Author's Note: This is a work of fiction and fantasy. I had been thinking about spanking take-offs on the titles of popular movies. When I came up with a take-off on "Four Weddings and a Funeral," the story came to me very quickly. I have written it in the first person as the memory of James Douglas, who was eleven at the time of the events recorded here. I have tried to capture something of the bittersweet quality of childhood memories and of the love-hate relationship many of us recall having had with our parents.
The time: the summer of 1966 The place: central Ontario, Canada The major characters: James Douglas (me!); my Dad, and Mom; my sister, Jennifer; my brother, Dennis; my cousin Freddy; my Uncle Dan; Aunt Edna; and dead Great Aunt Hilda
My Great Aunt Hilda was dead and I wasn't sad. I wasn't happy either. I just didn't care. I'd never met her that I could recall. I knew she'd seen me shortly after my birth, and a couple of times when I was a toddler, but I really only knew here from pictures, and from the birthday and Christmas cards she sent me. Each card came with money, and my mother had made me write "thank you" notes for every gift.
Mom had been close to Great Aunt Hilda when she was a girl, and was quite sad to hear of her "passing." Dad decided that we'd all attend the funeral. This meant new suits for me and my little brother, Denny, and a new dress for my older sister, Jennifer. It also meant a long car tip and staying over in a hotel.
"But I don't want to go!" I whined in protest when the news was announced.
"Well, you're going!" Mom scolded.
"But it'll be boring! All those old people! And Aunt Hilda dead there and all! Can't I stay with Cory?" I asked, hoping they'd let me stay with my best friend and his family.
"No!" Mom snapped.
"It's not fair! I didn't even like her!" I answered.
"You're so selfish!" Mom sobbed, putting her hand to her mouth.
My heart sank. I hadn't realized that I was upsetting her.
Dad didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He pointed towards the stairs.
"I'm sorry!" I exclaimed.
Dad just kept pointing. I hung my head and left the room. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I sat on my bed and waited. I knew I was in trouble. I heard Dad coming up the stairs. My heart started to pound. Dad stepped into my room. He was frowning severely. I stood to meet him.
"James Douglas," Dad said, using my full name, "you are eleven years old and should know better than to act the way you did downstairs! You upset your mother. She loved Aunt Hilda. You should try to make this easier for her, not harder. Now, I'm going to have to punish you." Dad unbuttoned the cuff of his right sleeve and rolled it up, baring his forearm.
I knew what this gesture meant. "No, Dad! Please! I won't cause any more trouble!"
"After I'm finished with you, I know you won't!" Dad said. He sat down on the bed. "Drop your pants!"
"Please, Dad! Don't spank me! Please!" I begged.
"Do as you're told. I do want any more fussing!" Dad said sternly.
I obeyed. I unfastened the snap on my pants, drew down the zipper, and then slid my pants down to my knees. Dad patted his knee. I got down across his lap, shaking uncontrollably. A spanking from my Dad was no laughing matter. Dad put his left arm across my back and grasped my hip. Dad raised his big, strong hand and brought it down hard across the seat of my white cotton briefs. SMACK!
"Owww!" I felt no shame at responding to the pain. I had not yet reached an age when taking a spanking "like a man" was valued.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
With each spank, I responded with gasps and sobs. Tears came to my eyes. It was one of my Dad's "classic" spankings; twenty firm slaps applied to my brief-clad rear. The spanking raised a warm sting and let me know just how much Dad disapproved of my misbehavior.
After Dad had applied the final spank he held me across his lap and lectured me. "Now, I expect you to do as you mother tells you and not give her any more trouble. She's right! You were being incredibly selfish. From now on, you are going to think about what will make things easy for your mother. This is a hard time for her, and you are not going to make it any harder. Is that clear, young man?"
"Yes, Sir."
Dad helped me to my feet. I pulled up my pants. Dad put out his hand and brushed a tear from my cheek. "Okay, Son," he said, "you need to spend some time in the corner thinking about how you're going to behave better from now on." Dad guided me into the corner and left me.
When he returned fifteen minutes later, Mom was with him.
"Alright, Jamie, I think you've been punished enough," Dad said. He turned me around to face him and Mom.
"I'm sorry I made you cry, Mom," I said. I really was sorry, and not just because my bottom was sore.
Mom gave me a kiss that showed I'd been forgiven. Dad patted my shoulder.
The next evening, Dad took Denny and me to get our new suits. Despite the recent "bottom-warming" I'd gotten, and my promise to behave better, I found it hard not to sulk about having to go to the store when I could have been playing with my friends. During the fitting I was just barely cooperative. Then, when it was Denny's turn to get fitted, I sat by the door, bored and sulking.
I don't know what possessed me, but I decided to slip out of the store for a few minutes. Two doors away, there was a novelty shop. I went inside, planning to just take a quick look around. Instead, I became engrossed with a game I found and lost all track of time.
I was brought to my senses by a firm, familiar hand being clamped onto my shoulder. "What the hell are you doing in here?" Dad demanded.
I knew I was in trouble. Dad never used harsh language unless he was REALLY angry. When I turned and looked at him, the bulging vein on his forehead told me that he was extremely angry.
"I, I, I," I stammered.
"I was worried about you! You just left without a word! I thought something terrible had happened! When I get you home you are going to get the spanking of your young life!" Dad said.
Dad took me by the collar of my shirt and dragged me out of the store. Denny was waiting at the door. He smirked at me and stuck out his tongue. Impulsively, I took a swing at him.
"You're already in enough trouble without trying to hit your brother!" Dad scolded. He took Denny by the hand and led him along.
When we got to the car, Dad opened the back door and shoved me in. Then he turned his attention to Denny. "Dennis! You shouldn't have made a face at your brother. It isn't nice to take pleasure in someone else's troubles. Do you understand?" Dad asked, his tone stern.
"Yes, Daddy," Denny answered, his eyes tearing up. He knew what was coming.
Dad turned Denny around and bent him across the back seat. My little brother was wearing short pants. Dad pulled up the right leg of the shorts, exposing Denny's white, chubby thigh. He raised his hand and laid on one firm slap. Denny yelped at the pain. Dad let the leg fall loose. He pulled up the left leg and applied another slap. Then he picked Denny up and put him into the car.
Denny sat and sniffled quietly as we drove home. I sat in my place shaking with fear, dreading 'the worst spanking of my young life.'
When we arrived home, Mom met us at the door, a smile on her face. The smile faded when she saw Denny's tear-stained cheeks and my pale, fear-marked face. "What happened?" she asked.
"Your son James here wandered off and made me have to come looking for him, and when I found him, Dennis thought it was funny that his big brother was in trouble," Dad said.
"Oh, then everything is just about normal," Mom said.
She and Dad seldom disagreed about discipline. They were both convinced that raising kids was something akin to a guerrilla war, with the kids as the stealthy guerillas and the parents as the harried occupation force. Constant vigilance was required to prevent a successful coup against their authority. They loved us, but we were still 'the enemy.' Frankly, I guess my siblings and I thought of our parents in the same way. The peace treaty between my parents and me wasn't signed until I was eighteen, and even then there was some doubt that it would hold.
Dad left Denny with Mom and marched me up to my room. By this point I was feeling nauseous and faint. Dad closed my bedroom door, bared his forearm, sat on my bed, and gave the order, "Drop your pants."
"Please, Dad! I won't ever do it again! I'm sorry! Honest I am!" I begged.
"Drop your pants and get across my knee! Now!" Dad demanded.
I realized that there was no point in prolonging the agony. The sooner I gave in and got across Dad's lap, the sooner the spanking would be over. I lowered my pants and extended myself across Dad's lap.
"Now, young man, you're going to learn not to wander off by yourself! You're going to learn not to worry me!" Dad lectured.
SMACK! Dad was spanking hard! He hadn't been lying when he'd spoken of the worst spanking of my young life. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Dad gave me the standard twenty, but with twice his normal ferocity. The result was that it felt like getting forty of his normal spanks. I was in agony, squirming, bucking, and sobbing loudly.
"Owwww! Dad! Owwww! I'm sorry! Owwww! Please, Dad! Owww! Ohhhh! No more! Owwww!"
"There," Dad said, expressing satisfaction at the result of his efforts, "I think you've learned your lesson."
I certainly had! I would never wander off again. I knew what to expect if I did.
Having been spanked twice in as many days made me very careful around the house for the next several days. I made my bed without having to be told. I didn't complain when Mom told me to take a bath. I refused to respond to Denny's almost constant provocations. I minded my manners at the table.
My good behavior had its pay-off. When I didn't act like 'the enemy' Mom and Dad treated me as a loyal subject deserving of the bounties provided by benevolent dictators. Dad played ball with me in the yard. Mom let me have cookies an hour before dinnertime. They both took far more notice of how Denny was trying to provoke me and I got the opportunity to see my little brother get taken across Mom's knee for what I regarded as a long-overdue and much-deserved spanking.
Then the day came for our long car trip to the town where Great Aunt Hilda had departed this vale of tears. A long car trip with three kids is always difficult, even for the most patient parents. For those parents who see themselves as involved in a long and difficult military campaign it is positively horrible.
Dad set the tone for the trip by lecturing us as we stood by the car. "Now, this is going to be a long trip. Your Mom is having a hard time with losing her aunt. I expect you three to be on your best behavior. If you aren't there will be some very sore bottoms sitting in the car!"
Dad's threat worked for about an hour and a half. Then I got bored. A bored eleven-year-old in a car has one ready outlet – a sibling. I was lucky enough to have two. I started to pester Jennifer, knowing that she would try very hard not to respond to my provocations. She was the big sister, and prided herself on being able to put up with just about anything I did. She'd actually managed to go a whole year without being spanked, and was trying very hard to stay out of trouble. Like me, she'd discovered the benefits that came with being a loyal subject instead of a rebellious insurgent. Besides, she was thirteen, and wanted to act grown-up. Smacking her kid-brother and then getting spanked for it was not part of the program.
Jennifer put up with the "starving brain sucker" (you put your hand on the top of the victim's head and move it around, asking, "This is a brain sucker. Know what it's doing? Starving to death!"). She put up with me burping into her face. She put up with me pretending she'd farted when it was really my own odor hanging in the air. She put up with 'wet willies' (sticking a saliva-moistened finger into her ear). She even put up with me putting my hand down my shorts and then sticking my finger out my opened fly. She put up bravely with every provocation an eleven-year-old kid-brother could dream up. I got bored. I turned my attentions to an easier target. Denny screamed in angry protest at the first 'wet willy'.
"Am I going to have to stop?" Dad demanded.
"No, Sir," I answered.
Fifteen minutes passed. I started to pretend that Denny smelled bad. I sniffed the air. I grimaced. "Denny, did you poop your pants?" I asked.
"No!" Denny answered.
"Well you sure smell like it!" I said.
"Just ignore him, Denny," Jennifer said. She often came to Denny's defense when I teased him.
I regarded this as grossly unfair, since she NEVER backed me up when Denny provoked me. I elbowed her in the ribs, rather harder than I had meant to.
"Oww! Daddy!" Jennifer yelped, "Jamie just punched me!"
"I did not!" I shouted.
Dad didn't respond. Five minutes later, a gas station came into view. Dad pulled off the highway. He climbed out of the car. He came around to the back of the car and opened the door. "James Douglas, get out now!" he said.
"What for?" I asked, even though I knew very well why he'd stopped. One thing we could always count on was Dad making good on a threat. When he said he'd pull over, he pulled over.
"You'll find out soon enough!"
"I won't do it again!"
"Out! Now!"
I climbed out of the car, stumbling over Denny, who lifted his legs to obstruct my exit.
"That'll do, Dennis!" Dad scolded. He gave Denny a slap on his bare leg. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and guided me to the filling station office. "We need the key to the men's room," Dad said to the attendant.
The attendant read our expressions perfectly. "He ain't gonna be peein' in there, is he?" he asked, indicating me.
"No, he isn't," my Dad answered.
The attendant handed over the key. "Nice to see folks who don't put up with misbehavin'," the attendant said.
Dad held his hand firmly on my shoulder and took me to the men's room at the back of the station. He opened the door and guided me in. He locked the door. He pointed to an open spot below the window, between the sink and the toilet stall. Dad made me bend over with my hands on the wall. This was a position he'd used with me a few times already. I knew what it meant – the belt. When I was in position, Dad stepped back. I heard the rattle as Dad unbuckled his belt.
"No, Dad! Not the belt!" I begged.
Dad ignored me. He pulled off his belt. He put his hand on the back of my neck and swung the belt. I was wearing my Scout shorts and cotton briefs. Against the belt, swung by my Dad, they provided little protection. I am not sure if a belt-whipping really hurt more than a hand-spanking on the seat of my briefs. It was certainly more psychologically powerful. The sound of the belt cracking across the seat of my shorts provided at least half the effect. Then there was the warm sting that rose in intensity as the seconds passed, and then changed to a tingling, pins-and-needles feeling.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Dad gave me ten licks, just enough to make his point. I stood up, shaking and teary-eyed, and reached back and tried to rub away the sting. Dad put his belt back on. He asked me if I had to pee. I did. I peed while he waited for me. Then we returned to the car. Dad took Denny to the men's room, assuring him that he really wasn't going to spank him. Mom went with Jennifer to "powder their noses" – in 1966 women apparently never peed. When we were all back in the car Dad brought each of us a soda. It was his way of trying to settle everything.
With a grape soda in my stomach and a warm backside I behaved myself for the rest of the ride. When we stopped for lunch, I remained quiet and well-mannered. Denny starting kicking me under the table. I endured it as long as I could. Then I spoke up, hoping that I wouldn't get myself in trouble.
"Dad, I know it's not nice to tattle, but Denny is kicking me, and I can't get him to stop. It's starting to hurt," I said, trying to sound as calm and mature as I could.
Dad pulled Denny out of his seat, marched him out to the car, and did what I'd hoped he'd do. When he returned with my teary-eyed little brother, Denny apologized for kicking me.
The rest of the trip, I amused myself with the comic books and games I'd brought. Jennifer even deigned to play Xs and Os with me. Denny got carsick and we had to stop so he could throw up. Other than that, the rest of the trip went by without incident.
When we arrived at the hotel, Dad took a much-needed nap and Mom took my siblings and me to the pool for a swim. After we'd been at the pool for a while, Dad came out to join us. We all liked to swim with Dad. Water seemed to soften his tough exterior. Soon, Jennifer and I were doing springs off of Dad's broad shoulders and laughing and screaming as he playfully ducked us. Denny stayed in the shallow end and paddled around close to Mom.
We had a nice dinner in the hotel dining room. Dad was obviously trying to make a minor holiday out of our funeral trip. He let us have hamburgers and extra shrimp _c_o_c_k_tails, and pie for dessert. Then he took us to play miniature golf while Mom stayed at the hotel.
When it was time for bed I complained about having to share a bed with Denny, but terminated my protest when Dad gave me a stern frown. Fortunately, Denny didn't wet the bed!
The next morning, we all took baths. To speed things up I had to endure the indignity of a bath with Denny. Then Dad helped us get dressed. He tied our ties and I enjoyed the feeling of having him put his arms around me. He combed our hair, and then told us both that we were 'handsome young men.' Denny and I smiled with pride. We always lapped up any praise or compliment Dad gave us. We both desperately wanted to be like him and receive his approval. Any positive word was take as evidence we were attaining our goal.
We drove to the funeral, with Mom sniffling softly up in the front seat with Dad. The funeral was as horrible as I'd expected. I had to endure dozens of sobbing lady relatives, many of whom hugged and kissed me and pinched my cheeks and told me how I'd grown and how much I looked like my father. I then sat through an excruciatingly long memorial service, at which Great Aunt Hilda's son gave a stammering eulogy, and an ancient Presbyterian minister offered a homily in a hypnotic monotone. Dead Aunt Hilda, lying in her silver-gray casket enjoyed the privilege of not knowing how boring her funeral was. As I squirmed and fidgeted, Dad kept pocking me and frowning. Finally, he pinched me, and warned I'd get a lot worse if I didn't sit still.
When the service ended we traveled to the graveside, where I had to sit through another homily by the Presbyterian minister and a rendition of the Twenty-third Psalm, sung in a quavering, thin tone by a fat second cousin, once-removed. The only thing that made this whole ordeal even remotely bearable was the presence of my cousin Freddy. Freddy was the eldest son of my Dad's younger brother. Although he was a year older than I, he treated me like an equal. When we'd been little, his parents had lived in the same town and we'd been fast friends. Then, when I was nine, Freddy and his parents moved away, and I saw him only a few times a year. His enthusiastic smile when he saw me told me that he was pleased to see me.
When Great Aunt Hilda had finally been laid to rest, we traveled to the house where she had spent the last years of her life for a reception. It was a warm summer day and the food was laid out on tables in the front yard. Freddy and I loaded our plates and found a spot under a tree where we sat and stuffed ourselves, talking the whole time about everything and nothing. After we'd eaten, we decided to go and bother the girls. My sister Jennifer was seated at a table with several other girl cousins. Freddy and I started making crude noises. Then we escalated our attack to pocking the girls, pulling their hair, and giving them 'wet willies.' Finally, when my cousin Michelle had had enough, she screamed at us that we were "ghastly little trolls," and took a swing at me. I jumped back to avoid the blow and crashed right into Aunt Edna, turning a plate full of food onto her dress.
She grabbed me by the arm and shook me violently. "Look what you've done! Look what you've done!" she shouted.
I saw Dad come running, and knew that he was not coming to rescue me from my irate aunt. "What happened here?" Dad demanded.
"She pushed me!" I shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Michelle.
"No, Sir, I didn't! I tried to hit him and he jumped back. I'm sorry, Sir. I know I shouldn't have done that, but he was bothering us. Aunt Edna, I am sorry I caused this!" Michelle said, tears filling her eyes.
"It wasn't your fault, Dear," Aunt Edna said. "I think we all know where the blame lies!" Aunt Edna turned a murderous gaze upon me.
By this point, Freddy's Dad, my Uncle Dan, had arrived and was demanding to know what had happened. Forgetting any sense of loyalty, Freddy insisted he hadn't done anything. He might have saved the effort at lying, since the girls unanimously fingered him as my co-culprit.
Uncle Dan took Freddy by the arm. Dad seized me. They hauled us through the yard, every relative and friend watching the scene. They brought us into the house and past a small group of women who were sitting in the living room. They dragged us up the stairs and into a back bedroom. My Dad closed the door. They stood the two of us side-by-side and looked at us. There was never any doubt that my Dad and Uncle Dan were brothers. They had the same brown, wavy hair, the same blue eyes, the same square jaws, and the same mannerisms. They stood with their hands on their hips and frowned down at us.
My Dad spoke first. "You both are old enough to know better! What were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all?"
"I didn't do anything!" Freddy protested.
"You already said that! And the girls claimed you did! I've heard enough lying from you, young man!" Uncle Dan scolded.
"I might expect this kind of behavior from Denny, but not from you!" Dad continued. "And it wasn't enough for you just to pester the girls. You also had to go flying into Aunt Hilda and ruin her dress! I'm ashamed of you!"
"Seems to me that both of them could use a good spanking!" Uncle Dan said.
"I agree," my father said.
"No, please!" Freddy blurted.
Uncle Dan took hold of Freddy's arm and dragged him over to the bed. He sat down and stood Freddy in front of him. Dad took me by my arm and took me around to the other side of the bed. He sat down and stood me in front of him.
"Alright, Frederick, take off your jacket and get your pants and briefs down!" Uncle Dan commanded.
"No, Dad! Not bare! Not in front of Uncle Tom and Jamie!" Freddy pleaded.
"You do the same," my Dad commanded.
My mouth dropped open. Dad had NEVER spanked my bare bottom before. "No, Dad! Not bare!"
Both fathers repeated their response at the same moment: "Do as you're told!"
I looked across the bed at Freddy. We both pulled off our jackets and tossed them onto the bed. Then we reached down and unbuckled our belts, unfastened the button and slip on our trousers, drew down the zippers, and let the trousers fall around our ankles. I watched Freddy pull down his briefs.
"Please, Dad! No! Please!" I begged.
Dad had had enough. He reached out, grabbed the waistband of my briefs and yanked them down. He took my arm and pulled me across his lap. When I turned my head I could see my cousin's bare behind. I knew he had the same view of me. I was mortified.
SMACK! My Dad laid a spank on my bare bottom. It stung terribly. SMACK! Uncle Dan spanked Freddy. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Our fathers spanked in tandem. Freddy and I sobbed and begged in tandem.
"I'm giving mine twenty," my Dad announced.
"That sounds fine," Uncle Dan said.
Each father gave his son twenty stinging spanks. Then they pulled us to our feet and let us pull up our briefs and trousers. When we were dressed, they put each of us in a corner and told us to await their return in silence. The left the room. Freddy and I didn't speak. We were afraid we'd get spanked more if we did and our Dads heard us.
Fifteen minutes passed. Finally, we heard our Dads coming back. They entered the room.
"Alright, boy, we think you've been punished enough. Now, you both need to come outside and apologize for the trouble you caused!" Uncle Dan announced.
Our fathers accompanied us downstairs and out into the yard. We both felt embarrassed emerging back into the assembled funeral company. Everyone was looking at us, and it was obvious everyone knew we'd been spanked. We walked up to Aunt Edna, whose black dress was marred with the stains of mayonnaise and pickled beets.
"I am sorry for running around and making trouble, and bumping into you and messing your dress," I said, hanging my head.
"I should hope so!" Aunt Edna said. "Alright. You've been punished. It wouldn't be Christian not to forgive you." It was the most graceless absolution I had ever received.
Freddy offered his apology and received the same graceless absolution.
Then we went and stood before my sister and the other girls. We apologized.
"Okay, we forgive you," said my sister, speaking on behalf of the girls.
"Alright you two! Go and find somewhere to stay out of the way!" Dad ordered.
Freddy and I hurried off, finding a spot behind a shed in the back yard and stayed there until it was time to leave.
We stayed over that night at the hotel. Denny wet the bed. I punched him, but Dad must have decided that I couldn't help but respond to this outrage. He didn't spank me. We drove home. I stayed quiet and didn't pester either Denny or Jennifer.
So ends my story about four spankings and a funeral. Wherever you are, Great Aunt Hilda, thanks for the memories!