Author
Please join author Mark Cronk Farrell and me, Wednesday, April 13, for a discussion of her latest book, “Close-Up on War.” It’s the amazing story of Catherine Leroy, who documented the war in Vietnam through compelling photos.
It’s always a bit surreal to be the interviewee instead of the interviewer, but I had fun chatting with Hara Allison on her podcast “See Beneath Your Beautiful.”
See Beneath Your Beautiful podcast is raw and intimate, sometimes funny and always entertaining. With new episodes every Saturday, Hara explores our loves, fears and hopes with a delicious combination of depth and lightness.
We chatteed about writing, parenting, grandparenting and lots of stuff in between.
You can click here https://bit.ly/3okAtTe to listen to the episode, or find it on any podcast streaming service.
*Disclaimer* I utter the 3 forbidden “p” words!
I would tell you how many times I started this column, but somewhere along the way, I lost count.
What no one warns you about working from home is that if you’re prone to procrastination, your house will give you ample opportunities for postponing pesky deadlines.
In more than 15 years in journalism, I’ve never missed a deadline, nor even been significantly late, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t cut it close to the wire.
Not long ago I wrote a column about anticipation, referencing the Carly Simon classic hit song “Anticipation.”
Guess what? That tune works fine if you substitute procrastination for anticipation. (You know you just tried it.)
I hummed that tune as I started a load of laundry after typing the header on this column. Since the washer is next to the freezer, I thought I might as well grab the roast I was planning to cook for dinner.
I set the frozen slab on my desk and typed my byline. Then I checked Facebook and time melted as I scrolled through a friend’s vacation photos. The roast also started melting, so I hustled it upstairs to the kitchen.
Opening a cupboard, I searched for the seasonings I’d need for the roast. Searched, because tall bottles of cooking wine, vinegars and oils had hidden the basil and oregano.
Then I eyed the cupboard with baking supplies. We’re in the middle of zucchini season, and every week I’m churning out breads, cookies and muffins. Why was the baking powder on a shelf so high I had to climb on a chair to reach it?
Obviously, the cabinets desperately needed organizing. I pulled everything out of each cupboard and wiped down the shelves, racks and lazy Susans.
Hysterical meowing broke my cleaning reverie as my cats, Thor and Walter, notified me lunchtime was past due. I filled their bowls and heard the timer on the dryer ringing. When you don’t iron, you can’t afford to let your clothes sit in the dryer.
My blinking monitor reminded me I’d barely started this column, so I sat down and wrote the first sentence. That’s when I noticed my email flag waving. After answering and categorizing a multitude of messages, I realized I’d left everything out on the kitchen counters.
Organizing puts me in an absolute Zen state of mind. The beauty of a well-stocked kitchen delights me. By the time I was done, all of the baking and cooking spices were within easy reach, and I’d rearranged the canned and box goods, too.
It was picture-perfect, so of course, I grabbed my phone and took some photos. I posted the pictures on Instagram and congratulated myself on work well done. Then I remembered my paying job. I’d only written about 50 words. Back to the basement I trudged.
As I finish this, it’s almost time to start dinner. Which has me thinking about my pots and pans. Why are the baking sheets so hard to reach? Wouldn’t the colanders and mixing bowls work better in a larger cupboard?
That’s when I started humming. Feel free to sing along.
Procrastination,
Procrastination
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting
I’m not one to complain, but the pandemic put a real crimp in my dating life – even though I’ve been dating the same guy since 1985.
Get dressed up and attend the symphony? Not this year.
Groove to the Doobie Brothers? Postponed.
Enjoy the smash Broadway hit, “Hamilton”? Not going to happen for a while.
Even dinner in a restaurant followed by a movie at a theater wasn’t possible until recently.
Derek and I had already perfected date night at home long before that was our only option. Mainly because for many years as parents of four, living on one income, it WAS our only option.
We’d put the boys to bed at 8 p.m. He’d grill steaks, while I set the table, lit the candles, and popped a Michael Buble CD in the stereo. Then we’d watch whatever movie we’d picked up at Blockbuster.
Yes. This was back in the olden times before music streamed to your phone and movies to your television. Back in the days when you had to plan ahead if you didn’t want to get stuck renting “The Aristocats” because the latest “Terminator” movie was long gone by 5 on a Friday night.
With one kid left at home, we’d been enjoying stretching our wings, until COVID-19 clipped them, but good.
We’re profoundly grateful that neither of our jobs were impacted by the shutdowns. In fact, we’ve both been busier than ever, which makes having fun together an even bigger priority.
That’s why earlier this month I announced it was “Take Your Husband to Work Day.”
Derek owns his business, so he has some flexibility. When I told him I was driving out to Cheney for an assignment about urban chickens, he sighed.
“I’ve always wanted chickens,” he said.
“There’s some kind of chicken tractor involved, too,” I said. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off and come with me?”
The chicken tractor sealed the deal, and the game was afoot.
“I have an interview across from Northern Quest after the chicken interview,” I told him. “How ‘bout I drop you off at the casino, and then meet you for dinner when I’m done?”
He grinned.
“It’s a date!”
Derek enjoyed talking chicks with the flock owners, and as an avid gardener he loved learning about the permaculture environment the father-daughter duo was creating in their backyard.
I had just enough time to drop him off at Northern Quest before my next interview. Knowing he rarely carries cash, I gave him $40 and told him I’d text him to get us a table at Epic when I was on the way. I figured he’d be fine for the hour my assignment would take.
Which is what I told the photographer, as he worked to shoot the photos of the couple I was interviewing.
“I dunno, Cindy,” he said shaking his head. “I think this assignment is going to cost you more than you’ll make on it.”
Ha ha! Photojournalists are such kidders.
The interview ended up taking a bit longer, so I wasn’t surprised when I texted Derek, and he said he was already seated. When I joined him, he confessed that he’d gone through the $40 in 45 minutes.
“I felt so bad, I got you $20 out of the cash machine,” he said, sliding the bill across the table.
We enjoyed our meal, and then I took his $20 into the casino, where I quickly won my $40 back, plus $8.47.
Stunned, by my speedy recoup, Derek just shook his head. So, I gave him the $8.47. It only took him 5 minutes to lose $8.
Still, a good time was had by all. I came home with the $40 I left with, and Derek has a voucher for 47 cents in his wallet.
I’m also relieved that we’re moving into Phase 3 of the state’s reopening plan this week. Creative dating probably isn’t sustainable on a freelance journalist’s income.
One thing is certain: The next time it’s Take Your Husband to Work Day, I think we’ll avoid casinos.
While tidying up end-of-the-year paperwork, I dislodged an overflowing folder from the top of the filing cabinet.
It was my reader feedback folder, filled with printed emails, cards and letters I’ve received from newspaper readers this year.
Sifting through them, I’m amazed anew at how columns pounded out from my windowless, basement home office, find their way to readers across the region and prompt response.
Before COVID-19, I did a fair number of writing workshops and speaking events, and at almost every one I’m asked, “Where do you get the ideas for your column?”
After all these years, I still haven’t found a pithy answer, because writing a personal column is well, pretty personal. That’s why it’s such a joy to find something I’ve written resonates with others.
Thumbing through the notes, I found a response to a column I’d written when I discovered what the phrase “Netflix and Chill” means in contemporary culture.
The note was from Dean, 73, who said, “You rascal, you!”
I’ve never been called a rascal before. It was epic!
An email from Stan, a fellow author, and former teacher, said, “You really know your vowels and consonants.”
I immediately forwarded that one to my editor, whom I’m sure has wondered at times.
A column about anticipation drew this response from Gina, who said, “I do have the feeling of your words in my soul today.”
No writer could wish for more.
Publishing a segment of my quarantine diary prompted a comparison to Erma Bombeck that absolutely thrilled me.
When I bemoaned in print that the shutdown order had limited my wardrobe to gray yoga pants or gray sweatpants, Bob wrote, “I look forward to Thursday’s for your articles. Please don’t ever stop. Stay healthy and wear whatever you want at home.”
I’m confident, Bob would approve of today’s usual deadline attire – a fluffy pink bathrobe and matching bunny slippers.
Sometimes reader mail offers important validation on critical issues. When I wrote of my horror at discovering my husband had used MY MONDAY MUG, Marcia wrote, “By the way, the mug thing made sense to me.”
I forwarded that one to Derek.
He didn’t reply, but he hasn’t used my Monday mug since.
Cards and letters sent to me at the newsroom are now forwarded to me at home.
When I wrote about a benefit of pandemic life was discovering the joy of the newspaper crosswords, a thoughtful reader enclosed a pencil with her card.
An elegant typewritten note on gold-trimmed stationery proved delightful, especially since it was written in response to a column about my cats.
Arlene wrote, “When there is so much sadness in these difficult times, you brightened my day on October 22 with your cleverly written article about Thor and Walter Scott.”
I don’t know if the column was clever, but I do know that my cats are.
Jan sent an email that made me smile.
“Thanks for your column – one of the few items I can BELIEVE IN THE SPOKESMAN!! (caps courtesy of the writer). Hang in there.”
I’m hanging in there, and I hope Jan is, too.
Bombeck once wrote, “There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.”
It’s a line I’m privileged to walk twice a month.
In fact, the column that generated the most feedback this year blurred those lines a bit.
I wrote about my first masked, socially distant outdoor visit with my 89-year-old mom. She lives in a retirement facility just blocks from my home, but six months had passed since I’d been able to see her in person.
Readers shared their own stories of being separated from family members during the pandemic.
Bill wrote he’d been apart from his bride of 53 years for 22 weeks.
“If some of my friends read your article, they may now have a better understanding of what I’m experiencing,” he said.
Humans weren’t made to live in isolation. This year more than ever, I value the feedback of faithful newspaper readers.
Thank you for reminding me that even in the midst of a global pandemic, our stories can still connect us.
Here’s to a brighter, better, and healthier New Year.
They marched out of the old Orchard Prairie schoolhouse, eyes alight with excitement.
“Are they done yet?” asked the oldest.
The three boys had been waiting for their mom, the school’s PTO president, to finish an afternoon meeting that I’d just left.
I’d paused to take a picture of the historic schoolhouse when the boys bounded into view.
They’d been busy while they waited.
“We catched a spider!” shouted the littlest boy. “A GINORMOUS spider!”
The middle brother shouldered him out of the way.
“We put it in a Gatorade bottle that I found,” he said.
His older brother held the spider aloft, soldiering on in search of their mother, while the youngest stayed behind, eager to explain his role in the capture.
“I founded it first!” he said. “Back there!”
He pointed behind the building, bouncing with excitement.
“It’s GINORMOUS!”
Then he hurried to catch up with his brothers.
That encounter brightened a long Monday and memories of my sons tumbled through my mind.
Once upon a time, I had four little boys whose summer adventures frequently included capturing creepy crawlies.
For the record, I’m not a fan of creepy crawlies, but I am a fan of boys and boundless curiosity.
Summer often seems endless when you’re an at-home mom. Endless can equal excruciating when bored boys fight over video games. I worked hard to balance planned activities while leaving room for unstructured play. Anything to keep my busy boys away from electronic devices and spontaneous wrestling matches.
One summer, I grew tired of my Tupperware being used to re-home spiders and insects, so I bought the boys a bug-catching kit. It came with a net, a magnifying glass, tweezers and a plastic container to house their captures.
They spent hours turning over rocks, crawling under decks, and digging through dirt to find new specimens.
We checked out bug books from the library to help identify their finds and to recognize spiders they should avoid.
I realized that backfired when I overheard my middle son saying to his younger brother, “Nope. That’s not a black widow. Keep looking.”
In retrospect, it’s amazing that no one got bit or stung.
I wished I’d been more patient when they careened through the house, shrieking with excitement, holding a newly captured specimen aloft.
Instead, I often feigned interest and wearily reminded them of the “no bugs in the house” rule. In my defense, you can only rave about the coolness of pill bugs a finite number of times.
I just didn’t realize how quickly those summers would pass. Older friends tried to warn me.
“Slow down, enjoy these days, it all goes too fast,” they said.
Sometimes I did slow down enough to savor the sight of four little boys crouching in the driveway, watching a row of ants march across the gravel.
I wish I had a picture of that. But when my sons were small, cellphones didn’t come with cool cameras. Capturing memories meant running back inside the house, trying to unearth a camera.
Summer can seem endless, but it isn’t. You blink and suddenly there’s a chill in the night air and the leaves start to turn.
As I watched the three little boys run across the Orchard Prairie schoolyard with their ginormous spider, I wished I’d taken their photo.
I would have sent it to their mother.
A snapshot of a boyhood that will disappear in the blink of an eye.
I was delighted to be a guest on the Whatever Girls podcast “Elevating the Conversation,” though as a journalist it was odd to be on the other side of the Q&A!
Host Erin Bishop and I covered a lot of ground. Her grandparents are the beautiful couple on the cover of War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation.
We talked about how the women of that generation revolutionized the workplace and what it takes to have lasting relationships.
Then we talked about writing. How I got started and what’s coming up next. Of course, if you asked me a writing, I’ll talk about reading. The best writers are the best readers!
And then the heart of the podcast– the value of female friendships and how we can empower each other by elevating the conversation.
You can listen to the podcast here.
There’s a reason I keep my Facebook page politics-free, and it has little to do with being a journalist.
I don’t like conflict. I don’t like name-calling, and I really, really don’t like intolerance and ignorance.
Sadly, there’s nothing like a contentious election season to bring out all of the above. But I purposely keep my political views to myself. In fact, for someone who’s written a column about her underwear, I’m actually an intensely private person. Imagine my surprise when I found myself unfriended by a family member following the election.
My apparent offense? I “liked” a comment another family member had left that repudiated a label often used during passionate political posts. The label? “Privileged white male.” The PWM in question explained why he was tired of his opinions being dismissed with this label and I liked his explanation.
Bam. Apparently, hitting the like button on that comment exceeded her tolerance level. Keep in mind I’d never disagreed or argued with anything this person had posted.
I’m not alone in my experience. A friend was banished from Facebook friendship by a family member because he admitted he’d left the presidential spot blank on his ballot. He couldn’t stomach either option, so he did what he felt was honorable.
He was accused of being a sexist, racist jerk and told that he should … well, I can’t print the rest of the rant in a family newspaper.
When imagined incorrect interpretations are applied to Facebook likes, when rage and rhetoric rule the day, how then can our country and our community move forward? Is it possible to stand and fight for causes and people we’re passionate about without dipping buckets into wells of hatred and splattering others with venom and vitriol?
I’d like to think it is. Perhaps part of the solution is getting to know the “other” among us.
In the weeks preceding the election I had coffee with a friend who said she honestly didn’t know anyone who would vote for Donald Trump. She was joyfully planning a small voting victory party for election night.
That same week I had lunch with a friend who said she didn’t know anyone who would actually vote for Hillary Clinton. “Of course, that doesn’t mean she won’t win,” my friend said. “It’s just that I can’t imagine anyone I know choosing her.”
My reticence renders me like Switzerland, so both of these friends felt comfortable tossing around labels about people who would vote for the candidates they opposed.
“Underclass, undereducated, sexist bigots,” my liberal friend opined.
“Sensitive snowflakes, elitists and whiny millennials,” my conservative friend asserted.
And therein lays the problem. The minute we apply a blanket label to anyone who may vote differently from us, we’ve ensured our bubble is intact. We have become so comfortable in our social and political isolation that we have lost touch with the wider world.
This past week I’ve seen an outpouring of grieving and gloating on social media, and while the hateful rhetoric of some shocked and saddened me, I was relieved that my closest circle of friends had more measured thoughtful reactions.
Whether frightened or hopeful about the next few years, I hope the path forward will include listening and learning from those who differ from us. Hatred can never be part of the solution.
Violence won’t beget tolerance or peace. Rage doesn’t lead to enlightenment.
Our children are watching. They’re listening to our words. They’re reading our posts on social media. If we truly want to create a safe world for them to thrive in, we owe it to them to forge ahead with courage and to take every opportunity to choose love.
The words of Martin Luther King Jr. have never been more apt, “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.”
Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” You can listen to her podcast “Life, Love and Raising Sons” at SpokaneTalksOnline.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.
In which I’ve come unglued. Or something. Seriously, aging isn’t for the faint of heart– or weak of ankle.
Squinting at my phone, I rubbed my thumb across the screen, certain there was a smudge on it marring the photo I’d just taken of my friend and me.
After posting it on Facebook, I checked the enlarged photo on my computer and that shadow I’d seen between both of our brows was still there. Only it wasn’t a shadow – it was most definitely a crease. How had we both suddenly developed frown lines right between our eyes? Neither of us is prone to frowning.
And not for the first time, I realized I should have listened to my mother.
Sometime in her late 40s in an effort to combat wrinkles, my mother came up with an innovative solution to prevent pesky frown lines. Before going to bed at night, she affixed a corn plaster right between her eyes. She dubbed them “frownies” and was confident the plaster would prevent wrinkles from creasing her forehead while she slept.
I’ve noticed other signs of increasing decrepitude. A few months back I started having severe pain in my right elbow that radiated down my forearm.
“How could I have tennis elbow?” I moaned to my husband. “I haven’t played tennis in 25 years!”
I took ibuprofen and soldiered on, unwilling to spend time or money on a doctor visit. A colleague heard my groans and diagnosed the issue. Turns out it wasn’t tennis elbow – it was “mouse elbow,” a common problem for people who work at computers all day.
She sent me a chart about how to sit at my desk to help alleviate the pain. I adjusted my chair and desk, bought an elbow brace and before long, the pain was gone. Who needs a doctor when you’ve got a journalist?
It’s a good thing my elbow felt better, because lately I’ve been limping. The pain radiates from my Achilles tendon, making walking miserable. This is not good news because I walk several miles three to four times a week and need this exercise for both my physical and mental health.
Achilles tendinitis is most common in runners, and I can assure you I only run if something or someone is chasing me. Baffled, I tried ice and heat and ibuprofen. Nothing seemed to work.
I took several weeks off from my walking routine, but it’s not like I can go through life without walking anywhere.
Even my journalist friends were baffled.
Then one day while sitting at my desk, I discovered the source of my strain. While writing, I often cross my legs and push my right foot against the back of my desk, flexing my Achilles. I also often tuck my legs behind me, flexing my right foot against the chair leg.
Bingo! Pain solved. Kind of.
Keeping my feet on the ground while working has fixed the source of the problem, and I’ve been able to resume my walking routine, but hills are still painful and if I walk too much, the limp returns.
According to Google, this type of injury can take up to two years to heal. Google further said this problem is also associated with the aging process.
Sometimes I really hate the internet.
So, there you have it. Apparently, I’ve reached the age where frown fairies sneak into my room and slap a crease between my brows while I’m sleeping. I can hurt my elbow by typing and my Achilles by sitting at my desk.
This morning I woke up, stretched my arms over my head and sighed when I heard my shoulders snap, crackle and pop. I didn’t bound out of bed, I cautiously tested my tendon and groaned when I felt the familiar ache that told me I’d walked too many miles yesterday.
I took the stairs to my office one at a time and carefully adjusted my mouse pad, keyboard and chair before I began writing.
As I type my feet are firmly on the ground. At this rate, they’re going to be the only firm thing about me.
Like Bette Davis famously said, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”
Which could be why she also said, “There comes a time in every woman’s life when the only thing that helps is a glass of Champagne.”
Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” You can listen to her podcast “Life, Love and Raising Sons” at SpokaneTalksOnline.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.
Cindy Hval 