Seems I was always getting into trouble growing up. I was a decent kid I guess, but that didn't mean I did get into some occasional mischief. Of course, in those days, about the worst thing you could do was get caught skipping school or chewing gum in class.
Remember the starchy school marm with her hair wound in a bun on top of her head who held out the trash can and made you spit out your gum? For me, it was Miss Wilson. How did she always know I came in with gum?
The worst offense I could commit, though, was lying. My parents simply would not tolerate a child who told a lie - white or any other color. Getting caught in a fib was sure to mean a trip to the woodshed. OK, we didn't actually have a woodshed. It was actually a trip to my parents' bedroom.
We kids weren't allowed into Mom and Dad's room without permission. So when one of us was summoned there, it meant only one thing. Someone was about to get a spanking.
The summons was always the same. "I want to see (insert child's name) in my bedroom in two minutes,'' Dad would holler. Why he chose two minutes I never did figure out, but I knew it wasn't smart to keep Dad waiting.
My dad kept an old paddle in the back of his and mom's closet. Both my brothers and I knew where he kept it but didn't dare go near it, lest we put our backsides at risk.
It was a fraternity-type paddle, which he simply referred to as "The Board." Dad was constantly asking us if we wanted him to get "The Board.'' Did he think we were going to say yes?
Dad's method of spanking was pretty simple. He would place a straight-back chair in the middle of the floor and say, "You know what to do.'' That was his way of telling us to "drop trou and assume the position.'' Dad insisted that a spanking wasn't really a spanking unless it was bare-bottom. As if getting a paddling wasn't humbling enough, my parents also got to see us in our birthday suits.
Once we had taken our position, the beating would commence.
Dad would take his place a few feet behind his victim. Then, he would wait a minute or two, letting the anticipation build. You never knew when that first strike would hit.
Then, without warning, a tornado-strength force would slam against your bottom and nearly throw you over the chair. Dad usually took a few "practice swings" before he actually started keeping count.
You were already starting to lose feeling in your buttocks when Dad was just getting started. Dad gave no less than 18 whacks with The Board and often it was more.
He didn't quit until he saw that the bottom before him had turned a pretty shade of red with patches of blue. Then, he threw in a couple of extra swats for good measure.
We weren't allowed to move or try to cover our bottoms until Dad finished paddling and gave the "all-clear." If a child did try to cover his bottom, the spanking was stopped and Dad waited for him to "move those hands if you don't want them hit."
If it happened more than once, Mom would be called in to hold our hands down. Then, Dad resumed the spanking, and the counting started over.
Mom witnessed all our whippings. In addition to being Dad's assistant in holding the victim in place, Mom was the official score keeper.
She counted each swat and alerted Dad when she thought we'd had enough. That didn't mean Dad quit then. He continued until HE was SURE we'd had enough, which was usually four or five swats later. I guess that's why Dad was the one to always deliver the spanking. Mom would always let us kids off easy.
Only when a child was bawling like a baby was Dad certain that he had gotten through, and only then were we allowed to move from our position.
However, it was only a matter of time - and in some cases just a matter of hours - before we found ourselves in the same position, ready to have our bottoms whacked once again.
Yes, my parents were quite strict with us boys, but they were fair. I must confess I deserved every spanking I got and probably needed a few more. I never enjoyed being paddled, but I always felt better after an encounter with "The Board."