Columns

Can’t do 55?

I stood in the middle of the bedroom and spun in a slow circle.

A few minutes earlier I’d left my desk and rushed upstairs to get something. Something really important. Something I needed immediately. But darn, if I could remember what that something was.

Walter, our tabby kitten, sat on my feet and looked up.

“Meow?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t rush in here to cuddle you,” I replied.

He padded over to the closet and sat by his food dish.

“Meow?”

“No, you’ve already had lunch.”

Flummoxed, he hopped onto our bed. That’s when I saw the notebook I’d left near my pillow.

“That’s it!” I said. “Thank you, Walter.”

When you have to rely on a 10-month-old kitten to keep you on task, you know something has shifted.

My husband thinks he knows what it is.

That evening when I told him about my memory lapse, he grinned and started singing, “I can’t drive 55, oh no!”

Knowing his penchant for belting out Sammy Hagar songs, I waited until he’d sung through the chorus twice, and let him get in a few air guitar licks.

“What does my lead foot tendency have to do with why I can’t remember what I went into the bedroom for?” I asked.

Derek pointed to the calendar.

Ah. We’d just celebrated my 55th birthday.

“So. You’re saying I’m old? That I’m having senior moments?”

He wrapped his arms around me.

“Look at it this way, you’re not old, you just need to start shopping at Fred Meyer on Tuesday, so you can get the senior discount.”

Actually, those forgetful moments have been happening to both of us for years. We’ve begun texting shopping lists and errand reminders to each other. Of course, that means we have to remember to check our phones when we’re out.

And lately we’ve become one of those couples who fill in each other’s blanks.

“What was the movie we saw when we were first married?” Derek asked. “It was a part of a horror triple feature with Ronnie McDowall.”

“Fright Night,” I replied. “And it was Roddy McDowall.”

“What was the name of that restaurant where we used to eat at after church?” I asked.

“Rancho Chico,” he said.

“No, before kids.”

“Oh! Mr. Steak.”

Shared memory is one of the perks of a long-term marriage. And speaking of perks, I was really excited to realize I now qualify for the senior discount at the movie theater. When my friend Carol and I went to see “The Call of the Wild” recently, I proudly asked for the discount.

Honestly? I was a bit disappointed the cashier didn’t express surprise at my request, or even ask to see my driver’s license, but the cheap ticket was worth it.

Carol and I headed to the restroom before finding our seats because that’s what you do when you’re 55. As we left the restroom and headed toward the line I reached into my coat pocket for my ticket. No ticket. I checked my other pocket, then my jeans. No ticket!

I went back to the bathroom to see if I’d set it down while washing my hands. Nope. I dug through my purse. Derek calls it the Black Hole for a reason. It’s large with lots of pockets. I scoured it. I shook it. No ticket.

Mortified, I explained my dilemma to the manager.

“And it’s the first time I’ve used the senior discount, too,” I said.

He graciously waved me through.

Meanwhile, Carol was laughing so hard, it’s a good thing she’d already used the restroom.

“Your first senior discount and your first senior moment,” she chortled.

Well, one out of two of those statements was correct.

We took our seats, and as the previews began, I unzipped the cellphone pocket in my purse to ensure my phone was on silent.

“Carol,” I whispered. “Look, I found my ticket.”

Thankfully, we were able to get our hysterical giggles under control before the movie started.

Looks like Sammy Hagar isn’t the only one who has issues with 55.

Columns

What ketchup,The Doobie Brothers, breakfast in bed, and my grandsons have in common

In the late 1970s a classic ketchup commercial captured the attention of television viewers.

Two boys grabbed the condiment to put on their burgers.

“Boy, is your ketchup slow,” says the first boy.

Shocked, the second boy replies, “You mean your mom doesn’t buy you Heinz? Wait till you taste it!”

And wait they do, as the camera zooms in on the thick, tomato-red sauce slowly spilling from bottle to burger while the song “Anticipation” plays.

“The taste that’s worth the wait,” a voice intones at the end of the spot.

Anticipation is a feeling of excitement about something pleasant that you know is going to happen, and it’s just about my favorite feeling in the world.

In a time where much of what we want is instantaneously available with the click of button, or swipe of a finger, waiting for something good is a delicious discipline.

This time of year many folks are anticipating tax returns and thinking about how to spend them. Others are dreaming of summer, reserving campsites or booking hotel rooms. It’s how we get through the gloomy, gray days of February.

But anticipating even small pleasures makes life more enjoyable.

Every morning I groggily open my eyes, fumble for my bathrobe and feed my frantic cats. Then I pour a cup of coffee and take it back to bed.

I look forward to that first sip of hot java. The rich flavor warms me and perks me up enough to pick up my phone and scroll through my calendar.

As I review my daily and weekly tasks, Walter jumps into bed with me, lays his head on my pillow and scoots close for his morning cuddle. At nine months, this kitten is growing fast, so I welcome his furry affection while it lasts.

Dread is the opposite of anticipation. It’s what happened last week when I saw I’d booked a dental appointment and an eye exam the same week. Thankfully, I’d sandwiched Happy Hour with a friend squarely between those two not-fun activities.

Anticipation is all about planning. If I didn’t schedule time to spend with friends, it simply wouldn’t happen.

Derek and I look forward to our weekly date nights. It rarely happens on the same day, but that’s the fun of it. And the dates don’t have to be pricey.

When I’m covering an evening or weekend event, he often comes along and I take him to dinner afterward. We keep a running list of things we’d like to do or see. It can be trekking to an unfamiliar city park, trying a new restaurant or taking in a discount movie.

I also look forward to Saturdays, because Derek almost always brings me breakfast in bed. It wouldn’t be such a treat if it happened every morning, (though I wouldn’t object if it did).

A few times a year, we schedule big events like a concert or getaway. It’s fun to look at our calendars and see the Doobie Brothers concert coming up, or even more exciting – trips to Ohio to visit our twin grandsons.

Since our third son moved out, I’ve added a weekly family dinner to my rotation of anticipation. While I’ve always enjoyed cooking, when my house was full it often felt like one more chore at the end of a busy day. Now, I look forward to setting the table for five and to feeding my boys their favorite dishes.

Carly Simon sang, “Anticipation, anticipation … it’s keeping me waiting.”

And that’s not a bad thing. More than just the taste of good ketchup – the best things in life are worth the wait.

Columns

Word Trouble: I don’t think that means what you think it means

I’ve been told I have a way with words.

After all, I’ve spent many years making a living writing them. But this summer I learned I’d apparently lost my way – at least when it comes to contemporary euphemisms.

Each year I host a gathering of friends in our backyard gazebo. The Great Gazebo Girlfriend Gathering provides a way for me to bring friends from varying parts of my life together to reflect, reminisce and laugh.

It’s also quite an educational event.

My friend, Judi, told us about her stay at a cute bed-and-breakfast with interesting room names.

“I saw that on Facebook!” I said. “I thought it was cool that your room was ‘Netflix and chill.’ ”

A brief silence fell.

Then someone giggled. Someone else tittered. Judi’s eyes got big.

“What?” I asked.

“Cindy, don’t you know what ‘Netflix and chill’ means?” my friend Sarah asked.

Puzzled, I gazed at her.

“Of course, I do,” I replied. “It means you’re going to watch a movie and relax.”

I’m pretty sure the resulting howls of laughter could be heard for miles.

Apparently, somehow, when I wasn’t looking, that innocently descriptive phrase has morphed into meaning something entirely different.

Here’s the Wikipedia definition: Netflix and chill, as a distinct phrase, means to watch Netflix with a romantic prospect with the eventual expectation of sexual activity.

And that’s the most family-friendly definition.

Reader, I beg of you, do not look this up in the Urban Dictionary.

Horrified, I gazed at my laughing friends.

A blush spread over my face and deepened to a reddish hue as I recalled my response when a much younger colleague asked what Derek and I had planned for the weekend.

“Oh, we’re going to Netflix and chill all weekend long. I can’t wait!” I replied.

He grinned.

“Good for you!” he said.

Then I remembered how I’d told the grocery store cashier the same thing. He paused in the midst of scanning my items, smiled and winked at me.

“Awesome,” he said.

I endured my friends’ good-natured ribbing for the rest of the party, but honestly, I hoped they were pulling my leg (definition: to make someone believe something that is not true as a joke, which I looked up to be sure that meaning hadn’t changed).

When they left, I turned to my trusted youngest son.

“Sam, what does ‘Netflix and chill’ mean?”

Peering at me, he cautiously replied. “What do you think it means?”

That’s how I knew my friends were telling the truth, and I was mortified all over again.

I hoped this was something only teenagers, young adults and their parents knew, but recently that hope was dashed.

When we met my friend Jill and her husband for dinner, the subject of my embarrassment came up again. (Honestly, I’ll be 70 before I live this down.)

To prove the phrase wasn’t known to merely the younger set, Jill asked our server, “Do you know what ‘Netflix and chill’ means?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And I only do that with my husband.”

Lesson learned. The next time someone asks what my plans are for the evening I will reply, “My husband and I are going to watch a movie via an online streaming service and relax.”

Or, because truthfulness is important to me, I might just smile and say, “We’re going to Netflix and chill.”

Columns

There’s only one way to rock when you’re number three

Some women might chafe at being their husband’s third choice.

Not me.

When Derek read Sammy Hagar was coming to Northern Quest this summer, he quickly snapped up two tickets. My husband is a fan of all things Van Halen, and Hagar famously fronted for the band during David Lee Roth’s extended absence. The fact that former Van Halen bassist Michael Anthony now tours with Hagar just sweetened the deal for Derek.

I’m not a Van Halen fan, and I only vaguely remember the Red Rocker’s solo career. As for Montrose and Chickenfoot?

I shook my head when Derek insisted I must have heard of Hagar’s other bands.

You see, while my husband was rocking out to Blue Oyster Cult, The Cars and Van Halen, I got my groove on with Bon Jovi, Blondie, Billy Joel, and way too much Air Supply.

I wasn’t worried about brushing up on my rock ’n’ roll ignorance because Derek planned to attend the concert with his brother, who at 13 months his junior, enjoys the same high school musical memories as Derek.

Alas, Darrol, an emergency room physician in Pullman, had to work the night of the concert.

No worries, because one of Derek’s good friends frequently goes to concerts with him, and also happens to own a signed Sammy Hagar guitar.

I knew they’d have a great time.

Then his friend found out about a family wedding he had to attend.

Derek looked at me doubtfully.

“Zach would go with me,” he said.

Our third son inherited his father’s love of Van Halen.

“But if you go with me, I’ll spring for a couple’s massage at the Spa,” Derek continued. “And dinner.”

I grinned.

“You had me at spa.”

So, Saturday afternoon we slipped into the hot tub at La Rive at Northern Quest, and sipped some wine, while we waited for the attendants to call us for our massages.

“I like Sammy Hagar better already,” I said.

Imagine my surprise when I liked him even more once he took the stage!

Some tunes like “I Can’t Drive 55,” and “Right Now” were familiar due to radio play back in the day, but others like “Why Can’t This Be Love,” and “Mas Tequila” were fun new songs to me.

Derek was thrilled with the set list, and even more pleased that Hagar’s voice has held up so well.

“He sounds way better than David Lee Roth did in Tacoma,” Derek said.

He’d taken two of our sons to see Van Halen several years ago when they played in Tacoma, and while they had a great time, Derek said Roth’s vocals sounded strained and the band played louder to cover the weakness.

Hagar didn’t need any such help Saturday night. And in my opinion the Red Rocker is hotter at 71, than he ever was at 31. His moplike head of curls has been tamed just a bit and he’s trim, fit, tanned, and has moves better than Jagger’s.

“Must be all that tequila,” Derek mused.

Hagar founded a tequila company in the ’90s and sold it several years ago.

Whatever the reason, Hagar still has the pipes to hit all the right notes. But even better, on Saturday it was apparent to his thousands of fans at Northern Quest that Hagar truly loves what he’s doing.

His appreciation of the venue and the crowd seemed sincere. When it came time for his encore, he didn’t bother to leave the stage.

Instead, he stayed and gave the audience more of what they wanted.

Turns out I was one of those fans screaming for more.

If Hagar’s right that “There’s Only One Way to Rock,” then being your husband’s third choice is sure a fun way to do it.

Columns

Picking Perfect Paint Problematic

It’s amazing how a fresh coat of paint and updated décor improves a home’s entryway.

It’s equally amazing how challenging it can be to find the perfect color of paint.

Several years ago, my husband ripped up the brown carpet in our living room and installed beautiful hardwood floors. We chose Hazy Jade paint for the walls. The warm green offered the perfect accent to the oak floors.

We finished the project just in time for the holidays, and Derek said we’d tackle the entryway in the spring.

Spring came and went, but when a new round of holidays approached, we set off for the paint store.

We wanted something that would complement, but not detract from our Hazy Jade living room and hallway. Something off-white perhaps?

I’m here to tell you that finding a whiter shade of pale proved pretty near impossible.

We took home samples of Chantilly Lace, Dove Wing and Sea Pearl – all too white for the high walls of our split-entry doorway.

“Maybe we should go toward yellows?” I wondered.

Samples of Cornbread, Hawthorne and Philadelphia Cream came home.

None of them were right.

Finally, we settled on what promised to be a soft cream with yellow undertones.

Out came the ladder.

Derek painted the topmost edges.

“Look good?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“It’s hard to tell from down here.”

The next day Derek painted around the door and halfway down the largest wall.

Turns out, that once applied, soft cream looks more like butter. Bright, yellow, sunshiney butter.

I hated it. Derek didn’t like it either.

For the first time in our marriage, I actually asked him to NOT finish a project.

We hosted holiday gatherings with half the wall painted and the other wall primed.

Actually, we hosted several holiday gatherings that way, because Derek had moved on to other projects; a retaining wall in the backyard, window boxes for the deck, a fence-repair in progress.

This spring when Mother’s Day approached, I told him I only wanted one thing: the entryway paint job finished.

“You know you’ll have to look at paint samples, again,” he warned.

(For me, looking at paint samples ranks right up there with going to the dentist.)

I nodded. I was heartily sick of looking at half-painted yellow walls.

My husband, having had several years to think about what went wrong, said he thought we should look at more earth-toned palettes.

He was right! It only took two visits to the paint store to decide Wheat Toast would perfectly complement Hazy Jade.

Derek and our son went to pick up the paint. Unfortunately, they left the sample card with the paint name at home.

“I picked up a gallon of Burnt Toast,” Derek texted.

Thankfully, he was teasing.

The entryway was finished shortly after Father’s Day, and we are thrilled with the color. Of course, now we needed new décor to tie everything together.

A friend had recently given me a beautiful quilt, and I thought it would look lovely in the entryway. We pulled out my hanging quilt rack from the basement and back up the ladder Derek went.

The quilt was perfect.

“What are we going to hang over the door?” he asked. “How ’bout a wreath?”

I’ve heard there are husbands who aren’t interested in such things. Not mine. Derek has an artist’s eye for color and space, and he’s much handier with a hammer (and scaling scary ladders) than I’ll ever be.

For several weekends we scoured home stores, and I decided I wanted a sign with our last name under whatever wreath we found.

I knew we (actually, he) would have to make it because Hval isn’t a common last name. We sorted through bins of wooden and metal letters and discovered V is for Very, as in very hard to find.

Finally, all the pieces came together and our entryway is done. It’s warm and inviting, just the way we want our home to feel.

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“We make a good team,” Derek said, as we gazed at the finished results.

I agreed.

“You know,” I said. “It’s been a long time since we painted the living room. Maybe it’s time to update that, too?”

Derek didn’t say a word, but his complexion took on a greenish hue that looked distinctly Hazy Jade.

Columns

Mystery, Murder and Mayhem on the Columbia

We’d barely finished our appetizers when Jimmy “the Gyp” got bashed in the back of the head. I clutched my champagne glass as Crusher, the Don’s bodyguard, rushed past our table.

Turns out that was just the first fatality of many aboard ship.

“I told you business trips are more exciting when you bring me,” I said to my husband.

He tipped his fedora.

“Everything is more exciting when you’re along,” Derek replied.

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Last month he mentioned he had to go to Yakima and Tri-Cities to see some customers, and was considering spending a day in Walla Walla if I would join him.

What I heard was, “Want to go on an epic adventure with me? I’ll be traveling to the Palm Springs of Washington and then to the site of a decommissioned nuclear production facility. We could add an overnight in wine country, if you want.”

So, of course, I agreed.

Thanks to WiFi I can work from anywhere, and if anywhere includes a chaise lounge beside a pool, so much the better.

Our overnight in Yakima was quick, but we knew we’d be spending a couple days in the Tri-Cities. That’s when I remembered some friends had texted us about the fun they had aboard a murder mystery cruise on the Columbia River.

We found the Water2Wine website and booked a pair of tickets. Our purchase included a 2 1/2-hour cruise on the Columbia, complimentary glasses of champagne, a four-course dinner, and a murder mystery presented by the Desert Dahlias theater group.

On a sparkling summer evening, we boarded the 96-foot Chrysalis luxury yacht. Programs listing the cast of characters for “Mafia Murders” waited at our table. We were instructed to interact with the cast, ask questions and perhaps even solve the mystery. Many of the guests wore vintage 1920s-style clothing, which added to the fun.

As plots go, this one was as thin as the paper the program was printed on. A “Babyface” Don, a jealous older brother, a hijacked liquor shipment, a moll, a troubled sister, a violent bodyguard, a mafia accountant and his twin brother, and a long-suffering Italian auntie.

Oh yeah, and lots of murder and mayhem.

Deft servers delivered food and drink while the melodrama evolved around us. The mighty Columbia provided a beautiful backdrop.

Between courses, we spent some time on deck, enjoying the warm evening on the water.

A commotion broke out behind us as we returned to our table. Crusher, the bodyguard, collapsed, his throat slit.

Surprisingly, nothing whets the appetite like a dead body on the floor behind you. However, as Derek sliced into his perfectly prepared steak, the Sneak approached him.

“You there. Youse look like a big guy. We need a bodyguard, see. Crusher, he got whacked, and we can’t leave the Don unprotected.”

Derek, obliging, flexed his biceps.

“Yeah, not bad. Stand up. What would you do if I had a gun in this hand, here?”

My husband’s 24-year military career did include some hand-to-hand combat instruction, so he rather expertly “disarmed” the Sneak, all the while grinning at me.

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While he could strip an imaginary gun from the hand of an assailant, he couldn’t prevent what happened next.

As dessert was served, Babyface drank a poisoned cocktail and collapsed at our feet. Before Derek could be berated, or beheaded for his lapse in duty, shots were fired and the Sneak fell in a crumpled heap.

“No offense, honey, but I think it’s best if you stay in the industrial tooling business,” I said, patting Derek’s arm.

He grinned and dug into his strawberry-topped cake.

As to whodunit? I’m not one to spoil a mystery. You’ll have to book your own cruise to find the answer.

The sun set as the Chrysalis sailed toward the dock.

“I think I should take you on all my business trips,” Derek said, putting his arm around me.

And who am I to argue with a former mafia bodyguard?

Columns

Rosie and other turn ons

Each fall and winter, I’m blessed to use the home of snowbird friends as a writing retreat. When they left Spokane in September, they left behind a new member of the household – Rosie the iRobot Roomba.

Basically, it’s a vacuum cleaner. A vacuum that can be controlled by my friends’ iPhones, meaning if they wanted to, they could turn Rosie on from the safety of the southern climes and terrify the writer typing away in the solitude of their home.

Thankfully, so far, they’ve resisted temptation.

Last month with the homeowners’ return imminent, I decided to let Rosie do her thing and clean up any sandwich crumbs or M&M’s I may have lost track of.

I read the introductory note they’d left for me and approached Rosie with confidence. A push of the button and she roared to life.

Startled by the sound I took a step back. Rosie followed.

“Hey, girl,” I said. “You go do your thing.”

Obediently, she scooted under the coffee table, while I retreated to the safety of my desk.

Fascinated, I watched her zig and zag across the carpet. Her pattern was impossible to decipher. After a few passes in front of the fireplace, she headed toward a nearby bedroom, where she spent an inordinate amount of time under the bed.

I texted my friend.

“I’m letting Rosie chase me around. Does she work on hard surfaces? I haven’t seen her in the bathroom yet.”

My friend replied, “Yes, she will do it all. But she has her ways that to us mortals may seem absurd.”

No kidding. Rosie would never pass a field sobriety test. When she emerged from the bedroom, she spent several dizzying minutes cleaning under a chair before weaving down the hall like she’d had one too many martinis.

But she did a fantastic job and safely docked herself in her charging port. I then took her upstairs and set her free.

I was engrossed in my manuscript when I heard something that sounded like an alarm. My friend had warned me Rosie was prone to getting stuck under the living room sofa.

I dashed upstairs, following the pinging sound, and then heard the plaintive refrain.

“Roomba is in distress! Roomba is in distress!”

Poor Rosie. I hauled her out from under the couch.

“You silly girl,” I said, and gave her a quick pat.

It seems Rosie and Thor, my cat, have a lot in common, though Thor makes more messes than he cleans up.

I reported the successful suck-up operation to my husband when I got home. Derek is so app-averse; I knew he’d never fall for any techno gizmos.

Turns out I was wrong.

This weekend he announced, “Hey, honey, guess what I can turn on with my phone?”

None of the replies I thought of seemed appropriate.

He beckoned me to our darkened living room and pulled out his phone.

“Watch this!” he said.

Suddenly a lamp lit up.

“And I can dim it too, for mood lighting,” Derek enthused, and proudly demonstrated.

“I don’t understand. We don’t have iPhones. How does it work?”

It seems a friend had given Derek a Smart Wi-Fi LED light bulb for his birthday last summer, and my experience with Rosie had prompted him to install it.

“Isn’t it great?” he said.

“I guess so, but I’m standing right here. I can turn it on without a phone,” I replied.

He shook his head.

“I know, but I can turn it on when I pull in the driveway, or I can dim it when we watch movies. Pretty cool new technology, huh?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him the technology was hardly new. Why all over the city, there were probably dozens of people using the Clapper to clap on/clap off their lights.

Wisely, I remembered how nice it had been to have Rosie clean the house while I worked. Then I snuggled next to Derek on the couch, while he dimmed the lights.

Our future’s looking “Rosier” all the time.

Columns

Fans Keep on Lovin’ REO Speedwagon

He stood like a lonely Statue of Liberty, holding his lighter aloft, its flame flickering in the darkness. An actual cigarette lighter, not a pale imitation cellphone flashlight.

You should have seen by the look in my eyes, baby

There was something missin’

He swayed. Silent. Stoic.

You should have known by the tone in my voice, maybe

But you didn’t listen

The Thursday night crowd at Northern Quest Resort and Casino had already come unglued as REO Speedwagon unleashed “In Your Letter “ and “Keep Pushin’,” but something tells me the fan with the lighter had been waiting for “Keep on Loving You.”

Like any iconic rock band, REO Speedwagon knew fans had come to hear their hits and to bask in the memories that their music brings. And Lighter Guy, lost in his own world, was as my kids say, feeling “all the feels.”

And I’m gonna keep on lovin’ you

’Cause it’s the only thing I want to do

I don’t want to sleep, I just want to keep on lovin’ you

By the time the chorus rolled around, most of the sold-out crowd, including Derek and I, stood with Lighter Guy, belting out the lyrics.

When my husband saw REO Speedwagon was coming to Northern Quest, he quickly scooped up tickets. After all, the band was at its zenith when Derek graduated from high school in 1981. There’s nothing like a blast of music from the past to make you feel young again.

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With evangelistic zeal, lead singer Kevin Cronin whipped the middle-aged crowd into a frenzy – especially the super fan across the aisle from us. She whooped. She hollered. She pogo-jumped up and down and her air guitar skills were impressive.

“Rock ’n’ roll will keep you young forever!” Cronin hollered.

“Or else it kills you,” Derek said, shouting in my ear.

That was the last thing I actually heard him say for quite a while. It was the first time I’d wished for earplugs at a concert since Def Leppard played the Spokane Arena in 2017. Everything sounded like I was underwater no matter how many times I tried to pop my ears.

About four songs into the evening, things began to sound clearer.

“I think my ears are adjusting,” I said.

“What?” Derek replied. “I can’t hear you. They are really loud!”

Despite the decibel level, the band sounded great, but it was the crowd that truly made the show. In addition to Lighter Guy and Air Guitar Lady, Baseball Cap Gal, in front of us, was a hoot to watch.

With her curly hair pulled through the back of her ball cap, she looked to be having the time of her life. She rocked. She bounced. She shook her gray-streaked ponytail like the teenager she used to be. And she knew the lyrics to every single song, even “Tough Guys.”

We didn’t mind her exuberance a bit, as she was a tad on the short side.

“Oh, hey, I didn’t realize she was standing up,” said Derek.

However, one fan’s enthusiasm kept getting the better of her. She doggedly danced down the aisle to the front of the stage, only to be repeatedly danced back by a long-suffering, very patient member of the security team.

At one point she found Air Guitar Lady and they linked arms, attempting to lead her to worship at the altar of their rock gods.

A woman behind us leaned forward.

“That’s not going to end well,” she said.

Sure enough, moments later, Air Guitar Lady was back in her row, while Mosh Pit Hopeful was escorted to the nether regions.

You have to admire a band that inspires that kind of devotion decades after their last chart-topping hit.

REO Speedwagon still delivers a fantastic, high-energy show. “Ride the Storm Out” shook the room, and the crowd eagerly offered vocal assistance on “Can’t Fight This Feeling” and “Take it on the Run.”

Keep in mind these guys aren’t exactly teenagers. Kevin Cronin is 67, bassist Bruce Hall is 65, and founding member, keyboardist Neal Doughty is 72, yet they blazed through their entire set list, plus encores, without a break.

Who knows? Maybe rock ’n’ roll really does keep you young forever.

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Columns

Still dating after all these years

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Glancing at the clock, I fastened my earrings and scanned the room for my gold sandals. My date was on the way to pick me up, and I didn’t want to keep him waiting.

Honestly, he wouldn’t complain too much if I did. He’s kind of used to it. We’ve been dating for 33 years.

Yep. My husband and I still date, and with our nest gradually emptying, we’ve resumed dates that actually involve leaving the house and going someplace other than Home Depot or Albertsons. Dates that require advance planning which translates into eager anticipation.

When our boys were little, date night meant putting them all to bed by 8, enjoying a candlelit dinner at our dining room table and renting a movie from Hastings. It also only happened once a month, due to sheer busyness and exhaustion.

This year, with more freedom in time and budget, we’ve instituted weekly dates. Dinner and a movie are nice, but we’ve upped the ante on our adventures. As a result, we’ve been exploring and enjoying our hometown.

For example, late this spring when the Spokane River was at its peak, we dined on the patio at Clinkerdagger’s, shopped in the Flour Mill, spied on the marmots scampering on nearby rocks and snapped a selfie with the river behind us.

But dates don’t need to be spendy. One hot sunny Saturday, we played tourist and explored Manito Park in all its glory.

We encountered some real tourists in the Perennial Garden.

“Spokane is just like a mini-Seattle!” one of them exclaimed.

Them there is fightin’ words to this hometown girl, but Derek distracted me by pointing out a large butterfly perched nearby.

We skipped the Duck Pond because many years ago, our son, Alex, took an unplanned dip in the pond’s murky waters during a family picnic. We’re still traumatized by the memory of trying to clean duck poop off the kid in a park bathroom.

“I told him not to run on those rocks. They’re slippery, I said,” Derek muttered as we skirted the pond.

See? Traumatized.

Our weekly dates have also included local attractions that we’ve always meant to get to, but never had the time – the Spokane Valley Heritage Museum, for one.

When we read the museum was hosting a traveling Smithsonian exhibit, “Mail Call,” we took a Friday afternoon off from work and checked it out.

The exhibit tells the history of the military mail system and featured personal stories of service and family bonds, told through documents, photos, audio recordings and handwritten letters.

We were charmed by the unique museum and its friendly staff.

Last Saturday, we enjoyed a lingering summer date in the West Central neighborhood.

We started the evening with appetizers at The Wandering Table in Kendall Yards, and then wandered across the street to the Maryhill Winery tasting room.

The Maryhill patio, liberally dotted with umbrella’d tables, is quickly becoming our favorite spot to unwind, enjoy a glass of wine and soak in the spectacular views of the river, downtown and the Centennial Trail.

From Kendall Yards, we drove west to a Spokane landmark – Doyle’s Ice Cream Parlor. Though he’s lived in Spokane more than 40 years, Derek had never been to the iconic seasonal shop.

We sat in the red Adirondack chairs out front, enjoying huge scoops of licorice ice cream and watching the steady stream of people ebb and flow from the busy shop.

As we savored each bite, we had our usual marital discussions of what the work week ahead looked like, the status of our August vacation plans, and where we’d like to go on future dates.

We’d saved the newspaper’s guide to area parks and plan to start working our way through a list of parks we want to explore. Sunday’s story on city staircases gave us some new destinations to contemplate.

Sure, sometimes dates are simply Netflix, pizza and jammies at home, but going out on the town adds intentional enjoyment. Especially, when you have the day circled in red on your calendar.

Anticipation. That’s what makes dating so much fun.

War Bonds

When Opposites Attract

She was an only child. He was one of seven.

He was a Catholic. She was a Protestant.

She joined the Air Force. He joined the Navy.

He’s an extrovert. She’s an introvert.

The adage “opposites attract” certainly applies to Becky and Harry Flanigan.

They met as children growing up in the same neighborhood in New Albany, Indiana. But Becky had no intention of dating Harry, two years her junior, let alone marrying him.

Harry, however, had other ideas.

In their Kendall Yards apartment, he grinned as he recalled his first sight of Becky. His speech has been impaired by a stroke, but he communicates with hand gestures and short sentences.

“I was 4 years old when I met her. I was 11 when I knew I wanted to marry her,” he said.

It seems when he was 4, a button popped off his snow pants, and Becky’s mother sewed it back on for him. That’s how they met.

At 11, he was stricken by polio and from his bed near the living room window; he watched Becky and his older brother walk to school each day.

“I told Mom I was going to marry her,” he said.

But marriage would have to wait.

After high school, Becky went to nursing school at Ball State University. When an Air Force recruiter came to talk to the soon-to-graduate nurses, she and three friends signed up, and were soon sent to Minot, North Dakota.

Meanwhile, Harry, who hoped to be a doctor, attended St. Louis University until he ran out of funds. After working for the Army Corps of Engineers for a couple years, he enlisted in the Navy.

In 1966, he was attached to the Marine Corps unit in Chu Lai, Vietnam. He and his fellow corpsmen sent up and ran the field hospital there. He doesn’t talk about his experiences in Chu Lai.

When asked if he lost friends during the war, he hung his head and buried his face in his hands.

Becky said, “He brought home a machete and once I asked him where he got it. He said, ‘You don’t want to know.’”

One of the first things he did after returning home was to call Becky and ask her for a date.

“I said yes,” she recalled. “Then I told my mother, ‘What have I done?’ I’m older than he is. I’m taller than he is. And now he knows I was sitting home alone on a Saturday night.’”

It was March 25, 1967, and when Harry picked her up, she was relieved and surprised to find he’d grown.

“He was 5 feet, 2 inches tall, the last time I’d seen him,” she said.

Her mother waited up for her, and when Becky returned she told her mom she’d had a nice time, but wasn’t interested in seeing him again. Harry planned a career in medicine, and she definitely didn’t want to marry a doctor.

The next day he brought her an Easter card.

“He was charming as all get out,” Becky said, smiling.

He must have been, because they got engaged on April 16.

Coming from a large family had its disadvantages – namely little sisters.

“I had no idea he was going to propose,” Becky said. “But we stopped by his house and his little sister said, ‘Do you like your ring?’”

There went the surprise.

The boisterous Flanigans were a bit overwhelming.

“He invited me to a family party, and there were 100 people there,” she recalled. “I wanted to run away.”

She didn’t, and they married Aug. 12.

“His mother told people at our reception, we wouldn’t last six months,” Becky said.

Then she grinned.

“She did eventually apologize, but it took her 30 years.

Harry enrolled at Indiana University, but was disappointed when he wasn’t admitted to medical school. Even though his grades were excellent, he was told the university had no interest in retraining him from his military experience.

He studied business instead and took a job with Union Carbide after graduating in 1970.

Becky gave birth to their daughter, Amy, in 1971, and the family embarked in a series of moves across the country as Harry rose in rank and responsibility within the corporation.

Tragedy struck while they were living in California. Harry, age 46, suffered a stroke. His carotid artery had dissected and life as they knew it changed forever.

The stroke affected his speech and partially paralyzed his right side.

“The last thing he said to us was ‘I’m sorry,’” she recalled.

His prognosis was grim, but Becky said, “He felt since he beat polio, he could beat this.”

Harry, a driven, Type A, workaholic, channeled all of his energy into recovery, making it his full-time job. He learned to walk, to drive and to care for himself, though speech remained an issue.

But despite his amazing strides, he couldn’t resume his career.

“The worst day of his life wasn’t the day of his stroke, but the day they retired him,” Becky said. “He loved his job, the people, the travel. …”

Harry nodded.

Their daughter was attending law school at Gonzaga University, so they decided to move to Spokane. They’ve never looked back, because soon they had three grandchildren to dote on, including a grandson who is now attending the United States Air Force Academy.

When he could speak more clearly, Harry told Becky, “I think the stroke is the best thing that happened to me. It slowed me down, brought me to a stop and allowed me to appreciate my family.”

With his left hand, Harry, 75, gestured upward.

“My grandkids and Amy lift me up,” he said.

As to his wife of 50 years, well, he’s always believed marrying her was his destiny.

He curled his left arm into a muscle-flexing pose.

“She’s strong,” he said.

Becky, 77, said, “People ask me if I’d do it again and I say, ‘Yes, in a heartbeat.’”

When asked why, her eyes filled with tears.

“I guess it’s just true love,” she said.

“Yes,” Harry said, nodding. “Yes.”

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