My childhood unfolded in the heart of Texas during the 1960s, a time when the world felt both vast and contained, and the boundaries of our lives were drawn by faith, family, and the unspoken rules of our Southern Baptist upbringing. Our home was a modest one, always filled with the scent of cornbread and the low hum of the radio, and the days seemed to pass in a gentle rhythm—church on Sundays, chores before play, and the ever-present watchful eyes of my parents. I was the second of five children, and together with my brothers and sisters, we formed a noisy, inseparable pack, our laughter and squabbles echoing through the house and out into the sun-baked yard.
(short pause) Life for us revolved around the church, a white clapboard building at the end of our street, where hymns drifted out the open windows and the preacher’s voice thundered about sin and salvation. My parents, steadfast in their beliefs, held fast to a strict Christian morality—no alcohol, no smoking, no gambling, and certainly no dancing that might tempt the devil. Even the music we listened to was carefully chosen, and I remember the thrill of sneaking a forbidden pop song on the radio, the volume turned low so Mother wouldn’t hear. (pause) Our days were shaped by routine and ritual, but beneath the surface, there was a current of love and protection that bound us together, even when discipline was harsh.
(gap: 1s) Spanking was not just accepted—it was expected, a Biblical mandate that every family in our community seemed to follow. But in our house, discipline had a symbol, a totem that loomed over our childhoods: the family paddle. It hung above the family Bible in the living room, a silent sentinel that watched over our games and arguments, our secrets and confessions. I can still see it there, catching the light from the fire, its polished surface gleaming with a quiet menace. (pause) The paddle was more than an object; it was a presence, a wordless warning that shaped our choices and haunted our dreams.
(short pause) The paddle itself was unforgettable—a small but weighty slab of cherrywood, about a foot and a half long and nearly half an inch thick, its surface polished to a deep, reddish-brown sheen that caught the firelight and seemed to glow with its own inner heat. I remember tracing the subtle grain with my fingertips, feeling the cool smoothness give way to tiny ridges and knots, each one a testament to the tree it once was. It was heavier than it looked, with a satisfying heft that made your palms tingle just holding it. Four small, perfectly round holes were drilled in a neat row along the business end, each one sanded smooth, their edges darkened slightly with age. These holes weren’t just for show—they let the air whistle through, making the paddle swifter and the sting sharper. The handle was rounded and fit snugly in an adult’s grip, worn slightly smooth from years of use. If you looked closely, you could see faint nicks and scratches along the edge, and a tiny knot in the wood near the base—a unique birthmark that made it unmistakably ours.
(pause) To see the paddle up close was to feel a shiver of awe and dread. It was both ordinary and ominous, a simple household object transformed by its purpose. When Mother or Father took it down, the room seemed to hush. Even the youngest of us would fall silent, eyes fixed on that polished wood, knowing what it meant. Holding it, you felt its weight in your hand and in your heart—a mix of fear, respect, and inevitability. The paddle was more than a tool; it was a presence, a silent enforcer of the rules, and a constant reminder that actions had consequences.
(gap: 1s) Discipline was administered in the living room where the offender was put over Mother or Father’s knee. The parent would be sitting on a straight-backed chair, and administer what was always referred to as a ‘good old-fashioned spanking’.
The spankings were frequently administered in front of an audience so as to be a lesson all the family and boy, did they ever hurt! Ten cracks of the paddle was not unusual, rising to sometimes 15 or even 20 swats, depending on the nature of the offence.
It may seem incredible to young people today and even be considered abuse – but back in 1960s Texas, the South generally and the Midwest also, it was far from being an out of the ordinary punishment for THE YOUNG.
Whatever the rights and wrongs of it from a modern perspective, we respected our elders, minded our manners and behaved ourselves. Different times!
