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I taught them to eat solid food.
To use spoons. To use the toilet. To tie their shoes. And somehow I also ended up teaching my four sons how to operate a motor vehicle.
In the most recent episode of the Front Porch on Spokane Talks on Fox 28 Spokane, I recount how son #3 ended up driving me to drink! Watch here.
They say you don’t appreciate what you have until you no longer have it.
Take electricity for example. In August we lost power for several hours. It didn’t take long for my family to deeply appreciate the magic that happens when you flip a switch and the lights come on.
Apparently, the Universe deemed we needed another lesson in gratitude.
Ten years ago, my husband and his father replaced our aging water heater with a fancy tankless model. Like all Hval projects it was fraught with unforeseen complications. Namely, they couldn’t get the water shut off. But also like all Hval projects, it was worth the wait.
At the time, we had six people living at home, including four active boys. Showering had turned into a competitive sport. No one wanted to be the last one to shower because that’s when the hot water usually ran out. And God help the Mom who threw a load of laundry in while boys were bathing.
After our new tankless system was installed, Derek ran his hand over the compact, gleaming wall-mounted beauty.
“We’ll never run out of hot water, again!” he said.
For a long time, he was right. But a few years ago, the heater began making some ominous noises. We ignored them.
This summer the rattle turned to a roar that echoed all the way outdoors to the Great Gazebo where I sunned myself.
And then the dripping started.
Last month, Derek and I came home after an evening out, and Zach said, “Did you know water is coming out of the hot water heater?”
We did not know this.
After assessing the situation, Derek put a bucket under it.
Within days the trickle became a small but steady stream and the bucket had to be emptied with increasing frequency. We took to turning the water heater off at night.
“I think it’s the heat exchanger,” said Derek.
Then he did something unheard of in the Hval household: He called for professional help.
A plumber visited and confirmed Derek’s suspicion, and recommended replacing the entire unit. The estimated cost was the equivalent of sending one of us to Hawaii while the other stayed home and ate macaroni and cheese for a week.
“I’ll just replace the heat exchanger and I’ll do it myself,” Derek announced.
He watched a YouTube video about the process and ordered the part online.
“It’ll be here in less than a week,” he said.
Of course, that was the day the water heater quit all together.
Theoretically, one can live without hot water. You can wash your hands and your clothes in cold and our dishwasher has its own heating coils. What you cannot do is shower in cold water. At least I can’t.
The four of us scrambled to find bathing options while we waited for the part to arrive. We have a gym membership, so Derek and Sam took hot showers there. I could have done that, too, but I like more privacy when I get ready for my day. Thankfully, I housesit for snowbirds during the fall and winter, and hot showers and my office away from home were just a short drive away.
Which left poor Zachary (who’d let his gym membership lapse) to learn the military discipline of taking an icy shower.
“The key is to keep your feet out of the way of the water,” he informed us.
A chilly week passed before the part arrived. It had some complicated wiring, but Derek easily figured it out and hooked it up in record time.
He switched it on and waited. No rattle. No roar. And unfortunately no hot water.
“I think the dripping water fried the fan,” he said. “I’ll order a new one. It’ll be here in a couple days.”
We are a stoic lot, but the news was hard to take. Our combined groans sounded almost as loud as the defunct water heater used to.
On the appointed day, the fan arrived while we were all at work. Derek hurried home to install it. The rest of us watched our phones, anxiously awaiting word.
Within minutes a text arrived. “We have HOT WATER!”
Such beautiful words!
Zachary got the first shower. He’d earned it.
As for me, when it was my turn to luxuriate under the warm water’s soothing spray, I counted my blessings. Loudly. Just in case the Universe thinks I need any more reminders.
In this week’s Front Porch segment on Spokane Talks I share about the time a stranger accosted me in the produce aisle and tried to convince me not to buy the corn in my hand.
Like that’s never happened to you.
Here’s a link to the episode and a hint: Mom was right. Don’t talk to strangers!
Tune into Fox28 Spokane at 6 PM next Sunday to hear my thoughts on Velcro.
Never a dull moment!
Here’s a link to my most recent Front Porch television segment, in which my husband discovers the remains of a previous civilization while constructing a retaining wall in our backyard.
The spots air at the end of the Spokane Talks show, each Sunday night at 6 PM on Fox28 Spokane.
You find previous Front Porch segments here.
They say learning new things keeps your mind sharp. Or is that sharpening things keeps you learning?
At any rate, when the producer of a new half-hour television show, “Spokane Talks,” on Fox28 Spokane asked if I’d be willing to do a short commentary at the close of each weekly broadcast, I agreed.
I’ve never been a television personality or a news anchor, but I did study radio and TV broadcasting at Newtech Skill Center (formerly Spokane Vocational Skills Center).
Granted that was in 1983, but hey, I got straight A’s.
Plus, the precarious state of dead tree journalism makes me think I’d better expand my skill set, just in case someday no one wants to “Wake Up and Read It.”
To that end, the one stipulation I had is that this newspaper gets mentioned in the opening credits of my segments. Who knows, maybe television viewers can be newspaper readers, too.
OK, I did have other stipulations regarding hair, wardrobe, snacks in the green room and limo service, but apparently those emails went missing.
When I told my sons about my new venture, I said, “It will be like Andy Rooney on ‘60 Minutes,’ only with better eyebrows.”
“Who’s Andy Rooney?” they asked.
“He’s that really short actor that was married like, 12 times,” my husband replied.
Which is when I realized TV news programs are probably teetering on the brink of extinction, as well.
We found some “60 Minute” clips on YouTube.
My sons were not impressed, but they agreed my brows were better groomed and thought I probably had a superior wardrobe.
Moving on.
The folks at “Spokane Talks” created a cool introduction, featuring the dulcet voice of Tom McArthur.
The segments, like this column, are called the “Front Porch,” and writing the tag line, (That’s the view from my front porch) was a breeze.
Coming up with weekly segments, no longer than two-and-a-half minutes in length?
Not so breezy.
I mean, I have sneezes that last longer.
In newspaper journalism, we’re told to write tight, that if it takes you more than 1,000 words to tell a story, you’re probably using too many adjectives. Or worse. Adverbs.
But telling a story with a beginning, middle and end in a 150-second frame proved tricky. Especially since my only audience during the taping is a couple of unblinking television cameras and Vinnie, whom I can’t see because he’s in the booth.
It’s like talking to yourself while someone is eavesdropping. I decided my entourage should accompany me to the studio.
Unfortunately, my cats don’t travel well, so I roped my manager into going with me. I had to promise to buy him dinner afterward, but he’s got a vested interest in my career and is usually a good sport. A well-fed good sport.
“You’re in charge of wardrobe malfunctions,” I told him.
“Causing them or preventing them?” he asked.
It’s tough when your manager is your husband, but if Celine Dion did it, then so can I. Not that I plan to do any singing on television. At least not intentionally.
In fact, Derek has been trying to manage me for years. He says some days it feels like a full-time job, but the benefits are pretty nice.
Six weeks into the program, I haven’t been censored by the FCC, groped any interns or appeared on television with lipstick on my teeth, so I think it’s going OK.
I asked my sons what they thought.
“Uh. This is on YouTube, right?” they asked.
No wonder Andy Rooney was a curmudgeon.
I’m not sure if my mind is any sharper, but I’m figuring out how to cut excess verbiage, make use of camera angles and use a teleprompter app on my husband’s Kindle.
Now, I’m working on not grimacing on camera. Seeing still shots from the shows revealed I have a very expressive face. Unfortunately, many of those expressions should not be seen on network TV.
They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but maybe this old columnist can learn something new.
Stay tuned.
“Spokane Talks” airs Sundays at 6 p.m. on KAYU Fox 28 Spokane. To see previously aired “Front Porch” segments go to https://spokanetalksmedia.com/ and click the Front Porch tab.
I mean, what’s the point of embarrassing moments if you can’t share your humiliation with the world?
Thankfully, the time I inadvertently modeled my lingerie for a road crew wasn’t captured on YouTube, so you’ll have to settle for this retelling.
Clink here for the fully-clothed totally respectable view from my Front Porch.
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Derek and Cindy Hval at the beach in Crescent City, California
When your youngest child who recently graduated from high school with honors utters such a simple wish, well, what parent wouldn’t want to fulfill it?
Sam is 18, and the window for family road trips is rapidly closing. His desire to see the redwood forest quickly became the focus of our family vacation.
Derek looked at maps and I booked hotels, and last week we returned from a trip that included the ocean, Shakespeare, waterfalls, the Columbia River Gorge and of course, ancient trees.
First I’d like to know what happened to all the Volkswagen Beetles? Every road trip from my childhood resulted in sore shoulders as my siblings and I played “Slugbug” or, as we called it, “Bugslug.” Our kids played it on family trips, too. But we traveled hundreds of miles and didn’t see a single Beetle till we returned to Spokane.
It’s probably just as well, because Sam was the only kid on this trip and you really shouldn’t punch your parents. Or your kids.
We picked Ashland, Oregon, as our central destination, making the grueling drive in one day. Smoke shrouded the landscape across Washington and into Oregon.
Speaking of Oregon, we thought the recently-passed gas law meant we could pump our own gas. Nope. Apparently, it varies by city or county. Derek opted to try at every fill-up, but was rarely successful.
Ashland is home to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Derek and I had enjoyed a trip there several years ago, and had been anxious to return. We wanted Sam to see a play and mulled the options. The outdoor Allen Elizabethan Theatre is iconic and offers a fabulous experience, so we bought tickets for “The Book of Will,” which was slated for that theater during our stay.
The smoke-filled skies had me worried. The theater had canceled several performances due to poor air quality. Our hotel clerk said in the event of bad air, they move the play to the high school auditorium. Not at all what we were hoping for.
But first the redwoods. The Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park is just a two-hour drive from Ashland, so we crossed our fingers as we set off from the smoky city in the morning.
As we crossed the border into California the skies cleared. Who knew we’d have to drive to California to breathe fresh air?
We wound our way through the primeval forest, carefully avoiding gawkers who pulled over on the side of the narrow road to take pictures. Stopping at the Hiouchi Visitor Center 9 miles east of Crescent City, California, we picked up a map and directions to Stout Grove, a half-mile loop walking trail.
The stillness of the redwood forest is surreal. The immensity of the towering trees, the soft sunlight filtering through ancient branches, adds a unique hush, making the grove seem more like a church than a forest.
Indeed, a short time later while exploring a side trail, I happened upon a partially hidden makeshift memorial – a small cross made of sticks and a photo of a bearded man. I imagine this must have been his favorite place.
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Sam and I did get the giggles counting how many times Derek said the word “huge.”
Crescent City is a short drive from Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park. We cruised into the sleepy town looking for a lunch spot with an ocean view.
“Why don’t you drive that way?” I suggested to Derek, pointing at the ocean in the distance.
Amazingly, the street ended at small parking lot with steps leading down to the beach. Even more amazing, we had the whole beach to ourselves! From old growth forest to tide pools, sand, waves and driftwood in 20 minutes.
After beachcombing, we found a harbor-side restaurant, and a chorus of barking seals serenaded us while we ate.
The smoke was clearing in Ashland the next morning, so we spent the day shopping and walking through Lithia Park. I hesitantly made reservations at an outdoor dining spot, but I needn’t have worried. We sat down to dinner under brilliant blue skies and later, stars twinkled above us as we watched the play in the outdoor theater.
In fact, the only rain we encountered was a light drizzle at Multnomah Falls on the way to Hood River the following day.
The rain didn’t dim the beauty of the falls, but it did close the path to the highest point.
We spent the last day of our trip exploring downtown Hood River, and then relaxing in the sun and the wind on the beach, marveling at the windsurfers, riding the waves.
Like most busy families, we’d started vacation tired and stressed. Each of us wrestling with worries both big and small.
But something happened.
Was it when we sat on a piece of driftwood, staring out at the vast blueness of the Pacific Ocean while the waves lapped the shore at our feet?
Was it when we walked through the silence of the ancient redwoods while the sun filtered through the foliage of God’s cathedral?
All I know is the cares and concerns that once loomed so large seemed to shrink, to lighten, to dissipate into the wonder and beauty of nature.
It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
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Cindy and Derek walk through the redwoods
Our family recently went through a very dark time.
It came on suddenly, without warning. One minute we were relaxing after dinner, taking respite from the heat of the day in our cool air-conditioned home, discussing our Netflix pick of the evening, and the next minute our world stopped.
My reading lamp flicked off. The fans and air-conditioner stilled, and the wails from downstairs let us know our sons’ electronics had been disrupted.
Power outages are rare in our neighborhood. The power lines are underground, so when outages do occur it’s usually something on Avista’s end and we’re quickly back online.
Neither Ice Storm 1996 nor any of the recent windstorms disrupted our happy home. While all over the city food spoiled in freezers and propane lanterns flew of the shelves at sporting goods stores, we merrily went on our well-lit way.
So. Nobody panicked Thursday evening.
I mean, the most recent blip in our grid lasted all of a minute.
We peered out the window and saw our neighbors’ porch lights were off, and no lights shone from any windows. Our street lamp was out.
“Looks like it’s the whole neighborhood,” my husband said.
Feeling confident that the outage had been called in, the four of us gathered in the living room to await the resumption of our normal routines.
It was 7:45.
Thirty minutes later, Sam, 18, said, “Well. This sucks.”
His brother sighed. “I just got my new guitar pedal set up.”
We scanned our phones for Twitter posts about the outage, but nothing appeared.
I updated my Facebook status.
“No power in North Spokane. We’ve been forced to sit in our living room and talk to each other. #HELP!”
My friend, Beth, replied, “Surely your phones have some charge left in them.”
“Obviously,” I replied. “But we’re conserving our batteries for social media. #priorities”
The thought of being cut off from the world chilled us. We hastily checked the charges on our phones and Kindles and reported the results.
“We should be OK for a few hours,” Derek, my husband, said.
Slowly the Twitter and Facebook responses trickled in from other North Side folks. Apparently, our little corner of Spokane was the only area affected.
As the sun started to set in the smoky sky, I gathered candles and piled them on the dining table.
And not a moment too soon. Darkness fell quickly. Our son, Zack, put new batteries in my three pillar candles, as I fumbled in the dark cabinet for candleholders for my motley collection of wax tapers and votives.
Flickering candles don’t emit much heat, but it had been a really hot day. The house grew stuffy. We opened the windows, but there was no breeze, just smoke.
“Everybody to the gazebo,” I announced. “If the power’s still out at 10, we’ll make s’mores.”
This mom always has s’mores ingredients on hand during the summer months, and suddenly the boys were rooting for continued darkness.
Derek had wisely installed solar lights along our deck and stairs, so nobody stumbled on the way to the gazebo.
I remembered we had a battery-operated light that can be attached to outdoor umbrellas. Using our cellphone flashlights, we ransacked the storage room until we found it. Derek went out to light the fireplace while I gathered chocolate bars, marshmallows, graham crackers, paper plates and napkins.
We roasted marshmallows and enjoyed our sticky snacks as music from Zack’s iPhone filled the night. Our flickering fireplace was an oasis of light in a neighborhood shrouded in dark.
A big truck rumbled past, and we hurried to the front yard to see an Avista crew examining the box across the street. After a few minutes they got back in the truck and drove away.
We were still in the dark, but no one wanted to go to bed without some information.
At 10:45, I finally called Avista.
A nice man confirmed that they were aware of the outage and had sent a truck out, but the crew had to return for supplies to fix the problem.
The reason I hadn’t seen anything on social media is because only 45 homes had been affected.
“We estimate power should be restored in two to three hours,” he said.
The boys and Derek were ready for bed, but I had a problem. I can’t go to sleep unless I read for at least 30 minutes.
We’d recently bought a rocking chair for the deck. I scooted it over to the solar light on the railing, and Derek affixed the umbrella lamp low enough on the stand so I could see the pages of my novel.
Around midnight, I went indoors, carefully snuffing out the few candles still lit. I brushed my teeth in the dark and climbed into bed.
An hour or so later, the blinding glare of my reading lamp jolted me awake, and the rumble of the air conditioner filled the house.
We had survived the Great Spokane Power Outage of 2018 with marshmallows to spare.
I think our pioneer ancestors would be proud.
Now, that’s a great question.
When the folks at Spokane Talks invited me to try my hand at television commentary. I thought about how I’d fit this in with my weekly newspaper deadlines, monthly deadlines for a marketing client, finishing up my second book (Tiaras & Testosterone), and keeping up with my husband, sons and two cats.
Two episodes in and I’m still thinking about it. Obviously, I’m thinking on air:)
This week I tallied the results of my childhood wish list. If you want to hear about ’70’s fashion, bikes with banana seats, and the Second Coming click here. The Front Porch starts at the 22 minute mark.
Next week I’ll tackle the devil’s music!
Tune into Spokane Talks, Sunday nights at 6 on KAYU Fox 28.
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Derek and I had a peaceful easy feeling in May when we joined several thousand of our closest friends to hear the Eagles in concert at the Spokane Arena.
From the moment the opening a cappella strains of “Seven Bridges Road” soared through the venue, till the final sweet notes of “Desperado” echoed, we were enthralled and entertained.
The Eagles are a band even my parents would have approved of … except for the somewhat controversial “Hotel California.”
When I was growing up parental approval did not extend to the “devil’s music,” so I started rocking later than most of my peers.
Our home was filled with the music of the Gaither Vocal Band and Dottie Rambo, and of course, Elvis – gospel and hymn recordings only.
In the ’80s backward masking was on the nightly news. We teens were told the subliminal messages contained in albums by certain bands would turn us into devil worshippers.
We attended seminars at the Spokane Convention Center where speakers warned us that subliminal messages weren’t limited to records. Even eating crackers could send one spiraling into sin due to the word “SEX” being spelled out in the dots of a Ritz cracker.
That explains why I still prefer Wheat Thins, and why my first concert was Ronnie Milsap. I’d never heard of him, but my best friend really wanted to go. My parents thought country music wasn’t as dangerous as rock ’n’ roll.
Of course, I listened to the American Top 40 on the radio so I could keep current with the sinful state of the world. That radio rebellion must have corrupted me. How else to explain the first album I purchased was Quiet Riot’s “Metal Health.”
But metal never moved me much, especially once I discovered Bon Jovi. Their music was the soundtrack of my teen and young adult years.
My husband was an avid concertgoer in his teens, and when we met he was astonished by my rock ’n’ roll ignorance.
“Just think if you hadn’t married me you would know nothing about Van Halen. Nothing!” he often says.
During our early married years, the cost of raising four kids put concert attendance out of our reach.
We did splurge on Jim Brickman tickets when he came to the INB Performing Arts Center around the time of our anniversary one year. My parents would also approve of Jim; our children, however, were mortified.
“My gosh! If John Denver was still alive, you’d probably pay money to see him, too!” our teenager groaned.
“Well, duh!” I replied, and launched into a spirited rendition of “Grandma’s Feather Bed.”
As our kids grew older, our wallets grew less lean, but I was still shocked when five years ago Derek surprised me with tickets to Bon Jovi.
He’d already taken the boys to see Van Halen when they were in Tacoma the previous year, and he wanted me to be able to hear my favorite band in concert, too.
But the biggest surprise was how much Derek, a Bon Jovi-scoffer, loved the show.
“That was absolutely amazing! Best concert I’ve ever attended!” he said afterward.
Since then we’ve seen a slew of bands and performers. Our son treated us to Bob Dylan in Seattle. And we got our ’80s groove on with Foreigner, Styx, Loverboy, Joan Jett (twice), Pat Benatar and Melissa Etheridge when they’ve performed at Northern Quest.
But it was seeing Blondie in 2015 that reminded Derek of the passage of time.
“Debbie Harry is still so hot!” he enthused.
I grinned.
“Not bad for 70, huh?”
Stricken, Derek gasped, “She’s almost as old as my mother!”
Time has not been good for all bands, however.
Derek was delighted when the newspaper asked me to review Def Leppard when they came to town last summer with Tesla and Poison.
The show was fine, and Leppard fans were pleased, but there was a lot of sweat and a lot of screaming – both on stage and in the audience. For the first time, we both had to wear ear plugs.
The difference between metal bands and more mellow bands becomes apparent as the members age.
“You can actually understand the lyrics when the Eagles and Bon Jovi sing,” he said. “Van Halen and Def Leppard just play louder to compensate for their fading vocals.”
There you have it. We’ve reached the age where the words matter just as much as the music.
Some folks do their rocking in chairs, but we’re going to keep doing ours at concert venues – at least while we can still hear the lyrics.
Cindy Hval 