Tag: The Spokesman-Review

All Write, Columns

Obituaries tell the story of a community

Cindy Hval

Since Shawn Vestal’s departure from The Spokesman-Review a couple of years ago, what I miss most are his semi-regular recaps of local obituaries.

Each column started with this: “One obituary is a portrait of a life. Several taken together form a portrait of a community.”

When I ran into Shawn at a recent Northwest Passages event, I asked if it would be OK with him if I revived the format in my column.

The following snapshots gleaned from recent obituaries introduced me to people I wish I’d known. People like Mari (Jensen) Clack.

Mari, a Democrat, married Dave, a Republican, and they enjoyed 65 years together before her death on Aug. 2. That’s not to say every day was harmonious, as this story reveals.

“Christmastime brought good cheer as well – most of the time. Dave famously added two stocking stuffers to Mari’s Christmas stocking without Santa’s approval. The first was a big, baby blue Hoover vacuum, and the second was a 15-passenger Dodge van to haul everyone’s kids to activities. The vacuum was re-gifted to Dave immediately, and the van made it two years before Santa or Jesus told Dave to replace it with a yellow Porsche.”

Her life was marked by numerous personal and professional accomplishments, including the co-founding of the Women Helping Women Fund in 1992. The fund has raised over $7 million for more than 600 grants and scholarships.

Mari expressed her faith in a letter she wrote when she learned she had breast cancer.

“When humans show their potential, it shows the wonder of divinity – of God – of a higher power – and the beauty of the universe – a wondrous environment, tempered only by the persistence of ignorance and greed. God works through the deeds of good people doing good things.”

Other obituaries leave lingering questions.

Richard Stanley “Stan” Hallett died on Aug. 8. He played golf, ping-pong, basketball and baseball. He enjoyed rec league softball well into his 70s. His obit said his softball career ended when “he got walloped in the shin. Some of you might remember that.”

Wouldn’t you like to know the rest of that story?

Ethel Mae DeStefano reached the century mark. She served as personal secretary to First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt!

Ethel Mae enjoyed a happy hour Bud, and cheering for the Mariners and Gonzaga.

She spent the majority of her life in Spokane, raising seven children with her husband, Ray. Her motto was “the more the merrier,” and she created a home where everyone felt welcome.

Often, the simplest things leave a lasting impression.

Clifford “Cliff” Kelly loved to travel, cook, drink wine, watch the 49ers and the Mariners, and read a good book.

His family and friends said they will always remember him as a kind old soul with a lovely laugh and a penchant for breaking into song.

Ellis Allan “Mac” McEachern joined the Army in 1943 and was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. He took part in five combat jumps during World War II and fought in the Normandy campaign, the Ardennes, Rhineland, and the Battle of the Bulge. He earned six service medals, including the Bronze Star.

After retiring from Lockheed at age 55, he moved to Spokane. He spent a good part of his retirement years thinking about how he could improve a process to save time or offer more convenience. He built “contraptions” to make a process more efficient. Solving problems with his inventions became his passion.

He lived independently in his home until he died at the age of 101.

Not everyone gets to see the fullness of their years. Some lives are tragically cut short. Even so, they can leave a lasting legacy.

Sarah Doxey died on July 16. She was 48.

She loved books, podcasts, documentaries and deep conversations. She laughed loudly. She did hard things. She put her makeup on in the car. She drank Red Bull instead of coffee. Sarah embraced people for who they were and created space for everyone to feel seen.

Her obituary listed ways to honor her. “Go on the vacation. Take the leap. Wear the shorts. Hug your kids. Call your friend. Go for the run.”

I never met Sarah, but in her honor, I’m doing all of the above.

Except the run is a 3-mile walk because I know my limits.

I think Sarah would understand.

Columns

Love in Every Bite

Cindy Hval

For many years, I’ve written an annual zucchini column for The Spokesman-Review’s Food section.

It started when my husband planted our first garden and made the rookie mistake of planting three zucchini plants.

The abundance of zucchini prompted me to delve into my cookbooks and recipe files. It also led me to give the gift of a gourd to friends, neighbors and random strangers who offered to take some squash off my hands.

This was when our two youngest sons were still at home. They resignedly ate the resulting side dishes, casseroles and soups, and happily devoured the breads, cakes and cookies that resulted from our garden abundance.

Flash forward to our empty nest and more manageable zucchini crop. Manageable because we’ve reduced the size of our crop, and I learned how well the resulting baked goods freeze.

My Norwegian brother-in-law is a big fan of my chocolate zucchini bread. He and his wife have a beautiful saltwater swimming pool in their backyard and graciously allow us to swim on sweltering summer days.

A tasty homemade thank-you gift is always ready in my freezer. This year, I upped the ante with chocolate zucchini cupcakes studded with chocolate chips.

Earlier in the summer, a friend had ankle surgery. Her husband is in my writing group. Zucchini isn’t the only garden goodie that lends itself to baking. Our bumper crop of raspberries became a decadent coffee cake. I served some to my group and sent the rest home for Sarah.

Twice a month, we host a family dinner. I never have to worry about dessert because I’ve got plenty of zucchini peanut drop cookies or zucchini chocolate chip cookies on hand. All that’s needed is a carton of vanilla ice cream.

I may have read too many “Little House on the Prairie” books as a child, because nothing makes me feel more accomplished than having homemade goodies on hand. I’m like Laura Ingalls Wilder, but with an upright freezer instead of a root cellar.

Where does it all go?

Well, this summer I served lemon zucchini bread with lemon glaze to a former member of my writing group and his wife.

They’d moved to Montana a few years ago. When I had the opportunity to interview them about their new ministry, I invited them to our backyard gazebo. When they left, I sent the leftover dessert with them to sweeten their journey home.

My Norwegian brother-in-law is a big fan of my chocolate zucchini bread. He and his wife have a beautiful saltwater swimming pool in their backyard and graciously allow us to swim on sweltering summer days.

A tasty homemade thank-you gift is always ready in my freezer. This year, I upped the ante with chocolate zucchini cupcakes studded with chocolate chips.

Earlier in the summer, a friend had ankle surgery. Her husband is in my writing group. Zucchini isn’t the only garden goodie that lends itself to baking. Our bumper crop of raspberries became a decadent coffee cake. I served some to my group and sent the rest home for Sarah.

Twice a month, we host a family dinner. I never have to worry about dessert because I’ve got plenty of zucchini peanut drop cookies or zucchini chocolate chip cookies on hand. All that’s needed is a carton of vanilla ice cream.

Every season, I find new recipes to try, and during my weekly phone call with our Texas son, I told him I’d been baking chocolate chip zucchini bread.

“You should send me some,” he said.

I’ll be popping a loaf in the mail soon.

Last week, I got a text from one of my closest friends. Her only sibling had died unexpectedly.

Stunned and saddened, I pulled a loaf of orange chocolate chip zucchini bread from my freezer. On the way to her house, I stopped at the store and bought a sympathy card and an Uber Eats gift card.

I know she appreciated the gifts and my presence, but it was the zucchini bread she mentioned more than once.

When forced to swallow the bitter pill of loss, a taste of homemade sweetness sometimes offers a moment of respite.

All I know is my freezer full of baked zucchini goods makes me feel prepared for whatever celebration or sadness lies ahead.

Over the years, I’ve cut these breads and cakes into wedges, rectangles and squares. I’ve served it on glass trays, porcelain saucers and paper plates.

Anyway I slice it, it all adds up to love.

Columns

Zucchini Mayhem

Cindy Hval

I know I say this every year, but it seemed like zucchini season got off to a slow start.

No gigantic gourds awaited us when we returned from vacation – just one or two supermarket-sized squash.

Even more shocking, I still had two loaves of lemon zucchini bread and one loaf of chocolate zucchini bread in our freezer.

I blame our No. 3 son. He got married in October and now his lovely wife keeps him well supplied with sweet treats.

This year, I made a vow to slow down on baking and cooking. Unfortunately, our zucchini didn’t get the message. Neither did my husband.

When he hauled out the food processor to shred our first batch, I gave him my second-largest mixing bowl and told him not to fill it to the top.

Derek misheard me and shredded every zucchini in sight, and could barely get the lid on the bowl.

“Oh no!” I said. “I needed some to slice and dice for casseroles and soups!”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Can you wait a couple of days?”

Of course, he was right. Even with only one plant, I’ve got squash coming out of my ears.

It’s a good thing my recipe game is strong, and last year it was augmented by my sons’ former choir teacher, Helen Kennett. After last year’s column ran, she graciously sent me recipes for Zucchini Bacon Quiche and Zucchini Peanut Drops.

Both are wonderful, and I’ve included them below, along with a recipe for a tasty casserole that calls for a box of stuffing mix. It offers a taste of Thanksgiving in August.

Right now, I’m giving thanks for the goodness of the green gourd and the comfort of an air-conditioned kitchen to prepare it in.

Zucchini Bacon Quiche

From Helen Kennett

1 tube (8-ounce) refrigerated crescent rolls

2 teaspoons prepared mustard

6 bacon strips, diced (save 2 tablespoons bacon dripping)

3 cups thinly sliced zucchini

1 medium onion, chopped

2 eggs beaten

2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese

2 tablespoons dried parsley flakes

½ teaspoon pepper

¼ teaspoon garlic powder

¼ teaspoon dried oregano

¼ teaspoon dried basil

Separate crescent dough into eight triangles.

Place in a greased 10-inch pie plate with points toward the center.

Press dough to the bottom and up the sides of plate to form a crust.

Seal perforations. Spread with mustard.

In skillet, cook bacon over medium. heat until crisp. Remove to paper towels; drain, reserving 2 tablespoons drippings.

Sauté zucchini & onion in drippings until tender.

In a large bowl, combine eggs, cheese, seasonings, bacon and zucchini mixture. Pour into crust.

Bake at 375 degrees for 25-30 minutes until knife inserted comes out clean.

(Cover edges loosely with foil if pastry browns too quickly.)

Taste of Thanksgiving Zucchini Casserole

6 cups diced zucchini

1 (10.75-ounce) can condensed cream of mushroom soup

1 cup sour cream

½ cup chopped onion

1 cup shredded carrots (honestly, I usually omit these, and it still tastes great)

1 (6-ounce) package stuffing mix (I use Stove Top cornbread or chicken)

½ cup butter, melted

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 2-quart casserole dish.

In a large saucepan over medium-high heat, cook zucchini in lightly salted water until crisp-tender, about five minutes. Drain and place in a large bowl. Stir in the soup, sour cream, onion and carrots.

In a small bowl, mix together stuffing and melted butter. Spread half the stuffing mix in the bottom of the casserole dish, add a layer of zucchini mixture, and top with remaining stuffing.

Bake 20 minutes or until the top is golden brown.

Zucchini Peanut Drops

From Helen Kennett

1 cup margarine (I use butter)

1 cup peanut butter

½ cup sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 cups grated unpeeled zucchini

½ cup chopped peanuts

3¼ cup flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cream margarine (or butter), peanut butter and sugars until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating well. Stir in vanilla zucchini and peanuts. Combine dry ingredients and blend into creamed mixture. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto greased cookie sheet (I use parchment paper).

Bake for 15-18 minutes.

Columns

Watching the World Go By

Cindy Hval

News that Twigs Bistro & Martini Bar at River Park Square Mall will soon undergo a remodel brought memories of our most recent visit.

The atrium area at Twigs provides free entertainment with your meal. With a bird’s-eye view of the busy intersection of Main Avenue and Post Street, the opportunities to witness the foibles of humanity are boundless. It’s one of our favorite people-watching spots!

First, there’s the endlessly amusing rounds of parking roulette in front of Red Robin across the street from the mall.

Downtown street parking can be challenging, but more so if you don’t read the signs in front of those invitingly vacant spaces in front of the restaurant.

Those spots are reserved for to-go pickups and food delivery services like DoorDash or Uber Eats.

Here’s a hint – no meter means no parking, yet time after time we watch hapless drivers pull in, hop out and look for a meter.

Some brave souls shrug and go inside to dine, perhaps underestimating the parking fines they may incur. Most don’t gamble with the parking gods and move along.

During a recent meal, we watched a huge Humvee pull into the spot. The driver got out, scratched his head while reading the “No Parking” sign, and then returned to the car and drove off.

Moments later, it returned. This time, a few men stepped out to examine the sign, engaging in an animated discussion with a lot of arm waving. Then a gaggle of women and children emerged from the vehicle and marched into the restaurant. The driver and his cohorts clambered back into the rig to find an actual parking spot.

Problematic Parallel Parking also offers fun. It’s tricky. Multiple lanes of traffic and cars turning onto Main Avenue from Post Street increase the challenge. Sometimes we wager the next round on how many attempts it will take before a driver successfully parks.

We get pretty excited when someone does it on the first try and quietly applaud from our table above the fray.

(Full disclosure, I NEVER parallel park. I know my limits.)

Lime scooters have upped the people-watching ante. Novice riders wobbling down the sidewalk in front of the mall sometimes gently topple over, but I’m happy to report we’ve witnessed no major mishaps.

(Full disclosure, I will NEVER ride a Lime scooter, as per my limits mentioned above.)

The funniest thing is how my husband suddenly becomes a fashion expert as we watch people cross the bustling intersection.

“His pants are off. They’re around his ankles. How can he even walk? Aren’t we over that trend?” he’ll murmur.

Mostly, his observations confirm that it’s a good thing we didn’t have daughters. A trio of scantily clad girls provoked a gasp.

“They need to go home and put some actual clothes on!”

We watched a family of four emerge from Red Robin. The two little boys each carried a brightly colored balloon.

“Look!” I said. “They attach the balloons to sticks, now.”

At one time or another, every one of our four sons suffered the trauma of losing their grip on a balloon’s string and watching it waft skyward. Even when we tied the string to a chubby wrist, it would somehow slip off on the way to the car or the house, leading to heartbroken sobs.

I suppose that’s progress – no more tears over lost balloons.

Derek’s observations were more pragmatic.

“I betcha 10 to one, they’ll turn those sticks into swords and start jabbing each other before they get their car,” he said. “And then someone’s balloon will pop.”

I didn’t take that bet. After all, I raised four boys with him, and some things never change.

Columns

He took the books

Cindy Hval

He drove 1,700 miles to see us, and when he left, it felt like he took his childhood with him.

Three years after accepting a teaching job in Texas at Odessa College, our youngest son finally completed his move.

Last month, instead of flying home for his summer visit, Sam drove so that he could take the bins and boxes filled with books he’d left behind.

He’s an English instructor for a reason. There was no way his library could fit in the small U-Haul trailer he and his dad drove across the country on his initial move.

In addition to household goods and furniture, Sam had crammed as many books and movies into the trailer as possible, with the overflow spilling into his car.

“I guess I’ll have to come back for the rest,” he said.

Sam’s college office is lined with beautiful wooden bookshelves, and he’s been itching to fill them with his best-loved tomes.

With every subsequent flight home, he sorted through his stash, donating some and exchanging others. The problem is for every book he got rid of, he bought two or three more.

“It’s not hoarding if it’s books,” I used to say, but that was before his stash quadrupled my own.

He made good time on his cross-country drive, and like all my boys, he made sure he was home in time for dinner.

But.

“I’m not doing that drive again,” he said. “From now on, I’m sticking to air travel, so I’d better take everything I left behind.”

I was so happy to see him, I didn’t think about “everything” and what that entailed until he started loading up for his return trip.

In addition to four plastic totes and a cardboard box filled with books, he added some other items.

“I probably won’t move back to Washington until I retire,” Sam said.

Gulp.

Some things that didn’t make the cut on his initial move: his childhood Bible, his Pokémon card collection and a tattered, dog-eared copy of “Hank the Cowdog.”

I didn’t bat an eye at the Bible or the Pokémon cards, but seeing “Hank the Cowdog,” on top of his stack brought a tear or two.

Sam’s brothers are 10, 8 and 5 years older, but they’d all loved it when I read that series with Sam. We’d listened to them on audiobooks on carpool drives and trips to Loon Lake.

Sensing the inevitable, I mentioned his red bin.

Years ago, I bought four red totes. I sorted through accumulated memorabilia from my boys – report cards, yearbooks, sports trophies and honor roll certificates. I labeled one bin for each kid.

Ethan’s is still tucked away, but over the years, we’ve taken or shipped most of our second son’s mementos to his home.

Zachary took his bin shortly before his October wedding.

“I might as well take mine now,” Sam said.

First, he sorted through it.

“Think about your future wife and kids before you toss anything,” I said. “Think about what they’d want to know about your childhood.”

He nodded.

“Do you want my soccer trophies?” he asked.

I laughed.

“Nope!” I replied.

“How about my Baby Book?”

Oh! The record of baby showers hosted in his honor, gifts given, details of his birth, his first smile, first tooth, first words …

“It’s your story,” I said.

He tucked it back into the tote.

I didn’t watch when he loaded everything in his roomy SUV.

Sam returned to Texas with his books and mementos, but he didn’t really take his childhood. It’s all still here between the walls of this house.

Our home holds thousands of memories from his first step to the time he pulled into the driveway after a two-day, 1,700-mile trip from Texas.

Someday, we may sell this house, but his childhood won’t vanish with it.

Those memories, bigger than any plastic bin can hold, remain tucked within my heart.

Columns

#ThingsMyHusbandSays, Father’s Day Edition

Cindy Hval

I’ve been writing a personal column for about 20 years, so often when I meet people during interviews or at events, they say, “Oh! I feel like I already know you!”

I usually reply, “You probably know more about me than is strictly necessary.”

Since the advent of these #thingsmyhusbandsays columns, Derek’s been getting a taste of that recognition.

Last week at the Northwest Passages event celebrating the launch of Jess Walter’s new book, “So Far Gone,” several people greeted me, then turned to my husband and said, “You must be Derek!”

Luckily, my extroverted husband enjoys these exchanges and is unfazed by his growing notoriety.

The equanimity and warmth that make him a great life partner also make him a wonderful dad and papa. We honored him on Sunday, and I’m continuing the celebration with this installment of #thingsmyhusbandsays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• Sometimes, Derek sleeps too close to me and encroaches on my space.

I nudged him. “Your head is on my pillow,” I said.

“No it’s not,” he replied. “My brain is on your pillow.”

That image kept me awake for a while.

• One morning, I woke up to his muttering.

“She drowned!”

I poked him.

“Who drowned?”

“You’ll find out,” he replied.

I waited until he left for work to take my shower. Better safe than sorry.

Derekisms

• Derek: That Howard Rutger is always scary!

Me: You mean Rutger Hauer?

Him: Yeah. The German guy.

Me: Dutch.

Him: Exactly.

• We watched a video of a dad taking his baby to the doctor for the baby’s first shots.

“You didn’t take ANY of our sons to their vaccinations,” I said.

“Meh. I was there for their vasectomies,” he replied.

I hope to God he meant circumcisions!

• While we were on the topic, one of our sons was worried that our cat, Milo, had been castrated. Derek tried to explain spaying and neutering this way: “Did I get castrated? No! They call it a vasectomy.”

• Him: My brother is making a pot garden.

Me: Really? He’s growing weed?

Him: Weed? No, he’s planting strawberries in big pots.

Me: Oh. A container garden.

Him: Like I said. A pot garden.

Life according to Derek

• Recently, my husband came home and announced, “Well, I’m selling the business. Oscar Meyer is hiring Wienermobile drivers. I’ll have to go to Wienermobile School, but I’m confident this is the job for me.”

• Every October, Derek and our son Zach watch cheesy horror movies. One evening, the film was over by 8.

“Did everybody die?” I asked.

“Yeah, but not soon enough,” Derek replied.

• Several years ago, Derek went to Vegas with a buddy. They visited the STRAT Hotel, Casino & Tower and decided to take a leap with the SkyJump. It’s the highest commercial decelerator descent, with an official height of 829 feet.

He sent a group text to me and our sons before the jump, worried that his last words would be profanity.

Ethan told him, “I’m sure Jesus will forgive you. Heck! He’s gonna have a blast right along with you.”

To which Derek replied, “He flies. I don’t.”

Married life

• We were watching a video on “America’s Got Talent,” and the contestant was crying at the sight of the baby during his wife’s ultrasound.

Me: You didn’t cry at any of our ultrasounds.

Him: I also didn’t have a man bun.

• A commercial came on for Jimmy Dean pancake-wrapped sausage on a stick. “Oh my! If you die first, I’m totally going to eat that!” Derek said.

I’m sharing this in case I die an untimely death due to my husband’s lust for pancakes and sausage on a stick.

• Speaking of death, we were talking about our funerals. (Doesn’t everyone?)

“I don’t want a creepy open-casket viewing. Don’t do that to me,” I said.

He replied, “Oh, no way! I’m putting you on the deck with a book in one hand and a martini in the other.”

He may be an amazing dad and a wonderful husband, but comments like these make me realize I need to take better care of myself.

Obviously, I need to outlive him.

Columns

Living the next-level adulting dream

Cindy Hval

There’s something deliciously rewarding about reaching a stage in life where you can finally purchase something you’ve always wanted but previously denied yourself, believing it to be a frivolous expense.

In times past, for me, that might have been buying a cute pair of strappy sandals or a blingy bracelet, but I seem to have achieved a new tier of adulthood.

After a stressful few weeks, I decided to engage in some retail therapy. I bypassed the malls and the cute boutiques and headed to At Home and Target.

As my sons would say, “That’s some next-level adulting.”

On my list: one thing I’ve always wanted and one thing I desperately needed.

Hold on to your hats, kids, this is where it gets exciting! What I needed was an electric can opener. (Your ideas of excitement may differ.)

In the past few months, I’ve spent almost $40 trying to replace my dull, aging and utterly useless manual can opener.

Efforts to open a can of tomato sauce or pinto beans became endurance contests involving much swearing. The opener consistently skipped a section of the lid. I’d start over only to have it glide over the top again, leaving me with a jagged-edged, partially opened can.

I assumed it was worn out and bought a standard $12 replacement. It, too, proved worthless. I thought it might be me, so I left the can opening to my husband.

Guess what? He didn’t have any better luck. The atmosphere in our kitchen grew quite colorful because his profanity vocabulary is much more advanced than mine.

Back to the store I went. This time, I brought home a fancy high-end brand. It didn’t work any better – in fact, it was worse. Derek pronounced it useless and suggested he dig out his Swiss Army knife.

“I’m going shopping tomorrow,” I replied.

My first stop was At Home, where I picked up a sleek black Cuisinart electric can opener for $25.

Next, I headed to Target.

It may surprise you to know the thing I’ve always coveted is a Black & Decker Dustbuster. How I raised four sons and owned multiple cats without a cordless handheld vacuum is a mystery. Did I mention we’ve lived in a late 1970s-era split-level home for 32 years?

Every spill or trail of dust or dirt (aka boy residue) on the stairs meant lugging out the vacuum or grabbing a broom and dustpan. Cleaning crumbs from couch cushions involved wrestling with vacuum attachments.

A quick trip through the self-checkout, and the treasure was all mine.

As soon as the Dustbuster was charged, I used it on the stairs. Within a minute, no trace of cat hair remained. I had so much fun; I took it on a home tour, busting dust on window ledges and under cupboard edges.

I was in a bit of a tizzy as our youngest son was driving home from Texas for a visit. My version of killing the fatted calf is mixing up a big batch of Creamy Taco Soup in the slow cooker.

Like I said, I was a bit distracted. I plugged in my Cuisinart can opener and mistakenly opened a can of chicken noodle soup instead of cream of chicken soup.

But let me tell you, both of those cans opened easily. No glitches. No partially opened cans. No swearing!

Retail therapy, adult style, may not be glamorous, but I’m living the dream, one small convenience at a time.

Columns

My 6 Million Dollar Man

Cindy Hval

Last week, my husband had his second hip replacement surgery.

“You’ll be my ‘Six Million Dollar Man,’ ” I said, referring to the TV series from the ’70s.

Because he’s good at math and handy with Google, Derek corrected me.

“Actually, adjusted for inflation, I’m your 32 million dollar man.”

On the morning of his surgery, the gentleman escorting him to the OR area asked, “Does your wife write for The Spokesman-Review?”

“Yes, but don’t hold that against me,” Derek replied.

“Oh! I won’t. She’s my favorite columnist! I like how she gives you a hard time.”

That kind fellow may be a bit confused about which partner gives the other a hard time – so without further ado, here’s your next installment of #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• I was just about asleep the other night when Derek rolled over and started loudly counting in midsnore.

“Five, four, (long pause) three …”

Snoring resumed. I don’t know if he forgot what came after three or if he’d lifted off, but I was awake for a long time wondering.

• Derek was talking in his sleep again.

“Wonder if cats fluff up if you stick ’em in there,” he mumbled.

I poked him.

“What are you dreaming about?”

“The dryer,” he said and rolled over.

Yeah. You try going back to sleep after that!

Derekisms

• We were talking about someone who got caught in a lie. Derek said, “Oh, what tangled weaves we web.”

I burst out laughing.

Derek huffed. “It’s BRITISH!”

• That’s not the only language he speaks. At a family dinner, our son Zach said, “Well, if the music career doesn’t pan out, I can always get a job selling moist towelettes to restaurants.”

Me: I think your dad sells moist towelettes.

Derek: Hmm … I sell little toilets to clean safety glasses with.

  • Hysterical laughter

Derek: What?

Me: You said you sell little toilets!

Derek: No. I said I sell little toilettes. It’s French.

Zach (wiping his eyes): Dad, don’t ever change!

• We were watching a movie, and Derek said, “Look, C.S. Lewis!”

My husband may be the first person in the universe to confuse comedian Louis C.K. with the author of “The Screwtape Letters.”

• While reading a coffee package, he said, “Hmm … looks like I like my coffee the way I like my women, full-figured and smooth.”

I grabbed the package.

“That’s full-BODIED!

He shrugged.

“Same thing.”

Life according to Derek

• We were waiting for the start of “Love’s Labor Lost” at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. My husband asked if it was a comedy or a tragedy. I told him it’s about some guys who swear to give up girls in favor of scholarly pursuits.

“Ah. More farce with tragic results,” he said.

• Derek got an “avocado” cigar.

“Smell it!” he said, waving it under my nose.

I shuddered.

“It looks like a turd, and it smells like a turd,” I said.

Holding it under his nose, he took a deep breath and said, “If my turds smelled like this, I would never flush!”

• When our son told his dad they were playing pickleball in PE, my husband was unimpressed.

“When I was a kid, we used REAL pickles when we played pickleball.”

• One Sunday at church, our pastor said, “When you think Peter, most of you think of the fisherman – the rock on whom the church was built.”

Derek leaned over and whispered, “I think of Paul and Mary.”

Married life

• Now and then, I get a glimpse of what my husband would be like as a single man.

Recently, I caught him watching squirrel hunting on TV.

“They’re shooting them out of trees! Look at them run! Oooh! A dog got that one. He’s still twitching. Wonder why they have silencers on their .22s?”

• Him: What does “carga” mean in Spanish?

Me: I don’t know, why?

Him: I’m rewiring the downstairs bathroom switch, and I accidentally grabbed the Spanish instructions.

• Derek trying to talk me into watching a horror movie.

“It’s romantic. Like a love story only TERRIFYING!”

• Speaking of movies, we streamed a film that failed to impress and pondered if we should finish it.

Him, sighing: Well, we’ve had 35 minutes and 32 seconds of nonstop fun.

Me: Maybe it’s like marriage – you have to hang in there to get to the good part.

Him: You mean death?

Anyway, we are still married.

Derek told people the reason he had both hips replaced was so that he could keep up with the grandkids, but as they wheeled him back for surgery, the truth came out.

“Pretty soon, I’m gonna be able to catch Cindy!”

Stay tuned.

Columns

Double Trouble: A State of the Cats Address

Cindy Hval

2024 proved tumultuous for Sir Walter Scott.

In June, our fluffy tabby lost his best friend when our senior cat, Thor, died. Their friendship wasn’t reciprocal. Thor tolerated Walter at best, but Walter seemed convinced they were best friends. When we didn’t bring Thor home from his final vet visit in June, Walter paced the house searching for him.

A few weeks later, we went to see our grandkids in Ohio. Though family members take good care of our cats when we travel, I worried about Walter. He’d never been alone.

He seemed happy to see us when we returned, but then a contractor began working on my home office. As soon as Tim walked in the door, Walter went under our bed where he stayed, coming out only to eat and for cuddles and treats in the evening after Tim left.

His next stressor came with the arrival of a 2-pound black and white kitten we named Freya Charlotte. After a few days, Walter adjusted the Tuxedo tornado’s company, even allowing her to curl up next to him. He continued to hide under our bed for hours, so Freya gamely joined him for naps.

Then we noticed bumps on his chin. When they continued to spread, I took him to the vet.

Diagnosis: feline acne. This benign condition can have several possible causes, but the only one that seemed to apply to Walter was stress. As for the antibacterial wipes I used to treat it, Walter could hear me unscrewing the lid from across the house and would dive under the bed before I got close enough to swipe his chin.

Thankfully, all is well with Walter now. His acne cleared, and he’s back to sleeping on top of our (his) bed instead of underneath it. Freya is almost always beside him. Actually, we should have named her after the Biblical Ruth, who famously told her mother-in-law, “Where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge.”

Wherever Walter goes, Freya follows, though at 7 months, she’s getting good at coming up with solo adventures.

She’s next level when it comes to parkour. For those unfamiliar, parkour involves several movements, including running, jumping, climbing, vaulting and rolling, all aimed at traversing obstacles and moving from one point to another in the most efficient way.

I doubt that efficiency is her goal. She simply loves leaping and bouncing from one height to the next. She takes a running leap from the floor, bounces off the kitchen counter, skims the dining room table, and lands on the loveseat. She does this multiple times a day.

“She needs a cape,” Derek said. “I bet they sell them at PetSmart.”

Over the holidays, we discovered Freya is an accomplished sheep poacher.

A Play-Doh manger scene always has a place of honor on top of the piano at Christmas. Our son Alex made it when he was in kindergarten. This year, every morning, I’d find the tiny cotton ball sheep on the floor, in the bedroom, or in a closet.

Derek caught Freya tiptoeing (tippawing?) atop the piano, weaving amid fragile objects, her eye on the lone sheep.

One morning, we woke up, and it was gone for good. And no, I did not sift through the litter box looking for it.

We’ve raised four sons, but I no longer need to wonder what kind of dad Derek would have been to a daughter.

Last week, I heard him yelling, “Freya! You get off that refrigerator right now!”

A few seconds later, “No! Freya! Do NOT chew that cord!”

All was quiet for a bit, but I could hear him murmuring. I walked into the kitchen to see Freya in her cat tree basket and Derek stroking her head and rubbing her cheeks.

“You’re still a baby, aren’t you? You’re just a little baby girl, yes you are!”

He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

“Well she is,” he said.

Then he turned his attention back to the kitten.

“Aren’t you Freya? Aren’t you just a little baby girl?

I can’t swear to it, but I’m almost certain that cat was smiling as she closed her eyes.

Columns

Keep libraries a safe haven for all readers

Cindy Hval

As a lifelong library lover and voracious reader, the idea that access to reading material has become controversial boggles my brain.

Yet in Idaho, libraries are relocating material the state defines as harmful to minors to adult-only areas.

I remember when parents were the ones who defined which books might be harmful to their children.

My mom sure did.

Even when I could drive myself to the library, she always perused my selections, shaking her head at choices she disapproved of.

I read them anyway. (I did have nightmares after reading “Helter Skelter,” so Mom was probably on to something there.)

Dad’s jobs, first in the Air Force and then with the state of Washington, meant frequent moves. The first thing we did in a new town was to look for a church. The second was to find the library and get our cards. Weekly library visits were almost as sacred as church attendance on Sundays.

Library cards were a rite of passage for my four children. As soon as they could print their names, they received their own cards.

Much to my sons’ chagrin, just like my mom, I was the arbiter of literature in our home. I sorted through the books they wanted to check out and weeded out “junk” like “Goosebumps.”

In retrospect, I wish I’d let them indulge in a little R.L. Stine, instead of shuttling them to the inanity of the “Bailey School Kids” series. I’m positive I killed a few brain cells reading “Vampires Don’t Wear Polka Dots” or “Ghosts Don’t Eat Potato Chips” with them.

When some Christian groups deemed the “Harry Potter” books evil and my firstborn wanted to read them, I stayed up late into the night engrossed in “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” My 10-year-old loved the series, and so did I.

He’s also the kid who introduced me to the works of Stephen King.

King was on my mom’s banned author list, so I was in my mid-30s before I got the liver scared out of me by “Carrie,” “Misery,” “Pet Sematary” and “IT.”

By the time our fourth son arrived, I’d relaxed my literary gatekeeping. Sam’s appetite for books rivaled my own. He devoured comics, novels and nonfiction, and he probably read “harmful” books, too. I haven’t ascertained any lasting damage to his psyche. He’s now a college English instructor introducing a new generation to the delights of the printed word.

The term “safe space” has become much derided, but that’s exactly what public libraries were for me.

As a lonely little girl, they provided refuge through frequent family moves. I found comfort among the familiar shelves and welcome escape in the stacks of books I checked out every week.

Libraries nourished my sons and expanded their horizons.

I want my grandchildren to enjoy that same haven, the freedom to choose their own adventures, and the space to let their imaginations soar.

My Library, My Story

Have you ever had a moment in a library that changed your life? Maybe it was the book that sparked your imagination, the librarian who helped you find the right resource, or the space that gave you room to dream. Spokane Public Library invites you to share those moments through My Library, My Story, a community–wide celebration of the impact libraries have on our lives.

From March 5-Through March 31, Spokane Public Library invites you to post your personal library experience on social media. Tag @spokanepubliclibrary to collaborate with the library and amplify your voice. For more information, visit www.spokanelibrary.org/mylibrarymystory.

Share your birthday memories

In my previous column, I wrote about celebrating my 60th birthday.

Facebook friend Cis Gors said her 60th (25 years ago in April) proved unforgettable. It included a birthday lunch with coworkers, a surprise party with kids and grandkids arriving from the West Side and Wisconsin, and another surprise party with her overnight crew at work.

What was your most memorable birthday?

Email a brief synopsis to dchval@juno.com and include your first and last name and a phone number. Your story may be included in a future column.