(gap: 2s) I grew up in the early 50s, in a world where the air was thick with the scent of lilacs in spring and the distant echo of children’s laughter. Back then, spankings were as much a part of childhood as scraped knees and muddy shoes—a rite of passage, woven into the fabric of growing up. Our small town was a patchwork of red-brick houses, picket fences, and winding lanes, where everyone knew your name and your business. I lived with my mother and father, two older brothers—Andrew and Joshua—and my little sister Jennifer, whose giggle could light up even the gloomiest day.
It was a Saturday in late spring, the kind of day when the sunlight streams through the curtains and the world feels fresh and full of promise. Daddy was at work, and our mother—her hair pinned up, sleeves rolled—was determined to get the house in order. She assigned us chores: Andrew to sweep the porch, Josh to dust the sitting room, me to help with the laundry, and Jenny to pick up her toys. But the lure of the outdoors was too strong, and our efforts were half-hearted at best. I remember the sharp, clean smell of soap and the way the dust motes danced in the sunbeams as we dragged our feet through our tasks.
When Jenny, trying her best to help, spilled a bucket of soapy water on the carpet, Mother just sighed, her lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “I must be silly to think I could keep four children inside on a day like this,” she said, shaking her head. Instead of scolding, she opened the back door and sent us out into the yard, her voice firm: “Stay here, and don’t even think about leaving.” The grass was cool beneath our bare feet, and the air hummed with the promise of adventure.
We played tag and made daisy chains, our laughter floating over the fence. But soon, my attention wandered. Across the street, in Mrs Andrews’ front yard, a group of neighborhood children were playing softball. The thwack of the bat, the shouts of excitement, the sight of the ball arcing through the air—it was irresistible. I could almost feel the rough leather of the ball in my hands, the thrill of running bases. I turned to my siblings, eyes shining, and asked if they wanted to join me.
Andrew and Josh exchanged wary glances, and Jenny shook her head, clutching her doll. “We’ll get in trouble,” Andrew whispered. But I was already halfway over the fence, convinced that Mother wouldn’t notice. The grass on the other side felt different—wilder, more exciting. I ran across the street, heart pounding, and joined the game, my worries forgotten in the rush of play.
The game was glorious. I remember the sun warm on my back, the shouts of the other children, the taste of freedom. But then, disaster struck. I threw the ball—too hard, too high—and watched in horror as it sailed past the catcher and crashed through Mrs Andrews’ living room window. The sound of shattering glass seemed to echo forever. My heart dropped into my shoes, and tears sprang to my eyes before I even saw Mrs Andrews appear in the doorway, her face a mask of shock and disappointment.
“Alicia, did your mother change her mind and allow you to come over?” Mrs Andrews asked, her voice gentle but firm. I shook my head, unable to meet her eyes, and sat down on the ground, feeling the grit and dirt beneath my palms. “No ma’am,” I whispered, my voice trembling. The other children fell silent, their eyes wide.
“You were supposed to be in your backyard, weren’t you, little lady?” she pressed, her tone growing sterner. “Yes ma’am,” I replied, my cheeks burning with shame. “And you came over here uninvited and have now broken my window,” she continued. “I’m sorry. I really am,” I sobbed, the weight of my guilt pressing down on me.
Mrs Andrews knelt beside me, her hand warm on my shoulder. “I have a feeling you will be very sorry when your mother hears about this. If you were my daughter, you would get the spanking of your life right about now,” she said, her words ringing in my ears. She took my hand—her grip gentle but unyielding—and pulled me to my feet. I glanced back at the shattered window, then at my siblings peering through the fence, their faces pale with worry. Why hadn’t I just listened? Why hadn’t I been good?
The walk back across the street felt endless. The sun seemed to dim, and the world shrank to the sound of my sniffles and Mrs Andrews’ steady footsteps. She knocked on our door, and Mother answered, her hair escaping its pins, her face drawn with fatigue. The sight of her—my angry neighbor and her tear-streaked daughter—made her eyes widen in confusion and concern. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice wary.
Mrs Andrews told the story, her words measured but firm. I stood there, tears streaming down my face, hoping for a flicker of sympathy. The living room felt suddenly enormous, the ticking clock on the mantel loud in the silence. I could smell the faint scent of lemon polish and the lingering aroma of baking bread from the kitchen.
When Mrs Andrews finished, Mother turned to me, her eyes searching my face. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Alicia?” she asked, her voice low and stern. “I’m sorry,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. “Oh, you will be when I’m through with you! Now march to your room and stand in the corner—you are in a lot of trouble, young lady,” she said, her grip firm as she steered me inside.
As I passed her on the stairs, she delivered a single, sharp swat to my backside—a warning of what was to come. I scurried to my room, the sting lingering, and stood in the corner, my face pressed against the cool plaster. Downstairs, I could hear the low murmur of voices as Mother and Mrs Andrews talked. The minutes stretched on, each one heavier than the last. I clutched my bottom, my mind racing with dread and regret.
(pause) Finally, the door creaked open, and Mother entered. The first thing I saw was the dreaded hairbrush in her hand—its wooden back gleaming in the afternoon light. She looked calmer, but her eyes were resolute. The sight of that hairbrush made my tears start anew. She pulled a chair into the center of the room, the legs scraping against the floor, and sat down, motioning for me to stand before her.
(pause) “Alicia, I’m very disappointed in you right now,” she began, her voice soft but unwavering. “I let you and your brothers and sister out of doing chores to go and play—wasn’t that enough?” Her words stung more than any spanking could. I stared at my toes, the floorboards blurring through my tears.
(pause) “What did I tell you when I let you go out to play?” she asked, her gaze piercing. “Stay in the backyard,” I mumbled, my voice small. “And did you obey me?” she pressed. “No, Mother,” I admitted, my hands instinctively covering my bottom, knowing what was coming.
(pause) “And to get to Mrs Andrews’ house, you have to cross the street, don’t you?” she asked, her memory sharp as ever. I hadn’t even thought of that rule, but she had. “Yes,” I said, my voice trembling. “And isn’t there a rule against doing so?” she continued. “I’m sorry, Mother,” I cried, the words tumbling out in a rush.
(pause) “You disobeyed me twice, you rudely invited yourself into a game without asking, and then you broke a window,” she summarized, her tone even. “I didn’t mean to break the window,” I protested, my voice barely audible. “Of course you didn’t. That was an accident, and you are not being punished for that—you are being punished for disobeying me.”
(pause) “Please don’t spank me, Mother,” I begged, my voice rising in desperation. But she was unmoved. “Mother, no!”
(long pause) She reached out and gently but firmly took my wrist, guiding me to her side. My heart hammered in my chest as she set the hairbrush on her lap and pulled me across her knees. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with anticipation and dread. I could see the sunlight slanting through the window, dust motes swirling in the golden light, the familiar shapes of my toys and books now distant and unimportant.
(pause) Mother’s hand rested on my back for a moment, steadying me. “This is for your own good, Alicia,” she said quietly. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself. The first swat landed with a sharp crack, the sting blooming across my skin. I gasped, the shock of it making my breath hitch. She continued, each swat measured and firm
