Author
I’m really excited about my latest adventure!
Beginning August 12, I’ll be part of the program Spokane Talks on Fox 28 Spokane.
Every Sunday at 6 PM, the half hour show offers news, views and conversation.
My three-minute Front Porch segments will end each program. Kind of like Andy Rooney on 60-minutes, but with well-groomed eyebrows and no, “Didya ever wonder…”
I hope you’ll tune in to find out what the view from my Front Porch is like.
It’s usually rather sunny!
The crash happened in a split second. One minute my husband was driving down North Monroe Street, and in a flash a sedan darted out in front of him from a side street.
By the time he hit the brakes, he had hit the car, which spun 180 degrees, ending up with its back end in the southbound lane and its front end in the northbound.
Stunned and shaken, he pulled over in a nearby church parking lot. An off-duty fireman stopped to see if he was OK while others checked on the teenage girl and her passenger.
Derek drives an F-150 truck, and it hit the rear passenger door of the small sedan. All of the car’s airbags deployed. Amazingly, no one was injured.
“What were you thinking?” Derek asked the driver.
She said she had seen him signal to change lanes on the busy four-lane section of Monroe and thought he was turning. She thought she had time to make it across the intersection.
She thought wrong on all counts, and her mistake could have had a much higher price than just the inconvenience of damaged vehicles and time spent on insurance paperwork.
In the following days, Derek wavered between anger and relief. Several weeks later when the dust and the insurance had settled and his truck repaired, he received a letter from the girl.
“I’m sincerely sorry for the accident I caused. I’m very grateful you’re OK. This accident made me realize how very short life is – your life could be taken in any minute.”
The note seemed genuine and heartfelt, and whether her mother made her write it or not, the effect on Derek was liberating. He had already moved past anger, but her words allowed him to think more kindly of her.
A sincere apology will do that.
Wouldn’t the world be a better place if that happened more often?
Instead, sorry/not sorry has become a hashtag on Twitter, a popular Demi Lovato song, and a featured phrase in everyday conversation. Sorry/not sorry is what you say when you acknowledge your words or actions may have upset someone, but you really don’t care.
Huckleberries columnist Dave Oliveria refers to insincere mea-culpas as “ap-hollow-gies.”
It’s like when my boys were fighting and someone’s feelings, body, or toy had been hurt, and I’d admonish the offender to tell his brother he was sorry.
“Sorry,” the culprit would mumble.
The word was right, but often the body-language – arms folded, eyes-rolling, shoulders shrugging – revealed the kid was less than repentant.
That kind of apology usually resulted in further consequences. Even so, an “I’m sorry” rendered because a kid doesn’t want his video game privileges revoked, doesn’t get to the heart of the matter.
And speaking of hearts, there are times when even the most genuine mea culpa cannot mend or alleviate the pain of damage done.
Think of the courtroom apologies proffered by people who have killed or maimed someone while driving drunk. Or the relationships broken by betrayal. Or the workplace gossip that results in job loss.
While saying sorry may be the right thing to do, it doesn’t automatically translate into forgiveness.
And sometimes we can be haunted by the apology we never received.
Many years ago, someone close to Derek treated him very badly. Harsh words and untruths were spoken. He waited for an apology or even an acknowledgement of wrongs done.
It never came.
Eventually, Derek chose to forgive this person. It had little to do with the offender and everything to do with my husband’s peace of mind.
Forgiveness is a choice, and so is asking for it.
The letter from the young driver demonstrates what it means to acknowledge harm done and accept responsibility for it.
“I know I’m young and learning. I know that this was my fault, and I take full blame,” she wrote. “This has helped me look at life from a different perspective. I appreciate every moment for what it is. Once again I apologize.”
Apology accepted.
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Derek and I had a peaceful easy feeling in May when we joined several thousand of our closest friends to hear the Eagles in concert at the Spokane Arena.
From the moment the opening a cappella strains of “Seven Bridges Road” soared through the venue, till the final sweet notes of “Desperado” echoed, we were enthralled and entertained.
The Eagles are a band even my parents would have approved of … except for the somewhat controversial “Hotel California.”
When I was growing up parental approval did not extend to the “devil’s music,” so I started rocking later than most of my peers.
Our home was filled with the music of the Gaither Vocal Band and Dottie Rambo, and of course, Elvis – gospel and hymn recordings only.
In the ’80s backward masking was on the nightly news. We teens were told the subliminal messages contained in albums by certain bands would turn us into devil worshippers.
We attended seminars at the Spokane Convention Center where speakers warned us that subliminal messages weren’t limited to records. Even eating crackers could send one spiraling into sin due to the word “SEX” being spelled out in the dots of a Ritz cracker.
That explains why I still prefer Wheat Thins, and why my first concert was Ronnie Milsap. I’d never heard of him, but my best friend really wanted to go. My parents thought country music wasn’t as dangerous as rock ’n’ roll.
Of course, I listened to the American Top 40 on the radio so I could keep current with the sinful state of the world. That radio rebellion must have corrupted me. How else to explain the first album I purchased was Quiet Riot’s “Metal Health.”
But metal never moved me much, especially once I discovered Bon Jovi. Their music was the soundtrack of my teen and young adult years.
My husband was an avid concertgoer in his teens, and when we met he was astonished by my rock ’n’ roll ignorance.
“Just think if you hadn’t married me you would know nothing about Van Halen. Nothing!” he often says.
During our early married years, the cost of raising four kids put concert attendance out of our reach.
We did splurge on Jim Brickman tickets when he came to the INB Performing Arts Center around the time of our anniversary one year. My parents would also approve of Jim; our children, however, were mortified.
“My gosh! If John Denver was still alive, you’d probably pay money to see him, too!” our teenager groaned.
“Well, duh!” I replied, and launched into a spirited rendition of “Grandma’s Feather Bed.”
As our kids grew older, our wallets grew less lean, but I was still shocked when five years ago Derek surprised me with tickets to Bon Jovi.
He’d already taken the boys to see Van Halen when they were in Tacoma the previous year, and he wanted me to be able to hear my favorite band in concert, too.
But the biggest surprise was how much Derek, a Bon Jovi-scoffer, loved the show.
“That was absolutely amazing! Best concert I’ve ever attended!” he said afterward.
Since then we’ve seen a slew of bands and performers. Our son treated us to Bob Dylan in Seattle. And we got our ’80s groove on with Foreigner, Styx, Loverboy, Joan Jett (twice), Pat Benatar and Melissa Etheridge when they’ve performed at Northern Quest.
But it was seeing Blondie in 2015 that reminded Derek of the passage of time.
“Debbie Harry is still so hot!” he enthused.
I grinned.
“Not bad for 70, huh?”
Stricken, Derek gasped, “She’s almost as old as my mother!”
Time has not been good for all bands, however.
Derek was delighted when the newspaper asked me to review Def Leppard when they came to town last summer with Tesla and Poison.
The show was fine, and Leppard fans were pleased, but there was a lot of sweat and a lot of screaming – both on stage and in the audience. For the first time, we both had to wear ear plugs.
The difference between metal bands and more mellow bands becomes apparent as the members age.
“You can actually understand the lyrics when the Eagles and Bon Jovi sing,” he said. “Van Halen and Def Leppard just play louder to compensate for their fading vocals.”
There you have it. We’ve reached the age where the words matter just as much as the music.
Some folks do their rocking in chairs, but we’re going to keep doing ours at concert venues – at least while we can still hear the lyrics.
We eagerly scanned the swarms of blue-robed students filing into the McCarthey Athletic Center on Friday evening. The strains of “Pomp and Circumstance” swelled, and then we spotted our baby boy – not much of a baby anymore.
As Sam received his diploma and was recognized as an honors student who’s already earned 87 credits through the Running Start program at Eastern Washington University, another chapter in our parenting lives closed.
Our fourth and final son graduated from high school.
It was an occasion I couldn’t even imagine 18 years ago when he struggled for every breath in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at now-Providence Sacred Heart Medical Center.
On a golden September day, Sam, our grand finale, had entered the world weighing in at a whopping 9 pounds, 9 ounces. He had his father’s broad shoulders and the trace of a dimple in his chin.
He also had a hole in his diaphragm.
Within hours of his birth we were told our baby had 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 Sam’s right lung was fully formed. Our newborn was given a 50/50 chance of survival.
Milestones like a commencement ceremony remind us of how close we came to losing this child.
Late Friday night following the celebration, while the rest of the household slept, Derek and I quietly recalled Sam’s desperate first days.
He’d been flown by helicopter from Holy Family Hospital to Sacred Heart Medical Center an hour after his birth. Having just given birth I was forced to stay behind while Derek drove downtown.
“When I walked into the NICU, they had Sam restrained on a table,” he recalled. “His back was arched, his face red. He was screaming his head off. They told me he was a fighter, but that I needed to leave the room for a minute. They said they were going to sedate him, that his blood pressure was dangerously high. When they let me back in, Sam was silent and still. So very still.”
And 18 years later, the tears fell as he remembered his helplessness in the face of his son’s need.
Twelve hours after his birth, I stood next to Sam’s bed. Tubes and wires protruded from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. The ominous whooshing of the ventilator and the beeping and whirring of machines filled the room. He was so fragile that the sound of a voice raised above a whisper sent his blood pressure skyrocketing.
I believe in the power of prayer. I always have. But that morning I could find no words. So I reached two fingers under the maze of wires, rested them on his laboring chest and whispered, please. When he exhaled I whispered thank you.
In the weeks that followed those words became a ritual.
Even as he grew healthy and strong, with no lingering complications, each breath simply seemed miraculous to me. Life is a gift, but how casually we treat it, until we’re forced to confront its fragility.
More nights than I can count, I’d slip into Sam’s room, lay my hand on his chest and whisper please and thank you as he breathed. Over the years that prayer grew to encompass much more than his physical health.
Like his dad, Sam’s going to continue his education at EWU. He plans to become a high school English teacher and will live at home for a while, so our nest won’t be empty anytime soon.
Following the commencement ceremony, we posed for photos. Sam now towers above me, and when I wrap my arms around him, my head rests near his heart.
Once again I found myself whispering please when he inhaled, thank you when he exhaled.
It’s a prayer that’s served me well.
The newest member of our family arrived just in time for Mother’s Day. Her name is Ruby Sue, and I’m absolutely in love.
I’m worried my friends will tire of hearing me extol her virtues, but she just has so darn many! She’s helpful, easygoing, and so far has been remarkably patient with me as we get to know each other.
What’s odd is I’ve never found black leather and tinted shades particularly attractive. Until now.
Ruby Sue is a 2015 Ford Escape Titanium.
Our youngest has been driving the 1995 Dodge Caravan that his three older brothers drove. The slider door doesn’t open. The passenger door opens from the inside only. There’s no radio. No air-conditioning. It’s been wrecked at least once by each driver, but the Green Monster seems impossible to kill.
Still my husband said the beast won’t live forever, and it was time to pass Golda MyDear, my 2011 Oldsmobile Intrigue, down to Sam.
“It isn’t manly,” Sam protested.
Who knew aging minivans with peeling paint were manly?
Anyway, Derek diligently searched the internet and found the Ford Escape at a local Subaru dealership.
He showed me the photo and the specs.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Shall we take her for a drive?”
I smiled, already enthralled by her sparkly red paint job and sporty trim.
Ruby Sue drove like a dream, but the back-up camera proved disconcerting. Both Derek and I swiveled our heads and peered at the side mirrors while ignoring the screen in front of us.
The salesman left us to discuss the purchase. Taking a car for a test drive is like going to a shelter to “look” at cats or dogs. You’d better be prepared to shell out some cash and take one home because chances are you will fall in love.
Our discussion was brief thanks to the research Derek had already done. All he needed to know was would low-tech Cindy be happy driving high-tech Ruby Sue.
I nodded.
“I’ll read the manual,” I said.
After a sheaf of paperwork completed the adoption, Derek asked if I wanted to drive her home while he drove Golda back to work.
“Of course!” I said, as I kissed him goodbye and approached my new red ride.
The salesman had already explained the keyless ignition meant I just had to be within a few feet of the door and when I touched the handle it would unlock, which it did. What he failed to demonstrate was how to start the car.
Sliding behind the wheel, I adjusted the mirrors and the lumbar support on the smooth leather seat. Then I pushed the start button. Nothing happened. I fiddled with some things and tried again. The radio came on. I pushed more things on the touch screen. The air conditioner came on.
Finally, I read the screen. “Push brake to start car.”
“Thank you, Ruby Sue,” I said.
It’s been two weeks since I drove her home, and I must admit the learning curve is a bit steeper than I anticipated. I did scan the manual, but I’ve always been a learn-by-doing person.
This rig comes not so much with bells and whistles, but with beeps and bleeps, that I’m still deciphering.
For example, when I pulled into a parking space, Ruby Sue started beeping. I slammed the brake and looked around. No lights were flashing. Auto self-destruct mode hadn’t been activated. It took a few more trips for me to realize the car was just alerting me to the proximity of the curb.
Ruby Sue is quite chatty. Bluetooth technology enabled her to sync with my phone automatically. No more ear pieces or headsets to lose! I can receive and send calls and texts using the buttons on the steering wheel. In fact, everything in the Escape Titanium operates through voice command – the radio, the climate control, even the built-in navigation system.
So far, Ruby and I haven’t had any arguments about the best way to get somewhere.
But we’re still working out a few glitches – mine, not her’s. The trunk is supposed to open and close when I swipe my foot under the tailgate – no more juggling grocery bags and fiddling with keys. Alas, only Derek has figured out how to activate the sensor with one swipe of his foot.
And frankly, the self-parking option freaks us both out. Last night we decided to try it for the first time in the safety of our neighborhood.
We pushed the parking assist button and watched, stunned, as Ruby Sue ably parallel parked herself between our son’s car and our garbage cans.
It’s a surreal experience to sit in the driver’s seat and watch the steering wheel spin as your car parks itself, but I have to say this could be a game-changer and a solution for my frequent downtown parking dilemmas.
My least favorite part of my job used to be all the driving. But now, I take the long way everywhere just to spend more time with Ruby Sue.
It’s safe to say I’ve left Intrigue behind, and now that I’ve Escaped there’s no turning back.
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Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Her previous columns are available online at http://www.spokesman.com/staff/cindy-hval/ Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval
Nothing brings life into focus like finding a list of things you wanted when you were a kid, and measuring it against the reality of your adult life.
That happened to me recently while going through a box of “Cindy” things my Mom has kept since my childhood.
But first can we talk about those locks of hair? I mean, why?
What am I supposed to do with the locks of honey gold hair in the Ziploc sandwich bag? My mother has saved these for 50 years. They’ve traveled across the ocean and back, not even attached to my head.
The artsy-craftsy among you might suggest making some kind of shadow box, so that my once-golden hair will be forever preserved behind glass. I guess I could stick my baby teeth in there, too. Yes. Mom also saved my teeth.
I have to admit that I saved my oldest child’s first tooth as well, and I can’t seem to toss it. I saved another son’s first tooth, but didn’t label it, so now it’s in a sandwich bag in my jewelry box.
And no, I don’t know why it seemed important to save those teeth. I blame my mother.
But back to my hair.
Facebook friends suggested the hair and teeth can be used for DNA purposes. I hope they meant tracing my genetic heritage, and they’re not referring to making a positive ID of my corpse, or using the DNA to tie me to a crime scene.
That’s almost as creepy as the friend who suggested I use it to make a voodoo doll.
The fishermen of my acquaintance suggested my golden locks might be used to make fishing lures. Also creepy.
Others suggested making a keychain or using it to make a clone of myself. And one fashion-retro friend said I could weave it in my hair to make a mini rat tail.
For now, it’s in my jewelry box with my kid’s unlabeled tooth.
While the hair and the teeth were a bit disturbing, Mom also saved quite a bit of my early writing – including a list titled “Things I Want.”
I suspect the list was written during a church service. My parents took us to church every Wednesday night and twice on Sunday, so I had ample time to hone my “sit still, be quiet” skills, and Mom kept a sheaf of scratch paper in her purse to keep me occupied.
I drew a lot of pictures and did even more writing. The writing took. The art, not so much.
The list reads as follows (remember I was 8, I spell much better now.)
A puple bike with training wheels
A 1000 dollars
A Maroon body shirt whith an Aqua skirk. And white go-go boots.
Some corel lipstik. And some peach lipclos. And some pink blosh. And some ponds lemon cold cream,
And some toys.
And a laveder dress with pink and lavender flowers.
But most of all I want God to come! Yas!
Obviously, I was 8 going on 18. Or I wanted to be my mother. Probably both.
Also apparent, I must have been hedging my bets on my wish list by making the good Lord’s return my most heartfelt desire.
So here’s the round-up.
I did NOT get a purple bike with training wheels. I got a blue bike with a red, white and blue striped banana seat. I tried to be grateful, but I was positive the patriotic color scheme meant it was a boys’ bike.
I did get $1,000, at some point in my life, but it was not gifted to me in any magical way. I had to work for it.
I did get a maroon body shirt. For those not familiar with ’70s fashion, body shirts were tight-fitting knit shirts with snap crotches. I suppose the idea was that your shirt would stay nicely tucked in, but let me tell you those snaps were awful, if you drank too much fruit punch at a birthday party and had to wait in line for the bathroom. That’s all I’m saying about that.
I don’t think I had an aqua skirt, but Mom had white plastic go-go boots that ended up in our dress-up box. I loved those boots. In fact, I just might find a pair online, so I’ll be prepared when they come back into fashion.
As for the makeup, I did wear coral lipstick topped with peach lip gloss in middle school, and I still wear pink blush. The Pond’s cold cream? Never used it, but Mom still does.
I don’t remember a lavender dress with pink flowers, but I did have some toys.
All in all, most of the things I longed for as an 8-year-old have come my way, so I can’t complain.
I folded the list and tucked in with the lock of hair and my baby teeth.
Someday my sons can figure out what to do with them. Cloning may be an option by then, and I’m sure having their mother cloned is every son’s dream.
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Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Her previous columns are available online at www.spokesman.com/staff/ cindy-hval/ Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.
I was delighted to be a guest on the Whatever Girls podcast “Elevating the Conversation,” though as a journalist it was odd to be on the other side of the Q&A!
Host Erin Bishop and I covered a lot of ground. Her grandparents are the beautiful couple on the cover of War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation.
We talked about how the women of that generation revolutionized the workplace and what it takes to have lasting relationships.
Then we talked about writing. How I got started and what’s coming up next. Of course, if you asked me a writing, I’ll talk about reading. The best writers are the best readers!
And then the heart of the podcast– the value of female friendships and how we can empower each other by elevating the conversation.
You can listen to the podcast here.
When Janet Hegdahl, 16, found out her family was moving from Portland to Spokane in the fall of 1955, she didn’t jump for joy.
“I’d just gotten a job at the library,” she recalled.
She’d also discovered boys.
“I was really interested in boys, a little too interested,” Janet said. “I was looking for boyfriends in all the wrong places.”
Her unhappiness about the move melted away the first Sunday her family attended Trinity United Presbyterian Church. That’s when she saw Jack Arkills singing in the choir and thought church just might be the right place to meet a guy.
Jack noticed her as well and made a beeline for her as soon as the service ended. He was the youth director and Sunday School superintendent, and he wanted to invite her to the youth meeting that evening.
“The Italians have what they call a thunderbolt,” Jack said. “It’s when you see someone, and it’s instant recognition.”
He smiled at Janet.
“It was instant for me,” he said.
She felt the same way.
They both attended Lewis and Clark High School and saw each other between classes and after school. On one of their first dates, they saw the movie “High Society,” and when Bing Crosby crooned “True Love” to Grace Kelly, it became their song.
From their Riverview Retirement Community apartment in Spokane, Jack sang, “I give to you and you give to me, true love, true love …”
Jack already had a connection to Bing Crosby – he’d caddied for Crosby at Indian Canyon in the late ’40s.
“Bing was a big tipper,” he recalled.
In May 1957, Jack dashed into the downtown library where Janet was working. It was the day of the Armed Forces Torchlight Parade, and he was scheduled to march with his National Guard unit.
It was also Janet’s 18th birthday.
“I had a ring in my pocket,” Jack said.
He proposed.
She said yes.
And off he ran to march in the parade.
Jack had graduated from high school and was working for the Great Northern Railroad.
“I wanted to go to Whitworth and be a minister, but pretty soon I was making more than my friends who were teachers,” he said.
Janet had received a scholarship to Eastern Washington University, so they married March 21, 1958, during spring break.
She sewed her tea-length lace wedding gown, and they said their wedding was the last one held at Trinity United Presbyterian, which soon closed its doors.
They settled in an apartment in Browne’s Addition, and almost a year after their wedding, their son, Chris, was born.
“We had a 2-week-old on our first anniversary,” Janet said, smiling.
Thirteen months later, son Scott arrived and Janet’s college education was put on hold.
Daughter, Amy, completed the family in 1962, and they settled into a house in the Garland District.
The family made First Presbyterian their church and it quickly became the center of their lives. Janet became the church librarian, a position she still holds, 55 years later, and Jack joined the choir, and yes, he still sings in it.
Their lives took a drastic turn in 1966 when Jack was severely injured in a train derailment. He was on top of the train to tie a handbrake and got knocked off during the derailment.
“I landed on my back on the track,” he said.
He broke his arm and had six fractures in his sacrum. For two long weeks, he had no sensation in his legs.
“They said I’d never walk again.”
Janet, 25, didn’t know how to drive, but a neighbor taught her during her frequent trips to the hospital.
With three children, a mortgage and her husband’s recuperation uncertain, Janet returned to work at Spokane Public Library. She ended up working at all three Shadle branch locations, as well as the Indian Trail branch.
“I’ve always been addicted to reading and to studying,” she said.
Indeed. She started night school, picking up a class here and there, until 25 years after she began her college career, she graduated from EWU.
Meanwhile, Jack was able to return to work on the railroad. Not only was he able to walk, he started to run. And run. And run some more. Eventually, he ran five marathons.
The family moved to the South Hill in 1979, and when the kids flew the nest, Jack and Janet built their dream house – a passive solar home on Moran Prairie.
In 1987, Jack was diagnosed with polymyostis, a rare inflammatory disease that causes muscle weakness. He retired from the railroad in 1991, though the disease eventually went into remission.
He’s always been the head cook in the family.
Janet laughed.
“I’d put something on and go off and read and wouldn’t you know it? It burned,” she said.
She retired from the library in 2004. Her career spanned the years from handwritten check out cards, to bar codes. From card catalogs to digital catalogs, and she relished every minute.
For many years, the couple have been members of Friendship Force International, a nonprofit organization and hospitality service with the mission of improving intercultural relations, cultural diplomacy, and intercultural competence via homestays.
The Arkills have traveled across the globe, including stops in Australia, France, Germany and Tasmania.
“We love to travel,” Janet said. “We’re both extroverts, so we love to host people here, too.”
Jack survived a bout of esophageal cancer, and 14 years ago they moved to Riverview, where they continue to be active and involved.
Janet marvels that the move to Spokane which she so despaired of, ended up giving her the love of her life, and she sees the hand of the Divine at work.
“The Lord led us together and He’s kept us together,” she said.
Looking at Jack, she smiled.
“We’re best friends.”
As for Jack, the thunderbolt that hit him more than 60 years ago, hasn’t worn off.
“So many couples say they fall out of love,” he said. “I don’t get it. I guess I never fell out of love.”
She was an only child. He was one of seven.
He was a Catholic. She was a Protestant.
She joined the Air Force. He joined the Navy.
He’s an extrovert. She’s an introvert.
The adage “opposites attract” certainly applies to Becky and Harry Flanigan.
They met as children growing up in the same neighborhood in New Albany, Indiana. But Becky had no intention of dating Harry, two years her junior, let alone marrying him.
Harry, however, had other ideas.
In their Kendall Yards apartment, he grinned as he recalled his first sight of Becky. His speech has been impaired by a stroke, but he communicates with hand gestures and short sentences.
“I was 4 years old when I met her. I was 11 when I knew I wanted to marry her,” he said.
It seems when he was 4, a button popped off his snow pants, and Becky’s mother sewed it back on for him. That’s how they met.
At 11, he was stricken by polio and from his bed near the living room window; he watched Becky and his older brother walk to school each day.
“I told Mom I was going to marry her,” he said.
But marriage would have to wait.
After high school, Becky went to nursing school at Ball State University. When an Air Force recruiter came to talk to the soon-to-graduate nurses, she and three friends signed up, and were soon sent to Minot, North Dakota.
Meanwhile, Harry, who hoped to be a doctor, attended St. Louis University until he ran out of funds. After working for the Army Corps of Engineers for a couple years, he enlisted in the Navy.
In 1966, he was attached to the Marine Corps unit in Chu Lai, Vietnam. He and his fellow corpsmen sent up and ran the field hospital there. He doesn’t talk about his experiences in Chu Lai.
When asked if he lost friends during the war, he hung his head and buried his face in his hands.
Becky said, “He brought home a machete and once I asked him where he got it. He said, ‘You don’t want to know.’”
One of the first things he did after returning home was to call Becky and ask her for a date.
“I said yes,” she recalled. “Then I told my mother, ‘What have I done?’ I’m older than he is. I’m taller than he is. And now he knows I was sitting home alone on a Saturday night.’”
It was March 25, 1967, and when Harry picked her up, she was relieved and surprised to find he’d grown.
“He was 5 feet, 2 inches tall, the last time I’d seen him,” she said.
Her mother waited up for her, and when Becky returned she told her mom she’d had a nice time, but wasn’t interested in seeing him again. Harry planned a career in medicine, and she definitely didn’t want to marry a doctor.
The next day he brought her an Easter card.
“He was charming as all get out,” Becky said, smiling.
He must have been, because they got engaged on April 16.
Coming from a large family had its disadvantages – namely little sisters.
“I had no idea he was going to propose,” Becky said. “But we stopped by his house and his little sister said, ‘Do you like your ring?’”
There went the surprise.
The boisterous Flanigans were a bit overwhelming.
“He invited me to a family party, and there were 100 people there,” she recalled. “I wanted to run away.”
She didn’t, and they married Aug. 12.
“His mother told people at our reception, we wouldn’t last six months,” Becky said.
Then she grinned.
“She did eventually apologize, but it took her 30 years.
Harry enrolled at Indiana University, but was disappointed when he wasn’t admitted to medical school. Even though his grades were excellent, he was told the university had no interest in retraining him from his military experience.
He studied business instead and took a job with Union Carbide after graduating in 1970.
Becky gave birth to their daughter, Amy, in 1971, and the family embarked in a series of moves across the country as Harry rose in rank and responsibility within the corporation.
Tragedy struck while they were living in California. Harry, age 46, suffered a stroke. His carotid artery had dissected and life as they knew it changed forever.
The stroke affected his speech and partially paralyzed his right side.
“The last thing he said to us was ‘I’m sorry,’” she recalled.
His prognosis was grim, but Becky said, “He felt since he beat polio, he could beat this.”
Harry, a driven, Type A, workaholic, channeled all of his energy into recovery, making it his full-time job. He learned to walk, to drive and to care for himself, though speech remained an issue.
But despite his amazing strides, he couldn’t resume his career.
“The worst day of his life wasn’t the day of his stroke, but the day they retired him,” Becky said. “He loved his job, the people, the travel. …”
Harry nodded.
Their daughter was attending law school at Gonzaga University, so they decided to move to Spokane. They’ve never looked back, because soon they had three grandchildren to dote on, including a grandson who is now attending the United States Air Force Academy.
When he could speak more clearly, Harry told Becky, “I think the stroke is the best thing that happened to me. It slowed me down, brought me to a stop and allowed me to appreciate my family.”
With his left hand, Harry, 75, gestured upward.
“My grandkids and Amy lift me up,” he said.
As to his wife of 50 years, well, he’s always believed marrying her was his destiny.
He curled his left arm into a muscle-flexing pose.
“She’s strong,” he said.
Becky, 77, said, “People ask me if I’d do it again and I say, ‘Yes, in a heartbeat.’”
When asked why, her eyes filled with tears.
“I guess it’s just true love,” she said.
“Yes,” Harry said, nodding. “Yes.”
Every author will tell you it’s a nail-biting moment.
Your book has been out for some time and you pop in a bookstore for a visit. Just to see how its doing– maybe sign a few copies.
There’s always the fear that you’ll find the book you labored over with blood, sweat and tears languishing in the clearance bin. Or worse. You won’t find it at all.
That’s what happened to me last week. Kind of.
I’m getting ready to pitch my second book, so stopped by my local Barnes and Noble to scan the shelves for similar titles. Of course, I checked on my firstborn.
But War Bonds was nowhere to be found!
The book launched February 22, 2015 and is still generating sales, but still it’s three years-old.
Gathering my courage I approached a bookseller and offered to sign any copies– if they had any.
“What’s the title?” he asked.
I told him.
“Oh, War Bonds! We always have copies on hand. Let me check.”
Nervously, I watched him click the keys of his computer.
“Wow! We sold out again. That’s a happy problem to have.”
I took a breath.
“Are you going to…?”
“Yep,” he interrupted. “We’ve already ordered more.”
I said thank you and left with my purchases. Amazed, thrilled and blessed that readers are still finding the love stories of the Greatest Generation worth reading. And worth purchasing.
Thank you dear readers. And Happy 3rd birthday War Bonds!”
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Cindy Hval 