(gap: 2s) In the summer of 1977, I received the most splendid news: our family—Mother, Father, and I—would be travelling to Colorado. Allow me to introduce us: I was a curious, book-loving child of ten, with untidy brown hair and a mind full of wonder. My mother, Margaret, was a tall, graceful lady in her late thirties, with golden hair always neatly arranged, a gentle smile, and a calm, caring manner. She had a remarkable ability to make friends wherever she went, her English ways softened by a warm laugh. My father, a quiet man with spectacles and a fondness for crossword puzzles, was the steady anchor of our family, though he would not play a large part in this particular adventure. In those days, the world seemed vast and mysterious, and my first thought, quite naturally, was that we must be going to Disneyland. I had no idea how far away Disneyland truly was, and when I learned it was not possible, I must admit, I felt a little disappointed.
The friends we were to visit were Mother’s old university companions—ladies she had not seen since her days at finishing school. Barbara, a lively woman with a cheerful laugh and a fondness for bright floral dresses, was the heart of any gathering. Helen, quieter but quick-witted, had a sharp sense of humour and a twinkle in her eye. I, of course, had no memory of their last meeting, as I was but a baby at the time.
Our adventure began aboard a shining Boeing 747, the very image of modern travel. It was my first time in the air, and I was filled with excitement, gazing out the window as the world slipped away beneath us. The meals were a novelty, the journey long, and the thrill of it all left me both tired and enchanted.
When we arrived, we were warmly welcomed by Mother’s friends—Barbara and Helen—and after a restful sleep, we set out to see the local sights. Barbara’s home was filled with laughter and the scent of cinnamon rolls. It was not Disneyland, but Colorado in the 1970s, with its endless skies and friendly people, was a wonderland all its own.
At that time, with the old ways of discipline fading from English schools and only the rare, idle threat of a spanking at home, I had not given such matters a second thought. But, as you shall see, that was about to change.
Barbara’s daughter, Susan, was soon to turn fourteen. Susan was tall for her age, with a mane of chestnut hair and a quick, mischievous smile. She was confident, athletic, and had a way of making everyone feel welcome. In their household, a birthday paddling was tradition—a custom that seemed as if it had come from the pages of an American storybook. Her birthday began with a hearty breakfast, a flurry of gifts, and telephone calls from loving relatives. No sooner was breakfast finished than Barbara was busy preparing lunch! Susan’s friends arrived—one, a kind girl named Linda, caught my attention. Linda was small, with sparkling blue eyes and a gentle, thoughtful manner. As fate would have it, she would one day become my wife!
That afternoon, Barbara appeared to a chorus of laughter, holding the family paddle. She called Susan over for her birthday swats, a custom that felt both strange and fascinating to my English mind.
It was all in the spirit of fun. Barbara gave Susan fourteen swats, and we counted each one aloud, just as if we were in a storybook. There was a bit of playful suspense before the final swat—the “one to grow on,” as they called it. Barbara took a dramatic step back and gave a grand wind-up.
I thought it was all for show—until Barbara delivered a real, stinging swat that made Susan jump up, holding her bottom. She grimaced, let out a little groan, and rubbed her shorts with great energy.
That swat made me very curious. The family cheered, and Susan was surrounded by hugs and kisses. “Taken like a real trooper!” was the phrase of the day. The celebration continued with a backyard barbecue—pure American delight. I had never eaten so much in my life!
That night, as I lay in bed, I could not help but think about that final swat. I felt a strange excitement and wondered, “What must it feel like?” Clearly, it stung, judging by Susan’s reaction. I decided to ask Mother if she would do the same for my next birthday back in England. The fact that we did not own a paddle never even crossed my mind.
Later in our holiday, we visited a truly American town—not a place for tourists, but the real thing. We walked the streets, bought groceries, and had lunch at a diner where the jukebox played cheerful music. Afterwards, we wandered into a large shop that sold everything from blue jeans to transistor radios.
I was looking at the comic books—so many I had never seen before—when I noticed a paddle on the wall, then another, and another. Each had a box beneath, filled with more paddles in every shape and size. A shiver of anticipation ran through me. I wished for one of my own!
I found Mother—Margaret, with her graceful posture and gentle hands—and asked if I could show her something. I led her to the paddles and asked if we might buy one, so she could paddle me on my birthday. To my delight, Margaret agreed. She picked up a paddle with holes down the centre—longer and slimmer than Barbara’s. Then she lifted the largest one, joking it was more like a cricket bat! She could hardly hold it.
We were giggling together when a friendly saleslady—her name tag read “Carol”—approached, dressed in bell-bottoms and a neat blouse. Carol was in her early forties, with a sturdy build, a cascade of rich chestnut hair, and a face that shone with kindness and good humour. She had a practical, no-nonsense air, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. She asked if we needed help. Margaret explained we were visiting from England and had just seen our first birthday paddling. We were hoping to bring a paddle home as a souvenir.
Carol smiled knowingly and reached for a pale, broad paddle without holes. Tapping it on her palm, she explained the differences in size and shape, and the effect of the holes. She mentioned she had five children, all of whom could confirm the paddle’s effectiveness.
I was fascinated by Carol. She was much like Margaret in build, though her hair was a rich chestnut, while Mother’s was golden. I wondered how often she used the paddle at home, and my mind was full of questions.
Carol then explained the best way to position a naughty child—indicating me!—for the best result. All this talk of paddling was strangely thrilling. It was the first time I had ever thought of spanking in any way other than discipline.
Carol handed Margaret the paddle to feel its weight and showed her the proper grip. As Margaret practised a swing, Carol confided, “It is difficult to keep a straight face when they do the ‘war dance’ after a good paddling.”
Then, quite unexpectedly, Carol asked, “Would you like to try a swat or two?” I was surprised! Margaret agreed, but only “for a bit of fun,” as we had mentioned the birthday tradition.
Carol nodded. “Best to try before you buy—that is my motto!” She beckoned us to follow. Margaret raised her eyebrows and nodded for me to come along. We stopped by a large leather armchair, which was for sale.
Carol patted the arm of the chair, looked at me, and told me to bend over and “make yourself comfortable.” She guided me into position—my face on the seat, my bottom perched over the armrest, feet on the floor.
I felt her hand on my leg as she said, “Spread your legs a little, dear.” I obeyed. She lifted me slightly, patted my bottom twice, and declared, “There—the perfect target!” I supposed she was speaking to Margaret, though I must admit, I enjoyed the attention.
Carol then explained, for Margaret’s benefit, that one should never swat high or near the tailbone. She ran her hand over my raised bottom as she spoke.
“Always aim low and swing with a gentle upward motion to catch the soft underside of the culprit’s bottom. Keep the paddle straight for best results,” she said, demonstrating on me. I think she was enjoying herself—I know I was!
She indicated the ideal spot to strike by touching
