In our growing-up years, Sundays were taken very seriously. We began each and every Sunday morning with a trip to church. And at church we were expected to be quiet and behave. And generally that was the case, but not one particular Sunday/
On that Sunday it was almost as if my little brother Wayne was insistent on getting us both in trouble. It began in the morning before church, when he and I got in a fight about whose sox were whose. Dad broke that one up real fast with the threat that he'd blister both of our behinds if we didn't settle down and get ready for church.
It wasn't much better on the way to church either, as Wayne kept punching my arm and picking at me the whole way. At one point on the way to church Dad threatened to stop the car and give us both a licking on the spot. With that the "picking" seemed to stop. Or at least I thought so. But such was not to be the case.
It wasn't long after services had started that Wayne started it all over again. He wanted to sit next to Mom. I wanted to, and he started the punching all over again...not shoving, just that light punching and jabbing that gets on your nerves. Well it got on my nerves, and I started punching back. Then it was pinching my arm to get my attention. I finally hauled off and gave him a good slug to his arm. It was just hard enough that Dad took note of it with a glance from his eyes. We were in trouble. You could bet on that.
When we got out of church, Dad didn't say anything and neither did Mom. Perhaps they were thinking out in their own minds what they were going to do with their two bratty sons. We didn't know, but you could almost see the cogs moving in their minds, as we sat in the back seat (quietly) all the way home. That particular ride home seemed to last for a long time. My sister kept hinting to us all that way home that we were "gonna get it" when we got home. We knew it. It was just a question of when and how.
We all ate lunch together, and Mom and Dad got up from the table and went back to the kitchen area and whispered to each other. Just a few minutes later, they both stood at the counter and called us both over to them.
"You two don't seem to know how to behave in church, do you?" said Dad, "Well, your mom and me both think you need to be taught a lesson to make sure you do! Come here, Wayne!"
Wayne walked sheepishlyi over to the both of them and stood before them. In a matter of seconds, they both took Wayne by the arms and the next thing you could hear (and see) was Wayne getting his butt whipped good with Dad's strong backhand.
"Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack!" I was enjoying the sight of little brother getting his blue-jeaned backside whalloped good and hard. He was crying and begging for mercy after the first few swats. In fact, his butt must have been stinging good, because he was buckling at the knees as each swat hit. When Dad got through he turned to Mom and said:
"Now it's your turn! Teach this young man you can mean business, too!"
With that, she pulled out a wooden spoon and began to use it on Wayne. He had to be burning up, since he was getting it a second time, too. I was sitting back, half laughing while I watched it all. For once little brother was getting his due!
But I didn't expect the next line to come out of Dad's mouth. Nevertheless it did!
"You're next, Mike. You didn't think you were going to get way with it, did you?"
Then Dad called me to get over there, and I came when he called, because I knew it would be worse if I protested.
The same was happening to me. Dad started landing those hard cracks with his hand on my butt, too. "Ouch!, Ow!" I cried. "You're hurting me. Ow! Ow! Ouch! Ow!" He landed those swats hard to my butt and I was buckling under the pain of each swat. They really hurt, and my butt was on fire through my jeans. You could feel it, and I am sure Dad was making his point, cause I am sure his hand was burning, too, when he finally stopped. But I wasn't finished either. It was Mom's turn.
Mom smacked my butt a good dozen or more times with that wooden spoon, and with each whack I just kept squirming to get away. I couldn't reach down and rub my butt, because they were both holding my arms. It hurt like hell each time that spoon landed on my already blistering buns. There's nothing like getting both sides of your butt smacked, just to make sure you felt it.
When it was finally over, the both of us were sent to bed for the rest of the afternoon. Needless to say, neither one of us was speaking to the other, and neither one of us could sleep on our backside. We didn't have burnt buns served at dinner that day, but there were burned buns in the house that night...nicely burned buns...ours. And we didn't misbehave in church again...for awhile at least... but that's another story some day.