(gap: 2s) In the golden days of my childhood, there was one person who could instill more respect in me than my stepmother, Doris—and that was Betty, our housekeeper. Betty was a lively young woman, always bustling about in her crisp, starched apron, her hair pinned up in a neat bun that never seemed to come loose, no matter how many chores she tackled. She managed our home with the kind of no-nonsense authority you would expect from a 1950s schoolteacher, her voice carrying through the halls like a bell. My father and Doris were often away on business, leaving Betty in charge of us children—and, let me tell you, she did not shy away from keeping us in line. Her footsteps on the linoleum were as familiar as the ticking of the old clock in the hallway.
This particular memory is etched into my mind, probably because it was the most mortifying spanking I ever received. With Doris and my father gone for a few weeks, Betty was the law of the land. She was kind, certainly, with a soft spot for homemade cookies and bedtime stories, but she was also as strict as a Sunday preacher. Once, she grounded me for turning up the radio during “Rock Around the Clock”—she said it was “the devil’s racket.” I can still see her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, lips pursed, as the music blared and my brothers danced around the living room.
My parents had given Betty full permission to discipline us as she saw fit, and she did not hesitate to use the old-fashioned method—a good, old-fashioned spanking. Between me and my brothers, Jimmy and Bobby, we must have received at least twenty from her. But Betty had a way about her—firm, but always with a glimmer of kindness—that made it impossible to truly resent her. She would scold us with a wag of her finger, but later, she would sneak us an extra cookie or tuck us in with a gentle pat on the head.
Now, on the day in question, the sun was streaming through the kitchen window, casting golden rectangles on the checkered floor. I had just aced a math test at school—numbers always came easy to me, and I loved every subject, from spelling to geography. My classmate, Susan, a shy little girl with pigtails tied in perfect bows, approached me at recess, her voice barely above a whisper. “Margaret Louise, could you help me with the math homework? I am afraid I will fail again.” We were not close, and, feeling a bit too proud of myself, I brushed her off with a shrug. “Sorry, Susan. I have better things to do.”
I ended up with the highest grade, Susan with the lowest, and our teacher, Miss Thompson, gave her a real talking-to in front of the whole class. I watched Susan’s face crumple, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Later, in the girls’ bathroom, Susan confronted me, her small fists balled at her sides. “You are very unkind for not helping,” she snapped, her cheeks red as apples. I just laughed, tossing my braids over my shoulder. “I would not help you if you were the last child on earth,” I said, my voice dripping with smugness.
That is when Susan lost her temper and gave me a shove—not hard, but enough to sting my pride. I had always been tall and quick, so, in a flash of childish mischief, I grabbed her by the collar and hoisted her right into the trash can. The look on her face was priceless—legs sticking out, surrounded by crumpled paper towels and a half-eaten apple. I could not help but laugh, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. “Serves you right!” I called, feeling a wicked thrill.
“I am telling Miss Thompson! You will be in big trouble!” Susan wailed, her voice trembling as she tried to wriggle free. I leaned in, my face close to hers, and hissed, “You will not say a word, or you will get more of the same!” I was sure I had scared her into silence, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement.
The rest of the morning went by without a hitch. Susan kept her eyes glued to her desk, her shoulders hunched, and I strutted around, certain I had gotten away with it. I whispered the story to Jimmy and Bobby at lunch, and they snickered behind their sandwiches. But, as it turned out, I was quite mistaken.
That afternoon, Jimmy, Bobby, and I strolled home, carefree as could be, our satchels swinging and our shoes scuffing the sidewalk. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle. Betty greeted us at the door with her usual sunny smile, her cheeks rosy from baking. “How was school, darlings?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. I boasted about my test score, and she gave me a big hug, her arms warm and strong, before fixing us a hearty lunch of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Everything felt just right, the house filled with the clatter of dishes and the hum of the radio.
After lunch, we piled into the living room, tossing a football back and forth while Betty tidied up, humming “Que Sera, Sera” under her breath. The sunlight danced on the patterned wallpaper, and the air was thick with the smell of lemon polish. About an hour later, the phone rang—a shrill, insistent sound that cut through our laughter. We figured it was Doris checking in, so we kept playing, the ball thumping against the couch cushions. Betty answered, closing the kitchen door behind her, her voice muffled but calm.
Suddenly, her voice rang out, sharp as a bell: “Miss Margaret Louise—front and center!” My heart dropped to my shoes. When Betty used both my names, it only meant one thing—a sore backside was coming. Jimmy and Bobby froze, their eyes wide, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead.
I trudged upstairs, trying to act innocent, my hands shoved deep in my pockets. “Why are you yelling?” I asked, my voice wavering—a mistake I realized too late. Betty landed two quick swats on my behind, her palm swift and sure. “Not only a fibber, but sassy, too!” she scolded, her eyes flashing with disappointment.
She marched me over to the wooden chair by the window, the one with the worn cushion and the view of Mrs. Abernathy’s rose bushes. She sat down, gripping my shoulders, her eyes steely and unblinking. “Now, you are going to tell me exactly what happened at school. I just had a long talk with Susan’s mother,” she said, her voice icy and controlled. That is when I realized Susan had told everything, and my stomach twisted with dread.
I tried to deny it, my voice small and shaky, but Betty was not having any of it. Another swat, sharper this time. “Do not lie to me! Susan’s mother said her little girl came home in tears because Margaret Louise was a bully!” Her words stung more than the spanking, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame.
(pause) I clammed up, my eyes fixed on the floor, but Betty leaned in, her face close to mine, her voice low and fierce. “I promised myself, your parents, Susan’s mother, and the Good Lord above that I would punish you properly—do not make me go harder!” The weight of her words pressed down on me, and I finally broke, confessing every last detail, my voice trembling with guilt. My hands shook as I spoke, and I could feel the tears welling up, hot and prickly, behind my eyes.
Betty’s face turned red as a beet, her jaw set in a hard line. “You were mean and ungrateful! You deserve a lesson you will not forget!” she scolded, her voice thick with emotion. She pulled me over her lap, pinning my wrists behind my back with surprising strength. I could smell the faint scent of lavender on her dress, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself. The room seemed to shrink, the air heavy with anticipation and dread. My heart hammered in my chest, and I could hear the faint tick of the hallway clock, each second stretching out like an eternity.
“I will apologize!” I pleaded, desperate to avoid what was coming. My voice cracked, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. But Betty’s voice was stern, unwavering. “This time, you are not getting off easy—laying hands on another girl is downright shameful. You know better, Margaret Louise.” Her disappointment cut deeper than any spanking. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a mix of humiliation and regret, as I realized there was no escape.
The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack, and the sting followed a split second later, radiating through my thin cotton dress. I yelped, the sound bouncing off the walls, and my legs kicked involuntarily. Betty did not let up—one after another, each smack sharper and more deliberate than the last. The pain built, a hot, throbbing ache that made my eyes water and my breath hitch. I tried to wriggle away, but she held me fast, her grip unyielding, her arm like iron across my back. My sobs grew louder, mingling with the rhythmic sound of the spanking, and I could feel my resolve crumbling with every swat.
After what felt like an eternity, Betty paused, her breathing heavy. I thought it was over, but then she reached for the dreaded wooden hairbrush, its surface smooth and cold as she pressed it against my skin. The first smack with the brush was a whole new kind of pain—sharp, biting, and impossible to ignore. I gasped, the tears now streaming freely down my face, my cries echoing in the quiet room. Each stroke of the brush left a burning trail, and I clung to the edge of the chair, my knuckles white, my body trembling. The spanking seemed to go on forever—at least fifteen minutes, though it could have been an eternity. All the while, Betty lectured me about my “disgraceful” behavior, her words ringing in my ears, each one a fresh sting to my pride and conscience.
“You are better than this, Margaret Louise. You know what it means to be kind. You know how it feels to be left out. I will not have you turning into a bully, not in my house.” Her voice wavered, just a little, and I realized she was hurting, too. The room was thick with emotion—my own shame and regret, Betty’s disappointment and love, all tangled together in the late afternoon light. When it was finally over, I just sobbed, my face buried in her apron, my body shaking with the force of my tears. Betty gathered me up in her arms, her voice softening, her hands gentle as she stroked my hair. “I am sorry, Margaret Louise, but you have to learn right from wrong. I love you, dear, and I want you to grow up good and strong.” I stayed in her embrace, no hard feelings—Betty’s punishments always ended with a dose of kindness, her forgiveness as warm as the afternoon sun.
But she was not quite finished. “Now, you will stay in your room and think about what you have done—and maybe say a prayer or two,” Betty said, pointing to my well-worn Bible on the nightstand. (pause) That was the 1950s for you—lessons learned the hard way, but always with a little love at the end. As I sat on my bed, the sting fading and the shame lingering, I promised myself I would never treat anyone the way I had treated Susan. And, in the quiet of my room, I whispered a prayer for forgiveness, hoping Betty—and maybe even Susan—would find it in their hearts to forgive me, too.
