Actions have Consequences

In the gentle hills of Scotland, where the heather blooms and the loch reflects the sky, I spent my childhood in the 1960s and 70s. Our village was a tapestry of stone cottages, winding lanes, and the laughter of children in woolen kilts and jumpers. Before my parents parted ways, it was Mother who kept the rules of our home, and she did so with a firm but loving hand.

Mother believed, as many did in those days, that a sound spanking was the surest way to teach right from wrong. My brother and I, like most bairns in the village, accepted that a sore bottom was the price of mischief. It was a lesson as old as the hills, and one we learned well.

I cannot quite recall when the ritual of discipline became so familiar, but by the time we lived in our stone house near the glen, it was as much a part of life as porridge for breakfast or the Sunday kirk. Mother was never cruel, but she was resolute, and her spankings were delivered with a seriousness that left no doubt as to her intent. The memory of those moments is etched in my mind, as sharp as the tang of peat smoke on a winter’s night.

Though it seemed to me that such punishments were frequent, in truth they were rare—perhaps half a dozen times in all the years we lived together in that house. Yet the mere mention of a spanking was enough to set us straight, for the threat was as real as the Highland wind.

Not every parent in the village used the slipper or the belt, but a smacked leg or a quick swat on the backside was nothing out of the ordinary. At school, the tawse hung on the wall, a silent reminder, though I never saw it used. Had I complained to anyone about Mother’s ways, I doubt a single eyebrow would have been raised.

Mother’s chosen implement was an old leather belt of Father’s, heavy and well-worn, kept on a hook behind the cupboard door. When the time came for discipline, her voice was calm and steady: “Up to your room, laddie.” It was as if she were sending us to wash our hands for tea, but the weight of her words was unmistakable.

There was no use in arguing or pleading. Once the sentence was passed, it was as fixed as the stones in the croft wall. My heart would sink, and I would trudge upstairs, the dread growing with every step.

Alone in my little room, I would lie across the bed, waiting. That waiting was almost the worst part—lying there, feeling small and sorry, remembering the sting of the belt but never quite recalling just how sharp it could be. I was always glum, sometimes even a wee bit frightened.

After a time, I would hear Mother’s footsteps on the stairs, slow and measured. She would fetch the belt from its place, and the moment of reckoning would draw near. The sight of her entering, the belt in her hand, made me instinctively cover my bottom, though it never did much good.

Mother was strong, and she would gently but firmly move my hands away, holding me in place. The spankings were never hurried; she left a pause between each stroke, enough for the pain to settle in, but not enough for me to forget it before the next one landed.

I was held fast, like a naughty wee laddie, until the lesson was done. It was seldom more than four strokes, but each one was memorable. Mother later told me she did not hold back, and I believe her. She once played cricket at school, and her arm was the pride of the team!

If it was my brother’s turn, I would listen from my room, feeling a strange mix of relief and sympathy. The sharp sound of the belt was unmistakable, echoing down the hall.

The most memorable spanking I received came after a day in the village, when I had misbehaved in the shop. Mother promised me a hiding when we got home, and I knew better than to hope for mercy. Still, I tried to plead my case as we walked back, but each whinge only earned me another stroke. By the time we reached the cottage, my tally had grown from four to ten.

As soon as we stepped inside, Mother’s voice was as calm as ever: “Right, up to your room.” My heart thudded as I lay on the bed, my bottom tingling with anticipation. Mother gave me a moment to reflect before she came up, collected the belt, and prepared to teach me my lesson.

Once I was held in place, the spanking began in earnest. The belt landed again and again, each stroke a fiery reminder of my mischief. I lost count, but Mother did not. Ten hard strokes, each one a lesson in itself.

When it was over, I lay on the bed, eyes stinging, my behind smarting. Mother left the room with a stern look that said, “Let that be a lesson to you.” And indeed, it was.

I must confess, the threat of the belt was a powerful deterrent. Mother did not use it often, but when she did, it was effective. My brother and I learned quickly to mind our manners when the belt was mentioned.

Now, as a grown man, I look back on those days with a mixture of embarrassment and fondness. Mother and I can speak of them, though I still blush to recall the details. Such punishments are not part of my own parenting, but I sometimes wonder if my children know how easy they have it!

In those days, a spanking was not just a punishment, but a lesson—a reminder that actions have consequences, and that love sometimes comes with a firm hand. And so, in our little Scottish village, we grew up with sore bottoms, full hearts, and the knowledge that Mother’s discipline, though strict, was always given with love.