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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