Growing up in our house we had two rules when it pertained to school: One: If you ever get whipped in school, you will get it again at home, only harder. Two: You had better not ever come home with an F or you will get your fanny fanned but good (no pun intended). We all lived in fear of both of those rules, so the first one never got broken (at least, not to our parents' knowledge), but for me the second one came true one year in fourth grade.
We had a teacher who was a very likeable teacher (as teachers go), but she had a couple of rules that she stood by withour fail. Of course, there were the usual rules, i. e. no talking in class, no chewing gum, etc. but one which she was a particular stickler about was that we were always to keep our desks in order with no messy papers, etc.
One day she decided to conduct a snap inspection and have us all open our desks for her to see. I had been saving a bunch of homework papers to throw away, but that day was too late. When she saw all those papers lying around in a mess in my desk, she scolded me in front of the whole class and then said;
"I made it perfectly clear that you were to keep your desks cleaned out and in order, but your desk is a mess. Clean it out, now. And since you didn't follow my directions, when your report card comes out in a few weeks, you will have an F in conduct."
Those words struck terror in my little mind. I knew if I got an F in anything that I wouldn't get a whipping when the report card came out. I lived in hope that she had forgotten, but on the day she handed out the report cards, I opened mine, and there was that F staring at me. My butt winced at the thought of what was going to happen when Mom and Dad found out.
Normally I would let my brother and sister see my grades, but not that day. I walked home all the way in silence. I knew I was doomed. I didn't want to even show the grade card to anyone. I wanted to escape or I wanted a way to keep from producing the dreaded F, but I knew it would be a lot worse if I didn't.
We walked into the house, and the first thing Mom asked for was our report cards. She look at the other two report cards, and then I sheepishly gave her mine. She didn't say a word (at least not to me), but she must have said something to Dad when he came home.
We all had dinner together, and then Dad spoke up:
"Kids, your mom and I told you that if you ever came home with an F you would get a good hard whipping. Well there's one on Mike's report card in conduct. What's the story, Mike?
I told him she was probably having a bad day when she found my desk in a mess, but I didn't really think she would give me an F for it. That was enough for Dad. He turned to my brother and sister and said;
"Well guys, I want you to see what happens if you ever bring home an F in any subject, I don't care what it is."
Then he told Mom to go get the yardstick. I knew I was in for it then. She complied and came back in to the living room with that big yardstick he used at work, a carpenter's yardstick, about 2-3 inches wide and about a half inch thick. He went over to the couch and picked up one of the pillows that supported the back of the counch, and he put it on the end of the couch and then came those oh-so-famous words:
Mike...bend over that pillow. I begged for mercy and told him it wouldn't happen again, but with the second command to "bend over" I draped myself over the pillow with my jean-clad butt sticking up in the air. He placed his hand on my back to hold me down, and then came the first CRACK!
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow! I cried. Ouch that hurts. Please stop whipping me. Whack, whack,. whack, whack, whack. Over and over again he landed that _d_a_m_n_ed yardstick across my but. It stung so bad. And he wasn't letting up. Whack, whack, whack, whack! Oooh! Boy was I hurting. The tears were running down my face. I couldn't stop bawling.
Then Dad stopped for a minute and turned to my brother and sister and said:
"Just so Mike remembers never to get another F and you two don't forget tonight, I am not finished with your brother."
Then in a moment or two, I found him pulling down my jeans. It couldn't get any worse than that. Whack! whack, whack, whack....ow, ow, ow, ouch, yeow! I screamed. That yardstick was all but touching my bare but. You can bet my butt was red by then.
When he finally finished after about another five to ten minutes of whacks, I could stand up and pull up my jeans once again. He then told us all:
"Now this is what you get for an F! And none of my kids is ever coming home with an F again, are they?"
We all nodded complete agreement. I was still crying, and did for quite a while before I went to bed. When I crawled into bed, I sneaked a peek at my butt. It was glowing red an hour after all was said and done.
That night I found out that F didn't mean failure. It stood for Fanny Fanning, and I stood up for a few days afterward. The next day in school I could hardly sit and fidgeted a little bit. The teacher asked me why but I just made up an excuse. She never knew what her F did to me.
To this day, I still revile the sight of a yardstick. I don't keep one in my house, either!