© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, airport security, homeland security, contraband humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
“Sir, please unsnap your pants,” the security guard said. My husband, Russ, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Well, he’s got a gun, so I can’t refuse,” and did as ordered. I raised my eyebrows, and tried to look repentant. After all, it was my fault he was being asked to disrobe in the middle of the airport. I know it’s not supposed to be funny when a grouchy guard is frisking your husband, but it almost gave me the giggles. Almost.
It all started at home, and the manicure set was to blame. It contained a small folded knife, which, along with dangerous chemicals like toothpaste and hand cream, are considered contraband when an innocent person boards an airplane. If my husband had taken my advice and walked in wearing a towel wrapped around his head and the living room curtains draped about his person, he could have smuggled in hair gel, after shave, and a stick of dynamite. No one would have asked why there was a fuse sticking out of his waistband.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I didn’t actually give him that advice … but only because I knew he wouldn’t take it.
“Look at this! It’s a folding knife,” I’d said earlier, as I removed fingernail clippers, nose-hair tweezers and something resembling a jar of snuff from my husband’s shaving kit. “This little penknife is great! Since you can’t carry that machete of yours, you could take this on the plane.”
Russ looked at me, his green eyes full of disbelief. “First of all, my Leatherman tool does not resemble a machete. It’s just a nifty, all-in-one-gizmo that gives you a small tool for every need, and is conveniently carried on a belt.”
I shook my head in mock amazement. “Yup. Unlike this inconspicuous one-blade knife, your Leatherman has different implements to cut, saw, stab or hammer all man-made materials. In addition, it has a blade that allows you to skin any wildlife that wanders into the airport. Oh, and let’s not forget the screwdriver, toothpick, and corkscrew. Why would a man who is LDS need a corkscrew?”
“And second of all,” Russ interrupted, “I thought you were trying to keep me from getting rousted at the airport, not help me get rousted. If I carry that little knife you found, Homeland Security will land on me like a boll weevil on a cotton boll.”
He paused and looked longingly out the window. “But I do feel naked without at least a small pocket knife.”
I handed it to him. “Carry this, and when you get to the airport, take it out of your pocket and leave it in the car.”
Russ hesitated, and then shook his head. “No, that’s a bad idea. I’m sure to forget and walk through the metal detector with it on me.”
That’s when I uttered the thought that later required repentance, “No problem. I’ll remind you about it.”
Those words floated back through my mind as the security guard ran his hands around Russ’s waist. “Sir, you can refasten your pants and then please pull out your pockets,” the guard instructed. Russ meekly obliged. A piece of pocket lint and a half-wrapped butterscotch fell to the floor. I wondered what else the guard thought could possibly constitute a threat, as Russ stood there shoeless, beltless, and walletless.
The security guy picked up the butterscotch, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. “Sir, are you a member of, or affiliated with, any terrorist organization?” He eyed Russ suspiciously, and scrutinized the lint as if it were the makings of a pipe bomb.
Russ shifted his weight from one stockinged foot to the other. “No. I wouldn’t know a terrorist organization if I ran over one with the car.”
The guard picked up my husband’s wallet from the bin on the conveyor belt and opened it. “Ah-ha! What have we here?” the guy said, pulling out a card that gave instructions for tying the ten knots most used in Scouting. He waved it in the air. “Were you planning on tying up the captain and crew?"
Russ’s face turned pale as a second guard approached. By now a large group of bystanders were chanting, “Free Willy, free Willy.” Apparently, they weren’t a very savvy group of protestors, since Russ’s name wasn’t “Willy.”
The new guard scrutinized the knot-tying card as if looking for a clue. Taking Russ’s wallet, he rifled through the credit card section. I had visions of smuggling Russ a metal file concealed in a homegrown zucchini so he could break out of prison.
The guard raised aloft a piece of white and gold paper from Russ’s wallet, waved it in the air … and a whiff of homemade wheat bread floated off the man. “This evidence proves he’s not a terrorist. You can all go on your way.” Then he leaned over to Russ and said in a whisper that I could hear, “Brother, we’re sorry for the inconvenience. You’re cleared to move to your boarding gate as soon as you gather your belongings.”
He handed the paper back to Russ. As we gathered up our shoes and socks, I said, “What was it that he pulled from your wallet? Your voter registration?”
Russ grinned. “The guy was LDS. And to put a new slant on the American Express commercial that you hear on TV: Your temple recommend—don’t leave home without it."
What's playing in my head: Leaving on a Jet Plane (by Peter, Paul and Mary).
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Summer’s End ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, summer, zucchini, bugs, insects, spider, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Summer’s end … that time of year when baseball-bat-sized zucchini show up on your doorstep and pesky insects invade your house in preparation for cold weather.
It almost makes you feel nostalgic.
For many years, I lived in an older home. Wait, maybe “older” is a misnomer for a house built in the era when Native Americans lived in teepees. “Ancient” might be a better term for it. There was also an old, detached garage that sat on the property—one perpetually full of spider webs.
Okay, so it wasn’t really a garage, because pioneers still cooked over open fires when the place was built and they didn’t need somewhere to park their cars. We just called the thing a garage because it made us feel more uptown.
But, I digress. Yesterday, I was at the old house, cleaning, painting, and boxing up the last of our belongings to take to our new house. I reached over next to the range and saw something on the underside of the oven’s handle.
“What the …?” I jumped back. Being alone in an empty house is spooky enough without strange things showing up in odd places. “Okay, who left a weird black feather here?” That shows you how spooked I was, asking questions aloud with no one there to answer.
Just as I reached over to pull the feather loose, something stopped me. Maybe the warning came from the Ancient Ones whose teepees used to clutter the property. Or from the pioneers, whose handcarts used to park in my garage. Then again, I think it’s more likely it was the Holy Ghost.
At any rate, I stood for a moment, then put on my glasses and inspected the feather. It had thin, segmented legs. Now, that’s something … a feather with kinky black legs.
I’ve perfected many useful talents in my life. I can roll my bottom lip and cross my eyes, looking like a sea bass. I’m adept at spilling something at the dinner table at least once a week. However, my best talent lies in being a chicken. There was no way I was touching that black, whatever-it-was, without a long stick.
Walking to the empty pantry, I searched for a weapon. Ah-ha, just the thing! Picking up the half-broken yardstick that leaned in the corner, I held it like a sword and advanced on the feather. With a parry and thrust, I jabbed … and the feather ran up the yardstick.
Giving a shriek that echoed through the empty house, I whipped the yardstick through the air, hoping the feather-turned-spider would fly off and splat against the wall. No such luck. Instead, it dangled from a sticky thread that it managed to spin, and hung on like a kid on a Tilt-A-Whirl. With a mad dash, I ran out the back door, flung the spider to the concrete, and raised a foot to squash it.
That’s where the story should end. Really, I knew it should end there, and told myself so, but it didn’t do any good. The entomologist in me just had to see exactly what kind of arachnid was so shiny-black, fat, and long-legged.
Using the now-dangling-precariously yardstick, I flipped the creature over. It flipped itself upright and ran toward me. “Aaack, you stupid spider!” I yelled, flipping it again.
That’s when I glimpsed it—the telltale sign of the red hourglass. I only paused for a heartbeat before taking action. I might be an entomologist, but I’m an even better chicken.
And that’s why the feather-turned-spider is now in the Happy Hunting Grounds.
What's playing in my head: The Theme from Spiderman.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, summer, zucchini, bugs, insects, spider, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Summer’s end … that time of year when baseball-bat-sized zucchini show up on your doorstep and pesky insects invade your house in preparation for cold weather.
It almost makes you feel nostalgic.
For many years, I lived in an older home. Wait, maybe “older” is a misnomer for a house built in the era when Native Americans lived in teepees. “Ancient” might be a better term for it. There was also an old, detached garage that sat on the property—one perpetually full of spider webs.
Okay, so it wasn’t really a garage, because pioneers still cooked over open fires when the place was built and they didn’t need somewhere to park their cars. We just called the thing a garage because it made us feel more uptown.
But, I digress. Yesterday, I was at the old house, cleaning, painting, and boxing up the last of our belongings to take to our new house. I reached over next to the range and saw something on the underside of the oven’s handle.
“What the …?” I jumped back. Being alone in an empty house is spooky enough without strange things showing up in odd places. “Okay, who left a weird black feather here?” That shows you how spooked I was, asking questions aloud with no one there to answer.
Just as I reached over to pull the feather loose, something stopped me. Maybe the warning came from the Ancient Ones whose teepees used to clutter the property. Or from the pioneers, whose handcarts used to park in my garage. Then again, I think it’s more likely it was the Holy Ghost.
At any rate, I stood for a moment, then put on my glasses and inspected the feather. It had thin, segmented legs. Now, that’s something … a feather with kinky black legs.
I’ve perfected many useful talents in my life. I can roll my bottom lip and cross my eyes, looking like a sea bass. I’m adept at spilling something at the dinner table at least once a week. However, my best talent lies in being a chicken. There was no way I was touching that black, whatever-it-was, without a long stick.
Walking to the empty pantry, I searched for a weapon. Ah-ha, just the thing! Picking up the half-broken yardstick that leaned in the corner, I held it like a sword and advanced on the feather. With a parry and thrust, I jabbed … and the feather ran up the yardstick.
Giving a shriek that echoed through the empty house, I whipped the yardstick through the air, hoping the feather-turned-spider would fly off and splat against the wall. No such luck. Instead, it dangled from a sticky thread that it managed to spin, and hung on like a kid on a Tilt-A-Whirl. With a mad dash, I ran out the back door, flung the spider to the concrete, and raised a foot to squash it.
That’s where the story should end. Really, I knew it should end there, and told myself so, but it didn’t do any good. The entomologist in me just had to see exactly what kind of arachnid was so shiny-black, fat, and long-legged.
Using the now-dangling-precariously yardstick, I flipped the creature over. It flipped itself upright and ran toward me. “Aaack, you stupid spider!” I yelled, flipping it again.
That’s when I glimpsed it—the telltale sign of the red hourglass. I only paused for a heartbeat before taking action. I might be an entomologist, but I’m an even better chicken.
And that’s why the feather-turned-spider is now in the Happy Hunting Grounds.
What's playing in my head: The Theme from Spiderman.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, the LDS newsletter brings you LDS articles, LDS products, LDS services, LDS resources and LDS interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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Miss Knows-Nothing ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, moving truck, Miss Knows-Nothing, cat, dog, Disneyland, Klingon, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Welcome to the first (and possibly last) episode of “Miss Knows-Nothing.” She's an LDS woman wearing high hair and white gloves, who recently won a medal of Pope John for correctly answering why round pizzas come in square boxes.
Our first set of questions comes from a harried woman who asks:
Q: I have six children and would like to move to a child-friendly area. Can you give me any suggestions?
A: Try Disneyland. Or possibly Wal-Mart. If none of those appeals, try a Klingon battleship.
Q: Also, I own three cats and two dogs. We’re renting a do-it-yourself moving truck. What’s the best way to move the animals?
A: Let’s address the issue of the cats. Unless you want your couches to resemble confetti, and your rugs used as a litter box, it’s best not to put them into the moving truck. In fact, I wouldn’t consider putting them in when the truck isn’t moving, either. Try a sturdy carrier of some kind. Under no circumstances should you consider a cardboard box even remotely sturdy. I know this as personal experience from my numerous moves. Some of which were done in the dead of night with the landlord close behind. In one particular instance—not only done in the dead of night but also in the middle of a Wyoming blizzard—I hastily threw the cat in a box and roared off down the road. In a matter of minutes, the cat shredded the box with its fangs and claws, climbed out, and perched on my shoulders for the remainder of the thirteen-hour drive. Every time I turned a corner, it hung on by unsheathing its claws and attaching them to my skin … thus giving me multiple body piercings.
It’s my suggestion you use a steel vault to move your cats. Or an empty freezer.
As for your dogs … perhaps you could tie them to the mirror and they could run along side?
Q: I want to attend my new ward on the first Sunday after we move in—
A: That’s not a question; it’s a statement.
Q: What’s the best way to make new friends on the first day in church?
A: It’s a good learning experience for your kids to help pack, so have them put their church clothes and shoes in a box that they’ll recognize. Maybe they could draw a picture of a church on it with crayons. No, not on the clothes, on the box. Have your husband do the same, although if he knows how to write he could actually pen the words, “Stuff I need right away.” On that first Sunday, everyone should pull out the contents and get dressed. Don’t feel discouraged if your kids packed their Halloween costumes instead of dresses and good slacks. Or if your husband packed his parka and hunting boots. Wearing them to church will just increase the number of people who smile at you.
What's playing in my head: Movin' On Up, written by Ja'net Du Bois and Jeff Barry.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, the LDS newsletter brings you LDS articles, LDS products, LDS services, LDS resources and LDS interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, moving truck, Miss Knows-Nothing, cat, dog, Disneyland, Klingon, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Welcome to the first (and possibly last) episode of “Miss Knows-Nothing.” She's an LDS woman wearing high hair and white gloves, who recently won a medal of Pope John for correctly answering why round pizzas come in square boxes.
Our first set of questions comes from a harried woman who asks:
Q: I have six children and would like to move to a child-friendly area. Can you give me any suggestions?
A: Try Disneyland. Or possibly Wal-Mart. If none of those appeals, try a Klingon battleship.
Q: Also, I own three cats and two dogs. We’re renting a do-it-yourself moving truck. What’s the best way to move the animals?
A: Let’s address the issue of the cats. Unless you want your couches to resemble confetti, and your rugs used as a litter box, it’s best not to put them into the moving truck. In fact, I wouldn’t consider putting them in when the truck isn’t moving, either. Try a sturdy carrier of some kind. Under no circumstances should you consider a cardboard box even remotely sturdy. I know this as personal experience from my numerous moves. Some of which were done in the dead of night with the landlord close behind. In one particular instance—not only done in the dead of night but also in the middle of a Wyoming blizzard—I hastily threw the cat in a box and roared off down the road. In a matter of minutes, the cat shredded the box with its fangs and claws, climbed out, and perched on my shoulders for the remainder of the thirteen-hour drive. Every time I turned a corner, it hung on by unsheathing its claws and attaching them to my skin … thus giving me multiple body piercings.
It’s my suggestion you use a steel vault to move your cats. Or an empty freezer.
As for your dogs … perhaps you could tie them to the mirror and they could run along side?
Q: I want to attend my new ward on the first Sunday after we move in—
A: That’s not a question; it’s a statement.
Q: What’s the best way to make new friends on the first day in church?
A: It’s a good learning experience for your kids to help pack, so have them put their church clothes and shoes in a box that they’ll recognize. Maybe they could draw a picture of a church on it with crayons. No, not on the clothes, on the box. Have your husband do the same, although if he knows how to write he could actually pen the words, “Stuff I need right away.” On that first Sunday, everyone should pull out the contents and get dressed. Don’t feel discouraged if your kids packed their Halloween costumes instead of dresses and good slacks. Or if your husband packed his parka and hunting boots. Wearing them to church will just increase the number of people who smile at you.
What's playing in my head: Movin' On Up, written by Ja'net Du Bois and Jeff Barry.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, the LDS newsletter brings you LDS articles, LDS products, LDS services, LDS resources and LDS interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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Nice Kitty ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, cat, kitty, nature, tomcat, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Ahhh, nature! Flowers blooming, birds chirping, and tomcats yowling under the windows at midnight. What more could one ask from life?
In the past, a neighbor’s feline used to visit. During the day he was a fine specimen of a cat, with blue eyes, dark ears and a fluffy tail. After dark, he turned into a demon. Despite the fact that all our female kitties were spayed, he seemed to feel they were still a part of his harem. Every night, just as we’d fall asleep, that cat would show up, yowling, hissing, and spitting. Then he’d get in a tussle with whoever responded to his calls.
One evening, just before heading off to bed, I looked out the front window. The moon slid beneath a cloud, and everything lay in deep shadows. I could just make out the outline of that cat, pussyfooting across the front lawn.
“Russ, come quick,” I hissed to my husband, trying not to warn the cat of my presence.
Russ gave me a look that said, “I’m not getting up off this couch for another one of your hair-brained ideas.”
I moved the curtain ever so slightly and peeked out again. The animal stood motionless, no more than a dark shape on the grass. “It’s that cat! If you come over here and are really quiet, you can surprise it, jump out and scare it off. I bet it will never come back again after that.”
“How do you know it’s the neighbor’s cat?” An attitude of reluctance oozed from Russ. I don’t know why; it’s not like any of my schemes have ever backfired.
“Because I can see his fat, bushy tail. There’s only one cat with a tail that big!”
The animal moved a step closer—a delicate step for such a big tomcat. He sniffed the breeze, as if searching for something.
“If you don’t hurry, he’s going to leave,” I said in a stage whisper.
As Russ got up from the couch, I quietly, ever so quietly, turned the lock open in the door’s handle. This was our one chance to scare that caterwauling beast off and I didn’t want to ruin it by being a Noisy Nancy.
Russ walked over and peered out through the lace curtains. His reluctance turned into interest as he saw the animal. “You’re right, that’s him. You pull open the door and I’ll jump out and scare the beejeebers out of him.”
I flung open the door, and with enough noise to wake the whole town, Russ leaped out and clapped his hands. The sound echoed through the neighborhood with a crack. The cat turned his back on Russ, and then gave no response, just stood there as if he owned half the county, and the other half belonged to his in-laws.
What an arrogant tomcat, I thought. It’s like he thinks he’s invincible!
Russ slapped his palms together again and stepped toward the animal. “Shoo!" The moon peeked around the edge of the clouds and the night fell silent. Even the crickets stopped singing.
The only sound was a “whoosh” as we both sucked air, in surprise, at what we saw.
Running down the animal’s back was a white stripe. The “cat” stamped its foot and raised his bushy tail straight in the air.
“Russ, it’s a skunk!” I yelled, slamming the door at the same time. Not that I was trying to shut Russ out, but someone had to keep the furniture safe from skunk perfume. Peeking through the window, I shouted encouragement. “Just back up slowly and he probably won’t spray.”
No man has ever backpedaled so fast. Fear must have paralyzed his brain, because he kept saying “Nice kitty, nice kitty,” until he made it back inside.
It’s been several years since the incident. Surely, Russ has forgotten it by now. And there’s a tomcat yowling outside my window, making it hard to sleep. Maybe I’ll wake Russ and ask him if he’d go outside and chase it off. After all, it looks like it’s just a nice, friendly cat … with a fine, fluffy tail.
What's playing in my head: What's New Pussycat by Tom Jones.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, the LDS newsletter brings you LDS articles, LDS products, LDS services, LDS resources and LDS interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, cat, kitty, nature, tomcat, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Ahhh, nature! Flowers blooming, birds chirping, and tomcats yowling under the windows at midnight. What more could one ask from life?
In the past, a neighbor’s feline used to visit. During the day he was a fine specimen of a cat, with blue eyes, dark ears and a fluffy tail. After dark, he turned into a demon. Despite the fact that all our female kitties were spayed, he seemed to feel they were still a part of his harem. Every night, just as we’d fall asleep, that cat would show up, yowling, hissing, and spitting. Then he’d get in a tussle with whoever responded to his calls.
One evening, just before heading off to bed, I looked out the front window. The moon slid beneath a cloud, and everything lay in deep shadows. I could just make out the outline of that cat, pussyfooting across the front lawn.
“Russ, come quick,” I hissed to my husband, trying not to warn the cat of my presence.
Russ gave me a look that said, “I’m not getting up off this couch for another one of your hair-brained ideas.”
I moved the curtain ever so slightly and peeked out again. The animal stood motionless, no more than a dark shape on the grass. “It’s that cat! If you come over here and are really quiet, you can surprise it, jump out and scare it off. I bet it will never come back again after that.”
“How do you know it’s the neighbor’s cat?” An attitude of reluctance oozed from Russ. I don’t know why; it’s not like any of my schemes have ever backfired.
“Because I can see his fat, bushy tail. There’s only one cat with a tail that big!”
The animal moved a step closer—a delicate step for such a big tomcat. He sniffed the breeze, as if searching for something.
“If you don’t hurry, he’s going to leave,” I said in a stage whisper.
As Russ got up from the couch, I quietly, ever so quietly, turned the lock open in the door’s handle. This was our one chance to scare that caterwauling beast off and I didn’t want to ruin it by being a Noisy Nancy.
Russ walked over and peered out through the lace curtains. His reluctance turned into interest as he saw the animal. “You’re right, that’s him. You pull open the door and I’ll jump out and scare the beejeebers out of him.”
I flung open the door, and with enough noise to wake the whole town, Russ leaped out and clapped his hands. The sound echoed through the neighborhood with a crack. The cat turned his back on Russ, and then gave no response, just stood there as if he owned half the county, and the other half belonged to his in-laws.
What an arrogant tomcat, I thought. It’s like he thinks he’s invincible!
Russ slapped his palms together again and stepped toward the animal. “Shoo!" The moon peeked around the edge of the clouds and the night fell silent. Even the crickets stopped singing.
The only sound was a “whoosh” as we both sucked air, in surprise, at what we saw.
Running down the animal’s back was a white stripe. The “cat” stamped its foot and raised his bushy tail straight in the air.
“Russ, it’s a skunk!” I yelled, slamming the door at the same time. Not that I was trying to shut Russ out, but someone had to keep the furniture safe from skunk perfume. Peeking through the window, I shouted encouragement. “Just back up slowly and he probably won’t spray.”
No man has ever backpedaled so fast. Fear must have paralyzed his brain, because he kept saying “Nice kitty, nice kitty,” until he made it back inside.
It’s been several years since the incident. Surely, Russ has forgotten it by now. And there’s a tomcat yowling outside my window, making it hard to sleep. Maybe I’ll wake Russ and ask him if he’d go outside and chase it off. After all, it looks like it’s just a nice, friendly cat … with a fine, fluffy tail.
What's playing in my head: What's New Pussycat by Tom Jones.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood.
And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, the LDS newsletter brings you LDS articles, LDS products, LDS services, LDS resources and LDS interviews from around the world—all with an LDS focus. Look for issues delivered to your email inbox every week on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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Home Away from Home-Part 2 ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, home, hotel, Salt Lake City, elevator, shower curtain, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Not long ago, I related the problems my husband, Russ, and I had in a hotel. It ran the gamut from the closet-sized room the staff put us in, to the shaking and rumbling of the elevator right next to us. While Russ was at meetings, I’d changed rooms, thinking that would help.
Ah, yes, the best laid plans of mice and men … or woman and a dog, as the case may be.
Just as I’d gotten the luggage into the room and laid on the bed to catch my breath, the lock on the door clicked and Russ walked in, done with his workshops for the day. That’s also when I noticed the room cooling.
“Brrr, I feel like a fat strawberry in an ice cream churn,” I said.
Russ raised his eyebrows, but to his credit, didn’t comment on the “fat strawberry” concept. Instead he walked over to the wall heater and held his hand in front of it.
“There’s nothing but cold air blowing out of this.”
The last thing we wanted was to spend the night sleeping in a room the temperature of a meat locker. However, Corky and I wanted even less to spend the night in the company of the serial killer/maintenance man who’d worked on our TV the night before. I had visions of the guy banging away on the heater with a giant tuba. I don’t know why a tuba, it must have been my writer’s imagination. I could just see the headlines: “Woman knocked unconscious by tuba-wielding ax-murderer/maintenance man.
I turned to Russ. “Do not call the front desk. You can wear your jacket, and I’ll wear my sweatshirt and bunny slippers to bed to stay warm.”
All night long, I got up and down, first turning the thermostat on high until something akin to the fires of Hades radiated from the wall furnace. Then, half an hour later, turning it off—before the heating unit quit and the fan kicked on, freezing us into Sno-Cones.
After two days of this, we were ready to go home. I thought a nice, hot shower before we left would be the ticket. Moisture condensed in a fine mist on the cold, tile floor. Stepping out of the tub, I put on my flip-flops. Ooo, a little slippery, I thought as my feet slid a tiny bit.
“Watch that floor in there. It’s pretty slick,” I said as I walked out. After getting dressed, I started packing.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing shoes with treads the size of a steel-belted tractor tire, I walked into the bathroom again. As soon as I hit the still-damp floor, my feet shot out from under me. One knee smashed into the commode six inches away, while the other leg buckled at an odd angle. With arms flailing, I grabbed the only thing nearby … the shower curtain.
If my knee wasn’t throbbing, a goose egg wasn’t rising, and a contusion wasn’t spreading beneath my skin, I would have found it funny—as I lay in a heap on the floor. I’d have laughed that in a hotel where the elevator, TV and heater didn’t work, someone had anchored a shower curtain rod firmly enough to the wall to slow the descent of a hundred and . . . um . . . let’s just say a hundred-and-something pound woman.
Russ came in. “I think we’re jinxed,” he said, hoisting me to my feet.
We vacated the hotel like the Looney Tunes’ Tasmanian Devil on amphetamines. Well, okay, Russ and Corky did that—I just limped away, hoping to get out while all my bones were still intact.
And despite the pain, I congratulated myself the whole way home . . . it’s not every day a story like that falls into a writer’s lap.
What's playing in my head: Home on the Range (Disney version).
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, home, hotel, Salt Lake City, elevator, shower curtain, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Not long ago, I related the problems my husband, Russ, and I had in a hotel. It ran the gamut from the closet-sized room the staff put us in, to the shaking and rumbling of the elevator right next to us. While Russ was at meetings, I’d changed rooms, thinking that would help.
Ah, yes, the best laid plans of mice and men … or woman and a dog, as the case may be.
Just as I’d gotten the luggage into the room and laid on the bed to catch my breath, the lock on the door clicked and Russ walked in, done with his workshops for the day. That’s also when I noticed the room cooling.
“Brrr, I feel like a fat strawberry in an ice cream churn,” I said.
Russ raised his eyebrows, but to his credit, didn’t comment on the “fat strawberry” concept. Instead he walked over to the wall heater and held his hand in front of it.
“There’s nothing but cold air blowing out of this.”
The last thing we wanted was to spend the night sleeping in a room the temperature of a meat locker. However, Corky and I wanted even less to spend the night in the company of the serial killer/maintenance man who’d worked on our TV the night before. I had visions of the guy banging away on the heater with a giant tuba. I don’t know why a tuba, it must have been my writer’s imagination. I could just see the headlines: “Woman knocked unconscious by tuba-wielding ax-murderer/maintenance man.
I turned to Russ. “Do not call the front desk. You can wear your jacket, and I’ll wear my sweatshirt and bunny slippers to bed to stay warm.”
All night long, I got up and down, first turning the thermostat on high until something akin to the fires of Hades radiated from the wall furnace. Then, half an hour later, turning it off—before the heating unit quit and the fan kicked on, freezing us into Sno-Cones.
After two days of this, we were ready to go home. I thought a nice, hot shower before we left would be the ticket. Moisture condensed in a fine mist on the cold, tile floor. Stepping out of the tub, I put on my flip-flops. Ooo, a little slippery, I thought as my feet slid a tiny bit.
“Watch that floor in there. It’s pretty slick,” I said as I walked out. After getting dressed, I started packing.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing shoes with treads the size of a steel-belted tractor tire, I walked into the bathroom again. As soon as I hit the still-damp floor, my feet shot out from under me. One knee smashed into the commode six inches away, while the other leg buckled at an odd angle. With arms flailing, I grabbed the only thing nearby … the shower curtain.
If my knee wasn’t throbbing, a goose egg wasn’t rising, and a contusion wasn’t spreading beneath my skin, I would have found it funny—as I lay in a heap on the floor. I’d have laughed that in a hotel where the elevator, TV and heater didn’t work, someone had anchored a shower curtain rod firmly enough to the wall to slow the descent of a hundred and . . . um . . . let’s just say a hundred-and-something pound woman.
Russ came in. “I think we’re jinxed,” he said, hoisting me to my feet.
We vacated the hotel like the Looney Tunes’ Tasmanian Devil on amphetamines. Well, okay, Russ and Corky did that—I just limped away, hoping to get out while all my bones were still intact.
And despite the pain, I congratulated myself the whole way home . . . it’s not every day a story like that falls into a writer’s lap.
What's playing in my head: Home on the Range (Disney version).
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Home Away from Home ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, home, hotel, Salt Lake City, elevator, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
“I don’t know whether it was the irritating noise or the cramped space, but I swear I’m never spending another night in a hotel room!” I said to my husband, Russ.
He shook his head. “Forget the noise and the tiny room. It was probably your slip-and-fall in the bathroom that convinced you.”
Russ had a conference in Salt Lake City for a few days, and I’d thought it the perfect opportunity to go along, hole up in a room, and write. It’s impossible to say why that thought even flew over the cuckoo’s nest, because I seldom get a lot of work done in a hotel. The reasons for that are varied. Mostly, they center on time spent taking our dog, Corky Porky Pie, out for a walk fifteen times a day to insure an empty bladder (the dog’s bladder, not mine) … and changing rooms.
Yup, I said, “Changing rooms.” It seems no matter how many years in advance we reserve our little home away from home, we end up with less-than-stellar accommodations. One time, we had a hotel room that I swear had a disease living under the bed. Another time, the lighting was so poor the cockroaches were mugging each other.
“Hey look,” I said to Russ, when we walked into the hotel room in Salt Lake City. “No diseases and no cockroaches. Instead, the staff has put us in a coat closet next to the elevator.”
Russ leaned over, picked up the TV remote and pushed a button. Then he pushed it again. “The television doesn’t work, either,” he said, slightly annoyed.
“We can live without TV. Don’t call the front desk because they’ll send up a maintenance guy.” On our way up to the room, I’d seen the maintenance man standing in the lobby. I have a finely-tuned brain that picks up on vibes … the pleasure of someone eating rich, milk chocolate; the happiness of couples in love; the thoughts and plans of serial killers.
The maintenance man definitely did not bring chocolate to mind.
“If that creepy guy shows up to fix the TV, Corky Porky Pie and I are outta here.” I snapped the dog’s leash onto his collar in preparation, as Russ dialed the front desk.
Two men showed up. The first one started working on the problem, and the second one walked in through the open door a few minutes later. It was the man from the lobby. Neither the dog nor I could fit under the bed, so we hightailed it to the bathroom.
It got tiring, sitting on the commode for half an hour. And who in their right mind wants to lie down on the floor with all the germs? Corky Porky Pie and I finally reached a compromise.
“You settle your short, fat body on the floor, and I’ll settle mine in the bathtub,” I whispered to him. Then I stretched out in the tub, fully clothed, and waited until the two men left.
Sleep eluded all three of us that night. Every time someone got in the elevator, the contraption would give a, “whiiiiine, cheeeese, cheeeese” sort of squeak, followed by banging that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. It did this every few minutes, as people moved up and down the twelve-story hotel. All night long.
After an entire night of whine and cheese by the elevator, I convinced Russ we needed to change rooms. So it was, while Russ attended the conference workshops, that I repacked our belongings and loaded everything onto a luggage cart and headed down to the seventh floor.
Except when I got there, the room was only half-ready and the maid spoke little English.
“Will you be done soon?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders and gave a smile that said, “I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.”
We exchanged a lot of hand signals. I hoped they meant she’d finish the room shortly, but she could have been telling me to take a long walk off a short pier.
Corky and I paced the halls, trying not to pressure the woman so much that she forgot to do something really important … like cleaning the room. When she finally finished, I pushmi-pullyued the baggage cart through the door. It felt a bit cool in there, but at least the noise of last night’s elevator was absent. I looked at the dog and he looked at me. “Ahhh, finally a decent place,” I said, flopping back onto the bed …
(To be continued in Cindy’s next blog.)
What's playing in my head: Home on the Range (by Brewster Higley and Daniel Kelley)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, home, hotel, Salt Lake City, elevator, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
“I don’t know whether it was the irritating noise or the cramped space, but I swear I’m never spending another night in a hotel room!” I said to my husband, Russ.
He shook his head. “Forget the noise and the tiny room. It was probably your slip-and-fall in the bathroom that convinced you.”
Russ had a conference in Salt Lake City for a few days, and I’d thought it the perfect opportunity to go along, hole up in a room, and write. It’s impossible to say why that thought even flew over the cuckoo’s nest, because I seldom get a lot of work done in a hotel. The reasons for that are varied. Mostly, they center on time spent taking our dog, Corky Porky Pie, out for a walk fifteen times a day to insure an empty bladder (the dog’s bladder, not mine) … and changing rooms.
Yup, I said, “Changing rooms.” It seems no matter how many years in advance we reserve our little home away from home, we end up with less-than-stellar accommodations. One time, we had a hotel room that I swear had a disease living under the bed. Another time, the lighting was so poor the cockroaches were mugging each other.
“Hey look,” I said to Russ, when we walked into the hotel room in Salt Lake City. “No diseases and no cockroaches. Instead, the staff has put us in a coat closet next to the elevator.”
Russ leaned over, picked up the TV remote and pushed a button. Then he pushed it again. “The television doesn’t work, either,” he said, slightly annoyed.
“We can live without TV. Don’t call the front desk because they’ll send up a maintenance guy.” On our way up to the room, I’d seen the maintenance man standing in the lobby. I have a finely-tuned brain that picks up on vibes … the pleasure of someone eating rich, milk chocolate; the happiness of couples in love; the thoughts and plans of serial killers.
The maintenance man definitely did not bring chocolate to mind.
“If that creepy guy shows up to fix the TV, Corky Porky Pie and I are outta here.” I snapped the dog’s leash onto his collar in preparation, as Russ dialed the front desk.
Two men showed up. The first one started working on the problem, and the second one walked in through the open door a few minutes later. It was the man from the lobby. Neither the dog nor I could fit under the bed, so we hightailed it to the bathroom.
It got tiring, sitting on the commode for half an hour. And who in their right mind wants to lie down on the floor with all the germs? Corky Porky Pie and I finally reached a compromise.
“You settle your short, fat body on the floor, and I’ll settle mine in the bathtub,” I whispered to him. Then I stretched out in the tub, fully clothed, and waited until the two men left.
Sleep eluded all three of us that night. Every time someone got in the elevator, the contraption would give a, “whiiiiine, cheeeese, cheeeese” sort of squeak, followed by banging that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. It did this every few minutes, as people moved up and down the twelve-story hotel. All night long.
After an entire night of whine and cheese by the elevator, I convinced Russ we needed to change rooms. So it was, while Russ attended the conference workshops, that I repacked our belongings and loaded everything onto a luggage cart and headed down to the seventh floor.
Except when I got there, the room was only half-ready and the maid spoke little English.
“Will you be done soon?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders and gave a smile that said, “I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.”
We exchanged a lot of hand signals. I hoped they meant she’d finish the room shortly, but she could have been telling me to take a long walk off a short pier.
Corky and I paced the halls, trying not to pressure the woman so much that she forgot to do something really important … like cleaning the room. When she finally finished, I pushmi-pullyued the baggage cart through the door. It felt a bit cool in there, but at least the noise of last night’s elevator was absent. I looked at the dog and he looked at me. “Ahhh, finally a decent place,” I said, flopping back onto the bed …
(To be continued in Cindy’s next blog.)
What's playing in my head: Home on the Range (by Brewster Higley and Daniel Kelley)
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Metafores and Asimilies ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, metafore, simile, grammar, English grammar, biscuits, Connect Four, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
I’m sure I’ve never met a fore or a simile that I didn’t like. That is, if I could remember what a metaphor or a simile is. There’s a composition and grammar book sitting on my desk that I refer to constantly, but when I went to look those terms up, my glasses had gone into hiding and the words looked like little ants. However, my less than 20-20 vision did tell me I could learn about meta-sores and similax in the book. (This might also explain why my biscuits are as heavy as bricks and just as tasty when I follow a recipe without wearing my glasses,)
Eventually the glasses turned up in the laundry basket and after putting them on, I immediately started on matters of high priority. I opened my email and found the joke of the day from the "Good, Clean Funnies List." That's when I discovered I'm not the only one who can't tell a metaphor from a semaphore from Connect Four.
Thinking you would enjoy these, I've pasted a portion of the email below for your reading pleasure. It’s a safe bet the analogies listed are metaphors … or maybe similes. It’s not a safe bet that they’re good ones.
------------ --------- -------
These are actual analogies found in high school essays.
- John and Mary had never met. They were like two
hummingbirds who had also never met.
- Even in his last years, grandpappy had a mind like a steel
trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted
shut.
- The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But
unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
- The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from
not eating for a while.
- He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck,
either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from
stepping on a landmine or something.
- The Ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one
slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
- It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids
with power tools.
- He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard
bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
- Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten
to put in any pH cleanser.
- She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing
legs.
- It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally
staple it to the wall.
(Brought to you by GCFL.net: The Good, Clean Funnies List
A cheerful heart is good medicine... (Prov 17:22a)
Mail address: GCFL, Box 100 , Harvest , AL 35749 , USA
The latest GCFL funny can always be found on the web at
http://www.gcfl. net/latest. php)
What's playing in my head: The sound of crickets as they sing their last summer songs.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, metafore, simile, grammar, English grammar, biscuits, Connect Four, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
I’m sure I’ve never met a fore or a simile that I didn’t like. That is, if I could remember what a metaphor or a simile is. There’s a composition and grammar book sitting on my desk that I refer to constantly, but when I went to look those terms up, my glasses had gone into hiding and the words looked like little ants. However, my less than 20-20 vision did tell me I could learn about meta-sores and similax in the book. (This might also explain why my biscuits are as heavy as bricks and just as tasty when I follow a recipe without wearing my glasses,)
Eventually the glasses turned up in the laundry basket and after putting them on, I immediately started on matters of high priority. I opened my email and found the joke of the day from the "Good, Clean Funnies List." That's when I discovered I'm not the only one who can't tell a metaphor from a semaphore from Connect Four.
Thinking you would enjoy these, I've pasted a portion of the email below for your reading pleasure. It’s a safe bet the analogies listed are metaphors … or maybe similes. It’s not a safe bet that they’re good ones.
------------ --------- -------
These are actual analogies found in high school essays.
- John and Mary had never met. They were like two
hummingbirds who had also never met.
- Even in his last years, grandpappy had a mind like a steel
trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted
shut.
- The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But
unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
- The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from
not eating for a while.
- He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck,
either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from
stepping on a landmine or something.
- The Ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one
slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
- It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids
with power tools.
- He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard
bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
- Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten
to put in any pH cleanser.
- She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing
legs.
- It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally
staple it to the wall.
(Brought to you by GCFL.net: The Good, Clean Funnies List
A cheerful heart is good medicine... (Prov 17:22a)
Mail address: GCFL, Box 100 , Harvest , AL 35749 , USA
The latest GCFL funny can always be found on the web at
http://www.gcfl. net/latest. php)
What's playing in my head: The sound of crickets as they sing their last summer songs.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
--
Child of the Corn ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, corn maze, Utah Lake, corn cops, maize, lost, Stephen King, Children of the Corn, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
I was lost and running blindly, wanting to scream for help. Instead, I turned to my husband, Russ, and said, “This corn maze we’re in—is it supposed to be fun?”
“Yup,” he said with a grin while jumping a mud puddle wide enough to be Utah Lake.
“Which way should we turn?” I don’t know why I asked him. This is the man who gets lost on his way to the post office. But to be fair, he is good at finding the potato chip aisle in the grocery store. And since both potatoes and corn are vegetables, I hoped he’d know how to get out of the maze.
“I’m not sure,” Russ replied. He looked at the young man next to him and asked, “What do you think?” That young man was the world’s cutest, smartest, fastest soccer player. Coincidentally, he’s also our five-year-old grandson.
“This way,” my grandson said, pointing to the left.
I looked at the turn and wondered if he’d inherited Russ’s sense of direction. “Isn’t this the same circle we’ve been traveling since we stepped into this place?” The path held another puddle with footprints around it—no doubt made by lost souls who were doomed to wander the corn maze until next spring, when the farmer finally tilled the fields.
I looked at my husband’s and grandson’s shoes. Mud coated them. We were the doomed wanderers.
Then I heard voices. People! Maybe they knew something. “Is this the way out?” I asked the two women as I pointed in the opposite direction.
“No, that goes in a loop.” They giggled. I’m sure they were just pretending to have fun. As they trotted off one of them called over her shoulder, “Does the path you were on go anywhere?”
Russ said, “Sure. Maybe. Eventually. Or it might go in a circle.”
By now dark clouds were forming. A breeze rustled the leaves. My mind filled with visions from Stephen King’s book, “Children of the Corn.” And I’d never even read that novel.
Pollen drifted through the air, along with the scent of something yucky—mildew. I could feel my lungs tightening. No doubt the sadistic farmer who created this labyrinth would find me here next spring, lying at the base of the moldy, tattered stalks, gasping my last breath.
Suddenly, I heard voices again. For a moment, I wondered if angels were coming to take me to my rest.Two teenagers in dark shirts and jeans walked past. A sadistic laugh escaped from my lips and I called out, “You’re lost too, aren’t you?”
Their voices floated back on the wind as they disappeared around the turn. “No, we work here.”
I turned to Russ. “They work here?”
“Yes, didn’t you see that their shirts said, ‘Corn Cops’?”
I grabbed Russ by the collar—not an easy task since he’s taller than I. “They know how to get out of this forsaken place. And they’ve just vanished through the corn! Quick, run after them and get directions.”
I should have known better. No man will ever ask for directions. Not even one who’s lost in a muddy cornfield with a category five hurricane ready to break overhead.
Fortunately, another couple wandered toward us. I managed to croak through my mildew-tightened voice, “Do you know how to get out?”
“Take the next two turns to the left,” they said, hurrying past. I’m sure my glazed eyes and panic-stricken expression had nothing to do with their haste.
Thunderclouds blocked the sun and the wind blew harder. Running the final distance, I leapt out of the maze. My husband and grandson followed close behind, exultant at finishing without personally asking for directions.
“How long were we in there?” I said, gasping for breath.
Russ looked at his watch. “Ooo, a long time! All of 15 minutes.” Then he grinned, “If you’d thought to ask those two Corn Cops for directions, we’d have been out a lot sooner.”
If there’d been a corn cob in my hand, I’d have chucked it at him. But I didn’t have one—and there was no way I was going back into that maize-of-doom to get one.
What's playing in my head: Jimmy Crack Corn (Recorded by Burl Ives)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, corn maze, Utah Lake, corn cops, maize, lost, Stephen King, Children of the Corn, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
I was lost and running blindly, wanting to scream for help. Instead, I turned to my husband, Russ, and said, “This corn maze we’re in—is it supposed to be fun?”
“Yup,” he said with a grin while jumping a mud puddle wide enough to be Utah Lake.
“Which way should we turn?” I don’t know why I asked him. This is the man who gets lost on his way to the post office. But to be fair, he is good at finding the potato chip aisle in the grocery store. And since both potatoes and corn are vegetables, I hoped he’d know how to get out of the maze.
“I’m not sure,” Russ replied. He looked at the young man next to him and asked, “What do you think?” That young man was the world’s cutest, smartest, fastest soccer player. Coincidentally, he’s also our five-year-old grandson.
“This way,” my grandson said, pointing to the left.
I looked at the turn and wondered if he’d inherited Russ’s sense of direction. “Isn’t this the same circle we’ve been traveling since we stepped into this place?” The path held another puddle with footprints around it—no doubt made by lost souls who were doomed to wander the corn maze until next spring, when the farmer finally tilled the fields.
I looked at my husband’s and grandson’s shoes. Mud coated them. We were the doomed wanderers.
Then I heard voices. People! Maybe they knew something. “Is this the way out?” I asked the two women as I pointed in the opposite direction.
“No, that goes in a loop.” They giggled. I’m sure they were just pretending to have fun. As they trotted off one of them called over her shoulder, “Does the path you were on go anywhere?”
Russ said, “Sure. Maybe. Eventually. Or it might go in a circle.”
By now dark clouds were forming. A breeze rustled the leaves. My mind filled with visions from Stephen King’s book, “Children of the Corn.” And I’d never even read that novel.
Pollen drifted through the air, along with the scent of something yucky—mildew. I could feel my lungs tightening. No doubt the sadistic farmer who created this labyrinth would find me here next spring, lying at the base of the moldy, tattered stalks, gasping my last breath.
Suddenly, I heard voices again. For a moment, I wondered if angels were coming to take me to my rest.Two teenagers in dark shirts and jeans walked past. A sadistic laugh escaped from my lips and I called out, “You’re lost too, aren’t you?”
Their voices floated back on the wind as they disappeared around the turn. “No, we work here.”
I turned to Russ. “They work here?”
“Yes, didn’t you see that their shirts said, ‘Corn Cops’?”
I grabbed Russ by the collar—not an easy task since he’s taller than I. “They know how to get out of this forsaken place. And they’ve just vanished through the corn! Quick, run after them and get directions.”
I should have known better. No man will ever ask for directions. Not even one who’s lost in a muddy cornfield with a category five hurricane ready to break overhead.
Fortunately, another couple wandered toward us. I managed to croak through my mildew-tightened voice, “Do you know how to get out?”
“Take the next two turns to the left,” they said, hurrying past. I’m sure my glazed eyes and panic-stricken expression had nothing to do with their haste.
Thunderclouds blocked the sun and the wind blew harder. Running the final distance, I leapt out of the maze. My husband and grandson followed close behind, exultant at finishing without personally asking for directions.
“How long were we in there?” I said, gasping for breath.
Russ looked at his watch. “Ooo, a long time! All of 15 minutes.” Then he grinned, “If you’d thought to ask those two Corn Cops for directions, we’d have been out a lot sooner.”
If there’d been a corn cob in my hand, I’d have chucked it at him. But I didn’t have one—and there was no way I was going back into that maize-of-doom to get one.
What's playing in my head: Jimmy Crack Corn (Recorded by Burl Ives)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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Technologically Impaired ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, technology, computers, instructions, astronaut, Sesame Street, Salt Palace, Provo, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Technology befuddles me. I think that's a gal thing—meaning women are genetically predisposed to never understand technological instructions. Case in point, how long did it take before we had a woman astronaut? It took centuries. And when we finally did get one, she went off her rocker, drove across the country and tried to kill someone. Was she really crazy, or just befuddled by technology?
Most gals instinctively grasp the important things in life—like how to shave their underarms with a dull, albeit pink-colored razor and not end up wearing Band-Aids on their armpits for the next month. We understand how much fuzz we can let build up in the dryer’s lint trap before it sets the house on fire. We even know how to lick chocolate frosting off a sharp steak knife.
Okay, I take that last one back. Licking anything off a sharp knife generally gives you a forked tongue. Which is fine if you want to resemble a boa constrictor, but otherwise …
What some of us (meaning me) don’t understand is a page of written instructions that makes no sense, and then when we finally figure them out, they still don’t work. It’s not the logic in the instructions that’s the problem. It’s the lack of it. Face it, most manuals are written by men. The same men who would rather drive around Provo for hours, looking for the gun show at the Salt Palace, than to stop and ask for directions.
Not long ago, I wanted to post a picture online. According to knowledgeable sources—that would be either Paul Harvey or Sesame Street; I can’t remember which—it’s a good idea for writers to have a photo of themselves on their website.
I found a picture of me and my dog, Corky Porky Pie. It took hours to get it ready for public viewing, though. After all, I had to skinny it, airbrush it and remove several years worth of facial wrinkles. Corky is very particular about how he looks out on the ‘Net.
I followed the site’s instructions to upload the photo. That took about 10 seconds. When I clicked the button to save it, nothing happened. There wasn’t even the normal clicking sound, so I turned up the speakers. Removing my glasses, I rubbed my eyes and tried to reason through the problem. Maybe I hadn’t clicked hard enough. I looked back at the monitor’s screen. Maybe the computer had caught a virus, because now the screen was fuzzy. Oh wait, that’s because I took off my glasses. Glasses … glasses … where had I put my glasses?
After searching the piles of papers and left-over Twinkie wrappers on my desk, I gave up and went back to the task of uploading the photo. I must have clicked the wrong button the first time. Leaning forward, with my nose pressed against the computer screen, I tried to read the blurry words. The button read, “Click here to upload photo.” Or maybe, “Win a free trip to China.” I wasn’t sure which. I clicked anyway.
Trumpets blared from the speakers. Let me assure you that when the volume is turned to high, and your ears are two inches away, you don’t stay in your chair. For one brief second, I knew how the Wright Brothers felt on their first flight, because I catapulted into the air almost as high as they flew.
A second later, I knew how it felt when they landed, too. I lay on the floor, rubbing my bruised posterior and listening to a voice jabbering from the speakers in Chinese. Then it switched to English and said, “So sorry. You not win trip. Try again next time.”
I gave up. With a sigh, I hoisted myself up from the floor and went into the kitchen. I just knew that somewhere in there was a can of frosting and a sharp knife.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My brain is STILL mush from hunting for a new home!
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, technology, computers, instructions, astronaut, Sesame Street, Salt Palace, Provo, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Technology befuddles me. I think that's a gal thing—meaning women are genetically predisposed to never understand technological instructions. Case in point, how long did it take before we had a woman astronaut? It took centuries. And when we finally did get one, she went off her rocker, drove across the country and tried to kill someone. Was she really crazy, or just befuddled by technology?
Most gals instinctively grasp the important things in life—like how to shave their underarms with a dull, albeit pink-colored razor and not end up wearing Band-Aids on their armpits for the next month. We understand how much fuzz we can let build up in the dryer’s lint trap before it sets the house on fire. We even know how to lick chocolate frosting off a sharp steak knife.
Okay, I take that last one back. Licking anything off a sharp knife generally gives you a forked tongue. Which is fine if you want to resemble a boa constrictor, but otherwise …
What some of us (meaning me) don’t understand is a page of written instructions that makes no sense, and then when we finally figure them out, they still don’t work. It’s not the logic in the instructions that’s the problem. It’s the lack of it. Face it, most manuals are written by men. The same men who would rather drive around Provo for hours, looking for the gun show at the Salt Palace, than to stop and ask for directions.
Not long ago, I wanted to post a picture online. According to knowledgeable sources—that would be either Paul Harvey or Sesame Street; I can’t remember which—it’s a good idea for writers to have a photo of themselves on their website.
I found a picture of me and my dog, Corky Porky Pie. It took hours to get it ready for public viewing, though. After all, I had to skinny it, airbrush it and remove several years worth of facial wrinkles. Corky is very particular about how he looks out on the ‘Net.
I followed the site’s instructions to upload the photo. That took about 10 seconds. When I clicked the button to save it, nothing happened. There wasn’t even the normal clicking sound, so I turned up the speakers. Removing my glasses, I rubbed my eyes and tried to reason through the problem. Maybe I hadn’t clicked hard enough. I looked back at the monitor’s screen. Maybe the computer had caught a virus, because now the screen was fuzzy. Oh wait, that’s because I took off my glasses. Glasses … glasses … where had I put my glasses?
After searching the piles of papers and left-over Twinkie wrappers on my desk, I gave up and went back to the task of uploading the photo. I must have clicked the wrong button the first time. Leaning forward, with my nose pressed against the computer screen, I tried to read the blurry words. The button read, “Click here to upload photo.” Or maybe, “Win a free trip to China.” I wasn’t sure which. I clicked anyway.
Trumpets blared from the speakers. Let me assure you that when the volume is turned to high, and your ears are two inches away, you don’t stay in your chair. For one brief second, I knew how the Wright Brothers felt on their first flight, because I catapulted into the air almost as high as they flew.
A second later, I knew how it felt when they landed, too. I lay on the floor, rubbing my bruised posterior and listening to a voice jabbering from the speakers in Chinese. Then it switched to English and said, “So sorry. You not win trip. Try again next time.”
I gave up. With a sigh, I hoisted myself up from the floor and went into the kitchen. I just knew that somewhere in there was a can of frosting and a sharp knife.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My brain is STILL mush from hunting for a new home!
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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Parable of the Watermelon ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, parable, watermelon, fruit garden, vineyard, weeds, tiller, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Russ meandered into the garage, looking for something constructive to do.
Meanwhile, in the garden, Cindy stepped over to the dark green vine, gently moving the big leaves this way and that. “Ah-ha! I actually have a watermelon growing.” Leaning down, she brushed the dust off the green-striped, four-inch melon. A far-away look entered her eyes. “It’s been a lot of work; I’ve tried for years to grow melons. I’ve digged and pruned and dunged my vine. I’ve trimmed out the wild branches and grafted in the tame. And now, one has finally made it.”
The mistress of the vineyard was pleased. She reached down and patted the melon as if it were a well-loved toddler. “Keep on growing.” Then she walked to the car, got in, and drove away to run errands.
In the garage, Russ looked around. Like a typical husband, he wanted something loud, heavy, and manly with which to work. He spotted the Mega-Tiller. Its green hulk took up half the floor space, and when started, its roar equaled a nuclear blast. Russ’s eyes gleamed with excitement and he could almost smell the musky scent of oil, gasoline and plowed earth.
“I’ll go till the weeds in the garden.” With an iron grip, he caught the handle and in one smooth move pulled the rope starter. The Mega-Tiller roared to life, flames shooting from its bowels.
Well … okay, there weren’t really any flames, but it makes for a good story.
With a clunk, Russ threw the machine into gear. He walked the motorized beast across the lawn and to the vegetable patch.
The weeds trembled in fear. Or maybe it was from the wind that the Mega-Tiller created as it churned the earth. Then again, it could have been from the heavy breathing Russ was doing while muscling that two-ton machine around.
Grasses bowed their heads in defeat and morning glories cursed as they were chopped to pieces. Of course, they would just take root wherever they were chopped and there’d be even more of them in two weeks, but Russ and the Mega-Tiller ignored that.
Finally, after the bulk of the weeds were ripped from their mortal existence, Russ eyed the watermelon vine. The melon knew that look and it rolled, trying its best to move to the center of the plant.
The engine on the Mega-Tiller idled with a loud purr as Russ walked around the leafy vine. He scuffed at the weeds growing near the plant. With a nod to the machine he said, “It would be a pain to pull these weeds by hand. If I’m really careful, I could just run the tiller around the outside perimeter of the plant and they’d be gone in a tenth of the time.”
The Mega-Tiller hiccupped in agreement and then roared with delight as Russ threw it into gear. Straddling the freshly tilled mounds of earth, Russ held fast to the machine as it rumbled its way toward the trembling melon.
Closer. Closer. With an unplanned lurch, the Mega-Tiller of Death flung its metal tines against the melon and sliced it in half.
“Oops,” said Russ.
The next day, Cindy walked outside in anticipation, wondering how much the melon had grown through the night. She could almost smell the sweet scent of ripe watermelon. Could almost taste the cool sweetness of the fruit in her mouth, the icy tingle of the juice as it slid down her throat on a hot summer’s eve.
She stopped. The garden looked freshly tilled. It was so nice of Russ to rid it of weeds. The mistress of the vineyard walked to her plant. Bending down, she looked for the fruit. “Russ,” she called out. “Did you pick my melon?”
Then she saw it. Exposed to the sun, its red flesh had tightened and dried. Ragged edges hung from the split sides and dirt caked the bottom of the now deceased melon.
And the mistress of the vineyard was vexed … and Russ was sore afraid. And he vowed to her that he would never till again without her there to stand guard.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My brain is mush from hunting for a new home!
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, parable, watermelon, fruit garden, vineyard, weeds, tiller, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Russ meandered into the garage, looking for something constructive to do.
Meanwhile, in the garden, Cindy stepped over to the dark green vine, gently moving the big leaves this way and that. “Ah-ha! I actually have a watermelon growing.” Leaning down, she brushed the dust off the green-striped, four-inch melon. A far-away look entered her eyes. “It’s been a lot of work; I’ve tried for years to grow melons. I’ve digged and pruned and dunged my vine. I’ve trimmed out the wild branches and grafted in the tame. And now, one has finally made it.”
The mistress of the vineyard was pleased. She reached down and patted the melon as if it were a well-loved toddler. “Keep on growing.” Then she walked to the car, got in, and drove away to run errands.
In the garage, Russ looked around. Like a typical husband, he wanted something loud, heavy, and manly with which to work. He spotted the Mega-Tiller. Its green hulk took up half the floor space, and when started, its roar equaled a nuclear blast. Russ’s eyes gleamed with excitement and he could almost smell the musky scent of oil, gasoline and plowed earth.
“I’ll go till the weeds in the garden.” With an iron grip, he caught the handle and in one smooth move pulled the rope starter. The Mega-Tiller roared to life, flames shooting from its bowels.
Well … okay, there weren’t really any flames, but it makes for a good story.
With a clunk, Russ threw the machine into gear. He walked the motorized beast across the lawn and to the vegetable patch.
The weeds trembled in fear. Or maybe it was from the wind that the Mega-Tiller created as it churned the earth. Then again, it could have been from the heavy breathing Russ was doing while muscling that two-ton machine around.
Grasses bowed their heads in defeat and morning glories cursed as they were chopped to pieces. Of course, they would just take root wherever they were chopped and there’d be even more of them in two weeks, but Russ and the Mega-Tiller ignored that.
Finally, after the bulk of the weeds were ripped from their mortal existence, Russ eyed the watermelon vine. The melon knew that look and it rolled, trying its best to move to the center of the plant.
The engine on the Mega-Tiller idled with a loud purr as Russ walked around the leafy vine. He scuffed at the weeds growing near the plant. With a nod to the machine he said, “It would be a pain to pull these weeds by hand. If I’m really careful, I could just run the tiller around the outside perimeter of the plant and they’d be gone in a tenth of the time.”
The Mega-Tiller hiccupped in agreement and then roared with delight as Russ threw it into gear. Straddling the freshly tilled mounds of earth, Russ held fast to the machine as it rumbled its way toward the trembling melon.
Closer. Closer. With an unplanned lurch, the Mega-Tiller of Death flung its metal tines against the melon and sliced it in half.
“Oops,” said Russ.
The next day, Cindy walked outside in anticipation, wondering how much the melon had grown through the night. She could almost smell the sweet scent of ripe watermelon. Could almost taste the cool sweetness of the fruit in her mouth, the icy tingle of the juice as it slid down her throat on a hot summer’s eve.
She stopped. The garden looked freshly tilled. It was so nice of Russ to rid it of weeds. The mistress of the vineyard walked to her plant. Bending down, she looked for the fruit. “Russ,” she called out. “Did you pick my melon?”
Then she saw it. Exposed to the sun, its red flesh had tightened and dried. Ragged edges hung from the split sides and dirt caked the bottom of the now deceased melon.
And the mistress of the vineyard was vexed … and Russ was sore afraid. And he vowed to her that he would never till again without her there to stand guard.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My brain is mush from hunting for a new home!
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
--
A Twisted Fairy Tale ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, science fiction, symposium, LTUE, Orson Scott Card, Gail Carson Levine, fairy tale, Star Trek, Wookie, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com))
Several months ago, I attended a science fiction symposium called “Life, the Universe, and Everything.” I can almost hear you asking yourself why a woman whose life already resembles a sci-fi movie would consider going to a symposium on the subject. I don’t know, maybe because it presented a learning opportunity. Writers need continual growth to improve their craft. Or maybe because big name authors, like Orson Scott Card (“Ender’s Game”) and Gail Carson Levine (“Ella Enchanted”), were teaching.
Naw. It’s because the symposium was free.
Let me state for the record, I am not a big sci-fi fan. Okay, wait. Under threat of being forced to watch re-runs of the “X-Files,” I’ll secretly admit that as a kid I had a crush on Captain James T. Kirk, of the starship, Enterprise. But, “Star Trek” doesn’t count as science fiction. Everyone knows it rates up there with the works of Hemingway.
Before I registered for the sci-fi conference, doubts plagued me. I wondered ... if I attended, would I come out with the arms of an octopus and the head of a Wookie? Would bizarre people wearing Star Wars and/or Scooby Doo costumes moderate the discussions? And whereas, before attending the symposium my mailing address read “Any Town, USA,” afterward would it read, “Space, the Final Frontier?”
I'm pleased to say, after sitting through long, but enthralling hours on a chair designed to test the fortitude of a Klingon warrior, that many people there were normal authors.
Normal authors—hmm, I'm thinking that's an oxymoron. Or an insult. I'm not sure which.
As it turned out, most of the sessions covered topics applicable to a number of genres, and the attendees wore jeans and sweatshirts. Well, I take that back, I did see some guy in a long, flowing cape and gave him a wide berth—until I realized it was my husband, Russ, with a blanket around his shoulders. I'm thinking he brought his blankie along in case he got bored during the panel discussions.
On the last day, an interesting session called, “Twisting Fairytales," caught my attention. What, fairytales aren't twisted enough already? We have to make them worse?
Take "Little Red Riding Hood" for example. In it, a wolf—one that can talk, mind you—poses as Red Riding Hood's grandmother. Whom he has just eaten. Ahhh, cannibalism—that's a great topic for kids.
He lies in bed, wearing Granny’s hat and shawl. Now we have a cross-dressing cannibal—an even better theme for impressionable children.
Into the room skips little Red Riding Hood, all dressed in a flaming red cloak with a pointed hood. One that could have been worn by the Emperor from “Star Wars,” if the cloak had been a little longer and in that figure flattering color, black.
Just wait, it gets better. Have you ever asked yourself what little Ms. Hood was carrying in that basket on her arm? Mushrooms she gathers in the woods. Probably the kind that cause hallucinations.
The wolf and the girl are having a polite conversation about body parts—"Grandma, what big eyes you have"—when the wolf leaps out of bed and chases the Little Red Emperor ... er ... I mean Riding Hood out the door. In the meantime, a woodsman with a sharp hatchet dangling from his belt—no wait, maybe it's the dwarf, Sneezy, with an axe tied to his head—kills the hairy Beast and throws Beauty into the fires of Mordor.
Next, Sneezy slides the glass slipper onto the pro-feminist Ms. Hood's dainty foot, and they ride off into the sunset. Or maybe into the ocean, where she grows a mermaid's tail and Sneezy becomes a singing lobster.
I'm not sure which.
One thing I do know is I enjoyed the session so much, I'm going to try writing a twisted fairy tale of my own—just as soon as I figure out how to unglue my octopus arms and take off my Wookie head.
What's playing in my head: Star Trek Theme ( Composed by Alexander Courage )
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, science fiction, symposium, LTUE, Orson Scott Card, Gail Carson Levine, fairy tale, Star Trek, Wookie, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com))
Several months ago, I attended a science fiction symposium called “Life, the Universe, and Everything.” I can almost hear you asking yourself why a woman whose life already resembles a sci-fi movie would consider going to a symposium on the subject. I don’t know, maybe because it presented a learning opportunity. Writers need continual growth to improve their craft. Or maybe because big name authors, like Orson Scott Card (“Ender’s Game”) and Gail Carson Levine (“Ella Enchanted”), were teaching.
Naw. It’s because the symposium was free.
Let me state for the record, I am not a big sci-fi fan. Okay, wait. Under threat of being forced to watch re-runs of the “X-Files,” I’ll secretly admit that as a kid I had a crush on Captain James T. Kirk, of the starship, Enterprise. But, “Star Trek” doesn’t count as science fiction. Everyone knows it rates up there with the works of Hemingway.
Before I registered for the sci-fi conference, doubts plagued me. I wondered ... if I attended, would I come out with the arms of an octopus and the head of a Wookie? Would bizarre people wearing Star Wars and/or Scooby Doo costumes moderate the discussions? And whereas, before attending the symposium my mailing address read “Any Town, USA,” afterward would it read, “Space, the Final Frontier?”
I'm pleased to say, after sitting through long, but enthralling hours on a chair designed to test the fortitude of a Klingon warrior, that many people there were normal authors.
Normal authors—hmm, I'm thinking that's an oxymoron. Or an insult. I'm not sure which.
As it turned out, most of the sessions covered topics applicable to a number of genres, and the attendees wore jeans and sweatshirts. Well, I take that back, I did see some guy in a long, flowing cape and gave him a wide berth—until I realized it was my husband, Russ, with a blanket around his shoulders. I'm thinking he brought his blankie along in case he got bored during the panel discussions.
On the last day, an interesting session called, “Twisting Fairytales," caught my attention. What, fairytales aren't twisted enough already? We have to make them worse?
Take "Little Red Riding Hood" for example. In it, a wolf—one that can talk, mind you—poses as Red Riding Hood's grandmother. Whom he has just eaten. Ahhh, cannibalism—that's a great topic for kids.
He lies in bed, wearing Granny’s hat and shawl. Now we have a cross-dressing cannibal—an even better theme for impressionable children.
Into the room skips little Red Riding Hood, all dressed in a flaming red cloak with a pointed hood. One that could have been worn by the Emperor from “Star Wars,” if the cloak had been a little longer and in that figure flattering color, black.
Just wait, it gets better. Have you ever asked yourself what little Ms. Hood was carrying in that basket on her arm? Mushrooms she gathers in the woods. Probably the kind that cause hallucinations.
The wolf and the girl are having a polite conversation about body parts—"Grandma, what big eyes you have"—when the wolf leaps out of bed and chases the Little Red Emperor ... er ... I mean Riding Hood out the door. In the meantime, a woodsman with a sharp hatchet dangling from his belt—no wait, maybe it's the dwarf, Sneezy, with an axe tied to his head—kills the hairy Beast and throws Beauty into the fires of Mordor.
Next, Sneezy slides the glass slipper onto the pro-feminist Ms. Hood's dainty foot, and they ride off into the sunset. Or maybe into the ocean, where she grows a mermaid's tail and Sneezy becomes a singing lobster.
I'm not sure which.
One thing I do know is I enjoyed the session so much, I'm going to try writing a twisted fairy tale of my own—just as soon as I figure out how to unglue my octopus arms and take off my Wookie head.
What's playing in my head: Star Trek Theme ( Composed by Alexander Courage )
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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"Farworld" review & interview with J. Scott Savage
Review of Farworld
By Cindy Beck
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, Farworld, Water Keep, J Scott Savage, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Thirteen-year-old Marcus Kanenas dreams of a world far away. It’s a place where magic is as common as sunshine and where animals and trees talk. His name for the place? Farworld.
Quite unexpectedly, Marcus magically travels from Earth to Farworld. There he meets Kyja, who would love to cast spells and work magic, but alas, is unable. Marcus also meets Master Therapass, a master wizard whose knowledge can change not only Marcus and Kyja’s fate, but the fate of Farworld and Earth, as well.
Enter members of the Dark Circle, whose goal is to exert evil influence, gain power, and eventually destroy all that is good, including Farworld. Marcus and Kyja must travel to Water Keep, their first leg in a journey where they hope to convince the Elementals—beings of water, land, air and fire—to join forces with them. While at Water Keep, Marcus and Kyja face the Summoners—members of the Dark Circle, who can command the living and the dead—and other dreaded creatures.
Marcus and Kyja’s journey is one of not only hardship and danger, but also one of friendship and caring. Marcus and Kyja learn the truth about themselves, the depths of their courage, and the power that each holds within.
Scott Savage does a good job of maintaining suspense and action through out the book. The characters are both charming (the good guys) and despicable (the bad guys). My favorite character was Riph Raph, a “lizard” who not only talked but had magical powers and a wicked sense of comedic timing.
Scott’s sense of humor put a smile on my face, and his artful suspense kept me turning the pages. This is a book that young adults (and old adults) would love!
Interview with J. Scott Savage:
Cindy: I’m here in virtual time and space, for an interview with author, J. Scott Savage. We’re riding on the “lizard,” Riph Raph’s tail, so it’s a little windy. Scott, why don’t you tell us what you can see and smell from this vantage point?
Scott: Well I have to say that sitting on Riph Raph’s tail, the smell is, um . . . not one to write home about. And obviously someone has shrunk us down to rather much smaller than our normal size as Riph Raph is not much larger than a typical housecat. It looks like Riph Raph is scanning for members of the Dark Circle. So maybe we can help him keep an eye out.
Cindy: Have any of your daily habits … such as how you brush your teeth, or what you eat … changed since writing Farworld? If so, how?
Scott: Well I do refer to myself in the third person now, and I occasionally asked random passers by if they know me. So far neither has proven very successful.
Cindy: If you could pick one creature or person from Farworld that you could become, which one would it be? Describe what you would look like, please.
Scott: I think that I would be the Frost Pinnois. I am roughly the size of a large school bus, made entirely of ice, with long icicle spikes on my tail, and a long blue beard. I have skin of tiny icicles and long wings. My body makes a kind of wind chime-like sound when I fly.
Cindy: I noticed in your underwater interview with Shirley Bahlmann, that bubbles kept floating up and about. Was there a fissure in the ocean floor, or was something else causing that? What do you think it was?
Scott: I can honestly say it was underwater gas. For anything more than that, you’d need to consult the Bahlmannator herself.
Cindy: It seems Riph Raph is anxious to rid himself of us, so I’ll only ask one more question. If Shandra Covington, the heroine in your mystery novels were to enter Farworld, what powers would she have?
Scott: Well clearly they would have something to do with food. I think that Shandra would have the ability to turn common rocks into deluxe double cheeseburgers and grass into hot greasy fries. Then she and Kyja would get along great. All of my female characters seem to have a thing for fires. Hmmm.
Cindy: Thanks so much for letting me interview you, Scott, and for giving me the opportunity to read Farworld. It was great and I’m sure your readers will enjoy it.
Scott: Thanks, Cindy. And thanks for the great interview.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
--
By Cindy Beck
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, Farworld, Water Keep, J Scott Savage, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Thirteen-year-old Marcus Kanenas dreams of a world far away. It’s a place where magic is as common as sunshine and where animals and trees talk. His name for the place? Farworld.
Quite unexpectedly, Marcus magically travels from Earth to Farworld. There he meets Kyja, who would love to cast spells and work magic, but alas, is unable. Marcus also meets Master Therapass, a master wizard whose knowledge can change not only Marcus and Kyja’s fate, but the fate of Farworld and Earth, as well.
Enter members of the Dark Circle, whose goal is to exert evil influence, gain power, and eventually destroy all that is good, including Farworld. Marcus and Kyja must travel to Water Keep, their first leg in a journey where they hope to convince the Elementals—beings of water, land, air and fire—to join forces with them. While at Water Keep, Marcus and Kyja face the Summoners—members of the Dark Circle, who can command the living and the dead—and other dreaded creatures.
Marcus and Kyja’s journey is one of not only hardship and danger, but also one of friendship and caring. Marcus and Kyja learn the truth about themselves, the depths of their courage, and the power that each holds within.
Scott Savage does a good job of maintaining suspense and action through out the book. The characters are both charming (the good guys) and despicable (the bad guys). My favorite character was Riph Raph, a “lizard” who not only talked but had magical powers and a wicked sense of comedic timing.
Scott’s sense of humor put a smile on my face, and his artful suspense kept me turning the pages. This is a book that young adults (and old adults) would love!
Interview with J. Scott Savage:
Cindy: I’m here in virtual time and space, for an interview with author, J. Scott Savage. We’re riding on the “lizard,” Riph Raph’s tail, so it’s a little windy. Scott, why don’t you tell us what you can see and smell from this vantage point?
Scott: Well I have to say that sitting on Riph Raph’s tail, the smell is, um . . . not one to write home about. And obviously someone has shrunk us down to rather much smaller than our normal size as Riph Raph is not much larger than a typical housecat. It looks like Riph Raph is scanning for members of the Dark Circle. So maybe we can help him keep an eye out.
Cindy: Have any of your daily habits … such as how you brush your teeth, or what you eat … changed since writing Farworld? If so, how?
Scott: Well I do refer to myself in the third person now, and I occasionally asked random passers by if they know me. So far neither has proven very successful.
Cindy: If you could pick one creature or person from Farworld that you could become, which one would it be? Describe what you would look like, please.
Scott: I think that I would be the Frost Pinnois. I am roughly the size of a large school bus, made entirely of ice, with long icicle spikes on my tail, and a long blue beard. I have skin of tiny icicles and long wings. My body makes a kind of wind chime-like sound when I fly.
Cindy: I noticed in your underwater interview with Shirley Bahlmann, that bubbles kept floating up and about. Was there a fissure in the ocean floor, or was something else causing that? What do you think it was?
Scott: I can honestly say it was underwater gas. For anything more than that, you’d need to consult the Bahlmannator herself.
Cindy: It seems Riph Raph is anxious to rid himself of us, so I’ll only ask one more question. If Shandra Covington, the heroine in your mystery novels were to enter Farworld, what powers would she have?
Scott: Well clearly they would have something to do with food. I think that Shandra would have the ability to turn common rocks into deluxe double cheeseburgers and grass into hot greasy fries. Then she and Kyja would get along great. All of my female characters seem to have a thing for fires. Hmmm.
Cindy: Thanks so much for letting me interview you, Scott, and for giving me the opportunity to read Farworld. It was great and I’m sure your readers will enjoy it.
Scott: Thanks, Cindy. And thanks for the great interview.
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Clickety, clackety, bing ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, nostalgia, past, poodle skirt, saddle shoes, typewriter, typing, wpm, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Is there anyone that doesn’t have moments where they long for the past? If so, please raise your hand because you win the prize of an Orange Crush and a Moonpie … but only if you’re wearing a poodle skirt, saddle shoes, and have a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your shirt sleeve.
In my family, we frequently feel nostalgic for things of the past. My husband, Russ, misses his hair. My son, Dave, is thirty-two and longs for his youth. I, on the other hand, still have my hair … and my youth (well, sort of) … and what I miss is the old-fashioned typewriter.
My first machine was a portable, manual Royal. I don’t know why they called it portable. It weighed twenty pounds and was like carrying around a bowling ball in a square, hard case. Nonetheless, a good typist could set it up on a desk and punch out 50 wpm—that’s “whacks per minute”—with only two errors. No wait. It’s been so long since I’ve used one that maybe wpm stands for “words per minute”. At any rate it doesn’t matter, because I was never able to get 50 whacks or words per minute out of it. My average was 20 wpm, with 50 mistakes.
Then there was the keyboard, which came attached to the body of the typewriter. Do you know why keyboards are not arranged alphabetically, in an order that actually makes sense to the human mind? According to my vast research—ok, I’ll admit it, I don’t remember where I heard this useless bit of information, it was probably on Paul Harvey—keyboards have the letters scrambled to slow the typist.
I must confess that fact doesn’t make sense to me. If the object is to type as fast as possible, why set up the keys to slow you down? Oh yes, now I remember. With a manual typewriter, when you hit the keys too fast, they’d slam into each other and get all tangled and kinked. The typist then had to reach in and unsnarl them. You could always tell a fast typist by the black ink smudges on her fingers, the prize from untangling keys.
Let’s not forget the inked ribbon. You’d be flying along, whacking out sentences, finally getting the rhythm when the words on the paper would grow dimmer and dimmer. However, only really good typists knew that was happening, because they actually looked at the paper as they typed. The rest of us looked at the keyboard, because we couldn’t remember the scrambled letters. By the time we realized we needed to change the ribbon, we’d typed three pages of invisible words.
Despite the negative points, there was one really neat aspect to the typewriter. Its sound was mesmerizing. You’d zip along, hearing clickety-clickety, clackety-clackety, BING! The “bing” was the signal that you had reached the edge of the paper, and you needed to hit the carriage return lever to start on the next line.
I loved the sound but now that I consider it, the carriage return did have its potential problems. Once, after typing half a line, I made the mistake of putting my water glass at the right-hand side of the typewriter. All went well, until I came to the edge of the paper. I’d been punching along, typing at the whopping speed of at least 15 wpm and was so engrossed in my writing that when I heard the familiar “bing”, I hit the carriage return lever without thinking. The carriage flew back to the right and slammed into my glass, flinging ice and water all over me, the desk and walls.
All right, I’ll be the first to admit it. After thinking back on the era, typewriters were interesting but computers are so much more practical. My computer has never flung a glass of water across the room. No longer do I have to untangle keys, or get my fingers smudged using carbon paper. My computer is far superior.
All the same, despite the improvements they’ve made and the fact that a computer is a souped-up, 21st century typewriter that can think at the speed of light, I sure wish they’d come up with one that goes “clickety, clackety, bing”.
What's playing in my head: Memories (by Elvis Presley)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, nostalgia, past, poodle skirt, saddle shoes, typewriter, typing, wpm, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Is there anyone that doesn’t have moments where they long for the past? If so, please raise your hand because you win the prize of an Orange Crush and a Moonpie … but only if you’re wearing a poodle skirt, saddle shoes, and have a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your shirt sleeve.
In my family, we frequently feel nostalgic for things of the past. My husband, Russ, misses his hair. My son, Dave, is thirty-two and longs for his youth. I, on the other hand, still have my hair … and my youth (well, sort of) … and what I miss is the old-fashioned typewriter.
My first machine was a portable, manual Royal. I don’t know why they called it portable. It weighed twenty pounds and was like carrying around a bowling ball in a square, hard case. Nonetheless, a good typist could set it up on a desk and punch out 50 wpm—that’s “whacks per minute”—with only two errors. No wait. It’s been so long since I’ve used one that maybe wpm stands for “words per minute”. At any rate it doesn’t matter, because I was never able to get 50 whacks or words per minute out of it. My average was 20 wpm, with 50 mistakes.
Then there was the keyboard, which came attached to the body of the typewriter. Do you know why keyboards are not arranged alphabetically, in an order that actually makes sense to the human mind? According to my vast research—ok, I’ll admit it, I don’t remember where I heard this useless bit of information, it was probably on Paul Harvey—keyboards have the letters scrambled to slow the typist.
I must confess that fact doesn’t make sense to me. If the object is to type as fast as possible, why set up the keys to slow you down? Oh yes, now I remember. With a manual typewriter, when you hit the keys too fast, they’d slam into each other and get all tangled and kinked. The typist then had to reach in and unsnarl them. You could always tell a fast typist by the black ink smudges on her fingers, the prize from untangling keys.
Let’s not forget the inked ribbon. You’d be flying along, whacking out sentences, finally getting the rhythm when the words on the paper would grow dimmer and dimmer. However, only really good typists knew that was happening, because they actually looked at the paper as they typed. The rest of us looked at the keyboard, because we couldn’t remember the scrambled letters. By the time we realized we needed to change the ribbon, we’d typed three pages of invisible words.
Despite the negative points, there was one really neat aspect to the typewriter. Its sound was mesmerizing. You’d zip along, hearing clickety-clickety, clackety-clackety, BING! The “bing” was the signal that you had reached the edge of the paper, and you needed to hit the carriage return lever to start on the next line.
I loved the sound but now that I consider it, the carriage return did have its potential problems. Once, after typing half a line, I made the mistake of putting my water glass at the right-hand side of the typewriter. All went well, until I came to the edge of the paper. I’d been punching along, typing at the whopping speed of at least 15 wpm and was so engrossed in my writing that when I heard the familiar “bing”, I hit the carriage return lever without thinking. The carriage flew back to the right and slammed into my glass, flinging ice and water all over me, the desk and walls.
All right, I’ll be the first to admit it. After thinking back on the era, typewriters were interesting but computers are so much more practical. My computer has never flung a glass of water across the room. No longer do I have to untangle keys, or get my fingers smudged using carbon paper. My computer is far superior.
All the same, despite the improvements they’ve made and the fact that a computer is a souped-up, 21st century typewriter that can think at the speed of light, I sure wish they’d come up with one that goes “clickety, clackety, bing”.
What's playing in my head: Memories (by Elvis Presley)
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The Game’s Afoot ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, tag, freeze tag, food tag, games, humor, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The game of internet tag is going around and I’m delighted to say that my husband, Russ, has declared that I’m “it." Back when I was a kid—in the age of the Velociraptor and the Tyrannosaurus Rex—tag was one of my favorite pastimes. I remember a number of variations including “food tag”. In that version, if the person who was “it” reached out to touch you, you’d squat down, name a food and you were safe.
It was such an easy game back then, but I sure couldn’t do it now. No, it’s not the food that’s the problem—my memory for food is even better than when I was younger. Face it; once you’re over fifty, you’re too old to do anything but eat. I am sure I could hold a bag of Cheetos in one hand, a Snickers in the other, and still name some kind of food.
It’s the other aspects of “food tag” that have me stalled. Assuming—and this is a big assumption—that I could manage to run a few steps, the squatting would kill me. Once down, they’d have to bring in a crane to haul me back up. I think my kneecaps have gained weight from all that food I’ve been eating since I turned fifty.
Fortunately, the internet version doesn’t involve squatting. However, it does entail writing a list of things that other people don’t know about you and sending it to them. I’m not sure why—presumably to blackmail you later.
In keeping with the spirit of the game, I thought I’d write such a list—about someone other than myself—and post it as a blog.
•When my husband, Russ, was a youngster, he was always falling and bumping his head. That explains a lot right there.
•As an impressionable, young lad, he planned to become a Catholic priest—until he looked up the word, “celibate” in the dictionary.
•He attended 12 years of Catholic education without having a single religious experience. I’m thinking it wasn’t the nuns’ fault—it’s probably because his favorite classes were lunch and recess.
•After graduating from high school, he worked for the Good Humor Ice Cream Company—driving an ice cream truck, ringing a little bell. He loved ice cream. By the time he quit the job—a mere month later—he owed more for eating the ice cream than he took in selling the stuff.
•Until he was in his twenties, Russ had a full head of wavy, black hair. This, from the man whose dome now resembles a dinosaur egg.
•While still sporting that wavy black hair, he joined the Navy—because he liked their bell-bottom pants and the white, sailor’s hat.
•Russ’s current philosophy in his old age is that the tube of toothpaste should be squeezed from the bottom. My philosophy is mash it from wherever you can grab it. He has his own tube—that he refuses to share with me … or our dog, Corky Porky Pie. Sounds obsessive-compulsive to me.
As much as I’ve enjoyed writing this blackmail list, it can’t go on forever. Not that there aren’t more quirks I could write about, but because life calls. It’s time to shower, brush my teeth and … oh drat, I’m out of toothpaste. I wonder if Russ would notice if I used his. Of course, I’d have to smooth it out so he wouldn’t know I smashed it in the middle, and then follow that up with wiping it clean and turning it label side up.
On second thought, maybe I’ll just use a squirt of Corky Porky Pie’s.
What's playing in my head: Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie (by Jay and the Techniques)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, tag, freeze tag, food tag, games, humor, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The game of internet tag is going around and I’m delighted to say that my husband, Russ, has declared that I’m “it." Back when I was a kid—in the age of the Velociraptor and the Tyrannosaurus Rex—tag was one of my favorite pastimes. I remember a number of variations including “food tag”. In that version, if the person who was “it” reached out to touch you, you’d squat down, name a food and you were safe.
It was such an easy game back then, but I sure couldn’t do it now. No, it’s not the food that’s the problem—my memory for food is even better than when I was younger. Face it; once you’re over fifty, you’re too old to do anything but eat. I am sure I could hold a bag of Cheetos in one hand, a Snickers in the other, and still name some kind of food.
It’s the other aspects of “food tag” that have me stalled. Assuming—and this is a big assumption—that I could manage to run a few steps, the squatting would kill me. Once down, they’d have to bring in a crane to haul me back up. I think my kneecaps have gained weight from all that food I’ve been eating since I turned fifty.
Fortunately, the internet version doesn’t involve squatting. However, it does entail writing a list of things that other people don’t know about you and sending it to them. I’m not sure why—presumably to blackmail you later.
In keeping with the spirit of the game, I thought I’d write such a list—about someone other than myself—and post it as a blog.
•When my husband, Russ, was a youngster, he was always falling and bumping his head. That explains a lot right there.
•As an impressionable, young lad, he planned to become a Catholic priest—until he looked up the word, “celibate” in the dictionary.
•He attended 12 years of Catholic education without having a single religious experience. I’m thinking it wasn’t the nuns’ fault—it’s probably because his favorite classes were lunch and recess.
•After graduating from high school, he worked for the Good Humor Ice Cream Company—driving an ice cream truck, ringing a little bell. He loved ice cream. By the time he quit the job—a mere month later—he owed more for eating the ice cream than he took in selling the stuff.
•Until he was in his twenties, Russ had a full head of wavy, black hair. This, from the man whose dome now resembles a dinosaur egg.
•While still sporting that wavy black hair, he joined the Navy—because he liked their bell-bottom pants and the white, sailor’s hat.
•Russ’s current philosophy in his old age is that the tube of toothpaste should be squeezed from the bottom. My philosophy is mash it from wherever you can grab it. He has his own tube—that he refuses to share with me … or our dog, Corky Porky Pie. Sounds obsessive-compulsive to me.
As much as I’ve enjoyed writing this blackmail list, it can’t go on forever. Not that there aren’t more quirks I could write about, but because life calls. It’s time to shower, brush my teeth and … oh drat, I’m out of toothpaste. I wonder if Russ would notice if I used his. Of course, I’d have to smooth it out so he wouldn’t know I smashed it in the middle, and then follow that up with wiping it clean and turning it label side up.
On second thought, maybe I’ll just use a squirt of Corky Porky Pie’s.
What's playing in my head: Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie (by Jay and the Techniques)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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YourLDSneighborhood.com Wins Distribution Rights
By Cindy Beck
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, YourLDSNeighborhood.com, EFY, Especially for Youth, music, CD, Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck, Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band)
TA-DA! (Sound of trumpet blowing.)
Normally I do a humorous blog, but occasionally a "once in a lifetime" opportunity comes along and I just have to tell you about it. Okay, maybe this is a "twice in lifetime" opportunity. I'm not sure. But whichever it is, you won't want to miss it.
Here's the press release:
yourLDSneighborhood.com wins distribution rights to 2008 Especially for Youth™ music CD; The disc will be available for sale starting August 23; Popular artists include Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band
Salt Lake City, Utah (August 5, 2008) The 2008 Especially for Youth™ CD, featuring the songs of local recording artists such as Jessie Clark Funk, Daniel Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band, will be available for commercial sale beginning August 16.
yourLDSneighborhood, which was awarded distribution rights to the popular CD, announced that the disc will be sold through its web site and at retail music stores along the Wasatch Front. The CD is a compilation of songs chosen to support the theme and focus of this year’s program “Steady and Sure” and has become a vital part of the EFY™ tradition. EFY™ is a summer program sponsored by the Church Educational System of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and held in locations through the U.S. and Canada.
Gaylen Rust, president and founder of yourLDSneighborhood.com, said the commercial release edition will contain an additional track not available on the CD distributed to EFY™ participants and feature more robust instrumental accompaniments. “Music is an integral part of a young person’s life and the songs on this CD really speak to the everyday challenges and exhilarating experiences that youth encounter. It’s uplifting and inspiring but also the kind of music that’s fun to listen to anytime. It’s also a way for teens unable to attend EFY™ to catch the spirit and joy of the whole EFY™ event.”
The “Steady and Sure” CD features 12 tracks including “Steady and Sure” – the title track on the disc by Jessie Clark Funk, as well as “Amazing Grace,” by Daniel Beck, “A Woman’s Heart,” by Felicia Wolf, “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee,” by Mindy Gledhill and “Dream Big,” by Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band. Other artists include Ben Truman, Megan Flinders, Greg Simpson, Hilary Weeks, Terry White, Tim Gates, and a group song “Hurrah for Israel,” by Daniel Beck, Megan Flinders, Jessie Clark Funk and Dan Kartchner.
yourLDSneighborhood.com is a new virtual neighborhood launched in November, 2007 where a wide variety of goods and services are sold from clothing and jewelry to sports, scrapbooking, travel, and things of interest to home and family. Visitors can stroll through the neighborhood, stop and browse at retail stores, purchase merchandise, or stop at newsstands to chat with more than a dozen bloggers, read timely articles or listen to audio interviews with newsmakers and hometown heroes. At Jukebox, a new music feature in the neighborhood, visitors can listen to hundreds of new tunes and download them. A music directory lists dozens of musicians who are available for family reunions, concerts, weddings and other occasions. Besides the virtual neighborhood, yourLDSneighborhood.com produces an informative lifestyle newsletter four times a week delivering thought-provoking and inspiring ideas, and offers special marketing opportunities for artists, musicians and authors – as well as those interested in buying artistic works.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My head is filled with paint fumes 'cause I've been painting.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
(Clipart courtesy of http://www.christart.com)
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, YourLDSNeighborhood.com, EFY, Especially for Youth, music, CD, Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck, Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band)
TA-DA! (Sound of trumpet blowing.)
Normally I do a humorous blog, but occasionally a "once in a lifetime" opportunity comes along and I just have to tell you about it. Okay, maybe this is a "twice in lifetime" opportunity. I'm not sure. But whichever it is, you won't want to miss it.
Here's the press release:
yourLDSneighborhood.com wins distribution rights to 2008 Especially for Youth™ music CD; The disc will be available for sale starting August 23; Popular artists include Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band
Salt Lake City, Utah (August 5, 2008) The 2008 Especially for Youth™ CD, featuring the songs of local recording artists such as Jessie Clark Funk, Daniel Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band, will be available for commercial sale beginning August 16.
yourLDSneighborhood, which was awarded distribution rights to the popular CD, announced that the disc will be sold through its web site and at retail music stores along the Wasatch Front. The CD is a compilation of songs chosen to support the theme and focus of this year’s program “Steady and Sure” and has become a vital part of the EFY™ tradition. EFY™ is a summer program sponsored by the Church Educational System of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and held in locations through the U.S. and Canada.
Gaylen Rust, president and founder of yourLDSneighborhood.com, said the commercial release edition will contain an additional track not available on the CD distributed to EFY™ participants and feature more robust instrumental accompaniments. “Music is an integral part of a young person’s life and the songs on this CD really speak to the everyday challenges and exhilarating experiences that youth encounter. It’s uplifting and inspiring but also the kind of music that’s fun to listen to anytime. It’s also a way for teens unable to attend EFY™ to catch the spirit and joy of the whole EFY™ event.”
The “Steady and Sure” CD features 12 tracks including “Steady and Sure” – the title track on the disc by Jessie Clark Funk, as well as “Amazing Grace,” by Daniel Beck, “A Woman’s Heart,” by Felicia Wolf, “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee,” by Mindy Gledhill and “Dream Big,” by Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band. Other artists include Ben Truman, Megan Flinders, Greg Simpson, Hilary Weeks, Terry White, Tim Gates, and a group song “Hurrah for Israel,” by Daniel Beck, Megan Flinders, Jessie Clark Funk and Dan Kartchner.
yourLDSneighborhood.com is a new virtual neighborhood launched in November, 2007 where a wide variety of goods and services are sold from clothing and jewelry to sports, scrapbooking, travel, and things of interest to home and family. Visitors can stroll through the neighborhood, stop and browse at retail stores, purchase merchandise, or stop at newsstands to chat with more than a dozen bloggers, read timely articles or listen to audio interviews with newsmakers and hometown heroes. At Jukebox, a new music feature in the neighborhood, visitors can listen to hundreds of new tunes and download them. A music directory lists dozens of musicians who are available for family reunions, concerts, weddings and other occasions. Besides the virtual neighborhood, yourLDSneighborhood.com produces an informative lifestyle newsletter four times a week delivering thought-provoking and inspiring ideas, and offers special marketing opportunities for artists, musicians and authors – as well as those interested in buying artistic works.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My head is filled with paint fumes 'cause I've been painting.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
(Clipart courtesy of http://www.christart.com)
---
Endearing Young Charms ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, charms, flirt, restaurant, breakfast, Titan, feminine wiles, nose pierced, leather skirt, smoking, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The remaining leaves on the trees rustled like dried bones in the wind and the clouds resembled fingers of doom. My husband, Russ, and I ignored the omen and drove to a neighboring town for breakfast. When we walked into the restaurant, we noticed very few patrons. Ahhh, another sign.
We sat in a booth without removing our jackets. “It’s cold in here,” Russ said, blowing on his fingers to stave off frostbite.
I wiggled in my seat. “It feels like I’m sitting on a snow bank in Alaska. In fact, my … um … sitter is so numb, I can’t feel it.”
Russ eyed that portion of my anatomy with a raised eyebrow and tried not to laugh.
“Should we stay?” I whispered, my elbow landing in a sticky puddle of leftover syrup.
“Yes—I need to use the men’s room,” Russ said as the waiter walked toward us. We placed our order and Russ headed to the bathroom. I sat looking over my shoulder, watching the waiter press little buttons with pictures to indicate our choices.
Have you ever wondered about that? If the waiters need little pictures of food to punch in the order, what is the chef using to cook?
Engrossed in watching our server, I didn’t realize it appeared I was staring at the guy standing between us. Hearing his voice, I refocused my attention on the very large man. His jeans seemed held up by something unusual—either a rope, or a long, frayed snake. I wanted to determine which, but staring at his pants didn’t seem like a good idea. He might get the wrong message, walk over and sit with me.
His hair stuck straight up as if he’d combed it with a blender and he looked like he’d lost his razor somewhere in Fargo, North Dakota. As he continued to speak, I decided he was a trucker. The next thing I knew, he stood beside me.
“Boy, this state is really something,” he thundered. “They’ll sell you a pack of cigarettes, but they won’t let you smoke ‘em inside.”
I felt like saying if he didn’t like Utah, he could certainly feel free to keep driving. But he was really big, so instead I said, “Yes, that’s how it is here,” and looked away.
Despite my subtle signals, he rattled on. “We ought to do what they’re doing in California. Sign a petition that we’re being discriminated against!”
This nut was latching onto me. Where was Russ when I needed him? The behemoth seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer, so in a voice that could deep-freeze a hot tamale, I replied, “Well, I’m not a smoker, so you’re not going to get much help from me.”
Did he get my understated message? No. In a voice heard in Detroit he bellowed, “There’s some stadium in Michigan that’s being built with money from smokers and the place is going to be non-smoking. Non-smoking!” And then he belched.
I threw the woolly mammoth a look that should have skewered him. What—didn’t he hear me say, “I’m not a smoker so you’ll get no help from me?”
What was taking Russ so long? Was the little boy’s room in the gas station across the street? If he didn’t return soon, the man might think we were friends and eat half my ham and eggs.
Just then, Russ walked in, and though the Titan was a large man, he was fleet of foot. He scurried back to his table and never looked at me again.
“Where have you been?” I hissed. “That big guy over there wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Russ grinned. “He must have been attracted to your endearing young charms.”
Endearing young charms? Those disappeared ages ago. In fact, only two guys had flirted with me in the past decade—the rope-tied behemoth and an inmate at the state mental hospital who thought I was a fellow patient.
Things like that are hard on a gal’s ego. I’m not sure how to resurrect my feminine wiles, but I suppose I really should try.
Maybe I’ll get my nose pierced and buy a leather skirt. That should help.
What's playing in my head: Convoy (by C.W. McCall)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, charms, flirt, restaurant, breakfast, Titan, feminine wiles, nose pierced, leather skirt, smoking, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The remaining leaves on the trees rustled like dried bones in the wind and the clouds resembled fingers of doom. My husband, Russ, and I ignored the omen and drove to a neighboring town for breakfast. When we walked into the restaurant, we noticed very few patrons. Ahhh, another sign.
We sat in a booth without removing our jackets. “It’s cold in here,” Russ said, blowing on his fingers to stave off frostbite.
I wiggled in my seat. “It feels like I’m sitting on a snow bank in Alaska. In fact, my … um … sitter is so numb, I can’t feel it.”
Russ eyed that portion of my anatomy with a raised eyebrow and tried not to laugh.
“Should we stay?” I whispered, my elbow landing in a sticky puddle of leftover syrup.
“Yes—I need to use the men’s room,” Russ said as the waiter walked toward us. We placed our order and Russ headed to the bathroom. I sat looking over my shoulder, watching the waiter press little buttons with pictures to indicate our choices.
Have you ever wondered about that? If the waiters need little pictures of food to punch in the order, what is the chef using to cook?
Engrossed in watching our server, I didn’t realize it appeared I was staring at the guy standing between us. Hearing his voice, I refocused my attention on the very large man. His jeans seemed held up by something unusual—either a rope, or a long, frayed snake. I wanted to determine which, but staring at his pants didn’t seem like a good idea. He might get the wrong message, walk over and sit with me.
His hair stuck straight up as if he’d combed it with a blender and he looked like he’d lost his razor somewhere in Fargo, North Dakota. As he continued to speak, I decided he was a trucker. The next thing I knew, he stood beside me.
“Boy, this state is really something,” he thundered. “They’ll sell you a pack of cigarettes, but they won’t let you smoke ‘em inside.”
I felt like saying if he didn’t like Utah, he could certainly feel free to keep driving. But he was really big, so instead I said, “Yes, that’s how it is here,” and looked away.
Despite my subtle signals, he rattled on. “We ought to do what they’re doing in California. Sign a petition that we’re being discriminated against!”
This nut was latching onto me. Where was Russ when I needed him? The behemoth seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer, so in a voice that could deep-freeze a hot tamale, I replied, “Well, I’m not a smoker, so you’re not going to get much help from me.”
Did he get my understated message? No. In a voice heard in Detroit he bellowed, “There’s some stadium in Michigan that’s being built with money from smokers and the place is going to be non-smoking. Non-smoking!” And then he belched.
I threw the woolly mammoth a look that should have skewered him. What—didn’t he hear me say, “I’m not a smoker so you’ll get no help from me?”
What was taking Russ so long? Was the little boy’s room in the gas station across the street? If he didn’t return soon, the man might think we were friends and eat half my ham and eggs.
Just then, Russ walked in, and though the Titan was a large man, he was fleet of foot. He scurried back to his table and never looked at me again.
“Where have you been?” I hissed. “That big guy over there wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Russ grinned. “He must have been attracted to your endearing young charms.”
Endearing young charms? Those disappeared ages ago. In fact, only two guys had flirted with me in the past decade—the rope-tied behemoth and an inmate at the state mental hospital who thought I was a fellow patient.
Things like that are hard on a gal’s ego. I’m not sure how to resurrect my feminine wiles, but I suppose I really should try.
Maybe I’ll get my nose pierced and buy a leather skirt. That should help.
What's playing in my head: Convoy (by C.W. McCall)
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Milk of Amnesia ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, colonoscopy, medicine, doctor, amnesia, milk of amnesia, song, sing, Lola, Stuck in the Middle with You, inhibitions, surgery, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Like many of you, I’ve had a few medical procedures done. You might wonder why someone who wouldn’t normally tell her best friend that she even has a hangnail would tell the entire LDS community about her surgeries. I think that must be one of the side effects of inhibition-erasing drugs being injected into your veins. Doctors say the medication in the I.V. is to relax you, but we all know the truth. They don’t call it the “milk of amnesia” for nothing. You can bet no one is going to wear the hospital gown with the natural air conditioning in the back unless there’s a way to keep you from remembering that you paraded around and mooned everyone.
There’s no doubt in my mind why the doctor requests that you bring someone with you to the hospital, either. It’s not to drive you home. It’s so there’s a witness who can tell you the crazy things you did that you don’t remember.
For example, I had a colonoscopy a couple of years ago. I vaguely remember humming a tune that popped into my mind as I was getting dressed to go home. To hear my husband, Russ, tell it, I was singing the words to “Lola” at the top of my lungs. They could hear me all the way out to the parking lot.
“Lola” is a rather strange song to have stuck in my mind, and certainly not something I would sing to just anyone—even under normal circumstances. The lyrics aren’t obscene, but they are about a questionable subject … cross-dressers. It’s not a topic I’m particularly well-versed on, and admittedly, I should have been singing “I Am a Child of God.” But you can’t blame me; I was only singing what the I.V. dictated.
I did much better on the next colonoscopy. I kept reminding myself not to sing. You’ll be glad to know I accomplished the task. Not because I didn’t feel like singing, but when I offered to burst into song, everyone remembered my last rendition and refused to encourage me.
Did that deter me from trying to embarrass myself in some other venue? Not at all. Instead of singing, I spent my recovery time explaining—to everyone I passed in the halls—exactly which of my various, lower-body parts were working correctly. By the time we left the hospital, half the people in the hospital and twenty inmates from the prison knew that my bowels were in good, working order.
When my final surgery rolled around a month later, I was prepared. Not only did I remind myself not to sing but also not to talk about body parts. Instead, I concentrated on the whiteness of the hospital walls, the cheerfulness of the nurses and the kindness of the anesthesiologist as he explained that I wouldn’t remember a thing in just a few minutes.
This time I was sure I had it under control. And then a song popped into my head. That’s when I realized I must have a subconscious longing to perform karaoke, but it was too late to do anything about it.
Even so, I’m sure things would have been fine if only Russ hadn’t told the anesthesiologist about my previous experiences. The doctor smiled down at me and said, “So, the anesthesia makes you sing, huh? What song is in your mind right now?”
Well, what can you do when your doctor asks a question? You answer, right? I looked up at him and in my high-as-a-kite, drug-induced-haze replied, “Stuck in the Middle with You.” Considering the less-than-complimentary title of the song, I’m glad the doctor didn’t have a scalpel in his hand.
You can bet Russ has enjoyed mentioning my “milk of amnesia” experiences to all our friends in the ward—but I’ve found a way to keep him quiet. I just remind him of what he tried to do after his last visit to the hospital.
I’ve seen men run out in their underwear to move the lawn sprinkler. But until Russ’s surgery, I’d never seen a man try to walk, buck-naked, to the mailbox.
What's playing in my head: Stuck in the Middle with You (by Stealers Wheel)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, colonoscopy, medicine, doctor, amnesia, milk of amnesia, song, sing, Lola, Stuck in the Middle with You, inhibitions, surgery, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Like many of you, I’ve had a few medical procedures done. You might wonder why someone who wouldn’t normally tell her best friend that she even has a hangnail would tell the entire LDS community about her surgeries. I think that must be one of the side effects of inhibition-erasing drugs being injected into your veins. Doctors say the medication in the I.V. is to relax you, but we all know the truth. They don’t call it the “milk of amnesia” for nothing. You can bet no one is going to wear the hospital gown with the natural air conditioning in the back unless there’s a way to keep you from remembering that you paraded around and mooned everyone.
There’s no doubt in my mind why the doctor requests that you bring someone with you to the hospital, either. It’s not to drive you home. It’s so there’s a witness who can tell you the crazy things you did that you don’t remember.
For example, I had a colonoscopy a couple of years ago. I vaguely remember humming a tune that popped into my mind as I was getting dressed to go home. To hear my husband, Russ, tell it, I was singing the words to “Lola” at the top of my lungs. They could hear me all the way out to the parking lot.
“Lola” is a rather strange song to have stuck in my mind, and certainly not something I would sing to just anyone—even under normal circumstances. The lyrics aren’t obscene, but they are about a questionable subject … cross-dressers. It’s not a topic I’m particularly well-versed on, and admittedly, I should have been singing “I Am a Child of God.” But you can’t blame me; I was only singing what the I.V. dictated.
I did much better on the next colonoscopy. I kept reminding myself not to sing. You’ll be glad to know I accomplished the task. Not because I didn’t feel like singing, but when I offered to burst into song, everyone remembered my last rendition and refused to encourage me.
Did that deter me from trying to embarrass myself in some other venue? Not at all. Instead of singing, I spent my recovery time explaining—to everyone I passed in the halls—exactly which of my various, lower-body parts were working correctly. By the time we left the hospital, half the people in the hospital and twenty inmates from the prison knew that my bowels were in good, working order.
When my final surgery rolled around a month later, I was prepared. Not only did I remind myself not to sing but also not to talk about body parts. Instead, I concentrated on the whiteness of the hospital walls, the cheerfulness of the nurses and the kindness of the anesthesiologist as he explained that I wouldn’t remember a thing in just a few minutes.
This time I was sure I had it under control. And then a song popped into my head. That’s when I realized I must have a subconscious longing to perform karaoke, but it was too late to do anything about it.
Even so, I’m sure things would have been fine if only Russ hadn’t told the anesthesiologist about my previous experiences. The doctor smiled down at me and said, “So, the anesthesia makes you sing, huh? What song is in your mind right now?”
Well, what can you do when your doctor asks a question? You answer, right? I looked up at him and in my high-as-a-kite, drug-induced-haze replied, “Stuck in the Middle with You.” Considering the less-than-complimentary title of the song, I’m glad the doctor didn’t have a scalpel in his hand.
You can bet Russ has enjoyed mentioning my “milk of amnesia” experiences to all our friends in the ward—but I’ve found a way to keep him quiet. I just remind him of what he tried to do after his last visit to the hospital.
I’ve seen men run out in their underwear to move the lawn sprinkler. But until Russ’s surgery, I’d never seen a man try to walk, buck-naked, to the mailbox.
What's playing in my head: Stuck in the Middle with You (by Stealers Wheel)
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Definitely NOT the Colonel's chicken ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, pigs, pied piper, pork chop, ham hock, bacon, whistle, Wynken, Blynken, Nod, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Lately I’ve related two anecdotes from my exceptionally brilliant career as a chicken farmer. If you missed out and would like to read them, you'll find them at Not the Colonel's Chicken and Not the Colonel's Chicken, Part II.
It was during that hen-filled stint that some bright person gave the suggestion we should also raise pigs. The idea was so enticing that I talked my husband, Russ, into trying it.
********** “What shall we call them?” I asked, watching our new little pigs in their pen.
Russ grinned mischievously. “How about naming them Pork-Chop, Ham-Hock, and Bacon?”
I grimaced, covered the ears of our three-year-old and whispered to Russ, “Be careful what you say; Davey doesn’t know we’re going to eat them eventually.”
Russ whispered back, “When were you planning on telling him—as Pork-Chop was sitting on his plate?”
“Obviously before that,” I said, releasing our squirming son.
We watched the oinkers rooting around. Snorts of discovery echoed through the barn. Davey spoke, “We could call them the Three Little Pigs.”
I smoothed the blonde cowlick on his head and said, “That’s a story, Sweetie. It’s not really a name.”
The silence stretched between us as we pondered other ideas. Russ fidgeted, apparently tired of taxing his brain with pig names. “I still think that Pork-Ch—“
“—How about Winken, Blinken and Nod? That’s cute,” I said.
Davey nodded his agreement. Russ raised his eyebrows and stated, “That’s a bedtime story about kids going to sleep.”
“Pigs have to sleep, too, you know.” I harrumphed, waiting for a better suggestion.
Silence reigned. A mouse stuck its nose from under the water trough and then dashed for the feeder. Winken—or maybe it was Blinken; it’s very hard to tell three pink pigs apart—scrambled over, snatched the mouse and gulped it down before I could cover Davey’s eyes.
“Look, Mommy, the pig ate a mouse,” he said.
“Uggg,” I said.
“Cool,” Russ said.
“Cool,” Davey echoed.
And to think I was worried about his tender sensibilities.
My pig manual stated the animals were as smart as dogs. It was true. It didn’t take the porkers long to realize that when we picked up the trough, mice scrambled from beneath. The pigs dashed about, snorting and slurping down rodents. Hearing the ruckus, the cat slunk in. Apparently, oinkers have the ability to extrapolate information. They eyed the cat hungrily. From then on we kept the cat out of the barn.
One day an idea hit. “Why don’t we teach them to come to a whistle?”
Russ shook his head in disbelief. “You fed the chickens oatmeal and hotdogs. And tried to herd grasshoppers to them.”
“You told Daddy about herding the hoppers,” I accused, looking at Davey. He shrugged and grinned.
Russ continued, “The neighbors already think our grain elevator doesn’t go to the top. Now you want to train pigs to a whistle?”
“It might come in handy.”
“I’m sure. Maybe we could use them as substitute hunting dogs, too.” Russ replied.
Months later, we got a phone call. “Your pigs are loose.”
We hopped in the car and sped down the road to the next farmhouse. On arrival, we bailed out. There stood Winken, Blinken and Nod, munching ripe strawberries from the patch.
“Here piggies, nice piggies,” I called. They ignored me.
“Here piggies, stupid piggies,” Russ said. For obvious reasons, they ignored him. He watched the pigs with their berry-red lips and dirt-blackened snouts. “How’re we going to get them home?”
“Herd them,” I suggested.
Russ replied, “That’ll work about as well as a grasshopper roundup.”
Then it came to me. I gave their food whistle and all three turned with a grunt. They waddled over and stuck their snouts in the air, sniffing for scraps. Probably oatmeal or hot dogs.
Russ said, “Walk back with them and we'll follow in the car.”
I nodded and started down the road, whistling. Three one-hundred-pound pigs trooped behind in a line, snuffling and snorting all the way home. It was my agricultural moment of triumph.
I’ll freely admit to everyone—except Russ—that when it came to chickens, I was no Colonel Sanders. But hey … when it came to pigs, I was the best pied piper in the county.
What's playing in my head: This Little Piggy Went to Market (A Mother Goose Nursery rhyme)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, pigs, pied piper, pork chop, ham hock, bacon, whistle, Wynken, Blynken, Nod, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Lately I’ve related two anecdotes from my exceptionally brilliant career as a chicken farmer. If you missed out and would like to read them, you'll find them at Not the Colonel's Chicken and Not the Colonel's Chicken, Part II.
It was during that hen-filled stint that some bright person gave the suggestion we should also raise pigs. The idea was so enticing that I talked my husband, Russ, into trying it.
Russ grinned mischievously. “How about naming them Pork-Chop, Ham-Hock, and Bacon?”
I grimaced, covered the ears of our three-year-old and whispered to Russ, “Be careful what you say; Davey doesn’t know we’re going to eat them eventually.”
Russ whispered back, “When were you planning on telling him—as Pork-Chop was sitting on his plate?”
“Obviously before that,” I said, releasing our squirming son.
We watched the oinkers rooting around. Snorts of discovery echoed through the barn. Davey spoke, “We could call them the Three Little Pigs.”
I smoothed the blonde cowlick on his head and said, “That’s a story, Sweetie. It’s not really a name.”
The silence stretched between us as we pondered other ideas. Russ fidgeted, apparently tired of taxing his brain with pig names. “I still think that Pork-Ch—“
“—How about Winken, Blinken and Nod? That’s cute,” I said.
Davey nodded his agreement. Russ raised his eyebrows and stated, “That’s a bedtime story about kids going to sleep.”
“Pigs have to sleep, too, you know.” I harrumphed, waiting for a better suggestion.
Silence reigned. A mouse stuck its nose from under the water trough and then dashed for the feeder. Winken—or maybe it was Blinken; it’s very hard to tell three pink pigs apart—scrambled over, snatched the mouse and gulped it down before I could cover Davey’s eyes.
“Look, Mommy, the pig ate a mouse,” he said.
“Uggg,” I said.
“Cool,” Russ said.
“Cool,” Davey echoed.
And to think I was worried about his tender sensibilities.
My pig manual stated the animals were as smart as dogs. It was true. It didn’t take the porkers long to realize that when we picked up the trough, mice scrambled from beneath. The pigs dashed about, snorting and slurping down rodents. Hearing the ruckus, the cat slunk in. Apparently, oinkers have the ability to extrapolate information. They eyed the cat hungrily. From then on we kept the cat out of the barn.
One day an idea hit. “Why don’t we teach them to come to a whistle?”
Russ shook his head in disbelief. “You fed the chickens oatmeal and hotdogs. And tried to herd grasshoppers to them.”
“You told Daddy about herding the hoppers,” I accused, looking at Davey. He shrugged and grinned.
Russ continued, “The neighbors already think our grain elevator doesn’t go to the top. Now you want to train pigs to a whistle?”
“It might come in handy.”
“I’m sure. Maybe we could use them as substitute hunting dogs, too.” Russ replied.
Months later, we got a phone call. “Your pigs are loose.”
We hopped in the car and sped down the road to the next farmhouse. On arrival, we bailed out. There stood Winken, Blinken and Nod, munching ripe strawberries from the patch.
“Here piggies, nice piggies,” I called. They ignored me.
“Here piggies, stupid piggies,” Russ said. For obvious reasons, they ignored him. He watched the pigs with their berry-red lips and dirt-blackened snouts. “How’re we going to get them home?”
“Herd them,” I suggested.
Russ replied, “That’ll work about as well as a grasshopper roundup.”
Then it came to me. I gave their food whistle and all three turned with a grunt. They waddled over and stuck their snouts in the air, sniffing for scraps. Probably oatmeal or hot dogs.
Russ said, “Walk back with them and we'll follow in the car.”
I nodded and started down the road, whistling. Three one-hundred-pound pigs trooped behind in a line, snuffling and snorting all the way home. It was my agricultural moment of triumph.
I’ll freely admit to everyone—except Russ—that when it came to chickens, I was no Colonel Sanders. But hey … when it came to pigs, I was the best pied piper in the county.
What's playing in my head: This Little Piggy Went to Market (A Mother Goose Nursery rhyme)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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Not the Colonel’s Chicken, Part II, by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Not long ago, I related an anecdote from my exceptionally short career as a chicken farmer. If you missed it, visit "Not the Colonel's Chicken" in the archives for this site.
For those who’ve already read it, you’ll remember I had the brilliant idea to feed our flock of chickens left-over, cooked oatmeal. Waste not; want not—that’s my motto. The hens pecked at the glop, which collected into sticky wads that enlarged as the birds tried to clean their beaks in the dirt. From that experience, I learned poultry have the IQ of a grasshopper—which coincidentally, is how the next event occurred.
**********
“Hey look,” I said to my three-year-old son, Davey. “Chickens eat grasshoppers.” We watched the hens flapping their bronze-red wings as they zeroed in and fought over the helpless bug that had mistakenly leaped into the pen.
It gave me an idea. “We could herd grasshoppers to them,” I said with enthusiasm.
We walked into the weeds 20 feet away and waved our arms, trying to drive the long-legged hoppers into the pen. It was like trying to herd minnows. When we were done, we’d managed to shoo two beetles and a mosquito into a pen of 50 chickens. You can imagine the fight that ensued.
Giving up, Davey and I started back to the house to fix lunch. “Don’t tell Daddy we tried to herd grasshoppers,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“Because Daddy has this silly notion that Mommy comes up with crazy schemes.”
“Schemes? What’s a ‘schemes’?” he asked.
“The nutball ideas that Daddy thinks up,” I explained.
Lunch was hot dogs—not my favorite. We ended up with a few left on the plate. “What can we do with left-over hot dogs?” I asked Davey.
He replied, “Eat them for supper.” Obviously, a three-year-old is clueless about what constitutes a good meal.
I scratched my head. “Maybe we can feed them to the chickens.”
Davey nodded in agreement. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu.
I consulted my chicken manual. It didn’t say anything about feeding hot dogs to chickens—I don’t know why. Probably a lack of real-world education on the part of the author. But if the birds liked grasshoppers, hot dogs had to be fine.
Remembering the oatmeal fiasco—and opting not to give 50 chickens CPR because they were choking on whole wieners—I sliced the hot dogs into round, one inch pieces.
We marched to the coop, pieces of meat in hand and flung them into the pen. The hens gathered and clucked their excitement at something new.
No sooner was I back in the house when I heard Davey yell, “Mommy, Daddy, something’s wrong with the chickens!”
Definitely déjà vu.
My husband, Russ, and I raced to the hen house. The birds milled about, flapping their wings.
“They must be sick,” I said, watching them shake their heads as if they had palsy.
Russ looked puzzled. “They’ve got something stuck on their beaks.”
“That’s weird.” I replied, wondering if I could beat him back to the house before he figured it out.
“It looks like … like they’ve speared pieces of hot dog,” he said, peering intently at the birds. The hens “ba-wahked” softly as if trying to give him a clue. I turned and stepped toward the house, but before I had a chance to expand my talents as a sprinter, Russ grabbed my hand and said, “What have you tried now?”
“It’s perfectly logical,” I said. “Chickens eat grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are meat. Hot dogs are meat. Therefore, chickens eat hot dogs.”
“Yes, in small bits. Instead, you gave them a bulls-eye to peck.”
I looked at the hens, their beaks held fast by a ring of hot dog. “You know, I don’t think your suggestion of raising poultry was such a good one,” I said.
“My suggestion?” Russ dropped my hand in surprise.
I waved in the direction of the hens, which were still preoccupied with getting hot dogs off their beaks. “Yes, we’re not cut out to be chicken farmers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Russ replied.
“So the next time an idea like this comes up—” I stepped out of reach and flashed him a wicked grin, “—let’s raise pigs!”
What's playing in my head: The Oscar Mayer Wiener Song (Written by Richard D. Trentlage)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Not long ago, I related an anecdote from my exceptionally short career as a chicken farmer. If you missed it, visit "Not the Colonel's Chicken" in the archives for this site.
For those who’ve already read it, you’ll remember I had the brilliant idea to feed our flock of chickens left-over, cooked oatmeal. Waste not; want not—that’s my motto. The hens pecked at the glop, which collected into sticky wads that enlarged as the birds tried to clean their beaks in the dirt. From that experience, I learned poultry have the IQ of a grasshopper—which coincidentally, is how the next event occurred.
“Hey look,” I said to my three-year-old son, Davey. “Chickens eat grasshoppers.” We watched the hens flapping their bronze-red wings as they zeroed in and fought over the helpless bug that had mistakenly leaped into the pen.
It gave me an idea. “We could herd grasshoppers to them,” I said with enthusiasm.
We walked into the weeds 20 feet away and waved our arms, trying to drive the long-legged hoppers into the pen. It was like trying to herd minnows. When we were done, we’d managed to shoo two beetles and a mosquito into a pen of 50 chickens. You can imagine the fight that ensued.
Giving up, Davey and I started back to the house to fix lunch. “Don’t tell Daddy we tried to herd grasshoppers,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“Because Daddy has this silly notion that Mommy comes up with crazy schemes.”
“Schemes? What’s a ‘schemes’?” he asked.
“The nutball ideas that Daddy thinks up,” I explained.
Lunch was hot dogs—not my favorite. We ended up with a few left on the plate. “What can we do with left-over hot dogs?” I asked Davey.
He replied, “Eat them for supper.” Obviously, a three-year-old is clueless about what constitutes a good meal.
I scratched my head. “Maybe we can feed them to the chickens.”
Davey nodded in agreement. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu.
I consulted my chicken manual. It didn’t say anything about feeding hot dogs to chickens—I don’t know why. Probably a lack of real-world education on the part of the author. But if the birds liked grasshoppers, hot dogs had to be fine.
Remembering the oatmeal fiasco—and opting not to give 50 chickens CPR because they were choking on whole wieners—I sliced the hot dogs into round, one inch pieces.
We marched to the coop, pieces of meat in hand and flung them into the pen. The hens gathered and clucked their excitement at something new.
No sooner was I back in the house when I heard Davey yell, “Mommy, Daddy, something’s wrong with the chickens!”
Definitely déjà vu.
My husband, Russ, and I raced to the hen house. The birds milled about, flapping their wings.
“They must be sick,” I said, watching them shake their heads as if they had palsy.
Russ looked puzzled. “They’ve got something stuck on their beaks.”
“That’s weird.” I replied, wondering if I could beat him back to the house before he figured it out.
“It looks like … like they’ve speared pieces of hot dog,” he said, peering intently at the birds. The hens “ba-wahked” softly as if trying to give him a clue. I turned and stepped toward the house, but before I had a chance to expand my talents as a sprinter, Russ grabbed my hand and said, “What have you tried now?”
“It’s perfectly logical,” I said. “Chickens eat grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are meat. Hot dogs are meat. Therefore, chickens eat hot dogs.”
“Yes, in small bits. Instead, you gave them a bulls-eye to peck.”
I looked at the hens, their beaks held fast by a ring of hot dog. “You know, I don’t think your suggestion of raising poultry was such a good one,” I said.
“My suggestion?” Russ dropped my hand in surprise.
I waved in the direction of the hens, which were still preoccupied with getting hot dogs off their beaks. “Yes, we’re not cut out to be chicken farmers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Russ replied.
“So the next time an idea like this comes up—” I stepped out of reach and flashed him a wicked grin, “—let’s raise pigs!”
What's playing in my head: The Oscar Mayer Wiener Song (Written by Richard D. Trentlage)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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