Front Porch column – Page 10

Montana, Milestones and Wascally Wabbits

April 6, 2017 Cindy Hval

When several Facebook friends posted about their fabulous experiences at Quinn’s Hot Springs in Montana, I knew I’d found the destination for our anniversary getaway. Especially since a hot springs visit meant I could actually wear the swimsuit I’d purchased last year to wear on Hawaiian beaches. The suit that arrived shortly after our plane took off for Oahu.

I booked the “Cabin Fever” special for two nights, and on March 21, our 31st anniversary, we hit the road. Less than three hours later we were greeted by a friendly front desk clerk.

Our room keys were attached to tiny flashlights.

“Press once to turn on the flashlight,” the clerk explained. “Press twice to scare away any bears. Press three times to attract a bear. Nobody’s survived pressing it four times.”

You have to love a Montana welcome – and Montana scenery. The resort, located on the Clark Fork River in the Lolo National Forest, is tucked in a hollow and surrounded by snow-capped mountains.

We briefly explored the grounds, checked out the hot springs temps (106 degrees in the warmest pool!) and headed to the historic Harwood House for dinner.

Built in 1948, the log restaurant features the original fireplace and offers a menu comparable to any big city fine dining establishment.

After we let our prime rib dinner settle, we donned our suits and robes and headed out for a late-night soak.

It took a certain amount of bravery to take off my robe when the outside temperature hovered at 50 degrees and a light misty rain was falling, but by golly, I had my Miracle Suit on, so off went the robe and in went Cindy.

The glorious heat of 100-degree mineral waters quickly quelled my shivers. Though there are six pools for soaking and swimming, we braved only the three warmest pools that first night. The faint smell of sulfur proved a small price to pay for the delicious luxury of sinking chilled shoulders into warm water that left our skin feeling silky soft.

The steam from the pools wafted upward into the moonlit sky, adding an otherworldly air to our scenic vista.

In the morning, after a hearty breakfast, we hiked along the banks of the Clark Fork. So far we hadn’t seen any wildlife other than the elk head in the dining room and the moose head in the lodge.

A flicker of movement caught Derek’s eye.

“Look!” he said. “It’s Peter Cottontail!”

Indeed, just a few yards away, a rabbit sat munching on something he’d found in the tall grass.

“Oh, he’s so cute!” I exclaimed. “I want to pet him! Can we keep him?”

“If you can catch him, you can keep him,” Derek said.

Now, regular readers know my husband has issued an edict that we are a two-cat household. No matter how many sons move out, I’ve been forbidden to continue replacing them with kittens. It’s the price I pay to stay married to a pretty great guy, but with son No. 3 exiting the nest at the end of the month, my nurturing instincts are in overdrive.

So, imagine my joy – my exultation, when I was this close to getting a pet bunny. THIS CLOSE!

Unfortunately, my rabbit-stalking skills leave much to be desired.

I figured a direct approach was out, so I carefully inched sideways across the grass, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“Um. What are you doing?” Derek asked.

“Shh! I’m catching a rabbit,” I hissed.

But his question distracted me, causing me to look up and meet the wary black eyes of my prey. In a flash, he bounded off.

“You did that on purpose!” I said.

Shoulders shaking with laughter, Derek said, “I have never, ever seen anyone hunt a rabbit like that!”

My annoyance dissipated a short while later, as I sipped a fizzy, fruity drink while lounging in the pool. It wasn’t a mai tai, but when the sun came out, I closed my eyes and soaked in the rays and the mineral water and didn’t miss Hawaii a bit.

Then Derek decided to visit the polar plunge pool.

Lots of bad ideas begin with the words, “Hold my beer,” but I didn’t try to dissuade him. Gamely, he swung his legs over the edge and into the 55-degree water of the cold pool, lowering his body into the chill.

Boy! I haven’t seen my husband move that quickly in a long time. He was back in the soaking pool before I had time to sample his beverage.

“I think my heart just stopped!” he said.

Later, on our way to dinner, we decided to visit the casino inside Quinn’s Tavern. Apparently, in Montana a few gaming machines make a casino.

We’re not much for gambling, but Derek recently took a trip to Laughlin, Nevada, with a buddy and wanted to show me his newfound knowledge.

I picked a slot machine and slid in $2, while he explained about lines and bets and a lot of other stuff I didn’t pay attention to. When our $2 had more than doubled, I was ready to take our $8 winnings and head to the restaurant.

“No,” he said. “We gotta keep playing. This machine is hot!”

I let him take over pushing the buttons and watched the $8 dwindle down to $1, and then the tide began to turn. In ten minutes, with our winnings at $101.52, we decided to take the money and run.

The next morning, flush with victory and hot springs water, we returned to Spokane.

Our sons were eager to hear about our adventures and wanted to know what we meant by “sulfur smell.”

“It smells like the fart bombs Santa used to put in your Christmas stockings,” Derek explained. “Next time you guys should come with us!”

They smiled and quickly left the room.

It’s a pity, because I feel like with their help, next time I could actually catch a bunny.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” You can listen to her podcast “Life, Love and Raising Sons” at SpokaneTalksOnline.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval

Columns

Illness, injury, indignity & inspiration

February 23, 2017 Cindy Hval

Sometimes when it rains, it blizzards. At least in Spokane, anyway.

This past month of endless precipitation was echoed by a round of illness and injury for me. It’s worth noting that I only get sick once a year – always in February. I tolerate my yearly cold as a minor disruption and a gentle reminder to slow down a bit.

It’s also worth noting that I routinely ignore gentle reminders.

What became an epic stream of misfortune started with a trickle – from my nose. One Friday morning, I woke up sniffly. My throat was scratchy and my head ached, but I’d just signed up for 30 hours of training to become a court-appointed special advocate – or CASA/guardian ad litem – for Spokane County Juvenile Court, and there was no way I was going to let an inconvenient cold interfere. I slurped down some orange juice, grabbed a packet of Emergen-C and set out.

By Saturday, it seemed like everyone was speaking underwater, and when I croaked out a question, I sounded like Darth Vader.

I tried to take it easier during the week, and when Friday rolled around again I was feeling much better. Perhaps because I’d gifted my cold to my friend Sarah.

Mindful of the need to take it easy, I collapsed in bed when I got home, fully expecting to bounce out of bed after my nap with my vitality and vigor restored. But when I woke and tried to sit up, a shooting pain exploded from somewhere in my midback. There would be no bouncing. Apparently, I pulled a muscle while sleeping. I didn’t even know that was possible.

Having never before experienced a back injury, I did the only sensible thing – I took two ibuprofen and asked for advice on social media. Hey, I said I was generally healthy, not universally smart.

I received a wide range of guidance regarding back pain and promptly followed what I now know to be a piece of spectacularly ill-conceived advice. This is what happens when you seek medical help on Facebook. Despite that setback, the pain gradually subsided over the weekend. This was great, because by Tuesday I was having difficulty seeing out of my right eye.

Last year, I was diagnosed with age-related macular degeneration. It’s bad enough to have poor vision, but to tack “age-related” in front of it is just mean. Anyway, a large floater suddenly appeared in my right eye. I guess having one in my left eye wasn’t enough. Because this can sometimes be a sign of a detached retina, I had to schedule an emergency eye exam.

Thankfully, the new floater was nothing serious, just annoying. Vitamins have been shown to reduce or slow the affects of the disease, so I redoubled my commitment to healthy eyesight and even added a supplement my husband assured me would help.

I should note that my husband is not a doctor. He doesn’t even play one on TV. But he’s well-read and has done a lot of research about the effects of supplements on certain ailments.

Sadly, I woke up violently ill in the middle of the night. Even worse, it just happened to by my birthday. I couldn’t believe after surviving a cold, a back injury and an eye problem, I now had the stomach flu. The health downpour had reached flood stage, so I was hopeful the waters would recede.

They didn’t.

On Valentine’s Day, I prepared a lovely meal for my family. Shortly before Derek came home, I diligently took my vitamin and supplement for the first time since my birthday. Within an hour I was desperately sick.

“Did you take out life insurance on me?” I wailed at my husband. “Those supplements are poisoned!”

Distressed at how ill I was, he Googled the ingredients in the supplement. Turns out one of them, “curcumin,” affects a small percent of the population the way it did me.

Lesson learned – the hard way.

As I write, heavy snow falls once again. I wish I’d taken a picture of the grass I’d spotted peeking out from the edge of our lawn Sunday. However, no matter what it seems like, winter really doesn’t last forever. Cold and flu season passes, too.

Crocuses and daffodils wait patiently beneath the frozen ground, biding their time. They will bloom. They always do. Sunshine and fresh air clears stuffy heads and brightens tired eyes.

And sometimes, it takes a long, bleak winter and a bout of illness to renew our appreciation for beautiful spring bulbs, and to revel in clear nasal passages that can breathe in their fragrance.

Columns

I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can

November 3, 2016November 16, 2016 Cindy Hval

Lately, I seem to be in the groove. I even mosh-pitted!
Boogie on, friends 😉

My feet are tired. Lately, I’ve been dancing as fast as I can.

In early October, friends Craig Heimbigner and Karyn Christner offered us tickets to see Arrival From Sweden, an Abba tribute band.

The music of Abba dominated my middle school years. The fact that their songs still get continued radio play shows the staying power of classics like “Dancing Queen” and “Take a Chance on Me.” In fact, I’ll wager you’re humming those songs as you read.

The Broadway musical “Mama Mia” and the movie that followed means new generations have been exposed to the music of the Swedish band that broke up in 1982.

That multi-generational impact was visible on October 7, as I scanned the crowd packed into the Coeur d’ Alene Resort. Rows and rows of gray-haired folks sipped their drinks as we waited for the show to begin.

“Oh my goodness,” I whispered to my husband. “Do they know this is a rock concert?”

He stared at me.

“This is not a rock concert,” he informed me. “This is a pop concert or a disco concert, but is absolutely, positively, definitely not a rock concert.”

Whatever.

Then I did some mental math, not my strong suit I admit, and figured those gray-haired folks were probably around for the heyday of rock-n-roll and could certainly handle the raucous strains of “Knowing Me Knowing You.”

As the band worked its way through the Abba oeuvre, dancing broke out across the room– most notably in front of the stage, the area cleared for such moves.

“I’m going to the mosh pit,” I hollered at Derek as the crowd swept me away.

“That is not a mosh pit!” he yelled.

I don’t care what my husband or the features editor of this newspaper say, I most definitely mosh-pitted that night.

By the time the band concluded with “Dancing Queen” we were packed together tighter than an unopened roll of Life Savors. I had a great time, even though I didn’t feel “young and sweet, only 17,” the next morning.

Thankfully my dancing shoes got a break before the Spokane Public Library Trivia Championship on October 19. That’s when Linn Parish, deputy editor at Spokane Journal of Business, and I resumed our roles as dancing scorekeepers for the event.

I must point out that when Sarah Bain, director of development for the Spokane Public Library Foundation, asked me to do this for the inaugural competition; there was no dancing in the description of scorekeeping duties.

Believing no journalist should do math alone, I convinced Linn to share the scorekeeping stage with me. Our responsibilities involved making hash marks on a white board and knowing how to count to 10. The dancing came about because Sarah instructed us to make scorekeeping “not boring.”

Making math “fun” and “exciting” can be hard on your dancing shoes.

This year, Sarah lobbied hard for costume changes and feather boas. Linn and I declined to stoop to such silliness, and shimmied and shook our way featherless to the final round.

In the end, The Spokesman Review team triumphed, proving beyond all doubt that journalistic knowledge remains trivial.

My toes got a bit of a break before a concert billed as “Hot Rockin’ Blues” at the Bing on October 22.

When Derek saw the opening act was Peter Rivera, he snapped up tickets for the whole family. We are huge Peter Rivera fans and the headliner, Paul Nelson, was the longtime guitarist and friend of legendary blues musician Johnny Winter. We love blues and Johnny Winter, so we eagerly anticipated this concert.

As always, Rivera didn’t disappoint. The 72-year-old former Rare Earth singer/percussionist was in rare form. His energy, showmanship and skills had us on our feet. Well, Derek and me anyway. Our sons are not fond of dancing with their parents in public. Go figure.

I wish I could say the Paul Nelson Band followed Rivera’s dynamic lead, but they didn’t. The group may have been rockin’ but they were not hot, nor did they play blues. Unless you consider a rather horrific version of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” blues music. While some of the crowd stayed up front to dance, many people voted with their feet by leaving the venue after a few songs.

So, October has boogied on by and I’ve returned my dancing shoes to their box on the top of my closet shelf. When I complained about the lack of winter grooving opportunities to a friend, she said, “Well, there’s always ice dancing.”

My heart leapt. I’ve always wanted to wear one of those glittery costumes and glide across the ice! I mean, I’ve never actually ice skated on purpose or anything, but suddenly winter seems to sparkle with possibilities.

Columns, War Bonds

Sometimes the next chapters aren’t yours to write

September 22, 2016September 22, 2016 Cindy Hval

Writer’s fall in love with their characters. It’s just a fact. But sometimes the rest of the story isn’t yours to write– especially when it’s the true, ever-unfolding story of your children.

When it comes to books I’m a sucker for a good title, but it’s the opening lines that determine whether I’ll delve into the depths of the story.

There’s something satisfying about cracking open a book when the first few chapters are so engrossing and engaging that you know you’re in for a good read.

I’m to the midway point of writing my second book, so my thinking is fogged by pages, outlines, indexes and introductions.

Perhaps that’s why when a new friend commented that it must be hard having my two oldest sons gone from the nest and completely independent, a book metaphor immediately sprung to mind.

“Not really,” I said. “I’m blessed to have been able to write their introduction and the first few chapters, the rest of their stories are their own to tell.”

Those words have stayed with me as I watched two close friends send sons off to college recently.

It’s been eight years since my firstborn flew the coop, and it wasn’t an easy transition for any of us. But he was home so often to do laundry or eat dinner that aside from his empty room it was hard to tell he’d really gone. Our youngest quickly moved into the empty room, delighted to no longer have to bunk with a brother. Plus we got a cat, so there were still five living things for me to take care of.

Six years ago our second son moved out. Again, it wasn’t far and again there were laundry visits and family dinners and yes, another cat. Then Alex moved to Houston. No more popping in for food. An empty place at the table on Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And his birthday.

Happy that he was flourishing in his new place, I encouraged and applauded from afar, but the first time he admitted to being homesick, I hung up the phone, went to my room, shut my door and wept.

My tears were not only for his loneliness and for the ache in my heart from missing him, but also because I knew his homesickness was probably temporary. And it was.

Now our third son is preparing to move to Nashville this spring to pursue his dream of a music career. I try not to think about it too much, but my husband has already vetoed any additional cats.

I’ve done some reading and I looked at a map. There are 2,112.82 car miles between Spokane and Nashville. I’m pretty sure Zach won’t be coming home to do laundry or eat dinner.

Number two son is also on the move again. Next month he’ll move from Houston to Columbus, Ohio. Columbus is where his girlfriend is from. She’s the one who eased his homesickness. I haven’t met her in person yet, but I already love her because Alex is so happy.

At first I was excited. I’m geographically challenged and assumed Columbus would be closer to Spokane than Houston. Columbus is 2,117.27 miles by car from Spokane.

It’s not any closer.

If I was the author of my sons’ stories, I would write them successful careers and happy relationships here in Spokane, with homes just a few miles away – not quite within walking distance.

I didn’t lie when I said it wasn’t hard to see them living independent lives. After all, the goal of parenting is to release competent contributors into the world, not to keep them dependent on their parents.

I’m truly thrilled when my sons embrace new opportunities. But perhaps I should have added that sometimes I struggle with wanting to take out my red pen and edit certain parts of their stories, and occasionally I long to rewrite entire sections.

Yet, I’ve relinquished creative control of these characters I helped create. They’re writing the storyline now, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.

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My sons. My heart. 2008.

Columns

A visit from the Frown Fairy

September 8, 2016 Cindy Hval

In which I’ve come unglued. Or something. Seriously, aging isn’t for the faint of heart– or weak of ankle.

Squinting at my phone, I rubbed my thumb across the screen, certain there was a smudge on it marring the photo I’d just taken of my friend and me.

After posting it on Facebook, I checked the enlarged photo on my computer and that shadow I’d seen between both of our brows was still there. Only it wasn’t a shadow – it was most definitely a crease. How had we both suddenly developed frown lines right between our eyes? Neither of us is prone to frowning.

And not for the first time, I realized I should have listened to my mother.

Sometime in her late 40s in an effort to combat wrinkles, my mother came up with an innovative solution to prevent pesky frown lines. Before going to bed at night, she affixed a corn plaster right between her eyes. She dubbed them “frownies” and was confident the plaster would prevent wrinkles from creasing her forehead while she slept.

I’ve noticed other signs of increasing decrepitude. A few months back I started having severe pain in my right elbow that radiated down my forearm.

“How could I have tennis elbow?” I moaned to my husband. “I haven’t played tennis in 25 years!”

I took ibuprofen and soldiered on, unwilling to spend time or money on a doctor visit. A colleague heard my groans and diagnosed the issue. Turns out it wasn’t tennis elbow – it was “mouse elbow,” a common problem for people who work at computers all day.

She sent me a chart about how to sit at my desk to help alleviate the pain. I adjusted my chair and desk, bought an elbow brace and before long, the pain was gone. Who needs a doctor when you’ve got a journalist?

It’s a good thing my elbow felt better, because lately I’ve been limping. The pain radiates from my Achilles tendon, making walking miserable. This is not good news because I walk several miles three to four times a week and need this exercise for both my physical and mental health.

Achilles tendinitis is most common in runners, and I can assure you I only run if something or someone is chasing me. Baffled, I tried ice and heat and ibuprofen. Nothing seemed to work.

I took several weeks off from my walking routine, but it’s not like I can go through life without walking anywhere.

Even my journalist friends were baffled.

Then one day while sitting at my desk, I discovered the source of my strain. While writing, I often cross my legs and push my right foot against the back of my desk, flexing my Achilles. I also often tuck my legs behind me, flexing my right foot against the chair leg.

Bingo! Pain solved. Kind of.

Keeping my feet on the ground while working has fixed the source of the problem, and I’ve been able to resume my walking routine, but hills are still painful and if I walk too much, the limp returns.

According to Google, this type of injury can take up to two years to heal. Google further said this problem is also associated with the aging process.

Sometimes I really hate the internet.

So, there you have it. Apparently, I’ve reached the age where frown fairies sneak into my room and slap a crease between my brows while I’m sleeping. I can hurt my elbow by typing and my Achilles by sitting at my desk.

This morning I woke up, stretched my arms over my head and sighed when I heard my shoulders snap, crackle and pop. I didn’t bound out of bed, I cautiously tested my tendon and groaned when I felt the familiar ache that told me I’d walked too many miles yesterday.

I took the stairs to my office one at a time and carefully adjusted my mouse pad, keyboard and chair before I began writing.

As I type my feet are firmly on the ground. At this rate, they’re going to be the only firm thing about me.

Like Bette Davis famously said, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”

Which could be why she also said, “There comes a time in every woman’s life when the only thing that helps is a glass of Champagne.”

Columns

So, this is August?

August 15, 2016August 15, 2016 Cindy Hval

In my most recent column, I bemoan the fleeting days of summer. And what happened to July anyway?

Apparently, I blinked and missed July. How can a month with 31 days just vanish? I feel like I’m in an alternate version of a John Lennon song: “So this is August and what have you done? Another month over and a new one just begun.”

I spent much of last summer out of town for “War Bonds” readings or events, so this summer I planned to make the most of the longer days. My list of things to conquer seemed so manageable back in June. But now it’s August and I still haven’t even worn the swimsuit that arrived too late for our Hawaii anniversary trip in March.

June was a blur of end-of-school activities, and by the time we celebrated Sam’s stellar report card and Zack’s graduation from Spokane Falls Community College, the month was mostly gone. But July stretched languorously out before me and I’d planned to squeeze the most out of those summer hours.

At the top of the to-do list? Get braces for Sam, which seemed a simple enough task. After all, I’ve been down the orthodontia route with his oldest brother. But the orthodontist we used back then has long since retired. Finding time to take him to visit at least three specialists to get quotes has proved impossible.

At this rate, he’ll be in college by the time his teeth are straightened. Actually, he will be in college because while we haven’t done the orthodontic visits, we did enroll him at Eastern Washington University. This fall he’ll be a Running Start student at his dad’s alma mater.

I’d hoped to take day trips around the area, but the farthest I’ve ventured is my backyard. Why waste gas when the garden is glorious, the flowers in bloom and hours drift by while I devour a great “beach read” beneath the Great Gazebo’s generous shade?

Instead of exploring area day hikes, I’ve stuck to my regular neighborhood walking route, despite the challenge of navigating massive roadwork projects.

The other day as I approached some work in progress, a kind flagger escorted me across the street. Apparently, I look like the type of person who might fall into a 5-foot crater, even though it was filled with three guys in hard hats and marked by orange traffic cones.

Taking the cats to the vet is always on my summer list. Because I’m no glutton for punishment, I always schedule separate visits and insist one of the boys accompany us. Milo and Thor have plenty of time for a car ride. Zack and Sam do not.

Last year at this time, we were inundated with zucchini. In anticipation of this year’s bounty, I spent quite a bit of time finding and organizing recipes to showcase our squash crop. My mouth watered with thoughts of zucchini casserole, cookies, breads and fritters. But so far our zucchini crop has been a bust. We’re awash in tomatoes, carrots and onions, but nary a squash.

Writing during the summer is always difficult. My rarely quiet home gets even noisier with kids and company. I’d hoped to be to the halfway point on the first draft of my second book, but, alas, I’m nowhere close to making that goal.

I did however record several episodes of my new podcast “Life, Love & Raising Sons,” which debuts next week at SpokaneTalksOnline.com. The program shares the title of my second book, so I count it as progress.

Even more fun, Zack and Sam joined me for the first two episodes. If you’ve ever wondered what a Hval family dinner table conversation sounds like, you can tune in or download the podcast once it’s posted.

So this is August and what have you done? Me? I just ripped up that pesky summer to-do list and put on my new swimsuit. The month is looking sunnier already.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.

Columns, War Bonds

Let Me Entertain You

July 28, 2016 Cindy Hval

In today’s Spokesman Review column, I write about the simple joy of breaking bread with friends. I hope entertaining isn’t a lost art. Do you enjoy having people over?

You can call it “company,” “having people over,” or even the loftier “entertaining,” but I just call it fun.

I grew up in a hospitable family. Our dining table had leaves to extend it and those leaves were frequently in use – especially on Sundays. Mom and Dad often brought someone home after church for Sunday supper, and Sunday game nights were a staple of my childhood.

In fact, I honed the waitress skills I used in college playing “restaurant” when my parents hosted a game night. I’d make the rounds with my “magic coffee pot” and offer refills to my parents’ obliging guests. I even earned tips, until I outgrew plastic dishes and was pressed into dishwashing. That wasn’t nearly as fun.

I married an extrovert who loves a houseful of people. Soon, we had a slew of friends who were also young parents and we’d all take turns hosting game nights. These weren’t fancy parties. Everybody brought a snack to share and we’d play Pit, Taboo or Charades for hours. It was worth every penny spent on baby sitters.

“Company’s coming!” was a battle cry, and I enlisted even the littlest ones in a game of clean up and hide stuff.

The whole clean house thing can be off-putting for some. Recently, a friend confessed the reason she dreaded having guests was the time it took to clean out all her closets.

Astonished, I asked. “You clean your CLOSETS before people come over? Why?”

She launched into an extremely far-fetched scenario about what if someone went upstairs looking for a bathroom and accidentally opened a closet door, and discovered that her towels weren’t organized by color and size.

Stunned by the fact that color coding bath towels is apparently a thing, I shook my head and admitted, “Honestly, I just clean my kitchen, living room and bathroom and call it good.”

Seriously, if someone sneaks a peek into a closet and is hit on the head by falling junk while judging my bath towel organization skills, well, that’s their own fault – not mine. And there’s a reason the bedroom door is shut. That’s where I stash everything when I’m cleaning. Open at your own risk.

Another friend hated to entertain because she felt she lacked culinary skills.

“I can’t cook,” she said. “Really, I’m terrible at it, so I can never ask anyone over for dinner.”

Apparently, she believed that only the Rachael Rays or Paula Deens of the world host dinner parties.

I quickly disabused her of that notion.

“You don’t have to be a good cook to entertain,” I said. “Go to Costco. Buy pre-made lasagna, a bag of salad, some garlic bread and a dessert. No cooking needed!”

She was skeptical, but a few weeks later I was thrilled when she invited us over and served the meal I’d suggested. We had a fabulous time and so did our hostess. She’d even upped the ante and used paper plates. No cleanup and nobody minded a bit.

But as our kids grew I was dismayed that dinner parties, game nights and barbecues became few and far between. For one thing, many of us who were at-home moms returned to work once our kids were in school. It was a struggle just to keep up with work and care for our families, let alone plan parties. And sporting events and band concerts gobbled up any elusive spare time.

For several years, entertaining consisted of planning snack schedules for soccer practice and huddling under shared quilts at football games.

But change is in the wind again. Slowly our nests are emptying. The kids still at home can drive or have plans of their own – plans that rarely include their parents.

So, I’m shaking out the tablecloths and dusting off the serving platters. This summer they’ve seen plenty of use.

At a recent gathering, more than a dozen guests filled our backyard. From my vantage point on the Delightful Deck, I paused and watched the smiling faces (some smeared with barbecue sauce) and listened to the happy buzz of laughter and conversation.

That sound reminded me why I love entertaining.

The food doesn’t have to be fancy. The gathering doesn’t have to be large. Paper plates are more practical than china, and plastic cups can hold expensive wine or cheap soda. Those are just the trimmings. All that matters is that people feel welcome and relaxed enough to sit down and stay awhile.

The real feast is in the friendship.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval. 13615339_1111644075540885_6352834767034135152_n[1]

Columns

My Christmas Miracle

December 24, 2015 Cindy Hval

In today’s column for the Spokesman Review, I remember a very special Christmas miracle.
Merry Christmas!

Christmas is all about miracles – about the unexpected showing up in the middle of the ordinary.

Angelic proclamations, a virgin birth, heavenly hosts and a bright shining star beckoning wise men from afar.

For doubters and dissenters, for skeptics and cynics, the ability to embrace the miraculous eludes, but even the most ardent believers need a reminder now and again.

Snow falls as I write, and the white-shrouded world reminds me of another December, 16 years ago, when I received my own much-needed reminder.

Our fourth son had arrived three months earlier. Sam was born with congenital diaphragmatic hernia. A hole had formed in his diaphragm during gestation, allowing his stomach and intestines to move into his chest cavity, crowding his heart and lungs. In Sam’s case, this prevented his left lung from developing.

When he was 3 days old, he underwent surgery to repair the hole in his diaphragm. After a three-week stay in the neonatal intensive care unit at Sacred Heart, we brought him home. He needed no medication, no supplemental oxygen, nursed like a greedy piglet and had none of the dreaded complications or additional health problems common with CDH.

He also had only one lung.

He did have bits of tissue where his left lung would have grown and doctors told us that lungs continue to grow into a child’s early teens. Even if that didn’t happen for Sam, we were assured it’s possible to live with one lung.

But I worried.

Night after night I sat vigil on the floor next to his cradle, watching his chest rise and fall, counting his respiration rate, often dozing off with my hand on his chest.

Exhausted, I did my best to care for his three older brothers, 10, 8 and 5. When December dawned, I decorated and baked in a fog of fatigue.

We reached a milestone on Dec. 23 – Sam’s final post-op visit. Snow fell heavily as I packaged a plate of Christmas cookies for the surgeon’s office.

Each visit began with a series of chest X-rays, and I’d grown adept at deciphering the shadowy shapes in my son’s chest cavity.

Dr. Randall Holland examined Sam, moving his stethoscope over his chest, listening intently while my baby grabbed his hair and blew spit bubbles. Scratching his head, Holland stood, and then once again bent over Sam, listening, listening …

Then he tickled Sam’s three chins and turned to scrutinize the latest X-rays while I wrestled the wriggly baby back into his winter layers and waited for the surgeon to speak.

But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he let out a low whistle, peering at the images. Running his fingers through his hair, he whistled again, and then said, “Cindy, I’d like you to take a look at these.”

And my heart sank.

This was it. The moment I’d dreaded since the hours following Sam’s diagnosis. The moment when I’d learn the nightmare hadn’t ended. The other shoe had dropped and I didn’t know if I could bear it.

Seeing my stricken face, Holland beckoned me closer.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the image.

“That’s Sam’s right lung,” I answered.

He nodded and pointed to the other side of the image.

“And what’s that?”

“That’s Sam’s left lung,” I dutifully replied.

Silence. Apparently, lack of sleep was making me hallucinate.

“Except he doesn’t have a left lung …” I mumbled.

“He didn’t,” Holland agreed. “But he does now.”

He traced the outline with his finger. “A fully-functioning left lung.”

And the surgeon beamed.

I clutched Sam and sank down into a chair, tears falling, dampening his downy blond head like melting snowflakes.

“I don’t understand. Is this a miracle?”

Still smiling, Holland shrugged. “We don’t like to use that word, but I’ve honestly never seen anything like this before.”

Dazed, I left his office, trying to process the news.

That night as usual, I sat at Sam’s cradle feeling his lungs (lungs!) expand, watching my hand on his chest rise and fall. The clock ticked its way to Christmas Eve and I finally climbed into bed, where for the first time since Sam’s birth, I slept – truly slept.

Today at some point, my 6-foot, 1-inch baby boy will bend down and wrap his arms around me. I’ll lay my head on his chest and feel it rise and fall, grateful for the reminder.

Christmas has always been about miracles.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.

War Bonds

Saying goodbye is the hardest part

July 9, 2015July 9, 2015 Cindy Hval

When you write a book about WWll veterans who are in their 80’s and 90’s you know your time with them is limited, but it doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

Betty Schott died on July 5. She and her husband, Warren, survived Pearl Harbor together and their marriage spanned 76 years.

Warren and Betty Schott appearing in the Armed Forces Lilac Parade in Spokane, May 2010.

In this week’s Spokesman Review column I say goodbye to Betty, one of the sweetest, wisest, kindest women I’ve ever known.

Her last words to me were, “I’m so proud of you, honey.”

You can read the column here. Or here.

Columns

Foundational Support Proves Painful (or These Undies Are a Pain in the Ribs)

October 26, 2014 Cindy Hval

The pain in my rib cage jabbed with startling ferocity. I squirmed in my seat in the crowded auditorium, trying to get comfortable.

I was learning a painfully expensive lesson about the high cost of vanity.

You see, there comes a time in every woman’s life when she feels the need for more support – and by support I mean foundational garments. (Male readers feel free to stop here.)

This perceived need for figurative assistance spans the generations. My great grandmother wore a corset. My grandmother wore a girdle. My mother wore a panty girdle. Today’s generation has “shapewear” most commonly found in the brand name Spanx.

Somehow, I’d reached my late 40s without becoming familiar with the misleadingly silky garments that provide an iron-fisted hold on unsightly bumps and bulges.

But recently I bought a new dress – a fitted sheath that looked fabulous – as long as I’m holding my breath.

Have you ever tried to hold your breath for an entire evening whilst simultaneously engaging in lively conversation? At the first wearing of my new dress I was reduced to breathy Marilyn Monroe-ish whispers, and had a stunning headache at the end of the night due to lack of oxygen.

When I confessed my dilemma to a group of friends they expressed shock that I hadn’t yet acquainted myself with Spanx. “Even 20-year-olds should wear Spanx,” asserted one fashion savvy friend.

So, off to the store I went. Combing through the shapewear racks left me reeling with sticker shock. It costs a lot of money to instantly slim and tone. After much dithering I came home with three items guaranteed to give me the sleek silhouette I desired. I could tell these were the real deal, serious grown up undergarments, because my color choice was limited to black or beige. No flirty fuchsia or pretty pink. I purchased a camisole, a pair of panties and something called a high-waisted girl short. I believe in covering all my bases.

This weekend I decided to give my dress another outing. I laid my shapewear purchases on my bed, trying to decide which item would provide the support I needed while still making breathing possible.

In the end I decided to go all out – the high-waisted girl short topped by the camisole. It turns out deciding what to wear was the easy part. Getting dressed? Not so much.

I started with the girl short. The garment slid on with ease until it reached my knees. From there on up it was an epic struggle. For once I was thankful I no longer have time for manicures. If I’d had one it would have been ruined.

Feeling confident the worst was over, I reached for the camisole. I won’t elaborate on the battle. Let’s just say at one point, I had both arms pinned over my head and the danger of suffocation via spandex was very real.

When at last the camisole reached the top of my thighs, I collapsed on the bed. The fact that I’d gotten an aerobic workout and a strength training workout without leaving my house comforted me.

After I recovered, I finished dressing and surveyed the result in the mirror. Not bad. My fitted dress fell smoothly to my knees with no unsightly lumps, and no breath holding needed.

However, once I got into my car I realized I hadn’t tried sitting in Spanx. That edge of that high-waisted girl short began digging into my ribs. Its rubberized edging meant it wouldn’t roll or slide down through the evening, but it also meant I couldn’t adjust the parts that pinched.

I could stand and walk and talk with ease, but sitting proved miserable, and I was in for a night of sitting.

As the evening progressed, so did the pain in my ribs. I tried to adjust the girl short through my dress, but I couldn’t budge it. The snug camisole prevented me from getting a grip on the edge of the offending garment. My “more must mean better” philosophy proved painfully inaccurate when applied to shapewear.

Finally, the discomfort outstripped my vanity. I slid out of my seat and made my way to the restroom where I peeled off the girl short and tucked it into my purse.

I felt like a new woman when I returned to my seat. Shapewear may be all the rage, but I think I’ll stick with the shape the good Lord gave me. Lumps, bumps and all.

This column originally appeared in the Spokesman Review. Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval