My family lived in middle Tennessee during the 1960s, a time when the Beatles were on the radio, kids played outside until the streetlights came on, and discipline at home was as old-fashioned as the rotary phone in our hallway. Ours was a loving home, but strict—especially when it came to following the rules. And in those days, a good old-fashioned spanking was just part of growing up if you crossed the line.
Most of the time, it was our mother who handled discipline. She was a sturdy, no-nonsense woman, always in a house dress and apron, and she never needed anything more than her hand to get her point across. But let me tell you, that was more than enough!
There were four of us: myself, Hannah—the youngest—then Nathan, Matthew, and Ruth.
Spankings weren’t exactly rare in our house, but there was one day that stands out—a day when, for the first and only time, all four of us got our backsides tanned in a single sitting.
Even with our age differences, we got along pretty well. There weren’t many other kids our age in the neighborhood, so we spent most afternoons together, making up games in the backyard. On this particular day, we were playing a wild, make-it-up-as-you-go game of football—just tossing around a battered old ball and running wherever we pleased.
Things were fine until we forgot ourselves and started tearing through the flower beds and vegetable patches—strictly off-limits, as we’d been told a hundred times. To make matters worse, we even strayed into the yard of our neighbor on the left, Mrs. Miller, a widowed lady who still wore her hair in a 1940s perm and kept her garden as neat as a pin.
Our shouting and laughter must have carried, because before long, Mrs. Miller herself came out onto her porch. “You children get out of my yard this instant!” she hollered, her voice as sharp as the snap of a clothesline. Realizing we’d gone too far, we scattered, dropping the ball by the back steps as we dashed inside.
We didn’t have to wait long for the fallout. The doorbell rang—one of those old chimes that echoed through the house—and when Mother answered, there was Mrs. Miller, looking every bit as cross as she’d sounded.
She explained what had happened, and Mother was mortified. She invited Mrs. Miller in and called us all into the kitchen, which smelled faintly of percolated coffee and lemon Pledge. “Did you see which of these rascals did the damage?” she asked. Mrs. Miller pursed her lips. “Not exactly—they were all running wild, and scattered when I came out.”
Mother turned to us, her face set. “In that case,” she said, “I suppose I’ll have to spank the lot of you, just to be sure.” We erupted in protests and tears, but she cut us off with, “Would you rather I fetch the hairbrush? Hush up, or you’ll have something real to cry about!”
She turned to Mrs. Miller. “I think it’s only fair you see justice done.” Mrs. Miller nodded, her lips twitching in satisfaction. Mother pulled a wooden dining chair to the center of the linoleum floor and rolled up her sleeve—a sure sign of what was coming. Mrs. Miller fetched another chair and said, “You spank, I’ll get them ready.” Mother nodded her approval.
Usually, the youngest went first, but Mrs. Miller didn’t know our family traditions. She reached for Ruth instead.
Mrs. Miller guided Ruth over, and Mother put her across her knee, just like you’d see in a Norman Rockwell painting—except with a lot more noise. She spanked Ruth soundly, and the yelps and the quick flush of Ruth’s behind made it clear she meant business. While Mother kept at it, Mrs. Miller took hold of Matthew and started getting him ready, much to his embarrassment.
Ruth was sent straight to bed with no supper—a punishment that would soon be shared by all of us. Matthew was next, and though Mother’s hand was already red, she didn’t let up. The crying that followed left no doubt she was as determined as ever.
Meanwhile, Nathan tried to put up a fight as Mrs. Miller prepared him, but he was wearing shorts—standard summer attire in the ‘60s—and Mrs. Miller quickly brought him to heel with a few sharp smacks to his legs. Defeated and already sniffling, he let her get him ready for Mother’s knee.
Usually, I watched my siblings’ spankings through a blur of my own tears, but this time I had a front-row seat, and I was nearly scared out of my saddle shoes. I watched Matthew squirm and howl as Mother gave him a proper 1960s-style spanking.
Suddenly, it was my turn.
Matthew was sent off with a final swat, and Mrs. Miller steered me toward Mother. “Last one, Mrs. Johnson!” she said. “Make it count.” Mother gave a grim nod.
(pause) I remember the kitchen light glinting off the polished linoleum, the faint scent of lemon Pledge and coffee in the air, and the way my heart hammered in my chest as I was guided forward. My mother’s hand was already red from the spankings she’d given my siblings, but her grip was as firm as ever as she took my wrist and pulled me gently but unyieldingly across her lap. The world seemed to shrink to the circle of her arms and the hard wooden chair beneath me.
(short pause) My face burned with embarrassment, knowing Mrs. Miller was watching, her lips pursed in approval. My mother’s house dress rustled as she adjusted me, making sure my bottom was squarely in place. I could feel the cool air on the backs of my legs, my shorts offering little protection.
