Author
Happy to be speaking at the meeting of Spokane Authors and Self Publishers tomorrow, July 7 at 2:30 at The Golden Corral, 7117 N Division St.
I wrote about the group several years ago in a feature for the Spokesman Review. Who knew someday I’d be returning as an author?
Copies of War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation will be available for purchase.
Guests are welcome, so I home to see many local writers tomorrow afternoon!
If today’s column seems littered with superlatives and exclamation marks, you’ll have to pardon my excess. I’m still coming off a literary high.
No, I haven’t been sniffing bookbinding glue, but I am basking in the bookish brilliance of Get Lit! 2016.
April 11-17, Spokane was awash in literary events. Poetry, panels, pie and whiskey, and plenty more were served up at venues across the city.
What began in 1998 as a one-day event filled with literary readings is now a weeklong festival. Conceived as a way for residents to engage with writing and working writers, Get Lit! offers aspiring authors, poets and folks who love reading a variety of ways to learn from, and engage with, published authors.
Best of all, most events are free. However, the festival is like a luscious chocolate cake, you’d like to consume it all, but frankly it’s just not possible. So it’s important to grab a guide and map out the “must-dos” on your literary list.
This year’s festival featured everything from “Sexy Beasts” to “My Worst Job” and included dozens of local writers as well as visiting scribes.
One of the highlights for me was the Shawn Vestal/Sam Ligon book launch at the Washington Cracker Building. Vestal read from his debut novel “Daredevils”; Ligon read from his short story collection, “Wonderland,” as well as from his novel, “Among the Dead and Dreaming.”
Jess Walter served as emcee and quipped, “One middle-aged white guy introducing two other middle-aged white guys. Guess that’s why they call this the Cracker Building.”
I had to miss one of the most popular Get Lit! attractions: Pie and Whiskey, which is just what it sounds like – an evening of pie and whiskey featuring short readings by authors whose stories feature, you’ve got it – pie and whiskey.
Fortunately, I got to hear one of those stories when I served on a panel with author Elissa Washuta. Her summary of the Tinder dating site was witty, poignant and razor sharp.
The panel “The Nuts and Bolts of Creative Nonfiction” was at Spokane Community College and also featured author Julie Riddle. Both sessions were filled with a mix of students, faculty and community members.
The audience was engaged, attentive and asked great questions that prompted interesting discussions.
The Convention Center served as the Get Lit! hub. I accidentally wandered into the wrong area where some kind of business conference was concluding. I asked an usher for directions to the Get Lit! panel I was looking for and one of the conference leaders overheard. He said, “Get Lit? That sounds a lot more fun than what we did today.”
“It is!” I said, and promptly invited him and his friends.
Kris Dinnison, Stephanie Oakes, Sharma Shields and I had fun serving on the “Queens of the Page: Debut Authors Tell All” panel. I’m not sure if we really told all, but we told quite a bit.
A scheduling conflict meant I had to miss Garth Stein’s reading at the Fox. This was a disappointment, but in some ways a relief. I really wanted him to autograph my copy of his best-selling book, “The Art of Racing in the Rain,” but I didn’t relish explaining why the edges of my copy are bright blue.
I’d borrowed the book from the library awhile ago. It absolutely captivated me, so when I traveled to my writing retreat, I tucked it in my bag. Some cleaning supplies were also in the bag. Somewhere en route, the toilet bowl cleaner tipped over and splashed “The Art of Racing in the Rain.”
Did you know toilet bowl cleaner may clean stains off toilets, but leaves stains on books? Neither did I. Neither did the librarian who took the cash I offered as I purchased the now-bluish book.
Thankfully, only the edges were blued and I got to weep my way to the finish of this beautiful novel. I think Stein would have been happy to sign my copy, but unless he returns to next year’s Get Lit!, I’ll never know.
Ever wanted to learn more about the world of Creative Nonfiction? Please join Julie Riddle, Elissa Washuta and myself on Friday at Spokane Community College for a discussion of the ins and outs and twists and turns of Creative Nonfiction writing. The panel is part of EWU Get Lit! Programs.
Did I mention the event is free?
Click the link for details.
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I knew I was in trouble when I read the sign for Ford Island and starting crying.After many years of interviewing and writing about Pearl Harbor Survivors I was for the first time, walking where they walked.
My husband and I were celebrating our 30th anniversary on Oahu and Pearl Harbor was one of our first stops.
Chapter 11 of War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation tells the story of Warren and Betty Schott who lived on Ford Island and both survived the horrific attack.
I pictured Warren’s desperate drive to get his wife to safety. They’d spoken of shrapnel falling from the skies– of the road shredded by machine gun fire– of the terror and the noise.
We watched a short film featuring actual footage of the attack. A scene of sailors and soldiers pulling the wounded and dead from the Harbor made me gasp. That’s what Warren had done in the aftermath– it was the one thing he didn’t want to discuss with me over the course of many interviews. It was the only thing he refused to speak of with his wife and best friend of 76 years.
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As we boarded the boat that took us to the USS Arizona, I thought of Pearl Harbor Survivor Ray Daves, who died in 2011. His friend George Maybee perished aboard the Arizona. His remains are entombed in the waters below the memorial. The throng of tourists quieted. The only sound was the snapping of the flag in the wind as I found Maybee’s name among the more than 1,000 names engraved. I wished I could tell Ray.
All of the stories, all of the interviews over the years in no way prepared me for the magnitude, the solemness of this sacred place.
Remember Pearl Harbor. Indeed, I will never forget this place, these people, their sacrifice.
Here are links some of the stories I’ve written about those who survived the Day That Will Live in Infamy.
World War ll Vets Educate Students
Fond Memories of Ray Daves Endure
Survivors of 1941 Attack Bring History to Life
Pearl Harbor Survivors Mark 73rd Anniversary in Spokane
The World has Lost Yet Another WWll Hero
Pearl Harbor Survivor’s Story Comes to an End
Pearl Harbor Witness: ‘It was so scary!’
Oh, my! Some emails from readers just make my day. This one for example:
HI Cindy:
I have a funny story to tell you, I think you will smile–>
I enjoy reading your columns in the Spokesman Review, esp when you tell stories about your family. ( I am also a Mom, 3 kids). I enjoy your writing so much that I asked for your book for Christmas. My husband went to the Valley Barnes and Noble to purchase it for me though the store was out of stock. They put in a on-line order for him and the boxed book arrived in time for Christmas. When he opened the shipped book to wrap it, it was a “Resident Evil” book instead of yours!! ( we do not read “Resident Evil”).
I have attached a picture of the book that I returned to the store. ( She kinda looks like you, don’t you think?)
Barnes and Noble was STILL out of your book, but they offered to ship it to me!! I declined and said I would check out Auntie’s.
Keep up the good work,
Looks like the author photo for my next book was leaked 🙂 Since the pending title is “Don’t Make Me Write a Column About This” the girl with a big gun thing kind of works, doesn’t it?
In today’s column for the Spokesman Review, I remember a very special Christmas miracle.
Merry Christmas!
Christmas is all about miracles – about the unexpected showing up in the middle of the ordinary.
Angelic proclamations, a virgin birth, heavenly hosts and a bright shining star beckoning wise men from afar.
For doubters and dissenters, for skeptics and cynics, the ability to embrace the miraculous eludes, but even the most ardent believers need a reminder now and again.
Snow falls as I write, and the white-shrouded world reminds me of another December, 16 years ago, when I received my own much-needed reminder.
Our fourth son had arrived three months earlier. Sam was born with congenital diaphragmatic hernia. A hole had formed in his diaphragm during gestation, allowing his stomach and intestines to move into his chest cavity, crowding his heart and lungs. In Sam’s case, this prevented his left lung from developing.
When he was 3 days old, he underwent surgery to repair the hole in his diaphragm. After a three-week stay in the neonatal intensive care unit at Sacred Heart, we brought him home. He needed no medication, no supplemental oxygen, nursed like a greedy piglet and had none of the dreaded complications or additional health problems common with CDH.
He also had only one lung.
He did have bits of tissue where his left lung would have grown and doctors told us that lungs continue to grow into a child’s early teens. Even if that didn’t happen for Sam, we were assured it’s possible to live with one lung.
But I worried.
Night after night I sat vigil on the floor next to his cradle, watching his chest rise and fall, counting his respiration rate, often dozing off with my hand on his chest.
Exhausted, I did my best to care for his three older brothers, 10, 8 and 5. When December dawned, I decorated and baked in a fog of fatigue.
We reached a milestone on Dec. 23 – Sam’s final post-op visit. Snow fell heavily as I packaged a plate of Christmas cookies for the surgeon’s office.
Each visit began with a series of chest X-rays, and I’d grown adept at deciphering the shadowy shapes in my son’s chest cavity.
Dr. Randall Holland examined Sam, moving his stethoscope over his chest, listening intently while my baby grabbed his hair and blew spit bubbles. Scratching his head, Holland stood, and then once again bent over Sam, listening, listening …
Then he tickled Sam’s three chins and turned to scrutinize the latest X-rays while I wrestled the wriggly baby back into his winter layers and waited for the surgeon to speak.
But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he let out a low whistle, peering at the images. Running his fingers through his hair, he whistled again, and then said, “Cindy, I’d like you to take a look at these.”
And my heart sank.
This was it. The moment I’d dreaded since the hours following Sam’s diagnosis. The moment when I’d learn the nightmare hadn’t ended. The other shoe had dropped and I didn’t know if I could bear it.
Seeing my stricken face, Holland beckoned me closer.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the image.
“That’s Sam’s right lung,” I answered.
He nodded and pointed to the other side of the image.
“And what’s that?”
“That’s Sam’s left lung,” I dutifully replied.
Silence. Apparently, lack of sleep was making me hallucinate.
“Except he doesn’t have a left lung …” I mumbled.
“He didn’t,” Holland agreed. “But he does now.”
He traced the outline with his finger. “A fully-functioning left lung.”
And the surgeon beamed.
I clutched Sam and sank down into a chair, tears falling, dampening his downy blond head like melting snowflakes.
“I don’t understand. Is this a miracle?”
Still smiling, Holland shrugged. “We don’t like to use that word, but I’ve honestly never seen anything like this before.”
Dazed, I left his office, trying to process the news.
That night as usual, I sat at Sam’s cradle feeling his lungs (lungs!) expand, watching my hand on his chest rise and fall. The clock ticked its way to Christmas Eve and I finally climbed into bed, where for the first time since Sam’s birth, I slept – truly slept.
Today at some point, my 6-foot, 1-inch baby boy will bend down and wrap his arms around me. I’ll lay my head on his chest and feel it rise and fall, grateful for the reminder.
Christmas has always been about miracles.
Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.
I just finished a series of author events for the Spokane County Library District.
“Bonds of Love and Remembrance” paired stories from War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation with music of the era from Hot Club of Spokane.
We had such a great time at each of the four libraries we visited.
At every event a reader will tell me about their parents or grandparents, or about a family member who served in WWll. The stories are heartwarming and it’s a wonderful thing to trigger happy memories.
My two favorite moments from these events also came from attendees.
A lady at Moran Prairie came up to have her book signed and ask how Milo and Thor are doing. Those aren’t my kids– those are my cats! She said she enjoys reading about their adventures in my column in the Spokesman Review.
And a toddler tapped my knee at Spokane Valley Library, and said, “Thank you for WEEDING (reading)!”
Is it any wonder why I love libraries so much?
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Today is Veteran’s Day. Tomorrow’s Front Porch column is already available online at the Spokesman Review, so I thought I would share it here as well.
I am heartily sick of the so-called “war on Christmas.” Read below to find out why.
Words matter to me.
I make my living crafting them. Whether writing a column, a news story or a book, I spend my days weighing and measuring them – searching for the best turn of phrase to communicate a thought, an idea or a fact.
Sometimes I play with them. Juggling them, nudging them to create content that elicits a reaction, a smile or a tear.
Even when handled lightly, I understand their power on a printed page. And while not all words are meant to be taken literally, I think some should be.
War is one of them.
Yesterday was Veterans Day – a day we as country set aside to honor the men and women who have served or continue to serve in our armed forces.
I’ve lost count of the veterans I’ve interviewed over the years, but their faces and their stories are seared into my soul – especially the stories of combat veterans, those who faced loss of life and limb during their time of service.
I’ve lost count of the veterans I’ve interviewed over the years, but their faces and their stories are seared into my soul – especially the stories of combat veterans, those who faced loss of life and limb during their time of service.
So just to be clear, here’s Webster’s definition of war: A state of usually open and declared armed hostile conflict between states or nations or a period of such armed conflict.
Other definitions may have made their way into our reference books and cultural consciousness, but the original meaning of war is armed conflict.
The kind of conflict Wes Hixon faced in 2008 in Iraq when the Stryker vehicle he was riding in hit an IED. “Four people were killed outright,” he said. “The rest were injured. Me and another soldier were paralyzed. Most of them were pretty good friends of mine.”
I interviewed Hixon, then 24, in 2009 as he sat in a wheelchair. He knows what war is.
I wrote this column for our number 3 son, seven years ago. The speed of the passage of time takes my breath away. He’s 21 today.
When your mother is a writer, your life can be an open book. Just ask my sons. Their names regularly appear in this space as well as in books that are sold all over the world. And readers often ask if the boys are embarrassed to have their lives discussed so publicly. I get a kick out of that.
The fact is they love to see their names in print. “Am I in this column?” they’ll ask, and if I say no, they don’t bother to read it. I often run stories by them to make sure they’re OK with the content, and not once have I heard, “Please don’t share that.”
However, when I look through my files and clippings, I see that one name doesn’t appear quite as often as the others. That would be Zachary. He’s a middle child. As I type this I can almost feel the collective sighs of middle children all over the world. They can relate.
Our firstborn gets lots of print because even at 18, everything we experience with him is still new. He’s the first to do just about everything – including being the cause of my first gray hairs.
The second-born is the family athlete. He’s a bit on the wild side and accumulates adventures like other kids add Matchbox cars to their toy collections. He’s got the scars to prove it.
Then there’s the baby – everything he does has added poignancy because he’s my last glimpse into the world of childhood.
But Zachary was the third child added to our family in a five-year span. His brothers expressed mild interest in his arrival. And though I remember every excruciating detail of his birth, the months and years that followed seemed to whirl and blend together in a kaleidoscope of bustling boys and sleepless nights.
Thank God for video cameras. The magic of Zack’s first bite of solid food, first giggle and first steps are preserved on tape. His birth is also on tape, but as Zack would say, “It’s best not to talk about that.”
This middle child has always had a way with words, though his vocabulary got off to a shaky start. His first word was uttered from his high chair as he watched his two older brothers attempt to communicate entirely through belching. Frustrated that he’d not mastered that skill, he hollered, “Burp”
That provoked gales of gleeful laughter from his siblings and only encouraged the now verbal tot. “Burp!” he yelled. “Burp, burp.”
Fortunately, he’s continued to sharpen his wit. A few weeks ago, after his younger brother’s birthday party, we waited in the car for Zack, who was still somewhere in the bowels of Chuck E. Cheese.
Finally, the van door slid open and Zack announced with great disgust, “They didn’t want me to leave without a parent!” He slammed the door shut and added, “However, negotiations were brief.”
He’s always been full of surprises. When asked to share what he learned on his first day of kindergarten he was momentarily stumped. He pondered the question deeply and finally had an answer. “I learned this,” he said, and jumping up from the table he inserted his hand under his shirt and began flapping his arm wildly. He’d mastered the art of armpit flatulence.
“He’s gifted,” his oldest brother opined.
But for all his words and talents, what I most appreciate about this middle son is his affectionate nature. Our firstborn was reserved, and we could never catch the second-born long enough to cuddle. But Zachary’s warm and loving heart spills over into hugs, kisses and spontaneous bursts of affection.
Last week I was driving the kids home after school. Traffic was heavy and my temper was short. “I love you, Mom.” Zack said. “I love you, too,” I replied distractedly.
We were quiet for a few blocks and then Zack said, “I want my last words to you to be ‘I love you,’ because you never know how long we have.”
He has a knack for reminding me what really matters.
His Sunday school teacher once said that Zack has the soul of a poet, and I agree. I’ve worried about his tender heart, watching the way unkind words can wound him. I’m torn between hoping that he’ll toughen up so he won’t get hurt so often, and praying that his heart stays soft. The world could use a little more tenderness.
A couple of years ago he asked for a guitar for Christmas. With wonder, I’ve watched the way he’s made a place for himself through music. He plays beautifully. Each afternoon, strains of Marley’s “Redemption Song,” or Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower,” wail through the house as our son unwinds from an arduous day of middle school.
Today is Zachary’s 14th birthday, and this column is for him. Zack, every home needs music, and I’m so grateful that you are the song in ours.
Correspondent Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com.
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I admit it. I Googled myself. Don’t tell me you haven’t! But what I found today, delighted me! Two reviews that I’d never seen.
The first was this lovely mention of War Bonds from a blog called Doodles and Words.
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“War Bonds– Love Stories of the Greatest Generation by Cindy Hval is a collection of beautiful and loving memories of couples who met during World War II. She recounts how these men and women met and stayed together for decades despite many obstacles. Who doesn’t love a good story? Well, what about 36 of them?
“Everything’s built on friendship. He’s been my best friend for 77 years.” – Betty Schott”
And the second came from Pearl Harbor!
Pearl Harbor Survivor Couple – Betty and Warren Schott
“We first heard about the Pearl Harbor Survivor Couple, Betty and Warren Schott, in an article in the Spokesman-Review by Cindy Hval. This remarkable couple was living on Ford Island when Pearl Harbor was attacked.
They heard an explosion and Warren quickly recognized that Pearl Harbor was under attack from an enemy. Many others on Oahu at the time thought that it was a drill, but Warren saw the rising sun on the wing of a Japanese plane flying overhead.
Warren Schott watched as the USS Utah was torpedoed. He then took his wife and another family living below them to safety. Warren did not seek safety himself, instead he returned to Battleship Row to help victims of the attack.
“I took one of the boats and picked up our fellows who were in the water,” he recalled. The men he pulled out were covered in oil.
Betty Schott did not sit idly by herself.
“They put us to work immediately, Betty said. “We unloaded guns and filled fire extinguishers.”
This Pearl Harbor Survival Couple was married for 76 years before Warren Schott passed away in May 2014. Betty lived another year and passed away on July 5, 2015.
We appreciate the excellent story from Cindy Hval about this fascinating couple and the impression they left on her. You can read Ms. Hval’s stories about the Schotts here and here or in her book below. We salute you Cindy Hval for your story and we salute the Schotts for their service to our country.
For more stories about love during wartime, read Hval’s highly rated book: War Bonds.”
Moral of the story? Don’t be afraid to Google yourself– you might find nice surprises like these:-)
Cindy Hval 