Columns

At 94, Mom keeps me on my toes

Recently, I took Mom to an emergency dental appointment. We pulled up next to the Spokane Party Bus.

Hoping to mitigate her anxiety, I asked, “Wanna get on the Party Bus?”

“No thanks,” she replied. “They’d probably take you and leave me behind. Plus, I didn’t brush my teeth this morning.”

This even, though I’d called to remind her to brush them 10 minutes before I picked her up.

Caring for a 94-year-old lady with dementia can be a lot like dealing with a recalcitrant preschooler – equal parts exasperation and amusement.

I prefer to focus on the fun, so I’m glad that for many years I’ve been tracking her humor with the hashtag #ThingsMyMomSays.

April 2016

Mom explained a bit of family faith history.

“Your grandma and grandpa had a mixed marriage. Her dad was Lutheran, and his dad was Baptist. One sprinkled, the other dunked. Neither dad was happy about the marriage, but they came around and became great friends.”

April 2018

Mom had a panic attack during her oral surgery appointment, so the paramedics were called.

She was in good spirits after a few hours in the ER – except for her missing socks. Somehow, they’d misplaced her socks.

She put her underwear on over the hospital-issued panties.

“They’ve got my socks, so I’m keeping their underwear,” she said.

June 2018

Today, I noticed her birthday balloons from March had finally deflated.

“I guess they died before me after all,” she said. “We were neck-and-neck for a while.”

May 2019

I told Mom the dining room was serving French dips for dinner.

“Well, they better not expect me to speak French!” she said.

September 2020

During our visit today, I reminded her to pull her mask up over her nose.

“It’s kind of big,” I said.

“My NOSE?” she replied. “I can’t help it. I got the Schmidt schnoz.”

May 2021

I found Mom in the lobby looking lovely in a yellow sweater. She’d visited the hair salon and had her photo taken because it was the facility’s picture day.

“I told them I didn’t need my picture taken because my kids take too many of me.”

“But these are professional photos,” I said.

“Well, that doesn’t mean I’ll look any better,” she said.

October 2021

This week, I cleaned out one of the cupboards in Mom’s kitchenette.

It was overflowing with Ziploc bags, plastic bags, foil, and used plastic lids with straws.

“Any idea why you’re saving all this?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“You never know, I might get invited to a picnic.”

Which doesn’t explain anything, but it made me laugh.

January 2022

I helped Mom fill out a reflection about 2021. A sample question: “What did you learn last year?”

Mom thought it over.

“I don’t think I learned anything. I’m just trying not to forget what I already know.”

“How’s that going for you?” I asked.

“Who are you again?” she replied.

April 2025

I picked up a couple of dirty shirts in Mom’s bedroom.

“I’ll take these home and wash them,” I said. “The laundry service is iffy here, but I learned from the best. The only thing you tried to teach me that I haven’t mastered is ironing.”

“Oh, honey, I really need you to learn how, now,” she said.

“Why?”

“I need you to iron the wrinkles from my face!”

July 2025

We were talking about a mutual friend who refuses to get hearing aids. Mom says there’s a lady at her dining table who won’t wear hers and then says, “What? What?” when people are talking.

“I put mine in first thing every morning, so I can hear everything,” Mom said.

Then she shrugged.

“Of course, I still have NO idea what’s going on.”

A couple of weeks ago, while going over the weekly activity calendar with her, I spotted something intriguing.

“Oh! Two Gray Cats are going to do a show next week,” I said. “I’d like to see them.”

She sighed and patted my hand.

“Cindy, you do know they’re not really cats, don’t you?”

She may be 94, but Mom is still keeping me on my toes.

All Write, Columns

Obituaries tell the story of a community

Since Shawn Vestal’s departure from The Spokesman-Review a couple of years ago, what I miss most are his semi-regular recaps of local obituaries.

Each column started with this: “One obituary is a portrait of a life. Several taken together form a portrait of a community.”

When I ran into Shawn at a recent Northwest Passages event, I asked if it would be OK with him if I revived the format in my column.

The following snapshots gleaned from recent obituaries introduced me to people I wish I’d known. People like Mari (Jensen) Clack.

Mari, a Democrat, married Dave, a Republican, and they enjoyed 65 years together before her death on Aug. 2. That’s not to say every day was harmonious, as this story reveals.

“Christmastime brought good cheer as well – most of the time. Dave famously added two stocking stuffers to Mari’s Christmas stocking without Santa’s approval. The first was a big, baby blue Hoover vacuum, and the second was a 15-passenger Dodge van to haul everyone’s kids to activities. The vacuum was re-gifted to Dave immediately, and the van made it two years before Santa or Jesus told Dave to replace it with a yellow Porsche.”

Her life was marked by numerous personal and professional accomplishments, including the co-founding of the Women Helping Women Fund in 1992. The fund has raised over $7 million for more than 600 grants and scholarships.

Mari expressed her faith in a letter she wrote when she learned she had breast cancer.

“When humans show their potential, it shows the wonder of divinity – of God – of a higher power – and the beauty of the universe – a wondrous environment, tempered only by the persistence of ignorance and greed. God works through the deeds of good people doing good things.”

Other obituaries leave lingering questions.

Richard Stanley “Stan” Hallett died on Aug. 8. He played golf, ping-pong, basketball and baseball. He enjoyed rec league softball well into his 70s. His obit said his softball career ended when “he got walloped in the shin. Some of you might remember that.”

Wouldn’t you like to know the rest of that story?

Ethel Mae DeStefano reached the century mark. She served as personal secretary to First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt!

Ethel Mae enjoyed a happy hour Bud, and cheering for the Mariners and Gonzaga.

She spent the majority of her life in Spokane, raising seven children with her husband, Ray. Her motto was “the more the merrier,” and she created a home where everyone felt welcome.

Often, the simplest things leave a lasting impression.

Clifford “Cliff” Kelly loved to travel, cook, drink wine, watch the 49ers and the Mariners, and read a good book.

His family and friends said they will always remember him as a kind old soul with a lovely laugh and a penchant for breaking into song.

Ellis Allan “Mac” McEachern joined the Army in 1943 and was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. He took part in five combat jumps during World War II and fought in the Normandy campaign, the Ardennes, Rhineland, and the Battle of the Bulge. He earned six service medals, including the Bronze Star.

After retiring from Lockheed at age 55, he moved to Spokane. He spent a good part of his retirement years thinking about how he could improve a process to save time or offer more convenience. He built “contraptions” to make a process more efficient. Solving problems with his inventions became his passion.

He lived independently in his home until he died at the age of 101.

Not everyone gets to see the fullness of their years. Some lives are tragically cut short. Even so, they can leave a lasting legacy.

Sarah Doxey died on July 16. She was 48.

She loved books, podcasts, documentaries and deep conversations. She laughed loudly. She did hard things. She put her makeup on in the car. She drank Red Bull instead of coffee. Sarah embraced people for who they were and created space for everyone to feel seen.

Her obituary listed ways to honor her. “Go on the vacation. Take the leap. Wear the shorts. Hug your kids. Call your friend. Go for the run.”

I never met Sarah, but in her honor, I’m doing all of the above.

Except the run is a 3-mile walk because I know my limits.

I think Sarah would understand.

Columns

He took the books

He drove 1,700 miles to see us, and when he left, it felt like he took his childhood with him.

Three years after accepting a teaching job in Texas at Odessa College, our youngest son finally completed his move.

Last month, instead of flying home for his summer visit, Sam drove so that he could take the bins and boxes filled with books he’d left behind.

He’s an English instructor for a reason. There was no way his library could fit in the small U-Haul trailer he and his dad drove across the country on his initial move.

In addition to household goods and furniture, Sam had crammed as many books and movies into the trailer as possible, with the overflow spilling into his car.

“I guess I’ll have to come back for the rest,” he said.

Sam’s college office is lined with beautiful wooden bookshelves, and he’s been itching to fill them with his best-loved tomes.

With every subsequent flight home, he sorted through his stash, donating some and exchanging others. The problem is for every book he got rid of, he bought two or three more.

“It’s not hoarding if it’s books,” I used to say, but that was before his stash quadrupled my own.

He made good time on his cross-country drive, and like all my boys, he made sure he was home in time for dinner.

But.

“I’m not doing that drive again,” he said. “From now on, I’m sticking to air travel, so I’d better take everything I left behind.”

I was so happy to see him, I didn’t think about “everything” and what that entailed until he started loading up for his return trip.

In addition to four plastic totes and a cardboard box filled with books, he added some other items.

“I probably won’t move back to Washington until I retire,” Sam said.

Gulp.

Some things that didn’t make the cut on his initial move: his childhood Bible, his Pokémon card collection and a tattered, dog-eared copy of “Hank the Cowdog.”

I didn’t bat an eye at the Bible or the Pokémon cards, but seeing “Hank the Cowdog,” on top of his stack brought a tear or two.

Sam’s brothers are 10, 8 and 5 years older, but they’d all loved it when I read that series with Sam. We’d listened to them on audiobooks on carpool drives and trips to Loon Lake.

Sensing the inevitable, I mentioned his red bin.

Years ago, I bought four red totes. I sorted through accumulated memorabilia from my boys – report cards, yearbooks, sports trophies and honor roll certificates. I labeled one bin for each kid.

Ethan’s is still tucked away, but over the years, we’ve taken or shipped most of our second son’s mementos to his home.

Zachary took his bin shortly before his October wedding.

“I might as well take mine now,” Sam said.

First, he sorted through it.

“Think about your future wife and kids before you toss anything,” I said. “Think about what they’d want to know about your childhood.”

He nodded.

“Do you want my soccer trophies?” he asked.

I laughed.

“Nope!” I replied.

“How about my Baby Book?”

Oh! The record of baby showers hosted in his honor, gifts given, details of his birth, his first smile, first tooth, first words …

“It’s your story,” I said.

He tucked it back into the tote.

I didn’t watch when he loaded everything in his roomy SUV.

Sam returned to Texas with his books and mementos, but he didn’t really take his childhood. It’s all still here between the walls of this house.

Our home holds thousands of memories from his first step to the time he pulled into the driveway after a two-day, 1,700-mile trip from Texas.

Someday, we may sell this house, but his childhood won’t vanish with it.

Those memories, bigger than any plastic bin can hold, remain tucked within my heart.

Columns

Dementia sometimes changes the stories, but Mom’s humor is forever

Almost a year has passed since my last Mom update.

Her 94th birthday is approaching, and while she’s a bit frailer, she still knows us and has a story or two to tell most weeks.

Like many seniors with dementia, she tends to repeat the same tales. But every now and then, she adds an unexpected twist – like telling me I was born in the Philippines (that was my sister). Or recalling how she used to push my brothers in a stroller all the way to NorthTown Mall (that was my sons).

I just roll with the stories, happy when she’s engaged because sometimes she’s not.

Sometimes, she’s scared and confused, and all I can do is sit with her, hold her hand and tell her that I love her.

Her funny quips a few and far between now, but I can still make her laugh. I’m glad because her sense of humor is probably the best thing I inherited from her.

March 2018

I picked Mom up for an early birthday celebration.

“You look pretty in your pink sweater,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I put it on to look less dead.”

April 2018

As we neared the sidewalk at the dentist’s office, I steered her away from the curb.

“You don’t want to see me jump the curb?” she asked

I shook my head.

“That’s OK. I left my racing walker at home.”

April 2019

Mom on friendship: “My best friend Bonnie and I were so close we shared everything, even a Kleenex.”

April 2019

“How are you doing with all those men?” she asked.

“Which men?”

“Don’t ask me! You’re the one responsible for them!”

(I really hope she was referring to my husband and sons.)

May 2019

On personal appearance: “I don’t wear makeup anymore, except on Sundays I wear the lipstick you gave me. Why? Because I’m 88 and makeup doesn’t help.”

June 2019

Mom’s anxiety was pretty bad today, but she did perk up when talking about high school sweethearts and had this word of advice for single gals.

“Men don’t like it when you flirt and carry on. Boys liked me because I ignored them.”

March 2021

I went over the weekly schedule with Mom and informed her about an invitation to a drumming session the next afternoon.

“I don’t drum,” she said.

“Well, you can learn,” I replied.

“First I need to find out WHAT or WHO we’re going to drum ON, and then I’ll decide.”

April 2021

Me: Oh, look! You’re having quiche Lorraine for dinner.

Mom: What a fancy way to say scrambled eggs.

November 2021

“When we got married, he was going to be the breadwinner, and I was going to be the bookkeeper,” she said.

“How long did that last?” I asked.

“Oh, it took about a week for him to realize I entered everything under miscellaneous.”

March 2023

Mom was in top form today. As I struggled to help her on with her coat, a gentleman walked by. “You’re not leaving me already!” he said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back,” I replied.

“Shush!” she said. “Don’t give him any advance warning!”

July 2023

Since Mom always calls our youngest son her “Sam Baby,” I thought it would be fun to get a photo of him sitting on her lap. We tried, but he’s 6-foot-2 and can no longer fit on Grandma’s lap.

“That’s OK,” she said. “I’d rather be able to walk.”

January 2024

Mom asked about my day, and I told her I interviewed a fly fisherman.

She leaned forward and put her hand on my arm.

“You do know they don’t actually fish for flies?”

January 2024

I read the retirement center’s weekly newsletter to her. The director again reminded residents to be kind and patient with the dining room staff.

“Gosh, I don’t want to be a mean, cranky old lady when I grow up,” I said.

“Me neither,” Mom replied. “I’d rather be a silly, crazy old lady.”

I assured her she was absolutely that.

“I WIN!” she said.

Yes.

She does.

Columns

Things my husband says: new and improved edition

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.

All Write, Columns

Mother of the Groom

When pregnant with my first child, I envisioned a beautiful baby girl. I dreamed of the dolls we’d play with and the tea parties we’d share.

“We’ll wear floppy straw hats and floral print dresses and drink tea from china cups,” I told my husband, setting my latest porcelain cup and saucer on a shelf.

If you’ve been reading this column for a while, you already know how that turned out. That first baby was a boy. So was the second. And the third. And the fourth.

Our home was a testosterone tsunami. Until August, when Freya joined our family, even our cats were all boys.

And then, one evening several months ago, our son Zachary brought a beautiful woman with long dark hair and coffee-colored eyes to a family dinner.

She held her own amid Hval volume, and when we played Uno, she didn’t balk at playing several Draw Four cards on me.

I forgave her even before she agreed to marry our thirdborn son.

When Zach showed me the engagement ring he’d chosen, I was on pins and needles until he finally popped the question. He proposed at the neighborhood park where he and his brothers spent many hours as kids.

Wedding preparations began in earnest. Naselle’s mom died several years ago, and when she asked if I’d like to go with her to look at wedding gowns, I cried. It was such an honor to be present when she found the dress of her dreams.

Then, I had the delight of introducing her to a florist friend. I served tea and cookies while we discussed Naselle’s wedding colors and ideas. Her mother’s favorite flower was yellow roses, so they became the focal point of the boutonnières and bouquets.

Speaking of tea, my daughter-in-law loves it. In fact, she and Zach’s first date was at Revival Tea Co. downtown.

Naselle’s bridal shower was a garden tea party at the home of one of her sweet friends. The invitation asked attendees to wear their favorite hats and party dresses.

You can read the tea leaves on this, can’t you?

Yes, I finally had a reason to buy a floppy straw hat and a new floral print dress.

As I sat at a table, with the bride’s two adorable flower girls, I asked the littlest one if she’d been a flower girl before.

She shook her head, taking a dainty sip of tea.

“No, have you?” she asked.

I laughed.

“Yes, but it was a long, long time ago.”

In the harried and hectic weeks leading up to the wedding, I wondered why there weren’t any “Mother of the Groom” movies. After all, there are plenty of “Father of the Bride” films.

On Oct. 5, as I watched my son become a husband, I think I discovered the reason.

There seems to be less worry for the mother of the groom. No drama about losing a son, angst over letting him go, or stress that she’ll be able to provide. Just delight in his happiness.

Zachary has found someone who holds his heart and his dreams in capable and loving hands, and I gained a daughter.

She is the answer to both of our prayers.

Columns

Married to Mr. Fix-it

My husband is a fixer.

No, not the mafia kind. He’s the wrench-wielding, screwdriver-toting kind who intuitively knows how to fix things.

He’s been on a roll in the waterworks department this week, starting with our tankless water heater. We’ve had the unit for 15 years, and Derek’s only had to replace one part. But when the heater began loudly moaning and groaning every time we used hot water, I worried.

“The neighbors are going to think our house is haunted,” I complained. “It’s so loud I can hear it in the gazebo, even with my music on!”

While my husband is an excellent fixer, he’s not a proactive one. He generally waits until something is well and truly broken before tackling it. When he wanted to soak in a hot bath after a day of yard work, and the best he got was a half-filled lukewarm tub, Derek decided the heater warranted immediate attention.

The next day our dining room table was littered with water heater guts.

“Bugs!” he said. “Bugs are getting sucked into the fan.”

He said some more things, but when Derek is in repairman mode, he’s pretty much unquotable in a family newspaper.

I don’t mind colorful language when the result is lots of lovely and quiet hot water.

Speaking of running water – it’s all well and good when you want it to run, but it’s awful when it’s a slow steady drip, coming from a valve on the above-mentioned tank.

I know this because my desk is near the tank. That valve has been steadily dripping for over a year. (Remember, Mr. Fixit is also Mr. LaterBaby.)

When the dishpan I put under the leaky valve began filling up rapidly, I alerted Derek.

“I used to empty it every couple of weeks; now I have to empty it every week! It’s dripping faster and faster!”

Crickets.

So, I videotaped the rapidly filling dishpan and texted it to Derek at work.

“If this doesn’t get fixed, we’ll have a flood when we leave town,” I typed.

The next morning there were doo-dads and thingy bobs all over the dining room table.

A few hours later – no more leak!

It’s lovely to write sans the annoying drip, drip accompaniment.

Then the knob on our bathroom fan stopped turning. When you’re taking hot showers, you need a fan to suck up all that steam.

As mentioned, Derek’s a fan of hot water, so the next morning the fan worked.

“How did you fix it?” I asked.

“Glue,” he replied.

Derek is the Glue Master. He knows exactly which kind to use in any given situation. Pro tip: It’s rarely Elmer’s school glue, which is usually what I offer when he yells, “WHERE’S THE GLUE?”

This happens frequently because while he’s an expert when it comes to glue and tools, he’s a novice at remembering where he put them.

When I praised his talents, Derek shrugged.

“I’m good at fixing things,” he said. “Just like my dad.”

Even strangers sense his abilities.

Recently, he was watering the yard, and a neighbor boy on a bike rolled up to the curb.

“Do you have a Band-Aid?” he asked. “I cut my finger and my mom doesn’t have any.”

You don’t raise four sons without a well-stocked first aid kit.

I’ve written about this boy’s older brother, Ricky. Many years ago, I encountered him when he got off the school bus at the wrong stop. He took my hand and together we found his house. After that, he frequently stopped to chat with us whenever we were outside – especially Derek. He often showed up with a broken skateboard or wonky bike and asked for help with repairs.

When he last saw him, Derek loaned him a wrench that had belonged to his dad and cautioned him to return it.

He didn’t.

I ran into Ricky two years ago. He said he was attending a school for kids with mental and behavioral health issues, and he guessed it was going OK.

We haven’t seen him since.

It was a small, inexpensive wrench, but it bothered Derek that Ricky didn’t return it.

“I wanted him to learn to respect tools and other people’s property,” he explained.

My husband can fix many things, but broken boys are tough to mend.

From the window, I watched Derek bandage the younger brother’s finger. The boy wiggled it, smiled and pedaled off.

I won’t be surprised if he starts bringing broken things by the house.

Derek will do his best to repair what he can.

That’s just what fixers do.

Columns

Last one out

Texas.

He never said anything about Texas. I would remember that.

When our youngest son was in fifth grade he informed me that he wouldn’t live in Spokane forever.

“I’m going to live in Seattle, Los Angeles and New York,” he said.

Last week, Sam, 22, moved to Odessa, Texas. He accepted a full-time position at Odessa College to teach English and composition classes. Odessa is 1,767 miles from Spokane.

I would have much preferred he stuck with his fifth-grade plan and moved to Seattle, but Sam has worked hard to become a college professor and his first post-graduate school job is exactly what he envisioned during his long hours of study. It’s just that none of us envisioned it in Texas.

I’m getting a bit of an attitude about that state. Our second son moved to Houston at 21, stayed almost three years, and then moved to Ohio. Thankfully, our other two sons don’t seem inclined to move to the Lone Star State and both have places within a mile of our house.

Of course, I knew this day was coming – eventually, all parents get to enjoy an empty nest. But neither Derek nor I were prepared for how rapidly this last fledgling flew.

Last month, after two Zoom interviews, Sam went to Odessa for an in-person interview and was offered the job immediately. He found an apartment, flew back home and started packing.

He had a lot to pack – mainly books. (Seven boxes full and he left an overflowing bookshelf in his room.)

We shopped and scheduled last-minute dental and eye exams. In hindsight, we should have skipped those because his extensive benefits include 100% health care coverage.

His dad slaved over the aging Oldsmobile that Sam inherited when I got my Ford Escape. Derek needed to ensure it could make the trip across six states, towing a small U-Haul trailer. Then he excitedly mapped out the route he and Sam would take.

We hosted a big family bon voyage party filled with cousins, aunts and uncles, and suddenly we were in our week of lasts.

His last Friday family dinner with his brothers.

Last visit with his Grandma Shirley, 91.

Last back-to-school s’mores night in our backyard gazebo.

Last night in his childhood bed.

Last cuddles with our cats, Thor and Walter. (Well, last cuddle with Walter because Thor ran and hid. Thor hates goodbyes.)

I wasn’t the only one shedding tears.

For 32 years, we’ve had at least one son in our home.

“I’m going to miss having another dude around,” Derek said.

Apparently, our male cats don’t count.

Those lasts aren’t exactly final. Sam will come home for Christmas, and he’s going to meet us in Ohio this summer to visit his borther and his nephews with us.

But I’ve been through this three times before. Once a kid has a taste of independent living, they don’t want to live in Mom and Dad’s basement anymore. That’s a very healthy thing.

After raising boys for 32 years, Derek and I are ready for the next chapter of our story to unfold. Friends who’ve walked this path before us have all said the same thing.

“You’ll be sad for a few days, and then (here they all grinned) you will love having an empty nest!”

They’re probably right, plus I have something else that comforts me.

All those years ago, when Sam mapped out his life’s plan for me, he was adamant about one thing.

“When I’m done traveling around, and I’m ready to settle down, I’m coming home to Spokane,” he said. “That’s where I want to raise my family.”

I’m counting on it, Sam. I’m counting on it.

Columns

Made with Love: Kitchen Memories

During the holidays my house smells like sugar and spice and everything nice. The aroma doesn’t come from scented candles; it emanates from the shortbread, sugar cookies, three kinds of fudge, and two loaves of Amish cinnamon bread I’ve made.

Shortbread and sugar cookies

The cinnamon bread cools in my mother’s aluminum pans. Last month, I wrote about the memories those pans hold for me and invited readers to share their stories of memory-laden kitchenware.

Below you’ll read about everything from pie tins to rolling pins, as readers reminisce about recipes, traditions and warm memories made in the kitchen.

Tom Peacock said his mother and grandmother were “pie goddesses.” It seems he inherited their skills, along with her flour sifter and Spode Christmas dishes.

“I baked my first pie (cherry) when I was around 12,” he wrote. “I picked the cherries from the next-door neighbor’s tree, pitted them with Mom’s old-school pitter, and the pie turned out nicely.”

From there he progressed to banana cream, pecan and blackberry cream pies.

“I did get to bake side by side with Mom, especially in her later years. The last few years before she went into assisted care, I did most of the Thanksgiving cooking using the skills I learned from her,” Peacock said.

Every baker knows you can’t make a good pie crust or sugar cookies without a quality rolling pin. John Kafentzis and his family use an irreplaceable one.

“A rolling pin from my grandmother is still very much in use at our house,” he said. “It was carved by her grandfather from a single piece of maple around 1920. It’s substantial. The family joke is that it was carved from the last tree in Kansas as that’s where they lived at the time.”

Pier Sanna’s mom was a pastry chef and taught Sanna to make everything from croissants to wedding cakes.

“After her death in 1980, I had first dibs on her bakeware – 50-plus-year-old cast iron pizza pans and cookie sheets. Try finding those at Williams Sonoma,” Sanna wrote. “Every time we use her bakeware, we suspect she is standing next to us smiling and resisting the urge to supervise.”

Jan Erickson uses a braising pot that her grandfather gave to her mother on her wedding day in 1947.

“I remember wonderful roasts, ribs, and so many favorite dishes coming from this pan,” Erickson said. “My grandparents did not have much money, but they splurged on this pot for my mom. Granddad told Mom that this pot would last her through her entire life. It surely did!

“I know my daughter wants this pot when I’m done with it, so it will continue in our family for years to come.”

Many of us revel in holiday baking traditions. For example, Leslie Olson Turner’s mother embraced her Norwegian roots when it came to Christmas cookies, making spritz cookies, berlinerkranser, rosettes, almond crescents and krumkake. Turner has continued the tradition, using her mother’s cookie press and rosette irons.

“I reserve the holidays to kick in my own version of a baking frenzy,” she wrote. “The krumkake iron I now use I inherited from my Aunt Sonja. It’s identical to the one my Mom had used – made of heavy-duty cast iron. And while I could have bought an electric one, it just wouldn’t have been the same.”

Michael Paul also continues cultural traditions. His great-grandmother was born in Hawaii to Portuguese immigrants.

“The Portuguese brought with them many new foods, including what is today known as Hawaiian sweet bread. Each Christmas, Nana Schultz would bake sweet bread for everyone, blessing each loaf with a cross and a tiny piece of garlic in the center of the cross as it went into the oven,” Paul wrote. “Today, I am just about the only one left in my family making this bread and the pickled pork also served at Christmas time.”

He still uses his grandmother’s metal measuring cups and Nana Schultz’s recipes.

“There’s no telling how old those recipes are. They came ‘around the horn’ from Portugal in the late 1800s,” Paul said.

Sometimes, the most practical items are treasured.

“After my dear mother passed away, going through her things there was one kitchen item, in particular, that was the golden ticket – the jar opener,” Julie Hoseid said. “Since I did most of the help for her, I rewarded myself with it, however, my sister and I are discussing shared custody.”

It seems pie-baking stirs up many memories.

“I’m not sure how old I was when Mom taught me her pumpkin pie filling tweaks, but I remember her setting me up at the kitchen table the first few times because I was too short to reach the countertop,” Carol Nelson wrote.

When Nelson married her, mother gave her the LustreCraft stainless mixing bowl, the pie plates that ensure an evenly baked crust, and her rolling pin. But it was her mother-in-law that gave her a never-fail pie crust recipe.

“Fifty-one years later, both moms have passed, but each time I take out my pie plates and the now-stained recipe card, I think of them, and their gifts of love to a new bride.”

Gail Justesen said her mother was known as one of the best pie-makers in Whitman County. When her mom was out of town, a teenage Justesen decided to step in and bake two pies for a pie social.

“The first two I cooked too long: the crust was brittle, apple filling overflowed. The next batch, the crust was raw and the filling soupy,” she recalled.

But Justesen kept trying – making seven pies in all before she had two that were pie social-worthy. Her dad didn’t mind gobbling up the mistakes.

“My friends moan when they think of making pies and usually cave to the store-bought pie crusts. However, I love to make them and am so thankful for the ‘pie genes’ I received from my mom,” said Justesen.

I’m not the only one with aluminum bread pans. Lisa Meiners treasures four that belonged to her mother.

“My mother passed away Aug. 1, just four months shy of her 100th birthday,” Meiners wrote. “She raised six children in Alaska and was a wonderful cook and baker. We always had homemade bread. Four of Mom’s bread pans moved with her from Alaska to Washington. I’m the only one of her five daughters who bakes bread regularly, and now have the honor of owning those bread pans that were used to bake loaves of love every week.”

So readers, as you sit at your holiday table this week, I hope you’ll enjoy more than just delicious food. Sometimes sharing memories and traditions with those you love is the most satisfying feast of all.

Columns

Bleak bad times can reveal sparkling gems of goodness

I wish whoever keeps asking “what next?” about 2020 would stop it.

Last week the “what next” was thick, choking, hazardous smoke. Each morning, I checked the Spokane air quality before getting out of bed. As the smoke cleared ever so slowly, I’d grimly brush the dusting of ash from my car before heading out.

How bad was it? Well, I actually had to work out at the gym for the first time since it re-opened post-shutdown. Hazardous air is not conducive to long strolls through the neighborhood.

But Saturday morning I woke up to find my husband had opened our living room and kitchen windows. Rain and cooler temperatures cleared the sooty skies. I’ve never before been so giddy about being “moderate,” and cheered as the air quality neared “good.”

Standing on the deck I gulped in the fresh air with my morning coffee and wondered why it so often takes the bad to make us appreciate the good.

This year has certainly given us plenty of opportunities.

During the long weeks of shutdown when just about every place that makes life enjoyable was shuttered, we had to discover new ways to find joy.

Instead of the warm fellowship of Sunday morning church, we cuddled on the couch in our pajamas and streamed the service on Facebook.

In lieu of romantic dinners at upscale bistros, date night morphed into driving to our favorite spot together to pick up food to go.

Weekly meals with our adult sons became regular Sunday Suppers complete with dessert, as we drew our family closer during this worrisome time.

As things slowly opened up, the Sunday Supper tradition became a fixture, and I love having a designated day to spend with my sons.

We haven’t attended in-person church yet, because seating is limited, and we are well aware that for many older folks, Sunday service is as crucial to their emotional and mental health as it is to their spiritual life. We’ll join them when we can all attend.

Date night is on again, though we usually pick a spot that offers outdoor dining. We enjoy eating al fresco in the summer anyway, and it feels amazing to be eating at a venue, instead of taking home Styrofoam boxes.

Yes, sometimes it takes the bad to help us appreciate the good.

That thought sits with me today as we celebrate our youngest son’s 21st birthday. There’s nothing bad about Sam, but his entrance to the world proved incredibly frightening.

On a golden Sept. 24, our grand finale arrived 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.

Having given birth to his three older brothers without complication, I assumed we’d be taking our new arrival home the next day. Instead, it was three long weeks.

Within hours of his birth we were told Sam had a 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. Our newborn was given a 50% chance of survival.

He was airlifted from Holy Family to Sacred Heart and placed in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Twelve hours after his birth, I stood next to his 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 voice raised above a whisper sent his blood pressure skyrocketing.

When he was 3 days old, he underwent surgery to repair the hole in his diaphragm. And then we watched and we waited, struggling to care for our sons at home, dealing with the unbearable ache of leaving Sam in the hospital night after night.

But at 21 days, he finally came home, healthy and whole in every way, with a pretty impressive scar on his midsection.

Twenty-one years later, he’s our last fledgling in the nest, and having already earned his undergraduate degree, this week he started the quest for his master’s.

He’s filled our home with so much joy; it’s hard to comprehend how close we came to losing him. Those horrible days when his life hung in the balance have made me forever grateful for his presence in our family, and maybe a bit more prone to appreciate the sparkling gems of goodness the bleakness of bad times can reveal.

Sam and Cindy Hval, 2019