Tag: Cindy Hval

Columns

Living the next-level adulting dream

Cindy Hval

There’s something deliciously rewarding about reaching a stage in life where you can finally purchase something you’ve always wanted but previously denied yourself, believing it to be a frivolous expense.

In times past, for me, that might have been buying a cute pair of strappy sandals or a blingy bracelet, but I seem to have achieved a new tier of adulthood.

After a stressful few weeks, I decided to engage in some retail therapy. I bypassed the malls and the cute boutiques and headed to At Home and Target.

As my sons would say, “That’s some next-level adulting.”

On my list: one thing I’ve always wanted and one thing I desperately needed.

Hold on to your hats, kids, this is where it gets exciting! What I needed was an electric can opener. (Your ideas of excitement may differ.)

In the past few months, I’ve spent almost $40 trying to replace my dull, aging and utterly useless manual can opener.

Efforts to open a can of tomato sauce or pinto beans became endurance contests involving much swearing. The opener consistently skipped a section of the lid. I’d start over only to have it glide over the top again, leaving me with a jagged-edged, partially opened can.

I assumed it was worn out and bought a standard $12 replacement. It, too, proved worthless. I thought it might be me, so I left the can opening to my husband.

Guess what? He didn’t have any better luck. The atmosphere in our kitchen grew quite colorful because his profanity vocabulary is much more advanced than mine.

Back to the store I went. This time, I brought home a fancy high-end brand. It didn’t work any better – in fact, it was worse. Derek pronounced it useless and suggested he dig out his Swiss Army knife.

“I’m going shopping tomorrow,” I replied.

My first stop was At Home, where I picked up a sleek black Cuisinart electric can opener for $25.

Next, I headed to Target.

It may surprise you to know the thing I’ve always coveted is a Black & Decker Dustbuster. How I raised four sons and owned multiple cats without a cordless handheld vacuum is a mystery. Did I mention we’ve lived in a late 1970s-era split-level home for 32 years?

Every spill or trail of dust or dirt (aka boy residue) on the stairs meant lugging out the vacuum or grabbing a broom and dustpan. Cleaning crumbs from couch cushions involved wrestling with vacuum attachments.

A quick trip through the self-checkout, and the treasure was all mine.

As soon as the Dustbuster was charged, I used it on the stairs. Within a minute, no trace of cat hair remained. I had so much fun; I took it on a home tour, busting dust on window ledges and under cupboard edges.

I was in a bit of a tizzy as our youngest son was driving home from Texas for a visit. My version of killing the fatted calf is mixing up a big batch of Creamy Taco Soup in the slow cooker.

Like I said, I was a bit distracted. I plugged in my Cuisinart can opener and mistakenly opened a can of chicken noodle soup instead of cream of chicken soup.

But let me tell you, both of those cans opened easily. No glitches. No partially opened cans. No swearing!

Retail therapy, adult style, may not be glamorous, but I’m living the dream, one small convenience at a time.

Columns

Just one more recipe…

Cindy Hval

In January 2022, I launched “The Collector,” in The Spokesman-Review– a series of stories about what people collect and why.

From Lilac Festival pins to saws, from typewriter ribbon tins to Matchbox cars, I’m having a ball, meeting folks and discovering their collections.

Until recently, I didn’t think I collected anything, but the unwieldy stack of papers at my elbow proves otherwise. Somehow, I’ve amassed an enormous collection of recipes. It’s a little out of control, but I can stop adding to it anytime.

I blame my mother and the internet.

Mom collected many things over the years. I know because I’m the one who had to dust them. At one time or another, she collected salt and pepper shakers, chickens, ducks and teapots.

These were all manageably sized collections. As she grew older, the chickens went home to roost with my sister-in-law Bonnie, and the ducks and the salt and pepper shakers left via garage sale. The teapots she kept.

It wasn’t until Mom moved into an assisted living facility that we realized her real collection was stuffed in envelopes, notebooks and binders and tucked away in kitchen cupboards and drawers.

Mom was an incurable recipe clipper. She lived alone for 22 years after Dad died and subsisted primarily on Lean Cuisine frozen dinners. Yet she kept snipping recipes from the newspaper and magazines. Dorothy Dean had nothing on Mom when it came to recipes involving Jell-O or Campbell’s soup.

Her new place didn’t come with a kitchen, so I tried to sort through her stash. Overwhelmed, I finally gave up, took a couple of her cookbooks home, and called it good.

Scratch cooking, however, is often how I relax at the end of a stressful day, and one afternoon while scrolling through Facebook, I saw an intriguing recipe for sheet pan chicken and peppers. I clicked on it and printed it.

Big mistake! The next day an email from Holy Recipe arrived and like a fool, I opened it. It featured a recipe for Cinnabon cinnamon roll cake.

The kids were coming over for dinner and I love having a new dessert to serve them. I clicked the link and printed it.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

A few hours later my email flag waved. It was a message from Recipe Reader tempting me to check out something called “My One-and-Only Soup.”

My printer whirred and spat it out.

Every day brought a slew of new concoctions from varied sites.

Before I knew it, Big Blue, my extra-large three-ring binder filled with family favorites, had sprouted an additional section: New Recipes. And then the binder got too fat to close.

Where to put the sourdough waffle instructions from Recipe Spot (even though my husband is in charge of waffles and only uses Bisquick)? And what about the spicy pepperoni dip and the peach dump cake I wanted to try?

I found the answer in Columbus, Ohio, at the largest Barnes and Noble store I’d ever seen. We stopped in on the way to the airport after visiting the grandkids and I found two lovely “Favorite Recipes” binders. They came with dividers and quality stationery to use for printing recipes.

When we returned, I unburdened Big Blue and started sorting through my collection. That was seven months ago. Now, I have three partially filled binders and piles of recipes on my desk, waiting to be sorted. Too many recipes. Not enough time.

I’ve decided not to add any more until I get my collection under control. This is proving difficult because during the time I sat down to write this column, I received a recipe from Command Cooking for picnic chicken salad, a link to “Heavenly Bars” from Fussy Kitchen, and one from Recipe Reader for “Creamy Pineapple Dream.”

Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. I didn’t open a single one and plan to add these sites to my spam filter. I’ll put it at the top of tomorrow’s to-do list.

My email flag is waving. What’s this? A recipe for Chicken Tamale Pie!

It shot from my printer before I even blinked.

I finally understand what collectors have been telling me – the lure of adding just one more is incredibly hard to resist.

Columns

My 6 Million Dollar Man

Cindy Hval

Last week, my husband had his second hip replacement surgery.

“You’ll be my ‘Six Million Dollar Man,’ ” I said, referring to the TV series from the ’70s.

Because he’s good at math and handy with Google, Derek corrected me.

“Actually, adjusted for inflation, I’m your 32 million dollar man.”

On the morning of his surgery, the gentleman escorting him to the OR area asked, “Does your wife write for The Spokesman-Review?”

“Yes, but don’t hold that against me,” Derek replied.

“Oh! I won’t. She’s my favorite columnist! I like how she gives you a hard time.”

That kind fellow may be a bit confused about which partner gives the other a hard time – so without further ado, here’s your next installment of #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• I was just about asleep the other night when Derek rolled over and started loudly counting in midsnore.

“Five, four, (long pause) three …”

Snoring resumed. I don’t know if he forgot what came after three or if he’d lifted off, but I was awake for a long time wondering.

• Derek was talking in his sleep again.

“Wonder if cats fluff up if you stick ’em in there,” he mumbled.

I poked him.

“What are you dreaming about?”

“The dryer,” he said and rolled over.

Yeah. You try going back to sleep after that!

Derekisms

• We were talking about someone who got caught in a lie. Derek said, “Oh, what tangled weaves we web.”

I burst out laughing.

Derek huffed. “It’s BRITISH!”

• That’s not the only language he speaks. At a family dinner, our son Zach said, “Well, if the music career doesn’t pan out, I can always get a job selling moist towelettes to restaurants.”

Me: I think your dad sells moist towelettes.

Derek: Hmm … I sell little toilets to clean safety glasses with.

  • Hysterical laughter

Derek: What?

Me: You said you sell little toilets!

Derek: No. I said I sell little toilettes. It’s French.

Zach (wiping his eyes): Dad, don’t ever change!

• We were watching a movie, and Derek said, “Look, C.S. Lewis!”

My husband may be the first person in the universe to confuse comedian Louis C.K. with the author of “The Screwtape Letters.”

• While reading a coffee package, he said, “Hmm … looks like I like my coffee the way I like my women, full-figured and smooth.”

I grabbed the package.

“That’s full-BODIED!

He shrugged.

“Same thing.”

Life according to Derek

• We were waiting for the start of “Love’s Labor Lost” at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. My husband asked if it was a comedy or a tragedy. I told him it’s about some guys who swear to give up girls in favor of scholarly pursuits.

“Ah. More farce with tragic results,” he said.

• Derek got an “avocado” cigar.

“Smell it!” he said, waving it under my nose.

I shuddered.

“It looks like a turd, and it smells like a turd,” I said.

Holding it under his nose, he took a deep breath and said, “If my turds smelled like this, I would never flush!”

• When our son told his dad they were playing pickleball in PE, my husband was unimpressed.

“When I was a kid, we used REAL pickles when we played pickleball.”

• One Sunday at church, our pastor said, “When you think Peter, most of you think of the fisherman – the rock on whom the church was built.”

Derek leaned over and whispered, “I think of Paul and Mary.”

Married life

• Now and then, I get a glimpse of what my husband would be like as a single man.

Recently, I caught him watching squirrel hunting on TV.

“They’re shooting them out of trees! Look at them run! Oooh! A dog got that one. He’s still twitching. Wonder why they have silencers on their .22s?”

• Him: What does “carga” mean in Spanish?

Me: I don’t know, why?

Him: I’m rewiring the downstairs bathroom switch, and I accidentally grabbed the Spanish instructions.

• Derek trying to talk me into watching a horror movie.

“It’s romantic. Like a love story only TERRIFYING!”

• Speaking of movies, we streamed a film that failed to impress and pondered if we should finish it.

Him, sighing: Well, we’ve had 35 minutes and 32 seconds of nonstop fun.

Me: Maybe it’s like marriage – you have to hang in there to get to the good part.

Him: You mean death?

Anyway, we are still married.

Derek told people the reason he had both hips replaced was so that he could keep up with the grandkids, but as they wheeled him back for surgery, the truth came out.

“Pretty soon, I’m gonna be able to catch Cindy!”

Stay tuned.

Columns

Double Trouble: A State of the Cats Address

Cindy Hval

2024 proved tumultuous for Sir Walter Scott.

In June, our fluffy tabby lost his best friend when our senior cat, Thor, died. Their friendship wasn’t reciprocal. Thor tolerated Walter at best, but Walter seemed convinced they were best friends. When we didn’t bring Thor home from his final vet visit in June, Walter paced the house searching for him.

A few weeks later, we went to see our grandkids in Ohio. Though family members take good care of our cats when we travel, I worried about Walter. He’d never been alone.

He seemed happy to see us when we returned, but then a contractor began working on my home office. As soon as Tim walked in the door, Walter went under our bed where he stayed, coming out only to eat and for cuddles and treats in the evening after Tim left.

His next stressor came with the arrival of a 2-pound black and white kitten we named Freya Charlotte. After a few days, Walter adjusted the Tuxedo tornado’s company, even allowing her to curl up next to him. He continued to hide under our bed for hours, so Freya gamely joined him for naps.

Then we noticed bumps on his chin. When they continued to spread, I took him to the vet.

Diagnosis: feline acne. This benign condition can have several possible causes, but the only one that seemed to apply to Walter was stress. As for the antibacterial wipes I used to treat it, Walter could hear me unscrewing the lid from across the house and would dive under the bed before I got close enough to swipe his chin.

Thankfully, all is well with Walter now. His acne cleared, and he’s back to sleeping on top of our (his) bed instead of underneath it. Freya is almost always beside him. Actually, we should have named her after the Biblical Ruth, who famously told her mother-in-law, “Where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge.”

Wherever Walter goes, Freya follows, though at 7 months, she’s getting good at coming up with solo adventures.

She’s next level when it comes to parkour. For those unfamiliar, parkour involves several movements, including running, jumping, climbing, vaulting and rolling, all aimed at traversing obstacles and moving from one point to another in the most efficient way.

I doubt that efficiency is her goal. She simply loves leaping and bouncing from one height to the next. She takes a running leap from the floor, bounces off the kitchen counter, skims the dining room table, and lands on the loveseat. She does this multiple times a day.

“She needs a cape,” Derek said. “I bet they sell them at PetSmart.”

Over the holidays, we discovered Freya is an accomplished sheep poacher.

A Play-Doh manger scene always has a place of honor on top of the piano at Christmas. Our son Alex made it when he was in kindergarten. This year, every morning, I’d find the tiny cotton ball sheep on the floor, in the bedroom, or in a closet.

Derek caught Freya tiptoeing (tippawing?) atop the piano, weaving amid fragile objects, her eye on the lone sheep.

One morning, we woke up, and it was gone for good. And no, I did not sift through the litter box looking for it.

We’ve raised four sons, but I no longer need to wonder what kind of dad Derek would have been to a daughter.

Last week, I heard him yelling, “Freya! You get off that refrigerator right now!”

A few seconds later, “No! Freya! Do NOT chew that cord!”

All was quiet for a bit, but I could hear him murmuring. I walked into the kitchen to see Freya in her cat tree basket and Derek stroking her head and rubbing her cheeks.

“You’re still a baby, aren’t you? You’re just a little baby girl, yes you are!”

He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

“Well she is,” he said.

Then he turned his attention back to the kitten.

“Aren’t you Freya? Aren’t you just a little baby girl?

I can’t swear to it, but I’m almost certain that cat was smiling as she closed her eyes.

Columns

Keep libraries a safe haven for all readers

Cindy Hval

As a lifelong library lover and voracious reader, the idea that access to reading material has become controversial boggles my brain.

Yet in Idaho, libraries are relocating material the state defines as harmful to minors to adult-only areas.

I remember when parents were the ones who defined which books might be harmful to their children.

My mom sure did.

Even when I could drive myself to the library, she always perused my selections, shaking her head at choices she disapproved of.

I read them anyway. (I did have nightmares after reading “Helter Skelter,” so Mom was probably on to something there.)

Dad’s jobs, first in the Air Force and then with the state of Washington, meant frequent moves. The first thing we did in a new town was to look for a church. The second was to find the library and get our cards. Weekly library visits were almost as sacred as church attendance on Sundays.

Library cards were a rite of passage for my four children. As soon as they could print their names, they received their own cards.

Much to my sons’ chagrin, just like my mom, I was the arbiter of literature in our home. I sorted through the books they wanted to check out and weeded out “junk” like “Goosebumps.”

In retrospect, I wish I’d let them indulge in a little R.L. Stine, instead of shuttling them to the inanity of the “Bailey School Kids” series. I’m positive I killed a few brain cells reading “Vampires Don’t Wear Polka Dots” or “Ghosts Don’t Eat Potato Chips” with them.

When some Christian groups deemed the “Harry Potter” books evil and my firstborn wanted to read them, I stayed up late into the night engrossed in “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” My 10-year-old loved the series, and so did I.

He’s also the kid who introduced me to the works of Stephen King.

King was on my mom’s banned author list, so I was in my mid-30s before I got the liver scared out of me by “Carrie,” “Misery,” “Pet Sematary” and “IT.”

By the time our fourth son arrived, I’d relaxed my literary gatekeeping. Sam’s appetite for books rivaled my own. He devoured comics, novels and nonfiction, and he probably read “harmful” books, too. I haven’t ascertained any lasting damage to his psyche. He’s now a college English instructor introducing a new generation to the delights of the printed word.

The term “safe space” has become much derided, but that’s exactly what public libraries were for me.

As a lonely little girl, they provided refuge through frequent family moves. I found comfort among the familiar shelves and welcome escape in the stacks of books I checked out every week.

Libraries nourished my sons and expanded their horizons.

I want my grandchildren to enjoy that same haven, the freedom to choose their own adventures, and the space to let their imaginations soar.

My Library, My Story

Have you ever had a moment in a library that changed your life? Maybe it was the book that sparked your imagination, the librarian who helped you find the right resource, or the space that gave you room to dream. Spokane Public Library invites you to share those moments through My Library, My Story, a community–wide celebration of the impact libraries have on our lives.

From March 5-Through March 31, Spokane Public Library invites you to post your personal library experience on social media. Tag @spokanepubliclibrary to collaborate with the library and amplify your voice. For more information, visit www.spokanelibrary.org/mylibrarymystory.

Share your birthday memories

In my previous column, I wrote about celebrating my 60th birthday.

Facebook friend Cis Gors said her 60th (25 years ago in April) proved unforgettable. It included a birthday lunch with coworkers, a surprise party with kids and grandkids arriving from the West Side and Wisconsin, and another surprise party with her overnight crew at work.

What was your most memorable birthday?

Email a brief synopsis to dchval@juno.com and include your first and last name and a phone number. Your story may be included in a future column.

Columns

Warm birthday wishes

Cindy Hval

I flew to the desert on a plane with no name

It felt good to get out of Spo-Kane

If you sang that terrible parody of America’s 1971 hit in your head while you read it, you are my people.

And you are old.

I can say things like that now because earlier this month, I celebrated my 60th birthday.

As the milestone approached, I told my husband the only thing I wanted was to go someplace warmer. Since Spokane’s average monthly temperature in February is 32 degrees, that gave us plenty of options.

While investigating destinations, our choice became obvious. Friends who winter in Oro Valley, Arizona, have been asking us to visit for years, and aside from spending time at the Phoenix airport on my way to somewhere else, I’d never been to Arizona.

We booked the trip. When we left Spokane, the high was 28 degrees. When we arrived in Oro Valley, the high was 85. I found my someplace warmer!

After checking into our hotel, we set out for dinner at an iconic institution with a devoted following. That’s right. I visited In-n-Out Burger for the first time. A huge line of cars waited at the drive-thru, so we opted to dine in. I enjoyed an excellent cheeseburger and some mediocre fries and left satisfied but mystified by the fanatic fandom of this chain.

Derek understood it.

“It’s good, it’s fast and it’s cheap,” he said.

The next day, we drove to Dan and Connie’s condo. Derek graduated from Saguaro High School in Scottsdale, Arizona, so he might have grown a tad tired of my constant cacti commentary.

“Oh! A tall pokey one! Look! Short squatty ones! Hey! That one’s giving us the finger!”

A purple prickly pear near our friends’ front door tickled me.

“You can’t escape the Lilac City,” I said.

After a lovely lunch on their patio, we took a sunny stroll along a nearby walking/biking path. My cacti enthusiasm waned when Dan pointed out a fluffy-looking specimen.

“Don’t get too close,” he warned. “That’s a jumping cactus.”

Turns out Connie found out the hard way about the Jumping Cholla when her arm barely brushed one. She ended up pulling several painful spines from her arm.

It might be cold in Spokane, but at least our plants don’t attack us.

Later, we enjoyed a sunset dinner at a restaurant at one of Tucson’s 40 golf courses. Our patio table faced the Catalina Mountains. Their beautiful maroon, gold, amber and pink tones were nothing like the snow-shrouded Selkirks we’d left behind.

We dined outdoors for every meal except breakfast and always sat at a table facing that breathtaking vista. You can’t do that in Spokane in February.

The rest of our trip was spent exploring with our friends and on our own. Dan and Derek visited the Titan Missile Museum and the Pima Air and Space Museum, while Connie and I lunched at another golf resort and then toured model homes to see what’s trending in home décor.

She dropped me back at the hotel so I could do one of my favorite things – read a book by the pool.

Derek and I spent a morning at Gates Pass at Tucson Mountain Park, where I sustained a hiking injury. OK, I tripped over a curb at a scenic overlook and scraped my elbow – same thing!

The stark landscape with its vast solitude, the play of the light at different times of day, and the brilliant blue skies fed my soul while the sun warmed my skin.

Rejuvenated, I returned home to embrace the start of my sixties. We arrived just in time for Spokane to get an entire winter’s snowfall in three days.

Before this trip, I’d never understood the desert’s allure. I love the four seasons of the Pacific Northwest – but as I shoveled heavy, wet snow from our driveway, I thought of our friends sipping coffee on their patio.

Maybe you have to be a certain age to appreciate the resilient beauty of the desert.

All Write, Columns

No more goodbyes for the Gleesings

Cindy Hval

This time, he had to wait for her—14 long years.

Her wait for him in 1945 may have been shorter, but it was terrifying.

When I interviewed Jerry and Nancy Gleesing in March 2010, they were looking forward to celebrating their 66th anniversary in June.

They’d met in LaMoure, North Dakota, in 1940. Four years later, the high school sweethearts married.

They used Jerry’s two-week leave from the Army Air Force for their honeymoon. When he received orders to deploy to Italy as a flight officer with the 15th Air Force, 459th Bomb Group, Nancy was expecting their first child.

On Jan. 15, 1945, his B-24 was shot down, and he and his crew bailed out over Hungary. It was only his second mission.

 During the interview, Jerry laughed as he described his predicament.

“We never learned how to bail out, just how to fly the plane!”

But he grew somber when recalling how locals armed with pickaxes and shovels quickly surrounded him and his crew.

“I thought they were going to kill us,” he said.

Instead, the captives were handed over to the Germans and taken to a prisoner of war camp in Moosburg, Germany.

Meanwhile, back in North Dakota, Nancy worried.

“The letters stopped on Jan. 5,” she said.

For 10 days, there was no word. Then, a telegram arrived, reporting Jerry as missing in action.

As he was being processed at the POW camp, a guard pointed to his wedding ring and motioned for him to remove it. And that’s where Jerry drew the line.

“You get to the point where the initial fear is gone,” he said. “Whatever happens, happens. I didn’t give up my wedding ring. I said, ‘I vowed to never take it off. I’m not taking it off.’”

The guard let him keep it.

In February 1945, Nancy gave birth to a daughter she wasn’t sure her husband would get to meet. But in April, after 3 ½ months as a prisoner of war, the camp at Moosburg was liberated.

“We saw the tanks come over the hill,” Jerry recalled. “Everyone was whooping and hollering. Then the American flag was raised, and it was dead silent.” His voice broke. “It was like coming home.”

And come home he did, just in time to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. He and Nancy raised seven children together.

Their story ran in the newspaper on March 25, 2010. A month later, Jerry died suddenly.

They didn’t get to celebrate their 66th anniversary, but their story stayed with me. In fact, it became chapter one of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation.”

Since its 2015 publication, I’ve done approximately 100 reading, signing and speaking events and I’ve shared the Gleesings’ story at most of them.

No matter how many times I’ve told it, I can’t get through a reading without tearing up when I share Jerry’s reaction to seeing the American flag raised in that POW camp.

Their chapter ends with him looking at the wedding band he’d refused to remove.

 “It’s still there,” he said. “I’ve never taken it off.”

On Dec. 1, 2024, Nancy died at the age of 100, and his long wait ended.

Something tells me this reunion was even better than the one they had in 1945.

Following Jerry’s death, Nancy had worn his wedding ring on a chain around her neck. I like to think that when Jerry reached out to welcome her, she took his hand and slipped that thin gold band back where it belonged.

All Write, Columns

A room of my own

Cindy Hval

For many years, I posted the same cartoon on social media every December. It features a woman sitting on Santa’s lap, reading her Christmas wish list. “… And I also need a gripping opening sentence, help with my 14th and 28th chapters, an agent with excellent connections in the publishing world, and a home office with a door.”

I didn’t share it this year because, after 17 years as a freelance writer and author, I finally have a home office with a door.

I’ve spent my career working in our unfinished downstairs rec room. The boys called it the playroom because that’s what they did there. They built gigantic Lego creations, set up Hot Wheels tracks and played video games. It’s where they hosted sleepovers and movie parties.

Meanwhile, I sat at a battered hand-me-down desk that once belonged to my father-in-law, next to an old filing cabinet snagged from my husband’s business.

My desk faced wobbly 1970s-era faux pine paneling. Lighting consisted of a series of cheap gooseneck desk lamps that teetered precariously atop the previously mentioned filing cabinet.

Without a door and no drawers in my desk, I’d leave the room and return to find my carefully arranged notes scattered across the room and my pens AWOL.

Cats enjoy few things more than knocking things off flat surfaces.

I churned out thousands of articles and columns from that room, but thankfully, when it came to pen books or bigger projects, I had kind friends who offered me private, quiet spaces for work.

As our family grew, other projects superseded my longing for an actual home office. My husband had a deck to build and a shed to create, the boys’ rooms needed finishing, the living room needed new flooring, and a second bathroom was vital.

Derek completed each job with great attention to detail, and every project turned out fantastic.

Our youngest son accepted a teaching job in Texas nearly three years ago, and Derek hoped to finally build an office for me because he truly loves home -improvement projects – and me. Unfortunately, his osteoarthritis limited his mobility and energy, and hip replacement surgery loomed.

So, reader, I took matters into my own hands. A friend referred me to a contractor, and I made an appointment for him to meet us at the house. Then I told Derek.

Though disappointed he wouldn’t be able to do the project himself, he agreed to talk to the contractor with me. They hit it off like I knew they would.

Almost a year later, work began. I chose Zachary’s former bedroom for my office. The ceiling hadn’t been finished since an earlier remodel, and the blue indoor/outdoor carpet had been there since our oldest two sons shared the space.

It also had a window facing our backyard. Finally, I’d have natural light and an office with a lovely view!

Work began in August, and when I dithered over choices that came up, wanting to defer to my husband, the contractor gently reminded me, “This is your office. You get to decide.”

And I did. I chose soft gray paint, white trim and a laminate floor that mirrored the warmth of the pine tongue-and-groove ceiling. Honestly, I would have been happy with any ceiling, but Derek lobbied for the upgrade, and I’m glad I listened.

In late September, he put together the desk I’d purchased years ago in anticipation of my new digs. Its L-shape offers plenty of room for notes on the smooth black surface. When I tire of sitting, I can use its stand-up option.

I had a matching bookshelf delivered, chose a cozy chair and a lamp for the corner, and hung art I’d saved just for this space.

Every morning, when I take my mug of coffee to my desk, I smile. My notes are right where I left them the night before – my pens and paperclips, present and accounted for.

The view from the window feeds my soul no matter the weather. When the sun beats down, I lower the blinds, but usually, I leave them up. I’ve watched the leaves swirl down into the garden. I’ve seen the rain drizzle or pour and watched snow slowly shroud the deck.

I love everything about this room, but my favorite thing might be the newly painted white door with its shiny gold knob. When Derek’s home and I have phone interviews or looming deadlines, I shut it with a satisfying click. Unlike our cats, Freya and Walter, he doesn’t stand outside and scratch and whine until I open it.

My 60th birthday may be approaching, but I finally have a room of my own, and oh, it was worth the wait.

Columns

Savoring the Special + Wedding Tales

Cindy Hval

For The Spokesman-Review

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

Ditto on the day after, the day after.

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

I scooped up bits of flaky pie crust and sighed.

So did Derek.

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

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

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

He sighed again and took our plates to the sink.

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

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

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

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

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

”I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!”

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

Readers share wedding party memories

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

My friend, Jill, is batting 50/50.

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

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

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

Ditto a red dress and a white brocade gown.

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

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

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

That hat has also been a hit with her granddaughters.

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

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

And then a gust of wind extinguished the candle.

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

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

Columns

Things my husband says: new and improved edition

Cindy Hval

When my oldest brother David offers advice, I usually take it. He’s a pretty smart guy.

When my husband had hip replacement surgery a few weeks ago, however, David warned, “Just don’t write a column about what he says while coming out of the anesthesia.”

That’s like telling me not to drink coffee in the morning.

The surgery went well, and when they wheeled him into his post-op room, I met him there, notebook in hand.

Alas, he didn’t have general anesthesia, so no embarrassing quips to report. He also was a bust when he had his wisdom teeth removed. He did worry, though.

“I’m afraid I’ll say something inappropriate to you,” he said.

“You always say inappropriate things to me,” I replied.

“Yeah, but not in front of witnesses.”

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t need drugs to entertain me. Here’s the latest installment of #ThingsMyHusbandsays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• One night, as I drifted into sleep, Derek murmured, “Tootsie Rolls … a chest filled with Tootsie Rolls …”

I guess his sweet tooth even haunts his dreams.

• Early one morning, he rolled over and elbowed me.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry!” he said. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“I sleep here,” I said.

“I know, but you didn’t look like you were here.”

Derekisms

• Derek on why I should watch “Dune.” “It has that guy you like, Jason MIMOSA.”

He’s not wrong. I do like the actor Jason Momoa. I also enjoy mimosas.

• Him: “Listen, it’s not your fault if they want to be a hobbit.”

Me: “You mean hermit?”

Him: “Whatever.”

• “Get the little hookers!” he said, while decorating the Christmas tree.

We don’t have risqué ornaments. He needed ornament hooks.

• “Look! There’s a Dalai Lama guy! Oh, hey, there’s two!” Derek upon seeing two Buddhist monks at Manito Park.

• “I’m feeling a lot better. I haven’t taken Desitin in days.”

Let the record show he meant Mucinex, not diaper cream.

• Derek’s been watching a PBS series about World War II called “Nazi Mega Weapons.”

It doesn’t really interest me, but I cuddled with him while he watched it.

I was kind of dozing and heard an interesting quote.

“Who said that?” I asked.

“It’s their fornication expert,” he replied.

I sat straight up.

“I meant FORTIFICATION expert.”

I stayed awake for the rest of the show just to be sure.

Life according to Derek

  • WARNING! Spoiler Alert!

One year, after Easter dinner, talk turned to when we each discovered the Easter Bunny wasn’t real.

Ethan, our oldest, couldn’t remember.

“How about you, Dad?” he asked. “You’re firstborn, too. Do you remember?”

“I’ll never forget it,” Derek said. “You were a baby, and I caught your mom taking an Easter basket to your room. ‘What are you doing!?’ I said. ‘That’s the Easter Bunny’s job!’ Then she broke it to me. I still haven’t gotten over it.”

• Him: “Damn squirrels are in my garden again!”

Me: “How did you get rid of them last year?”

Him:” I shot ’em.”

Me: “You did not!”

Him: “Yep. I got out Zach’s BB gun and blasted them.”

Me: “No, you didn’t.”

Him: “OK, then this is the year.”

• “It’s like a bad movie. I’m gonna finish it, but I’m not gonna like it.” Derek on sugar-free ice cream.

• One of our sons grew frustrated with the dating scene. “I’m lowering my expectations,” he said. “That’s what your mom did, and she got me!” his dad replied.

Married life

• Derek flung open the bedroom door.

“What do Chris Pine and I have in common besides our incredibly sexy good looks?”

I felt like this may be a trick question, so I shrugged.

“Don’t know. Give me a hint?”

He grinned.

“Warren Buffett and I have this in common, too!”

Now, I’m truly stumped.

“OK. I give. What do you, Chris Pine and Warren Buffett have in common?”

“We all HATE SMARTPHONES!” Derek says and does a victory lap around the bed.

(He’s quite attached to his ancient, barely functioning phone with its slide-out keyboard.)

PS: I was for cash. Lots of cash.

• Me: “Something is really wrong here. I just spent more money at PetSmart than I did at Total Wine.”

Him: “That’s terrible! You need to go back to Total Wine!”

• “I contemplate lumber the way you contemplate purses or shoes,” my husband on why he’s taking so long at Home Depot.

• One winter evening I couldn’t find Derek anywhere. Finally, Sam looked out on the deck and discovered his dad smoking a cigar. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here!” I said.

Turns out he’d read about the oldest living veteran, who at 107 drinks whiskey in his morning coffee and smokes up to 12 cigars a day.

“I’ve got 11 more to go!” Derek said.

“Yeah, but also he said the true secret to his longevity is staying out of trouble,” I replied.

He sighed. “I’ll be in after I finish my cigar.”

With that kind of wisdom and his spry new hip, Derek just may make 107, too.