Just about every summer, my father and I left Mama as we went camping to enjoy a week of peace in solitude. Sometimes, Father chose a state of national park; a few times, we struck out like nomads, staying each night in a different farmers field. Though his job with the United States Marine Corps (USMC) was administrative, hes always been fit and active, with a muscular body, and an Indiana Jones attitude about roughing it.
The summer I was thirteen, my father decided wed be nomads again, after the previous summers disappointing, rained-in stay at a state park. Hed set the route – from Charleston, SC (where we lived); northwest toward Augusta, GA; then southeast toward Savannah, GA; finally, northeast along the coast back home to Charleston. I was really looking forward to camping with Father.
Some farmers didnt permit open fires, especially during drought years, so wed cook on a small propane grill. Some let us sleep in a barn or woodshed if it rained, while others joked kindly about how cold and wet it must be sitting out a storm in a tent. Of course, some required that we help with a chore or two in exchange for using their fields. All in all, Father and I usually had a great time and were sorry when the week ended.
To be honest, those are some of the fondest memories I hold of my father, mainly because he always left his strop at home! That strop, which was used on me regularly from age eight to the time I moved out at age 18 still makes me shudder some. Imagine getting a strapping once (or a few times) each week . . . then an entire week without the strop! I cherished those times.
Our trip went well from the time we started packing til our fourth day out. We had stopped for the night in a corn field near Vidalia, GA, and the farmer – chubby, elderly, and very southern – required only that we muck out his horse stables. (He kept a half dozen horses for when his grandkids visited.) Well, my father excused himself, telling me to muck out the stalls and hed pitch the tent, drive into town for an ATM, pick up some groceries, and check-in on base to ensure things were going smoothly during his absence. The farmer set me to work, giving me a pitchfork, shovel and wheelbarrow; pointing me toward the horse stalls; and, scratching his thick, grey beard, ordered: "Finish by five oclock."
"Yes, Sir." I started cheerfully . . . until I realized it was already 3:45 pm! But for a bookish, underdeveloped boy unaccustomed to farm work, this was not an easy task. The pitchfork and shovel had my arms tired in just a few minutes. Moving the wheelbarrow took more than my full strength. Sure enough, by the time the farmer came back at 5 pm, Id gotten only three stalls done. The manure had been put in the wheelbarrow, along with the sullied hay, and some fresh hay was spread around the stalls. But the remaining three stalls were still stinking of day-old and fresh manure.
"Looks like you didnt get the work done, boy," laughed the farmer, holding his protruding gut.
"Ive never done this before. I was hoping my father might help, but he hasnt gotten back from town yet, Sir." I hope this might get the farmer to soften his deadline. After all, did manure matter that much?
"Alls I can say, boy," the farmer said, "is that the work didnt get done. You keep working and Ill talk to your daddy when he gets back." With that, he left again. But my arms, legs and back were already sore, so how many more stalls could I muck out?
By six oclock, Id completed another two stalls which left one undone. And, right about then, Fathers car pulled in. I was overjoyed to see him – a rarity in emotion – thinking hed do the last stall so we could go for dinner and a good nights sleep. But out stepped the farmer from the passenger side of Fathers car. I wondered to myself, whats this about? But, I dismissed it; after all, the farmer would see my progress and let Father know only one more stall needed to be mucked out. I soon realized the error of my thinking . . .
Father truly meant for me to get all the work done in his absence!
"Jay," my father asked, "did you finish Mr. Whitsons assignment?"
Understanding Mr. Whitson was the farmers name, I replied, "Not all, Sir, but I did five out of six stalls. One more to go!" I tried to sound upbeat, though I was exhausted.
"But Mr. Whitson gave you a deadline of five oclock, and its already past six."
"Yes, Sir," and I explained my belief that Father was going to help once he returned from town, that the work was too difficult for me to do alone.
Fathers tone was flat. "Well, I said Id take care of the tent and going to town, grocery shopping and making dinner. And Mr. Whitson assigned this task to you and you alone. Clearly, you failed to do that."
"But, Sir, I thought we were gonna do it together." I stammered, understanding the predicament and impending punishment.
"You thought wrong, Jay. Gees, I thought wed get through this camping trip without an incident like this."
"But . . . " (Certainly, a weak and ineffective argument.)
Father shush-ed me, and turned to Mr. Whitson: "I sincerely apologize. My son will get that last stall mucked out after Ive provided some motivation to his backside."
Mr. Whitson laughed aloud and replied, "Having raised a number sons myself, and being a granddaddy, I know all about providing that kind of motivation!"
All the while, Im thinking that my father had no strop so could only give a hand spanking. But I would be proven wrong once again . . .
"Jay, see that tree?" My father was pointing at a tree about fifty feet away, alongside the road. "Go wait there. Drop your shorts and briefs; face the tree; hands up on the trunk."
I gulped, hoping the punishment would take place back at the campsite, not here where Mr. Whitson could watch. I said as much. But Father hushed me again and said, "As you wronged Mr. Whitson, surely hes entitled to watch." The farmer nodded, indicating he would stay to observe.
Defeated, soon to be humiliated, I walked slowly to the tree, unbuckled my belt, undid my button, unzipped my fly dropped my shorts, and pushed by briefs down past my knees. I figured this would be quite a sight for any passers-by: A young teen, with shorts and briefs lowered, leaning against a tree, next to a cornfield, awaiting a hand spanking by his father with an old, fat farmer watching. Thankfully, I thought, this would only be a hand spanking . . . WRONG!
My father and the farmer came over a good five to ten minutes later. With his pocket knife, Father cut a slender, two-foot-long branch off a near-by birch tee, and said: "Boy, this is a switch which will cut into your hide worse than my old strop."
"Here, here," Mr. Whitson agreed. "I used to send my boys out to cut and strip their own switch. Id beat them in the cornfields so their howling wouldnt upset their mother."
Father had deftly striped off the leaves and twigs. The sound of his practice swings cutting the air sent shivers up my spine and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He stepped to my side, rested his right hand on my right shoulder, prepared to mete out a punishment I considered wholly unfair!
I could feel the switch rest against my smooth, tensed buttocks. Then, with a swift back and forth motion, the switch made first contact. Oh, it tore into my tender, fair flesh, leaving a raised welt in less than a second. Sure, I howled, never having felt anything near as painful. But the first cut was followed by nine more! And as I howled, I clung to that tree trunk as my tears dripped to its base. And, as I arched my back to get my butt as far from that switch as possible, I unintentionally ground my bare crotch into the rough bark.
After those ten cuts, Father stopped and said: "Ill let you rest a bit before the next round." He and Mr. Whitson stepped away, leaving me to my mournful tears, my throaty groans, and my welt-covered, rend-and-on-fire pair of buns.
Perhaps five minutes later – or maybe it was longer, or shorter – I sensed their return. Father spoke again: "Boy, youre almost done. Ten more cuts and youll finish mucking out that last horse stall."
The farmer added, "My boys hated me until they had boys of their own. Now they understand discipline has got to be harsher than a boy can stand, so he learns to behave like a man."
I said nothing, but was more embarrassed than words can describe. To have this old, fat farmer staring at my exposes, inflamed ass . . .
Father said nothing further, instead delivering the first of these ten final cuts. I could hear the air sliced, and could not help but clench my butt cheeks. And the switch crisscrossed previously raised welts, renewing the searing pain in my rear. This set of ten was more skillfully delivered, I guess; evenly paced with a much greater intensity. My head felt heavy; my breathing was shallow, but fast; my eyes saw everything begin to sparkle . . . then faded to black.
I awoke to find myself laying on the ground, flat on my back, my head throbbing, and my shorts and briefs still around my ankles. Also my legs, shorts, briefs, socks, shoes were wet . . . something pungent and sticky. Father was at my side, but Mr. Whitson was gone. I fainted, he said, probably because of the pain.
I mumbled- half stating and half asking - my throat dry and hoarse from the screaming I didnt even hear, "Im wet?"
"Yes, you peed all over when you passed out. Theres a bit of blood, not much." He said this as matter of fact, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. "For now, get that last stall mucked out. Then, wash up for dinner. Ill see you at the campsite." He got up and left.
Much later, I got back to our campsite. I turned down Fathers offer for dinner, instead setting up my sleeping bag at a distance from Fathers tent. I lay on my stomach, letting a soft and cooling breeze ease my sore muscles and pain-filled backside. Before I knew it, sleep arrived; thankfully, I did not dream.