Tag: Front Porch column

Columns

Shooting Like a Girl

Cindy Hval

I made a lot of shots during Hoopfest weekend, but none of them was with a basketball.

When I received a media invite from Shoot Like A Girl to visit its mobile shooting range at Cabela’s in Post Falls, it sounded like a fun Saturday excursion.

Shoot Like A Girl is a marketing company focused on empowering women to participate in shooting sports with confidence.

Its mobile shooting range features a military-grade firearms simulator and travels the country with certified female instructors. They offer women 18 and older the opportunity to shoot a compound bow, a handgun and an AR-15 rifle.

The cutting-edge technology provides immediate recoil, impact and sound feedback, creating a realistic shooting experience.

Over the past 15 years, 36,578 guests have participated in SLG2, Inc. experiences, according to statistics from 2023.

I’m no sharpshooter, but I’m not exactly a novice.

My high school sweetheart was into skeet shooting and he took me along once or twice.

No skeets were harmed by me on these outings, because I couldn’t hit a dang thing. The sport required more coordination than I possessed. By the time I had the shotgun raised, the clay pigeon had sailed past before I could fire.

I’m pretty sure that’s not why he dumped me, but who knows?

Several years ago, I wrote a column about the Spokane Practical Pistol League. After a thorough gun safety briefing at the practice range, I tried out a variety of handguns.

A .22 with a laser sight was my favorite and the satisfying ping of a bullet hitting the steel target proved fun.

I’d also visited Sharp Shooting Indoor Range and Gun Shop with a group of gals for Ladies Night. We got to shoot zombie targets.

No zombies needed to be double-tapped at the Shoot Like a Girl mobile shooting range. Event manager Dub Fincher stressed that safety and education are paramount.

Inside the semi-trailer, archery instructor Shawn selected a compound bow for me to try.

I quickly discovered I’m no Katniss Everdeen. The bow and the shooting stance felt awkward, but my arrows safely lodged in the target area.

Shawn handed me off to TBuzz, who covered gun safety protocol. Although no live rounds are fired within the simulator, she explained that every gun should be treated as if it’s loaded and lethal.

TBuzz fitted me with safety glasses and digital noise-canceling earmuffs which protected my ears while allowing me to hear her instructions.

The handgun with the laser felt comfortable and was easy to use. I even hit a bull’s-eye. The rifle required a bit more effort and I was glad they provided a stand for steadier aim.

Back outside the trailer, Fincher introduced me to the latest in pepper spray options and walked me through how to use it.

“If someone is approaching you in a threatening manner, extend your palm out, loudly yell, ‘STOP! I don’t know you!’ and then deploy the spray.”

A mannequin named Bob the Bad Guy served as the target for the inert pepper spray.

“Aim above the eyes, then across the nose and back toward the mouth in a Z for Zorro pattern,” Dub said. “And don’t use it all in case there’s another bad guy.”

If Bob had been an actual baddie, he would have been in a world of hurt by the time I was done with him.

Shoot Like A Girl offers these experiences at no charge. They had a gun bar for guests to check out various models, several gun safes to peruse and a display of concealed carry handbags. Those items were available for purchase inside Cabela’s.

“We encourage people to find a local ladies’ shooting group,” Fincher said

If shooting like a girl means pepper spraying the heck out of Bad Guy Bob, nailing a bull’s-eye with a handgun and scoring a respectable cluster of hits from 50 yards with an AR-15, then I most definitely shoot like a girl. Maybe I’ll give skeet shooting another try.

For more information on Shoot Like a Girl visit shootlikeagirl.com/

Columns

He took the books

Cindy Hval

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

#ThingsMyHusbandSays, Father’s Day Edition

Cindy Hval

I’ve been writing a personal column for about 20 years, so often when I meet people during interviews or at events, they say, “Oh! I feel like I already know you!”

I usually reply, “You probably know more about me than is strictly necessary.”

Since the advent of these #thingsmyhusbandsays columns, Derek’s been getting a taste of that recognition.

Last week at the Northwest Passages event celebrating the launch of Jess Walter’s new book, “So Far Gone,” several people greeted me, then turned to my husband and said, “You must be Derek!”

Luckily, my extroverted husband enjoys these exchanges and is unfazed by his growing notoriety.

The equanimity and warmth that make him a great life partner also make him a wonderful dad and papa. We honored him on Sunday, and I’m continuing the celebration with this installment of #thingsmyhusbandsays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• Sometimes, Derek sleeps too close to me and encroaches on my space.

I nudged him. “Your head is on my pillow,” I said.

“No it’s not,” he replied. “My brain is on your pillow.”

That image kept me awake for a while.

• One morning, I woke up to his muttering.

“She drowned!”

I poked him.

“Who drowned?”

“You’ll find out,” he replied.

I waited until he left for work to take my shower. Better safe than sorry.

Derekisms

• Derek: That Howard Rutger is always scary!

Me: You mean Rutger Hauer?

Him: Yeah. The German guy.

Me: Dutch.

Him: Exactly.

• We watched a video of a dad taking his baby to the doctor for the baby’s first shots.

“You didn’t take ANY of our sons to their vaccinations,” I said.

“Meh. I was there for their vasectomies,” he replied.

I hope to God he meant circumcisions!

• While we were on the topic, one of our sons was worried that our cat, Milo, had been castrated. Derek tried to explain spaying and neutering this way: “Did I get castrated? No! They call it a vasectomy.”

• Him: My brother is making a pot garden.

Me: Really? He’s growing weed?

Him: Weed? No, he’s planting strawberries in big pots.

Me: Oh. A container garden.

Him: Like I said. A pot garden.

Life according to Derek

• Recently, my husband came home and announced, “Well, I’m selling the business. Oscar Meyer is hiring Wienermobile drivers. I’ll have to go to Wienermobile School, but I’m confident this is the job for me.”

• Every October, Derek and our son Zach watch cheesy horror movies. One evening, the film was over by 8.

“Did everybody die?” I asked.

“Yeah, but not soon enough,” Derek replied.

• Several years ago, Derek went to Vegas with a buddy. They visited the STRAT Hotel, Casino & Tower and decided to take a leap with the SkyJump. It’s the highest commercial decelerator descent, with an official height of 829 feet.

He sent a group text to me and our sons before the jump, worried that his last words would be profanity.

Ethan told him, “I’m sure Jesus will forgive you. Heck! He’s gonna have a blast right along with you.”

To which Derek replied, “He flies. I don’t.”

Married life

• We were watching a video on “America’s Got Talent,” and the contestant was crying at the sight of the baby during his wife’s ultrasound.

Me: You didn’t cry at any of our ultrasounds.

Him: I also didn’t have a man bun.

• A commercial came on for Jimmy Dean pancake-wrapped sausage on a stick. “Oh my! If you die first, I’m totally going to eat that!” Derek said.

I’m sharing this in case I die an untimely death due to my husband’s lust for pancakes and sausage on a stick.

• Speaking of death, we were talking about our funerals. (Doesn’t everyone?)

“I don’t want a creepy open-casket viewing. Don’t do that to me,” I said.

He replied, “Oh, no way! I’m putting you on the deck with a book in one hand and a martini in the other.”

He may be an amazing dad and a wonderful husband, but comments like these make me realize I need to take better care of myself.

Obviously, I need to outlive him.

All Write, Columns

Travel that Transforms

Cindy Hval

When I think of Susie Leonard Weller, the first word that comes to mind is “vibrancy.”

From the brilliant turquoise color she favors to her beautifully bright smile, she exudes energy and intelligence.

We met almost 20 years ago at a writers group. She taught parenting and life skill classes for Head Start parents enrolled in the Community Colleges of Spokane and I was a fledgling freelance writer.

She was in the early stages of drafting her book, “Why Don’t You Understand? Improve Family Communication With the 4 Thinking Styles,” and I was writing columns about my boys burping entire conversations at the dinner table.

I’d leave the group inspired by our conversations, and I think she at least left entertained. After retiring from the community colleges, she left the group but continued to write and, more importantly, travel.

The travel bug arrived on her 10th birthday when Susie received a three-piece set of powder blue vinyl luggage. Two years later, she lugged it through the LAX Airport with her 10-year-old brother in tow as they changed planes on their way to Mexico City. Her parents had arranged an informal exchange with a family in Mexico.

She’s pretty much kept her bags packed since.

Recently, she sent me a note to let me know that her latest book, “52 Global Reflections: A Pilgrim’s Travel Memoir,” is scheduled for release on June 18.

We caught up over the phone.

“I see myself as a global citizen,” Weller said. “The book is part spiritual autobiography, part travel memoir.”

Over the years, she’s explored 34 countries, ranging from Australia to Turkey, and she typically stays in youth hostels.

“They’re for the young at heart, not just the young of age,” she said.

Susie, Barcelona, 2019

Weller has hiked over hills, trekked across trails, kayaked across bodies of water, and soared above the ground.

“To commemorate my 50th birthday, I paraglided over the Swiss Alps.”

In “52 Global Reflections: A Pilgrim’s Travel Memoir,” she documents her experiences in 52 locations around the world and includes over 150 reflection questions.

Her reason for penning this book now is simple.

“I’ve survived Stage 3 colorectal cancer, Stage 1 breast cancer, a ministroke and brain surgery,” she said. “I want to share my story before I die. If I don’t share it now, it will be gone.”

Weller’s story isn’t one of tourism but of connection.

“I believe in connecting with people at their sacred sites and spiritual places,” she said. “So many communities across the world are searching for that connection to something bigger than ourselves.”

Her pilgrim travel memoir integrates her 1981 master’s degree in pastoral ministry from Seattle University and a 2006 certificate in spiritual direction from Gonzaga University to provide insights into visiting sacred locations, shrines and labyrinths.

In a world divided by politics, ideologies and religion, Weller’s experiences offer much-needed hope.

“I’ve experienced the kindness of strangers and the generosity of people,” she said. “I’m so glad I traveled earlier because if you wait till you retire, health issues can limit you.”

In 2023, she spent nine weeks in Greece, Jordan, Malta and Turkey.

While visiting the home in Ephesus, Turkey, where Mary, the mother of Jesus, is said to have spent her final days, she writes of experiencing a profound healing of childhood wounds.

But her favorite country remains the first one she visited at 12.

For 18 years, she and her husband, Mark, wintered in Zihuatanejo, Mexico.

“We’ve traveled by bus all over Mexico,” she said. “When I’m there, I don’t feel like a visitor.”

Weller’s goal in sharing her travel experiences is to encourage others to step out of their comfort zones and enter the unknown.

“Let us build bridges to increase our compassion and respect for others, recognizing that they are a part of us, that we don’t yet know,” she writes in the memoir’s conclusion.

Neither illness nor time has dimmed her vibrancy.

“Travel transforms my head, my heart and my spirit,” she said.

”52 Global Reflections: A Pilgrim’s Travel Memoir” will be released June 18 through Kindle Direct Publishing with a special 99 cent promotional offer. More information at https://52globalreflections.com/

Columns

Living the next-level adulting dream

Cindy Hval

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next, I headed to Target.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Columns

Just one more recipe…

Cindy Hval

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

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

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

I blame my mother and the internet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what happened next, don’t you?

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

My printer whirred and spat it out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shot from my printer before I even blinked.

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

Columns

My 6 Million Dollar Man

Cindy Hval

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s been talking in his sleep

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

“Five, four, (long pause) three …”

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

• Derek was talking in his sleep again.

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

I poked him.

“What are you dreaming about?”

“The dryer,” he said and rolled over.

Yeah. You try going back to sleep after that!

Derekisms

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

I burst out laughing.

Derek huffed. “It’s BRITISH!”

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

Me: I think your dad sells moist towelettes.

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

  • Hysterical laughter

Derek: What?

Me: You said you sell little toilets!

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

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

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

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

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

I grabbed the package.

“That’s full-BODIED!

He shrugged.

“Same thing.”

Life according to Derek

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

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

• Derek got an “avocado” cigar.

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

I shuddered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Married life

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

Recently, I caught him watching squirrel hunting on TV.

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

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

Me: I don’t know, why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him: You mean death?

Anyway, we are still married.

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

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

Stay tuned.

Columns

The most delicious gift is one-on-one time with sons

Cindy Hval

I fed them.

All of them.

From breast to bottle to mashed peas and sweet potatoes to countless homemade casseroles and cookies.

I spent hours shopping, prepping, baking and cooking. Keeping my four sons fed often felt like a full-time job.

With the work came the joy and satisfaction of watching them grow into healthy, strong and smart young men.

They all started working as teens. To my delight, each son began using their hard-earned cash to treat me to lunch or dinner – usually around my birthday. Watching your kid tell the server, “I’ll take the check,” is one of the sweetest things I’ve experienced as a parent.

More than that, it’s the precious one-on-one time that delights me.

Recently, Ethan our firstborn treated me to a meal at one of my favorite restaurants. It was fun introducing him to their stunning Happy Hour, but the happiest part was sitting across the table from him.

My time with our Ohio son Alex revolves around the grandkids. But before he became a dad, I flew out alone to visit him. We spent the day together sipping coffee and exploring a beautiful park and its lush gardens. He even slid down a wild slide built into a hillside – so much fun to see my little boy shining through my grown-up son’s eyes.

When our third-born began dating Naselle last year, Zach explained his tradition of taking his mom to lunch. She told him how special she thought that was, and he replied, “Well, she’s a special lady.”

“She must be to have a son like you,” she said.

Is it any wonder we adore her?

This year, they’re newlyweds, but she happily shared Zach so he could treat me to lunch on a Saturday afternoon.

Since our youngest son, Sam, moved to Texas, he takes me out when he comes home for the holidays in December. We go to dinner and a movie. I pick the restaurant, and he chooses a movie he thinks I’d enjoy – this visit we saw “Wicked.”

Of course, I still feed my crew.

The kids in town come to dinner twice a month. Sam spends the holidays and a stretch of summer with us, and I cook for Alex and his kids when we visit Ohio.

So, the blessing of having one of them treat me to a meal is something I don’t take for granted.

The food may be fabulous, but it’s the one-on-one time with my sons that truly feeds me.

Freya update

In a recent column, I lamented that Freya, the Fierce Sheep Poacher, had absconded with the cotton ball lamb from our Play-Doh nativity. But just like the Biblical parable of the lost sheep, there was great rejoicing last week when the wayward lamb was found. Freya had tucked it behind assorted cleaning products in a closet.

Also, my husband’s wish is sometimes my command. Derek said our athletic kitten needed a cape, and I found a pink-striped satin Freya-size cape at PetSmart. Boy, were they both surprised!

More memorable birthday feedback

Reader Eddy Birrer celebrated his 80th birthday at the Dome in Edinburgh, Scotland.

“I highly recommend it for its exceptionally great ambiance and quite modest cost,” he wrote.

Scotland is on my bucket list, but since I have a February birthday, I hope to visit in the fall or spring.

Susie Leonard Weller added a bit of joy to the world on her 70th birthday.

“Inspired by a friend’s example, I tithed my first Social Security check,” she said.

She asked friends to help celebrate her 70th birthday by giving to individuals in need or to charit able organizations. She sent $70 in cash to 34 friends, along with an explanation of the money’s purpose and a postcard. She asked them to return the postcard and to share, in writing as well as during a Birthday Zoom meeting, what they did with their donation.

“I loved hearing how the cash benefited their neighbors, as well as local, national, and international nonprofit organizations,” Weller said. “In a joyous Zoom meeting, friends who knew me from elementary school virtually met my other friends. Many people donated extra money as matching funds to increase the impact of their donation. I’m grateful my 70th birthday celebration provided an opportunity to bring more joy into the world.”

Columns

Double Trouble: A State of the Cats Address

Cindy Hval

2024 proved tumultuous for Sir Walter Scott.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

“Well she is,” he said.

Then he turned his attention back to the kitten.

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

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

Columns

Keep libraries a safe haven for all readers

Cindy Hval

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

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

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

My mom sure did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Libraries nourished my sons and expanded their horizons.

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

My Library, My Story

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

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

Share your birthday memories

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

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

What was your most memorable birthday?

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