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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