Tag: Front Porch column

Columns

The new girl

Cindy Hval

She sashays through our house like she owns the joint, the bell on her pink collar jingling.

A month ago, Freya Charlotte joined our clan. Derek and I were immediately smitten with the kitten, but it took our resident tabby a tad longer to warm up.

Though Sir Walter Scott keenly missed his buddy Thor, we hadn’t anticipated adding a kitten to our family quite so soon.

Like cat foster mom Gina said, “The Cat Distribution System struck again!”

She’s referring to the concept that cats or kittens just randomly appear in your life. The idea is that sometimes you don’t adopt a cat; rather, a cat adopts you.

All I know is from the moment we saw the tiny tuxedo’s photo on Gina’s Facebook, we knew she was ours.

The orphan kitten found alone near Progress Road in Spokane Valley got the best of care at Gina’s house. After she gained some weight and was spayed, chipped and had her first round of shots, we went to SCRAPS and officially adopted her.

We gave considerable thought to her name. A friend asked if we were naming our cats after South Hill streets, but Thor and Freya are prominent in Norse mythology.

Thor, the hammer-wielding god of thunder, is better known thanks to the Marvel comics and movies. But Freya is legendary in her own right. The fierce Norse goddess drove a chariot pulled by cats.

After some research, I found a middle name meant to curry favor with Walter. His namesake, Scottish author, historian and poet Sir Walter Scott, had four children. Charlotte Sophia was the eldest and his favorite.

Freya Charlotte Sophia is a bit of a mouthful, but it does get her off the top of the refrigerator in a hurry.

When we brought her home, Sir Walter sauntered up to peer into the carrier. Freya poked her nose out, and a horrified Walter bolted to our bedroom to hide under our bed.

He didn’t stay there long because Freya found him and assumed that he adored her like everyone else she’d met.

After a bit of hissing on both their parts, they moved on to chasing, pouncing and snuggling.

It’s been heartwarming to see their relationship blossom. Walter is a cuddly cat who longed to cozy up to Thor, but our senior tabby wouldn’t allow it.

Thankfully, Freya loves to snuggle next to him for a catnap. She submits to his grooming attention until she’s had enough and then gives a surprisingly deep, throaty growl. That’s enough for Walter to lay off the licking.

Another wonderful surprise is how much she likes people. Most cats are standoffish with strangers – not Freya.

On her third day in our home, Naselle, my soon-to-be daughter-in-law, came over to meet with the wedding florist. Freya let both ladies hold her, then promptly curled up on Naselle’s lap and fell asleep.

The kitten is equally friendly with our sons, but her reaction to a contractor who came to work on our home shocked me. The contractor is a big guy, and Freya marched up to him and let him pick her up.

Sadly, Walter is not so brave. Every day the contractor was here, Walter hid under our bed and refused to come out. Not so his baby sister. She’d check on the progress of the room remodeling and then join Walter under the bed, curling up with him in solidarity.

She likes Walter, but she’s an absolute mama’s girl. Wherever I am is where she wants to be. I put a soft blanket on the chair near my desk. As I type this, she’s dozed off, but she much prefers to bury her nose in my neck when she’s sleepy. Her purrs sound more lionish than kittenish.

The one similarity she has with the late Thor is her food obsession. She’s slowly learning that she’s not allowed on the dining room table and that our plates are off-limits. So are the refrigerator, stove and sink.

Recently, Derek found her licking an omelet pan he’d left on the stove. Thankfully, the pan and the stove had cooled, but that behavior is not cool.

He sternly scolded Freya Charlotte Sophia. A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen to load the dishwasher and found her in the sink, dabbing her paws into the pan he’d filled with water.

“Freya!” he hollered.

She looked him in the eye and slowly licked her dainty paw.

I think the new girl will keep all of us, including Walter, on our toes.

Columns

Amusing me for 38 years

Cindy Hval

Feedback from my column about the amusing things my husband says was unanimous with readers asking for another installment.

After reading it, our pastor said that he felt a sermon title coming on “God. Does. Not. Rapture. Zucchini.”

I’m eagerly waiting for that one!

I’ve been collecting Derek’s sometimes purposely but usually unintentionally funny sayings for years and saving them under the hashtag #thingsmyhusbandsays.

Here’s your second helping.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• One night I got in bed after Derek had turned in early.

“Did you see that?” he asked, as I slipped between the sheets.

“What?”

“The screen just jumped!”

“What screen?”

“The TV screen.”

“You’re not watching TV. You’re sleeping,” I said.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “But the screen just jumped.”

• At 5:30 one morning, Derek woke me up saying, “Hi! How are ya doing?”

And even though I knew he was talking in his sleep I answered, “I’m fine, how are you?”

“Wha? Huh?” he replied.

“You asked me how I was, so I said I was fine.”

“But I was talking to you on the phone in my dream. You were having car trouble. Now I won’t know which car it is, and I won’t be able to help you!”

“Go back to sleep and I’ll call you again,” I said.

Derekisms

• “Well, that’s going to throw a wrench into his monkey.”

• “Did you see that? The guys on that porch are playing guitars and Mandalorians!” (Pretty sure he meant mandolins.)

• “I tend toward goodism.”

• After a week of vacation, I wasn’t sure I remembered how to do my job. “Don’t worry, it’s just like falling off a bicycle,” Derek said.

• On my way to the grocery store, I called to ask if there was anything he wanted me to pick up.

“Yeah, get a buttermilk squash.

“You mean Butternut?

“Whatever,” he said. “Buttermilk is probably easier to cook.”

• When venting about a business contact who’s difficult to communicate with Derek said, “It’s like my texts go in one eye and out the other!”

The world according to Derek

• In the Costco parking lot on a wintery evening, he fumbled through his vest and pants pockets getting more frustrated by the second.

“I can’t find my car keys! Where are my keys!?”

I slid my hand into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out the keys.

“CLOTHES HAVE TOO MANY DAMN POCKETS,” he bellowed. “TOO MANY POCKETS!”

• A woman brought two dogs into the movie theater in a baby stroller adorned with pink ruffles. “And that there is why she’s single,” Derek said.

• “I may be over 50, but I’m just saying when the zombie apocalypse comes, I’m totally going to outlast the man-bun, high-water pants dudes.”

• Hval family dinner conversation:

Sam: I’ve got chest hair now and I don’t like it.

Derek: You’ve got Chet’s hair?

Sam: CHEST hair. I’ve got CHEST hair!

Derek: Big deal. I’ve had chest hair since I was 5. Heck, Thor’s (our cat) had chest hair since birth.

Married life

• I was in the kitchen baking while Derek searched Netflix. He settled on a foreign language film.

Me: I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.

Him: I don’t. It’s Japanese. (He doesn’t speak Japanese, either.)

• When my husband hurt his back, I offered to tie his shoes.

Dismayed, he looked down at my handiwork.

“You tied double knots? What do you think I am, a little kid?”

“I always tie my tennis shoes with double knots,” I explained.

He shook his head.

“Great. Now, everyone’s gonna know my wife tied my shoes.”

• I bemoaned the lack of time to get my eyebrows waxed.

“I’ll do them for you,” Derek offered.

I raised my bushy brows.

“I don’t know if I trust you with hot wax.”

“Wax?” he said. “I was going to use duct tape.”

• Him: How come you’re doing laundry on a Wednesday?

Me: I dunno, but for some reason I was running out of underwear.

Him: Me too! That’s why I’ve been wearing yours.

• Derek had a headache the other day, so I told him to look in the cupboard for the migraine relief pills. Later, I asked him how he was feeling.

“Great!” he said. “That Midol works wonders!”

“What?” I replied. “I said take migraine tablets.”

“You said, ‘Look for the bottle with a ‘M’ on it,’ and I did!”

Bottom line? He felt better and was a lot less moody!

How could I not be crazy about Derek? He’s not only a wonderful husband and a great provider for our household, he’s also an endless source of column fodder.

As my friends say, “He’s a keeper.”

Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com. Hval is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation” (Casemate Publishers, 2015) available at Auntie’s Bookstore and bookstores nationwide.

Columns

Fostering for furever homes

Cindy Hval

Their tiny faces peered at me from the pages of the newspaper.

Tabbies, gingers, fluffy mixed breeds and sleek black kittens, all in need of a home. It’s kitten season, and area shelters are bursting at the seams with adoptable bundles of love.

Then my friend Gina Campbell posted a picture of her newest foster – a tuxedo kitten with a Harry Potter-like mark on her forehead. The feline’s wild whiskers and goofy expression made me smile.

I showed the photo to Derek.

“Oh! A tuxedo like our first cat, Milo!” he said. “You’ve always wanted a girl. Maybe we should meet her.”

I had already planned to write about the Spokane County Regional Animal Protective Service foster program. If research called for meeting a foster kitten, so be it.

I called Gina.

“I fell into fostering five years ago,” she said. “My tuxedo cat Mercy died, and when he passed away, I grieved terribly.”

Like many who have lost a beloved pet, Gina said never again – the loss just hurts too much, but two weeks later, a friend called. A feral cat had kittens in a bush beneath his mailbox, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

Gina knew the four kittens needed to stay with their mom, so she called SCRAPS. They found a foster home for the mom and her litter.

“That’s how I found out about fostering,” Gina said. “I stayed in touch with their foster mom, and she sent me pictures of the kittens.”

By the time the kittens were spayed, she’d fallen in love with two of them, and Licorice and Luna joined the Campbell clan.

Gina’s involvement led to her attending an orientation for foster families at SCRAPS. In addition to fostering cats, she now teaches some of those orientations.

“I’m a kitten coach,” she said.

Daniella Martin, SCRAPS foster coordinator, said the shelter relies on faithful foster families.

“Fostering is for animals that would do better with one-on-one attention or who need a break from the shelter,” Martin said. “Generally, that’s puppies and kittens under two months.”

In 2023, 2,191 kittens and 255 puppies were impounded at SCRAPS.

The shelter is overwhelmed by an influx of animals – especially kittens. On a recent weekend, they even waived adoption fees for all animals in hopes of easing its maxed-out shelter capacity.

Martin said they’re thankful for their roster of foster families and are always looking for more.

“We provide supplies, training and ongoing support,” she said. “Fostering gives the animals less exposure to sickness and offers less stress on our system.”

Foster families check out a Facebook page that Martin updates with photos and information about animals needing care. They respond as they have time and space.

Recently, Gina brought home her 55th foster kitten. She cares for them until they’re big enough to be spayed and are ready for adoption through SCRAPS.

“I’ve learned a lot and cared for lots of sick kittens,” she said.

The feisty tuxedo that caught our attention is a tiny but healthy orphan.

“She was found in Spokane Valley, near Progress and Best,” Gina said. “Sometimes people ‘rescue’ them too soon. It’s best to wait and watch and see if the mama cat is nearby.”

For research purposes, I had to meet this baby. Derek and our son Sam went with me, and Sam predicted the outcome.

“When in the history of ‘going to see a cat’ have you not come home with a cat?” he asked.

He has a point. But we all fell in love with the bundle of black-and-white kitten energy.

Our 5-year-old cat Walter still has plenty of zip, but he seems lost without Thor to chase through the house. A baby sister might add some spice to his days.

We’ll find out soon because, in early August, we’ll be adopting that tiny tuxedo. Finally, I won’t be the only girl in the house!

For Gina, knowing that the cats she cares for are going to loving homes is all the reward she needs.

“Fostering is the best medicine for anxiety or depression,” she said. “I feel like I’m making a difference in an animal’s life, and I’m making a difference in the life of a family. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

To learn more about fostering go to spokanecounty.org/4228/Foster or visit during shelter hours. Find hours and information at spokanecounty.org/5519/SCRAPS.

SCRAPS is located at 6815 E. Trent Ave. in Spokane Valley.

Columns

Married to Mr. Fix-it

Cindy Hval

My husband is a fixer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crickets.

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

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

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

A few hours later – no more leak!

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

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

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

“How did you fix it?” I asked.

“Glue,” he replied.

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

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

When I praised his talents, Derek shrugged.

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

Even strangers sense his abilities.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t.

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

We haven’t seen him since.

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

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

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

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

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

Derek will do his best to repair what he can.

That’s just what fixers do.

Columns

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.