Papa Don't Teach. By Jemina

This is a story about the special bond between a father (Phil) and a daughter (me). At first glance, this seems to be a wholesome family photo, yes? After you’re done pointing and snickering at Phil’s creepy porn ‘stache and his signature Boyd oversized glasses, keep this image of Phil in mind as I take you on a trip down memory lane.

We haven’t mentioned this until now, but Phil is an incredibly well-learned man (our intelligence had to come from somewhere). The man holds two degrees—one in Business and one in Theology—not to mention an honorary degree from the School of Hard Knocks. An avid learner, Phil even converts television time into an educational experience. On any given night, he can be found critiquing the History Channel’s interpretation of a biblical event, or yelling at Alex Trebek on Jeopardy. Phil is also a voracious reader. Traditionally, Phil has gravitated toward magazines or publications containing miscellaneous facts and stories (he’s a huge fan of Reader’s Digest) that he can later incorporate into conversations with unsuspecting strangers (or us, if we got cornered). If there is one negative aspect of Phil’s self-education, it is that all of the little nuggets of information he acquires throughout the day often got jumbled together. For example, Phil might read an article about President Obama’s recent healthcare research trip to Brussels in U.S. News & World Report. At some point between the time Phil reads this article, opens his email account, and sends his account of the story to me and my siblings, the content of the article morphs into a matter-of-fact statement that Obama is the worst president ever because he plans to withhold healthcare to anyone who will not consume brussel sprouts. This claim will invariably be met with skepticism, and one of us will ask Phil where he got this information. Phil then gives his standard response, steadfastly announcing that he “read it in a magazine.” When pressed to reveal which magazine, Phil says his age is getting the best of him, that he can’t recall the magazine, but refuses to retreat from his position and the argument continues until I give up.

I don’t mind telling you that, as a young girl, I was not privy to the fact that Phil’s anecdotes were not error-proof. Rather, I recall being consistently impressed by his uncanny ability to recall dates and facts about our great world. That all changed on the day of the Egg Incident. On a Wednesday night in church, AWANA* to be more specific (AWANA = Christian version of boy and girl scouts wherein eager young children learn the tools of spiritual survival, as opposed to wilderness or suburban survival skills), we were given an assignment: we were to learn father/daughter teamwork skills by baking a dessert with our Dads. That night I went home and excitedly told Phil about our assignment. Almost immediately, I conjured up an image of the 17-layer cake that we would effortlessly bake, decorate and bring to church the next week. We’d unveil our creation with a pretense of humility and attribute our feat solely to our synergy (while also giving credit to The Lord). Sadly, Phil did not share my delusions of grandeur, and, in an effort to get back to his translation of the Old Testament in Hebrew, he agreed to participate, but unilaterally decided we should make brownies. From a box.

Dejected, I sullenly watched Phil read the instructions on the box, but I immediately perked up when he told me I could spray the pan myself and crack the eggs into the bowl. Right as I reached for an egg in the carton, Phil stopped me and said, “You know, this egg reminds me of something I read in a magazine once.” Having not yet learned to be wary of Phil's “all-knowing” factoids, I excitedly asked him to expound. Phil then confidently informed me that an uncooked egg would never break unless it was actually dropped on something. Even at a young age, this statement seemed implausible to me. Doubtless sensing my disbelief, Phil hastily attempted to buttress his claim by explaining that the egg’s domed exterior made it one of nature’s architectural marvels, such that one could not crush the egg between one’s fingers. Though a large part of me still felt that Phil’s logic didn’t add up, I watched with rapt attention through my large and somewhat smeared glasses as he positioned the egg between his thumb and pointer finger. The egg shook as Phil applied more and more pressure to its shell, and his hand began to wobble as he inched closer and closer to my face. With each passing half-second, Phil grew more confident in his hypothesis. Just as I was about to become a believer in Phil’s bionic egg theory, the egg spontaneously combusted and a shower of yolk and crud rained down my face, hair, and glasses. The egg explosion was quickly supplanted by a look of surprise in Phil's face, followed by his devolution into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Loud, uproarious, unfettered laughter. As Phil lost his composure, I, too, was losing mine. Completely blind to the humor of the situation, I felt my overgrown body swell with rage as the cold egg yolk dribbled down my neck and onto my favorite hand-me-down bible camp sweatshirt. Phil half—no, quarter—heartedly attempted to offer an apology while I tore through the house screaming for my siblings to tell Syl to help me get the rapidly drying/crusty yolk out of my sweatshirt, scalp, and glasses.

Needless to say, The Egg incident was the first and last Father/Daughter baking experience we shared and the beginning of the “Doubt Everything Phil Says” movement. I have no idea where the idiom “egg on your face” came from, but a friend told me that it started out as a comment one might make to a fellow diner who had poor manners or, was a sloppy eater—one who, perhaps had left egg crusties around one’s mouth. In a perfect world, Phil would have been the one to get egg on his face. Yet, as you all should know by now, life isn’t fair (hello? Powdered milk? Frozen sandwiches?), especially if you’re a sucker like me. Combust a raw egg on my face, shame on Phil. Believe anything Phil says after that, shame on me.

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Halloween Be Thy Name. By Joy

I’m not quite sure at what point it became socially acceptable for kids to run amuck and demand food from complete strangers, but research tells me my Irish-Catholic ancestors may be to blame. Though we were not Catholic, the observance of Halloween always posed a spiritual dilemma for Phil and Syl. You see, Halloween is Satan’s holiday. This was a problem because Phil and Syl swore their (and our) allegiance to Jesus Christ, who is, as most of you know, the natural sworn enemy of Satan. But Halloween also presented the one annual opportunity for us kids to beg at our neighbors’ doorsteps and come home with bags full of candy—FREE candy, I might add. If there’s anything Phil and Syl love almost as much as Jesus, it is all things FREE. So you can understand their dilemma.

Lucky for us, Phil found a theological loophole in the traditional “a vote for Halloween is a vote for Satan” Baptist mantra. Phil instructed us that we could escape eternal damnation if we informed our pagan neighbors that we were not dressed up because it was Halloween, but rather, because it was All-Hallows-Eve. This was the night before All Saints Day—the day when Christians honor the saints and martyrs who doubtless gave their lives so future generations of greedy, overindulged children could stuff their cheeks with candy and lapse into sugar-induced comas.

With our behinds firmly nestled in the notched fencepost separating heaven and hell, the Boyd children set out to make each All Hallows Eve memorable. This was no small feat as Phil and Syl’s shared disdain for store-bought clothing extended to store-bought costumes. In Phil and Syl’s opinion, store-bought costumes constituted the most frivolous (read: sinful) of all clothing purchases as such items were—GASP!—only good for one use. As with most things (school lunches, projects, homework, etc.), we were left to fashion our own costumes. Every year, I’d stare at my closet, ransack my and my siblings’ dressers, and thumb through Phil’s wardrobe in an effort to be inspired.

On one particular All Hallows Eve, I decided to be a ghost. I knew this idea would not win me the envy and admiration of my friends, but I was desperate—desperate for candy. Proud that I had a plan in place, I approached Syl to request a sheet for my costume. Syl initially grabbed a clean, crisp, white sheet, but once Syl learned that I intended to cut holes in the sheet for my eyes, nose, and mouth, she replaced it with an ugly, paint-stained, yellow sheet with brown print that vaguely resembled flowers that had clearly withered and died at some point in the distant past. I looked down at the sheet and back up at Syl. “Seriously?” I signed. “I’m supposed to be a ghost,” I continued. “And everybody knows ghosts are supposed to be white,” I finished. Syl looked down at me and frowned. “Well,” she replied, it will be dark outside and no one will be able to see what color the sheet is anyways.” With that, Syl hurried off, leaving me holding my urine-colored-possibly-stained sheet at arm’s length between my thumb and index finger.

Left with no viable costume alternative, and unwilling to sign up for a candy-less existence, I trudged upstairs, located a pair of scissors, and grumbled as I cut holes for my eyes, nose, and mouth. I then slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and my favorite sweatsuit, threw the puke sheet over my head and adjusted the holes to cover my glasses, nose and mouth. One might surmise that a simple sheet (if we’re calling it that) would constitute a fairly low-maintenance costume. I thought so, too. However, when my siblings and I stepped outside into the cold October night, I ran into my first logistical difficulty. As I breathed in the frosty air and exhaled, my behemoth-sized glasses immediately fogged up. I tried to pull the sheet away from my face, hoping this would clear my glasses up, but this was an exercise in futility. I stumbled down the street after my siblings, tugging at my sheet, trying to get a clear line of vision. After taking a tumble down a set of stairs, I jerked my glasses out from under the urine sheet and jammed them on my face, over the sheet, thereby cementing my shame. After downing a few Snickers and Butterfinger bars, however, I was high on sugar, over my humiliation, and fully focused on the business of candy acquisition.

When one lives in a “transitional” neighborhood, one has to put up with neighbors who give “filler” (read: undetectable to the human eye) candy or other similarly undesirable household items such as pennies or apples. Ordinarily, I’d be chastised for throwing away a perfectly good apple, but on All Hallows Eve, we were under strict instructions to discard anything that was unwrapped as Syl believed all of these items contained hidden razor blades. I never took issue with Syl’s rule—until I walked up to a house not far from my own and, to my extreme surprise and delight, the homeowner was giving away donuts! WHOLE DONUTS! Not just crappy glazed donuts, mind you, but powdered, jelly, chocolate covered, and crème filled donuts.

In light of the fact that I’d be just as likely to spot a donut in my house as I would a unicorn or a leprechaun, I hungrily reached for a powdered jelly donut. As I did, I momentarily froze as Syl’s disapproving face suddenly appeared. I rationalized my choice, reminding myself that donuts had never made the official “don’t-eat-this-or-you-will-surely-die” list. Still, I worried that Syl would find out that I had tasted of the forbidden fruit, so I hastily shoved the donut in the direction of my mouth to destroy the evidence. Herein I encountered my second logistical difficulty of the night. I had cut a hole in the sheet large enough to allow me to breathe, and to eat small pieces of candy, but said opening was woefully undersized when it came to shoving in a confection as big as my hand.

Undeterred, I attempted to roll, fold, cram, or otherwise wedge the donut into my mouth. As I did so, the jelly that was inside of the donut seeped through my fingers, stuck to the sides of my mouth, dribbled down my chin, and rolled onto my shoes. Having already committed to this course of action, I naturally felt compelled to see it through. I poked the remaining dough and jelly droplets through the hole and swallowed, relieved to have completed my mission. At this point, I was sweating, disoriented and woozy, but simultaneously glad that Syl had seen fit to deny me that pristine white sheet after all. Unfortunately, my gluttony left me with a sticky sheet that adhered to my mouth and hands not unlike a piece of medical tape or liquid cement, and every time I tried to wipe my hands or face, I smeared the jelly even more. When all was said and done, I had jelly on my glasses, in my hair, on my sweatsuit, and everywhere in between.

I quickly retreated home, where I immediately deposited my “costume” in the washing machine, grabbed my sack of candy, and made a beeline for the nearest restroom. After thoroughly scrubbing my face and hands, I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door. Safe inside my sanctuary, I closed my eyes, thanked Jesus for my free candy, apologized for not telling any of my neighbors about All Hallows Eve, and requested not to be sent to hell for my oversight.

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We Have A Winner!

Hello, Frozen Sandwiches Fans!

I know you've all been crying into your pillows at night without our presence, but never fear- we have a little something to tide you over in the meantime-

OUR CONTEST WINNER, BRIAN McVEIGH (AKA, Joy's Boss...suspicious, hmm?)

We'd like to thank the tens and tens of people that submitted stories, but we mutually decided on the winner since he provides Joy's paychecks and in turn pays for Jemina's shenanigans.

Read the winning story below, and we'll be back soon!

“Honor thy mother and father,” by Brian McVeigh- Joy’s Boss.

In reading the humorous accounts of the Boyd children contained in these pages, I came to the realization that, not only do I understand Phil and Syl more than the ungrateful lot to whom they gave birth, but that I aspire to parent in a manner consistent with their example. Therefore, I have decided to pen this column in defense of Phil and Syl. As a father of three, my main goal is to get my children from birth to adulthood in one piece. I would hope that during that journey, they come to love God, become educated, stay healthy, avoid vices, contribute to their community and one day have families of their own. All of the frills and luxuries of childhood really mean surprisingly little to a parent. Sure, I would like my kids to have fun, fit in, be popular, etc…, but parenting is like war, and as Sun Tzu teaches in the “Art of War”, the most important thing is that your little tyke lives to fight another day.

My guess is that this utilitarian model is behind the Machiavellian child rearing of Phil and Syl. Once you have found something that works- names beginning with “J”, bowl cut hairdo’s, unisex hand-me-downs, and the like, why stray from that familiar ground? As they say here in the South, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”. That is what led to Bear Bryant’s success. Repetitive defense and offense that got the job done, but was boring to watch, resulted in twelve National Championships (I can only find proof of seven, but that is fodder for another column).

It appears from the revisionist historical ramblings of the Boyd children that they are laboring under the misconception that their parents were somehow oblivious to their childhood shenanigans. They would have you believe that Phil and Syl stood by in some sort of parental fog, unaware that the kids were bartering to upgrade their lunches, dropping the “f” bomb in public, viciously abusing the oft-maligned Jemina, manipulating the powder content of the milk that lead to their hormone induced growth streaks (honestly, have you looked at the school picture of Joy on this page? She’s ten feet tall in first grade. No wonder they relied on hand-me-downs) Anyway, the truth of the matter, and I am sure I am violating some parenting rule revealing this to you like Dan Brown discussing the Catholic Church, is that we parents know about all of that stuff as it is happening. And we could care less. As a matter of fact, we get a kick out of it.

Phil and Syl got a free trip to Disney World, and got to laugh their heads off as they forced their children to dumpster dive for the 60,000 cans needed to finance the trip. Can you imagine that? It was brilliant! As a point of reference, go today and try to get anyone- your best friend, spouse, whomever, to rummage through filth collecting things so you can get a free anything. They will laugh at you like you are a buffoon. Phil and Syl got these childhood geniuses to volunteer. Who’s the dummy now, Joy?

Anyway, it appears that all of the Boyd children are grown, still alive, self sufficient and socially adept. Along the way they learned that if you want a Mickey Mouse shirt that fits or a happy meal rather than a plain burger with no sides, then you have to work for it. Any parent would be glad to have those results. So I say, Long live Phil and Syl!

Frozen Sandwiches Sabbatical. And Contest! By Jemina.

GASP! Frozen Sandwiches on SABBATICAL?!

Never fear, readers. Joy and I will be taking a short break to focus on personal projects near and dear to our hearts (and hopefully, wallets), so we've devised a clever way to keep you entertained for the next few weeks!

Contest: Ever read some of our stories and, while laughing hysterically, experience a flashback of your own to earlier days of pre-pubescent horror? Since we have now moved up from tens of fans to dozens, we're sure there's a Frozen Sandwich-like story of your own that you'd like to share.

Your story can reiterate any funny event from your childhood, as long as embarrassment and hilarity abound. Keep it relatively short, no longer than 2 pages double-spaced.

All submissions must be sent to: frozensandwiches@gmail.com

Extra Credit points for including a childhood photo!

The winner will have their story posted and receive the praise and adoration that accompanies the life of a notorious blogger.

Good luck with those repressed memories and we look forward to reading your submissions!

Ode to the Hand-me-down(and down, and down, and down)s. By Jemina.

Most of you non-firstborns out there are probably familiar with the almighty hand-me-down. For the 1% of our readers who led charmed lives and have no idea what I’m talking about, a hand-me-down (“HMD”), is an article of clothing, often a shirt, pair of pants, or a dress one inherits from an older sibling (hopefully one of the same sex, but this is not always the case). A HMD’s chief purpose is to help parents economically justify having more than one child. For the Boyds, HMDs were commonplace; even James the eldest was not exempt. James inherited his clothes from another church family, so not even he escaped the cold, slightly worn grasp of used goods.

As young children we thought nothing of the trash bags overflowing with “new” clothes that showed up on our porch once or twice a year. Giddy at the prospect of acquiring new (read: old) clothes, we tried on things until we found the items we liked (and some that Syl demanded we keep), put the castoffs back in the trashbags, and carried them to the Salvation Army where some other poor family could purchase our reject HMDs for 10 cents apiece. Given the frequency with which growth spurts hit in our house, it didn't take long for HMDs to make their way down the family line to me.

Case in point: the Summer of 1984 brought with it an exciting new addition to James' wardrobe—a practically new (translation: less than one year had elapsed since the original date of purchase) Mickey Mouse t-shirt with a navy blue ringed collar and sleeves! This wardrobe coup was the result of a hasty decision by a fellow church family to rid their home of all things cartoon and rodent-like after hearing a sermon about satanic subliminal messages in Disney cartoons. After enduring many seasons of HMDs that were a touch out of fashion, James hit the HMD jackpot. It was as if Walt Disney himself shined his devilish light upon us and decided to bless us with a cool piece of clothing. I say “us” because we all knew that, if we played our cards right, we’d someday get to wear the Mickey shirt, too! Josh and Joy stared longingly at James every time he donned the Mickey shirt, anxiously awaiting the day the hallowed torch would be passed on to them.

Unfortunately for James, his time with Mickey was short lived; 1985 brought an additional 3 inches to his frame, rendering the golden tee a midriff on his already lanky, scrawny frame. Thus, Josh was blessed with Mickey's presence and Joy, sensing her time was nigh, began formulating a plan to make the t-shirt hers. She could hardly believe her luck when Josh tried on the shirt and realized the “husky” jeans he wore also applied to his torso. Poor Mickey looked bloated and misshapen stretched over Josh's belly, and Josh resigned himself to the fact that he would not get to live the dream. Ever the sympathetic sibling, Joy quickly capitalized on Josh’s grief, snatched the shirt from Josh, and ran to her room to see which culottes (re: gaucho pants in unflattering textures and colors) best matched with it. Evidently Joy concluded that Mickey matched with every pair of culottes in her closet, as he and she made a joint appearance in practically all of our home videos for the next few years.

When the time came for me to inherit the now slightly less coveted Tee of Mickey, the ringed collar and sleeves had faded from navy blue to a dull purple and were stretched out and virtually elastic-less. The shirt itself had grown threadbare due to hundreds of washings and was pockmarked with holes under the sleeves and seams. Mickey's wrinkled and sagging face bore the tell-tale signs of a mouse that’d been ridden hard and put up wet during his years with the Boyd family, and his now cracked gray eyes begged us to put him down, Old Yeller-style. Though I was hell bent on claiming and wearing my piece of history, this dream was abruptly shattered when I, a fellow recipient of the “husky” gene, attempted to squeeze into the t-shirt and Mickey’s face summarily ripped in two. Only then was Mickey quietly laid to rest in our trash can following a touching eulogy by James and Joy, the only true beneficiaries of Mickey’s magic.

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Baptist Bible Birthdays. By Joy.

Fact: my birthday is tomorrow. Happy Birthday to me!!! It’s no secret that the Boyds like to make a big deal out of birthdays (well, really just us Boyd Sisters). The reasons for this are twofold. First, nobody made a really big deal about our birthdays growing up, what with the deaf parents, four children, and abject poverty, and what not. Therefore, we feel the need to make up for lost time. Second, it is a shameless ploy for attention, but we can’t quite help ourselves, given our simple upbringing.

I thank God every day that my actual age was not measured by the number of childhood birthday parties I had. If that were the case, I’d be approximately three years old. See, in the Boyd household, each child got to have a birthday party once every four years. I’m not exactly sure why or when the quadrennial Boyd birthday tradition began but I have a couple hunches. First, as to the “why,” I suspect that Phil’s or Syl’s decision (let’s be honest, all signs point to Syl) to limit birthday “parties” to once every fourth year was—as most decisions in the Boyd household—economically driven. Second, I believe this decision came on the heels of the birth of their fourth child, Jemina (yet another negative circumstance for which Jemina is to blame).

The birthday countdown evidently began in the year of one’s birth, with the first official birthday “party” being thrown at the age of 4. You might envision a quadrennial birthday party as being quite the affair—a happening scene with a menagerie of docile farm animals to pet and ride, a clown painting faces, a magician sawing partygoers’ bodies in half, perhaps, or a giant blown up moonwalk castle. Sadly, I’m using the term “party” loosely. A “party” in the Boyd household meant that, on the appointed day (i.e., a fourth, eighth, or twelfth birthday), we could invite two or three friends—from church—to the Boyd house for a maximum of two hours. There would be a cake and ice cream of our choosing and we could request our favorite meal from Syl’s limited repertoire of recipes (all of which incorporated Sams Club chicken in some form or fashion). On the “off years,” we still got to pick our cake and meal but we had to settle for a family-only celebration.

To add insult to injury, my birthday always coincided with our church’s annual week long bible conference. A “bible conference” is, to all of my unchurched friends, an event involving much hoopla and hootenanny, like Woodstock or Bonnaroo, but instead of a week of hedonistic concerts put on by various music artists, the featured performers were preachers, and the main events- sermons. For seven seemingly interminable days and nights, we sat through sermons from dawn until dusk. Because I was of the opinion that anything any of the visiting preachers said in their sermons was of little to no benefit to me, a nearly perfect child, you can certainly understand why I resented having to waste a whole week of my summer vacation—my birth week no less—listening to preachers pontificate on salvation, baptism, repentance, and the like. Especially when I could be doing much more important things, like perfecting my Native American battle cry, or polishing the faux gold plate on my musket.

Every year, I’d ask Syl why we had to attend every single service, and she replied that because Phil was a preacher on staff, people “expected us to be there.” Plus, she added, in a feeble attempt to sweeten the pot for me, “you want to be there if a revival happens, don’t you?” A “revival,” as I understood it, was an elusive but much sought after religious phenomenon wherein hordes of people very suddenly became convicted of their wicked ways (read: addictions to rock-n-roll and smoking cigarettes) and decided to “get right” with the Lord. Growing up I was not sure what “getting right” meant, exactly. I mean, I was perfect already. Further complicating matters was the common metaphor church people used to describe people who’d been “revived.” These people were said to be “On Fire” for Jesus. I always thought being on fire was a bad thing, but the way people talked about it made it sound like a biblical badge of honor, something to aspire to. Try as I might, I could not figure out why preachers devoted so much time and energy trying to save people from an eternity in a lake of fire if they were just going to turn around and ask these new believers to set themselves on fire for Jesus!

Notwithstanding the fact that I spent the better part of most birthdays in church, I have made up for lost time in recent years. When Jemina started college, she and I started throwing each other birthday parties in an effort to recapture our phantom birthday years. I will freely admit here that throwing said parties during adulthood does have its benefits. This year, for example, I expect Jemina to have set up the piñata, margarita machine, kiddie pool o’ queso, and twelve-piece mariachi band I requested by the time I arrive in Nashville for my fiesta. So, for all of you who will not get to celebrate my birthday with me (unfortunately this means most of you), I propose a toast. If you have a drink handy (adult beverage or otherwise), raise it and drink to 28 Years of Joy!

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To All My Fans. By Syl.

Hello Readers! I wanted to write a letter to all those fans out there who are undoubtedly in love with me. I am sure my daughters’ tales of my sagacious ways have convinced most of you to apply “Syl’s Principles of Economics” by collecting pop cans, making milk, and freezing sandwiches. Because we’re all pretty much one big happy family now, I’ll share my secret to success: have a lot of children. You see, when you have 4 or more children, you can start to delegate responsibilities to them by their third birthdays. For instance, James and Josh started shoveling snow as soon as their tiny hands could grasp the shovel handle. Joy and Jemina were sorting the laundry and washing all of our clothes as soon as they were tall enough to reach the washing machine (i.e., 4 years of age). By delegating chores to your offspring, it leaves more time for you and your spouse to spend time together shopping for matching track suits. Phil and I prefer to show our loyalty to Alabama football by displaying Crimson Tide tracksuits during the fall, and coordinating light green ones during the spring. Early delegation also teaches your children that they have a purpose, and that purpose is to make your life easier.

My children’s stories, though hysterical, often paint me as an unfeeling taskmaster, but I laugh along with the rest of you because I know that I love them and I am deeply committed to helping them reach their goals. Never mind the fact that my goals for them might differ from their goals for themselves—they will realize that I am right in the end. My greatest dream is for my children to marry a deaf person or a C.O.D.A. (Child of Deaf Adult). Since James and Joshua have failed in this respect, all of my proverbial eggs are firmly nestled in Joy’s and Jemina’s baskets. I pray for them daily to find someone who loves the deaf and can sign with their future in-laws fluently. Along with being able to communicate with Phil and I, they must be able to answer—in fluent ASL—the following questions: (1) When will you propose?; (2) What are your immediate and long –term goals in life, work, and religion?; (3) Do you love God more than my daughter? Though my daughters complain that these simple questions are somehow the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition, I disagree. Despite the fact that I clearly have my daughters’ best interest at heart, they still don’t seem to share details of their dating life with me, which I simply cannot understand. To make matters worse, Joy is nearing 28, and still she refuses to listen to me when I tell her that women over the age of 30 are no longer desirable spouses and are doomed to a lifetime of spinsterhood.

Anyways, I thank all of you again for being loyal fans and if you’re ever in Iowa, come see me and Phil. You’ll be able to find us as we are the only house in Ankeny that proudly displays a 10 foot Alabama flag on its porch. And if you know any deaf or CODA men who are unmarried, please introduce them to Joy. She needs to marry very soon so that she may produce grandchildren who can also sign ASL.

Love, Syl

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Sam's Club V.I.D. (Very Important Deafie). By Joy.

The Boyds love bulk. And by bulk, I mean Sam’s Club. If you grew up in a large family, you are no doubt familiar with the concept of purchasing large quantities of household items that are consumed as soon as they are bought. Examples of these items in the Boyd household were as follows: (1) anything sugary; (2) anything caffeinated; (3) anything processed.

Every Sunday without exception the Boyds made a beeline from our church to the local Sam’s Club. In an effort to beat the other churchgoers to the checkout line, Generalissimo Syl, with military precision, assigned each child a “jumbo” or “family-sized” item for retrieval. Like a small team of elite green berets, we synchronized our watches and fanned out across the expanse of the stadium-sized warehouse in search of our marks.

Time was of the essence on these missions as Syl not only expected us to succeed but to do so in a timely fashion so she could dispatch us on another tour of duty. Occasionally one of use would dilly-dally a little longer than Syl liked and she’d begin to fear that we’d been abducted or, worse, that we’d been distracted by the scores of free samples and had lost sight of our all important missions. In an effort to startle any would-be abductors and/or jerk us away from the mini beef ravioli table, Syl would shriek the name of the suspected lollygagger(s) at the top of her lungs. Let me apologize in advance to our handful of deaf readers (mainly Phil and Syl), for the picture I’m about to paint. Imagine hearing “WAAANNGGGHH!!!,” a noise I’d liken to a pack of alleycats midbrawl…next to an amplifier…hooked up to a stadium’s PA system. Or a hawk circling overhead, combined with the sound of squealing, screeching tires, a pack of baboons mating, and nails on chalkboard. Suffice it to say, Syl lacked neither volume nor range. See, some deaf people (“deafies,” as Syl refers to them) are blissfully (and understandably) unaware of the appropriate level of volume required to accomplish a given task or to achieve a particular result. Deafies are similarly unlearned in the realm of intonation. To Phil and Syl, there exists but one volume—loud, and one tone—hyper urgent, of the sort a hearing person might take with a 911 operator after witnessing a loved one being run over by a bus or eaten by a pack of wolves (hey, it happens!).

If we’d had our druthers, Syl would keep her yap completely shut during public excursions—a fact of which Syl was well aware and one which she regularly exploited to shame us into immediately showing ourselves in Sam’s or wherever else we may be. As soon as we heard Syl’s trademark shriek, we all aborted our respective missions and Operation Shut Up Syl went into effect. It mattered not whose name Syl was screaming; we all had a vested interest in minimizing the public humiliation that was sure to accompany being seen with Shrieking Syl. The longer the shriek, the farther the intolerable wail traveled up into the warehouse rafters, echoing off the concrete floors, reverberating through the walls and shaking the wooden pallets (and our hearts) to their very core. Back then, I was sure that if the walls had had ears, they’ve collapsed under the force and weight of Syl’s howling. When the fastest and closest among us reached Syl, she’d immediately, as if on cue, clam up and calmly sign, “Where have you been? That twelve pack of frozen chicken breasts ain’t gonna throw itself into the cart. Move!!”

I’m ashamed to admit it, but to this day, I still shush Syl in public. But this is mostly because she still insists on yelling my name in public venues despite the fact that I am standing, at most, three feet away from her. Does that make me a bad daughter? Perhaps. But unless you’re a CODA* (*Child of Deaf Adult—I did not make this term of art up; however, you should commit this term to memory as it surely will be referenced in future blogs), you can’t judge. The Native Americans had it right: you shouldn’t judge another until you’ve walked a mile in her moccasins. So feel free to try them on, would-be judges, because they’re a size ten I’ve got a coonskin hat and a rifle to go with them!

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Kindergarten Snob. By Jemina.

This is me as a nearly 5-foot kindergartener. Note the look of disenchantment on my face due to my hopes and dreams being dashed by my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Reagin. To be fair, while Joy and I often wax poetic on Syl's more erratic habits and policies, she and Phil did have their bright points. For instance, she made sure all four kids could read before entering school, something that I truly thank them for (and so should you, dear readers, as you probably wouldn't be enjoying this blog if she hadn't!). Syl was constant in her teaching, reiterating the fact that all the other children in my class would already be reading Hemingway by the time our first day of school started. I recall my first day of kindergarten, and being quite unsure of what to expect. I walked my already overgrown legs and feet to the classroom door, and was greeted by my teacher, Mrs. Reagin...who was the same height as me. She looked at me in surprise, then recognition as she said: “you must be one of the Boyd children.” I nodded in acknowledgement, and lumbered to my desk, fearful of all the learnin' that was to be set upon me.

Imagine my surprise when our first lesson was the alphabet- I looked around in disbelief and apparent snobbery when I realized every other child in the classroom was staring at Mrs. Reagin with rapt attention. Surely the alphabet lesson must be some sort of refresher course, and the real trials and tribulations of kindergarten were sure to come?

I gave Mrs. Reagin one month to impress me, and then disappointment set in. To the left of my desk was Stuttering Sally, who took so long to read “Robbie ran right around the room” I was sure Robbie was much older and had completed many a marathon by the time Sally was relieved of her epileptic speech. To my right was Lisping Logan. I felt sorry for Logan, as I quickly realized he'd much rather be cooking soufflés and decoupaging instead of going to speech therapy class every week. I cringed each time Mrs. Reagin assigned him “Sam saw six sets of sticks,” and tried to mouth it correctly for him to no avail.

Suffice it to say, I became disillusioned with Mrs. Reagin and her so-called “kindergarten” quickly. So, I did what any bored child does- started making up excuses to leave class, or even better, be sent home. My personal favorite was “The Granola Puke” trick. After two nauseating hours of C for Cat and D for dog, I'd had enough- I took my snack of granola bars, and slowly began to chew it without swallowing. I managed to shove both granola bars in my mouth and waited for my first shot at acting. Right as we were opening up our reader, I managed to convulse effectively and spit out my granola wad right into the “I See Colors” chapter. Stuttering Sally tried to ask me what was the matter, but only got to “Wha-wha-” when Lisping Logan came by my side and asked if he could whip me up a cold compreth and a carbonated beverage to thoothe my thtomach. I stayed in character and looked at Mrs. Reagin with baleful eyes as she pursed her lips in anger and quickly dismissed me to the school nurse. Syl was called and only felt obliged to pick me up after the nurse told her that no, I could not stay in the office all day.

Syl managed to be quite maternal on the ride home and even asked if I wanted a Happy Meal from McDonalds. I excitedly told her YES! and off to the drive-through we went. I was munching on French fries happily when Syl looked at me with narrowed eyes and stated that my upset stomach was certainly making a comeback and was I aware that lying was a sin? I practically choked on my French fry and gave her a sheepish grin as she told me that I would no longer be able to pull stunts like that in class, and instead told Mrs. Reagin to begin making sure I was actually reading more advanced books in class that would keep me occupied- thus cementing my snobby attitude in school for life.

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Got "Milk"? By Joy.

Some of my earliest memories are of Syl, standing in front of the sink with her back to me, wooden spoon firmly in hand, stirring an opaque watery liquid round and round in a 1970’s burnt orange Tupperware pitcher. Sometimes Syl would turn around and pour said liquid into our teacup-sized glasses, over ice, and tell us to drink it with our dinner. I was told early on that this runny beverage was “milk.” Having no frame of reference, I had no choice but to believe this to be true. Sure, I noted the striking similarity in texture and taste between “milk” and other liquids, like water, but who was I to argue?
After taking a swig from a friend’s milk carton at school one day, I noticed a distinct difference between “store-bought” milk and Boyd milk. I marched home that day and promptly asked Syl why we couldn’t have store-bought milk. Syl then informed me that our milk, in powdered form, was equally delicious and far less expensive. I begged to differ with Syl on the taste point, but she would see none of it. Instead, Syl invited me to witness the miracle of making milk for the umpteenth time. Bored, I watched as Syl expertly measured out the water and powder and poured it into the burnt orange Tupperware pitcher and started stirring. In an unprecedented move, she turned around and offered the spoon to me. Stupidly, I grasped the spoon and with this one move, I unwittingly sealed my fate. Having now observed the milk-making process from start to finish, Syl announced that I was ready to take on the dubious role as Boyd Family Milk Maid.
As with any new responsibility, the novelty of making milk quickly wore off as I found myself under constant pressure to make enough milk to quench my and my siblings’ collective thirst. Our drink choices for breakfast were as follows: orange juice, milk or water. For lunch and dinner: milk or water. Like most kids, we all hated water. Powdered milk, though just a rung above water in terms of taste and consistency, was nonetheless preferred. Consequently, there was never enough milk and my greedy siblings were constantly nagging me to make more milk. Not just make milk, mind you, but make it fast and make it cold. What’s more, I was not only expected to keep the fridge stocked at all times with plenty of milk, I was further expected to anticipate their hydration needs, to make sure our two Tupperware milk pitchers were always full and chilled before every meal.
Needless to say, I did not always have the time or the inclination to whip up pitchers of milk in advance. I was, in essence, an indentured servant in my own home. A liquid short-order cook, if such a thing exists. On the nights I simply forgot to make milk before I went to bed, I would invariably wake up in a cold sweat, fearing the wrath of my siblings once they discovered there would be no cold milk to pour over their off-brand Toasty-O’s or Golden Flakes. After being on the receiving end of numerous grumbles, muttered curse words, derogatory comments, dirty looks, and overly audible sighs, I learned to fear the dawn and what it might bring if I forgot to make the milk. Yet no matter how hard I tried, desperately, to remember, I often failed. For those panic stricken nights and early mornings when I shot up in my bed and remembered, correctly, that I was once again derelict in my duties, I’d race downstairs and whip up a batch of watery brew, splash the outside of the pitcher, and set it on the table, in a small puddle (also my creation). With a final flourish, I’d take a juice glass from the cupboard, swirl some water around the inside of the glass, dump most of the water out, and put it in the sink. I’d then creep back up to my bedroom and go back asleep. When Syl woke us all up for school, I’d wait until I heard my brothers going downstairs to the kitchen and I’d follow them—while maintaining a safe distance. When they observed the warm pitcher and “condensation” on the pitcher and table, along with the glass in the sink, they’d assume the role of mini-Sherlocks and deduce that someone must have had a post-dinner drink and forgotten to put the milk back in the refrigerator. Once they cracked the case, I’d stare dumbly at them and vehemently deny getting a midnight glass of milk and subtly point the finger at the only sibling not a part of the discussion: Jemina. This tactic always worked as nobody believed anything Jemina said as she was: (1) the youngest; and (2) a known habitual liar.
See, dear reader, something as simple as milk (or a freshly made sandwich) can be taken for granted. In keeping with our mission here at Frozen Sandwiches, we like to periodically remind you of your comparatively normal childhoods. You’re welcome!!!

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An Obituary for the King of Pop in 100 Words. By Jemina.

Michael was born into the Jackson 5 with a song in his heart and a two-step jive in his feet. He was Off the Wall, Thriller and We Are the World. He tried to seduce a 12 year old Tatum O’Neal. Then he turned white and almost burned off his head for Pepsi. Neverland Ranch was built, a lot of creepy stuff went down, and he started popping painkillers like Pez with a Jesus Juice chaser. Michael married and divorced Lisa Marie, artificially inseminated a handsome looking surrogate, and went bankrupt. Then his heart stopped and he died. The End.

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When Bad Hair Happens to Good People. By Joy.

This is me, age 18. Check out my hair. It’s awful, I know. Unfortunately, this is not my natural hair (actually, that is somewhat fortunate); this cluster of curls was the result of a perm. And a poorly timed one at that. Allow me to explain (to the extent possible). The Boyds are not “hair people.” Some girls grow up with cool moms who unlock their daughters’ hairstyling creativity at an early age and said daughters grow up into lovely young women who instinctively know how to manage their manes. Said cool moms set their daughters up for hair success at an early age by ensuring that they get the cutest haircuts in the latest styles, or braiding their locks into the fanciest of all hairstyles- The French Braid. As is clearly evidenced by the “About Me” picture of me with a mullet, Syl was not one of those people.

I can count on one hand the number of “real” haircuts I got during my childhood (this excludes Syl putting a bowl on my head and cutting around it, or, worse, letting her friend in beauty school cut my bangs). My first haircut was a doozy. When I was in kindergarten, I had hair down to my derriere. It was long and luxuriously thick. Syl called me “horse hair,” which, at the time, I believed to be a term of endearment, but have since realized was really a sardonic statement of fact. Like any tomboyish five-year old, I did not care what I looked like. I never brushed my hair and I hated washing it. Every other day or so, Syl would take notice of my wild banshee-like appearance and spend an hour or so vigorously working the snarls and tangles out of my hair.

One night, I went to sleep whilst chewing gum (disobeying Syl’s strict orders to the contrary) and woke up with the gum thoroughly entangled in my hair. This act of defiance not only resulted in an unpleasant encounter with the Board of Education, it also resulted in Syl seizing a golden opportunity to chop my locks (again, see Mullet Joy in picture to the left). Having been shorn like a sheep in spring, I felt exposed and embarrassed and was a little wary of salons (and I use that term loosely) after that. While I, like the rest of my siblings, had bargain-basement cuts, every six (6) months or so Syl would go to the salon (a real one, I think) and get a new perm. Throughout my childhood, Syl had various permutations of the perm, and I loved and admired them all. Every six months, I would beg to accompany Syl to the real salon so I could get a perm, too. While I am sure Syl would have loved for us to have matching perms, the fact is that there was just not enough money in the Boyd Bank to buy me a perm…until I turned 18.

Though I quit asking for a perm after elementary school (doubtless having concluded that this dream would never be realized), I had renewed interest in the elusive perm towards the end of high school. Much to my inexplicable delight, Syl offered to buy me a perm for my 18th birthday, just before I left for college. To this day, I have no idea what I was thinking. Perhaps my motivation was not aesthetics (clearly), but rather laziness. At this point in my life, I had not yet been introduced to the almighty straightener; every morning I tried to wrestle my horse hair into some semblance of a hairdo and, having recently seen some high school photos, I was wildly unsuccessful at it. Having sensed on some level that I was fighting a losing battle, then, I must have thought a perm was the perfect solution for my hairstyling ineptness. What could be better than taking a shower and letting the ole curls air dry? Just a little gel! No more blowdryer! No more crazy hair! Or so I thought. Not only did the smell send everyone in a 5 mile radius running, I looked like a cross between Weird Al Yankovic and the Soul Glo commercial from “Coming to America.”

As you can see from this picture, my jheri curl didn’t do me any favors in the looks department. Turns out I was not any better at managing the perm than I was my old hair, so I eventually let the curls out, and discovered a straightener, thanks to my sorority sisters. I think the moral of this story is clear: you can get away with a perm you’re seventy or if your mom makes you get one, but not if you’re old enough to know better!

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The Green Bean Incident. By Jemina

I have an announcement to make that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me- I hate green beans. Loathe them. If I come over to your house for a dinner party, please know I will put green beans on my plate, but will shove them around in an effort to look like I ate some of what you probably assume to be the best vegetable on the planet. I’m not proud of my bean-hating ways, but I feel like one particular incident cemented my distaste for them when I was at the young age of five.

On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we were invited to dine at a friend of the family’s home, who had air conditioning (yay!) and toys for their grandchildren which we promptly commandeered as our own for the day. Since it was so delightful outside, we were told that dinner would be served on the patio under the guise of enjoying the fresh air, although I think the real reason for al fresco dining was that having six additional messy eaters inside would have called for heavy-duty clean up that nary a Merry Maid could have handled. As I ran from the basement to the kitchen to load up my plate full of deviled eggs, potato salad, chicken, and corn, I saw them- the abominable beans. Unfortunately for me, since Syl knew I hated them she made sure I took a heaping portion and gave me the Stink Eye which meant “if you don’t eat every single one of these, we’ll be having a chat (precursor to the Board of Education, see below)”.

As I morosely made my way to the children’s table on the patio, I began to look around for the family dog to try and tempt it into eating the green beans, but he was having none of it. Then, inspiration struck! I would take several green beans at a time in my hand, pretend to drop my napkin, and would stick the beans through the cracks of the patio to avoid the gagging reflex that would most assuredly come if I actually tried eating them. The plan worked- not only was I happy to clean my plate (much to the suspicious eye of Syl), I felt almost smug at my cleverness.
Dinner was over, and I was happily playing downstairs with my new toys for the day, when Syl came stomping down the stairs. She took one look at me and said “Come with me. NOW.” I followed her with trembling knees to the bathroom where she pointed to the wastebasket beside the toilet and gave me the ultimate Stink Eye. As I peered inside, I gasped at what I saw- a napkin BULGING with green beans. Now as an adult, I could have clearly defended myself in stating that there was no way that any amount of patio green beans could have made its way into the wastebasket in the downstairs bathroom, but my obvious guilt was already written on my face. Five year old me just assumed that Syl was right when she said God told her when we did something wrong, and He planted the green beans in the bathroom because He knew she would never find them under the patio. Sneaky bugger.

My butt stung for days. It wasn’t until we were in our teenage years that Joy finally admitted her similar distaste for green beans, and that she had been the one to shove her guilty load of sin into the wastebasket. Apparently when Syl came stomping down the stairs she thought she was done for, but when Syl grabbed me instead her, self-preservation kicked in and let me take the fall. However, even though it happened ever so many years ago I demand retribution.

Lesson of the day: if you’re smart enough to devise a plan, be smart enough to realize you got away with it. Most importantly, eat your veggies!

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Butt vs. Board of Education, by Joy

This is “The Rod,” commonly referred to in the Boyd Household as “The Board of Education.” Though perhaps not awe-inspiring on this web page, if you were staring down the barrel of this paddle at 5 or 6 years old, you’d be terrified (I speak from personal experience). As you can see from this picture, one side of the Board of Education has “The Rod” bored into the wood; the other side, however, featured a Bible verse: Proverbs 22:6. This verse is an oldie but a goody: “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” Trust me, the verse side of The Rod is quite worn and faded, as Phil and Syl trained us a whole lot. And if you think that The Rod is a paddle Phil and Syl just swung by and picked up at the church bookstore, you’d be wrong. This wooden piece of art was specially designed and commissioned by Phil and Syl, who doubtless envisioned molding and shaping their growing brood into little Christian soldiers, two cheeks at a time.

Some of us were on the receiving end of the Board of Education more than others. Phil and Syl beat James so early and often that he did not commit a sin after the age of three. Jemina got beat early, often, and late into her childhood. I don’t think the bruises on her bottom ever healed—if they did, they were quickly replaced with new bruises. Ironically, Josh (aka “the black sheep”) saw the least of the The Rod (he did not really get into sinning a whole lot until his teens), and I fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum between Jemina and Josh.

When we committed an offense worthy of corporal punishment, Phil or Syl let us know that we would be facing the Board of Education. Justice was not swift in the Boyd Household, however. Upon witnessing the corporal offense (or learning of it from a tattler), Phil or Syl would pronounce sentence and send us upstairs to their room to await our fate. Some of my siblings would trudge up the stairs (aka the Green Mile) and sit patiently on Phil or Syl’s hope chest awaiting their arrival. Not me! By the time I reached kindergarten, I had devised a plan to make my encounters with The Rod less painful. I saw the five-minute delay between the infraction and the imposition of punishment as an opportunity to shore up my line of defense—to protect my most precious asset, if you will. I sprinted up the stairs and made a beeline for my room, grabbed every pair of underwear I owned and put each pair on, one over the other. When I head Phil or Syl coming up the stairs, I’d scamper over to their room, take my licks, muster up some crocodile-sized tears to signify pain and regret for my actions, and skip back to my room, satisfied that I’d pulled one over on the ‘rents.

You’d think the fact that I haven’t been on the losing end of Butt v. Board of Education in a couple of decades would make me less fearful of The Rod. Not so. To this day, I can hardly bear to look at The Rod, much less talk about it, so I hope you can appreciate the courage it took for me to stare at this picture of the Rod and write about it. While my siblings and I still tiptoe around The Rod as if it were the Ark of the Covenant, Phil and Syl continue to take great pride in their creation. They will seize any opportunity to show The Rod off to their friends and fellow parents whenever the issue of children and/or discipline arises in conversation. “I just can’t seem to get little Suzy to eat her peas and carrots,” their friends might say. “Give her the Board of Education and see how she likes her veggies after that,” Phil and Syl would reply, exchanging knowing glances at one another and smiling at their friends’ child-raising incompetence.

If any of you parent-readers out there have a particularly unruly kid or kids in need of an attitude adjustment, I’m sure Phil and Syl will gladly loan you their precious paddle for a small fee (so far, both James and Josh have declined to use The Rod for their disciplinary needs). Heck, Syl will come down and whup your child for you if you want—I think she kind of misses it!

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School Bus Education Series: Part 3 by Josh

Since my 3 siblings have all written blogs about our childhood, I figured I’d guest blog, too. I be Josh, the involuntarily labeled yet self-actualized black sheep of the Boyd offspring. Second oldest but last in charge. My 4th grade teacher Mrs. Carlson once asked me, “Why can’t you be like your brother James?” This single question started my path down the wide road that leadeth to destruction according to the Good Book. Thanks for that, Mrs. Carlson. This single question also sparked my lifelong disdain for the Red Sox (Mrs. Carlson was a fan). However, I digress.

As my sisters alluded to in earlier blogs, we all endured our fair share of trials and tribulations on the bus. Twice a day, one or more of us interacted with kids of the sordid type: girls that wore fake nails, makeup and short skirts and guys who listened to Rock-n-Roll and Roll, cursed at every opportunity, gambled with their lunch money and looked at their dads’ porn. Needless to say, I knew all of these abominations were strictly forbidden inside the hallowed walls of the Boyd Compound of Fundamental Christianity. When I first set foot on the bus I felt like Pinocchio must have felt when he arrived on Pleasure Island (but before he started turning into a donkey). I had access to all of the forbidden fruit and I could eat—as long as James didn’t find out. The bus was a mobile Sodom and Gomorrah, a Pleasure Island on wheels, and I sampled almost all of the fruit the Island had to offer.

Of all the forbidden fruits I tasted on the bus, the most delicious by far was Rock-n-Roll. Not just any sort of Rock-n-Roll, mind you, Heavy Metal Rock-n-Roll. Unfortunately, I had to keep my newfound snack a secret. Notwithstanding Phil and Syl’s deafness, their fundamentalist Baptist leanings made them hyper-aware of sins of an auditory origin. These auditory sins were things that their hearing church brethren informed them were sinful. Chief among these sins was Rock-n-Roll. In Phil and Syl’s minds, all music fell into one of two categories: Rock-n-Roll and Christian. If music was deemed to be Rock-n-Roll, it was forbidden on the Compound.

Phil and Syl devised a three-prong test to determine which category the proposed music fell into: (1.) Do we sing it in church?; (2.) Is it sold it in the church bookstore?; and (3.) Does James approve? If the answer to any of these questions was “no,” it was Rock-n-Roll and tantamount to Satan worship, according to Phil and Syl. Period. Sadly, this three-prong test weeded out all of what I considered to be enjoyable music. Anything with electric instruments or drums (the core of Rock-n-Roll according to Phil) was quickly disapproved and labeled as ungodly. This was true even if the artist was a self-proclaimed Christian musician. What made matters worse was the fact that we didn’t have a lot of money so I wasn’t able to purchase my own heavy metal cassette tapes. Even if I could, I wouldn’t dare try to smuggle home a cassette. Where would I hide it? What would happen if Phil and Syl found it? Or James the narc for that matter… too risky. Eventually I enlisted the help of my friend Tim.

Tim and I were in the same grade and lived only blocks apart. We rode the same bus and sat together most of the time. Tim, though labeled by most adults as a “bad apple,” was an awesome friend because he came with a walkman. Walkmans were also forbidden in on the Compound as they provided access to… wait for it…. Rock-n-Roll radio stations (insert collective gasp here). At some point I discovered a small, easily concealed and inexpensive piece of technology called a “double jack.” The double jack enabled the walkman headphone port to support two (2) sets of headphones. Armed with this discovery and several weeks’ allowance (I received a small wage for my slave labor at the Compound), I purchased a double jack and a pair of ear buds for my listening pleasure. Being the good friend that he was, Tim agreed to allow me to plug in my double jack as long as I sat next to the window and supplied an occasional battery. I remember listening to Tim’s heavy metal mixed tape for the first time with my new ear buds. I had never heard such melodious sounds. The drums, guitars and screaming vocals were almost too much. It was like a drug and I wanted more. Tim exposed me to bands like Motley Crüe, Poison, Skid Row, Iron Maiden, Metallica and my personal favorite, Guns and Roses. In 7th grade, I bought my own walkman. Because the walkman led to auditory sin, I had to endure an intense Spanish Inquisition-esque screening process before Phil and Syl eventually approved the purchase.

From then on, whenever I wanted to add music to my growing collection of contraband, all I had to do was take one of James’s Christian cassette tapes, put a little piece of tape over one of the holes and copy over it with the Heavy Metal artist of my choice.

I guess if there’s a moral to this story, it’s that… umm… well there’s no moral. Drive your kids to school. The bus is a cradle of filth and a den of iniquity that I will never let my kids ride. The End.

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Left Behind: By Jemina.

As adults, we all have certain fears we’d like to conquer--fear of heights, fear of failure, fear of clowns, and whatnot. One of my fears is the fear of being left behind. This fear has been rooted deep within my soul due to several instances as a child that at left me paralyzed with fear. You see, being the baby of the family had its pros and cons. I was more spoiled, it’s true, but that’s more because the novelty of child rearing had worn off by the time I arrived, and Syl just didn’t have it in her to tell me “no” most of the time. Syl’s child-rearing fatigue syndrome also led her to delegate. A lot. In fact, Syl delegated my supervision to my sister Joy much of the time. Unfortunately, this usually resulted in my being wholly unsupervised whenever an imaginary game of “Pioneers” was started (see Davy Crockett entry below). Joy would tear up the stairs to her bedroom like a bat out of hell, grab her rifle and jam that coonskin hat on her greasy mullet so fast, I was alone before I knew what had happened. Over time, I grew used to Joy leaving me alone at home, but the problems started when her absenteeism in public created some unfavorable situations for me.

Although church services on Sunday began at 8:30 in the morning and lasted until noon, we were often forced to remain on hallowed ground as the deaf congregation all clamored for Phil and Syl’s attention. It was not uncommon for a disgruntled parishioner to, in a flurry of hand movements, demand to know something relatively trivial, such as why so and so brought deviled eggs for the potluck and not jello salad like requested? Or why so and so kept their stinky baby in the service instead of leaving and changing their kid’s turd-filled diaper? While Phil and Syl were putting out fires indoors, we kids were usually outside playing tag or running amuck in some form or fashion. We’d play until we heard Syl screaming our names in rapid succession (she refused to actually go and look outside for us) and we’d all load up in our 1985 Ford Club Wagon van and drive home. However, since I was the youngest and most persecuted, I would often go and play by my lonesome to avoid the ridicule that was most assuredly waiting for me wherever Joy and Josh were. Consequently, there were times when I wouldn’t hear Syl’s roll call and everyone would clamber into the van, Joy would fail to mention I wasn’t in the vehicle, and off everyone went back to the house without me.

Sometimes Syl did not realize I was missing until we approached the house. Sometimes, though, it wasn’t until everyone sat down to eat lunch that she discovered I had yet to make an appearance. However, no matter the time of said discovery, there was no effort made to go and retrieve me. Phil and Syl, ever the pragmatists, figured that the bus that took the inner-city kids to and from church would also take me home. This happened so often that it almost became a routine for me to seek out the cluster of poorly-dressed children (a category in which I fit myself), tell the bus driver my plight, and ride along, a beacon of paleness amongst the Caucasian, Hispanic, and African- American masses.

My agony doesn’t end there, my friends. Due to the fact that I was raised in a strict Independent Baptist household (re: compound), we were constantly reminded that “THE END WAS NIGH.” This meant that the Rapture was sure to happen any day or hour. If you were sinful, of course, you wouldn’t be Rapturetized and would be left on earth to suffer the pestilence, flames, and famine of the Tribulation. One of Joy’s greatest pleasures in life was to tell me that I wouldn’t be Rapturetized because I was a snotty-nosed kid who often disobeyed my parents, even though my disobedience was, more often than not, at her suggestion (an evil ploy to keep me out of heaven? I sincerely wonder). As I was far too simple-minded to figure out Joy was a pathological liar, I tended to believe that I’d better shape up or else I wouldn’t be shipped up to heaven. Now, readers, place yourself in my already overgrown feet as a 6 year old--you’re minding your own business outside of church on a Sunday afternoon, trying to avoid the bullies who happen to be your own brother and sister, and all of a sudden BAM! Everyone around you is gone. Panic sets in as you conclude everyone’s been Rapturetized, and who, exactly, is going to take care of you? Scary, isn’t it? Welcome to my childhood.

I eventually realized that being left everywhere was not attributable to The Rapture, nor to the fact that my parents hated me, but merely to the combination of a large family and an older sister who wished she were the youngest. But don’t think that just because I’m old enough to drive myself places, I don’t have my oldest brother (still the most devout person I know) on speed dial just in case I have a Rapture-related panic attack. I may be older, but I still am terrified of being left behind.

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Can I Get a Woo-Woo? By Guest Blogger, James (The Eldest).

I’m James, the eldest of the Boyd brood. Throughout our childhoods and even today the Boyd kids are routinely asked what it was like growing up with deaf parents. We used to say we didn’t know because we didn’t know any different. On closer examination, however, we all have realized that our upbringing was startlingly different from our friends’ upbringings. During our youth, the four of us adapted to our environment and utilized our senses to pick up on any social cues necessary to survive in the “hearing” world to make up for the lack thereof at home. Sometimes these social cues came too late and some form of public humiliation usually ensued. This is the story of one such occasion.
There are a number of words in the English language that describe sounds or serve as identifiers for sound. Most of you know where I’m going with this. Having deaf parents (“Phil and Syl” to all you frozen sandwiches fans out there) meant that the Boyd children often were not privy to the proper words for certain sounds. Thus, we were forced to: (a) make up our own; or (b) rely on the butchered pronunciation of our aforementioned deaf parents. Phil and Syl will admit that their subpar (I’m mostly picking on Syl here) pronunciation skills are the result of years of wasted sessions with ineffectual speech therapists who were convinced that they could save the world one deaf child at a time. Don’t believe me? Here’s an example. For years we referred to the “foyer” in our home as the “folly” simply because that’s what my parents called it. Who were we as children to question those who had given us life and took care of our most basic needs?!?
Enter the siren, that colorful, rotating device that sits atop most emergency vehicles. Growing up in the ‘hood, we came to regard the frequent blaring of sirens as a nighttime lullaby. As the eldest (I was 5 or 6 at the time), I decided that the proper name for this curious light-emitting device was “woo-woo.” I instinctively knew that because this was an object that emitted sound, my parents could offer no valuable insight on this issue and it was up to me to educate my younger siblings, specifically my not so bright (in my opinion) 3 year old brother, Josh. This new vocabulary word served us well as we interacted in our home; however, that would all change one fateful day.
My world was rocked one sweltering summer day when Josh and I left our non-air-conditioned home with Syl and headed with her to work. That summer, Syl had procured part-time employment at the neighborhood, emphasis on the hood, YMCA. This dilapidated building had a room where members could drop off their impish offspring to be “cared for” by someone else while they exercised. Syl would smile at the unsuspecting parents as they dropped off their screaming little ones, taking the ear-splitting cries with remarkable ease and then placing the upset child amidst a pile of toys and returning, unfazed, to her book du jour. My brother and I passed the time playing with toys and amusing ourselves in various ways (I once got a battery-powered car wrapped in some little girl’s hair and Syl had to cut it out). One toy that we were particularly fond of was an ambulance complete with, you guessed it, woo-woo’s. One day, Josh and I had befriended another boy about our age and we were playing with the aforementioned ambulance when the following exchange occurred:
Josh, with great excitement: I love woo-woo’s!!!
Friend, puzzled: Woo-woo’s?
Josh (looking expectantly at his older brother and replying confidently): Yeah, woo- woo’s!!!.
Fancying myself a bright child, I immediately picked up on my newfound friend’s perplexed response to my brother’s reference to woo-woo’s and quickly concluded that this kid probably had hearing parents and, given our neighborhood, had an accurate name for these flashing things. At that moment I had a decision to make. Do I: (a) defend my brother’s honor and announce flatly that these were in fact woo-woo’s and that any suggestion otherwise would be preposterous . . . or (b) throw my brother under the bus and claim the true English word for woo-woo thereby sparing myself any future embarrassment?!? Here’s how the rest of that exchange went down:
James, to Josh: woo-woo’s?
Friend, to James: Those are sirens.
James, to Josh, with a sarcastic and knowing look to my newfound friend: Yeah dummy, those are sirens!!!
Josh and I never spoke of the incident but we both learned some valuable lessons that day. First, if you want to know the word for something that makes a sound, don’t ask your deaf parents—ask a trusted friend with hearing parents. Second, if you’re going to make a word up, don’t use it in public. Lastly, you must assume your brother will not think twice about throwing you under the bus if he has an opportunity to avoid humiliation at your expense.

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Cans For Cash! By Joy.

The Boyd Family’s socio-economic status can best be explained in the form of a simple math equation: Phil (preacher) + Syl (housewife) + 4 kids = negative money. Some parents tell their kids they’re not made of money, but they don’t mean it and their kids know it. When Phil and Syl told us they weren’t made of money, we believed them (see equation, above). For those of you who read about my quest to become Mrs. Davy Crockett, you must have wondered how a family that tap danced on the poverty line swung a trip to the happiest place on earth. Sit back, dear reader, and prepare to be amazed.

As a nerdy kid growing up in a steadily declining neighborhood in downtown Rochester, New York, I learned quickly about the value of a pop can* (*To all my Southern friends: “pop” = yankee-speak for Coke). In New York, each pop can was worth 5¢--a paltry sum, unless it was combined with hundreds, nay thousands, of other pop cans. This simple principle was the impetus for Syl’s plan to get the Boyd Family to Disney World. Ever the dreamer, Syl was convinced that we could collect enough pop cans to pay for our family to go to Disney World. Many scoffed at her idea (ahem, Phil), but I, in my childlike naïveté, thought it was a brilliant idea! I had no idea how many pop cans it would take to get our family to Disney World, but I was certain we would make it. And thus the journey began.

While a family of six is certainly a good start in terms of a labor force, Syl knew that Operation Disney World would require many more hands. We were, after all, on a time crunch. The Deaf Baptist Bible Conference in Orlando was only four (4) months away! Plus, our family of six wasn’t exactly the ideal worker pool. Jemina was three at the time and, let’s face it, essentially useless. James, Josh and I were 11, 9, and 7 respectively, and, though we were energetic and motivated, we were constrained by school, homework, and early bed times. Enter the Deaf Ministry. At this point in my childhood, Phil was a deaf pastor who had his own deaf ministry. I still don’t know how Syl managed it, but she somehow convinced the congregation to join her cause. Maybe the parishioners viewed the Boyd children (and perhaps me in particular) as a homely lot and they took pity on us. Or maybe Syl took some liberties with the Word and insinuated that their place in heaven might be jeopardized if they didn’t do “God’s Work.”

According to the gospel of Syl, God’s work meant following her to local schools, community colleges and universities in search of the holy trinity of pop cans: Coke, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper products. Twice a week, I would go to bed as Phil and Syl gathered a group of volunteers in our living room and mapped out the locations to be hit that night. Week after week I begged to be allowed to join them. My motive was twofold: one, to collect tons of pop cans and thereby get to Disney World that much sooner; and two, to escape my ridiculously early bedtime of 7:30 p.m. After weeks of nagging Phil and Syl, they finally let me accompany them on a late night excursion. On a school night. A double victory! On this particular night, the target was Rochester Institute of Technology, a huge university with hundreds of trash cans and receptacles with untold numbers of shiny cans inside.

When we arrived on campus, we split up into groups of three to five people and fanned out. I was in Syl’s group. Up and down the dimly lit halls we marched in search of our treasure. When a garbage can full of loot was spotted, furious hands movements, flickering light switches, and unmistakable shrieks of delight ensued. Unfortunately, most of the cans were not situated at the top of the garbage can, awaiting our arrival. Rather, the cans were usually buried under a pile of crumpled paper, discarded food, empty water bottles, and the like. For reasons unclear to me now, I always volunteered to burrow deep into the garbage can and go after the cans located in the receptacle’s deepest recesses. Although I was of above-average height even then, I required a little assistance in this regard. Said assistance came in the form of two volunteers hoisting me up and lowering me into the can, by the ankles while I rummaged around, grabbing three or four cans, then wiggling my legs to request an extraction (I couldn’t ask to be lifted out; these are deaf people, remember?). And so this process continued in the empty classrooms and break rooms, the lavatories and the common areas, me being lowered into each garbage can, rummaging, releasing, and repeating, until I was fully satisfied that I had fully excavated the last aluminum nickel and emerged, glasses smudged, she-mullet matted, satisfied, syrupy and sticky up to the elbows.

Slowly but surely, each passing week, we grew steadily closer to our goal. Each week Syl would announce our monetary take for the week, along with the total amount collected thus far. After four long months, Syl announced that we had finally reached our magic number: $3,000.00. To save you some needless mental exercise, $3,000.00 equals 60,000 pop cans. Impressive, eh? Luckily, my brothers and I were too young to realize that we and our parents looked like homeless vagabonds every time we passed a trash can and one of us rooted through its contents. Unfortunately, Syl’s crusade forever imprinted the idea that cans = cash in my brain. At this very second, I have a trash bag pregnant with cans in a kitchen cabinet. I tell myself that I am being responsible, that I am going to recycle them. Soon. I know that I can’t get 5¢ apiece for them because Alabama doesn’t care enough about the environment to bribe her citizens to recycle. Still, I think I subconsciously resent that fact and I continue to hoard my cans for no apparent reason. Thanks for nothing, Syl! The End.

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An Insincere Apology. By Jemina, On Behalf of Joy.

Dear Readers,

This week's blog was to be provided by Joy, but as her 1980's wooden computer crashed while an impending trial sucks the life out of her, there will be no blog this week. You may voice your complaints in the comments section below to encourage her to get a new computer that doesn't include a trial version of AOL.

I look forward to your comments!

All Dogs Go To Heaven...Eventually. By Jemina.

Dear readers, by now you have heard a little about our mother, Syl (see “Frozen Sandwiches,” below), but not much about our father, Phil. This is a story that will help you get to know Phil a little better. If you haven’t figured it out already, the Boyd household was one that would have thrived in Spartan times. In addition to Phil and Syl’s unending quest to maintain the highest order of discipline and frugality in our household, those of you who know us personally would probably agree that we could benefit from some empathy training, as well. While Syl could muster a few words of comfort in particularly stressful times, Phil was more of the stoic type. If you don’t believe me, just ask Phil why he made me wait until halftime of a high school football game to take me to the emergency room for a near-ruptured appendix.

Phil’s lack of sensitivity aside, he did manage to show a little enthusiasm (and, dare I say, love?) for our family’s beloved German Shepherd, Hershey. In the words of Jerry Maguire, Hershey completed us. She had the bravery of Rin Tin Tin and the heroism of Lassie. In fact, my siblings and I speculated Hershey was Rin Tin Tin and Lassie’s love child, the result of one perfect night of passion on a studio lot in Hollywood. She was, simply put, the perfect dog. She responded to Sign Language commands and rescued women and children from burning buildings. Most importantly, however, she protected us pasty Boyd children from the ruffians and ne’er do wells that often bullied other kids on our local playground. Hershey was, in essence, the Mr. T to our A Team, the Jem to our Holograms, the Uncle Jesse to our Full House.

On Hershey's eleventh year on this earth, we noticed a cyst which we later learned was widespread cancer. The vet delivered the crushing news: Hershey had to be put to sleep the next morning. Since I was the only Boyd child left at home, I felt obligated to give our beloved pet the last rites befitting of a cherished family member: brushing her thick coat to a shine, petting her for hours, and sleeping by her side for the night. In what turned out to be a grievous lapse in judgment, Syl put Phil in charge of taking Hershey to the Vet O' Death the next day. Though Syl gave me the option to stay home from school, I mustered up the courage to attend classes, partially because I did not want to accompany Hershey on her death march, and partially because I wanted my last memory of Hershey to be of her at peace in our home, and not taking her final walk towards the light. All day I wandered the halls of my high school in a melancholy daze, reluctantly sharing the painful story of my beloved dog’s impending doom with my friends. As I drove home from school that day, I played a montage of my favorite moments with Hershey in my head: fleeing from thugs at the playground, chasing the ice cream truck, feeding her scraps from the table, and so on. I walked into the house still pondering these bittersweet memories when I rounded the corner and saw Hershey. Lying in her bed. Still alive. I was overcome by a typhoon-size wave of emotions--was Hershey ok? Did her cancer miraculously disappear? I ran through the house until I found Phil in the home office steadily typing away on the computer and rapidly signed my questions in an effort to ascertain the truth. Phil, in an indifferent, blasé tone that I detected immediately, signed:

“Oh. I didn't have time to take her today. I guess I'll take her tomorrow.”

My mind reeled. I retorted, “You didn't have time to kill my childhood pet today?!”

At this point Phil's brain must have registered two things: a) he screwed up, and b) Syl was NOT going to be happy with him when she found out that he had purposely delayed Hershey’s agony. If there was one person in our house that loved Hershey more than I, it was Syl. It was the one time that I was able to tell him “Wait until Mom gets home,” and sheer terror appeared on his face.

I can’t tell you what exactly Syl said to Phil when she got home (this is, after all, a family blog), but I can tell you that she was livid. All I remember seeing was a flurry of violent-looking hand gestures, finger pointing, clenched jaws and bulging eyes. In his defense, Phil was remorseful. He did take Hershey to the vet the next day, and the best dog that ever lived was finally laid to rest.

I wish I could say that Phil turned over a newer, more delicate leaf after this unfortunate incident, but that would be a lie. While you may be able to chastise an old dog for its insensitivity, you can't teach it new tricks.

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