Tag: The Spokesman-Review

Columns

Dementia sometimes changes the stories, but Mom’s humor is forever

Cindy Hval

Almost a year has passed since my last Mom update.

Her 94th birthday is approaching, and while she’s a bit frailer, she still knows us and has a story or two to tell most weeks.

Like many seniors with dementia, she tends to repeat the same tales. But every now and then, she adds an unexpected twist – like telling me I was born in the Philippines (that was my sister). Or recalling how she used to push my brothers in a stroller all the way to NorthTown Mall (that was my sons).

I just roll with the stories, happy when she’s engaged because sometimes she’s not.

Sometimes, she’s scared and confused, and all I can do is sit with her, hold her hand and tell her that I love her.

Her funny quips a few and far between now, but I can still make her laugh. I’m glad because her sense of humor is probably the best thing I inherited from her.

March 2018

I picked Mom up for an early birthday celebration.

“You look pretty in your pink sweater,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I put it on to look less dead.”

April 2018

As we neared the sidewalk at the dentist’s office, I steered her away from the curb.

“You don’t want to see me jump the curb?” she asked

I shook my head.

“That’s OK. I left my racing walker at home.”

April 2019

Mom on friendship: “My best friend Bonnie and I were so close we shared everything, even a Kleenex.”

April 2019

“How are you doing with all those men?” she asked.

“Which men?”

“Don’t ask me! You’re the one responsible for them!”

(I really hope she was referring to my husband and sons.)

May 2019

On personal appearance: “I don’t wear makeup anymore, except on Sundays I wear the lipstick you gave me. Why? Because I’m 88 and makeup doesn’t help.”

June 2019

Mom’s anxiety was pretty bad today, but she did perk up when talking about high school sweethearts and had this word of advice for single gals.

“Men don’t like it when you flirt and carry on. Boys liked me because I ignored them.”

March 2021

I went over the weekly schedule with Mom and informed her about an invitation to a drumming session the next afternoon.

“I don’t drum,” she said.

“Well, you can learn,” I replied.

“First I need to find out WHAT or WHO we’re going to drum ON, and then I’ll decide.”

April 2021

Me: Oh, look! You’re having quiche Lorraine for dinner.

Mom: What a fancy way to say scrambled eggs.

November 2021

“When we got married, he was going to be the breadwinner, and I was going to be the bookkeeper,” she said.

“How long did that last?” I asked.

“Oh, it took about a week for him to realize I entered everything under miscellaneous.”

March 2023

Mom was in top form today. As I struggled to help her on with her coat, a gentleman walked by. “You’re not leaving me already!” he said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back,” I replied.

“Shush!” she said. “Don’t give him any advance warning!”

July 2023

Since Mom always calls our youngest son her “Sam Baby,” I thought it would be fun to get a photo of him sitting on her lap. We tried, but he’s 6-foot-2 and can no longer fit on Grandma’s lap.

“That’s OK,” she said. “I’d rather be able to walk.”

January 2024

Mom asked about my day, and I told her I interviewed a fly fisherman.

She leaned forward and put her hand on my arm.

“You do know they don’t actually fish for flies?”

January 2024

I read the retirement center’s weekly newsletter to her. The director again reminded residents to be kind and patient with the dining room staff.

“Gosh, I don’t want to be a mean, cranky old lady when I grow up,” I said.

“Me neither,” Mom replied. “I’d rather be a silly, crazy old lady.”

I assured her she was absolutely that.

“I WIN!” she said.

Yes.

She does.

All Write, Columns

No more goodbyes for the Gleesings

Cindy Hval

This time, he had to wait for her—14 long years.

Her wait for him in 1945 may have been shorter, but it was terrifying.

When I interviewed Jerry and Nancy Gleesing in March 2010, they were looking forward to celebrating their 66th anniversary in June.

They’d met in LaMoure, North Dakota, in 1940. Four years later, the high school sweethearts married.

They used Jerry’s two-week leave from the Army Air Force for their honeymoon. When he received orders to deploy to Italy as a flight officer with the 15th Air Force, 459th Bomb Group, Nancy was expecting their first child.

On Jan. 15, 1945, his B-24 was shot down, and he and his crew bailed out over Hungary. It was only his second mission.

 During the interview, Jerry laughed as he described his predicament.

“We never learned how to bail out, just how to fly the plane!”

But he grew somber when recalling how locals armed with pickaxes and shovels quickly surrounded him and his crew.

“I thought they were going to kill us,” he said.

Instead, the captives were handed over to the Germans and taken to a prisoner of war camp in Moosburg, Germany.

Meanwhile, back in North Dakota, Nancy worried.

“The letters stopped on Jan. 5,” she said.

For 10 days, there was no word. Then, a telegram arrived, reporting Jerry as missing in action.

As he was being processed at the POW camp, a guard pointed to his wedding ring and motioned for him to remove it. And that’s where Jerry drew the line.

“You get to the point where the initial fear is gone,” he said. “Whatever happens, happens. I didn’t give up my wedding ring. I said, ‘I vowed to never take it off. I’m not taking it off.’”

The guard let him keep it.

In February 1945, Nancy gave birth to a daughter she wasn’t sure her husband would get to meet. But in April, after 3 ½ months as a prisoner of war, the camp at Moosburg was liberated.

“We saw the tanks come over the hill,” Jerry recalled. “Everyone was whooping and hollering. Then the American flag was raised, and it was dead silent.” His voice broke. “It was like coming home.”

And come home he did, just in time to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. He and Nancy raised seven children together.

Their story ran in the newspaper on March 25, 2010. A month later, Jerry died suddenly.

They didn’t get to celebrate their 66th anniversary, but their story stayed with me. In fact, it became chapter one of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation.”

Since its 2015 publication, I’ve done approximately 100 reading, signing and speaking events and I’ve shared the Gleesings’ story at most of them.

No matter how many times I’ve told it, I can’t get through a reading without tearing up when I share Jerry’s reaction to seeing the American flag raised in that POW camp.

Their chapter ends with him looking at the wedding band he’d refused to remove.

 “It’s still there,” he said. “I’ve never taken it off.”

On Dec. 1, 2024, Nancy died at the age of 100, and his long wait ended.

Something tells me this reunion was even better than the one they had in 1945.

Following Jerry’s death, Nancy had worn his wedding ring on a chain around her neck. I like to think that when Jerry reached out to welcome her, she took his hand and slipped that thin gold band back where it belonged.

All Write, Columns

A room of my own

Cindy Hval

For many years, I posted the same cartoon on social media every December. It features a woman sitting on Santa’s lap, reading her Christmas wish list. “… And I also need a gripping opening sentence, help with my 14th and 28th chapters, an agent with excellent connections in the publishing world, and a home office with a door.”

I didn’t share it this year because, after 17 years as a freelance writer and author, I finally have a home office with a door.

I’ve spent my career working in our unfinished downstairs rec room. The boys called it the playroom because that’s what they did there. They built gigantic Lego creations, set up Hot Wheels tracks and played video games. It’s where they hosted sleepovers and movie parties.

Meanwhile, I sat at a battered hand-me-down desk that once belonged to my father-in-law, next to an old filing cabinet snagged from my husband’s business.

My desk faced wobbly 1970s-era faux pine paneling. Lighting consisted of a series of cheap gooseneck desk lamps that teetered precariously atop the previously mentioned filing cabinet.

Without a door and no drawers in my desk, I’d leave the room and return to find my carefully arranged notes scattered across the room and my pens AWOL.

Cats enjoy few things more than knocking things off flat surfaces.

I churned out thousands of articles and columns from that room, but thankfully, when it came to pen books or bigger projects, I had kind friends who offered me private, quiet spaces for work.

As our family grew, other projects superseded my longing for an actual home office. My husband had a deck to build and a shed to create, the boys’ rooms needed finishing, the living room needed new flooring, and a second bathroom was vital.

Derek completed each job with great attention to detail, and every project turned out fantastic.

Our youngest son accepted a teaching job in Texas nearly three years ago, and Derek hoped to finally build an office for me because he truly loves home -improvement projects – and me. Unfortunately, his osteoarthritis limited his mobility and energy, and hip replacement surgery loomed.

So, reader, I took matters into my own hands. A friend referred me to a contractor, and I made an appointment for him to meet us at the house. Then I told Derek.

Though disappointed he wouldn’t be able to do the project himself, he agreed to talk to the contractor with me. They hit it off like I knew they would.

Almost a year later, work began. I chose Zachary’s former bedroom for my office. The ceiling hadn’t been finished since an earlier remodel, and the blue indoor/outdoor carpet had been there since our oldest two sons shared the space.

It also had a window facing our backyard. Finally, I’d have natural light and an office with a lovely view!

Work began in August, and when I dithered over choices that came up, wanting to defer to my husband, the contractor gently reminded me, “This is your office. You get to decide.”

And I did. I chose soft gray paint, white trim and a laminate floor that mirrored the warmth of the pine tongue-and-groove ceiling. Honestly, I would have been happy with any ceiling, but Derek lobbied for the upgrade, and I’m glad I listened.

In late September, he put together the desk I’d purchased years ago in anticipation of my new digs. Its L-shape offers plenty of room for notes on the smooth black surface. When I tire of sitting, I can use its stand-up option.

I had a matching bookshelf delivered, chose a cozy chair and a lamp for the corner, and hung art I’d saved just for this space.

Every morning, when I take my mug of coffee to my desk, I smile. My notes are right where I left them the night before – my pens and paperclips, present and accounted for.

The view from the window feeds my soul no matter the weather. When the sun beats down, I lower the blinds, but usually, I leave them up. I’ve watched the leaves swirl down into the garden. I’ve seen the rain drizzle or pour and watched snow slowly shroud the deck.

I love everything about this room, but my favorite thing might be the newly painted white door with its shiny gold knob. When Derek’s home and I have phone interviews or looming deadlines, I shut it with a satisfying click. Unlike our cats, Freya and Walter, he doesn’t stand outside and scratch and whine until I open it.

My 60th birthday may be approaching, but I finally have a room of my own, and oh, it was worth the wait.

Columns

Savoring the Special + Wedding Tales

Cindy Hval

For The Spokesman-Review

As breakfasts go, on the day after Thanksgiving, it doesn’t get much better than homemade pumpkin pie with a large dollop of whipped cream.

Ditto on the day after, the day after.

“Well, that’s it until next year,” I said, as my fork slid into the last creamy bite of spiced pumpkin.

I scooped up bits of flaky pie crust and sighed.

So did Derek.

“Your pumpkin pie is so much better than store-bought,” he said. “How come you don’t make it more often?”

A valid question, since you can buy cans of Libby pumpkin year-round, and I’ve always got piecrust ingredients in the pantry.

“Pumpkin pie is only for Thanksgiving,” I replied. “Like sugar cookies, shortbread and fudge are only for Christmas.”

He sighed again and took our plates to the sink.

That conversation got me thinking. What if we had pumpkin pie every month? Or listened to Christmas music before Thanksgiving? Or enjoyed a batch of fudge in the summer?

An artificial Christmas tree could remain in your living room all year. My mom’s retirement facility does this with a small tree in their vestibule. They decorate it for the seasons – hearts in February, flowers in the spring, sunglasses in summer, etc.

But anticipating once-a-year treats and digging out holiday heirlooms to display are all part of savoring the joy of the season.

By the time you read this, there may be a few pieces of Irish cream or butter rum fudge left in our fridge, and there might be a cookie or two in the larder, but that’s it. On New Year’s Day, we invite the whole Hval clan over to devour all the Christmas treats, so we can start the New Year with a fridge filled with vegetables and other wholesome foods.

As I type, the refrain of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” plays softly from my computer speakers.

”I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!”

Now, that’s a holiday sentiment I’d like to enjoy every day of the year.

Readers share wedding party memories

In my Dec. 5 column about my wedding appearances, I invited readers to share their wedding party memories.

My friend, Jill, is batting 50/50.

“I was a maid of honor and a bridesmaid,” she said. “One of the marriages stuck – one didn’t. Both weddings were lovely, though at the rehearsal for one of them, the officiant, who was also the groom’s dad, kept warning us bridesmaids to behave ourselves on the wedding day. I don’t know what he feared we would do. We were all married and had small children at that point. We were far too tired for any crazy stunts.”

Marcia Cocking appeared in a slew of weddings. Her many roles included flower girl, Junior bridesmaid, and maid of honor. She remembers every dress she wore!

“My yellow dress with a short cape (from her first flower girl role) has been a fun dress up for my 5 granddaughters,” she wrote.

Ditto a red dress and a white brocade gown.

“As a senior in high school, I wore a deep pink dress for my brother’s wedding. The dress also made an appearance at my Senior Prom with my future husband.”

In her sixth wedding appearance, she wore a flowered, lined dress as a bridesmaid in an August afternoon garden wedding.

“It was heavy and 100+degrees,” wrote Cocking. “It was nearly unbearable, in spite of the huge blue hat to complement the dress.”

That hat has also been a hit with her granddaughters.

Retired pastor, David Sutton, offered another perspective. He estimates he’s officiated 200 nuptials and has plenty of interesting tales.

“For example, the backyard wedding where the couple had 3 dogs and the grass was not mowed or cleaned up. Folding chairs on uneven turf, an old utility table for an altar, the participants wore clean bowling shirts with matching cut-offs. The dogs got loose in the middle of the ceremony!” he wrote. “Or the Hawaiian style outdoor wedding. The couple was about to light the Unity Candle just after I said, ‘And these single flames will light the one candle that represents the love you have for each other at this very moment and will last forever.’”’

And then a gust of wind extinguished the candle.

“I was best man at two weddings, co-star in three,” wrote Tom Peacock. “None lasted but I switched up to being a photographer at weddings that have had a much better success rate. Out of 6 weddings 5 are still going, the only one that isn’t, interestingly was a peacock-themed wedding, so perhaps my personal wedding experiences somehow affected that one. If I ever get married again maybe I should have you in the mix for a better success story.”

As I said, I’m sure my flower-strewing talents can be resurrected – the bouffant hairdo not so much.

Columns

Things my husband says: new and improved edition

Cindy Hval

When my oldest brother David offers advice, I usually take it. He’s a pretty smart guy.

When my husband had hip replacement surgery a few weeks ago, however, David warned, “Just don’t write a column about what he says while coming out of the anesthesia.”

That’s like telling me not to drink coffee in the morning.

The surgery went well, and when they wheeled him into his post-op room, I met him there, notebook in hand.

Alas, he didn’t have general anesthesia, so no embarrassing quips to report. He also was a bust when he had his wisdom teeth removed. He did worry, though.

“I’m afraid I’ll say something inappropriate to you,” he said.

“You always say inappropriate things to me,” I replied.

“Yeah, but not in front of witnesses.”

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t need drugs to entertain me. Here’s the latest installment of #ThingsMyHusbandsays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• One night, as I drifted into sleep, Derek murmured, “Tootsie Rolls … a chest filled with Tootsie Rolls …”

I guess his sweet tooth even haunts his dreams.

• Early one morning, he rolled over and elbowed me.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry!” he said. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“I sleep here,” I said.

“I know, but you didn’t look like you were here.”

Derekisms

• Derek on why I should watch “Dune.” “It has that guy you like, Jason MIMOSA.”

He’s not wrong. I do like the actor Jason Momoa. I also enjoy mimosas.

• Him: “Listen, it’s not your fault if they want to be a hobbit.”

Me: “You mean hermit?”

Him: “Whatever.”

• “Get the little hookers!” he said, while decorating the Christmas tree.

We don’t have risqué ornaments. He needed ornament hooks.

• “Look! There’s a Dalai Lama guy! Oh, hey, there’s two!” Derek upon seeing two Buddhist monks at Manito Park.

• “I’m feeling a lot better. I haven’t taken Desitin in days.”

Let the record show he meant Mucinex, not diaper cream.

• Derek’s been watching a PBS series about World War II called “Nazi Mega Weapons.”

It doesn’t really interest me, but I cuddled with him while he watched it.

I was kind of dozing and heard an interesting quote.

“Who said that?” I asked.

“It’s their fornication expert,” he replied.

I sat straight up.

“I meant FORTIFICATION expert.”

I stayed awake for the rest of the show just to be sure.

Life according to Derek

  • WARNING! Spoiler Alert!

One year, after Easter dinner, talk turned to when we each discovered the Easter Bunny wasn’t real.

Ethan, our oldest, couldn’t remember.

“How about you, Dad?” he asked. “You’re firstborn, too. Do you remember?”

“I’ll never forget it,” Derek said. “You were a baby, and I caught your mom taking an Easter basket to your room. ‘What are you doing!?’ I said. ‘That’s the Easter Bunny’s job!’ Then she broke it to me. I still haven’t gotten over it.”

• Him: “Damn squirrels are in my garden again!”

Me: “How did you get rid of them last year?”

Him:” I shot ’em.”

Me: “You did not!”

Him: “Yep. I got out Zach’s BB gun and blasted them.”

Me: “No, you didn’t.”

Him: “OK, then this is the year.”

• “It’s like a bad movie. I’m gonna finish it, but I’m not gonna like it.” Derek on sugar-free ice cream.

• One of our sons grew frustrated with the dating scene. “I’m lowering my expectations,” he said. “That’s what your mom did, and she got me!” his dad replied.

Married life

• Derek flung open the bedroom door.

“What do Chris Pine and I have in common besides our incredibly sexy good looks?”

I felt like this may be a trick question, so I shrugged.

“Don’t know. Give me a hint?”

He grinned.

“Warren Buffett and I have this in common, too!”

Now, I’m truly stumped.

“OK. I give. What do you, Chris Pine and Warren Buffett have in common?”

“We all HATE SMARTPHONES!” Derek says and does a victory lap around the bed.

(He’s quite attached to his ancient, barely functioning phone with its slide-out keyboard.)

PS: I was for cash. Lots of cash.

• Me: “Something is really wrong here. I just spent more money at PetSmart than I did at Total Wine.”

Him: “That’s terrible! You need to go back to Total Wine!”

• “I contemplate lumber the way you contemplate purses or shoes,” my husband on why he’s taking so long at Home Depot.

• One winter evening I couldn’t find Derek anywhere. Finally, Sam looked out on the deck and discovered his dad smoking a cigar. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here!” I said.

Turns out he’d read about the oldest living veteran, who at 107 drinks whiskey in his morning coffee and smokes up to 12 cigars a day.

“I’ve got 11 more to go!” Derek said.

“Yeah, but also he said the true secret to his longevity is staying out of trouble,” I replied.

He sighed. “I’ll be in after I finish my cigar.”

With that kind of wisdom and his spry new hip, Derek just may make 107, too.

Columns

A Member of the Wedding(s)

Cindy Hval

My column about my son’s wedding (Oct. 24) prompted a blast from the past.

Mary Gustafson wrote to remind me I was her flower girl at her January 1971 wedding. She even sent a photo of 6-year-old me rocking a bouffant hairdo!

Mom made my red satin dress with an empire waist and white ribbon sash. I wore short white gloves and carried a basket filled with rose petals.

Knowing her limitations, Mom took me to a beauty parlor for the bouffant, which she reinforced at home and at the church with copious amounts of White Rain hairspray. The scent gagged me, but it did its job, and my hairdo held.

1971 was a busy year for weddings for me. My brother, David, married his wife, Becky, in November.

It looks like Mom used the same pattern for my dress, but this time, I wore beige satin with short puffed sleeves and a brocade sash. Alas, no salon-induced bouffant. Instead, my short hair was softly curled, and I wore a headband matching the sash.

My basket brimmed with fall flowers, but the best part of the wedding for me was the handsome ring bearer, Becky’s youngest brother, Joe.

With huge chocolate-brown eyes and a killer smile, he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen! I felt lovely walking down the aisle with him.

After a brief hiatus, I resumed my duties at another winter wedding. In December 1973, my brother, Jon, wed his wife, Bonnie.

My dotted pink Swiss gown had an empire waist, but longer sleeves. I’m pretty sure Mom used the same pattern and just lengthened the sleeves.

By this time my mother had shorn my hair a la Florence Henderson in the Brady Bunch. In the photos, it looked like she trimmed my bangs herself. Mom was great at snipping fabric – hair not so much.

I had no flower-flinging duties because I’d been promoted to junior bridesmaid – which is just like a regular bridesmaid, but shorter.

My nuptial career hit a lull until my sister Shelley’s wedding in Leavenworth, in September 1984. This time I was the maid of honor.

Once again, Mom made my dress – a floor-length heather blue gown. Of course, it had an empire waist. I’m somewhat confident she didn’t use the same Butterick pattern she used for the previous three dresses. Then again, she’s pretty thrifty.

I didn’t let her touch my hair, but she brought an extra large can of pink-capped White Rain and sprayed it in my vicinity while we got ready for the wedding.

Two years later, I had a star turn as the bride, which was a lot more stressful than my previous appearances. Mom didn’t make my dress, but she did try to White Rain me.

The best part of this outing was all the presents. And the honeymoon. And Derek. Not necessarily in that order.

I did take one more trip down the aisle in 1987 when my friend Rhonda married her husband, Jay, in Moses Lake.

They had a June wedding and my Mom-made gown was a shimmering iridescent blue of some gauzy fabric that made her swear off sewing formal wear forever.

I’m proud to tell you that every one of these marriages endured. Not one divorce! My participation likely had nothing to do with it, but still, if you’re planning a wedding keep me in mind.

Flower girls are cute and all, but a flower woman could add an elegant touch. I’m not even opposed to bringing the bouffant back, but I won’t stock up on White Rain just yet.

Columns

Brown sugar cookies bring sweet memories

Cindy Hval

Chocolate chip cake bars, cowboy cookies, gingersnaps, snickerdoodles – on most Saturdays, Mom’s kitchen was filled with the fragrance of fresh-baked cookies.

When my youngest son started kindergarten and I returned to work, Mom assumed my children might never get a homemade cookie again. So she baked. Cookies were her love language.

Mom didn’t drive, so one of us would stop by her house to pick up the goodies. See what she did there? A Saturday visit from her daughter, son-in-law or a grandson was guaranteed.

Of all the treats Mom baked, brown sugar cookies were my favorite. Sweet and chewy with an added spark of cinnamon. It’s impossible to eat just one, so I often secreted a stash away from Derek and my boys.

In August, I came across her handwritten recipe.

My future daughter-in-law was coming to meet the wedding florist in my home to choose flowers for the bouquets and boutonnieres. I planned to serve them tea and cookies, and as I thumbed through my recipes, a flash of Mom’s tidy penmanship caught my eye.

Brown sugar cookies.

I hadn’t tasted them since she moved into an assisted living community seven years ago. I’ve baked a lot of cookies over those years, but I didn’t have the heart to make my favorites.

I wanted to remember how they tasted when she pulled them from the oven and placed a warm cookie in my hand.

I wanted to picture Mom in her element – stirring dough with a wooden spoon in the sunshine yellow mixing bowl and scooping dollops onto her battered and bent cookie sheets.

If I’d known that long ago batch would be the last one she’d be able to bake, I would have savored each bite, feeling her love in the sweetness of every mouthful.

Now, Mom’s memories are jumbled and fragmented. The details of hundreds of meals and thousands of cakes and cookies she churned out are lost somewhere in the depths of dementia.

It felt like it was time to fold new memories into the richness of the old. So, I affixed the recipe to the range hood and assembled the ingredients.

While they baked, I spread one of Mom’s lace cloths on the table and warmed a teapot for my guests, just like she showed me.

The timer rang, and I pulled a pan of cookies from the oven. As usual, I couldn’t wait for them to cool. I juggled one from hand to hand and finally sank my teeth into the deliciousness of brown sugar and cinnamon. They were every bit as wonderful as those that came from Mom’s kitchen.

I shouldn’t have waited so long to make them.

When Naselle arrived, I served the cookies on the glass dessert plates we used at my wedding 38 years ago.

Of course, she loved the cookies.

For her bridal shower, I created a cookbook filled with favorite family recipes. I included Mom’s piecrust and a copy of her handwritten brown sugar cookie recipe.

I hope the memory of the day I finally made Mom’s cookies will be as sweet as the ones I have of her baking for my boys.

But if that moment fades or is lost to me in the haze of age or illness, perhaps my daughter-in-law will bake a batch and remember for me.

Brown Sugar Cookies

1 cup shortening

2 cups brown sugar

2 eggs

2 tablespoons water

2 teaspoons vanilla

3 ½ cups flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

Cream shortening and sugar. Add eggs, water and vanilla. Sift dry ingredients and mix well. Take small balls of dough and mash down with a glass dipped in sugar and cinnamon.

Bake at 350 degrees for 8-10 minutes on a greased cookie sheet.

All Write

Purple Heart Pin-Up

Cindy Hval

During World War II, pinup girls with porcelain skin, scarlet lips and daintily arched brows offered troops reminders of the girls back home.

Gina Elise loved that glamorous look and decided to use the nostalgia to support contemporary troops. In 2006, she launched Pin-Ups for Vets, a nonprofit with a mission to raise funds for hospitalized veterans and to boost the morale of deployed servicemen.

“Each year, we create a calendar featuring female veterans from across the country,” she said. “The calendar fundraises for everything we do, from donating rehab equipment to VA Hospitals to shipping care packages to troops to our 50-state Veterans Hospital Tour.”

Pin-Up Vets have visited 20,000 veterans in 49 states, delivering gifts of appreciation.

This year, the organization released its 19th calendar, and Miss January hails from Spokane. Kodie Misiura served four years in the Marines and deployed twice to Iraq.

Misiura said she opted to enlist partly out of orneriness because her dad didn’t want his daughter in the military.

“My dad said, ‘Kodie, some guys can’t make it through Marine Corps boot camp. How are you going to?’ ” she recalled. “That’s all it took.”

Today marks the 249th birthday of the U.S. Marine Corps. Women make up less than 6% of the Corps.

She’s proud to be one of them.

“Being a Marine is special – being a woman Marine is even more special. The fewer. The prouder,” she said, riffing on the classic Marine slogan: The Few. The Proud. The Marines.

Misiura is also in rare company as one of approximately 500 women in the U.S. military to receive a Purple Heart.

On June 23, 2005, she survived one of the worst days for women in the history of the military when a suicide bomber attacked her convoy. Three of her fellow female Marines died, and 11 more were injured in the blast.

It’s a day she prefers not to discuss. Instead, she focuses on the friendships she formed and the experience she gained.

“The military afforded me every opportunity,” she said.

She currently works in veterans’ services for the state of Washington.

When a fellow Marine sent her the calendar casting call, Misiura was intrigued.

“I’m not a girly girl by any means,” she said. “But I love pinups and that vintage look.”

After reading how the nonprofit supports veterans and active-duty personnel, she decided to go for it.

Pin-Ups for Vets founder Elise said they receive hundreds of submissions from veterans across the country.

“This year’s calendar features 13 female vets with a combined 117 years of service,” she said. “Kodie is one of two Purple Heart recipients in the calendar.”

Misiura said the experience was a whirlwind.

“I flew down to California, and they did my hair, makeup and costume all in one day!”

Elise said the women revel in the process.

“They have a blast,” she said. “We turn them into 1940s bombshells.”

Misiura enjoyed every minute.

“It was cool, because I got to meet some of the other women veterans,” she said.

When the calendars are printed, the Pin-Up vets visit VA hospitals and veteran’s homes to deliver and sign them.

“They have an instant vet-to-vet connection,” Elise said.

But that connection isn’t always so instantaneous. Usually, the veterans don’t know the calendar girls are fellow vets.

Misiura recently visited a veteran’s home in Columbia Falls, Montana. She went from room to room chatting with the vets and offering to sign a calendar for them.

One vet wasn’t inclined to talk. She noticed his display of medals.

“I see you have a Purple Heart,” Misiura said. “Thank you for your service – I have one, too.”

He was shocked, and when she showed him her pinup photo in the calendar, he opened up and began to chat.

“It was a nice way to connect,” she said.

But those without an array of medals to show for their service also command her respect.

“A lot of veterans think if they didn’t deploy, they’re not a vet,” Misiura said. “I tell them signing up shows your courage. A veteran is a veteran is a veteran. It’s a humbling experience to visit them and share our stories.”

For more information or to purchase a calendar visit pinupsforvets.com.

All Write, Columns

Mother of the Groom

Cindy Hval

When pregnant with my first child, I envisioned a beautiful baby girl. I dreamed of the dolls we’d play with and the tea parties we’d share.

“We’ll wear floppy straw hats and floral print dresses and drink tea from china cups,” I told my husband, setting my latest porcelain cup and saucer on a shelf.

If you’ve been reading this column for a while, you already know how that turned out. That first baby was a boy. So was the second. And the third. And the fourth.

Our home was a testosterone tsunami. Until August, when Freya joined our family, even our cats were all boys.

And then, one evening several months ago, our son Zachary brought a beautiful woman with long dark hair and coffee-colored eyes to a family dinner.

She held her own amid Hval volume, and when we played Uno, she didn’t balk at playing several Draw Four cards on me.

I forgave her even before she agreed to marry our thirdborn son.

When Zach showed me the engagement ring he’d chosen, I was on pins and needles until he finally popped the question. He proposed at the neighborhood park where he and his brothers spent many hours as kids.

Wedding preparations began in earnest. Naselle’s mom died several years ago, and when she asked if I’d like to go with her to look at wedding gowns, I cried. It was such an honor to be present when she found the dress of her dreams.

Then, I had the delight of introducing her to a florist friend. I served tea and cookies while we discussed Naselle’s wedding colors and ideas. Her mother’s favorite flower was yellow roses, so they became the focal point of the boutonnières and bouquets.

Speaking of tea, my daughter-in-law loves it. In fact, she and Zach’s first date was at Revival Tea Co. downtown.

Naselle’s bridal shower was a garden tea party at the home of one of her sweet friends. The invitation asked attendees to wear their favorite hats and party dresses.

You can read the tea leaves on this, can’t you?

Yes, I finally had a reason to buy a floppy straw hat and a new floral print dress.

As I sat at a table, with the bride’s two adorable flower girls, I asked the littlest one if she’d been a flower girl before.

She shook her head, taking a dainty sip of tea.

“No, have you?” she asked.

I laughed.

“Yes, but it was a long, long time ago.”

In the harried and hectic weeks leading up to the wedding, I wondered why there weren’t any “Mother of the Groom” movies. After all, there are plenty of “Father of the Bride” films.

On Oct. 5, as I watched my son become a husband, I think I discovered the reason.

There seems to be less worry for the mother of the groom. No drama about losing a son, angst over letting him go, or stress that she’ll be able to provide. Just delight in his happiness.

Zachary has found someone who holds his heart and his dreams in capable and loving hands, and I gained a daughter.

She is the answer to both of our prayers.

Columns

Which is scarier: A zombie or a newspaper columnist?

Cindy Hval

This post from eight years ago showed up recently in my Facebook feed.

“I’m rethinking our maiden Scarywood visit. Derek’s reading the attraction descriptions aloud, and pauses and says, ‘Oh, he’s getting punched.’ He reads some more. ‘Oh. Clowns. Yeah, they’re getting punched.’ ”

Each autumn for the past 15 years, Silverwood Theme Park visits the dark side and transforms into Scarywood Haunted Nights.

After listening to Derek’s violent reaction to the haunt descriptions, I nixed that visit. Bailing my husband out of an Idaho jail might terrify, but not in a fun way.

Years passed. My husband mellowed (I hoped), and the day that memory popped up in my newsfeed happened to be the day I’d agreed to take him to media night at the theme park.

I thought I might need some backup in case he went rogue, so his sister, Camille, and her husband, Kjell, agreed to chaperone.

Our first stop was Lindy’s Restaurant – not for the scares, for the blood. While the park provided complimentary admission, parking, food and drink were on us.

Lindy’s offered fortification in the form of a new Blood Bag cocktail. The recipe includes fruit punch, tequila, Captain Morgan’s rum, triple sec and edible glitter. It’s served in a plastic bag like the kind you see hanging from IV poles in hospitals.

Not wanting to be too “fortified,” we decided one bag per couple was plenty.

Most of Silverwood’s signature rides are open at Scarywood, including the Timber Terror with a twist – the roller coaster runs backward!

Derek, Camille and Kjell were eager to ride, but I’ve been through enough jolts recently. I was left holding the Blood Bags. You’d think my position was enviable, but I couldn’t figure out how to unlock my IV to get the liquid flowing.

In exasperation, I gave it a good squeeze which was why I was wearing most of our blood bag when my husband exited the Timber Terror.

With gruesome red spatters on my white jacket, I fit right in with the cast at the park.

From there, we decided to explore a few of the five haunts.

First up: Chuckle’s 3D Sideshow.

Donning our 3D glasses, we entered the haunted funhouse. Gingerly, we crossed a bridge through a tunnel of spinning lights. Bloody clowns jumped at us, grabbed at us, popped out of boxes and loomed around corners, gleefully terrorizing us.

Fun times!

Then we visited Scarywood’s newest attraction – The Swine.

Billed as “the dark, forgotten chapter of the story you thought you knew,” The Swine is a corn maze populated by killer pigs and an angry Pig Mama.

These piggies aren’t afraid of any wolf’s huffing and puffing. They’re armed with chainsaws and have a thirst for blood.

The sound of pigs squealing accompanied each twist and turn of the maze. Lots of laughing and shrieking ensued, some of it from the pigs, most of it from us.

The following morning, I gleefully enjoyed the bacon Derek cooked for breakfast.

Whose squealing now, little piggy?

Our favorite haunt was Blood Bayou, where cannibals lurk behind every corner and sometimes beneath the stairs. If bloody gore isn’t your thing, you might want to skip this one, but for us it offered the most jump scares (and screams) of the night.

Scarywood also features themed scare zones, including Clown Town (think Pennywise, not Ronald McDonald) and Quarantine Zone (no COVID, but lots of bitey zombies).

Haunted by a roving cast of costumed characters, these areas offer lots of up-close and personal encounters with creatures from every nightmare you’ve had.

The Toybox scare zone proved my undoing. Derek didn’t clock a clown or poke a pig – instead, I was the one who got in trouble.

While we waited to see if Camille and Kjell would survive the Panic Plunge in the dark, blank-eyed broken dolls sidled up to us and otherwise stalked us.

I’ve seen “Toy Story” too many times to be scared by creepy dolls, so when a ghoulish gal approached me, I casually, said, “Boo!”

Mutely, she slowly shook her head and wagged a finger at me.

Seconds later a security guard approached and said, “You’re not allowed to scare the actors.”

I gulped and nodded.

While Derek gleefully chortled at my mortification, I mumbled, “She started it.”

Sure, there were crazed clowns, killer pigs and cranky cannibals, but apparently, one of the scariest things at Scarywood on opening night was a newspaper columnist saying, “Boo!”

Scarywood tickets are only available online. For dates, times and ticket information visit scarywoodhaunt.com.