While I was growing up my backside and my father's belt were far more than just mere aquaintances. It was the 1950s after all, a time when many fathers regarded it their solemn duty to keep their sons in line with corporal punishment.
For two weeks during the summer holidays, I usually stayed with my Uncle Joe. He was a dairy farmer in his 40s. His idea of paradise was wading through cow muck. Joe had never married but did have a housekeeper. Joe was happiest in the milking shed with his 'ladies' - he treated them better than the housekeeper.
One afternoon, when I was 14 years old, I was in the shed, supposed to be helping but busy daydreaming as usual. The milking plant and lighting in the shed were powered by a diesel generator. Joe asked me to top up its fuel supply. To cut a long story short, despite having been shown many times, I put petrol, not diesel into the standby tank.
Everything went well until we were almost finished and ready to go to the farmhouse for the evening meal. Suddenly the lights flickered, and then went out. My uncle rushed to check and found petrol not diesel in the tank. There was a sophisticated detector which turned the plant off before any damage was done. Still, Joe had to empty the tank and check the machinery. I escaped to the house where the housekeeper served up my evening meal and put Uncle Joe's in the oven. Then she took herself off to a social evening at the country hall.
Hours later my uncle was sitting at one end of the kitchen table grimly eating his overcooked meal. I sat at the other end pretending to read my Beano. Normally, Uncle Joe liked to talk. That night there was just an awful silence. Even the normally friendly farm cat turned her back to me.
I had never experienced an 'atmosphere' before and it made me feel very uncomfortable. When Uncle Joe got up to put his plates in the sink for the housekeeper to wash the next morning, I tried to say I was sorry for mixing up the fuel tins. He still didn't speak so I burbled on, scared of the awful silence. I told him if I'd done that at home I'd have got the belt.
"Right!" Joe roared. "Over the table". His thick leather belt was yanked through its loops and doubled with a crack.
At least he was talking again. I shucked off my shorts and underpants and lay across the table. I'd often admired my uncle's bulging biceps but now was very fearful of the hiding I was about to get from him. After an age he threw down the belt.
"I can't do it", he said, "At least not with that".
So, he sat on a kitchen chair and pulled me over his knees. He spanked me hard with his big, calloused hands. I felt like a little boy again getting a spanking.
"It's ok to yell. That way I'll know I'm getting through to you".
SMACK!
"OW!"
"That's more like it!"
Well, the spanking seemed to last forever. Each fresh swat radiated fresh hurt from my crimson orbs. I bucked and jiggled on Uncle Joe's ample lap like a seven year old getting his very first spanking.
"Guess you've had enough", he said.
I pulled up my clothes and washed my face under the kitchen tap. Then Uncle Joe insisted we play poker. We used matches instead of money. He was now in such a good humour he even let me win a few games. I was sitting there gingerly, still with a very sore bottom when the housekeeper came home. She shooed me off to bed growling at my uncle:
"He's a growing boy. He needs his sleep".
On fine evenings Uncle Joe took me rabbit shooting. Rabbits were a pest so farmers shot them. He showed me how to load a rifle and use a weapon safely. I was not allowed to actually fire the rifle though which aggravated me a great deal.
One morning I noticed my uncle had forgotten to lock the cabinet which kept his rifles secure. I extracted a rifle and pretended I was John Wayne, shooting from the hip. The rifle I had chosen was the one my uncle always kept loaded in case of intruders. Stupidly, I slipped the safety catch off and aimed the rifle at the housekeeper who was busy hanging out the washing.
I felt the recoil as the weapon discharged. Thankfully the bullet missed the housekeeper but went straight through a double sheet which she was busy pegging onto the clothesline. She screamed and ran into the house. I put the rifle back in the cabinet. I knew I was in b-i-g trouble.
My uncle had been repairing a fence some distance from the house. When he returned for his lunch he found the houskeeper in hysterics and his nephew looking very guilty.
Joe told the poor woman to have a 'lie-down' which she did. He questioned me and I told him exactly what I'd done. He inspected the gun cabinet and cursed himself for being so careless not to have locked it. When he saw the hole in the sheet he realised how my stupidity had very nearly caused a tragedy.
My uncle went to the phone and called the district's only police officer. Constable Fellett arrived in his jeep a short time later. He took statements from the housekeeper, my uncle and myself. At the time, the law did not require farmers to keep weapons secure. Boys who grew up on farms were very aware of the need for firearm safety.
Constable Fellett was a well-built man in his late thirties, I guess. He considered all the evidence and then decided to dish out an unofficial penalty which he hoped would teach me a much-needed lesson. The housekeeper accepted a brandy 'for medicinal purposes' and then went back to her bed. I was told to use the toilet.
"We don't want any accidents", the policeman said.
On my return I was instructed to take off my shorts and underpants which I did. The police officer pulled off his heavy leather belt and wound the buckle-end around his right hand.
"Over the table! Legs wide apart".
I got into position knowing my hairless crack and hole were fully exposed. I was beyond humilitation and just wanted it over and done with.
"Hold him, Joe".
My uncle grabbed my hands in his big paws and held them tight. The belt landed on my upturned bottom. A broad band of stinging hurt made me cry out.
The belt rose and fell a dozen times. The police officer was strong and each hard lick really scorched my rump. Every time the end of the belt wrapped around my orbs and lashed the very tender flesh on the side. That really hurt. I was hoarse from yelling. Tears and snot from my nose ran down my face.
"That's enough, Clem" my uncle said.
"How old are you, boy?" the officer asked me.
"F-fourteen, Sir".
"Well, another two and then we'll call it quits".
Twice more the leather lashed my squirming mounds. The last one, the end of the belt thudded inside my crack, punishing the very tender flesh within. My bottom and thighs were on fire.
I heard Constable Fellett re-looping his belt. My uncle let go of my hands. I lay across that table sobbing my heart out. I knew what I'd done was very wrong and expected to be punished for it. I just didn't expect it to hurt so bad.
My uncle showed the police officer out. Then he helped me get dressed. I went to my room and lay on my tummy, fierce pain still radiated from my battered bum. Eventually I dozed off.
Hunger woke me. I looked at my watch. It was time for the evening meal. I made my way out to the kitchen and apologised to the housekeeper. She was nice and told my uncle off 'for letting Clem hit the poor boy so hard'. The pain still throbbing in my rump didn't stop me from sitting down at the table and eating a big serving of delicious country food. Afterwards Uncle Joe and I played poker.
When my folks came to pick me up Uncle Joe told them all about the fuel mixup and how I'd nearly shot his housekeeper.
"I'll have the skin off him" Dad bellowed. His bark was far worse than his bite. My uncle told him I'd already been sufficiently punished and that was the end of it. He shook my hand and slipped a 10 shilling note into the pocket of my shorts: "for being a good boy". My parents never allowed me to stay at the farm again.
I think I was the only boy Uncle Joe ever spanked unlike Constable Fellett who wore his belt out on many a boy's naked behind. I learned my lesson though and avoid machinery and firearms to this day.