When I was in the third grade, back in the sun-washed days of the 1960s, my world revolved around my best friend Cory. He lived just four blocks away, but to us, it felt like a whole adventure just to get from my house to his. That afternoon, the air was thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant hum of lawnmowers. My mother, dressed in her favorite blue dress, told me she’d be out shopping with her friend, and I could barely contain my excitement as I raced down the sidewalk to Cory’s place, my sneakers slapping the pavement.
Cory greeted me at the door, his hair sticking up in all directions, a mischievous grin on his face. “Let’s play catch!” he said, already rummaging through his closet for his battered softball glove and a scuffed-up ball. We could hear his mother’s voice drifting from the kitchen, sharp and clear: “If you boys are going to play, you’d better go across the road. I don’t want any broken windows!” She sounded stern, but there was a hint of worry in her tone, as if she already knew what was coming.
We trudged across the street, the soles of our shoes crunching on the gravel. The other side of the road was lined with thick, old trees, their branches arching overhead like watchful sentinels. Every time we tried to throw the ball, it ricocheted off the trunks or disappeared into the undergrowth. “This is hopeless,” Cory muttered, frustration etched on his face. I nodded, feeling the sting of boredom. The fun was gone, replaced by the sticky heat and the constant thwack of the ball against bark. Eventually, we exchanged a look—one of those silent, wordless agreements only best friends understand—and wandered back to his front lawn, ignoring the warning echoing in our minds.
The sun was low, painting everything gold. Cory wound up and threw the ball with all his might. I saw it coming, but my hands fumbled, and the ball sailed past me, straight toward the house. Time seemed to slow as it struck the window with a sickening crack. We both froze, eyes wide, hearts pounding. The glass didn’t shatter, but a jagged crack snaked from top to bottom, glinting in the sunlight. For a moment, there was only silence—then the front door burst open.
Cory’s mother stormed out, her face flushed with anger. “You two boys get inside right now! You are in big trouble!” Her voice was thunder, and we scrambled inside, tripping over each other in our haste. She followed, swift and determined, and before we knew it, she’d delivered a sharp spank to each of us. The sting was immediate, but it was the shame that burned more. “Go and sit in the lounge,” she commanded, her eyes narrowing.
We slunk into the lounge, sinking into the scratchy sofa, our legs swinging nervously. I could hear Cory’s mother in the hallway, dialing the phone with quick, angry jabs. Her voice was muffled, but I caught snatches: “Yes, Julia, it’s about Timothy… Yes, the window… No, they’re fine, but they’re going to be sorrier soon… You’re sure? It’ll hurt very much. Fine, fine. OK, goodbye!” My stomach twisted into knots. I glanced at Cory, who looked as pale as the lace doilies on the armchair.
She returned, her face set in grim determination. “You boys are in big trouble!” she repeated, her voice low and cold. Then she turned to me, her eyes boring into mine. “Timothy, I just got through talking to your Mother and she has agreed that I should whip you too.” My mouth went dry, my heart thudding so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it. I wanted to protest, to explain, but the words stuck in my throat.
Cory’s mother disappeared into the kitchen. The silence between Cory and me was heavy, awkward. I stared at the carpet, tracing the faded patterns with my toe, trying not to look at Cory, who was fidgeting with his hands. From the kitchen came the sound of drawers opening, something metallic rattling. My imagination ran wild—was she getting a wooden spoon? A belt? When she reappeared, she was carrying a kitchen chair and a thin, wicked-looking switch. Cory’s face drained of all color, and I felt my own cheeks flush with fear.
She set the chair in the center of the room, the legs scraping against the floor. “All right, young man,” she said to Cory, her voice steely, “you know what to do.” Cory’s shoulders slumped. He stepped forward, climbed onto the chair, and knelt, sticking his bottom out in a practiced, resigned way. She pointed the switch at me. “See that? That’s what I need you to do after I’ve seen to Cory’s behind. Watch and learn!” Her words hung in the air, heavy and final.
She stepped closer, her shadow falling over Cory. Without hesitation, she brought the switch down with a sharp snap. Cory yelped, a sound that was half surprise, half pain. A red line appeared instantly across his skin. She didn’t pause—again and again, the switch landed, each time drawing another cry from Cory. I watched, frozen, my hands clenched into fists. My mind raced: Would it hurt that much? Would I cry? I felt a hot prickle behind my eyes and tried to blink it away, but the fear was overwhelming. I almost peed on the floor, my body trembling with dread.
When it was my turn, I felt like I was moving through water.
I was in a dream-like state as Cory’s Mother took my hand gently but firmly and led me to the execution chair. “Kneel up! That’s right. Bottom out, Timothy…further…all right. Keep those hands in front of you, if you know what’s good for you.”
If that part had been like a dream, what followed was my worst nightmare. Even at the first lick, I couldn’t believe how much that switch stung my behind. And the cuts that followed turned my backside into a bonfire. At one point I did try to reach around but Cory’s Mother was presumably used to this – she grabbed my hand and put it halfway up my back as she completed the correction. All the time, I was somehow simultaneously crying and yelling my head off.
Finally, it was all over. Go and play upstairs quietly and if I hear a peep out of either of you, we can do this all again, you know!”
I eventually went home. Mother obviously knew I had been punished and the moment she got in. I had almost expected a second spanking but she said nothing and instead sent me to bed with no supper.
I only found out much later in life that she had been pretty appalled . She had expected – and approved of – a sound spanking but the whipping Cory and I got was pretty over the top for a simple accident. We didn’t sit comfortably for about a week.
Mother never invited Cory’s mother to discipline me again, although that was far from the last time we got into trouble together.
