When I was growing up, my father was a firm believer in discipline. I was expected to do what I was told, when I was told, and to not ask questions. Both of my parents were very strict, but my mother left the discipline up to my father. She was very much a "wait till your father gets home" type of person.
Dad was almost six feet tall, and pretty stocky. This was the early seventies... he always had a thick black mustche, and sideburns at least the length of his ears (when I was very young, he had big Elvis-like muttonchops). He'd done some time in the Marine Corps, but through my whole childhood he was a motorcycle cop.
When it came time for punishment, my father always used a black leather garrison belt. He usually doubled it over and held the buckle end in his hand. Two or three times, he took the buckle off and used that end. I never got the buckle end... I was threatened with it a lot. He always told me that when his father beat him, he got the buckle (I do have a friend that got the buckle end all the time and claims that one time his dad beat him so long and hard, the buckle broke).
I got the belt until I was about fourteen years old, then the strappings stopped, and the lectures began. Sometimes that was worse.
Eventually, I headed off for college away from home.
The summer I was twenty-two years old, I was home from school. I was having a pretty cool time hanging out with my friends from high school.
On a Friday night, we headed out for a few bars, and I got a pretty good buzz going. I was driving, but didn't think I was really in that bad a shape. I ended up driving my two buddies home, and then headed toward home myself.
Bad move. Blue lights in the rearview mirror. Field Sobriety Tests: Failed. Handcuffs: On. Rights: Read. On the way to the jail, the cop asked some questions, and realized very soon that he knew my dad. They worked in different districts, but in the same department. When we got to the jail, I got put in a cell alone. I realized that I should be taking a Breath Test, and realized that because my dad was a cop, I might be getting out of this. That kind of worried me.
Sure enough, about thirty minutes later, my dad showed up, and dragged me out of the precinct house. He didn't say anything during the ride home, but as we pulled into the driveway, he said, "Get you ass into the garage." He got out of the car, and headed for the house.
I'd never been sent to the garage before, and it had been a long time since I'd got the strap... I was an adult! But it was really clear in my mind what was going to happen. I knew from when I was growing up that the best thing to do was to just accept what was about to happen.
I went into the garage through the back door. My mothers car wasn't there, she must have been out, and the front overhead door was closed.
Dad showed up shortly after. When he came in the door, I saw the Razor Strap in his hand. I'd never even seen the thing before (even in the 70's, no one shaved with a straight razor and used a Razor Strap).
I think he probably got the strap from my uncle (his brother), who was/is a barber. I never asked (it wasn't the time, and I didn't want to bring it up later). I think about it now, and I wonder if my Dad wasn't in the barber shop, saw the Razor Strap, and started talking about beatings with my uncle. It's kind of interesting to think about my Dad, my uncle, (and probably the rest of the barber shop) talking about my discipline. Maybe my uncle had an old one, maybe he ordered a new one for my Dad. It never got any use when I was a kid, but it looked like it was going to now.
Anyway, Dad immediately told me to sit (on the floor), and walked over to the work bench on the back wall of the garage. He put the strap down on the bench. He dug into the drawer, and came out with a cigar. He'd always smoked them, but my mom wouldn't let him smoke (cigars) in the house. He'd smoke while doing whatever in the garage, and while cutting grass.
The lecture started while he got the cigar going. He sat down on a stool, and smoked and lectured away. He let me know that he was pissed. He wasn't loud, or out of control, but I could tell that he was madder than I'd ever seen him. He gave me the whole drunk driving lecture, about how I could have killed myself, or someone else. He was also pissed that I'd been caught by his department, and he let me know that it embarrassed him.
I don't know how long the lecture went on, but he smoked probably half of the cigar. Eventually, he told me, "Get on your feet and get over here." He picked up the Razor Strap as I approached.
He never mentioned the Razor Strap. It was like he still had a garrison belt in his hand, or I'd been getting the strap all along. He didn't mention the fact that I was twenty two years old!
When I got next to him, I didn't wait to be told... I pulled my pants down. He then turned me, and bent me over the work bench. I don't know whether he kept the cigar in his mouth, or put it down somewhere. I couldn't see much... just the workbench, and the wall.
He then started swinging the strap. This was very different than The Belt. The first blow caused about as much pain as any other strapping I'd got.... it hurt a lot. But, being hit with The Belt was a lot rougher, I guess. There was sting, but you could also feel the blow. The Razor Strap was a whole lot smoother. It was ALL sting, and it covered a bigger area.
The strapping seemed to go on forever, and I couldn't tell you how many blows I got. I thought it was never gonna end, and I was crying when it did.
When Dad finished, he told me to pull up my pants and go to my room. Later, he never mentioned the strapping, although he was pretty unfriendly for the rest of the week I was home. I headed back to school wondering if it was something that would ever happen again.