Never Mix Perfume and Listerine ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Urban Botanic, parfum, perfume, fragrance, bath, body, lotion, funny, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


Image from Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic website.

Even though I had a cold last Saturday (January 24), I went to Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic Make and Take, anyway. It was a blast! I don't usually do the party thing—you know, Tupperware parties, Pampered Chef parties, Learn to Knit Underwear for Your Significant Other parties—and I want you to know I'm not just saying the Make and Take was fun in order to be polite.

For those of you who don’t know what an Urban Botanic Make and Take is, it’s a workshop that allows you to create your own fragrance for bath and body. With Urban Botanic’s patented method, you learn how to combine your favorite U.B. perfume oils until the fragrance is just right. Then, you add it to a base to make perfume, lotion, shower gel, and bubble bath.*

You don’t have to be a chemist or a rocket scientist to create a fragrance, nor do you need a college degree … you just need a nose.

Now that I’m a seasoned parfum maker, I have a few words of advice to offer for anyone who might be interested. No, not interested in hearing my sage advice, interested in going to one of Karlene’s parties.

1. Don't miss Karlene's next one.

2. Try not to have a cold, as a nose that feels like someone has packed two caribou and a grizzly bear up it is not helpful to your sniffing experience.

3. Do not take along Listerine Breath Strips to give you whiter teeth and fresher breath. After popping one of those in your mouth, it takes several swigs of water before the scents of lavendar, lemon, white musk, and juniper no longer smell like Listerine, Listerine, Listerine, and Listerine. (I know this because I innocently popped in a breath strip shortly after arriving at Karlene’s house.)

4. Ponder what you'd like to name your personal fragrance ahead of time.

The first fragrance I created consisted of an almond-strawberry infusion. It smelled lovely. I sat there inhaling it, dreaming of fairies riding through the woods in a strawberry coach pulled by tiny, cream-colored bunnies. In the middle of my fantasy, a woodland sprite appeared. Her hair shone in the sun like spun gold, and in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Karlene Browning, she said, "What will you name your creation?”

I shot out of the daydream like a stone from a slingshot. What? I had to name my fragrance? Why wasn’t I warned of this? Surely something as vital as naming a perfume required advance planning—something along the order of what’s required to run for President of the United States. There are tag lines … and sound bites … and photo ops … and … oh, wait. Maybe all I had to do was simply pick a name.

Then the pressure mounted. I’m a writer, and allegedly have an imagination. My special fragrance needed a name that sang, that had originality, rhythm, daring-do. I looked blankly at Karlene. “Umm, so, I have to call it something, huh?”

Karlene nodded.

I stared at my bottle of newly created parfum. I shook it, smelled it again and stalled for time. The clock ticked and the minutes crept by. Arrgg! Everyone is going to know I’m a fraud of a writer—I can’t think of a name!

Finally, out of desperation, I wrote down the only two words that came to mind for my custom-scented fragrance. I showed it to Karlene and said, “Will that work?”

Karlene smiled and said, “Yes, I think Almond-Strawberry does a good job of describing it.”

Five minutes too late, it came to me. “Wait, I know what it should be called—Woodland Sprite!”

Everyone grinned, nodded, and I felt vindicated as a writer. And as a fragrance creator.

Today, as I sit writing this blog entry, my new bottle of Urban Botanic parfum sits next to my keyboard. I’ve sprayed some on my wrists and would love to spend more time telling you about its mysterious, elusive scent … but my strawberry coach pulled by cream-colored bunnies awaits me and I must be off to the woods … to dance with the fairies and sprites.



*From Karlene Browning's Urban Botanic website.


What's playing in my head: Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles.

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NyQuil, Wonderful NyQuil

© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, illness, accident, cold, sore throat, black plague, medical theory, NyQuil, Band-Aid, Scope, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

It’s that time of year when illnesses and accidents abound, and when we rely on doctors and medicine to get us through colds, sore throats, and the black plague. However, I have noticed, on occasion, that the theoretical world of medicine and the real world of … well, the real world … clash.

Medical Theory: A cold will dissipate in seven days and an over-the-counter cold remedy helps alleviate symptoms.

Real Life: My cold improves in six days, but only to lull me into complacency. It leaps out in full force on the seventh day, causing my nose to drip—in church—when I have no tissues. I rush home and hunt for an over-the-counter remedy. I throw fluffy cotton balls and sturdy Q-tips onto the floor in my haste to find something that will help. Then a thought occurs to me. Pulling two Q-tips from the container, I stuff them halfway up my nose to temporarily stop the drip, and then go back to the hunt. Finally, in a dark corner of the linen closet, I find it. Aaahhh, NyQuil (sigh of relief), wonderful NyQuil, blessed NyQuil ... with an expiration date of January 2, 1964. I mumble, “Who cares? It will only work that much better,” and chug the whole bottle. Yes, now I feel less drippy. I explain to my husband, Russ, that he’ll need to fix supper because I’ll be too busy watching the pretty lights that circle my head like a halo. Sighing contentedly, I realize it’s better living through chemistry. I reach to scratch an itch on my upper lip …and accidentally poke myself in the eye.

Medical Theory: A minor cut, such as an accidental, shallow slice with a kitchen knife will heal with ointment and a Band-Aid.

Real Life: My shallow, minor cut drips a blood trail as I rush to the bathroom. I elevate the finger to avoid a significant loss of life-giving fluids and as the blood runs to my elbow, I try to open—one-handed and with my non-dominant hand—a box of Band-Aids. The box won’t open. Forgetting that I have a shallow, minor cut, I pound the box with my dominant hand. A pattern of blood spatter, worthy of a CSI Miami episode, flings across the wall. Electing to leave it there until my minor cut heals, I look for the first aid ointment. It’s a new tube … in a box. Giving up, I suck the blood from my finger until it quits bleeding.

Medical Theory: A facial blemish will heal quickly with an application of a topical anti-acne ointment.

Real Life: I wake up to a blemish the size of the Staten Island Ferry. Remembering the medical profession’s advice, I apply an anti-acne cream. My face turns red and develops blotches from the stuff. The blemish pulsates and burns. I wash off the cream, hoping that will help. The blotches on my face spread to my neck, and my lips swell. I look like an African Ubangi warrior.



The blemish, however, still shines like a lighthouse in the fog, so I try an old pioneer remedy—mouthwash. I pour Cool Mint Scope onto a cotton ball, and dab it on the blemish. Holy cow—it stings like fire! In a knee jerk reaction, I fling the bottle of Scope and the cotton ball. The mouthwash splashes all over the floor and the cotton ball sticks to the mirror. Stepping forward to remove it, my foot slips on the mouthwash. In a manner resembling Wile E. Coyote when he’s been bested by the Roadrunner, I flip in the air and tumble to the floor. A bump the size of Manhattan raises on my forehead, but at least now, no one will notice the blemish on my nose. I stagger out of the bathroom and down the hall, where I encounter Russ. He says, “Did you know you have a blemish? And how come you smell like mouthwash?”

Whereupon, I realize that Dr. Gregory House of the TV show, House, is actually just an actor named Hugh Laurie, and the medical profession's suggestions aren't really any more effective than a bottle of Scope.

(Disclaimer: This blog post is all in fun. Please do not chug NyQuil or stick Q-tips up your nose ... unless advised to by a member of the medical profession.)

What's playing in my head: Lime in the Coconut by Kermit the Frog.

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And while you're there, subscribe to our fantastic newsletter. In addition to being able to shop in the new virtual neighborhood, our newsletter brings you articles, products, services, resources and 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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A Contest You Might Find Interesting

Just wanted to take a quick minute of serious thought (a minute is about the longest I can stay serious)to let you know about a contest taking place on a fellow LDS author's blog: Not Entirely British by Anne Bradshaw.

From now until Feb. 28th, the contest is open to all mystery and suspense enthusiasts, and author, G. G. Vandagriff, is offering a set of her fascinating Arthurian Omen CDs as the prize.

To enter, click on this link, Not Entirely British and follow Anne's instructions. Good luck! (But not too much luck because I'm entering the contest, too! :)

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Dried Plum Digestive Month ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, holidays, observances, 2009, Presidential inauguration, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)



In the dreary days of January, when ice storms wipe out the power in half the country, and the credit card bills from Christmas wipe out the savings accounts in the other, it’s vitally important to have something to look forward to. Yes, I know I ended that sentence with a preposition, and no, I was not in reference to looking forward to the Presidential Inauguration. With all the media hype taking place, that’s more like looking forward to a root canal.

So, here it is—fresh from someone’s demented mind—a list of monthly, weekly, or daily reasons to party. And if it turns out you missed the celebration already, there’s always next year.

JANUARY MONTHLY OBSERVANCES

California Dried Plum Digestive Month (all month): First, let me point out that the California Dried Plum Board obviously is too ashamed to call a spade a spade. Or in this case, a prune a prune. I vote for renaming them the Old Dried Prune Board. And because of the effect that dried “plums” have on most of us—as well as to provide balance and harmony in the universe—I propose a National Kaopectate Month in February.

International Change Your Stars Month (all month): Okay, I’m game for this. I’d like to exchange the North Star for Betelgeuse. No, not BeetleJuice the movie, but the red, supergiant star whose name sounds a lot like BettleJuice.

Oh wait, maybe they didn’t mean that kind of star. In that case, I’d like to change my husband, Russ, into Cary Grant.

Hmm, that might be a problem since Cary Grant is dead. Guess I’ll take Pierce Brosnan instead.

Oatmeal Month (all month): I’m thinking they meant Oatmeal Cookie Month, because no one in their right mind would eat oatmeal for an entire month. Okay, I take that back, Russ would … but I did say, “no one in their right mind.”

JANUARY WEEKLY OBSERVANCES

Silent Record Week (Jan. 1-7): What kind of records? Computer records? Criminal records? Vinyl records? Your guess is as good as mine … but ssshh, guess quietly.

Cuckoo Dancing Week (Jan. 11-17): I’m not sure if the National Cuckoo Board means dancing with the cuckoos in the clock, or the cuckoos in the mental hospitals. At any rate, I’m sure I’d prefer performing the foxtrot with a little wooden bird, over attempting the tango with a guy wielding a chain saw.

Oh, maybe I should send that idea in to Tom Bergeron and Dancing with the Stars. Freddie Krueger could be one of their celebrity dancers.

National No Tillage Week (Jan. 14-17): With the possible exceptions of the residents of Texas (home of Tommy Lee Jones, Gila monsters, and rattlesnakes), Florida (home of the hanging chad and alligators big enough to eat a man), and California (home of the “Governator”), I doubt anyone in the U.S will have a problem not tilling during these short four days.

Yah, sure, you betcha … especially in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 frozen lakes … and in Salt Lake City, the land of the frozen inversion.


JANUARY DAILY OBSERVANCES

Judgment Day (Jan. 17): You can all breathe a sigh of relief. Judgment Day was last Saturday and since you’re here, reading this, you were not banished to outer darkness.

Answer Your Cats’ Questions Day (Jan 22): Honest, I am not making this up, because if I were, it would be called, Ask Your Cat a Question Day. I always wanted to know what mouse tastes like … but not enough to try one.

Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day (Jan. 26): Let me just say, for the record, that I am eternally grateful for bubble wrap. But not as grateful as I am that Judgment Day is over and I’m still here.


What's playing in my head: Day-O by Harry Belafonte.

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Flu-written, Not Flea-ridden ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2009

(Keywords: Cindy Beck, flea, flu, sick, influenza, CDC, ice cream, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)



My blog entry today is flu-written. No, I did not say flea-ridden. Flea-ridden is what happens when you saddle a flea and ride it. Flu-written means you wrote something while coughing your head off and wishing you’d gotten the influenza shot last fall. You know—the vaccination the CDC now thinks was for the wrong viral strain.

Since some of you may actually be coughing and hacking yourself, I thought I’d share a list of items that make it easier to function while living with, or dying of, the flu.

1. Laptop computer. Lie on the couch and prop your laptop on your knees. In your weakened condition, you would slide onto the floor if you tried to sit at a desk, anyway. Play a few computer games to sharpen your mind for your upcoming nap.

2. Kleenex. The closer the box sits, the quicker you stop drips. For ease of use, place the box on your forehead. Expect that in your hazy condition, the trashcan will appear farther away than it actually is, so save your energy and drop the used tissues on the floor. When your spouse asks about the three-foot-deep layer of wadded Kleenex, blame the kids. If he/she notices “Gorg, the Barbarian Warrior,” is loaded on your laptop and asks why, say you’re balancing the checkbook online.

3. Motrin. The bigger the better—a giant, 5000 mg tablet would definitely stop the ache in your joints—but then, it might be tough to get that down your sore throat. Try dipping it in honey first.

4. Cough medicine—the kind whose label warns of a visit by drug enforcement officers if you tell anyone it's in the house. Take a tablespoon or six and watch how quickly your cough stops. Lick the drip on the edge of the bottle, just to insure you’ve had enough. You might see pretty lights and feel sleepy. Gorg, the Barbarian, may jump off the screen and actually speak to you. Don’t worry; it’s just the effects of the flu. Take a few more tablespoons of cough syrup to counteract it.

5. Ice cream. Ignore your doctor’s orders to avoid sugar because it inhibits healing. What does he know? His thirty years of study at Harvard haven’t made him any smarter than you. Consume a gallon or two of Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream—just to prove him wrong and cheer you up.

6. Thermometer. This is the most important item in your flu-fighting arsenal. Take your temperature every few minutes. If it shows normal, run it under really hot water to kill the germs. Then, look at it again. See? You’ve got a temperature of 210degrees! It’s a wonder you even have the strength to wad up Kleenex. If your spouse asks you to walk the dog or run to the grocery store, reply with a racking cough and the words, “But, I’m a sickie with a fever.” Your partner needs to understand you’re far too weak to do anything but sit and chat with Gorg, the Barbarian.

I hope these tips have helped. I’m sure I could think of more, but the thermometer shows I’m running a temperature, so I can’t do work of any kind. Besides, it’s been five minutes since my last dose of cough syrup and I’d better take a cup or two.

Aaahh, that’s better.

Oh, and one more thing. Before I leave to get a gallon of ice cream from the freezer ... Gorg, the Barbarian, says to tell you hello.

(Disclaimer: This blog is all in fun. Do not consume large amounts of Motrin or cough syrup, no matter how bad your symptoms. But hey, the gallon of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream might be okay.)

What's playing in my head: A legion of germs, making me all "snuffed up" (as my granddaughter would say) and achy.

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Faster than a Speeding Building ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2009

(Keywords: Cindy Beck, games, tag, Superman, greased lightning, Karlene Browning, world peace, Scouting, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


You may recall me saying before that I love the game of tag. When it came to playing it as a kid, my friends thought I was Superman. Yup, able to run faster than a speeding building and jump a single bullet in a bound. Or something like that.

Well, okay, maybe my speed wasn't quite up there with Superman, but I was as fast as greased lightning.

All right, all right, probably not even greased lightning … more like a greased caterpillar. Which explains why I haven’t written up the “Eight Things” that Karlene Browning (InkSplasher) tagged me with on December 5th. As a greased caterpillar, I have a very hard time keeping my feet under me, much less moving forward.

Listed below are “Eight Things,” which I’m sure you’ll find amusing, amazing, and amazonian. Well, not really amazonian. I just used that word because it started with “A” and went well with amusing and amazing.

Eight Things I’m Looking Forward To:

1. A new U.S. presidency.

You’ll notice I didn’t say which president, or in what year. And nope, I’m not going to tell you which candidate I voted for.

Wait, that last sentence is structured incorrectly. A good writer should never end a sentence with a preposition. And while I have no clue what a preposition is, I don’t want to use one of them to end my sentences with.

Back to whom I voted for. I’m not going to tell you because my momma didn’t raise no dummy, and if I tell, someone might use a rock to hit me in the head with.

2. World peace.

Hmm, hasn’t every Miss America since the Stone Age asked for peace? Now that I think about it, that explains why Utah’s Miss Farm Hand never won the crown. The judges thought she asked for whirled peas.

3. An end to hunger.

I’m thinking Utah’s Miss Farm Hand could help by planting her whirled peas all over the earth. She’d be like Johnny Appleseed, who walked around with a pot on his head, planting apple seeds across the land.

I’ve always thought of Johnny Appleseed as a true conservationist, who left a legacy in apple trees for all those who followed. Russ thinks he was a nut, hearing voices that commanded him to wear a pot as a chapeau.

4. Wow, I still have three more things to list?

I don’t think I’m gonna make it.

5. A warm and wonderful spring.

When we were young and dating, my someday-to-be husband, Russ, used to write poetry for me—verse like, “Pumpkin seed better than weed, but prune juice set you free.” I appreciated it. I loved it.

I had no clue what it meant.

Now that I think about it, I’d say he compares to Browning. No, not the poet—the rifle.

One year Russ recited this limerick for me:

Spring is sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where the flowers is.

They be not here,
They be not there,
I guess they bees not anywhere.

It sounded just like something he would create, so at the time I assumed the thoughts were his own. Imagine my surprise to discover, many years later, that he was not the original author. Imagine my relief to find that somewhere, some poor woman had a husband just like mine, whose poetry was … well … unique. Only his name was Anonymous instead of Russ.

6. Wow, I still have two more things to list?

I wonder if I’m going to make it.

7. Being released from Scouting.

The bishop asked me to take over as the Bear Cub Scout Leader. Me, a gray-haired, under-tall-rather than-over-weight ol’ lady whose age is pushing … well … let’s just say I ain’t a spring chicken. Tomorrow I’ll run the first meeting with six little boys in attendance. Cute little boys, fun little boys, exuberant little boys.

It's not the little boys that are the problem. It's all that Scouting paperwork.

8. Finishing this blog entry.

I’m looking forward to completing this article, along with finishing the bag of tortilla chips on my desk. Once the chips are gone, I look forward to finishing the Cheetos, Fritos, and Cadbury bar in my pantry. Ooo, and Twinkies. There must be Twinkies in that pantry, somewhere.

As it turns out, there were supposed to be five or six topics of eight things in the game. Stuff like, “Eight things on my wish list, eight TV shows I like to watch, eight things that happened yesterday,” etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc. (For those of you who like meaningless statistics, you’ll notice I used eight etceteras.)

It seems I must be just a little long-winded, though, and the first group of, “Eight Things I’m Looking Forward To” took approximately 800 words. But then again, who’s counting?

At some point in the future, I’ll do the others. In the meantime, just remember … pumpkin seed better than weed, and prune juice set you free … for whatever good that does you.

Oh yeah, and it's my hope that until then, we'll have whirled peas.


What's playing in my head: The Johnny Appleseed Song by Dennis Day.

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Never Kiss a Llama ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, advice, llama, loogie, shower, fire, battery, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

In today’s frustrating world of plague, pestilence, and boys’ pants that fall off their butts, life can seem annoying and exasperating. Therefore, out of the kindness of my heart and love for my readers—okay, mostly because I had a blog due for the Neighborhood—I thought I’d share a few things I’ve learned that make life easier.

1. No matter how cuddly they look, never kiss a llama.



I’m sure the logic here is clear, but if not, I’ll expound. Llamas like to spit. I don’t mean just flinging a small dab of saliva; I mean the real thing. As they say in the hood, “That dude can hock a loogie!”



Although I’ve never actually been nailed by a llama, I’ve had close encounters of the worst kind. Take my word for it, the last thing you want is a blob of llama loogie hanging from your lips.

2. Never shower naked. As soon as you do, a fire will start in your kitchen or a terrorist will blow up your car, at which point you’ll be forced to jump out of the shower and run through the house as naked as the day you were born. Only taller and a whole lot heavier. And dripping a lot more water.

Even though no one has blown up my car lately … okay, ever … my hot water heater once developed a sudden urge for toasted marshmallows and lit the wall on fire—while I was in the shower. And naked, of all things. I’d tell you more about it, but I have to save some thoughts for another day.

3. Never lick frosting off a sharp knife. (I’ve referred to this fleetingly in the past, and you can read about it here.) The other day I noticed my knives felt dull, so I thought it safe to use a steak knife as a spatula, and frosted a cake with it. Since food on a knife-turned-spatula does not count as real food, there are no calories. Grasping this perfect opportunity by the horns …er, I mean, handle … I ran my tongue over the creamy chocolate that covered the dull edge. Kemo Sabe now speak with forked tongue.

4. Never recharge a battery by attaching it to wires and sticking them in an electrical outlet. This may seem elementary to most people, but not to my whiz-kid son, who tried it. The loud “zzzzzzzzzt” and the fact that the lights flickered should have been a clue for him. I think, however, it was the singed eyebrows that convinced him it wasn’t such a hot idea. Or maybe that it was a hot idea!

No, I am not a neglectful mother. He was working on a Scouting merit badge. No, the merit badge instructions did not suggest he stick wires into an electrical outlet. He came up with that bright idea on his own.

5. Never pray for snow. Just before Christmas, my friend, Nichole Giles, bought snow toys for her kids. Pleasant Grove was snowless, so she asked me to pray for the fluffy stuff. I’m sure it was because she felt I had a hotline to heaven. Okay, maybe not. It was probably because she knows I have faith in prayer. Well, all right, it wasn’t that either. It was because I happened to be the one she was emailing at the time.

Before I had the chance to even do much more than think about praying for snow, the stuff started falling … and falling … and falling. Nichole pleaded with me to stop praying. (See Nichole’s Musings.)

Another friend who lives in Pleasant Grove, Karlene Browning, will come after me with an Uzi (not that she's the violent type or anything) when she finds out I'm the one who is at least partially responsible for the fluffy-turned-despicable stuff that fell in her backyard. All seventeen inches of it. (See InkSplasher.)

Honest, I didn’t ask for that much snow! However, I do apologize to the entire town of Pleasant Grove, Utah (population 29,376) and promise I’ll never even think about praying for snow again.

But hey … if they need rain in the spring, they should feel free to call me.


What's playing in my head: The Rain, the Park and Other Things by the Cowsills. (I must be longing for spring if that song is in my head.)

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A Country Boy... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, music, jukebox, John Denver, country, suburbs, camping, RV, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)




They say you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. I'm here to tell you it's true for those raised in the suburbs, as well.

It was our first campout, and being raised in suburbia, my husband, Russ, didn’t realize that the sun rose early, and birds started chirping at 4:00a. The man who slept through buses rumbling past the house at all hours of the night, and snoozed through parties happening around him, couldn't sleep past 5:00a because of Mother Nature’s noises.

Russ got up, pulled on jeans and a flannel shirt, unzipped the tent and peeked out the door.

His brother-in-law, Bob—who’d invited us on the campout—peeked back from a nearby tent. So it was, while the rest of the campers slumbered on in innocent bliss, unaware of what was about to transpire, the two of them stepped forth into the chilly morning air and wandered over to the campground’s pavilion.

Sitting in a corner of the pavilion, calling out to them, was a jukebox.

I know, that doesn’t sound like camping … a pavilion with a jukebox sounds more like a 1950’s diner. At any rate, the music called out and they strolled over to it. Looking over the selections, Russ saw one by John Denver, whom he really liked.

Russ searched his pockets and found a quarter. Yup, one quarter was all it called for, because this was back during the age of dinosaurs, when gasoline was fifty cents a gallon, a loaf of bread was … well … I don’t know how much it was, but it was cheap. And milk came from the cow.

Okay, you got me there. Milk still comes from the cow, but now it’s pasteurized, homogenized, specialized, and all manner of “ized.”

The quarter clinked as Russ deposited it, then the jukebox whirred softly, its arm hovering over the 45’s until it found the correct one.

Wait. Maybe I’d better back up. For those of you who grew up with MP3 players and iPods, a jukebox is a flashy machine that sits in fast food joints (and under one camping pavilion, in one forsaken campground, in one corner of the northern hemisphere) so that the customers can purchase tunes, which they listen to while eating.

No, they don’t carry the jukebox around with them, attached to their ears by a little wire.

No, they don’t download anything.

No, the music isn’t in a Window’s media file format. It’s scratched into a vinyl thinga-ma-bobby that’s about six inches in diameter. It’s called a 45. No, not a 45 caliber, just a 45.

Back to Russ and the jukebox. As I said before, the jukebox whirred softly, its arm hovered over the glistening vinyl records and with a clunk, it pulled out John Denver and plopped him onto the turntable.

Well, it didn’t plop John Denver himself onto the turntable, it plopped his recording there.

Russ smiled at Bob in anticipation. Bob smiled back. The arm in the jukebox slowly lowered …

No, no, not a human arm—this is not a Stephen King novel—the mechanical arm slowly lowered, its needle touched the vinyl with a soft scritch and …

“Well, life on the farm is kinda laid back, ain't much an old country boy like me can’t hack.”

The words of the song blared from the speakers, and bounced off tents and camping trailers.

People sprang from their sleeping bags. Some grabbed guns, while others leaped out of their recreational vehicles through screened windows and dashed headfirst into the support poles of their RV awnings.

Russ and Bob looked at each other with wide eyes, and ran for all they were worth, back to our campsite. They arrived huffing and puffing, out of breath, just as John Denver’s last line echoed across the campground.

“Thank God I’m a country boy. Yeeeee ha!”

In the stunned silence that followed, Russ whispered, “Dang, I didn’t expect it would sound so loud.”

If it were me at that jukebox, I’d have played something civilized, like “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” by the Beatles, and I would’ve checked the volume before I dropped in the quarter.

But not Russ.

And it just goes to show you. You can take the boy out of the suburbs, but you can’t take him out in the country … because given the chance, he’ll wake everyone up.

What's playing in my head: Thank God I'm a Country Boy by John Denver.

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A Blank Slate ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2009
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, New Year's resolutions, lose weight, exercise, chocolates, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)




One of life’s joys is that a new year rolls around once every 365 days, thereby giving us a blank slate on which to scribble utterly unattainable goals for self-improvement. Things like, lose ten pounds or exercise seven days a week.

One of my blogging friends from the Neighborhood, Cheri Crane, suggested making a list of “things I have accomplished” over the past year, instead of making resolutions. That way, we have positive reinforcement to refer to during the upcoming months. And that’s what I’ve decided I’d do.

Okay, not really, but Cheri had such good ideas that I thought if I slipped in her blog address, you might go check it out.

This year, I’ve come up with totally achievable goals that I intend on keeping. Here—in no particular order and at no cost to you—are a few that you can feel free to add to your own compilation. Just send me two dollars and a box of chocolates for each resolution used.

1. Gain ten pounds.
2. Oh what the heck, why be stingy? Gain fifteen.
3. Vaccuum once a month.
4. Forget vacuuming and use a broom.
5. Throw out the broom and talk hubby into doing the cleaning.
6. Take more naps.
7. Take longer naps.
8. Forget the naps and stay in bed all day.
9. Eat more junk food.
10. Take more vitamins to offset the junk food.
11. Throw out the vitamins and drink eggnog instead.
12. Spend more money.
13. What money? The stock market decline ate it all.
14. Open more charge accounts.
15. Buy stuff on credit.
16. Feel guilty about buying stuff on credit but keep it anyway.


Now that I look at it, perhaps goals that I’m certain to achieve aren’t such a good idea. Let’s go back to Cheri’s idea of a list of “things I have accomplished” in the past year.

1. Breathed in and out.
2. Grew older.
3. Turned grayer.
4. Gained ten pounds.
5. Hey, ten pounds was on my other list, too!
6. Forgot where I put important papers.
7. Found the papers, but overlooked their significance and threw them out.
8. Made appointments to receive visiting teachers.
9. Forgot and left the house five minutes before they arrived.
10. Took less vitamins and drank more eggnog.
11. Hey, eggnog was on my other list, too.
12. Cursed the darkness instead of lighting a candle.
13. Lit the candle and almost burned the house down when it fell over.
14. Tried fruitcake.
15. Hated fruitcake.
16. Used fruitcake for a doorstop.


I hope that in some small way, I’ve encouraged you to make a list for the new year. Even if it’s only a shopping list. Or, on the positive reinforcement side, a record of dates that your home teachers actually came. No, wait, that might not have anything on it.

Whatever type of list you decide upon, bear in mind that it doesn’t matter what’s on it. You just want to be able to say that you made one. And if you can’t come up with any ideas of your own, feel free to borrow mine.

Just remember to send the chocolates.

What's playing in my head: None. I've resolved to ignore the voices in my head this year!:o)

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A New Year’s Eve Tale ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, New Year's Eve, power, electricity, failure, lantern, Corky Porky Pie, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

New Year’s Eve—a time for setting goals and reviewing past events. Or for sitting in the dark because the power disappeared in a blinding flash. Well, maybe not exactly a flash—more like a few winks and a blink.



“It’s hard to believe it’s New Year’s Eve,” I said to my husband, Russ. “How shall we celebrate?”

He twisted from side to side, reminiscent of something from “The Exorcist” and said with a groan, “I’m celebrating by lying on a heating pad. My back’s killing me.”

“Old fogey,” I muttered, stretching out on the TV room couch for a pre-bedtime nap. It’s hard to snooze, though, when someone in the room keeps muttering and groaning. Not to mention the noise Russ was making. I sat up and peeked through the curtains. The falling rain had turned to icy snow in the dark.

“What year are we moving into?” I asked.

“I’m not sure—maybe 2005,” Russ said.

That’s what happens when you get older. Your memory goes south and each year seems the same as the next. On the upside, however, you can hide your own Easter eggs.

Russ popped in a video. Just as it got interesting, the lights flickered and … the room went dark. I looked out the window again. The whole town was as black as a bucket of pitch.

Grabbing a flashlight, I turned it on. Nothing. I pondered the mysteries of life. Who am I? Where did I come from? Why do flashlight batteries never work when you need them?

Snatching another one, I clicked the button. A dim light the size of a pea shone forth. I ran and grabbed the emergency lantern, then hurried back to the TV room. Struggling to understand the Chinese symbols that explained how to operate it, I leaned close and turned the knob.

Click! The lantern’s 10,000 watts blasted straight into my eyeballs. I fell back onto the couch, and for a few seconds saw nothing but a white light at the end of a tunnel. At first, I thought I’d gone to the next life, but I could hear Russ laughing and feel Corky Porky Pie, our dog, hopping on and off me, so I knew I was still alive.

Eventually, my pupils dilated beyond the size of a dust speck, and normal vision returned. In the meantime, Russ turned on the battery-operated radio in hopes of catching the local news. Instead, we listened to a song that expressed the singer’s grief at his pickup truck rusting and his horse catching a cold.

Just then, the emergency lantern—the one that was so good at blinding people—flickered and died. Russ wandered off in search of matches to light his way to the bathroom, while I contemplated stomping the lantern to smithereens.

It’s a good thing the radio announcer came on at that minute and that he has such a soothing voice. It calmed my stomping impulses. Instead, I pondered the mysteries of life. Who am I? Where did I come from? Why didn’t we charge the lantern months ago?

My thoughts broke as Russ walked in and said, “Just think of all those people in the valley who are standing around at dances, in the dark. Aren’t you glad we were old fogies tonight?”

“At least they could huddle together in a big group for warmth,” I muttered through chattering teeth. Then a thought hit me. “I’m going to the bedroom to turn on the electric blanket.”

Russ watched with a grin as I headed upstairs. After two steps, I turned back sheepishly. “Oops, no electric blanket, either,” I said. “It’s funny what we do out of habit.”

The power failure only lasted about an hour and a half. Bless their hearts, the power company employees gave up their parties, went out in the weather and restored service.

Our celebration wasn’t the way we’d planned it that year, but it was certainly worth recording for posterity. And much more exciting than watching a video.

Which reminds me—New Year’s Eve 2009 is approaching fast and I’ve got to skedaddle. Russ needs my help hooking our electric blanket up to a generator.

(Happy 2009 to all. May the new year bring happiness, health, and prosperity!)


What's playing in my head: What are You Doing New Year's Eve? by Marie Osmond and Greg Evigan.

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Blisters on My Mittens ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, snow, shovel, mittens, dog, Corky Porky Pie, write, pencil, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)



Everyone has their own method for shoveling snow. Some get out their blower, while others retrieve their shovel from the garage. I get out a ratty ol’ broom with bristles that are four-inch stubs.

It’s not that a broom is superior to a snow shovel; it’s that my dog, Corky Porky Pie, thinks the broom is a wild animal and loves to chase it. For every foot of concrete that I brush snow off, he kicks two feet back on. And my neighbors are treated to the sight of me swinging a broom with a stubby dog latched onto the bristles.

After twenty minutes, my muscles are tired. Sweeping with a twenty-five pound dog attached is like sweeping with a bowling ball—and just about as effective. Since Corky is too dizzy to hold on anymore, I put him in the house.

I think about quitting, but determination sets in. Despite the stitch in my side and the ache that radiates across my chest and down my left arm, I continue to sweep and push snow. Halfway through, I pull out my cell phone and consider calling for an ambulance but no … by golly, I’m not giving up.

I take a breather, and wonder if all this cold air is destroying my bronchial tubes. “Why do I keep going, when I could be inside eating chocolate cake and drinking hot cocoa?” I ask myself.

“Because eating cake for breakfast isn’t very nutritious,” I answer. It seems that me, myself, and I, are quite good conversationalists.

Back to sweeping I go, and the stitch in my side feels like an appendicitis attack, but I will not let the snow win. I am determined. I am sweeper, hear me roar.

An hour later, the job is done. My mittens have blisters, my nose is frozen and my boots are encased in ice, but I have triumphed. The front step is cleared. There are only two sidewalks and the driveway to go, but those can wait for another day. I feel like a returning hero … and my cake and hot cocoa are calling to me.

I’ve decided that there’s a big similarity between shoveling snow and writing. Everyone has their own method for writing. Some speak their thoughts into a recorder, while others type them into a computer. I use a pencil.

It’s not that a pencil is superior to other writing instruments; it’s that every room in my house has one. Furthermore, I don’t have to plug it in, turn it on, or check it for viruses.

Shortly after I sit down to work, my husband is treated to the sight of me twirling the pencil between my fingers and tossing it in the air, over and over again. It’s not that I’m practicing to be a majorette; it’s that I can’t think of anything to write.

After twenty minutes of staring at a blank page, my eyes get tired. My hand has a charley horse from writing words and then erasing them. The going is so slow that I feel like my pencil is filled with lead.

I think about quitting, but determination sets in. Despite the throbbing in my eyes, the numbness in my wrist and the pounding in my head, I go on. Halfway through, I pull out my cell phone and consider calling for a ghost writer, but no … by golly, I’m not giving up.

I take a breather and wonder if all this eraser dust is clogging my bronchial tubes. “Why do I keep going, when I could be eating Twinkies and drinking chocolate milk?” I ask myself.

“Because too many Twinkies give you hips like an elephant,” I answer.

Back to writing I go, and the ache in my wrist feels like carpal tunnel, but I will not give up. I am determined. I am writer, hear me roar.

An hour later, the job is done. My pencil has blisters, my vision is blurred, and my feet feel like they’ve been encased in ice for lack of movement, but I have triumphed. The first paragraph is written. There are only thirty chapters and a title to go, but those can wait for another day. I feel like a returning hero.

And my Twinkies and chocolate milk are calling to me.


What's playing in my head: Nothing, because I'm too full of eggnog for my brain cells to function!

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A Tisp ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Christmas, newlywed, cookies, tsp, tisp, holiday memories, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)



Words are magical. Even when they’re nonsensical—like mairzy doats and dozy doats or supercalifragilisticexpialidocious—they stick with you, following you wherever you go, popping up at the oddest times.

Being filled with Christmas cheer one year, my husband, his mother and I were making Christmas cookies. Russ and I were newlyweds and still learning each other’s enduring young charms. That explains why I made the mistake of letting him read the ingredients out loud while his mom and I put them in the bowl.

It wasn’t that I was naïve about his abilities; I’d already watched his gift wrapping skills at work. He would enclose a present in layers of wrapping paper and tape, which became more wrinkled and wadded as he worked with it. No matter what the initial shape, when he was finished it was lumpy and round.

His version of a bow was ribbon crisscrossed several times around the package and tied in a knot. For some reason, the bow always had a dangling six-inch tail and the cat attacked it every time she walked in the room. It’s no wonder all the packages under the tree looked like they’d been fed through a paper shredder two weeks before Christmas.

But I thought it safe to let him read the cookie recipe. After all, how much could he goof up reading a few lines on a three-by-five index card?

Things went well for the butter, sugar and flour. I suppose those were words Russ had learned in middle school, and with which he had some familiarity. It was the measurement for the baking soda that was the problem.

“You need to put in one tisp of baking soda.” Russ wriggled his eyebrows on the word tisp as if disclosing some great mystery. He was right, a tisp was a mystery.

His mom and I looked at each other. Russ’s mom is a wonderful person and wouldn’t dream of making him feel bad. “That sounds like a lot of baking soda. Are you sure it’s not supposed to be a half a tisp?” she asked.

I stared at her in amazement. What in the heck was a tisp? I was sure she had no clue, but I admired her ability to bluff. And I had to ask myself why she was spending her time as a career secretary in the postal service, when she could have been winning her millions as a poker player in Las Vegas.

I jiggled the box of baking soda. It powder-puffed into the air and made me sneeze, but didn’t do much to clear my brain. Stalling for time, I checked the expiration date on the side but since it didn’t say “expires in a tisp,” I was at a loss.

In all my years of Catholic girls’ school, I’d never heard of a tisp. So why would the Catholic boys know something the Catholic girls didn’t? The boys didn’t even have to take Home Economics 101. They learned useless things in class ... like how to make their armpits belch, or the best way to get a spitball to stick to the ceiling, or how to convince a girl to kiss them behind the bleachers.

Leaning over, I took the card from his hand and skimmed it quickly. I couldn’t find the word tisp anywhere, so asked Russ to show it to me. He pointed to the line where the recipe clearly stated, “1 tsp. baking soda.”

The mistake gave us a giggling fit and pretty soon we were having such a good time we began throwing balls of cookie dough onto the baking sheet from five feet away. It was just as effective as flattening them with a fork like the recipe suggested—and a great deal more fun.

Many years have passed, and words have even more meaning now than before. A word can make me a kid on roller skates again, or bring back the memory of the fragrance of a summer’s night. The right word can bring tears to my eyes. A simple word can even make me feel like a newlywed on Christmas Eve again.

And you can’t ask for more than that from a tisp.

(Wishing all of you a Christmas filled with memories that you'll cherish in the years ahead!)

What's playing in my head: We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

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'Twas the Night Before Christmas

(With apologies to Clement C. Moore)

Adapted by Cindy Beck, © 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Christmas, Clement Moore, cold, flu, sneezing, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)





'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Every creature was sneezing, including the mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that some Kleenex soon would be there.

The children were stuffy, asleep in their beds,
While visions—from Sudafed—danced in their heads.
And Mom with her cough drops, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a few minute's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter . . .

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid day to objects below,
When, what to my watering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight sneezing reindeer,

With a little old driver, that smelled of some Vicks,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Sniffles! Now, Coughing! Now, Hack'n and Sneezy!
On, Drippin'! On Blowin'! On Sore Throat and Wheezy!
To the medicine chest that's down in the hall,
Now cough away! Cough away! Cough away all!"

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Gave everyone Halls, then turned with a jerk,
And laying some Vicks inside of his nose,
And giving a sniff, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a sniffle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"ROBITUSSIN TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!"

What's playing in my head: Up on the Housetop.

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That Wonderful Time of Year ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, snow, snowflakes, Currier and Ives, snowplow, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


Winter—that wonderful time of year when snowflakes twirl from the sky, kids laugh and play on their sleds, and neighbors give a friendly wave to each other.



Saturday morning, 11:00am: I stood at the window, watching the beautiful snowfall. Peace descended upon me. I felt at one with the world as my eyes beheld a white mantle that covered the trees with a pristine purity that reminded me of a Currier and Ives print.

Noon: I stood at the window, watching the lovely snowfall. Peace descended upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and the dog run … and the dog that stood forlorn in the middle of the yard because the cats took over his run.

1:00pm: I stood at the window, watching the continual snowfall. An uneasy peace descended upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and the deck that needed clearing … and the front porch, which needed shoveling.

2:00pm: I stood at the window, mumbling about the annoying snowfall. A lack of peace descended upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and my car in the driveway … and the streets coated with ice.

3:00pm: I stood at the window, putting on a parka and mukluks, muttering words that would require an interview with the bishop and watching the stupid snowfall. Dislike fell upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and the cats, who’d ventured out from the dog run and were stuck in a snow drift … and the deck which groaned beneath the snow load.

4:00pm: I stood in the driveway, shaking my fist in the air, hurling curses at the sky, and watching the ghastly snowfall. Annoyance descended upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and the sidewalk that lead to the buried mailbox … which sidewalk we were required to shovel.

5:00pm: I stood in the driveway, one mukluk stuck in a snow bank and the other filled with ice, watching the disgusting snowfall. Fury descended upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and the slush thrown by the snowplow upon my freshly shoveled sidewalk.

6:00pm: I stood in the driveway, barefooted, watching the revolting snowfall. Stealth descended upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and I waited for the plow to make another run past my house … and I chucked both mukluks at the driver.

7:00pm: I stood behind a tree, watching the blasted snowfall. Cunning descended upon me, like the white mantle that covered the trees … and I waited for the plow to round the corner … and I threw my snow shovel at the driver as he pushed a mountain of snow up my driveway.

8:00pm: I stood in the street, watching my husband as he gently removed the cleverly packed ice balls from my hands, and apologized to the snowplow driver for the knot on his head. I watched the snowfall as my husband guided me back into the house … and put me to bed.

The next day, 11:00am: I stood at the window. The sun came out. I felt at one with the world as my eyes beheld a white mantle that covered the trees with a pristine purity that reminded me of a Currier and Ives print … and I made devious plans for the next snowfall.


What's playing in my head: Snow (from "White Christmas").

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Hound Dogs We Have Heard on High ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, music, talent, song, lyrics, hound dogs, kibble, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)


It’s wonderful to live with musically talented people.



I wouldn’t know, though, because most of my family couldn’t carry a tune in a basket. No, forget that. They couldn’t even carry it in a dump truck. In fact, our musical talents are so lacking, that one of us (let me give you a hint ... it's the guy I married) does not know the entire lyrics for a single song. Nope, not even one. Because of that, his renditions are always … well … let’s just say, “interesting.”

None of that, however, stops us from singing Christmas carols—albeit, out of tune—all through the holiday season.



Not to give you whiplash by changing the subject, but have you ever experienced a busy day, and when night rolled around, you fell into bed exhausted? As you lay there with the warmth of the blankets enveloping you, the Sand Man tiptoed in, sprinkled sleeping dust and just as your eyes drooped … the dog next door started barking.

Oh yes, we’ve all been there. So, for those of you who not only live next to barking dogs but are also musically challenged, I’ve written a song with memorable lyrics. And it’s only taken me days to write it.

Well, maybe not days, but hours ... well ... maybe not hours, but minutes. Okay, the truth of the matter is, I wrote this for our ward’s Christmas skit years ago. But hey—just for you—I finished up the second verse today.

Hound Dogs We Have Heard on High
(Sung to the tune of, Angels We Have Heard on High.)

(Verse)
Hound dogs we have heard on high
Loudly howling o'er the plains
And the mutts, all in reply,
Echoing their joyous strains.

(Chorus)
Come, join in all the fun,
Waking everyone,
Listen to our doggy sounds,
Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.

Come, listen to our noise,
Bringing us such joys,
Such a lovely doggy sound,
Woof, woof, woof, woof, wooof, wooof, aaaoooo!

(Verse)
Puppies why this jubilee,
Why your joyous bark prolonged,
Tell us what the kibble be
That inspires your noisy song.

(Chorus)
Come, join in all the fun,
Waking everyone,
Listen to our doggy sounds,
Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.

Come, listen to our noise,
Bringing us such joys,
Such a lovely doggy sound,
Woof, woof, woof, woof, wooof, wooof, aaaoooo!


What's playing in my head: Well, what else but, Hound Dogs We Have Heard on High.

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The Tiny Hug ... by Cindy Beck

(A heartwarming story)

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, hug, Tiny Hug, Christmas, love, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

The birth of a hug is a mysterious thing. One minute there’s nothing and the next minute a small, tickle-y sensation grows in someone’s soul and the person just has to give it away.

That’s how it was with this hug. He started as a teensy impression, born in the heart of a two-year-old. With a smile, the toddler reached out and gave his sister a tiny hug.

When that happened, a warm feeling spread over the hug and he liked the sensation. But he also felt a wisp of sadness. I’m not certain I like this life—given away and moved from one person to the next, he thought. It means I can’t ever become too attached to anyone in particular.

It also meant he would never see his first owner again. His sweet little baby was gone from his life forever. Although Tiny Hug was only seconds old, he already felt blue … so he gave himself a talking to: Chin up! No one wants a sloppy, sorry hug. Time to get to work and become the best hug in the world.

And that’s just what he did—became the best hug in the world. Every time Tiny Hug acquired a new owner, he grew—sometimes by leaps and bounds.

The leaps and bounds happened once when he lived with a kindergarten teacher—a kind, sympathetic Latter-day Saint. One frigid winter day, she noticed a little girl on the playground wearing only a thin sweatshirt. The shivering child’s small hands looked chapped and red. The teacher brought the little girl inside, wrapped her own sweater around the poor thing and rubbed her hands until they were warm. The teacher’s love was so great that Tiny Hug grew twice as large as she gave him away to the little girl.

Another time, Tiny Hug found himself belonging to a soldier in Iraq. The Marine—a grizzled, military man—knew the horrors of war. His heart formed a shell around it, and Tiny Hug found it particularly hard to get in.

I’m not giving up, no matter how difficult it is, the hug thought with determination. He wiggled, twisted, and squirmed. Finally, Tiny Hug broke through.

This man is kind—but very, very afraid, the hug realized with surprise. So he worked all the harder on him.

The Marine didn’t realize he had a hug inside until one dark night, when shells fell in a blaze from the sky, and a nineteen-year-old near him dropped to the ground, wounded. The young soldier had so much to live for—a wife and new baby back home. The Marine couldn’t bear the thought of the young man lying there, all alone with no one to comfort him. He crawled to him, cradled the terrified, bleeding soldier in his arms and gave the hug away. And the young man lived.

Time went on. Tiny Hug (who wasn’t so tiny anymore) lived with many people over the years. He grew old, but never forgot his first owner. I wonder how my sweet baby boy is doing, the hug often thought.

Eventually, Tiny Hug belonged to a teen-age girl—a shy, sweet young lady. He’d lived with her for several days when one evening, he felt a whispery feeling that it would be his last night on earth. I love the girl, he thought, but oh, how I long to see the little baby who gave me away at the very beginning. If I could only see his bright blue eyes once more, I would contentedly accept whatever may come. And the hug wept.

That night—Christmas Eve—the young lady joined her Young Women’s group, and Tiny Hug went along, tucked in her heart. They drove across town, amidst snowflakes that fell, sparkling under the street lamps.

When they arrived at the nursing home, the young girl sang songs to the elderly, and Tiny Hug felt better. If this is to be my last owner, it will be all right. She always thinks of others and has such tenderness.

During the evening, the young lady focused her attention on an older gentleman who seemed sad and lonely. He wouldn’t even look up at the singers.

Sing your sweetest, the hug silently encouraged.

She did, but the man never looked up. Their performance over and the singers leaving, the girl put on her coat and started out the door. Suddenly, however, she turned and ran back to the lonely, older man. She threw her arms around him and he smiled a soft smile.

The hug felt himself slipping from the heart of the girl into that of the elderly gentleman—the one with the blue eyes—the one who, as a baby so many years before, had reached up and given his sister an unexpected embrace.

And in that instant, Tiny Hug realized something he never had before ... love always comes full circle.

What's playing in my head: Lots and lots of Christmas songs!

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Colder Than an Eskimo’s Wallet ... by Cindy Beck

© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, December, woodstove, aspen, Christmas, The Christmas Song, humor, Latter-day Saints, LDS, Your LDS Radio, yourLDSNeighborhood.com)

Don’t you love the month of December? The crisp, winter air … the smell of aspen burning in the woodstove … fire roaring from the chimney, and rising twenty feet into the air … smoke, roiling in black clouds throughout the house.

We’d never experienced the joy of a woodstove until we arrived at our little home in Utah—in the dead of night, and with Christmas close on our heels.


We stumbled through the door, our eyes blurred from thirteen hours of driving through a blizzard. “What in the world is that?” I asked, pointing to a black, misshapen iron mass in the living room.

“That’s our woodstove.” Russ flipped the light switch, and a yellow glow from the bare bulb encompassed the metal hulk. Russ pointed at it with pride. “Someone said it used to be an old railroad depot stove.”

I looked at its mismatched legs and cracked belly. “Seems to me, it’s more like a county landfill stove.” I shivered. “It’s cold enough to freeze …”

I glanced down at our seven-year-old son, Davey, who’d staggered in and lay curled in a ball, half asleep, on a carpet the color of dried mustard. I continued, “It’s cold enough in here to freeze an Eskimo’s wallet to his gluteus maximus!”

Davey’s eyes popped open. “What’s a gluteus maximus?”

Russ patted his head. “Go back to sleep. Mom meant an Eskimo was gluing his wallet to his … maxi mouse.”

Davey’s eyes drooped as he said, “Oh, a Maxi Mouse. That sounds fun. I’d like one of those for Christmas …” His voice trailed off as he fell back asleep.

I shivered and looked pointedly at Russ. “Well, I can tell you this—my maxi mouse is numb from the cold. Why is it freezing in here?”

Russ rubbed his hands together. “It’s not cold,” he said, “it’s bracing! Makes you feel alive!”

A question zipped into my mind. “Exactly why isn’t there any heat in this place?”

The man who thought the temperature was simply “bracing,” pulled his goose down jacket tighter. “Um … the previous owners left us without any fuel in the tank.”

He pointed to a black rock the size of a small meteorite, sitting next to the county landfill stove. “But, I bought coal. It was cheap, and I thought we could use that to heat the house for a while. At least until I get a paycheck.”

Coal. The anthracite (or was it bituminous?) heat source that warmed London … in the dark ages … which were so dark because soot from the coal fell on everything—houses, people, cats and mice. No wonder the Black Plague was black.

Breaking out of my thoughts of "ye merrie ole England," I touched the meteorite with my foot. Coal dust fell onto the carpet and instantly glued itself there for time and all eternity.

No doubt Russ sensed the vibes my brain sent out at that moment, because he stepped forward, opened the stove’s door, picked up the rock and set it inside. Taking a match from his pocket, he lit it and held it to the lump. The match sizzled and burned until Russ had to drop it. We watched its tiny flame flicker and die. He tried again … and again. The black meteorite sat there, taunting us.

“It’s just psychological that the room feels even colder now,” Russ said, turning his collar up to cover his ears, and shutting the stove door.

“I take it you don’t really know how to light that thing?” I zipped my jacket up to my neck, and pulled mittens from my pocket.

“Nope. Haven’t a clue. But in the meantime, we can keep on our jackets, put on hats, and sleep on the floor. In the morning, when my co-workers come to help move the furniture in, I’ll ask how to get a coal fire going.”

I walked over and zipped Davey into a military-issue aviator jacket and knit hat that I knew would keep him toasty through the night. Russ and I pulled winter caps onto our own heads and curled up next to each other. Then we got giggling fits thinking about it.

“It’s not so bad,” I said, snuggling against him. “We’ll make it through the night and get the fire going tomorrow.”

“Yup,” Russ replied, “and we’re probably the only ones in town wishing Santa would bring us lumps of coal in our stockings.”

I hummed a few bars of “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and then as I drifted off to sleep, mumbled to Russ, “That’s right, but I’d like mine in smaller lumps, and as ones that actually burn, please.”

What's playing in my head: The Christmas Song, written by Mel Torme and Bob Wells, and sung by Nat King Cole.

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O’ Christmas Tree ... by Cindy Beck

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

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

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

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



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



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

And that’s when the trouble began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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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And when you get a minute, check out the Christmas tunes on the Neighborhood's newest venture, Your LDS Radio.

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