There are moments from childhood that etch themselves into your memory, vivid as a summer thunderstorm. One of the most unforgettable scenes I ever witnessed was a spanking—yes, a real, old-fashioned belting—delivered to my older cousin Barb, right there in the heart of our bustling Atlanta apartment complex in the late 1950s. Barb was the eldest cousin, tall for her age, with a sharp tongue and a glare that could silence a room. She ruled over us younger kids with a mix of bossiness and bravado, always quick to remind us who was in charge.
(short pause) These days, Barb and I laugh about those times, but back then, I found her insufferable—stuck-up, quick-tempered, and always ready to tattle or tease. I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but when I saw her get her comeuppance in the form of a very public, very humiliating spanking, I felt a secret thrill of satisfaction. It was as if the universe had finally balanced the scales.
(pause) That Sunday, the air was thick with Georgia heat, the kind that makes your shirt stick to your back and the pavement shimmer. My mother gathered me and my two brothers, and we trudged across the courtyard to Barb’s apartment. We weren’t exactly eager to see Barb, but the promise of splashing in the apartment pool and playing with our other four cousins was enough to make us forget our reluctance. The building buzzed with the sounds of children’s laughter, mothers gossiping over laundry, and the distant hum of 1950s cars idling in the street.
(short pause) Unbeknownst to us, a storm had already been brewing inside Barb’s apartment. She’d spent the morning arguing with my aunt, desperate to be driven downtown to Rich’s department store to meet her friends. But my aunt, tired and resolute, told her she’d been out enough lately and needed to stay home to greet her cousins. No ride, no exceptions. Barb’s face darkened, her mood soured, and the tension in the apartment was as heavy as the humid air outside.
(pause) When we arrived, you could almost taste the electricity in the air. My brothers and I wasted no time diving into the pool, the cool water a welcome relief. But Barb hovered nearby, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. She snapped at us, barked orders, and made it clear she’d rather be anywhere else. Her mother’s warnings—gentle at first, then sharper—seemed to bounce right off her. Barb was determined to have her way, and everyone else was collateral damage.
(short pause) The breaking point came suddenly. My little brother, blissfully unaware, was blocking Barb’s sun as he floated on his back. With a scowl, Barb marched over and shoved him into the pool, sending up a splash and a chorus of shocked gasps. My aunt’s patience snapped. In a voice that brooked no argument, she ordered Barb inside for a belting—a punishment as much a part of 1950s Atlanta as the scent of magnolia in the air.
(pause) My aunt turned to my mother, her voice tight with exasperation. “She’s become quite uncooperative about her spankings lately. Can you come in with me in case I need help?” My mother, never one to shy away from discipline, nodded. She told us kids that since there’d be no adult outside, we’d have to get out of the pool and play in the yard until she returned. We grumbled, but curiosity quickly got the better of us.
(short pause) We drifted toward the big kitchen window, hearts pounding with anticipation. The glass was thick, but the view was clear—and what a view it was. Inside, Barb stood with her arms crossed, chin jutting out defiantly as her mother lectured her. The room was tense, the air charged with the kind of energy that makes you hold your breath.
(pause) We couldn’t hear the words, but the body language said it all. Barb’s jaw was set, her eyes narrowed. Her mother’s gestures grew sharper, her patience thinning. Suddenly, Barb shook her head, refusing to comply. My mother stepped in, gently but firmly grabbing Barb’s hands and pressing them flat on the table, her own face a mask of determination.
(short pause) With Barb’s resistance subdued, her mother unhooked the wide leather belt from its place on the wall. The belt gleamed in the afternoon light, a symbol of authority and consequence. She drew it back and brought it down with a crack that seemed to echo through the apartment. Barb’s cry pierced the air, muffled only slightly by the closed window. Even outside, we flinched at the sound.
(pause) Barb writhed, trying to twist away, but my mother held her steady. The belt fell again and again—whack, whack, whack—each strike punctuated by Barb’s yelps and the collective wince of her audience. After the fourth blow, Barb managed to wrench her hands free, clutching at her stinging backside. But my mother was quick, guiding her back into position. The punishment continued, each stroke a lesson in humility and consequence. By the end, Barb had endured eight resounding whacks, her pride and defiance stripped away.
(short pause) When my mother finally released her, Barb’s hands flew to her bottom, rubbing furiously as she hopped from foot to foot. Her face was streaked with tears, her bravado gone. For a moment, she seemed to forget we were watching, lost in her own embarrassment and pain. She danced around the room, a spectacle of raw emotion, before the realization dawned—she had an audience.
(pause) With a final sob, Barb bolted from the kitchen, disappearing into her bedroom to nurse her wounds in private. Outside, we scattered, suddenly shy, the thrill of witnessing her downfall mingling with a pang of sympathy. The parents returned, their faces calm, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. We slipped back into the pool, the water cool against our sun-warmed skin, the echoes of that Sunday lingering in the air.
(long pause) It was just another Sunday in Atlanta, in the late 1950s—a day of laughter, lessons, and memories that would last a lifetime.
