Tag: Front Porch column

Columns

Thor’s final days a lesson in listening

Cindy Hval

n May 30, we found out our beloved cat Thor had a nonoperable tumor, and his nine lives were about to run out.

When I shared the news in a previous column and on social media, people responded with great compassion. Many wrote that they had enjoyed my accounts of his adventures over the years and felt like they knew him. Others shared their heartbreaking stories of pet loss. Each missive provided connection and comfort.

What I’ve learned over the past month is this – despite their solitary, independent nature, cats absolutely do communicate with their humans. In his last two weeks, Thor let us know exactly what he wanted.

Moist deli-roasted chicken breast?

Yes, please.

Canned cat food?

No, thank you.

Tender smoked turkey breast?

More, please.

A once-favored kibble?

Nope.

Special cat treats from Trader Joe’s?

Yum!

Loving words and soft pats from me and Derek?

Aaaaah.

A comfy spot on a soft blanket on the foot or our bed?

Purrrr …

He was equally clear about activities.

The slick Houdini, who often bolted through every open door, enjoyed one last warm evening in the backyard. Cat harness and leash attached, he basked in the sun, rolling over and over in the comforting grass. He nibbled on a blade or two, but he mainly just soaked up the rays that bathed his suddenly fragile bones.

But when next we tried to take him outdoors, he sat by the back door and refused to budge. Derek carried him out to the yard, but Thor declined to wander.

Derek carried him back to the deck and removed the leash. Thor went straight to the door and asked to go inside.

I suspect he felt his frailty and knew the wild outdoors was no longer safe for his ailing body.

What do you say when there are no words?

Taking a note from Thor’s book, we showed him how we felt. We held him. We stroked his once lush, now straggly fur. We looked into his eyes and slowly blinked.

And when he hid under our bed, we listened. We understood he was saying, no more, please.

Even rambunctious Walter heard the message. Our junior tabby usually delights in pouncing on an unsuspecting Thor, but he seemed to understand that pouncing was out. Instead, he scooted under the bed and crouched next to Thor in silent solidarity.

A short time later, Thor took refuge beneath the dining room table. Derek didn’t try to coax him out. Instead, he stretched his 6-foot-2 frame beside him on the floor.

Thor mewed.

“I know, buddy,” Derek replied, tears coursing down his cheeks. “It’s time.”

I called the vet to schedule Thor’s last visit for later that afternoon. As I ended the call, thunder cracked, and a heavy rain fell. A fitting finale for a cat named for the god of thunder.

When I pulled into the driveway after work, he was perched on Sam’s windowsill, watching – waiting for me to come home. As sick as he was, he still managed to climb up to his favorite lookout on the window ledge.

Out of habit, I quickly shut the door behind me lest he make a run for it. But his sprinting days were done. Instead, Thor waited for me to pick him up at the entryway.

There would be no dreaded cat carrier for this trip. I wrapped his frail frame in an old beach towel and carried him to the car.

His ears perked, and his nose wiggled as he sniffed the rain-scented air. As we drove, he tucked his head under my chin, his eyes wide while he watched the passing scenery.

We kept our promise. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes for the final time was the faces of the people who loved him.

When we left the vet’s office, Derek silently pointed to a rainbow shimmering across the horizon. It seemed the heavens offered Rainbow Bridge just for Thor.

Oh, yes, cats communicate with their people.

And it’s important to listen – even when they say things we don’t want to hear.

Things like goodbye.

RIP Thor Heyerdahl Hval, Feb. 5, 2011, to June 18, 2024.

Columns

Saying no to online shopping

Cindy Hval

As if requesting a straw with my water at restaurants isn’t quirky enough, my friend Sarah recently discovered I have another quirk.

I don’t shop online. Ever.

“How can this be?” she asked. “You’re an introvert. You can order groceries without ever leaving your home, yet you go to the grocery store every week!”

Sarah shops almost exclusively from her phone or computer. Food, household products, clothes, shoes and even undergarments are delivered to her door.

She does enjoy supporting local businesses by browsing at the small shops in the Garland District, and she buys most of her books at Wishing Tree Books in the South Perry neighborhood. But everything else, from broccoli to breath mints, comes from online vendors.

I am an introvert who has to extrovert a lot for work, so she’s right in assuming that given a choice, I’d rather avoid people-ing during non-work hours. However, scratch-cooking and meal planning relaxes me, and honestly, I don’t trust strangers to pick out my produce.

I’ve seen Instacart shoppers toss heads of lettuce into their gigantic trolleys without looking for rusty brown spots. I’ve watched as they shove packages of rib eyes into plastic bags without checking for moderate marbling.

To be fair, how could a stranger know how marbled I like my steak or how ripe I want my cantaloupe?

As I told another friend, “I don’t want anyone else thumping my melons. I can do it myself.”

She guffawed but knew exactly what I meant.

While I don’t exactly love loading up on toilet paper and bottled water at Costco, free samples are back! This is a great way to find out if you should indulge in that pricey Havarti or stick with the giant block of cheddar.

Of course, I always buy something there that’s not on my list. But gosh darn it, I needed that cute black-and-white skort and those huge fluffy beach towels, each one large enough to enfold two adults!

And my Fred Meyer forays often change up pre-planned menus. Recently, I found some gorgeous hothouse tomatoes (not on my list) and a sale on whole wheat pasta. I scrapped the planned grilled chicken and salad and decided to make pasta pomodoro.

Sure, I could have had tomatoes delivered via Instacart, but it was seeing their lush ripeness that made me want to cook with them.

Food aside, I can’t imagine ordering clothes online. For a writer, I’m pretty unimaginative. I can’t picture how a blouse or a pair of slacks will look on me by gazing at a photo.

I know you can return online purchases, but I don’t want the hassle. I’d rather grit my teeth, go to a store, and try things on in the fitting room.

But the most compelling reason I prefer to shop at brick-and-mortar stores is screen exhaustion. I spend five days a week at my desk in front of my computer. If I’m not at my computer, I’m on my phone, calling, texting or Googling. The last thing I want to do at the end of the day or on a weekend is spend more time online.

I don’t want to look at a picture of a peach. I want to feel its soft fuzz and weigh the heft of it in my hand. Instead of clicking on an image of a floral bouquet, I want to see what’s blooming at Trader Joe’s.

I guess I really do want to stop and smell the roses.

Pushing my chair away from my desk, grabbing my car keys and heading to the shops gives me a welcome disconnect from screen time.

Even better, it allows me to connect with my neighborhood and the people who live and work in it. A box left on my doorstep can’t do that.

Columns

Thor’s Last Adventure

Cindy Hval

When it came right down to it, the choice between another kid or another cat proved easy for my husband.

It was 2011, and we’d just watched the movie “Thor.” Though I’m not a big Marvel Universe fan, I was enamored with the film and the title character.

“We have four sons, and not one of them named Thor,” I said after viewing the film. “We either need a second cat or a fifth son.”

A week later, we were at PetSmart looking at a batch of adoptable kitties. Three brothers frolicking in their cage caught my attention. Well, two of them frolicked – the third watched his brothers from afar. The litter had been abandoned by the side of a road, and the Spokane Humane Society christened the kitten who’d caught my eye “Alex.”

Our second son, Alex, then 18, had recently flown the family nest. Though the hole in this mama’s heart and home was far larger than kitten size, the tabby with the grumpy face captivated me.

Thor’s Gotcha Day, 2011

The newly christened Thor Heyerdahl Hval joined our family. He immediately gravitated to our 3-year-old tuxedo cat, Milo James. The attraction was not mutual. After sulking beneath our bed for a few days, Milo adjusted to the newbie. They forged an uneasy alliance until Milo’s death six years ago.

A year passed before we felt ready to welcome another kitten to our home. We thought another cat would enliven Thor’s senior years. Well, Sir Walter Scott certainly enlivened everything around our house. Thor, however, has never been a fan of the junior kitty. Wary tolerance is about all he can muster.

For 13 years, Thor has exerted his unique influence on our family dynamic. The food-motivated tabby mastered the trick of rolling over at the cajoling (and treats) offered by our son, Alex.

Chopsticks proved too difficult to master, but he sure tried!

Thor also sits up for treats. In fact, he’d do anything for food except stay inside.

Though his default facial expression is one of perpetual grumpiness, he’s been the most agreeable, docile cat – unless the door is open. Then, all bets are off.

The lure of the wild calls to this indoor-only cat, and our family has spent many aggravating and anxious hours attempting to lure the adventuring Thor back home.

Last week, we got the heartbreaking news that his wild walkabouts and longsuffering endurance of Walter are coming to an end.

Several weeks ago, Thor began shunning wet food – a puzzling problem for our always-hungry boy. When he barely nibbled his dry kibble, I took him to our trusted veterinarian.

I dreaded the visit because I knew something was wrong – very wrong.

It turns out Thor has a large tumor on his abdomen.

“I’m so sorry,” said the vet. “There’s nothing we can do.”

My heart shattered as I gathered my sweet boy in my arms. His once hefty frame has dwindled from 13 pounds to a scant 10.

While science cannot mend him, love and medicine can make his last days easier.

I tempt his waning appetite with kibble and treats. I lure him to sustenance with bits of tuna, salmon and canned chicken. With Derek’s help, I administer steroids and opioids to ease his pain.

And we put his harness and leash on him and take him to the backyard to let him nibble grass and bask in the sun. At night, he curls up at our feet in our bed.

We are keenly aware that it will soon be time to help him on his way to his final rest.

Until then, Thor welcomes my kisses and tilts his head for chin scratches. I think he understands when I tell him how much I love him, and he trusts my promise that we will be with him for every moment of his last grand adventure.

Columns

This post was brought to you by coffee

Cindy Hval

It started with magic.

A toy coffee pot filled with brown liquid that “disappeared” when you tipped it to pour. I’d take my “Magic Pouring Perk” around the table when my parents had friends over after church and pretend to top off their cups of Sanka.

I usually got tips for my service, but what I really wanted was to sample the Sanka.

Alas, I wasn’t allowed a sip. Mom said coffee (even decaf) was an “adult beverage.”

And so, it wasn’t until college that I fell in love with the brew that continues to make mornings bearable.

I worked as a waitress, and one Saturday morning, I poured myself a mug from the large urn we brewed it in. It was so dark and strong, it took my breath away.

“Put some cream in it,” a fellow server advised.

I did, and as I sipped the earthy, milky beverage, I felt energized. The Friday night fog lifted. I cradled that brown mug and knew my life had changed.

At home, my parents favored Taster’s Choice. The instant coffee tasted like brown water when compared to the rich restaurant roast, so I confined my caffeine consumption to work hours. This was several years before drive-thru coffee stands sprouted throughout the Northwest.

Not long after I met coffee, I met my husband. His dad had immigrated to the U.S. from Norway at 19 and preferred his coffee so strong you could almost chew it. Consequently, Derek wouldn’t touch it.

We were given a Proctor-Silex 10-cup coffee maker for a wedding gift. We were too poor for Folgers (which, at the time, I considered the epitome of fine coffee), so I bought store-brand medium roast in large cans. About this time, flavored creamers became popular, and that’s all it took for Derek to convert.

By the time our kids came along, Spokane had gone Starbuck’s crazy. It seemed like there was a coffee drive-thru at every corner, so we sampled lattes and sipped mochas. I’m not a fan of those sweet drinks, but our coffee shop experiences introduced us to the flavor of freshly roasted whole beans.

Coffee drinking is a sophisticated slippery slope. As our earning power increased, so did our taste in java. One Christmas, we got our first coffee grinder. No more store brand cans, no more fancy Folgers, now we let Millstone beans rain into bags at the grocery store like we used to let jelly beans fill sacks at the candy shop.

Our sons drank coffee from their early teens, and our youngest took over the brewing operation in middle school.

We burned through coffee makers and grinders at an astonishing rate – each one a bit fancier. Derek, the former java-shunner, became a connoisseur, purchasing machines too complicated for my limited technical abilities.

Self-preservation led me to purchase my first Keurig machine. If, for some reason, my husband or son failed to brew the beverage (or worse, drank it all before I got up), I had to be able to procure my own.

The benefits and risks of consuming coffee continue to be debated, which is why an S-R headline caught my eye.

“How drinking coffee may lower your risk for diabetes.”

According to the Feb. 28 story, each cup of coffee a person drinks (up to 6 cups) lowers the risk of developing Type 2 diabetes by about 6%.

As someone with family members who’ve had Type 2 diabetes, I pay attention to the latest research regarding the disease.

The article went on to explain that coffee is a rich source of polyphenols – compounds in fruits, vegetables, and whole grains that are known to confer health benefits.

“A cup of coffee also contains fiber – up to 1.8 grams, or roughly half the amount you’d find in one serving of broccoli.”

To which I say, Duh! It’s made of beans!

According to the story, experts recommend that healthy adults consume no more than four or five cups of brewed coffee daily. Studies show that two to five cups is the range in which people are most likely to see health benefits such as a reduced risk of diabetes, heart disease and some cancers.

As I type this, the intoxicating aroma of French roast wafts from my Wonder Woman mug. I’m glad science says my morning brew is good for me, but I already knew that. It makes walking, talking and working possible every day.

Now that’s magical.

Columns

Blue Light Specials and Zebra Print

Cindy Hval

The zebra-striped short spring jacket shamed me from the closet.

I hadn’t worn it once in the last two years, so as per my policy, it was time to send it off to Goodwill.

But first I shrugged it on. I’m not going to lie. It’s a cute coat. It’s also one of the last things my mom bought for me while she still enjoyed shopping.

How long have I had it? Well, she purchased it at Kmart in Spokane Valley, a few years before it closed in 2019. She bought herself one, too. One of us was never a fan of “dressing your age.”

Mom had three hobbies, reading, sewing and shopping. I inherited her love of the first, but prolonged exposure to the others only led me to develop a strong antipathy to both.

No matter. Mom loved nothing more than shopping for others. One of her favorite haunts was Kmart. It’s no coincidence that when we moved to North Spokane when I was 16, the store was within easy walking distance of our house.

Even prior to moving nearby, Kmart was a family fixture.

Who can forget the excitement of the blue light special!? Even better if that blue light flashed from the deli.

Long before there was a Subway on every corner, the Kmart deli introduced us to submarine sandwiches. The plastic-wrapped subs featured ham, bologna, salami and American cheese. Topped with thinly sliced tomatoes, a couple of pickle slices and tons of shredded lettuce, these were a real treat because our family didn’t frequent fast food restaurants.

Actually, I preferred the ham sandwiches. Cooked ham, mayo and shredded lettuce on a fluffy white hamburger bun. Yum!

Of course, Mom was there for the bargains. Any kid growing up in the ‘70s likely had a pair of moon boots from Kmart and, probably a pair of knock-off Keds. The white canvas shoes were worn by generations of women and children. Mom still has several pairs of those slip-on shoes in her closet.

By the time I was a teen, I rebelled against any item of clothing purchased at the store. The final straw was when Mom bought me a puffy navy blue parka with a hood. I was 14. I knew a puffy parka with a hood in a BOY color was social suicide.

“It’s Kmart Fall Apart!” I wailed. “I will never leave this house in that coat!”

Sadly, I did leave the house in that coat, but I took it off as soon as I reached the end of the driveway.

Flash forward a few years. I’m an at-home mom with three boys under 5. My now-retired dad would pick Ethan, 4, and Alex, 2, up on Tuesday mornings while baby Zach and I stayed home.

He’d drop Mom off at Bible study, deliver Ethan to preschool, and then he and Alex would head to Kmart. Alex got a spin (or two) on the merry-go-round at the entrance, and then they’d head to the deli, where Dad sipped coffee and Alex munched a big chocolate chip cookie.

Dad died weeks before Alex’s third birthday, but I hope somehow he still remembers his special dates with Papa Tom.

Mom took over dates with her grandsons. She didn’t drive, but she’d pack whichever boy was visiting in an umbrella stroller and set off in search of a blue light special. When they outgrew the stroller, they walked with her, confident they’d get a treat or a new toy when they got to the store.

She doesn’t shop anymore. Alzheimer’s-induced anxiety makes outings stressful, but at 92, she knows all my sons by name and often tells stories about their Kmart adventures.

Who knew so many memories could be triggered by a lightweight zebra-striped jacket with a Jaclyn Smith label?

I pulled it from the donate bag and hung it back in my closet.

There’s no shame in holding onto memories. Especially, when you can touch them and feel once again, the warmth of your mother’s love.

Columns

Flying the friendlier skies

Cindy Hval

Sometimes a cookie isn’t a cookie, it’s a quinoa crisp.

And the pretzels? Well, they’re “bioengineered,” at least if you fly United Airlines. Which we do. A lot.

Since our only grandchildren live across the country in Ohio, we’ve racked up our frequent flier miles these past three years. It’s no secret that air travel no longer resembles what it once was, but if you do some research before you go and familiarize yourself with the rules of the air, you can make the friendly skies friendlier. Here are some tips.

No. 1: If you fly more than once a year, TSA Precheck is your best friend. For $85 and some paperwork, you won’t have to remove your shoes, coat, or belt. Additionally, you don’t need to remove your liquids or snacks from your bags and the lines are much shorter at every airport we’ve been to (nine at last count). Plus, it’s good for five years!

That doesn’t mean you won’t be selected for additional screening. Just ask my husband, Random Check. Last month, he got picked for random screening at each stage of our trip, so I temporarily renamed him.

Unlike me, Random Check, aka Derek, is a plane-sleeper. He usually nods off just after takeoff and prefers the window seat, so he can rest his head against the window. On the off chance that I doze off, I prefer to rest my head on Derek. This means I get stuck in the middle seat.

This brings me to tip No. 2: The passenger in the middle seat owns both armrests. This is our only compensation for flying shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers. If you’re an aisle-seater, don’t even think about placing your elbow on mine.

It’s not lost on me that I’m the introverted half of a couple, yet the one compelled to make small talk with a seatmate. So, tip No. 3: If your Serbian seatmate, who now lives in Boise by way of Denmark, wants to lean across you and snap a photo of a really long empty Ohio runway, you let her. It’s one picture (or five) and your husband has the window seat.

Tip No. 4: Reclining your seat. Honestly, those 2 inches don’t make much difference to my 5-foot-8 frame, but for my 6-2 husband with osteoarthritis, that little bit of space can mean a lot. He rarely reclines, but when he does we check to make sure the person behind him is small enough to not be too inconvenienced.

If you haven’t flown in a while, you might be unaware of the continually narrowing times for connecting flights. Usually, we have between 20 and 45 minutes to make it to the next gate.

Tip No. 5: Jumping out of your seat into the aisle the minute your flight lands will not get you off the airplane any quicker. Remember in kindergarten when you learned to line up? That’s exactly what you do as you wait to deplane–one row at a time from the front row to the back row. It’s not complicated, unless you make it so – like the woman seated near the back when we landed in Spokane. She attempted to vault over 25 rows of folks patiently waiting their turn. She may have left the plane a minute or two earlier, but it looked like a couple of travelers bodychecked her with their carry-ons. Ouch!

Speaking of ouch, my last suggestion is simple but important.

Tip No. 6: Obey the rules. Listen to the flight attendants’ instructions and follow them. Last week my friend, Ryan Oelrich, was on a flight and the woman seated in front of him had difficulty comprehending carry-on placement.

He live-posted his experience on Facebook.

“I’m now attempting to calmly explain to the nervous woman seated in front of me that the area under her seat is mine and the area under the seat in front of her is where she needs to move her oversized bag,” he wrote. “She informs me as if I’m 5 years old that this doesn’t make sense and I’m wrong. After all, if this were true where would the people in the front rows put their bags?”

For the record, people seated in the front row place their bags in the overhead bins.

Ryan enlisted the help of a flight attendant who asked the passenger to place her bag under the seat in front of her.

The result?

“The woman speaks louder attempting to enlighten all passengers around her to what she sees as her superior baggage storage method,” Ryan wrote. “Other passengers eye her nervously but entirely ignore her. Her baggage rebellion fails.”

After much effort and some swearing, she wrested her bag from beneath her seat and placed it where it was supposed to be.

Ryan tried to place his bag in front of him, only to find the woman had tucked her feet under her seat, blocking it.

Sounds like she needed the reminder I frequently gave my toddlers, “The happy way is to obey!”

This is true of most things in life, including following the rules of air travel.

As for those quinoa crisps? I tried pawning them off on my grandsons as chocolate cookies. They weren’t fooled either.

Columns

Fit to be Fried

Cindy Hval

How often we must replace household appliances might reveal more about us than we think.

Take my iron, for example. My parents bought me my first iron when I married 36 years ago. It lasted 20 years until I dropped it and cracked the water reservoir. No, that’s not a testament about how things used to last longer; it’s more an indictment of how little it was used.

I thought about that while doing my biannual ironing atop the same ironing board I received with the original iron all those years ago.

We still have our wedding gift blender, though I haven’t dug it out of the pantry in years. Our coffee makers, however, need replacing on an alarmingly regular basis. We’ve lost count of how many we’ve been through. Of course, we’ve burned up several coffee grinders, as well. And just in case we cannot wait for a pot to brew, we’re on our second Keurig machine.

While raising our four sons, we also wore out several vacuums. Our most notable vacuum-cleaner catastrophe occurred one year just before guests were due to arrive over the Christmas holidays.

My ever-helpful spouse was cleaning up the pine needles beneath the tree and sucked up the tree lights cord. It killed our vacuum and sadly destroyed lights that we’ve never been able to replace. They had three color settings AND played Christmas carols!

Speaking of cleaning, one year for my birthday my mother gave me a steam mop. I didn’t exactly jump up and down when I opened it, but after one use I became a convert and have never looked back. I’m on my second steam mop.

Electric can openers had to be replaced regularly until Derek pointed out that manual openers were easier to operate, didn’t break and didn’t take up coveted counter space.

Some things seem to last forever, no matter how often we use them. The only reason we bought our current slow cooker is because we wanted a newer model. We kept our 20-year-old one as a backup.

Of course, there’s always some new gadget that marketers promise will make our lives easier. Remember the bread machine fad of the early 2000s?

Instant pots have dominated the kitchen scene for a few years, but seem to be losing steam. I didn’t buy into the hoopla. I don’t care that it can cook a pot roast super fast – pot roasts are meant to be cooked slowly – ditto soup.

That’s what Crock-Pots are for. I can dump the ingredients in before I leave for work and come home to a dinner that’s ready to serve.

That’s not to say I’m opposed to change. We recently added two new appliances we didn’t know we needed.

When my sister-in-law started renting out her downstairs as an Airbnb, she said she furnished it with a microwave and an egg cooker.

“An egg cooker?” I said. “That’s what Derek’s for.”

I only eat breakfast on weekends and that’s because he makes it.

She assured me it made perfect poached eggs and soft-boiled them just the way Norwegians love them. I found an inexpensive one and gave it to my husband.

He tried it the same weekend as our other new addition – an air fryer. Our sons all have air fryers, but I couldn’t imagine why we’d need one.

“We don’t eat fried foods,” I’d explained.

But on a trip to Costco, we succumbed to an impulse buy and came home with a 7-quart air fryer.

The next morning, Derek made poached eggs in the egg cooker and bacon in the fryer. Both were fabulous!

I begin looking for other things for him to air fry. Why Derek? Well, I’m terrified of new technology and I also don’t follow printed instructions well. I’m also sexist enough to believe air fryers like grills and smokers are best handled by the male of the species. (Not really, but I have been cooking for men for 36 years, and I’m getting kind of tired.)

Despite the claims of healthier cooking through air frying, our waistlines may be showing the adverse effects of our impulse buy. Our freezer now contains things like chicken wings and what Derek calls fish sticks.

I corrected him. “No, they are beer-battered cod fillets!”

We do plan to try air frying things like Brussels sprouts and cauliflower, but Derek’s already pondering an upgrade.

“I could cook more bacon at one time if we had a bigger basket,” he said.

I’m not sure how much bacon two people need at one time, but I think I’m about to find out.

**********

UPDATE: Dear Reader, It’s been 5 months and we have yet to air fry ANY vegetables– unless you count French fried potatoes and onion rings. Buyer beware!

Columns

Father, Faith, and Friendship

Cindy Hval

I miss him most in March.

His birthday is March 25, 1927, and he died on March 29, 1995.

My siblings and I could write volumes about our dad, Tom Burnett. Born in Mississippi and raised in Arkansas, he traveled the world courtesy of the U.S. Air Force but never lost his slow Southern drawl.

While stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base, he met my mom, Shirley Schmidt, who’d grown up in Hayden, Idaho. They both believed it was a “God thing.” He saw her singing in the choir at Glad Tidings Assembly of God and said the Lord told him, “That’s going to be your wife.”

It didn’t take Dad long to convince her.

To know my dad was to love him – and as an unabashed extrovert, he knew a lot of people. Mom and I would leave him on a bench at the mall. By the time we returned he’d say, “Hey girls, I want you to meet my friend …”

Young moms with babies in strollers, teenagers, other dudes waiting for their womenfolk – he’d befriend them all.

When people share their memories of Tom Burnett three things are invariably mentioned: his sense of humor, his devout faith, and his abiding love for my mother.

Recently, I got to see him through someone else’s eyes. While writing a story about a North Central High School reunion I was put in touch with Christine Glenn. Her parents, Chuck and Dorothy Glenn were my parents’ closest friends in the early 1950s.

In fact, if not for my dad, Christine might not even be here.

“My father would often recount his memories of how your father invited him to church and introduced him to the Lord, and also to Dorothy, my mother,” she said.

Mom, Dad, Chuck, and Dorothy

Chuck was from Montana and had enlisted in the Air Force and was sent to Fairchild. He walked into his new quarters and looked for a bunk. The place was empty except for one G.I. relaxing on a bed and reading his Bible. That G.I. was my dad.

“Tom greeted him and said, ‘The top bunk is empty. You can have that one,’ ” Christine recalled her dad saying.

The pair quickly became fast friends though initially, they didn’t seem to have much in common.

“Dad said Tom was always reading his Bible or talking about his Jesus and inviting him to church,” Christine said.

Chuck wasn’t a Christian and always had an excuse to avoid church until one day he didn’t and agreed to attend with Dad.

Two things happened quickly, Chuck became a Christian and he badgered my dad into introducing him to a cute redhead – my mom’s best friend, Dorothy Nicholl.

Mom has a scrapbook filled with photos of the four of them double dating. Picnicking at Manito Park and Tubbs Hill, posing by the falls, dressed up for church, and playing croquet at my grandparent’s Hayden home.

By this time my parents were already engaged and Chuck soon proposed to Dorothy.

“They picked out an engagement ring and Mom loved it,” Christine said.

But then my dad stepped in.

“Tom went with my dad to make a payment on the ring,” she said. “And he said, ‘Oh! I know a place where you can get one a lot cheaper!’ ”

I should mention my father’s Scottish ancestry. Tom Burnett loved a good deal and he always seemed to “know a guy” who could get him deals on everything from autos to asparagus. In this case, he introduced Chuck to the jeweler who’d made my mother’s engagement ring.

“Tom and Dad picked out Mom’s new engagement ring,” Christine said. “She never liked it. She was so disappointed.”

Dorothy died in 2014 and Christine now wears that ring. “Well, I dressed it up a little,” she said.

Another story Chuck liked to tell was how my Dad helped him find his wallet.

The four of them had been on a date at Lincoln Park. After they took the girls home, Chuck realized his wallet was missing.

“He and Tom went back to the park with flashlights and Tom found his wallet,” Christine said.

The two couples were in each other’s weddings but gradually lost touch when my dad made the military his career and was posted everywhere from Kansas to the Philippines.

Dad died in 1995, and Chuck died in July, but he never forgot my dad.

“He always said Tom was his best friend,” Christine said.

I think a lot of people felt that way.

I know I did.

Tom Burnett

Columns

For the love of libraries

Cindy Hval

An email announcing February is National Library Lovers Month, prompted memories of my favorite childhood book and my lifelong love affair with libraries.

I blame the library for my unfulfilled longing to live in a house with a turreted room crammed with books and a cozy window seat draped with red velvet curtains.

At 10, I checked out a copy of “The Velvet Room” by Zilpha Keatley Snyder. I quickly lost myself in the world of Robin, the middle child in a family of migrant workers traveling across California in their Model T during the Great Depression.

When her family finds work on a ranch, Robin is befriended by Bridget, a kindly old woman who gives her a key to an old, abandoned house. There Robin discovers a beautifully furnished library with a window seat. She gathers books, curls up in the window seat, pulls the drapes around her and finds respite from the harshness of her unstable life.

The book captivated me so much, I begged my parents to buy me a copy when I found one at the Scholastic Book Fair. They agreed, but foolishly as a teen, I gave my treasure away to make room for more sophisticated fare.

That email about Library Lovers Month came from Brainly, an online learning platform and homework help community, and it also featured fun bookish words, like the following:

Bookarazzi: A book lover who excitedly takes photos of the books they read and posts them online. (That’s what #bookstagram on Instagram is all about.)

Shelfrighteous: The feeling of superiority about one’s bookshelf.

Readultery: When a book lover cheats on one book by reading another book simultaneously.

Bibliobibuli: Not a “book bully” just a person who reads too much. (Pretty sure there’s no such thing as reading too much.)

While searching for a replacement copy of “The Velvet Room,” I came across the perfect quote from it for Library Lovers Month.

“There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books. Libraries had always seemed almost too good to be true.”

I guess I did find the velvet room I longed for as a child – it just wasn’t in a boarded-up mansion. Instead, I discovered it among the shelves, in quiet corners of public libraries.

Columns

Christmas with chaos, but no jelly

Cindy Hval

My husband narrowly avoided a “Jelly of the Month Club” situation at work over the holidays.

A couple of weeks before Christmas mail delivery to his Hillyard-area business came to a standstill. A disaster at any time when you depend on getting paid by your customers, so you can pay your employees, but especially concerning over Christmas.

Derek worried that instead of bonuses, he’d have to give his employees memberships to a Jelly of the Month Club just like Clark Griswold received in “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

Movie fans know that didn’t end up well for Griswold’s boss.

Equally troubling was the absence of our sons’ Christmas gifts. I’m not an online shopper, so Derek buys gifts the kids put on their Amazon wish lists, while I purchase presents at local stores. He always has the packages delivered to his business because his locked mailbox is more secure than our home curbside box. No mail delivery from USPS meant no packages, either.

When a week passed with nary an envelope in his box, Derek sent an employee to the neighborhood post office to find out what the problem was.

After waiting in a long line of unhappy postal customers, he was able to get a stack of mail, but no packages.

“They’ll come tomorrow,” the harried worker told him.

It seems like many area post offices, the Hillyard branch was critically understaffed and completely overwhelmed.

The packages didn’t arrive the next day. Nor did any mail. Another week went by and Derek went to the post office and picked up a huge stack of mail. The packages?

“They’ll be delivered by Christmas Eve,” the employee assured him.

On Dec. 23, our sons’ gifts arrived (but no mail).

I thought Derek would be relieved, instead, he was sad.

“Your gifts didn’t come,” he said.

I hugged him.

“My birthday’s in February. I bet they’ll be here just in time.”

But the meltdown of mail delivery is no laughing matter. I’m glad Derek was able to pay his bills and his employees, but another customer at the post office was missing needed medication. For those who live on slim margins, the lack of a check can mean no money for rent, utilities or groceries.

As USPS still struggles, another catastrophe loomed. Our son was scheduled to return to Texas via Southwest Airlines on Dec. 29.

On Dec. 27, he woke us with the news that Southwest had canceled his flight and said they couldn’t rebook him until Jan. 13!

His was just one of more than 2,500 flights the airline canceled within four hours that morning. Sam has classes to prepare for and was due back in his office on Thursday. He and Derek found a flight on American Airlines that would get him home on Tuesday.

I couldn’t complain about an extra five days with our youngest, but my heart ached for friends stranded far from home.

Stressful situations like these serve as reminders to check our attitudes. Are we being kind to the airline workers and postal service employees who are on the front line of customer frustration? Are we finding things to be thankful for amid the chaos?

And honestly, a one-year subscription to a Jelly of the Month Club isn’t the worst thing in the world – especially if you’ve stocked up on peanut butter.