I managed to convince my mother that I was too old for summer camp that year. With her new part-time job keeping her busy and my father working away on a construction project, it was decided I would spend my days with my paternal grandparents while my siblings attended their own camps.
My mother, ever prudent, was uneasy about leaving me alone, so my grandparents’ home became my summer haven. It was there I met three girls from the neighbourhood, all my age but far more sophisticated, or so it seemed to me. I was eager to win their approval.
As August waned and the new school term loomed, the four of us visited the local pharmacy. Before we entered, one of the girls dared us each to take something without paying. Wanting to fit in, I found myself in the cosmetics aisle, slipping several lip glosses into my purse.
Unbeknownst to us, the staff had been watching. While one girl managed to escape, the rest of us were caught and led to the manager’s office. The police were not called, but our parents were summoned.
My mother left work to collect me. The drive back to my grandparents’ was silent and heavy. Once home, she insisted I confess my wrongdoing to my grandparents. The shame I felt as I admitted my actions, and the look of disappointment on their faces, is something I shall never forget. My grandmother, who was friends with the pharmacist, simply asked, “Why did you not ask us for the money?” Overcome with guilt, I wept.
My mother then sent me to the bedroom and borrowed my grandmother’s hairbrush. She entered, sat in a formal armless chair, and called me to her side. “You know what you have done, so there is little to discuss. Come here,” she said, motioning for me to lie across her knee. The hairbrush was an old-fashioned, oval mahogany one, well-suited for the task at hand.
I was almost grateful there would be no lengthy lecture. Without further warning, the first firm stroke of the brush landed. My mother required that I count each swat aloud, a practice she maintained during all discipline. She administered the spanking in sets of twelve. At my age, two dozen was customary, though three dozen was not unheard of. Given the seriousness of my offence, I braced myself for a severe punishment. I was thankful she did not discipline me in front of my grandparents, though she left the door open, so the sounds of my chastisement—my involuntary cries, the counting, and the unmistakable crack of the brush—were surely audible from the living room.
When the spanking concluded, my mother instructed me to stand and directed me to a corner of the bedroom, where I remained for about fifteen minutes while she spoke with my grandparents. I seldom cried during such discipline, but on this occasion, my tears flowed freely, prompted more by deep remorse than by physical discomfort.
When my mother returned, she told me to dress, pack my belongings, and come out to apologise to my grandparents without delay. Few moments in my life have been as humbling as offering my apology after they had heard my punishment.
The drive home was silent, save for my mother’s quiet words: “I hope you were not planning to leave the house the rest of the summer?” I shook my head. “I’m not through with you yet,” she added. “When we get home, you go upstairs and bring me the strap.” I said nothing, knowing I had earned what was coming.
Once home, I dutifully fetched the strap—an old tool belt, 1.5 inches wide, the pockets removed and permanently doubled over. My mother was waiting in the kitchen, a chair placed in the centre of the room. This time, I received the full lecture: about stealing, about giving in to peer pressure, about embarrassing my grandparents.
When she finished, I was ordered to bend over and grasp the seat of the chair. My mother stood behind me and, without warning, delivered the first stroke of the strap.
. It sounded like a firecracker had gone off. I felt myself thrusting forward and letting out an audible gasp, then I counted out ‘one’. There was a two or three second pause, then ‘crack’ and then ‘two’. I had not gotten the strap from her in a couple of years, and I had forgotten how skilled she was in making sure she covered every part of my bottom.
I was taking the licks well until the eighth, which landed on the place where my thighs and bottom met. That led me to let out a howl and rise up on my toes. I endured four more to the centre and bottom of my butt before she told me to stand up.
mother looked at me, my eyes watered up and I started sobbing, telling her how sorry I was. It was one of the few times I ever sought out comfort and reassurance after a spanking. She hugged me and said: “I know.”
With that, she dispatched me to the corner in the kitchen, where I stood with my flaming scarlet bottom on display for a full hour that was announced by the ring of the kitchen timer she had set. The one saving grace was that no-one else was home to see me in such an undignified position.
I did not sit comfortably for a couple of days later and it took a week before the wide horizontal stripes left by the strap faded from my behind. I also was confined to the house for the rest of the summer, and each day started with a long list of chores that included dishes, laundry, dusting, sweeping, changing sheets, prepping food and tedious yard work. I was never more happy for the start of school – although it was the summer I learned how to iron!
