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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

March moods as mercurial as Inland NW spring weather

Saturday’s wind swirled through our neighborhood rattling gates, shaking windows and snapping flags. In the afternoon a few chilly drops of rain sprinkled the sidewalks, but by early evening brilliant sunshine warmed the house and I opened windows to let in the fresh spring air.

That’s the way March is in the Inland Northwest. Sometimes winter makes a last gasp and snow blankets my brave crocuses. But every so often it’s actually warm enough to wear sandals and roll the car windows down.

In March my emotions are often as changeable as the weather. That’s because the month brings a mixture of happy things to celebrate and sad things to remember.

My mom’s birthday is the 21st, our wedding anniversary is the 22nd, my dad’s birthday is the 25th and he passed away on March 29, 1995.

On Saturday, we celebrated Mom’s 84th birthday with a family luncheon. She’s been an anchor of spiritual guidance and nurturing love for my siblings and me and for all of our kids, and I’m so thankful for her.

Then Sunday, Derek and I celebrated our 29th anniversary with an overnight stay at the Davenport Hotel.

All happy things.

But a subtle hint of sadness hangs around like a silent shadow, and catches me off guard.

My dad is always on mind in March. Sometimes, I get a whiff of his signature aftershaves (Old Spice or Brut) and I smile. Dad was strictly a drugstore fragrance guy.

When I interview someone from Arkansas, I revel in the sound of the slow drawl and distinctive twang that marked my father’s speech.

Several years ago, on a blustery March day I waited impatiently in a horrendously long checkout line. Scanning the crowd in front of me I caught sight of a white-haired fellow chatting with the cashier. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and a tweed newsboy cap. Dad! I thought. It can’t be! Of course, it wasn’t. But that didn’t stop me from leaving my full cart and racing to the front of the line to get a closer look.

The grief I felt when I looked at that face that seemed at once familiar and strange, hit me like a sucker punch. I left my groceries and fled to my car.

Recently, I tried to describe my dad to some friends who’d never met him. “What kind of man was he?” someone asked.

So many stories sprang to mind.

For all of my school years, including my first year of college, he woke me up by turning on my bedroom light and saying, “Wake up Suzie Q!” or “Rise and shine Cindy Sue!”

After I married he called early in the morning on our first day back from our honeymoon. “Just wanted to make sure you were up,” he said.

I quickly let him know that our alarm clock worked just fine.

Though mostly I adored him, he had the power to embarrass me, greatly. Take for instance my college theater debut as Madge Owens in “Picnic.” Of course, he was present on opening night and had a floral bouquet delivered to my dressing room. However, I hadn’t thought to mention the play involves a torrid romance between Madge and a drifter named Hal.

The house was packed. The tension between the characters onstage developed nicely, culminating in a passionate kiss between Madge and Hal.

Well, that kiss surprised Dad. The seconds ticked by and then an unmistakable voice from the audience loudly proclaimed. “Now, that’s just about enough of THAT!”

Gasps and titters swept through the audience. Mortified, I finished the scene, and when the irate director asked what kind of fool interrupted an otherwise flawless opening night, I kept my mouth shut. But I did ask Dad to skip the rest of the performances.

I could have shared any of those stories with the friend who asked about my dad, but instead I told him this:

My dad was so warm and kind that the man he shared a room with during his last hospitalization came to his funeral in a wheelchair, having just been released from the hospital that day. He knew my dad for three days and already loved him. That’s what kind of man my dad was.

Twenty years have passed. Time takes the edge off grief, but the longing, the missing, the wishing he was still here, well that doesn’t go away.

So when March arrives with its changeable moods, I hang on for the ride. I welcome the clouds, knowing the sun will follow. I cherish the memories, both bitter and sweet. How can I not? Because in addition to his morning wake-up words, my dad was fond of quoting Scripture, and not a week went by without him admonishing, “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

It’s what I try to do most every day – just like Dad.

Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. She is the author of “War Bonds: Love Stories From the Greatest Generation.” Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.