Tag: The Spokesman-Review

Columns

The ongoing embarrassment of life with a StupidPhone

Cindy Hval

I may be old enough to remember rotary phones, but like many Gen Xers, I’ve adapted to technology.

The whole Blackberry thing bypassed me, so when I got my first cellphone, I used the text function the way God intended – slowly picking through the alphabet with my pointer finger.

Hipper friends whizzed out messages using the two-thumb method, while I just shook my head. My thumbs don’t work that way.

I employed proper punctuation and grammar and eschewed texting lingo except for an occasional LOL or OMG. Seriously, how much time would I save by typing “u” instead of “you?”

But with more and more of my work and personal communication done via text, I realized my hunt-and-peck method took too much time.

Then I discovered the little microphone on my phone transcribes my spoken words to text. It should be a terrific time-saver, but unfortunately, I didn’t get a smartphone – I got a stupidphone. How else to explain the mortifying messages it regularly sends? Messages I then must decode and resend to the recipients.

For example, the exciting news of my first book’s publication got garbled. I sent an announcement to those in my contact list. Instead of “Publisher wants ‘War Bonds’ for spring catalog,” my pals were informed, “Publisher wants your buns for spring catalog.”

I’m unable to share the replies because most of them were GIFs and emojis unsuitable for print.

My phone can’t even get my name right.

Talk to text changes Cindy Hval to “Cindy of All.” I was OK with that, but lately, it learned a new trick. I texted a source and it identified me as “Cindy Evolved from The Spokesman-Review.” I’ve just decided to go with that and am considering amending my business cards.

When I tried to tell my husband I had an interview at the Jundt Museum it turned into Bundt Museum. We don’t have one of those in Spokane, but I’d cover it if we did.

On several occasions, my shortcut landed me in hot water with Derek. For example, every time I talk-text about meeting my friend Jill for lunch or Happy Hour, Jill becomes JOE.

“You spend a lot of time with this Joe guy,” said Derek. “Should I be worried?”

Then I tried to let him know one of his favorite Van Halen songs was playing.

“Daniel Santa got in my car, and Hot for Teacher came on the radio,” I texted.

“So. You took Santa for a ride?” he asked.

It went downhill from there and I still don’t know who Daniel Santa is.

Speaking of Jill/Joe, recently, I tried to confirm a lunch location with her, and “On Monroe, for heaven’s sake,” became “On Monroe, we’re having sex.”

I guess you can see why Derek’s worried.

Even Dame Agatha Christie isn’t spared. Talk-text changed “There’s a new Agatha Christie on Prime” to “There’s a nude Agatha Christie on Prime.”

No one wants to see that.

Once, I tried to confirm a spa appointment, and my phone changed it to spay appointment. So, I guess I’ve been fixed.

Sometimes, my mishaps end up in our family lexicon, like the time I let our son, Sam, know I’d made some treats.

“I saved you some fudge in a Ziploc bag in the fridge. The white time is butter dum fudge. It’s new and it’s really good.

  • kind
  • rum

Good grief.”

Haha! You talk texted that didn’t you?” he replied.

Now, every Christmas I make Butter Dum fudge.

I should know better, but I often use the talk-text feature to post on social media. I invented a new sandwich when “Patty Melt” became “Party Melt” on a food blogger’s Instagram account.

When I tried to vent my frustration to a friend about my latest phone-induced embarrassment, “talk to text” turned into “talk to test.”

Apparently, that’s an exam I continue to fail.

Columns

First Valentine’s Day Deflating

Cindy Hval

My husband and I have reached the time of life when downsizing seems prudent. No, I’m not talking about selling our home or offloading possessions, I’m talking about reducing our waistlines.

Keeping track of things like blood sugar looms ever more important as we age. That’s why, when Valentine’s Day approached, I suggested we skip the usual exchange of chocolates.

Derek agreed, but I could tell by the twinkle in his eye he had something else in mind. More on that in a minute.

We’re in our second year as empty-nesters, and we continue to adapt.

During the years our sons lived at home, Valentine’s morning was special. They awoke to a lace-topped table filled with heart-shaped dishes of cinnamon, cherry and conversation heart candies. A card and a box of chocolates waited at each place and, when they opened the refrigerator, they discovered that Cupid had magically turned the milk pink.

Even after the older boys moved out, they stopped by to get their cards, candy and hugs from Mom. With the departure of our youngest last year, for the first time in 25-plus years, Cupid skipped our frig, and the heart-shaped dishes and lace tablecloth remained tucked away.

We were back to where it began – just the two of us.

That’s not to say our first Valentine’s Day as man and wife was especially romantic, but it was certainly memorable.

As newlyweds, we attended college full-time and worked three jobs between the two of us to keep our Love Boat afloat. I knew we couldn’t afford to go out on Valentine’s Day, but I did my best to make it special.

When Derek arrived home late on that fateful Feb. 14, I’d roasted two tiny Cornish game hens with potatoes and herbs and set our wobbly card table with a vinyl cloth and our wedding gift stoneware. I’d placed a small box of chocolates and a red enveloped card at his place.

“This looks nice,” he said, kissing me.

Then he noticed the card and heart-shaped box.

“Oh! It’s Valentine’s Day?”

At that, I burst into tears, ran the six steps to our bedroom and collapsed on our waterbed, heartbroken.

“Don’t cry! I’m sorry I forgot! I’ll be right back!” Derek yelled, slamming the apartment door behind him.

I was still face-down on our now-soggy bed when he returned.

He switched on the bedroom light and announced, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Babe!”

Sniffling, I sat up.

That’s when he thrust a helium-filled balloon into my hand. I tugged the attached ribbon, looking for the card.

There was no card.

No candy.

No flowers.

Just a Pepto Bismol-pink balloon.

Our waterbed got even waterier. My bewildered and exhausted husband went back out and returned with a card. We ate cold game hen and potatoes and made up the way newlyweds do.

Our sons know this story well, as I’ve shared it as a cautionary tale (future daughter-in-laws will thank me.)

Yet this year, when I suggested skipping the exchange of chocolates on Valentine’s Day, Derek nodded.

“But balloons are OK, right?” he asked.

Columns

No matter how old, a kid still needs Mom when illness strikes

Cindy Hval

This summer, our son, Sam, got sick.

Really sick.

ER visit sick.

He lives in Odessa, Texas, and teaches English at Odessa College. Nothing prepares you for having a sick kid, so far from home.

Thankfully, a friend took him to the hospital. Sam suffered through a miserable bout of gastroenteritis that antibiotics cured, but an MRI showed another issue. A large nodule had formed on the left side of his thyroid. Eventually, surgery became necessary.

It wouldn’t be his first stint in the OR, but it would be the first one he remembered.

Twenty-four years ago, Sam was born with congenital diaphragmatic hernia. A hole had formed in his diaphragm during gestation, allowing his stomach and intestines to move into his chest cavity, crowding his heart and lungs.

At 3 days old, he underwent surgery to repair the hole in his diaphragm. After a three-week stay in the neonatal intensive care unit at Sacred Heart, we brought him home.

His recovery was nothing short of miraculous, but any mom will tell you that the trauma of being separated from your newborn is one that lingers.

That’s why when his thyroid surgery was scheduled for Jan. 9, Derek and I immediately booked a flight and reserved a hotel room. Sam insisted that we didn’t need to come. It was outpatient surgery, and friends offered to drive him and care for him post-op.

You’d think he’d know me better by now. No child of mine is going to recover from an operation without my homemade chicken noodle soup to speed up the healing process. Maybe you can mail soup, but you can’t Fed Ex mom’s kisses and hugs.

Besides, I hadn’t been to his new home. Derek had moved him, but I longed to see his apartment and city. I wanted to visit his office and meet his colleagues and friends,

We arrived in Texas on a blissfully sunny day. While the temps in Spokane steadily dropped, Sam showed us his favorite haunts and took me on a walk at Odessa’s Memorial Gardens Park, where the thermometer topped 67 degrees.

The next day, we visited his workplace. We met his dean and the colleagues we’d heard so much about. The college sports a replica of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and Anne Hathaway’s cottage on the campus. Shakespeare in West Texas!

That evening, I cooked a giant batch of soup – enough to see him through his recovery, with extra to stash in his freezer.

His surgery took place in San Angelo – a two-hour drive from Odessa. We met with the surgeon, who explained that the nodule would be biopsied while Sam was on the operating table. If it was cancerous, they’d remove his entire thyroid. If it wasn’t, only the left side would be removed.

I paced the hospital halls while we waited, beset with memories of my newborn, intubated, isolated, in a NICU room filled with machines that kept him alive. While I knew this surgery wasn’t remotely as serious, it was difficult for me to separate the images of my helpless baby from the independent 6-foot-2-inch young man he’d become.

Finally, the surgeon met us in the waiting room. He said the surgery went “perfectly,” and there was no sign of cancer. A blood check at his post-op visit will show if Sam needs to take medication or if his remaining thyroid would produce enough hormones.

A few hours later, our son was eating chicken noodle soup at home. His incision was sore, and his throat hurt, but other than that, he felt OK.

In fact, the next day, he insisted on taking us to his favorite walking trail at the University of Texas Permian Basin. He and I walked a windy 3-mile loop, pausing to take in the student-built Stonehenge replica, view the cactus garden and peer at the George H. W. Bush house. Bush moved to the 800-square-foot house in Odessa with his bride Barbara and 2-year-old son George W. in 1948. In 2004, the house was relocated to its current site at UTPB.

Sam slowed down a bit after that outing, but we spent plenty of time soaking in the warm Texas sun on his veranda and we got in a few more walks.

While he fretted about the time and expense of our trip, he was glad we came. At the airport, he enveloped me in a huge hug.

“Thank you for the soup and for taking care of me, Mom,” he said.

The truth is I couldn’t NOT be there. Though once he fit snuggly in my arms and now he towers over me, he’ll always be my baby boy.

Just don’t tell his students that.

Columns

The Sounds of Summer

Cindy Hval

A faint rumbling caught my attention as I carried a load of laundry through the living room.

It sounded almost like a motorcycle but not as loud. The noise tickled a memory as it ebbed and faded.

A breeze drifted through the open windows and rattled the blinds. I set the basket down to raise them and discovered the source of the rumbling.

“It’s a Harley! I got a Harley!” a neighbor kid yelled.

He’d affixed a sports card to his bike spokes, and he pedaled back and forth in front of our house, delighted with the souped-up bike that sounded just like a motorcycle to him.

All four of our sons had done the same thing at one time or another – a simple summertime joy discovered by thousands of kids.

Later that evening, a less pleasant sound floated through the windows. There couldn’t possibly be a more irritating song than “Pop Goes the Weasel.” Why ice cream trucks choose that tune is a mystery.

All around the Mulberry Bush,

The monkey chased the weasel.

The monkey stopped to pull up his sock,

Pop! goes the weasel.

What does this even mean, and what does it have to do with ice cream treats?

While I pondered popping weasels, I looked out the window to see a tragic sight. A kid wearing flip-flops with cash clenched in his upraised fist was huffing and puffing after the disappearing truck.

It reminded me of the “Crabgrass” comic running in our newspaper. Friends Miles and Kevin are consistently thwarted in their efforts to catch the ice cream truck.

Our neighbor kid experienced a similar fate. I watched him trudge back by our house – empty-handed, except for his cash.

My Facebook memories show the last time one of our kids got a treat from the ice cream truck. Eleven years ago, I snapped a photo of 12-year-old Sam running down the street, a frozen Sponge Bob treat held aloft.

Another sound seems uniquely summerish – the thump, thump, thump of a bouncing basketball. Many homes in our neighborhood have curbside hoops. Now that school’s out, I pass several pickup games in progress when I’m on my walk.

Once, a ball bounced off the backboard and into my path.

I picked it up, pivoted and shot.

Let’s just say my high school basketball skills have severely rusted. The ball hit the rim and bounced back to me.

I shrugged and tossed the ball to the nearest kid.

“Try again!” he said, tossing it back.

My second effort didn’t exactly swish, but it went in.

“Sweet!” said the kid.

I grinned and resumed my walk.

A few weeks ago, we added a new sound to our summer. We bought an outdoor Bluetooth speaker/lantern for The Great Gazebo.

This means I had to add a music app to my phone. I’m notoriously app-averse, but the results are lovely.

In the afternoon, I can listen to tunes while I deadhead flowers or work on a crossword puzzle. In the evening, we have lovely soft light to go with our music. The lantern has several settings, from a steady golden glow to a flickering firelight.

Whether the soundtrack of your summer features kids on bikes, ice cream trucks, bouncing basketballs, or the rich sound of Ella Fitzgerald crooning “Summertime,” I hope you’ll find moments to relax and soak it in.

Columns

Don’t Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Cindy Hval

When I picked up my friend Sarah on a recent Sunday afternoon, she said my timing was perfect because the Seattle Mariners game had just ended.

“Oh, do they usually play on Sundays?” I asked.

She stared at me.

“They play five times a week,” she said. “Next week they’ll play six.”

Speechless, it was my turn to stare.

You may think conversations about politics and religion are divisive, but try telling a good friend that you hate the sport she adores. Actually, we have this same discussion every spring because Sarah knows I don’t like it – she just has difficulty accepting my antipathy.

To wit, the following day, she texted me a link to Mariners tickets and asked me to attend a game with her.

I declined due to a lack of interest. And time.

In 2021, the average nine-inning Major League Baseball game was 3 hours and 10 minutes. That’s bad enough, but each team plays 162 regular-season games. Let’s say we round a game to 3 hours, and you (and Sarah) watch every one of your team’s regular-season games. That’s 486 hours or a little over 20 days of your life! And we aren’t counting postseason games because doing that much math isn’t good for me.

This year, MLB added a pitch clock, and that’s supposed to speed up the games. They may go faster, but there are still way too many of them.

In addition to the time aspect, there’s the danger. I love football, which Sarah loathes, but I pointed out to her that no spectator has been concussed by a stray football in the stands, while hundreds of people each year get popped in the noggin by fly balls at baseball games.

She said that’s why they bring mitts. She said that like it’s actually possible for me to catch a ball with or without a mitt.

Undeterred, Sarah posted a link on my Facebook so that I could read about “the most literary sport in the history of sports.”

I skimmed it. Apparently, there are a lot of novels about baseball. I did know this because my friend, Beth Bollinger, penned one of them, “Until the End of the Ninth,” a lovely book about the 1946 Spokane Indians team.

Additionally, the article listed some baseball lingo that has leaked into our language.

For example, you can strike out on a date, or make it to second base. You can touch base with clients, or knock a column out of the park, and maybe you can even make it to the big leagues.

The article didn’t mention movies, but I’ve enjoyed several films featuring the sport – “The Sandlot,” “Moneyball” and “Field of Dreams” come to mind. Plus, I can watch a movie about it in half the time it takes to watch an actual game.

Having failed to convert me through literary persuasion, Sarah resorted to texting me photos of herself and her husband at a baseball game, her son in a Little League uniform, and finally pictures of Mariners games on her TV.

I countered with an adorable photo of our son Zachary during his lone season in Little League. Turns out the kid only wanted to play for the unlimited sunflower seeds and didn’t realize he would be playing two games a week. In his first at-bat, he got nailed in the leg by an errant pitch. We told him he still had to honor his commitment to the team.

“You guys are trying to get me killed!” he said.

Just because I don’t care for Major League Baseball doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a Spokane Indians game once every few years – especially on fireworks night.

So, even though Sarah thinks I’m an awful person for not sharing her passion for the Mariners, I still believe football fans and baseball lovers can get along. After all, diversity is what makes America great, and having dissimilar friends is educational. For example, while writing this column, I finally understood why baseball is called America’s national pastime.

It’s because so much time passes while you’re watching it.

Columns

For the love of books

Cindy Hval

Each note felt like meeting a new friend.

The responses to my previous column about how February is Library Lovers month proved once again that book people are my tribe. I asked readers to share their favorite books from childhood, ones they enjoy revisiting. The replies served as a reminder of how important it is to introduce our children to books and to cultivate an appreciation of the value and importance of public libraries.

For example, Ginny Lathem started reading at 5 and said it remains her best form of escape. She had many childhood books she adored, but her favorite was one she received from folks on her 6th birthday–“Mother West Wind Stories” By Thornton E. Burgess.

“I remember the inscription my Dad wrote to me inside. I remembered that book opened up a portal of wonder, amazement, and comfort to me,” she wrote. “I’m 69 and have a rather extensive library even after donating 13 boxes of books. Even now, opening up a new book brings me joy.”

However, one memory doesn’t bring joy.

“When I was in college my Dad remarried. He and his new wife built a home and they decided to give all my books away,” Lathem recalled. “I’ll always remember his response when I asked why they didn’t save them for me or even ask if I wanted them. ‘Why Gin, they were just old books.’ ”

It seems her dad wasn’t a reader.

Tricia Stone had a similar experience. Growing up in the Bay Ridge neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York, her love of books overrode everything else and libraries offered peaceful reading escapes. Her favorite book was “Strawberry Girl” by Lois Lenski.

“I regret that when we moved to Burbank, CA, books were NOT thought ‘barrel worthy’ and left behind for other cousins,” she said.

Janice Verdugo wrote that her favorite book was “Half Magic” by Edward Eager.

“I’m 70, so it may be out of print!” she said.

And Margo Buckles grew up in a family that like mine cherished public libraries. When she left home her father told her to get a library card because it would save her countless dollars over the years.

“Books were always gifts at our house. Everyone in my family read constantly, she said. “My mother read in the bathroom to avoid children and housework. My father read and reread Patrick O’Brian’s books about Jack Aubrey and the British Navy. I think that reading kept him sane after a debilitating stroke in his late 60s.”

Her aunt’s traditional birthday gifts were books.

“I eagerly awaited the package and was rewarded with books like “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” and “The Count of Monte Cristo,” Buckles recalled.

But her favorite is also one of mine.

“My favorite childhood book is “The Secret Garden,” by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The story of two unpleasant children – a spoiled girl and a sickly boy – who find a secret garden where they learn to love nature, themselves and others, speaks to me to this day,” she said. “I read it as a child and have reread it as an adult. It is magical.”

Magic. That’s the essential essence of stories that take us out of our everyday lives and into the realm of pretend and possibilities. So, I wasn’t surprised to learn that other readers enjoyed “The Velvet Room” as much as I did.

“I could not believe you talked about ‘The Velvet Room’ in today’s paper!” wrote Mary Fisher. “My best friend and I read that book at around the age of 10, as well. I became a part of that book, it was the very first book I read that drew me in and made me a reader for life.”

Debbi Irvine-Collins agreed.

“I about fell out of my chair while reading your article today. I was also around 10 years old when in the mid-’60s, I found ‘The Velvet Room’ at the library and fell in love with the story. I wanted to find my own turret library to read in and escape to.”

She discovered a 1975 seventh-edition paperback for $10 on Craigslist.

“I keep it in my nightstand so I’ll never lose it. Thank you for bringing back such a great memory. I’ll read it again.”

The book she found was the same as the copy I’d purchased at the Scholastic Book Fair in 1975.

Imagine my delight when last week, the day before my birthday, I received a well-read book fair copy of “The Velvet Room” in the mail!

Becky Luther from St. Maries said her sister had stored her copy for years and she was happy to send it on to me.

Tears filled my eyes when I opened the envelope and found my favorite childhood book. It felt like my long-lost best friend had returned.

If you’re a reader, you know exactly what I mean. And honestly, shouldn’t every month be Library Lovers Month?

Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com. Hval is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation” (Casemate Publishers, 2015) available at Auntie’s Bookstore and bookstores nationwide.

Columns

For the love of libraries

Cindy Hval

An email announcing February is National Library Lovers Month, prompted memories of my favorite childhood book and my lifelong love affair with libraries.

I blame the library for my unfulfilled longing to live in a house with a turreted room crammed with books and a cozy window seat draped with red velvet curtains.

At 10, I checked out a copy of “The Velvet Room” by Zilpha Keatley Snyder. I quickly lost myself in the world of Robin, the middle child in a family of migrant workers traveling across California in their Model T during the Great Depression.

When her family finds work on a ranch, Robin is befriended by Bridget, a kindly old woman who gives her a key to an old, abandoned house. There Robin discovers a beautifully furnished library with a window seat. She gathers books, curls up in the window seat, pulls the drapes around her and finds respite from the harshness of her unstable life.

The book captivated me so much, I begged my parents to buy me a copy when I found one at the Scholastic Book Fair. They agreed, but foolishly as a teen, I gave my treasure away to make room for more sophisticated fare.

That email about Library Lovers Month came from Brainly, an online learning platform and homework help community, and it also featured fun bookish words, like the following:

Bookarazzi: A book lover who excitedly takes photos of the books they read and posts them online. (That’s what #bookstagram on Instagram is all about.)

Shelfrighteous: The feeling of superiority about one’s bookshelf.

Readultery: When a book lover cheats on one book by reading another book simultaneously.

Bibliobibuli: Not a “book bully” just a person who reads too much. (Pretty sure there’s no such thing as reading too much.)

While searching for a replacement copy of “The Velvet Room,” I came across the perfect quote from it for Library Lovers Month.

“There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books. Libraries had always seemed almost too good to be true.”

I guess I did find the velvet room I longed for as a child – it just wasn’t in a boarded-up mansion. Instead, I discovered it among the shelves, in quiet corners of public libraries.

Columns

Christmas with chaos, but no jelly

Cindy Hval

My husband narrowly avoided a “Jelly of the Month Club” situation at work over the holidays.

A couple of weeks before Christmas mail delivery to his Hillyard-area business came to a standstill. A disaster at any time when you depend on getting paid by your customers, so you can pay your employees, but especially concerning over Christmas.

Derek worried that instead of bonuses, he’d have to give his employees memberships to a Jelly of the Month Club just like Clark Griswold received in “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

Movie fans know that didn’t end up well for Griswold’s boss.

Equally troubling was the absence of our sons’ Christmas gifts. I’m not an online shopper, so Derek buys gifts the kids put on their Amazon wish lists, while I purchase presents at local stores. He always has the packages delivered to his business because his locked mailbox is more secure than our home curbside box. No mail delivery from USPS meant no packages, either.

When a week passed with nary an envelope in his box, Derek sent an employee to the neighborhood post office to find out what the problem was.

After waiting in a long line of unhappy postal customers, he was able to get a stack of mail, but no packages.

“They’ll come tomorrow,” the harried worker told him.

It seems like many area post offices, the Hillyard branch was critically understaffed and completely overwhelmed.

The packages didn’t arrive the next day. Nor did any mail. Another week went by and Derek went to the post office and picked up a huge stack of mail. The packages?

“They’ll be delivered by Christmas Eve,” the employee assured him.

On Dec. 23, our sons’ gifts arrived (but no mail).

I thought Derek would be relieved, instead, he was sad.

“Your gifts didn’t come,” he said.

I hugged him.

“My birthday’s in February. I bet they’ll be here just in time.”

But the meltdown of mail delivery is no laughing matter. I’m glad Derek was able to pay his bills and his employees, but another customer at the post office was missing needed medication. For those who live on slim margins, the lack of a check can mean no money for rent, utilities or groceries.

As USPS still struggles, another catastrophe loomed. Our son was scheduled to return to Texas via Southwest Airlines on Dec. 29.

On Dec. 27, he woke us with the news that Southwest had canceled his flight and said they couldn’t rebook him until Jan. 13!

His was just one of more than 2,500 flights the airline canceled within four hours that morning. Sam has classes to prepare for and was due back in his office on Thursday. He and Derek found a flight on American Airlines that would get him home on Tuesday.

I couldn’t complain about an extra five days with our youngest, but my heart ached for friends stranded far from home.

Stressful situations like these serve as reminders to check our attitudes. Are we being kind to the airline workers and postal service employees who are on the front line of customer frustration? Are we finding things to be thankful for amid the chaos?

And honestly, a one-year subscription to a Jelly of the Month Club isn’t the worst thing in the world – especially if you’ve stocked up on peanut butter.

Columns

Yes, I can hear you now

Cindy Hval

In the early 2000s, Verizon Wireless launched a successful ad campaign with a series of commercials featuring the “Test Guy” who trudged through various locales asking, “Can you hear me, now?”

I thought about that commercial while perusing produce at the grocery store. As I slipped red peppers into a plastic bag, a tinny voice behind me said, “They got his test results. It’s not good.”

Pausing my pepper selection, I looked around. A man nearby was holding his cellphone in front of him. He leaned on his cart and said, “I knew it! He’s so fat. All he eats is what comes from boxes, or drive-thrus.”

Stunned, I watched the guy pick through the salad selection while the person on his phone went into detail about someone’s cardiac history. The shopper had his volume high enough that I could hear every word, even as I rounded the corner to the deli.

I wish that had been the only time I was forced to overhear a phone conversation about private matters in a public place.

We’ve all grown used to hearing one-sided conversations as people chat on phones while waiting in lines or walking through stores, but most of us are polite enough to hold our phones to our ears or use Bluetooth. Lately, I’ve noticed an alarming trend of folks putting calls on speaker mode while out and about.

I don’t think it’s intentional rudeness, but I do wonder if society’s standards have lapsed.

Not long before the grocery store incident, I waited in the lobby of a car dealership as Ruby Sue got her regular oil change.

A teenage girl held the denizens of the waiting area captive as she debated her homecoming garb with a friend via speakerphone. The volume was set so loud we could hear the person on the other end crunching chips as they conversed.

“K. I’m sending you my top three picks,” the girl in the waiting area said. “My mom already vetoed the red backless sheath, but I like it.”

Rustle, rustle, crunch.

“Dude, it’s sweet and all, but I like the lacy black mini way better,” her friend replied, through a mouthful of food.

I got up and moved to the other side of the waiting room and tried to read my book. Soon, the far side was filled with others trying to avoid a conversation none of us wanted to hear.

I’m not averse to using speaker settings during work interviews or chatting with a friend while making dinner. But I can’t imagine walking through a grocery store with my phone out in front of me asking my husband if he wants tacos or tuna casserole for dinner. That’s what texting is for.

Are people really self-centered enough to think others are happy to hear their discussions about whether no bra is better than a strapless one?

The worst example of this total lack of social awareness came on our way home from our recent trip to Ohio. Dozens of weary travelers crammed into a crowded way-too-small boarding area at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport to await a 9 p.m. flight to Spokane.

We sat elbow-to-elbow with other travelers. Honestly, the one thing I miss about COVID restrictions is social distancing. That sentiment became more pronounced as a 40-something woman two seats away, recounted her trip highlights and lowlights to her partner via FaceTime.

I mean, I think it went OK, babe, but I just dunno,” she said. “Do you think I’m too insecure?”

Her unwilling audience was treated to her partner’s murmurs of love and affection followed by his assessment. “Well, yeah sweetie, you are a bit insecure.”

People on either side of her and across the aisle glared. Most of us were trying to listen for our boarding call in the bustling airport.

Remember when you got caught passing notes or whispering to a friend in school and the teacher called you out and said, “Do you have something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”

One wonders if these speaker-phone aficionados always replied, “You bet!”

Consider this my plea for simple good manners. When in public don’t use your speaker phone setting, because the answer to that Verizon ad question is clear. Yes, we can hear you, now, but do we really need to?

Cindy Hval can be reached at dchval@juno.com. Hval is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories from the Greatest Generation” (Casemate Publishers, 2015) available at Auntie’s Bookstore and bookstores nationwide.

Columns

Finding thankfulness in empty nest adjustments

Cindy Hval

Baffled, we stared at our dining room table.

With the leaves, it seats 12. Without the leaves, it seats six. Now, there are just two of us.

“Where are we going to sit?” I asked my husband.

He shrugged.

Our places at the table changed over time as our family grew and then shrank. For several years, it’s just been Derek, me and our youngest son. In September, Sam accepted a teaching position at Odessa College in Texas. We hadn’t thought about the practical adjustments empty-nesters must make – like where to sit at mealtimes.

“We can’t sit next to each other. That’s just weird,” I said.

With a full plate in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, Derek nodded toward the door.

“Let’s eat on the deck,”

Crisis averted, we enjoyed our meal in the September sun and discussed where our new spots at the table should be.

“I don’t care where we sit as long as we’re not eating off TV trays,” he said.

I shuddered.

“Do they even still make those?”

In the weeks that followed we slowly found our new normal. While we miss our Baby Boy, we’re finding lots to love about our empty nest – like nuts. Sam has a severe peanut/nut allergy. We haven’t had a dish of cashews or peanuts in our home in 22 years. Now, we enjoy small dishes of mixed nuts as an appetizer or late-night snack. Also, our grocery bill has diminished considerably!

e aren’t the only ones adjusting to Sam’s absence. Our cats Thor and Walter have had to adapt as well – especially Walter. He’s a creature of habit, and his habit is to tag along after me all day long. Most mornings my tabby entourage escorts me to my basement office. Then he plunks himself on our old BarcaLounger near my desk in front of Sam’s TV.

Sam took the TV and the recliner with him when he moved. With no place to plunk, Walter took to napping at my feet. This proved to be a workplace hazard for both of us. I’d forget he was there and step on his tail, or he’d dart in front of me causing me to trip.

I explained the situation during a phone call with Sam.

“Maybe I should buy him a cat bed and put it next to my desk,” I said.

My son had a better idea.

“Why spend money on a cat bed he won’t use? Just buy a clothes basket. He loves them.”

There’s a reason we call him Smarty Pants Sam.

I bought a $4 basket; put an old afghan in it and now Walter has a safe place to nap when he comes to work with me.

Though I’ve found lots to enjoy about our first few months as empty-nesters, I have to confess to feeling a bit blue as I did my Thanksgiving shopping. It’s our first holiday without our youngest son. We’ll have seven family members at the table – I doubt I’ll need to extend it with a leaf.But when reaching for the serving platters behind my Christmas china, I rediscovered my thankful spirit.Sam will come home for Christmas and his place at the table will be ready.