O’ Christmas Tree ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Christmas, tree, pine, family traditions, Dolly Parton, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

I’m sure that, like me, you have many fond memories of holiday traditions with your family. Grandpa putting lights on the roof and falling on his head. Grandma sipping a little too much hot, buttered rum ... er ... I mean ... milk. Crazy Uncle Jimmy sliding candy canes into the stockings of complete strangers—while their feet are still inside.

And, of course, there is the family outing in search of the perfect Christmas tree.

During the particular time that I'm remembering, we lived in California. My dad—being a grown-up boy from the inner city of San Francisco—insisted we find a tree in the rugged outdoors. We took along a hatchet ... to beat off other customers at the Christmas tree lot on the corner.



Getting the evergreen home was easy—we tied it to the roof with twine. It rode there until the first bump, and then slid down over the rear window so all that could be seen in back were tangled boughs. But, it didn’t matter because the car heater clunked and spewed out a semi-frozen draft of air every five minutes or so, which served to give the windows a wonderful, winter wonderland look. And a frosted opacity that prevented Dad from seeing other cars as he changed lanes. So it was, with horns blaring and tires squealing, we weaved from lane to lane, through the town, with our prize.



We eventually arrived home in one piece, and in fine, but frozen, spirits. No, not those kinds of spirits. The kind that brings an emotional high.

And that’s when the trouble began.

Displaying his muscles, my dad dragged the tree into the house, knocking all the needles off the underside and leaving a green, pine needle trail behind him. While Mom and I held the metal stand in place, he gave a “heave-ho” and set the tree into it. The pine had a beautiful, single spike at its top, which was just perfect for our angel decoration. I thought she was the most beautiful ornament that existed. It never occurred to me, until Uncle Jimmy mentioned it, that angel tree toppers seldom have such ample … um … cleavage. To quote Uncle Jimmy, “My heck, she looks like Dolly Parton!”

After Dad stepped back from jamming the tree into place, Mom studied it. “The tree is too tall. Look, the top spike is bent against the ceiling at a forty-five degree angle!”

Dad pondered the situation for a minute. “We'll just cut it off.”

Mom looked at him as if he had just suggested there was no Santa Claus. “We most certainly will not. It’ll ruin the look of it. You’ll have to cut some off the bottom.”

Dad got out the hacksaw and started on the trunk. Ten minutes passed and nothing changed. Fifteen minutes passed and a slight rip appeared in the wood. Sweat dripped off Dad’s face and onto the sawdust pile on the floor. A lung-encrusting pinewood powder drifted through the air. Being a California kid, I thought it was snow. Mom ran around with the vacuum, mumbling about men and their bright ideas, and trying to suck up the dust.

By now, Dad’s good cheer had evaporated—like the rum in eggnog—and he picked up the hatchet. Fearing he was going after Uncle Jimmy, I held my breath. Dad went at it with a vengeance and twenty minutes later, the deed was done. No, not Uncle Jimmy—he was still alive and sitting in the corner, eating Christmas cookies and humming an aimless tune.

Dad held up the tree. Silence settled in the room, along with the sawdust.

“It looks kinda like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree,” I finally said, staring at the bare branches on one side.

“It’s not very tall,” Mom said, eyeing all four feet of it.

Dad scratched his head, and his eyes looked round and perplexed. “How did that happen? It was supposed to be taller.” He plunked it into the stand, and the three of us stepped back to look at it.

Somewhere in the distance, a radio played the first few notes of “O' Christmas Tree.” Then, Uncle Jimmy’s voice—thick with chocolate torte and wassail—offered solace from the corner. “Well, it may not be the perfect tree, but at least Dolly Parton will fit on the top.”




(Note: I do admit to using a teeny bit of artistic license with this story, but you're allowed to do that with Christmas stories ... right? :o)

What's playing in my head: What else but, O' Tannenbaum, sung by Nat King Cole.

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The Jinx ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Big Bird jammies, bunny slippers, jinx, turtleneck, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

I recently discovered a personal truth. I have my own jinx. In this age of catastrophes—hurricanes, earthquakes, and poor cell phone reception—there’s this pixie that has nothing better to do than follow me around, causing wacko things to happen.

Take this morning, for instance. Thinking it was about time to wear something other than Big Bird jammies and bunny slippers all day, I pulled out khakis and a turtleneck. For those who don’t know, a turtleneck is a shirt designed to push the flab on your neck up to your jawbone, giving you four chins instead of the traditional two. The turtleneck gets its name from the ancient Hebrew word, “turtle,” meaning “shirt that only looks good on a twenty-year-old,” and “neck,” meaning … well … “neck.”

Since the turtleneck looked wrinkled—either I didn’t get it out of the dryer in time, or Corky Porky Pie, the dog, had used it as a pillow—I carried it to the ironing board. Just then, Russ walked in and stared at the ironing board as if he’d never seen one before, which tells you how often he irons his own clothes. He knew better than to ask what it was, however, because then he’d get a lesson on clothing care. Finally, after a long minute, he said, “What ‘cha doing?”

“Standing here, waiting for a bus.” The sarcasm being lost on him, I shook the iron. “Darn, it needs water.”

“I’ll get it for you.” Russ headed to the bathroom tap, and I wondered if it was safe to leave him loose in the house in the morning—or any time of day, for that matter. But, surely, nothing could happen while filling an iron. I walked out to apply my deodorant—a ritual that I do at least once a week—and when I came back in, I found Russ standing by the iron with a chagrined look on his face.

“Oops,” he said.

“Oops? Oops what?”

He motioned toward the iron. “You said it needed water, so I added some. Okay, not some—a lot. It overflowed all over the ironing board.”

Never one to be deterred by minor circumstances, I mopped the water up with Russ’s old shirt— which conveniently had his body still in it—and sent him on his way. Then, I started ironing.

Hot, rusty water spurted from the iron onto the turtleneck. The kind of rusty that makes a beautiful, cream-colored shirt look like it has the measles. The kind of rusty that only comes out of a knit turtleneck when you dump undiluted bleach onto it. And not that I’d know from personal experience, but dumping bleach straight onto a shirt not only takes out the stains, it takes out the shirt, too.

After throwing it into the laundry basket, I stepped to the closet and got another turtleneck. One that was pristine, and as white as Donny Osmond’s teeth. I swung it over my head, pulled it down past my shoulders and—just as Russ walked in the room—grazed my chin with my thumbnail.

A drop of blood dripped onto the shirt, looking like a neon beacon against the whiteness. Russ pointed to the injury on my face. “What’d you do, cut yourself shaving?”

“Very funny.”

Russ handed me a tissue, I dabbed at the wound, and looked down at the stain. “I wonder if I can get the blood out of this shirt without having to wash the whole thing. Maybe if I take it off and splash a little cold water on the spot …”

Russ grabbed my arm. “Wait. I have a better idea. I’ve heard that if you spit on the blood, that’ll remove it. There’s an enzyme in your saliva that breaks down your own blood.”

Really? Maybe it was worth a try. I pulled the shirt up to my mouth, spit, and then looked at it in the mirror. The reflection showed a slobbery shirt with two bloodstains. Somehow, in the process of spitting—a skill that apparently does not come natural to women— I’d slid the fabric across the cut on my chin. I gave up, took off the turtleneck, went to the closet, and for the third time in fifteen minutes, pulled out another shirt.

Although I appreciated Russ’s suggestions, it seemed like I was farther ahead before he entered the scene. And that’s when it dawned on me; I had a jinx. And as much as I loved Russ, I was a lot better off without my own personal jinx following me around.


What's playing in my head: Happy Together by The Turtles

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Stuffing the Turkey ... by Cindy Beck

(Or … Lessons Learned from Last Thanksgiving)

© Cindy Beck 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Thanksgiving, lesson, yams, rolls, pie, Thanksgiving feast, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

I ate and ate until I thought
My buttons all would pop.
I gobbled up the turkey
Not considering when to stop.

I scarfed down mashed potatoes,
With gravy, yams, and rolls,
And wondered why, when I looked down,
I couldn’t see my toes.

I polished off the stuffing
And a cranberry or two,
Then noticed that my stomach felt
Like it had caught the flu.

It seemed like maybe time to quit
Before I up and died—
But that was just before someone
Brought out the pumpkin pie.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends. May your turkey be juicy, your mashed potatoes creamy, and may your pants have an elastic waistband!

What's playing in my head: Come, Ye Thankful People by Henry Alford.

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The Men at My Thanksgiving Table ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Thanksgiving, famous men, Thanksgiving feast, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


I hate to confuse you by actually thinking a semi-deep thought, but every once in a while a serious reflection pops into my brain. And what kind of writer would I be if I didn’t document such a momentous occasion? (Meaning the occasion of a semi-deep thought, not the occasion of confusing you.)

Last year, a writer friend of mine, Connie Hall, posted a blog about who she’d like to have as guests at her Thanksgiving table. My interest was piqued by what she said, and I tucked the topic into the back of my mind as a subject for a blog of my own. Since, as I said, serious thoughts vacate my brain quickly, I try to snatch—no, I did not say “steal”—good ideas when they’re presented by my deep-thinking friends.

At first I thought I'd list ... oh ... twenty or thirty men. But I have a small table, and they'd have to sit five to a chair. I finally settled on the nice round number of six. So, for your serious reading pleasure, (really, honest, this is going to be serious) listed below are six men that I admire, and with whom I’d like to share Thanksgiving.

George Washington: I’d take the opportunity to thank him for being a man of courage, one who stood by his beliefs and founded a fledgling country that, in my opinion, is the best on the face of the earth.

Abraham Lincoln: I’d express gratitude to him for his honesty, loyalty to the Union, and kindness and compassion. I’d like to have the chance to tell him how much I appreciated him keeping our nation intact.

Joseph Smith: Few people have endured the abuse, torment and torture that he did and maintained their integrity. I’d like the chance to—in typical LDS fashion—shake his hand and thank him for being an instrument in the Lord’s hands and in restoring the fullness of the gospel to the earth.

C.S. Lewis: I’d like to chat with the man whose books inspired me long before they became popular movies. I’d like to thank him for a land called Narnia, a lion named Aslan and for the way in which they touched my heart.

Jimmy Stewart: There are few actors that I admire, but he’s one. I should have sent him a note while he was alive to express my appreciation for his talent and the wonderful ways in which he used it. But, I didn’t and I would love one last opportunity to thank him for making me laugh in, Harvey, making me cheer in, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and making me cry in, Mr. Krueger’s Christmas.

Corky Porky Pie: What, did you really expect I could keep it serious to the end? Naturally, my dog would sit at the table—well, not at the table, but beneath it—because someone has to eat the scraps when the feast is over.


What's playing in my head: For Health and Strength (and daily food, we praise thy name, oh Lord) by Unknown

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Up in the Night ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, sound, burglar, noises, birds, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


The other night, after the usual tossing, turning, and fluffing of pillows, I nodded off into that dream where you’re rich, intelligent and able to fly. I’d just gathered riches when a loud, “Wham! Thump, thump!” echoed through the house.

My husband, Russ, and I bolted upright. “What was that?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” he whispered back.

I’m not sure why we whispered. Whatever was downstairs made enough racket to cover the roar of a jet engine.

We sat there, our ears pricked like barn cats listening for mice. Finally I said, “Why don’t you go see what made that noise?”

“Why don’t you?” Russ pulled the covers up to his chin.

“Because that’s your job. There’s an unwritten law dating back to the Garden of Eden; husbands must warm their wives’ cold feet and they are responsible for checking out things that go bump in the night.” I pulled the blankets to my side.

Russ reluctantly slid out of bed, mumbling his opinion of unwritten laws, and headed toward the bedroom door. “Wait. Aren’t you going to take a weapon?” I asked.

“What would you suggest?” he said, looking around a room filled with books and knickknacks.

Remembering the not-so-recent news of the shooting death of a professional football player who kept a machete for self-defense, I didn’t bother to drag out the sword from under the bed. “How about that book on body language?” I pointed at a book on the shelf.

“Oh, that’ll be a big help.”

“At least you’ll know—by his subtle signals—when he plans to whap you over the head,” I replied.

Opening the bedroom door, Russ started downstairs. I intended to follow, in case he needed help, but the moonlight reflecting on the snow distracted me.

Russ called from the T.V. room, “Come and look at this.”

I figured he’d conked a burglar over the head and wanted praise, so it was safe to go down. As I walked into the room, Russ cracked open the curtains. On the outside windowsill sat a stunned, befuddled dove.

“She must have flown into the window by accident. That’s what made all the noise,” Russ said.

We stood there, hesitant, wondering what we should do to help the poor bird. “You could catch her and bring her in to warm up,” I said.

Russ pulled on a sweatshirt and stepped out into the frigid night. The person driving by craned his neck at the sight of a hooded figure wearing pajama bottoms and slippers with no socks, carrying a shoebox and creeping along the sidewalk. I fully expected the guy to steer into a telephone pole. At any rate, I’m certain the sight of Russ was enough to scare the bird into consciousness, because she took off like a shot.

With the dilemma solved, we traipsed back to bed. Just as the cold in my feet transferred over to Russ’s, the noise happened again.

“It’s that bird,” Russ explained in a sleep-filled voice.

I relaxed in the blanket’s fluffy warmth and while slipping into dreamland mumbled, “But birds don’t fly at night.”

Wham! Thump, thump.

We trudged back downstairs and Russ looked out the window at the frost-covered sill. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “It must be so cold that the birds are falling out of the trees. I’m going out to see if they’re lying on the sidewalk. Maybe I can rescue them.”

It was after midnight. The same man who didn’t want to go downstairs in the cold and dark to check for burglars now wanted to step out into frosty temperatures in his pajamas—again—and rescue birds?

Wanting to do my part, I stayed inside where it was warm and watched from the window. Russ stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, looking perplexed—no birds. His eyes scanned the pine tree, searching for frozen doves falling from the sky when ….

A large, dark shape dived from the boughs, buzzed Russ, and hooted as it flew over to an elm. Giving Russ a cranky look, it sat there, waiting for its chance to return to the pine.

Mystery solved, Russ stepped back inside to give an explanation. “The doves weren’t falling out of the trees in a frozen stupor. A predator was chasing them.”

“Well, owl be,” I said.


What's playing in my head: In the Middle of the Night by Billy Joel

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The Name’s Beck ... Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, interview, Cheese Doodles, SeaWorld, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

Last spring, Candace Salima interviewed me for yourLDSNeighbhorhood.com. The point was to give my readers—all one of them—the opportunity to know me better. It's too bad my mom was off line that day and missed her chance.

Just in case I've picked up any new fans lately—besides that stalker that keeps calling me—I'm posting the interview again. Here, for your reading pleasure, are the questions and answers that give a glimpse into the mind of Cindy Beck ... what little mind there is.


Q: What brought you to the Blogging World and what is your favorite thing about blogging?

A: I arrived at the Blogging World quite by accident. I was trying to find SeaWorld, but I've never been very good with maps. Apparently the Internet is nowhere near Orlando, FL.

I love blogging because it gives me the chance to write whatever comes to mind. Alas, that's also what encourages me to write answers like the one I gave to "What brought you to the Blogging World?" Plus, blogging gives me a perfectly acceptable excuse for staring at my computer screen for hours on end, while eating Cheese Doodles and humming aimless tunes. "Sorry, Sweetie," I'll say to my husband as I wipe Doodle dust off my fingers. "I can't possibly fix supper right now ... I'm blogging."

Q: What intrigues you the most about blogging for yourLDSneighborhood?

A: First of all, it seems like such a nice neighborhood. So much nicer than my own— no kids throwing rotten tomatoes at my dog, or leaving a sharpened hack saw blade at my front door as a present. Or as a warning. I'm not sure which it was supposed to be.

Second, I can use words like, "Oh my heck" in a blog, and all the visitors will completely understand what that means. Not to mention the fact that if I were to blog about baptisms for the dead, no one would wonder if I was talking about putting sprinklers in the cemetery.

Q: What is your favorite thing about yourLDSneighborhood?

A: Oh, you mean outside of the fact that no one has left a sharpened hack saw blade as a present?

Okay, I suppose I'll be serious for just one second. I love the bright colors and the way the home page is set up like a neighborhood. The images and graphics are very inviting. I feel like I've stepped into an LDS Mayberry. All it lacks is Aunt Bee, Opie and a cold glass of lemonade on the front porch.

I think it's great to go to a site that's geared toward Latter-day Saints, where you don't have to worry about content that you might find insulting or offensive. I love the fact that I can read blogs and not have to worry about what wording they'll contain. Oh my heck, yes!

The stores contain items I'd be interested in buying; the blogs are writings I'd be interested in reading. They also have a great radio station called Your LDS Radio.

I think that pretty well sums it up, don't you? So, okay then, back to the Cheese Doodles.

Q: Tell us a little about yourself: What are your likes, dislikes, hobbies, hopes, dreams, etc . . .

A: Likes: Cheese Doodles, donuts, chocolate cake.

Dislikes: Liver, and Brussels sprouts. Either together or separately. Come to think of it, they have the same affect on me as syrup of Ipecac, and I’m not too fond of that, either.

Hobbies: Readin', writin' and NOT 'rithmetic.

Hopes: The only Hopes I know are Bob Hope and the Hope diamond. One has passed away and the other is beyond my budget.

Dreams: Last night, I had the strangest dream. I sailed away to China, in a little row boat to find ya, and you said you had to get your laundry cleaned …*

No wait. That wasn't a dream. It was a song that was playing just before I went to bed.

Q: Tell us something unique about yourself.

A: Not to get technical, but that’s not a question. Anyway, I’m getting tired of typing. Let's just skip this one.

Q: What has been your greatest challenge to date?

A: Coming up with the answer to question number five, above, which is why I skipped it.

Wait. Did you mean my biggest challenge in life? That would be how to get the Cheese Doodle bag open without dumping cheesy puffs in my lap.

Q: What books/projects/ songs are you working on right now?

A: As far as books go, I'm working on a book of LDS Humor with my friend and co-author, Nichole Giles, who also blogs for yourLDSNeighborhood.com. Cedar Fort is interested in publishing the book, which contains humorous anecdotes for and about Latter-day Saints. Some of the stories are funny enough that you might need to do that little dance and run off to the bathroom.

As for projects, I'm trying to figure out why my dryer keeps overheating. There's nothing like charred and blackened socks to give you a clue that something is amiss with the dryer.

When it comes to songs, I'm working on an opus. Or maybe it's a jingle. I've never been clear on the difference between the two. At any rate, I have the music written. It has eighth, quarter, and half notes. Once in a while, for variety, I've thrown in a full note.

The lyrics are simple, so that it appeals to the common man. They go, "Dee,dee, dee. Dee, dee, dee."

Q: What obstacles have you run into?

A: Whether "dee" is spelled with one "e" or two.

Q: If you had three minutes to give advice to someone headed into danger, what would it be?

A: Unplug the dryer before trying to figure out why the socks are burned.

What's playing in my head: *Break My Stride (written by Matthew Wilder)

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The Germ Theory ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, germs, germ theory, cold, scientist, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


Germs—bad, bad germs. I once knew a doctor who told his patients he didn’t believe in the germ theory. It was a joke and if I didn’t have an awful cold right now, I’m sure I’d find it funny.

Have you ever thought about germs? It’s never been proven, but I believe they’re part of an insidious plot. Nowadays everything is thought to be a conspiracy, so why not the common cold?

Can’t you just see it? A scientist with wavy hair, a polka-dotted bow tie and black glasses is sitting on the stool in his lab. Chemicals bubble in beakers, heat rises from his Bunsen burner, the scent of formaldehyde and sulfuric acid mixed with the smell of a bologna sandwich wafts through the air. He ignores it all in his effort to train a germ to do its duty.

The scientist lovingly pats the germ on the head. “Now go on out there, find every Latter-day Saint that you can, and give them a cold right before they’re scheduled to speak in church.”

“Yes, my master,” the germ replies.

“And don’t forget parties. Lay them low as they sit at the ward dinner, chatting with each other and counting it as home and visiting teaching.”

“Yes, my master.” Apparently this germ has learned how to divide and multiply, but he doesn’t have very good language skills.

“Cloud their minds so they forget to use a handkerchief when they cough,” the scientist continues.

“Yes, my master.”

Hold on a minute. This cold germ is starting to sound like Darth Vader talking to the Emperor. Maybe we’d better beef his character up a little the next time he speaks.

The scientist’s eyes gleam with insane pleasure behind lenses thicker than the Hubble telescope. “When they go to meetings, impress them to shake hands.”

The germ blinks in confusion. “My master, I don’t need to do that. We’re in Utah, which is an ancient, Native American word for ‘people who can’t meet without shaking hands.’”

“Oh, I always thought it meant ‘people who can’t meet without refreshments.’” The scientist slicks back the germ’s hair, straightens its little polka dot tie and sends it off into the big, wide world.

You might think I’m making this up in my illness-fogged mind, but I’m living proof that germs do exist. That very same bug showed up and managed to infiltrate its way into my life, giving me the wretched cold I have today.

I’m on to the germ, though. Knowing that I’m contagious, I didn’t go to church on Sunday. I refuse to cooperate in spreading the monster around. I’m not sending it by computer to my writer friends, either. Before starting this blog entry, I sprayed my keyboard with Lysol.

Although ... now that I think about it, maybe that explains the zzzzzt, zzzt, zzzt sound and sparks flying as I type.

Despite my burning fever, hacking cough, and legs that feel Pinocchio’s, I wanted to warn you about it. Germs—they’re more than a theory. They’re out to get you. Pass it on!

What's playing in my head: Germs, Germs, Germs by Jennifer Fixman

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Crater Lake, Part 2 ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Wyoming, Crater Lake, Snowy Range, Laramie, fishing, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


As you remember (or not!) from my blog on Nov. 3, 2008, my family and I had decided to go fishing at Crater Lake. Call us adventurous—although I have to say that Cindy Adventurous doesn’t sound quite as good as Cindy Beck does—but we wanted to find the place just by using a map.

Okay, I’ll tell the truth. We also wanted to use a global positioning satellite receiver, but they weren’t invented back then. Instead, we used the next best thing when we got lost—a desk clerk at a lodge who couldn’t have directed you to water if it sat in a bottle in front of him.

He sounded convincing when he gave us directions—to the lake, not the water bottle—and so, rather than admit defeat, we sallied forth.

It didn’t take long for us to realize our journey had gone awry.

My husband, Russ, stopped the car after five minutes of travel on a dirt road—the one that supposedly led to the lake. He looked at the muffler-crumpling rock in the way. “Houston, we have a problem,” Russ said, holding his hand to his mouth and making the crackly sounds of a microphone.

Our son, Davey, looked out the window. “Roger, that,” he said, giving his own version of crackly noises. Only it came out more like, “Coger cat,” because Flopsey, the dog, had stuck her head in his face, trying to discover why it sounded like popcorn popping in his throat.

I pondered the problem in the road and ignored them all. Then, the complicated solution came to me—just move the rock. I leaped out of the car and moved the boulder.

Russ watched, and even with the shadows from the trees making weird shapes on his face, I could see a mischevious glint in his eye. “Why don’t you sit on the hood and tell me where the big rocks are?” he asked.

“Because when I sit on the hood, I have to hold onto the windshield wipers so I don’t slide off when you stomp the brakes.”

“And the problem is?” Russ wiped dust from the interior of the windshield, which was good. That way the gleam in his eye was easier to see.

I inclined my head toward the front bumper. “ I can’t see past the end of the hood.”

Davey stuck his head out the side window. “I can see, and I’ll tell you when rocks are in the way.”

We drove 5 miles an hour, with Davey pointing out rocks, and me jumping off the hood to move them. It kept us all occupied and made the time pass, which was good, because the dirt road that was only supposed to go one mile went three, and it took us an hour to get to the end of it.

By now, we were positive the lake was close. According to the guy at the lodge—the one with as much sense of direction as a yo-yo—all we had to do was hike in ½ mile and we were there. I could smell fish frying already. We started hiking … ½ mile, ¾ mile, 1 mile. Surely the lake was right around the next bend. And then it started raining. Finally, after 2 miles, wet shoes, and clothes, we saw a sign that said, “Crater Lake.”

“Wahoo, “ shouted Russ and Davey.

“Oops,” I said. The two guys and the dog stopped their victory jig in mid-fling.

“Oops?” Russ walked to where I was standing, just beyond the sign. Davey and Flopsey followed, their tails wagging behind them. Well, maybe Davey’s tail wasn’t wagging, but Flopsey’s was.

Just past the sign … and 800 feet, straight down … sat Crater Lake. We were standing on a rocky ledge above it.

The sun broke through the clouds overhead. “The lake looks beautiful with its azure waters and its shining shores,” I said, in a melancholy voice.

The trail wended its way down to the lake, and Russ kicked a pebble down it. “Yup, and by the time that little stone hits bottom, it’ll be a full grown boulder.”

I looked at the sky. Pinks and oranges tinted the clouds as the sun dropped lower in the horizon. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be catching any fish at Crater Lake today.”

“Maybe not,” Russ said, “but it was a fun ride.”

I stared at him, wondering for a second if the cold drizzle had hypothermia-ed his brain. Then I turned and sprinted in the direction of the car. “Yup, it was so much fun that I call “driver” and the three of you can sit on the hood and move the boulders!”


What's playing in my head (and on my computer): Drive This Road by Peter Breinholt & Big Parade (on Your LDS Radio)


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"Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors" book winner!

As promised in my blog on October 23, 2008, I gathered the names of those who entered the contest for the drawing for a "Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors." Then, I wrote the names on slips of paper, scattered them on the floor, and let my dog, Corky Porky Pie, sniff out the winner.

In typical dog fashion, he pushed the papers this way and that, hoping one of them held a treat. When nothing yummy turned up, he totally ignored his vital role in the contest and looked at me to see if I had any dog cookies in my pockets.

I encouraged him to pick a winner with the command, "Take it!" He paid no attention to me.

Then, my husband, Russ said, "Bring it!" And the little four-legged darling (Corky Porky Pie, not Russ) grabbed two entry slips and brought them to me!

Therefore, someone is extra lucky tonight ... and the TWO winners are Lori Conger and Nichole Giles. Since I know how to reach both of you, I'll be contacting you so you can give me your mailing address.

Congratulations to you, and thanks to everyone who commented and entered the contest!

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Crater Lake

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Wyoming, Crater Lake, Snowy Range, Laramie, fishing, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


Many years ago we lived in Laramie, Wyoming. I love the state of Wyoming … the antelope, the sagebrush, the rattlesnakes. Okay, maybe not the rattlesnakes.

I could wax poetic about the town of Laramie, as well. The kind of poetic that resembles Edgar Allen Poe’s darker works. On a scale of one to ten, I’d give Laramie a minus fifty-two. The town has two seasons—“Almost Summer,” which lasts from June 1st to June 2nd, and “Definitely Winter,” which runs the rest of the year. In addition, no matter which of the two seasons you’re not enjoying, the wind blows every day. Every single, solitary day.

Lest you think I’m just being negative, I’ll tell you that Laramie does have an up side. During the winter, it only snows once. After that, the wind just blows ice crystals back and forth across the town in a perpetual blizzard.

All kidding aside, Laramie does have some nice features. All right, I’ll tell the truth; Laramie has one nice feature.

It’s a set of mountains called the Snowy Range*, which contains a beautiful azure lake named Crater Lake.

Back then my family liked to fish, and all the old-timers said Crater Lake was the place to go. The fish there grew ten feet long, weighed two-hundred pounds, and were all starving to death. I could never quite figure out how a fish could weigh two-hundred pounds and starve at the same time, but that’s what people told us.

At any rate, we decided Crater Lake was the place where we most wanted to fish, so one day, we packed up all our fishing gear, got a lunch together and threw the dog in the car. By then there was no room for our seven-year-old son, Davey.

“Should we tie him to the windshield?” Russ grinned in jest.

“Naw, then we’ll just have to pick bugs out of his teeth,” I said. So, Davey squeezed in the back seat with the dog, and off we went, like a herd of turtles.

Now let me ask you a question. Have you ever wanted to do something all by yourself, with no help from anyone else? That’s how we felt that day.

Wait, let me rephrase that. We didn’t want help from any people. Cows, deer or elk could offer suggestions. A GPS receiver was allowed, too, but since it hadn’t been invented yet—to be truthful, this was so long ago that fire had barely been discovered—we pulled out an old, tattered map. After finding the little blue speck on it that was the lake, we headed on our way. According to our calculations, it was about a seventy-mile drive on the highway, a five-mile drive on a dirt road and then we’d be on the shining shores of Crater Lake.

The drive on the highway was fine; it was the dirt road that turned into a problem. Apparently, no one had bothered to tell the mapmaker that there were three different dirt roads every time the map showed one.

We drove around for five hours on bumpity roads. Finally, Russ stopped the car and pointed to the right of the car. “Look. We’ve finally found it!”

Davey, the dog, and I all leaned out the window. “Where?” I asked, cocking my head and wondering if Russ has been sniffing gas fumes lately.

“Daddy, all I see is a mud puddle.” Davey patted the dog’s head before pushing her out of the way so he could point at the puddle.

“Yup. That’s probably the closest we’re going to get to anything even resembling a lake,” Russ said with a laugh.

I tossed the map on the floor. “That is so not funny.”

We drove on … and on. Finally, we spotted a lodge. Real men don’t ask for directions, but real women do, so we stopped and walked inside.

“Are we anywhere near Crater Lake?” I asked. “Like maybe on the same planet?”

The guy at the front desk said, “Oh it’s real close by. You just go down the road about a quarter mile, and turn onto the first dirt road. Drive down that for another mile and you’ll see the trail that leads to the lake.”

Raising my eyebrows, I looked at Russ. If there was one thing we’d learned in life, it was that when something sounded easy, it usually wasn’t.

“Do we need a truck?” Russ asked. His voice held a note of suspicion—we’d seen plenty of muffler-crumpling boulders already in the trek.

“Oh, no, I drive it all the time, and I don’t have a truck.” His voice cracked causing me to look more closely at him. His peach-fuzz face indicated he didn’t know how to shave. Did he even own a driver’s license?

Ignoring the mental warning flags that waved at us like a matador taunting a bull, we climbed in the car, full of optimism at continuing the journey. When we got to the first dirt road, things went a little haywire. Russ took one look and said, “The guy said he drove this road without a truck? It must be because he had a Sherman tank.”

Despite the fact we were tootling along in a Chevette—a car that resembled a roller skate on steroids—and that the vehicle sat a mere six inches off the ground, do you think we’d let a little thing like that stop us? Of course not …

(To be continued.)

*Photos from Snowy Range Views, photographer unknown.

What's playing in my head (and on my computer): Long Lost Child by Mindy Gledhill (on Your LDS Radio)


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The Deck, Part 2 ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008

(Keywords: Cindy Beck, deck, paint, redwood stain, cats, KitKat, Pretty Kitty, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


As I mentioned last time, our deck needed staining. Okay, I take that back. It was already stained from barbecued ribs, spilled lemonade, and the little whitewashed packages the birds liked to leave for us. To be precise, it needed weatherproofing with a coat of oil-based, redwood stain.

Yes, that’s right—redwood stain. The operative word in that phrase being, “red.” “Red” as in the blood that Russ dripped onto the planks after being scratched by the cat—who thought Russ deserved it for trying to clean him off the deck with a push broom.

We got out the paintbrushes and started working. Spots, speckles and drips flew everywhere. Russ looked war-painted from the back splash. I looked like my usual chic, super-model-self wearing a t-shirt that was three sizes too large and my cut-off, never hemmed, knit pants. The kind that I could fit two cats, the dog, my four-year-old granddaughter, and a third leg into and still have room to bend over. Call me a trend setter, but I think the mismatched flip-flops I wore is what set the ensemble off.

And then Russ came up with an idea for finishing the deck with less drips, and in faster time. He picked up the can of stain and said, “We’ll just pour the stuff onto the wood! It’s so thin, it’ll spread over the whole area and we’ll be done.” He thought it was brilliant. I thought he needed his head examined.

“We'll do that over my fashionably clad, dead body!” I grabbed the can from him as red stain sloshed onto the tiger-striped cat, who now looked like something from a horror movie.

I thought for a second. “But, that does give me an idea. We could roll the stuff on.”

Russ cocked his head, and pondered my suggestion. “Roll it on how? With a t-shirt wrapped around the bottom of a vacuum cleaner?” You can tell who’s the staining expert around our house.

“No, silly. With a paint roller.”

“Ohhhhh,” Russ said, and then recognition flickered in his eyes. “I’ll go get one of those thingies that you need.”

Have you ever noticed that men use the word “thingy” as both a noun and a verb? And sometimes an adjective. Because of that, you never know exactly what the “thingy” is until they walk out with it.

Russ set his paintbrush down on the grass and trotted into the garage. The stain ran off the brush in a wide circle, making the lawn the color of something you’d see in a Stephen King movie. I’m thinking that between the cat and the grass, it might have been Pet Sematary.

Russ sauntered back out, carrying a dented pan that looked like it had survived ground zero during a nuclear blast. He placed it on the sidewalk, took the can of stain from me, and poured some into the pan. Droplets splashed onto my flip-flops.

“Don’t worry about those few droplets on your shoes,” Russ said. “The red will blend right in with the pink and purple daisies on them.”

He poured some more, and stain splattered onto my legs. Russ swiped at the red splotches with his hand, trying to rub them off. “Don’t worry about those few droplets on your legs. They blend well with your brown age spots. None of it will show.”

I eyed my legs, staring at the red speckles that supposedly blended with my age spots, and scrutinized my flip-flops with the red blobs that supposedly matched my shoes’ daisy design. My foot tapped—almost as if not under my control—with an irritated rhythm.

Russ noticed it.

Stain dripped from the overflowing pan onto the sidewalk, making it look like it had the pox. “I’ll take care of that,” Russ said. He grabbed the gasoline can sitting nearby, and tipped it over the splotches on the sidewalk.

“Don’t worry about any of this,” he said, gesturing at the deck and back yard. “We’ll just light a match … and none of it will show.”

(Disclaimer: This blog is meant to be humorous, and not intended as a primer (no pun intended) on staining/painting. Gasoline is flammable; please do not ever use gas to clean stain/paint spills.)



What's playing in my head: Ring of Fire (by Johnny Cash).


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The Deck ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, deck, paint, redwood stain, cats, KitKat, Pretty Kitty, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

The deck needed staining. Either that or it needed to be ripped off and used for firewood. Since we don’t have a fireplace, we decided staining was a viable alternative. And so, bright and early last Saturday, my husband, Russ, and I stepped out into the chilly air and began cleaning dust and leaves off the wooden planks. Minutes after starting, I watched Russ give a particularly vigorous shove with the push broom.

“Are you having trouble with those two spots?” I asked.

“Uggg,” Russ replied. I assumed that was primitive male-speak for yes. Or maybe no.

Never one to lightly offer my brilliant-but-unasked-for opinion, I tilted my head to one side and said, “That’s not debris, you know.”

Russ stopped pushing, looked at me, and raised one eyebrow. “Oh, really? Then just what is it?”

“Our two cats,” I said, shooing the orange and white one, KitKat, off the deck.



The other cat—the dark tiger-striped—continued sitting there, washing his face. We'd befriended him years ago and named him Pretty Kitty. If it weren’t for the fact that his left ear is half gone and his tail is broken, the name would really fit.



I reached over, patted Pretty Kitty's head, and continued not offering my opinion. “You know what happens when you try to push a cat—it just pushes back.” I hated to state the obvious, but I didn’t want him trying to clean Pretty Kitty off the deck with the broom again.

Russ gently reached down to pick the cat up and Pretty Kitty rewarded him with a swat. One that, had a surgeon performed it, would have been a $200, twenty-stitch incision. Instead, Russ got it for free.

Russ lightly tossed the cat onto the grass as blood dripped onto the wooden planks. Knowing that I’m fastidious about such things as bodily fluids on my deck, Russ said, “Don’t worry about those few droplets. We’re staining the deck red. None of it will show.”

After he patted the cut dry with his shirttail, we picked up paint brushes, popped open the gallon of redwood stain, and started applying the thin, oil-based paint to the edges of the wood. “We should be done in no time,” Russ said, as paint from his brush splattered onto the deck’s white vinyl posts.

“Oops,” I said, as red stain raced in rivulets onto the white, lattice trim below. Drops splattered onto KitKat, who sat sunning himself by the lattice.

“Don’t worry about those few droplets on the cat,” Russ said, as he raced to the garage for gasoline to clean off the dripping and splattered paint. “It’s red stain. He’s orange. None of it will show.”

In a matter of seconds ... or perhaps more like fifteen minutes ... Russ returned with the six-gallon gas can. I waved my paintbrush at him and said, “Hurry, hurry, or the paint will dry and the lattice will look like it has copious wounds.”

As I gestured, a shower of paint flew from my brush. It was just too bad Russ's face happened to be in the way, because otherwise the paint would have made an interesting pattern when it hit the sidewalk.

“Don’t worry about those few droplets on your face,” I said. “It’s red stain, and with all the sun you’ve gotten this morning, none of it will show.”

Russ wiped his brow with his sleeve—which gave him a decidedly war-painted look—then he tapped the deck with his foot and said, "I have a great idea for getting this done quickly, and with a lot less splattering ..."

(To be continued.)


What's playing in my head: Lady in Red (by Phil Collins).


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Dancing in the Moonlight ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, breast cancer, survivor, Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors, mammogram, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


This blog is normally humorous, but for just a moment or two, let’s talk about something serious …

My mom is a breast cancer survivor. She was diagnosed at age 59, and right about now—when I’m only a few years away from that age myself—59 is sounding pretty young. When she told me of the diagnosis, I wondered if she would live until 60.

She had a good doctor, a successful surgery, and a workable treatment plan that included chemotherapy. Her health care and treatment were so good that, as of this point in time, she’s a 13-year survivor.

You cannot imagine how grateful I am for every minute of those 13 years. Nor how thankful I feel that she scheduled regular mammograms and didn’t delay when they discovered a lump. It’s my belief that the mammogram is part of what saved her life.

About a year ago, a “call for stories” arrived in my inbox. Colleen Sell and Adams Media were collecting stories for a book called, A Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors. I knew that I needed to write the story about my mom—a daughter’s view of her mother’s journey through breast cancer—and submit it.

It wasn’t easy writing, because it meant reliving the heart-stopping moment when she told me of the diagnosis. It meant calling to mind the desperate, sinking feeling of watching as a nurse wheeled her down the hall on a gurney and into surgery … and wondering if I would ever see her alive again.

However, it was worth the pain of writing it. Adams Media accepted my work, “Dancing in the Moonlight,” along with 45 other stories, and A Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors came out in September of 2008. My mom’s survivor friends read the book, nodded their heads in empathy, and shed tears of remembrance … as well as tears of joy because they have lived through cancer, too.

October is “Breast Cancer Awareness Month.” If you’re a woman, please … please … get a mammogram. A mammogram is a little embarrassing (and the machine is usually cold) but it’s relatively painless. Early diagnosis might save your life.

If you’re a man, and you find a lump in your breast, don’t discount breast cancer. It doesn’t mean you’re immune just because you’re a guy. Go to the doctor! Once again, embarrassment is nothing compared to leaving behind those you love because you didn’t seek medical help immediately.

Now for the fun part … I’m holding a drawing here on my blog site and giving away a copy of A Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors. The book is one of inspiration and hope. If you—or your family or friends—are currently facing cancer, or have faced it in the past, it makes a great gift.

To enter the drawing, simply leave a short comment on this blog anytime up until midnight, November 5, 2008.

The names of all entrants will be written on slips of paper. The winner will be pulled in a random drawing in which my dog, Corky Porky Pie, will sniff the papers, grab one … and most likely make me chase him around the room to get it back. Of course, if that gets too complicated, I might have to draw the name myself.

On November 6, 2008, I’ll announce the winner at my blog. So, leave a comment and check back on November 6th to see if you won.*

And then … go out and make an appointment for that mammogram!


*Even the words, “Hi,” will qualify as a comment, and if you wish to comment more than once, feel free. It won't entitle you to more than one entry, but I promise I'll read every word you wrote! Winner's name will be drawn on Nov 6th, and she/he will have one week to claim the prize by contacting me at my blog. After that, the prize will be forfeit and awarded to the next name drawn. Contest is subject to rules and regulations as governed by the great State of Utah ... blah, blah, blah ... and ends November 5, 2008.

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Seeds of Truth Part 2 ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, seeds, watermelons, Sugar Baby melons, sewer ponds, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


Time flies when you’re having fun. It seems like it was just days ago that I wrote about the universally held kid-truth that a swallowed watermelon seed will sprout in your tummy.

Oh, wait. It was days ago.

The “babymelon” myth existed long before we were all swallowing seeds, and it seemed certain to persist long after. Probably because the theory behind it is at least partially confirmed for women when they give birth—going through labor does feel like you’re trying to move out an eighty-two pound watermelon.

Despite the fact that I’d delivered my own 7 lb., 12 oz., “babymelon” thirty-some years ago, it was still interesting when I recently found that time-honored watermelon legend debunked. “Listen to this,” I said to my husband, Russ, and shaking the Sanpete Messenger newspaper so that it would quit falling over limp in my hands.

I read aloud, “Spontaneous veggie garden sprouts near sewer ponds.”

“Hmm,” Russ said, without even turning away from the football game on TV. He’s very good at multi-tasking; I’ve even seen him walk and chew gum at the same time. Although, not without tripping.

“According to the paper,” I continued, “there’s huge produce growing in an unattended garden near Ephraim’s sewer ponds.” I mentally congratulated myself on giving an amazingly accurate synopsis of the article’s first line by only changing one word. “Tomatoes, cantaloupes, watermelons …”

It must have been the fact that I changed that one word that caught Russ’s attention. He turned to me and said, “What?”

I scanned the article, mumbling to myself until I found an appropriate quote. “It says, ‘Nothing was planted, and it’s not being watered, but the stuff just grows.’”

A twinkle appeared in Russ’s eyes. “I hope the ‘stuff’ that’s ‘just growing’ isn’t the kind of ‘stuff’ that you usually find in the sewer pond. You know what they say, the big chunks float to—”

I cut him off as a mental image of big, growing chunks of … um … veggies … came to mind. “The Department of Public Works thinks the garden is a result of seeds being flushed through the water system.”

Russ scratched his head. “You mean all those years we believed watermelon seeds sprouted in our bellies, and now we find out they sprout at the sewer pond instead?”

“Apparently so.” I paused, read the next line, scrunched up my nose and said, “Eeeewww!”

Russ looked at me, perplexed, and then a glimmer of understanding flitted across his face. “They didn’t … did they?”

Nodding and making a Mrs. Yucky Face at the same time, I pointed to the paper and said, “They took one of the monster melons to the city meeting and invited council members to have a slice.”

Russ’s dark eyebrows shot up. “It probably tasted just like sh—”

“You shouldn’t use words like that,” I said, cutting him off, and covering Corky Porky Pie’s ears. “The dog might hear.”

“What words?” Russ asked innocently, turning back to the TV and flipping through channels with the remote. “All I was going to say was it probably tasted just like Sugar Baby melons.”



What's playing in my head: Happy Birthday (because my birthday is coming).

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Seeds of Truth ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, facts of life, seeds, watermelons, Bambino, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

It’s not easy when you first hear about the facts of life. For most kids, the experience comes as a shock. I remember the day I learned all about it from Angelo, the only Italian kid in the neighborhood.

We sat on the porch one late summer afternoon, watching the weeds grow—for lack of anything better to do. When Mrs. Monson passed by, we both looked up. She waddled down the street, her rounded belly leading the way.

“You know how she got like that, don’t you?” Nine-year-old Angelo scratched at a scab on his knee.

“No, how?” I figured Angelo knew everything because he was a year older.

“Don’t your parents tell you anything?” Angelo gestured at the woman as she shuffled along and rubbed her lower back.

“Sure.” I scratched my head and thought for a minute. “My parents tell me all kinds of things … like …” I paused, trying to remember what great life lessons they’d taught me. Then it came to me and I recited from memory: “Do your homework! Go to bed! Get up or you’ll be late for school …don’t make me come in and pull you out of that bed!”

“No, not that kind of stuff.” Angelo shook his head in disbelief. “Stuff like why that lady has such a big belly.”

I watched Mrs. Monson’s aching back, moving away. “Because she’s going to have a baby?”

“Gee! No! Yuck! What would give you a weirdo idea like that?” Angelo’s brown eyes were almost red at the thought. “How would a baby ever get in there, anyway?”

“I dunno,” I replied, feeling dumber by the minute.

Angelo spit on the ground and crossed himself, like a good Catholic boy. Then looking at me, he drew in a long breath and proclaimed, “She’s big and round like that because instead of spitting out watermelon seeds, she ate them. There’s a fat watermelon growing in her tummy.”

I pondered that and wondered why my parents were so naïve as to believe that babies grew in tummies. They probably had it wrong because they weren’t Italian.

“From the looks of it,” Angelo went on in a whisper, his eyes swaying in time to Mrs. Monson’s receding-in-the-distance waddle, “I’d say she ate the seeds at the July 4th picnic. She’s ready to pop out a watermelon any day now.”

He said it so authoritatively, I believed him. In fact, all the kids in the neighborhood believed him. Whenever one of us accidentally swallowed a seed, we waited and watched for germination. One time, we were certain that Angelo was sprouting a “Bambino” melon, but it just turned out to be gas. We measured each other's bellies, and sighed with relief when watermelon season ended and none of us had grown a hybrid, or even an open-pollinated melon.

No doubt, my experience was not unique. You probably had an Angelo in your neighborhood … although maybe his name was something like “Fabio” if you grew up in Beverly Hills. Or “Yo, I be Iceberg de Man,” if you got your start in New York. Or Mahonri Moriancumer if you’re from Utah.

Thank goodness for the Angelos of the universe, because without them we might have learned the real truth about ingested seeds. In today’s world of crashing stock markets, global warming, and the virtual disappearance of Jujubes candy, it’s a truth so shocking that I choked on my chocolate milk when I read the headline in the Sanpete Messenger: “Spontaneous veggie garden sprouts near sewer ponds.”

Could it be? Do those seeds really end up in the sewer pond?

(To be continued …)


What's playing in my head: That's Amore (by Dean Martin).

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A Ghostly Tale ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, October, hobgoblins, ghost, gender roles, toilet, commode, Velcro, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

October—that month when the wind blows, clouds shroud the moon, and scary things happen. Kids dress up as hobgoblins and play tricks on us. Political candidates run campaign ads.

No, wait. I’ve got that wrong. It’s the politicians that dress up and play tricks on us.

Not to change the subject, but it’s my well-considered, but rarely asked for opinion that God gave men and women strictly defined roles. The fairer sex is supposed to lie awake at night, listening for the peculiar sounds of burglars in the garage trying to steal wheat-filled storage bins—ones that require the lifting potential of a crane.

Or even worse, ghosts inhabiting the bathroom.

Women obviously have the difficult tasks. The sex that could sleep-through-a-nuclear explosion is only required to get up and check out the scary sounds.

And so it happened one night, some time ago …

“Wake up! I hear something,” I hissed to my husband, Russ, in a tone that would bring the undead out of their coffins.

“You’re not getting me out of bed to turn off the porch light,” Russ muttered, rolling onto his side.

I shook his shoulder. “It’s not the light. Something’s in the bathroom.” After giving five seconds for that alarming news to sink in, and noticing that his snoring increased, I elbowed him somewhere between ribs 11 and 12. Or maybe it was between 10 and 11. Whichever it was, it did the trick. Russ shot out of bed like a road apple from a bucking bronco.

“What?” He stared at me, his eyes so wide that they resembled paper plates.

I whispered, “Someone’s using the commode.”

There was a long pause, during which, swirling and gurgling echoed through the house. Then Russ said, “And that’s reason for panic … why?”

Russ’s remaining four hairs on his head looked mussed, and if it hadn’t been such a dire situation, I would have laughed. Instead, I had visions of glowing eyes in the toilet and a white, translucent hand reaching out of the bowl and flushing.

“There’s a girl ghost down there, utilizing the plumbing,” I said, pulling the electric blanket tight around my shoulders.

Russ reached over to pick up his slippers, stopped short and turned to me. “Just how do you know it’s a girl?”

“Because guys always forget to flush in the middle of the night.” I pointed in the vague direction of the bathroom. “It’s my job to hear things that go bump in the night, and your job to roust them!”

He reached over and hoisted me out of bed with one hand. “It’s just a stuck gizmo in the tank. There’s no ghost. But, you’re coming with me, because if you don’t see it for yourself, you’ll have me up all night, repeatedly checking the toilet.”

Russ strode down the stairs toward the powder room. I tiptoed behind him. The wind moaned, the trees swayed, and …

Gurgle, gurgle, swisssssssh. The sound of flushing drifted past us. I envisioned those demonic eyes in the toilet, swirling counterclockwise, and disappearing down the sewer line, only to reappear seconds later and repeat the process.

Russ walked over to the commode—with me stuck to him, Velcro-fashion. “Aaaah!” His voice shook as he peered in the bowl.

I shrieked, turned, and ran into the wall in my haste to escape the Toilet Ghost from Heck.

“Gotcha!” Russ said with a laugh. Then grabbing my hand, he pulled me back from running blindly into the night. Either that or he grabbed my hand so I couldn’t slug him. I’m not sure which.

“Look,” he said, as he jiggled the tank’s handle. The swirling and swishing slowed, the water ceased heaving and the commode settled into silence. “There’s no ghost. It’s just that stuck thinga-ma-jiggy.”

Of course, Russ was right. Toilet ghosts do not exist. He proved it that night, several years ago.

And I believe him … eleven months out of the year.

But, it’s October again, that month when the wind blows, clouds shroud the moon, and scary things happen. Kids dress up as hobgoblins and play tricks on us.

And the Toilet Ghost from Heck returns.


What's playing in my head: Unchained Melody (from the movie, Ghost).

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Emergency Preparedness (Floods)

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, emergency preparedness, floods, disasters, Sanpete Messenger, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


Some time ago, I mentioned a valuable news clipping that we found in our walk-in pantry ...

OK, I’ll be honest—the clipping was old and tattered, but I thought you’d pay more attention if I said it was valuable.

The newspaper article (Messenger-Enterprise, 1984) was on emergency preparedness, which is a euphemism for, “Hold onto your socks ‘cause this piece of writing will scare the bee-jeebers out of you.” A sense of panic fills my entire being—including my socks—when reading preparedness articles, so I normally burn them and watch as the hot ash floats into the neighbor’s drier-than-a-piece-of-split-kindling pine tree. Despite my burning inclinations, I’d saved this particular article so that if there were ever an emergency, I’d know what to do. Or not to do. Or how to hide under the bed until someone else—like FEMA—handled the emergency.

No, wait. I’d be better off calling in our dog, Corky Porky Pie, rather than enlist the aid of FEMA.

Below, for your edification, and since you probably don’t have a Corky Porky Pie to help you in a calamity, are quotes from the article. My comments follow the newspaper’s suggestions. Please note that for the purposes of today’s blog entry, I’ll only deal with impending floods. I can calmly discuss deluges, since the only water we’re liable to have at my home is from the in-the-ground sprinkling system … installed by my husband. The bathroom faucet pours out dirt.

If you have any other form of disaster, please feel free to call directory assistance for help. Once connected, a recorded voice will ask you—in Swahili—if you’d like to speak to an operator in French, Chinese or Chewbac-ish.

Also, please note that I realize calamities are not a laughing matter. However, due to my vast disaster experience—gained from watching the Poseidon Adventure and Titanic—I feel compelled to give my scientific opinion that the hysterical laughers get better seats on the life raft. And the compulsive weepers are always the first ones fed to the sharks.

So, drum roll, please …

Scary News Clipping: “In the event of a flood, fill available containers, including bathtubs, with water.”

Cindy: The purpose behind this is clear. If there’s an impending flood, we’re all going to need a long, hot soak in the tub to calm our nerves.

Scary News Clipping: “Move important items, such as food, furniture, rugs … electric motors and controls to upper floors.”

Cindy: The only electric motor at our house sits on a 1922 Weed Whacker. No doubt, I’m supposed to save it from the flood because it’ll come in handy to shred the seaweed that grows after the watery event. With a little luck you’ll own an electric trolling motor, which will give you a way to steer your house as it floats downstream.

Scary News Clipping: “Collect valuables, important papers and small appliances such as toasters, etc. …”

Cindy: Wow, really? Collect my toaster? Oh, yes, of course. That’s so I can eat buttered toast while taking my hot bath. And who’d have ever guessed that my hand-held soup blender or electric marshmallow roaster rated right up there with my birth certificate (which states I’m only twenty-nine) and Corky Porky Pie’s AKC registration?

Scary News Clipping: “Shut off utilities (electric, water, gas, etc.) at main switches. Do not touch electrical switches while wet or in standing water."

Cindy: Zzzzzzzzzt! Uh-oh, do I smell burning hair?

Scary News Clipping: “If possible, move frozen food to a locker plant.”

Cindy: This statement leads one to believe that a locker plant is impervious to flood waters. In that case, I say forget all the other advice and check yourself into the locker.

Just don’t forget to bring your parka, mukluks … and the dog’s registration papers.


(For less-humorous-but-more-usable emergency preparedness information, check out: Provident Living, Safely Gathered In, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention--US Government)

What's playing in my head: A Day in the Life ( I Read the News Today) by the Beatles. Aaack, it's an earworm that's stuck in my head. Quick, someone comment and suggest another song!

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All the News That’s Fit to Print ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, food storage, emergency preparedness, pantry, Chicago fire, San Francisco earthquake, 1969, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)


“What is that?” asked my husband, Russ, as the faded news clipping fluttered to the floor of our walk-in pantry.

“Umm, a piece of paper?” One of my talents in life is stating the obvious. I’m so good at it that someone should give me an award.

He picked the article up by a tattered corner. “You must have read this a lot.”

I looked over his shoulder at the paper in his hand. It was about emergency preparedness. I’d certainly read the article at least once … upon a time … but its ragged edges were more likely the result of it falling to the pantry floor and me shoving it back onto the shelf.

I wondered if my poker face still worked. “Oh, I’ve read that article dozens of times,” I said, taking it from him. Then the giggles hit and I realized I’d never, ever managed to hold a poker face for more than two seconds in my entire plenty-nine years. That’s why I never played poker. That, and the fact I don’t know a royal flush from a toilet’s flush.

Russ’s dark eyebrows curved in a questioning arch. “Dozens of times? I’ll bet. Then tell me what edition this article was in, and what year it was printed.”

I scratched behind my ear, hoping my brains remembered something … anything … I’d read recently. “Um, it ran in the Chronicle’s edition about how Mrs. O’Leary’s cow started the San Francisco earthquake.”

Shaking his head in amazement, Russ said, “Wrong. Mrs. O’Leary’s cow started a fire in Chicago, not an earthquake in San Francisco. Who ever heard of a cow starting an earthquake?”

“Well, if you’ve ever seen cows stampede, you’d know it sounds like an earthquake—”

Russ gave a stern gaze that only made me giggle more, and then he continued. “What year did the newspaper print the article?”

Taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes in hopes that it would help, I took a wild guess. “1969?”

“Nope, 1984. You lose.” Russ handed the clipping back to me. “By the way, you do know what happened in 1969, don’t you?”

I turned the news clipping over and stared at it, stalling for time. Then, it came to me. “Colonel Gaddafi became the leader of Libya, Neal Armstrong walked on the moon, Charles de Gaulle resigned as the president of France—”

A loud “clunk” echoed through the pantry. For a moment I thought a minor earthquake had hit, but it was only Russ’s jaw, smacking the linoleum. “How’d you know all that?” he asked.

I pointed to my forehead, and said, “Kidneys … er … I mean … brains!”

A long silence followed in which birds chirped, the sun shone, and Russ scratched the back of his head with a puzzled looked on his face. Finally, comprehension flickered in his eyes. “For a woman without a clue about the Chicago fire, or the 1906 San Francisco earthquake—or for that matter, one who has a hard time remembering any historical dates—you suddenly know a lot about 1969.”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be that I lived through the ‘60’s. I’m too young for that,” I protested. Then I glanced at him from the corners of my eyes and fluttered my eyelashes. “It’s because I’m brilliant.”

Russ reached over, grabbed the news clipping from my hand, looked it over again and waved it at me. “It’s because you cheated. There’s a list of 1969 trivia on the back of this article.”

“Cheated … brilliant …same difference. And I’m so smart I can tell you one other thing that happened in 1969.” Knowing that I was winning, I put my hands on my hips and strutted around the pantry.

“Oh? Without reading it from the back of the clipping?” Russ said, holding it high in the air above my head.

I didn’t even bother to reach for it. “I don’t need that yellowed piece of paper. A woman’s memory is far superior to—”

“To what? A peanut?” Russ grinned, thinking he’d topped me in the verbal joust.

“Nope, to yours. In 1969, some ol’ geezer—who’s standing in this purple-painted pantry with me—graduated from high school. And that, sweetheart, is all the news that’s fit to print.”


What's playing in my head: A Day in the Life ( I Read the News Today) by the Beatles.

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Food Storage, Glorious Food Storage

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, food storage, emergency preparedness, canned food, bottled food, Mason jar, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)

We stood in the musty basement, looking at all the bottled food that needed to be boxed in preparation for our upcoming move. “There must be tons of stuff in here,” my husband, Russ, said wearily. “Can’t we just give it away instead of trying to move it?”

I waved my hand at the metal shelves filled with items. “Give it away? I’ve spent my entire life—all twenty-nine years of it—acquiring this spacious array of food, and you want me to get rid of it now? In these perilous economic times?”

Russ picked up a Mason jar filled with dark, shriveled things, read the writing on the lid and said, “October, 1962. Do you really want to keep this?”

I thought for a second. “In an emergency, wouldn’t you rather have old food than no food at all?” Turning away, I wiped dust from a rectangular packet that sat on a shelf, and was surprised to find a rain poncho underneath—manufactured in the fashion-conscious color of Pepto-Bismol. One thing’s for sure ... come mudslides or floods, the wearer would be visible as she tumbled downstream.

Russ tapped me on the shoulder. “We weren’t even members of the LDS Church in 1962 and knew nothing about food storage. In fact, you were only a ten-year-old, so how did you manage to bottle this jar of … what are these?”

I took a swipe at the label with my dust cloth and read aloud, “Zucchini pickles.”

“They make pickles from zucchini?” Russ’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I thought zucchini was the principal ingredient in that Ipecac stuff that makes you throw up.”

“Just because you gag on zucchini, it doesn’t mean the rest of the world does.” I handed the bottle back to Russ. “Some people actually like zucchini.”

Russ shuddered. “Not as 1962 pickles, they don’t.” He paused, turning the jar so the light made the zucchini look like a batch of toads floating in brine. “I know you didn’t bottle these, so where’d they come from?”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, and pondered the question. Where did we get them? “Um, I think Sister Blevins gave them to me when she moved to St. George a few years ago.”

“So …” Russ paused, as if trying to understand something even more complex than quantum mechanics physics. “We inherited a jar of zucchini?” He paused again. “Is that something we’re supposed to treasure, or what?”

“Of course not, we’re supposed to eat them in an emergency.”

Dust swirled around the bare light bulb in the basement as Russ reached for another cob-webby jar. “Tomatoes, 1970. Let me guess, you’re keeping these as seed for botulism, right?”

“Very funny. You don’t grow botulism; it grows itself.” Noticing a cellophane bag of something at the back of the shelf, I pulled it out. Just as I did, a clap of thunder resounded through the house, and the rain beat against the windows.

I sat on the only dust-free spot on a low, cement shelf nearby, and patted the space beside me so that Russ would sit down. “I just want you to know that if the rain doesn’t stop, and it becomes an emergency situation, I’d gladly share my Pepto-Bismol pink poncho with you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Russ said, grinning at the thought. “And would a flood get me out of moving all this food storage?”

“Nope. But if worse comes to worse, we’ll mix the pickles and tomatoes, and use it as a dip for these tortilla chips.” I handed him the cellophane bag. “The expiration date says 1998. I think I saw some powdered cheese from the same year. What do you say to a batch of petrified nachos?”

Russ eyed the chips and laughed. “Sounds good to me. It’ll mean that much less we’ll have to move.”


What's playing in my head: Food, Glorious Food, from the movie, Oliver.

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