sesame Street” tunes. She’s still trying to forget a Cookie Monster tune. “Your article this morning brought back the infamous ‘Breakfast Song,’ ” she said. “It’s been 30+ years, but now I’ve got ‘I’ll have a soft boiled cookie with a glass of cookie juice on the side’ running on and on through my mind.”

After listening to this for research purposes, I can now sing the entire song. Repeatedly.

It’s hard to argue with David Tiffany who wrote, “The all-time worst earworm (annoying song) has to be ‘It’s a Small World After All.’ Sorry if I just started it going through your mind!”

For Rose Lewis, “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” has staying power. “It was a bouncy catchy tune and could really imbed itself in your brain,” she said.

Advertising jingles can be an extremely irritating source of earworms.

“The most annoying song that gets stuck in my head is that old radio jingle for Beefaroni,” Kerry Masters wrote. “The song starts ‘We’re having Beefaroni, beef and macaroni’ and ends ‘Hurray! Whee! for Chef Boyardee!’ This song is particularly horrible for me to get stuck singing since I’m an animal-loving vegetarian and haven’t eaten beef for probably 55 years.”

Though it’s been a week since I listened to this jingle, it’s still echoing in my brain. I really should have taken Masters’ word for it.

At least the song ends, unlike this final nomination. (This is your last chance to stop reading. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

Francie Radecki and Carol Bellinger both reminded me about “The Song that Never Ends,” which was the closing theme of “Lamb Chop’s Play-Along.” on PBS. The lyrics and the tune are impossible to forget.

This is the song that never ends

Yes, it goes on and on, my friends

Some people started singing it not knowing what it was

And they’ll continue singing it forever just because….

The song never ends, but this column does. Thanks to the readers who shared their musical memories with me. It did help me shake the “Baby Shark” song.

Until now.

Columns

Twin time with a side effect of earworm

Every generation of parents has that one song.

A song that’s a repetitive staple of a preschool children’s program. The one that gets stuck in your head no matter how hard you try to shake it.

For my generation, it was the Barney “I Love You” melody. It played at the close of every episode featuring the big purple dinosaur.

I love you; you love me

We’re a happy family

With a great big hug

and a kiss from me to you

Won’t you say you love me, too?

This song is so incredibly obnoxious it was used to torture detainees at Guantanamo Bay.

I don’t bring this up to inflict pain upon parents who still have flashbacks of childrearing in the ‘90s, but to explain why this morning I woke up singing, “Baby shark, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo….”

Yes, we recently returned from a trip to Ohio to visit the World’s Most Beautiful Boys, our 2-year-old identical twin grandsons, Adam and Nick.

Technology is a wonderful thing. We haven’t seen the boys in person since October, but thanks to Skype video chats, when we walked through their front door, their excited shrieks echoed through the house. It’s like their favorite TV characters magically showed up in their living room.

Derek, Adam, Cindy, and Nick Hval

Adam launched himself at Derek, jabbering a mile a minute, and I corralled a half-naked Nick into a big embrace. Nick has reached the clothing-averse stage, just like his dad at this age.

When you live thousands of miles from your only grandchildren, a welcome like that does a lot to help you endure five days of “Baby Shark.”

For these COVID-era boys, getting in a car with Nana and Papa is a big adventure, and now they’re getting verbal enough to express their enjoyment.

The first day we took them to our Airbnb it was raining.

“Swish, swish, swish,” said Adam, watching the wiper blades across the windshield.

This prompted a rousing version of “The Wheels on the Bus,” with Adam doing all of the hand motions.

The next day, as Nick watched the budding trees fly past the car windows, he uttered his amazement.

“Wow! Tree! Wow!” he said.

After a couple of drive-thru restaurant visits for lunch, we decided to take them into Wendy’s for their first dine-in experience.

Adam and Nick Hval “dining out.”

Saucer-eyed they looked at the bustling lunch crowd, too enthralled to make much of a dent in their chicken nuggets. However, the french fries and barbecue sauce were a huge hit for Nick. He carefully dipped a fry in the sauce, tasted it, and then scooped the sauce up with his fingers.

Let’s just say we all wore barbecue sauce that afternoon.

We knew they were ready for an outing when Nick looked out the window and pointed to our rental car.

“Car go! Go car!” he said.

In addition to language development, their play skills and fine motor abilities are dramatically different since our last visit.

While Adam still likes to taste a crayon or two, he spent almost an hour every day quietly coloring in the coloring books we’d brought.

Nick enjoyed putting the animals in the zoo train and pushing them all through the house. As always, I brought a new stash of board books. This Nana’s heart melted when at different times, I caught them both quietly turning the pages of a book.

Despite their exuberant energy, when tired they’d crawl up into our laps with a blanket and zonk out in our arms. And no, we didn’t put them down. We held them and sometimes dozed along with them.

No matter what educational children’s television program we tried to find when we cuddled up on the couch with them, every single one seemed to play “Baby shark, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo …”

But the lingering echoes of that annoying tune seem a small price to pay for the memories of our sweet grandsons in our arms.

All Write

Northwest Passages Book Club Event

Please join author Mark Cronk Farrell and me, Wednesday, April 13, for a discussion of her latest book, “Close-Up on War.” It’s the amazing story of Catherine Leroy, who documented the war in Vietnam through compelling photos.

Columns

The cat’s out of the bag

The text from my son flashed on my phone while I was at the gym pedaling my way to fitness on an exercise bike.

“Is this a bad time to talk?” Sam texted.

I picked up my phone and typed, “I’m almost done with my workout. Can it wait?”

A few seconds passed before he texted, “We have a situation with Walter.”

Sir Walter Scott is our 2-year-old rescue tabby. We often have “situations” with him. As the kids say, “He’s a bit spicy!”

Walter epitomizes the cartoon of a cat wearing a T-shirt that reads, “What doesn’t kill me makes me curiouser.”

Usually, his situations involve food – specifically anything involving bread or chips. Recently, I enjoyed a slice of cold pizza for breakfast. Well, I tried to enjoy it while fending off Walter’s grabby paws.

After I ate, I wadded up the foil and finished reading the Sunday paper. When I got up to take the detritus to the garbage, I couldn’t find the foil. Then I looked down the hall and followed a trail of shiny scraps to my bedroom where Walter was doggedly shredding the tightly wrapped ball in hopes of scoring a bit of crust or fragment of pepperoni.

Aluminum foil is not a healthy snack and we anxiously watched him for signs of intestinal distress, but he was fine.

A couple of days later, we had homemade sub sandwiches for dinner. Like all the young men I’ve raised, our youngest gets a bit peckish before bed. He came upstairs and made another sandwich after Derek and I had turned in. What he didn’t do was hide the last hoagie roll in the microwave or stash it in a cupboard.

I know this because in the morning when I groggily got the cats’ breakfast ready, I stepped on something wet and squishy. Stepping on wet, squishy things is just one of the joys that occur when you’re owned by cats. This time I’d stepped on the well-chewed roll, still encased in its plastic bag. It seems Walter had the midnight munchies.

The situation that prompted Sam’s urgent text, however, didn’t involve food. He’d been getting ready to clean the litter box and dropped a plastic bag nearby while he went to do something else. A few minutes later, he heard banging and crashing and ran downstairs. The plastic bag was gone, and so was Walter.

I called Sam on my way home, and he said he’d found Walter cowering under the TV cabinet with the bag wrapped tightly around his back leg. Evidently, he’d tried to rummage through it got stuck.

“He won’t come out,” Sam said. “He’s so freaked out he peed himself, and he actually hissed at me!”

We didn’t even know Walter could do that.

By the time I arrived, he was missing again.

He took off when I tugged at the bag on his leg,” Sam reported.

I discovered the terrified tabby hiding under the stairs. He didn’t run when I reached for him, but he did hiss. He’d managed to get most of the bag off his leg, and Sam and I finished freeing him and checked for damage. Walter walked a bit stiffly at first, but quickly began winding himself around our legs.

After some cleaning and cuddling, he appeared to recover – until Sam took a new bag out to finish the job he’d started. At the sound of rustling plastic, Walter bolted and ran to his safe place – under my bed.

Walter hiding from the SCARY plastic bag monster.

“I think he’s got permanent plastic bag PTSD,” Sam said.

When I relayed the sorry tale on Facebook, my friends found the bright side.

“Perhaps food in plastic bags will be safe, now,” one said.

Another replied, “You could experiment with plastic-bagging those carbs just to see what happens.”

I have brilliant friends.

Will Walter’s bag phobia be stronger than his love of carbs?

Stay tuned.

Columns

Feeling Deflated, Ruby Sue Got New Shoes

Pride goes before a fall, or in my case before a pothole.

I should have known better than to extol the virtues of my Ford Escape, Ruby Sue. The day after my column ran, Ruby Sue and I had an inescapable encounter with one of Spokane’s meanest potholes.

The small strip of Lincoln Road that runs between Crestline and Market streets is notorious for potholes and I usually avoid it. But that Friday I was leaving later than I planned and thought I could just drive down the center of the street avoiding the worst of the potholes. But traffic turned out to be heavy that morning and with a sickening jolt, I hit a crater that’s likely visible from the moon.

Immediately, my tire pressure light flashed. I called my husband and asked his advice. He thought I could probably continue to my destination and check for damage when I arrived. While on the phone with him, Ruby Sue started pulling to the right. I was just minutes away from Derek’s office, so I drove straight there.

Good thing I did. Ruby Sue’s right front tire was flatter than the Seahawks’ hope for the playoffs next fall. Derek hauled out our spare. Guess what? It was flat, too!

Car ownership can be a pain, but in response to my previous column readers shared the joys of a sweet ride.

Mike Storms didn’t learn to drive until he was 22.

“When I was in Vietnam the Army couldn’t believe an American my age didn’t know how to drive, so they had me take a test in a deuce and a half,” he wrote. “Pretty big truck, but it had an automatic transmission.”

Turns out his bike-riding skills didn’t transfer to a big rig. He ran into a Vietnamese garbage truck in front of the motor pool.

Back in the states, he took a AAA course while in college and earned his license. His first car was a $25 1950 Chevy. He’s driven a long way in a lot of vehicles since then.

“My most recent car is a 2014 Honda Insight hybrid. I’ve had it almost a year and love it,” he said.

Lynda Gorman Parry’s 1967 GTO got her in trouble at intersections.

“How many times have I been unable to resist the urge to show some teenage guy that this ’67 GTO could still move?” she wrote.

She and her husband purchased the car right off the showroom floor in 1966 when they were fresh out of college.

But 14 years later, when she was a 35-year-old mother of three, she realized the car no longer fit her image.

Gorman said she knew it was time to get a new ride when she got tired of explaining to her daughter’s classmates on field trips that, “Yes, this GTO can reach 80 in a few seconds, but no, I’m not going to prove it on the way to the museum!

“We’ve since purchased several more practical cars, but none as memorable.”

Mary Hunter’s first car was her favorite – A 1971 Volkswagen 411. She bought it from her mom and named it Heinrich.

Heinrich took her on her first road trip, from Caspar, Wyoming, to Laramie, Wyoming.

“A beautiful sunny summer day, I will never forget that first real taste of freedom,” she recalled. “I now drive a VW Passat, which I also love, but that little 411 is still in my heart.”

Reader Jim Perez came of age in the 1950s and ’60s and developed a lifelong love of hot rods. He had a very specific car in mind for his first purchase.

“The gleam in my eye always seemed to have a reflection of a Sierra Gold and Adobe Beige, two-door hardtop 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air, complete with a 283 cubic inch V-8 engine and, hopefully, a four-speed, manual transmission,” he wrote.

His plans changed when he spotted a 1956 Chevy for sale.

“For some reason, it captivated me and I wound up buying it, forgetting all about the ’57 Bel Air,” Perez said.

He and his brothers worked on the Chevy, replacing the upholstery, installing a bigger, faster engine, and some shiny chrome wheels.

“It became my pride and joy,” he said.

Perez sold the beauty for $700 when he joined the military, even though his dad had offered to store it for him, telling him he’d regret parting with it.

“It was much later in life that I came to realize that the older I got, the smarter my dad was,” Perez said.

He pined after that car for decades.

“Amongst other things, I’ve learned not to give up on dreams,” he said. “About the time I retired, I found the exact same model of ’56 Chevy as the one I had in high school.”

Perez lovingly restored it to close to its original glory.

“I still get that carefree feeling when I drive it,” he said.

I love happy endings, so I’m glad to say that Ruby Sue’s tale has one, too – an expensive ending, albeit a happy one. Thankfully, the pothole incident didn’t damage the wheel or the front end and Ruby Sue ended up getting new shoes–four of them.

Derek shrugged.

“She was going to need new tires this fall, anyway,” he said.

My ride has been restored. Now, I just need to work on my evasive driving skills until pothole season gives way to street repair season on Spokane’s mean streets.