Growing up on the poor side of Missouri in the mid-1960s, getting spanked was as much a part of daily life as the sticky summer air and the distant whistle of freight trains at dusk. (short pause) The threat of it was everywhere—woven into the fabric of our days, as constant as the cicadas humming outside our windows. Sometimes, I’d catch the scent of Mama’s perfume mixed with the sharp tang of sweat and dust, and I’d know, just by the way she looked at me, that I was in for it. The anticipation prickled on my skin, a warning as real as the heat rising off the cracked sidewalks.
Most days, it was nothing formal—just a quick, stinging swat on the backside of my faded jeans for talking back or being underfoot when I shouldn’t have been. The sharp crack of Mama’s hand would echo through the kitchen, bouncing off the chipped linoleum and the humming box fan in the window. For a split second, the sting would bloom hot and sudden, making my eyes water and my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I’d hear my own yelp hang in the air, sharp and high, and then I’d shuffle away, rubbing the sore spot, feeling the ache settle in alongside a heavy, simmering shame. Sometimes, I’d catch my reflection in the dusty hallway mirror—red-faced, eyes shining with unshed tears—and wonder if the other kids felt the same way, or if I was the only one who carried that secret ache.
But sometimes, if I’d really crossed the line—talked back too sharp, lied, or broke something precious—things got more serious. About every couple of weeks, Mama would sit down, her face set and tired, and pull me over her knee. The kitchen would go quiet except for the ticking of the clock and the distant rumble of a train. She’d spank my bottom with a wooden spoon until it was good and red and stinging, the spoon smacking against my thin cotton shorts, each whack sending a jolt of pain that seemed to vibrate up my spine and settle in my chest. I’d clench my fists, knuckles white, and try to hold back the tears, but they always came—hot, salty, and unstoppable, dripping down my cheeks as I gasped for breath between sobs. The kitchen would fill with the sound of wood on flesh, my cries echoing off the walls, and Mama’s stern voice, low and steady, reminding me why I was getting it. Afterward, my backside would throb, a deep, pulsing ache that made it hard to sit, and I’d wish I could disappear, swallowed up by the floorboards, the shame burning hotter than the pain.
Other grown-ups didn’t shy away from it either. Daddy was a quieter man, but when he took his belt to us, it was a different kind of fear. The sound of the leather sliding through his belt loops was enough to make my stomach twist with dread, my heart pounding so loud I could barely hear anything else. When the belt finally landed, it left a burning stripe across my skin, the pain sharp and lingering, like fire drawn in a line. The room would go silent except for my choked sobs and the faint creak of the floorboards as I shifted from foot to foot, trying to ease the sting. Sometimes, I’d catch Daddy’s eyes afterward—sad, tired, but unyielding—and I’d wonder if he hated it as much as I did.
I remember one time at Aunt Joyce’s house, I acted up—sassed her in front of company, thinking I was clever. She sent me out to cut a switch from her peach tree, and my hands trembled as I searched for the right branch, the bark cool and smooth beneath my fingers. I could smell the sweet, green scent of the leaves, hear the distant laughter of my cousins playing in the yard, and I knew what was coming. She whipped me with that switch until it snapped in two, each lash leaving a fiery welt on my bare legs. The swish of the branch through the air, the sting as it bit into my skin, and the shame of standing there, tears streaming down my face, made the lesson unforgettable. Even now, I can feel the ghost of those welts, the memory of the sting, and the way my pride crumbled under her stern gaze.
Even at school, corporal punishment was just how things were. I got paddled three times—once in fourth grade, twice as a freshman. The paddle was thick and heavy, carved from some old oak, and the sound of it smacking against my backside echoed down the hallway, sharp and final. Each blow sent a jolt of pain through me, and I’d bite my lip to keep from crying out in front of the other kids, my face burning with humiliation. The smell of chalk dust and floor wax seemed sharper in those moments, the world narrowing to the sting and the shame. When Mama heard about my trouble, she made sure to spank me again at home—her hand landing hard and fast, the sting building with each swat, her disappointment heavy in the air. And when Daddy got home, he finished the job with his belt, his face grim and silent. I was sore for days, every movement a reminder of what I’d done, and the humiliation of being punished again and again made me vow, deep down, not to repeat my mistakes. But the ache lingered, both in my body and in my heart.
My grandma was usually softer with us—her hands gentle, her voice warm. She’d pat our bottoms or give a playful pinch, her laughter bubbling up like a creek after rain. But after a real spanking, even her gentle touch would make me flinch, the skin still tender and my pride still raw. Sometimes, she’d pull me into her lap, her arms soft and comforting, and I’d bury my face in her faded housecoat, breathing in the scent of lavender and old soap, wishing the world could be that safe forever.
But Grandma could be strict when she needed to. After Mama had surgery and Daddy was looking after her, my sister and I stayed with Grandma for a couple weeks. (short pause) The house felt different—quieter, the air thick with the smell of biscuits and old wood, but with a tension that made us mind our manners. Every creak of the floorboards seemed louder, every glance from Grandma sharper, and I found myself tiptoeing around, afraid to break the fragile peace.
One afternoon, we got the idea to jump on the bed, giggling and shrieking as the springs squeaked beneath us. We bounced higher and higher, the world spinning with laughter, until the bed frame gave a loud, splintering crack and collapsed beneath us. For a moment, there was only silence—then Grandma’s footsteps, quick and heavy, coming down the hallway. She was mad as a hornet, her face flushed and her eyes blazing. She slipped off her sandal and gave both of us a real sound spanking over her knee. The slap of rubber against bare skin was sharp and biting, each smack making my legs kick and my breath hitch. The room filled with the sound of my sister’s and my cries, the sandal smacking, and Grandma’s scolding voice, stern and unyielding. My face burned with shame, tears streaming down as I tried to squirm away, but Grandma held me firm until she was done. We were put in time out right after—standing in the corner, hands on our heads, the sting in my backside throbbing with every heartbeat. The wallpaper seemed to close in around me, the ticking clock loud in my ears, and I felt the weight of my own embarrassment pressing down on me, heavier than any punishment.
She left us standing in the corner, hands on our heads, the afternoon sun slanting through the lace curtains and painting golden stripes on the floor. I can still remember the sting in my backside from that sandal, the ache that lingered long after, and the hot flush of humiliation that crept up my neck. The lesson stuck with me for a long time—etched into my memory by the pain, the sounds, and the deep, lasting feeling of having disappointed someone I loved. Even now, when I hear the distant whistle of a train or catch the scent of summer dust, I’m carried back to those days—days of hard lessons, aching pride, and the complicated, enduring love that shaped who I became.
