I had the incredible honor of interviewing Bud Garvin, 99, this week. Bud was eyewitness to the beginning of WWll at Pearl Harbor and was liberating a concentration camp in Germany when the war ended in Europe. 
Omaha Beach– The Battle of the Bulge– Bud was there. Though he’ll celebrate his 100th birthday next month, his recollection of his time of service is still sharp. He is a gracious, funny and generous man and I count myself beyond blessed to have spent time with him.
Tag: Cindy Hval
More wit from the Greatest Generation
This weekend I called the wife of a 99 year-old Pearl Harbor survivor to schedule an interview. She repeated the details back to me and I said, “You’ve got it.”
She laughed and replied, “Honey, I lost it so long ago, I don’t even remember having it!”
When I’m an old woman, I don’t care if I wear purple with a red hat, I just want to be as fun and witty as these folks are. How wonderful to retain the ability to see the humor in life, even when other vision fails.
Sometimes relaxing is so stressful!
Clenching the steering wheel, I muttered while the tractor in front of me slowly puttered. A quick glance at the clock on my dash confirmed my fear – I was going to be late for my relaxing getaway at the Coeur d’Alene Casino Resort.
The muscles in my neck tightened, my jaw clenched – the masseuse would have her work cut out for her.
I’d hoarded the spa gift certificate and overnight stay coupon for a rainy day, and on a sunny October Friday that day arrived.
The previous Sunday our pastor had preached a sermon on rest – a reminder that God created both work AND rest, but sometimes we aren’t very good at the latter.
That would be me. I squirmed in the pew as I thought of all the times I’d said yes to work projects with deadlines that cut into quiet time.
As a wife and mother, I try to ensure my family gets the focus and attention they need from me, but I’m not nearly as vigilant about carving out time for myself. And honestly, I like to be busy. Too much down time makes me nervous. Busy means I’m accomplishing – achieving – isn’t that the American ideal?
On that fateful Sunday, I’d just wrapped up an extensive project for a national magazine and hoped to take some time off. But Monday a new client beckoned with intriguing assignments and a lucrative contract. I’ll take a break next month, I thought, looking at my full calendar. Maybe even a week off.
Then I checked the expiration date on my gift certificates. Suddenly, relaxation had a deadline! I couldn’t let these thoughtful gifts go to waste. So, with that Sunday sermon ringing in my ears, and with my family’s encouragement I took a Friday off, planning to enjoy a drive to the CdA Casino, loosen up with a soothing massage, have dinner with a girlfriend and truly unwind with an overnight stay.
The problem with that scenario began with an email. Foolishly, I checked my messages before loading my overnight bag into the car. One simple query ate into my morning and my “day off” dwindled to an afternoon off.
Still, when I got behind the wheel the sun was shining and I had wonderful things to look forward to – those things did NOT include a traffic jam led by a meandering tractor.
By the time the fellow pulled off to the side of the road, a long line of casino-bound cars snaked behind him. And then I missed my turn. When I finally arrived I had five minutes to make it to my massage.
I schlepped by bag to the front desk, only to find the one group in front of me had questions – lots of questions about rooms, about restaurants – you name it, they asked.
I fidgeted. I fumed. I fussed. When I finally reached the check-in desk I asked the helpful staffer to notify the spa that I was running late.
After tossing my bag on the bed, I rushed down to the spa, where they kindly called the restaurant and moved my dinner reservations back. When I was finally ensconced in a plush robe I texted my friend, informing her of my tardiness.
Who knew relaxation could be so stressful?
It turns out I’m not alone in my struggle with carving out respite time. How else to explain that today – the one day the year Americans set aside to contemplate our blessings, has now been infiltrated by businesses and consumers angling to get a jumpstart on Black Friday sales?
Glossy ads beckon us to give thanks by driving to malls and opening our wallets.
Perhaps shopping equals R&R for some, but I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea that consumerism trumps time off.
Today, my brother and sister-in-law are hosting Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve baked two apple pies and a have green bean casserole ready to pop in the oven. Amid the bustle of family, food and football, I plan to relish the slower pace of this national holiday.
It may be at the table or it may be when the house has emptied – but sometime today I’m going to take a deep breath and not think about what comes next. I’m going to intentionally put deadlines, dessert and dirty dishes from my mind and relax, savoring the feast and the fellowship.
Work can wait. So can shopping. For once I’m going to excel at rest.
Happy Thanksgiving.
This column first appeared in the Spokesman Review, November 28, 2013
Thankful for those who serve
This Thanksgiving I’m so very thankful for the 35 World War ll veterans and their wives who shared their stories with me in “War Bonds.”
Folks like Melvin Hayes, pictured here with his son, Butch while home on a brief leave.
Folks like Melvin Hayes, pictured here with his son, Butch while home on a brief leave.
Melvin was 27 when he was drafted and had to leave his wife and son behind. Holidays are an especially difficult time to be separated from loved ones.
Tomorrow, as you gather ’round your tables, perhaps one of the things you might be thankful for are the men and women who served or continue to serve, their country so selflessly.
I know I am.
Amazing Women Served in World War ll
Violet Shipman Roskelly
Women like Violet Shipman Roskelly donned uniforms and served their countries with grit and determination.
This British war bride met her husband when they were both serving their respective countries. She wasn’t too impressed with American GI’s. “They were a bit too friendly for me,” she said.
That changed when she met Fenton Roskelley while on a walk in Cornwall. You’ll read their story in Chapter 3 of War Bonds, “The Luck of the Draw.”
For years after our initial interview my phone would ring and this lovely British voice would say, “Cindy? Darling, it’s Vi. How ARE you dearest?”
Vi died July 27, 2012.
Dying Vet Rallies
The most amazing thing happened yesterday. I’m still processing it. This summer I wrote about my visit to WWII Vet Nick Gaynos. Nick was on his deathbed. Here’s the column I wrote about that visit.
Yesterday, I went to return his photos. His caretaker met me at the door. “Come in,” she said, smiling. Her eyes sparkled. “Nick’s at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. He’ll be so happy to see you!”
Stunned, I just looked at her. “But. He was dying!” I said. Shaking her head she said, “I know! But not anymore. He’s 96 and the only medication he takes is vitamin supplements!”
I walked into the kitchen and there sat Nick, now with a scruffy beard. “Hello, there,” he said. Tears filled my eyes. I said, “Oh, Nick, I came to see in July, but I don’t think you knew I was here. I just held your hand for a bit.”
His eyes clouded. “Tex died, you know.” (His wife had died on June 3rd.) “Yes, I know. I’m so sorry.” He sighed. “She was an amazing woman.” I spread out the photos that will be used in War Bonds.
He lingered over Tex’s picture. “Oh, I knew I was in trouble when I saw her.” I pointed to a photo of him with two other soldiers. “Ah,” he said. “California. Those two had come down from Washington to inspect my operations.”
Laughing, I said, “It sure looks like you were in charge.” He replied, “Well. That’s the way I always looked.”
We visited a bit and I promised to return to bring him his copy of War Bonds. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
So am I, Nick. So am I.
In Which I Attempt Nordic Skiing
When my husband Derek bought me a pair of long underwear, I knew it meant one of two things. Either the thrill was gone from our marriage, or he wanted me to do something I probably didn’t want to do.
The fact that the long johns were black and trimmed with lace offered a glimmer of a hope. Then Derek told me what he had in mind. 
“You know honey, Mount Spokane is a very romantic place,” he began. “There’s a rustic lodge with a wood-burning fireplace that’s perfect for a picnic.”
Derek is an avid cross-country skier. No downhill racing with those sissy ski lifts for him. He skis the way his Nordic ancestors have for centuries, climbing steep slopes, then gliding downward on skinny, well-waxed skis.
Every weekend he hits the trails at Mount Spokane. Our sons or his sister and her Norwegian husband usually accompany him.
My spouse is an extroverted, gregarious sort of guy, and if he loves something, he wants everybody to love it – especially me. However, he knows I’m not an outdoors person. I prefer to view snow from the comfort of my sofa with a mug of cocoa in hand.
So he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“I bought cheese,” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows seductively. “Smoked black-pepper white cheddar cheese,” he continued. “And I’ve got salami and gourmet crackers. I’ll make a big thermos of your special fireside coffee. Would you please try cross-country skiing – just once?”
It’s so unfair. I’m a sucker for any meal I don’t have to cook, and Derek is well acquainted with my passion for cheese.
“OK, I’ll try it.”
“Great!” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s just like walking.”
I rarely tackle any project without some kind of research. This is what I found on Wikipedia: “As a sport, cross-country skiing is one of the most difficult endurance sports, as its motions use every major muscle group.”
That didn’t sound like walking to me. Looking for reassurance I asked my sister-in-law for more information. “Well, it’s pretty hard at first,” she said, “but all you really need is rhythm and balance.”
Rhythm and balance? The one time I attempted downhill skiing, I tripped on a chunk of crusty snow in the parking lot at Mount Spokane. I spent the afternoon in the lodge with an ice pack on my ankle. Does this sound like someone who’s gifted with rhythm and balance?
But it was too late to back out. Derek had already procured boots and skis for me and packed the promised picnic. I grimly donned my long underwear.
The drive up the mountain was beautiful, and as the snow softly fell, I began to feel a bit more optimistic about the whole adventure. The lodge was warm, the fireplace inviting, and the indoor plumbing reassuring.
Derek knelt in front of me and slipped my feet into the ski boots. He’s right; I thought as he smiled up at me. This is romantic.
And then we went outside. My misgivings returned in earnest when my first lesson proved to be how to fall. “Always fall to the side,” Derek instructed. “Now, let’s try to glide, OK?”
That’s when the romance began to pale. Those slippery skis slid and skidded under my shaky feet. I struggled mightily to glide, but just when I got the stride right, the trail angled downhill. “Crouch forward, squat down, bend your knees,” my husband encouraged. All to no avail as my skis slid out from under me and I, remembering my instructions, toppled to the side.
I then discovered falling down is very easy. Getting up again is not. I lay in the snow while a pair of toddlers on tiny skis scooted past me. “OK, honey, get your skis parallel to your body,” Derek urged. I thrashed about while a couple of octogenarians sailed by.
Finally, upright again, I eyed the trail ahead with suspicion. “Are there any more little hills you want me to know about?” I asked.
Ideally, cross-country skiing is great aerobic exercise. However, the best I could manage was a slow shuffle, like Tim Conway’s old-man character on the “Carol Burnett Show.” The only time my heart rate surged was when I found myself swooping downhill, tottering precariously on those skinny skis.
Soon the drifting flakes began to fall faster, shrouding us in a feathery white blanket. Snow-laden trees surrounded us, enveloping us in a winter hush. And later, at the lodge, the cheese was delicious.
Looking into Derek’s twinkling blue eyes as he unlaced my boots, I made a discovery. The greatest thrill can come from pushing the edges of your comfort zone aside, and seeing the delight it brings to someone you love.
Thrills like that can keep you warm, even when wet snow seeps into your long johns.
This column first appeared in the Spokesman Review.
Never Forget
Wayne said, “We followed a lot of fighting as we went up the island. The Japanese were still strafing Kadena.”
But he did as he’d been taught and laid face down in a bunker when under fire. He didn’t lose any of his wire team. “We lucked out,” he said. “The other part of the company lost a couple guys.”
He grew quiet and glanced out his living room window. “Some parts you don’t remember– some parts will be in your mind forever.” ~ Wayne Best.
From chapter five of War Bonds. Thank you to our veterans. May we never forget.
Greatest Generation = Greatest Sense of Humor
Betty Driscoll Ratzman
Caught up with this lovely War Bonds bride this afternoon while returning the photoss she’d loaned me for the book.
I told her the publisher is still hoping for a Valentine’s Day release of War Bonds.
She replied, “Well, they better hurry up with that. Dean just told me he never wanted a 90-year-old wife. I told him, ‘Well, I never wanted to be one!'”
They’ve been married 68 years!
First look at War Bonds!
Just got an advance review copy of War Bonds!
I’m thrilled with the layout and design! It’s so wonderful to see this book and these stories coming to life.
Cindy Hval 