Hello, my name is Nigel, and this is a story from my own childhood. These are my memories—sometimes innocent, sometimes a little less so—growing up in a small town nestled between rolling fields and winding country lanes. Our town was the kind of place where everyone knew each other, where the church bell marked the hours, and where the corner shop was the heart of the community. My family lived in a modest brick house on Maple Lane, just a stone’s throw from the old school and the sweet shop that every child in town dreamed of visiting after school. My mother, a fearsome old country woman, ruled our home with a blend of unwavering faith and strict Christian values, shaping every lesson I learned about discipline and right from wrong.
Our family was close-knit, bound together by tradition and routine. My father worked long hours at the mill, coming home each evening with sawdust in his hair and a tired smile for us all. My mother kept the house spotless, her hands always busy—whether baking bread, mending clothes, or tending the garden. My siblings and I spent our days exploring the fields, riding our bikes down dusty lanes, and inventing games in the backyard. There was laughter, mischief, and the kind of innocent trouble that only children can find. But beneath it all was the unspoken understanding that mother’s word was law, and her sense of justice was as firm as the church steeple that watched over our town.
I remember one summer afternoon, the air thick with the scent of cut grass and wildflowers, when I was playing outdoors with my next door neighbour, Tommy. We decided it would be fun to turn on the hose and get each other wet, shrieking with laughter as we darted around the yard. The sun was warm on our backs, and for a moment, it felt like nothing could touch us. But then my mother came outside, her stern, no-nonsense gaze cutting through our fun like a knife. With a voice that brooked no argument, she sent Tommy home and ordered me to get inside and change my clothes. The joy of the moment vanished, replaced by the familiar knot of worry in my stomach.
She then told me she had to run to the store and I was ‘in for it’ when she got back and I had better not leave my room. In our house, those words carried the weight of scripture. My mother’s unwavering expectations and her deep-rooted sense of right and wrong meant I knew exactly what ‘in for it’ meant. But like many other kids, as soon as I heard mom’s car leave the drive, I couldn’t resist rushing over to tell my friend what was going on. The temptation to share my predicament was too strong, and for a few stolen minutes, I felt like I’d outsmarted the rules.
Everything would have been fine if I hadn’t left my hat there, for I was back in my room when I heard mom’s car. However, my neighbour’s mother came over and gave the hat to my mom. I knew then I was going to pay for my misdeeds, and that my mother’s strong moral code would not let this pass. It was a small town, after all—news of a child’s disobedience traveled fast, and mothers looked out for each other’s children as much as their own.
My mother came into the house, her footsteps heavy with purpose, and marched to my room. She fixed me with that steely look that could silence a roomful of children at Sunday school and said: “So, you don’t have to follow directions?” I was so scared I couldn’t answer. “Stand Up!” she commanded, her voice as unyielding as her faith. I stood up, knowing from experience what was next. I begged: “Mom, please, I’m sorry” – but to no avail. Her beliefs left no room for leniency. In our family, apologies were important, but consequences were never avoided.
I knew I would have to obey or the spanking would be worse. Mom pointed to the corner, her jaw set with the same resolve she brought to every rule in our home. As I stood there, I thought about what was coming. I knew that in 30 minutes, mom would be back to administer the spanking, as certain as Sunday morning service. I got more and more worried. The house was quiet, the only sounds the ticking of the clock and the distant hum of a lawnmower outside. I could hear my siblings whispering in the hallway, their voices hushed with sympathy and fear.
By the time the 30 minutes was up, I was already shaking and sobbing. Then I heard mother approach. In our house, we were not allowed to turn around until mother said so—a rule as firm as any commandment. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself, and I could feel the weight of my mother’s expectations pressing down on me.
“Are you supposed to play with the hose?” “No,” I sobbed. “What do you think will help you remember?” “I don’t know.” “Perhaps a spanking?” mother questioned, her tone grave and unwavering. “Maybe,” I said, still in tears and facing the corner. “Now, turn around and bend over the bed.” These moments were always the hardest—knowing I had disappointed her, knowing that the lesson was about more than just the hose, but about respect, obedience, and the values she held dear.
I bent over the bed, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The room felt impossibly still, the air thick with dread and the faint scent of laundry soap. I could hear the soft creak of the mattress springs as I leaned forward, my hands gripping the faded quilt. Behind me, I heard the unmistakable sound of leather sliding through belt loops—a slow, deliberate motion that made my stomach twist with fear. My mother pulled out one of my father’s belts she had been holding—a thick, well-worn leather belt, dark brown with a heavy brass buckle, the kind my father wore every day for work. The leather was smooth from years of use, and it had a certain weight to it that made its purpose unmistakable. (short pause) The silence was broken only by my own ragged breathing and the distant ticking of the hallway clock. I remembered stories my older brother had told me about his own punishments, and I wondered if I would ever be as brave as he was.
Then, with a sudden, sharp crack, the first swat landed. The pain was immediate and searing, a hot sting that seemed to burn right through my skin. I gasped, my whole body tensing, and before I could catch my breath, the next swat followed—each one landing with a heavy, echoing smack that filled the room. The sound of leather striking flesh was loud and final, and with every blow, the pain built, radiating out in waves that made my legs tremble. By the third one, I was crying so hard I could barely see, my face pressed into the bedspread, tears soaking the fabric. I wanted so badly to scramble away, to shield myself, but I knew that would only make things worse. My mother’s discipline was as relentless as her faith—she believed in teaching right from wrong, no matter how hard the lesson. (pause) The belt left a fiery trail across my backside, each swat blurring into the next, until I lost count and could only sob and plead for it to stop. The room echoed with my cries, the sharp snap of the belt, and my mother’s steady, unwavering presence behind me. I could hear my little sister in the next room, her own tears mixing with mine, and I knew that this was a lesson for all of us.
After the twelfth swat, my mother paused. My body was shaking, my breath coming in short, shuddering gasps. The pain throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a deep ache layered over the raw sting. She made me stand in front of her, my legs unsteady, cheeks wet with tears. She told me I was not done yet. That spanking, she said, was for playing in the hose without permission. Then, with a voice as calm and resolute as ever, she ordered me back to the corner. I stood there, my face burning with shame, the backs of my legs still tingling, and the heavy silence of the room pressing in on me. Finally, she came in and gave me six more swats with the belt for not following directions. Each one reignited the pain, sharp and fresh, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out again. Her sense of justice was absolute, her expectations unwavering, and her belief in discipline as a path to righteousness never in doubt. In our family, discipline was not just about punishment—it was about learning, about growing, and about understanding the boundaries that kept us safe.
Although I didn’t like any part of the punishment, from then on I never left my room when I was told not to! My mother’s stern demeanor and her steadfast Christian values left a mark on me that I would never forget—the memory of that day, the pain, the fear, and the lesson, all woven together in the fabric of my childhood. Looking back, I see now that our small town, with its close-knit families and shared values, shaped us all. Innocence and discipline walked hand in hand,
