Tag: The Spokesman Review

Columns

Shooting Like a Girl

Cindy Hval

I made a lot of shots during Hoopfest weekend, but none of them was with a basketball.

When I received a media invite from Shoot Like A Girl to visit its mobile shooting range at Cabela’s in Post Falls, it sounded like a fun Saturday excursion.

Shoot Like A Girl is a marketing company focused on empowering women to participate in shooting sports with confidence.

Its mobile shooting range features a military-grade firearms simulator and travels the country with certified female instructors. They offer women 18 and older the opportunity to shoot a compound bow, a handgun and an AR-15 rifle.

The cutting-edge technology provides immediate recoil, impact and sound feedback, creating a realistic shooting experience.

Over the past 15 years, 36,578 guests have participated in SLG2, Inc. experiences, according to statistics from 2023.

I’m no sharpshooter, but I’m not exactly a novice.

My high school sweetheart was into skeet shooting and he took me along once or twice.

No skeets were harmed by me on these outings, because I couldn’t hit a dang thing. The sport required more coordination than I possessed. By the time I had the shotgun raised, the clay pigeon had sailed past before I could fire.

I’m pretty sure that’s not why he dumped me, but who knows?

Several years ago, I wrote a column about the Spokane Practical Pistol League. After a thorough gun safety briefing at the practice range, I tried out a variety of handguns.

A .22 with a laser sight was my favorite and the satisfying ping of a bullet hitting the steel target proved fun.

I’d also visited Sharp Shooting Indoor Range and Gun Shop with a group of gals for Ladies Night. We got to shoot zombie targets.

No zombies needed to be double-tapped at the Shoot Like a Girl mobile shooting range. Event manager Dub Fincher stressed that safety and education are paramount.

Inside the semi-trailer, archery instructor Shawn selected a compound bow for me to try.

I quickly discovered I’m no Katniss Everdeen. The bow and the shooting stance felt awkward, but my arrows safely lodged in the target area.

Shawn handed me off to TBuzz, who covered gun safety protocol. Although no live rounds are fired within the simulator, she explained that every gun should be treated as if it’s loaded and lethal.

TBuzz fitted me with safety glasses and digital noise-canceling earmuffs which protected my ears while allowing me to hear her instructions.

The handgun with the laser felt comfortable and was easy to use. I even hit a bull’s-eye. The rifle required a bit more effort and I was glad they provided a stand for steadier aim.

Back outside the trailer, Fincher introduced me to the latest in pepper spray options and walked me through how to use it.

“If someone is approaching you in a threatening manner, extend your palm out, loudly yell, ‘STOP! I don’t know you!’ and then deploy the spray.”

A mannequin named Bob the Bad Guy served as the target for the inert pepper spray.

“Aim above the eyes, then across the nose and back toward the mouth in a Z for Zorro pattern,” Dub said. “And don’t use it all in case there’s another bad guy.”

If Bob had been an actual baddie, he would have been in a world of hurt by the time I was done with him.

Shoot Like A Girl offers these experiences at no charge. They had a gun bar for guests to check out various models, several gun safes to peruse and a display of concealed carry handbags. Those items were available for purchase inside Cabela’s.

“We encourage people to find a local ladies’ shooting group,” Fincher said

If shooting like a girl means pepper spraying the heck out of Bad Guy Bob, nailing a bull’s-eye with a handgun and scoring a respectable cluster of hits from 50 yards with an AR-15, then I most definitely shoot like a girl. Maybe I’ll give skeet shooting another try.

For more information on Shoot Like a Girl visit shootlikeagirl.com/

All Write, Columns

Travel that Transforms

Cindy Hval

When I think of Susie Leonard Weller, the first word that comes to mind is “vibrancy.”

From the brilliant turquoise color she favors to her beautifully bright smile, she exudes energy and intelligence.

We met almost 20 years ago at a writers group. She taught parenting and life skill classes for Head Start parents enrolled in the Community Colleges of Spokane and I was a fledgling freelance writer.

She was in the early stages of drafting her book, “Why Don’t You Understand? Improve Family Communication With the 4 Thinking Styles,” and I was writing columns about my boys burping entire conversations at the dinner table.

I’d leave the group inspired by our conversations, and I think she at least left entertained. After retiring from the community colleges, she left the group but continued to write and, more importantly, travel.

The travel bug arrived on her 10th birthday when Susie received a three-piece set of powder blue vinyl luggage. Two years later, she lugged it through the LAX Airport with her 10-year-old brother in tow as they changed planes on their way to Mexico City. Her parents had arranged an informal exchange with a family in Mexico.

She’s pretty much kept her bags packed since.

Recently, she sent me a note to let me know that her latest book, “52 Global Reflections: A Pilgrim’s Travel Memoir,” is scheduled for release on June 18.

We caught up over the phone.

“I see myself as a global citizen,” Weller said. “The book is part spiritual autobiography, part travel memoir.”

Over the years, she’s explored 34 countries, ranging from Australia to Turkey, and she typically stays in youth hostels.

“They’re for the young at heart, not just the young of age,” she said.

Susie, Barcelona, 2019

Weller has hiked over hills, trekked across trails, kayaked across bodies of water, and soared above the ground.

“To commemorate my 50th birthday, I paraglided over the Swiss Alps.”

In “52 Global Reflections: A Pilgrim’s Travel Memoir,” she documents her experiences in 52 locations around the world and includes over 150 reflection questions.

Her reason for penning this book now is simple.

“I’ve survived Stage 3 colorectal cancer, Stage 1 breast cancer, a ministroke and brain surgery,” she said. “I want to share my story before I die. If I don’t share it now, it will be gone.”

Weller’s story isn’t one of tourism but of connection.

“I believe in connecting with people at their sacred sites and spiritual places,” she said. “So many communities across the world are searching for that connection to something bigger than ourselves.”

Her pilgrim travel memoir integrates her 1981 master’s degree in pastoral ministry from Seattle University and a 2006 certificate in spiritual direction from Gonzaga University to provide insights into visiting sacred locations, shrines and labyrinths.

In a world divided by politics, ideologies and religion, Weller’s experiences offer much-needed hope.

“I’ve experienced the kindness of strangers and the generosity of people,” she said. “I’m so glad I traveled earlier because if you wait till you retire, health issues can limit you.”

In 2023, she spent nine weeks in Greece, Jordan, Malta and Turkey.

While visiting the home in Ephesus, Turkey, where Mary, the mother of Jesus, is said to have spent her final days, she writes of experiencing a profound healing of childhood wounds.

But her favorite country remains the first one she visited at 12.

For 18 years, she and her husband, Mark, wintered in Zihuatanejo, Mexico.

“We’ve traveled by bus all over Mexico,” she said. “When I’m there, I don’t feel like a visitor.”

Weller’s goal in sharing her travel experiences is to encourage others to step out of their comfort zones and enter the unknown.

“Let us build bridges to increase our compassion and respect for others, recognizing that they are a part of us, that we don’t yet know,” she writes in the memoir’s conclusion.

Neither illness nor time has dimmed her vibrancy.

“Travel transforms my head, my heart and my spirit,” she said.

”52 Global Reflections: A Pilgrim’s Travel Memoir” will be released June 18 through Kindle Direct Publishing with a special 99 cent promotional offer. More information at https://52globalreflections.com/

Columns

Just one more recipe…

Cindy Hval

In January 2022, I launched “The Collector,” in The Spokesman-Review– a series of stories about what people collect and why.

From Lilac Festival pins to saws, from typewriter ribbon tins to Matchbox cars, I’m having a ball, meeting folks and discovering their collections.

Until recently, I didn’t think I collected anything, but the unwieldy stack of papers at my elbow proves otherwise. Somehow, I’ve amassed an enormous collection of recipes. It’s a little out of control, but I can stop adding to it anytime.

I blame my mother and the internet.

Mom collected many things over the years. I know because I’m the one who had to dust them. At one time or another, she collected salt and pepper shakers, chickens, ducks and teapots.

These were all manageably sized collections. As she grew older, the chickens went home to roost with my sister-in-law Bonnie, and the ducks and the salt and pepper shakers left via garage sale. The teapots she kept.

It wasn’t until Mom moved into an assisted living facility that we realized her real collection was stuffed in envelopes, notebooks and binders and tucked away in kitchen cupboards and drawers.

Mom was an incurable recipe clipper. She lived alone for 22 years after Dad died and subsisted primarily on Lean Cuisine frozen dinners. Yet she kept snipping recipes from the newspaper and magazines. Dorothy Dean had nothing on Mom when it came to recipes involving Jell-O or Campbell’s soup.

Her new place didn’t come with a kitchen, so I tried to sort through her stash. Overwhelmed, I finally gave up, took a couple of her cookbooks home, and called it good.

Scratch cooking, however, is often how I relax at the end of a stressful day, and one afternoon while scrolling through Facebook, I saw an intriguing recipe for sheet pan chicken and peppers. I clicked on it and printed it.

Big mistake! The next day an email from Holy Recipe arrived and like a fool, I opened it. It featured a recipe for Cinnabon cinnamon roll cake.

The kids were coming over for dinner and I love having a new dessert to serve them. I clicked the link and printed it.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

A few hours later my email flag waved. It was a message from Recipe Reader tempting me to check out something called “My One-and-Only Soup.”

My printer whirred and spat it out.

Every day brought a slew of new concoctions from varied sites.

Before I knew it, Big Blue, my extra-large three-ring binder filled with family favorites, had sprouted an additional section: New Recipes. And then the binder got too fat to close.

Where to put the sourdough waffle instructions from Recipe Spot (even though my husband is in charge of waffles and only uses Bisquick)? And what about the spicy pepperoni dip and the peach dump cake I wanted to try?

I found the answer in Columbus, Ohio, at the largest Barnes and Noble store I’d ever seen. We stopped in on the way to the airport after visiting the grandkids and I found two lovely “Favorite Recipes” binders. They came with dividers and quality stationery to use for printing recipes.

When we returned, I unburdened Big Blue and started sorting through my collection. That was seven months ago. Now, I have three partially filled binders and piles of recipes on my desk, waiting to be sorted. Too many recipes. Not enough time.

I’ve decided not to add any more until I get my collection under control. This is proving difficult because during the time I sat down to write this column, I received a recipe from Command Cooking for picnic chicken salad, a link to “Heavenly Bars” from Fussy Kitchen, and one from Recipe Reader for “Creamy Pineapple Dream.”

Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. I didn’t open a single one and plan to add these sites to my spam filter. I’ll put it at the top of tomorrow’s to-do list.

My email flag is waving. What’s this? A recipe for Chicken Tamale Pie!

It shot from my printer before I even blinked.

I finally understand what collectors have been telling me – the lure of adding just one more is incredibly hard to resist.

Columns

From the courtroom to the emergency room

Cindy Hval

Recently, I had a week that began with jury duty and ended in a catastrophic car crash. I swear, my headlines write themselves.

Let’s start with the courtroom.

Unlike some, I’ve always been eager to serve on a jury. I own a copy of “Twelve Angry Men,” I ask questions for a living, and my note-taking is level expert. Yet, I’ve never been picked.

Honestly, I wondered if the court system has some kind of media bias.

That changed on Sept. 3. I reported to Spokane County Superior Court with 40-plus fellow residents as required. After watching a couple of videos and listening to information about how to get my whopping $10 per day, I was issued a badge.

Farewell, Cindy Hval – hello Juror No. 6.

After a lunch break long enough for me to rush home and snuggle my new kitten, I returned to the courthouse for voir dire. That’s a fancy term meaning attorneys on both sides of a case question prospective jurors to determine if they can be fair and impartial.

We were given the bare bones of the case and told that a jury trial in a civil case is extremely rare in Washington.

Fascinated, I listened as attorneys from both sides asked pointed questions of prospective jurors.

Then the defendant’s attorney called on me and asked what publications I wrote for and what topics I covered.

When I described this column, the attorney asked, “So, once this case is concluded, should we expect a column about your experience?”

I looked at him and at the judge and shrugged.

“Well, I’m here. This is my life.”

Despite that, I was included in the jury.

When I sat down, the woman seated in front of me, asked, “Did you review my husband’s book?”

Indeed I had.

The trial commenced. It was a big business versus a very big business and the jury’s task involved assessing damages (if any).

As a courtroom drama fan, a few things stood out – mainly the lack of drama. The objection process seemed subdued. No one stood up and yelled “OBJECTION!” No gavels were pounded, and the judge never once called for “order in the court.”

Every time things got tense between the opposing sides, the jury got ushered out. I felt like a kid being sent to her room so the grown-ups could chat.

The jury room was nice and we had private bathrooms to prevent us from accidentally encountering any parties in the lawsuit. We also had snacks that were a bit better than airline snacks.

But there was sitting. A lot of sitting. We were relieved to learn our presence wouldn’t be required in court on Friday.

So that day, I drove to an interview in Otis Orchards. I almost made it.

As I neared my destination, I slowed and switched on my turn indicator. The next thing I knew, there was a terrific smashing sound – dust, gravel and glass flew.

I’d been rear-ended by a semi.

Shakily, I exited Ruby Sue (my Ford Escape) and surveyed the damage. My car was obviously totaled.

A witness saw the accident and pulled over to call 911.

In the adrenalin rush that followed I called my husband, called the couple I was supposed to interview, and answered the state trooper’s questions. I didn’t care to watch him cite the driver.

At the urging of responding firefighters, I let Derek take me to the emergency room. I was bruised and shaken but cleared to go home. It could have been so much worse.

If I’d been at a complete stop.

If I’d been making my left turn.

If the semi had been hauling a load.

It’s been a little over two weeks since the accident. My bruises have faded. The insurance companies are doing what they’re supposed to do. I’m following up with my physician as advised.

But gosh, I miss Ruby Sue. She was the first car that I got just for me. The only one I didn’t have to use to haul kids to school and sporting events.

“We’ll get you a newer and better Ruby Sue,” Derek said. “Cars are replaceable, you aren’t.”

So, I’m choosing gratitude. I’m thankful I’m here for our son’s wedding next week. I’m thankful that soon I’ll be in Ohio visiting our grandkids, and I’m grateful for seven years and lots of miles with my sparkly Ruby Sue.

It turns out she lived up to her model name – Escape.

As the witness stood with me at the accident scene, looking at the wreckage, he said, “I saw how hard he hit you. That little car saved your life.”

On the way to the hospital, I called the courthouse.

Being rear-ended by a semi is one way to get out of jury duty, but I sure don’t recommend it.

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

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

Kindness is the best gift

Cindy Hval

A few days before Thanksgiving, I had one of those too-much-too-little days.

Too much traffic, too many crowded stores and too little time between appointments. I pulled into my bank’s parking lot and noticed the drive-thru line was several cars deep. I decided to park and go inside. Both tellers were helping people, but I was next in line.

While I tapped my foot and glanced at my watch, the teller nearest me engaged in a long conversation with an older gentleman named Jimmy. Honestly, I was annoyed that they were still chatting when his business concluded, and the line grew behind me.

Then I tuned into their conversation. It sounded like Jimmy’s wife was dying and might not make it to Christmas.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy,” the teller said, patting his hand.

The urgency of my errands and appointments paled as I thought of a friend facing her first Christmas without her husband. Another just lost her dad. Yet another is grieving his mom.

And Jimmy?

Maybe this was the first time he’d been able to tell someone what his holidays looked like. Maybe this was the first time someone slowed down enough to listen.

Blinking back tears, I finished my banking and left, but not before noting the teller’s name.

I’m thankful for kind people like Rayna at Chase Bank. And I’m grateful for humbling encounters like this to remind me that while I’m rushing from one appointment to the next, hurting people are all around me, and there’s no greater calling than kindness.

As soon as I had a break that day, I phoned and asked to speak to the branch manager. Too often, we’re quick to call to complain instead of compliment. I wanted to let them know about their stellar employee.

The manager was gone for the week, so I sent an email. But Rayna answered the phone, and I got to tell her how much witnessing her kindness inspired me.

During the holidays, many of us feel the pinch of those too-much-too-little days, but kindness is one thing we can never have too much of.

Columns

Blue Light Specials and Zebra Print

Cindy Hval

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Columns

Flying the friendlier skies

Cindy Hval

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He live-posted his experience on Facebook.

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

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

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

The result?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Columns

Fit to be Fried

Cindy Hval

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********

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