(gap: 2s) My mother was a proper lady of British descent, and in our 1950s suburb, she was the very image of the era’s ideals—always in a crisp house dress, her hair set just so, and a copy of Good Housekeeping never far from reach. She was a strict disciplinarian, as most mothers were back then, believing it her duty to see that my sister and I grew up to be respectable young ladies, just as the times demanded. When we misbehaved, we could count on the familiar tools of discipline: a cane, a strap, a tawse, or my mother’s firm hand—each as much a part of our home as the rotary phone in the hallway.
In those days, when I was very young, a spanking usually meant a few sharp slaps to the seat of my pedal pushers—nothing out of the ordinary for a 1950s child. These were for the usual childhood mischief: talking back, running in the house, or sneaking an extra cookie before supper. But as I grew older, and the world around us seemed to march to the steady beat of Eisenhower’s America, my mother’s spankings became more serious.
There’s one spanking I remember in particular—not because it was the harshest, but because it was so very typical of the era. It was a warm evening, the kind where the radio played Perry Como in the background and the scent of meatloaf lingered in the air. I had been acting up all afternoon: sassing Mother, refusing to eat my supper, and now, at bedtime, dawdling in the tub instead of getting ready for bed as I was told.
My mother opened the bathroom door, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the hallway lamp. “Allison? What’s going on in there?” she called, her voice as no-nonsense as the women in the magazines. I didn’t answer. “Come on, out you get!” Still, I stayed put, splashing idly. She grew impatient. “Listen—if you’re not out of that bath in two minutes, I’ll give you a spanking, young lady.”
Had I believed her, I would have been in bed with my hair in curlers and my pajamas buttoned up to my chin. But I didn’t think I was doing anything so terrible; I thought she was just trying to scare me, as mothers did. I was wrong. Two minutes later, the door swung open and in strode my mother, her face set in that determined 1950s way.
“I have had quite enough of this, young lady!” she declared, reaching into the tub to let out the water. “Out you come!” I dug in my heels—this was now a matter of principle. “All right, I warned you!” she said, and pulled me out, standing me on the cold tile. She held me fast and began to spank my bottom, her grip as unyielding as the rules of the time. I struggled and shouted, but I knew she wouldn’t let go.
The sound of her hand meeting my wet skin echoed in the small bathroom, each slap sharp and stinging. My bottom felt like it was on fire, the pain radiating through me with every smack. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I bit my lip, determined not to cry out. The atmosphere in the bathroom was tense, the air thick with the scent of soap and the lingering steam from my bath.
But then, to my surprise, she stopped. “Stay right there,” Mother said, and while I stood shivering in the bathroom, she returned with a straight-backed chair and her trusty hairbrush—the kind every 1950s mother seemed to have. For a moment, I wondered if she meant to brush my hair, but I knew better.
“Allison, you know you’ve been a naughty girl today. Now, if you fuss and don’t take your spankings like a big girl, this is what’s going to happen.” She sat in the chair, pulled me over her knee, and lifted my bottom, just as I’d seen in those old etiquette books. Suddenly, the hairbrush landed with a sharp smack. I yelped “ow!” and tried to reach back, but she gently but firmly moved my hands away.
The hairbrush felt cold and hard against my skin, each smack leaving a burning sensation that seemed to linger long after the brush had moved on. I could hear the rhythmic sound of the brush meeting my bottom, a steady beat that matched the pounding of my heart. My thoughts were a jumble of regret and defiance, the pain making it hard to think clearly.
She spanked me again, ten times in all, just as the mothers in our neighborhood would have done. Each smack seemed to echo louder than the last, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. Then she let me go. “I hope you won’t forget this lesson too quickly,” she said, her voice softening. I promised to be good next time. And I didn’t forget—not for several days, every time I sat down at the Formica kitchen table or on the back seat of our Chevy, I remembered the lesson, as clear as the chime of the ice cream truck on a summer evening.
