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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Mrs. Joy Crockett

It’s no secret that I was a wee bit tomboyish growing up. Okay, that’s a lie. I was a HUGE tomboy. Less than four years separated my two older brothers and I and, from an early age, I was the odd girl out. My brothers had each other and their friends; they had no use for a stupid girl like me. Sometimes Syl would force James and Josh to let me tag along when they played Cowboys and Indians with the other kids (read: boys) in the neighborhood. By the way, if you’ve ever tried to play Cowboys and Indians (or is it now “Native Americans?”) without a gun or a bow and arrow set, you’re pretty much a sitting duck. As an unarmed girl, I was forced to play the part of the damsel in distress, which I hated. I wanted to kick Cowboy (or Native American, depending on the day) butt, too!

Every year for their birthdays and Christmas, my brothers received a fabulous assortment of toy weapons: guns, swords, knives, nunchucks, etc. Because I had no weapons of my own, my brothers were doubly disinterested in letting me tag along: they did not want to let me borrow a gun from their cache of weapons and they could not be bothered to explain the rules of engagement to a girl. Of course, as a tomboy, and not an actual boy, I never got cool weapons on my birthday or Christmas (not for want of asking on my part, mind you). Every birthday I eagerly opened my gifts, hoping in vain for just one fake machete or machine gun. Instead, I was consistently rewarded with useless girly garbage: a macramé kit, an Easy-Bake Oven, or, worst of all, a doll.

It was with this mindset that I headed down to Disney World with the rest of the Boyd Family during the summer of 1989 (you’ll learn how Phil and Syl pulled this off financially in a future blog post). At the outset of the trip, Syl informed my siblings and me that we could pick one (1) souvenir from any of the parks we visited. As we traveled from park to park, Syl would periodically step inside the souvenir shops and hold up dolls, Minnie Mouse makeup sets, frilly dresses, and other female-friendly items for me to look at, hoping that one would strike my fancy. But I was single-minded in my souvenir quest; I would not be swayed. I was on a mission to find a weapon of my own: something noisy and shiny and far better than anything in James and Josh’s arsenal. I needed something I could barter with to gain entry into the boys’ club. After days of fruitless searching, I entered Frontierland, a.k.a., The Promised Land. I entered a souvenir shack with a western store front and immediately spotted my prize: a lever action wooden rifle with a painted gold finish. I clutched the rifle to my chest and indicated to Syl that I’d be cashing in my souvenir ticket. Syl furrowed her brow signaling her disapproval, but I didn’t care. On the way to the cash register, I spotted something that would complement my rifle nicely—a Davy Crockett coonskin cap. YES! I grabbed the cap and pulled it down over my bowl cut until it grazed the top of my glasses. I then shook my head back and forth, swinging the raccoon tail around like a luxurious ponytail, and grinning mischievously. At this point I think Syl realized the battle had been lost and washed her hands of me and she motioned for me to put my furry prize on the counter along with my rifle.

I’d like to tie this story up in a neat little bow by saying that my Davy Crockett coon skin cap and western rifle were my tickets into the boys’ club, but I’m sad to report that Josh ripped the raccoon tail off of my precious cap in a fit of jealousy shortly after we arrived home. My beautiful rifle, too, met an untimely end after James shoved the business end of the gun into Josh’s stomach and Phil seized it as contraband. Nevertheless, I have to give Syl props for letting me live the dream and buying my frontier contraband even though she really, really, really did not want to. So this story’s for you, Syl! Thanks for allowing me to be a weirdo!

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School Bus Education Series, Part 2: The Bus, The Birds, and The Bees. By Jemina.

Now that every one is familiar with the perils of public transportation, namely rectangular, yellow machines of mayhem also referred to as school buses, I will share my tale of carnal knowledge. Every kid had that friend growing up who knew just a little too much about the adult world and its dark underbelly. Think back to that kid in your class who never showered, already had a stint at juvie under his or her belt, and started smoking cigarettes by second grade. This is usually the same person who shattered your childhood hopes and dreams with a conversation that went a little something like this:

You, as a child: “I can't wait for Christmas, Santa's going to bring me so many presents!”
Friend: “You know that Santa isn't real, right?
You, the sound of your heart audibly shattering: “Wha-, what?”
Friend: “Yeah, and neither is the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, or Cinderella. And your parents will probably get divorced soon. Got a light?”

No matter how many times this friend crushed your spirit, he or she provided an invaluable service—the kid had no qualms about answering questions that you were too scared to ask your parents, most of which revolved around sex. When the topic of sex came up in my family, it was explained as something that a man and woman did only within the strict confines of marriage, and only to perpetuate the species. Or, it was mentioned in the Bible as something that a man did to a family member (although sneakily referred to as some verb tense of “know,” as in, “Adam knew Eve,”). Said man usually realized he made a mistake and ended up gouging out his eyeballs in penance (I may have mixed some Oedipal issues in there).

In any event, at some point during elementary school, I realized my knowledge of the birds and the bees was sub par. You see, up until 3rd or 4th grade, I believed everything my sister, Joy, said was true. This delicate foundation of trust was steadily chipped away as I realized: a) Joy was an inordinately manipulative child, b) shiny pennies were not worth more than crusty dollars and should not be traded with anyone, and c) it was not normal to pay your older sister a dollar an hour to play Barbies with you. Prior to my rude awakening, Joy, in her infinite eleven-year-old knowledge, casually informed me that women could get pregnant from kissing men. You can imagine my shock and awe as I saw men kissing, nay impregnating, women everywhere! I naturally wondered why people would engage in such risky behavior…publicly! Why were people not more careful when it came to family planning? No wonder Phil and Syl had 4 kids so haphazardly!

In order to get a straight answer, I met up with my worldly friend, Courtney Parley* on the bus. I knew she would indulge my request for the truth and wouldn't sugarcoat the facts. This information came at a price, however. I would be seen sitting and chatting with a known misfit: someone who was on the first name basis with the school principal, someone who cared little for proper behavior or hygiene (she got sent home from school at least once a month for having lice). In exchange for one of my favorite Barbie dolls (given at arm's length), I was given the answer: sex was not when a boy and girl kissed (stupid Joy), but when said boy and girl hugged each other for a REALLY long time. Finally! Answers! It made complete sense to me. I never saw many people hug for a long time, and when you're married you have all the time in the world to hug someone and make a baby. I wasn't sure if a couple had to hug for hours or months, but I remember coming to the conclusion that honeymoons usually last for a week, so that must be the time it took to make a baby. Long-term hugging seemed exhausting, and I wanted no part of it. When do you sleep? Go to the bathroom? I felt so liberated the day I finally quenched my thirst for information, and I had the added benefit of knowing something that even my older sister was not privy to. I kept that secret for about 2 more years until I realized, once again, I had been slightly misinformed about the baby-making process.

Today’s lesson: tell your children pregnancy occurs after prolonged physical contact with the opposite sex. This is not necessarily a lie. The key is to make it sound like it takes hours, or days, even, to make a baby. Make it sound like a horrible, tedious, and boring process (again, not always a lie). Of course, there will be the Courtney Parleys of the world who will assume that short bursts of sexual interaction are a sufficient means of birth control, but let’s face it: these girls are gonna get knocked up no matter what you say. For the remaining risk-averse kids, this story will keep you from becoming a grandparent for at least two additional years. You’re welcome, parent-readers!

*Name has been changed to protect the guilty, who is currently serving 20-to-life in a women's state penitentiary.

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School Bus Education Sessions, Part 1: (F) Bombs Away!

I remember clearly the first time I cursed. I don’t mean the first time I thought a cuss word, or muttered it to myself, under my breath. I’m talking about the first time I said a curse word, out loud, for the entire world to hear. The momentous event occurred the morning after a snowstorm blanketed downtown Rochester with nearly a foot of pristine, powdery, crunchy snow. After breakfast, my siblings and I bundled up in our moon boots, snow suits, scarves, mittens/gloves, ear muffs, knit hats and headed outside. After engaging in the usual post-snowfall christening activities (making snow angels, throwing snowballs, eating snow—avoiding, of course, yellow or gray hued patches), Jemina and I attempted to build the best snow fort EVER. After 30 minutes of fruitless digging and packing and re-packing snow while James and Josh continuously kicked in our ill-constructed tunnels and makeshift “igloos,” however, we gave up and an impromptu snowball fight ensued.
At some point during the snowball fight, the impulse control center in my eight-year-old brain completely short circuited and I inexplicably yielded to the overwhelming temptation to push Jemina headfirst into the snow. And to bury her face in it. Until she cried. In the instant I let Jemina up, I felt momentary exultation, then overwhelming guilt, followed by the tightening of my scarf around my neck. Before I could process what was happening, I heard my oldest brother James yell, “Let’s see how you like it!” and felt his hands behind my head, propelling my face toward a giant snowdrift. Then, darkness. Freezing, burning, suffocating darkness. When James finally released his death grip on my scarf, I staggered to my feet, sputtering, spitting, pawing at my face with my wet mittens, trying to get the snow out from between my eyes and giant glasses so I could face James. And KILL him. In the nanoseconds that ensued, I considered and rejected several avenues of revenge, finally deciding to go for the jugular—figuratively speaking, that is. Before I tell you my brilliant idea, I have to briefly explain James’s role in our family. As the eldest child, James was a typical perfectionist, but with a Christian twist. He was always extremely devout, even at a young age. For a long time I thought he was born without the “sin” gene. In light of this information, you can better understand why I chose the following course of action.
I marched over to James, trembling with fear and adrenaline, clenched my fists and, with all the strength my awkward Amazonian body could muster, I shrieked, F------------ (yes, I said the actual word) Youuuuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!!!!!!!! Then, silence. Shock. Neighborhood parents’ and children’s jaws simultaneously dropped.
Now you might be wondering where an eight-year-old raised in a fundamentalist Baptist bubble would have learned such a filthy word. Two words: the bus. Because the Boyd siblings lived in a “transitional” neighborhood (nowadays some might refer to it as the ‘hood) in downtown Rochester, New York, we had to be bussed to our ultra Christian conservative school in the suburbs every day. Unfortunately, we were forced to intermingle with “public school kids” on our route. “Public school kids” were, according to Phil and Syl, heathens whose parents let them watch filthy television shows like The Simpsons, forced minimal church attendance and required little to no scripture memorization. And so, despite Phil and Syl’s concerted effort to shield me and my siblings from all things “worldly,” they unwittingly exposed us to the “real” world in the form of public transportation, where kids fought and cursed and bullied and engaged in a host of other unspeakable acts which I will not go into here.
If there is a moral to this story, it has to be that, when you remove a naïve child from her Baptist bubble and thrust her onto the wheels of iniquity, you cannot expect her to close her eyes and ears to all the seedy activity going on around her. She will hear cooler, older, wiser kids utter naughty words, one of which sounds a lot like “puck” but starts with “f.” While she may deduce that it’s probably a bad word, she will have no idea what it means or how bad, exactly, it is, on the spectrum of curse words. So you mustn’t judge her for filing the word away in the recesses of her brain to be used later should an opportune moment arise. Particularly if that moment involved a buttinski of an older brother who tried to suffocate her. The End.

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