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!

Share