In the gentle countryside of Missouri, when I was a child, the world seemed both grand and familiar. Our days were marked by the ringing of the church bell and the gentle creak of the old screen door. Discipline was a regular part of our lives, as ordinary as the song of the cicadas in summer or the delightful aroma of freshly baked biscuits in the morning.
Most often, it was nothing very formal. I would receive a swift smack on the seat of my trousers for speaking out of turn to an adult, or simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes, as I dashed through the kitchen in pursuit of my sister, Mother’s hand would find me as I hurried past. The sting would be sharp and sudden, even through my sturdy denim, making me gasp and stumble. For a moment, the kitchen would fall silent, the only sound my own surprised breath and the gentle sizzle of something cooking on the stove. The sting would soon fade, but the embarrassment of being caught—of everyone’s eyes upon me, my cheeks warm with shame—would linger a little longer. I would rub the spot, trying to appear brave, but inside I felt rather small and exposed, wishing I could vanish beneath the floorboards.
Occasionally, matters became a little more official. Every few weeks, my mother—her name was Barbara—would call me into the sitting room, where sunlight streamed through the lace curtains and dust motes danced in the air. The room always carried a faint scent of lemon polish and well-loved furniture. She would call my name in a tone that brooked no nonsense, and my heart would sink. She would take me over her knee, her grip firm but never cruel, and administer a proper spanking with a wooden spoon. The first crack of the spoon was always the most dreadful—sharp, echoing, and final. Each smack stung fiercely, travelling up my spine, my legs kicking helplessly, my face burning with shame. I would clench my fists, trying not to cry, but the pain would build until my eyes blurred and my breath came in little gasps. The wooden spoon left my bottom stinging and red, the warmth spreading outwards, and when it was over, I would be left sniffling, my pride as sore as my skin. I would shuffle off to my room, the backs of my thighs tingling, and lie on my bed, face buried in the pillow, while the gentle sounds of the house continued as if nothing had happened.
Other grown-ups also took part in discipline. My father, James, was a quiet man, but when he removed his belt, the whole house seemed to fall silent. The air would grow heavy, and even the dog would slip away. He would call us in, his voice low and steady, and the sound of the leather sliding through his belt loops was enough to make my heart beat faster. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself—standing there, hands trembling, waiting for the first stroke. He would give us a whipping—always on the bottom—but this was rare, reserved for the most serious mischief. The belt would snap against my trousers, a sharp, biting pain that made me jump and gasp, the sound echoing through the room. Each stroke left a hot, throbbing mark, and by the end, my bottom would be aflame, my eyes stinging with tears I tried to hide. Afterwards, I would retreat to my room, the marks burning with every movement, the shame and regret settling heavily in my chest. The house would remain quiet for a while, everyone moving carefully, as if not wishing to disturb the peace.
I shall never forget the time I misbehaved at Aunt Linda’s house. She had a neat little garden with peach trees at the back, their leaves rustling in the breeze, the air sweet with the scent of ripe fruit. When I spoke out of turn, she did not hesitate—she led me outside, the grass cool and damp beneath my bare feet, the sun warm on my neck. She made me cut a peach switch myself, the branch still green and flexible, the bark smooth and sticky in my hands. My heart thudded as I handed it to her, knowing what was to come. She bent me over, her grip unyielding, and the first stroke of the switch whistled through the air before it landed on my bare skin. The sting was immediate and sharp, a line of fire that made me cry out. She switched my bottom until the branch broke, each stroke leaving a thin, red mark that burned and throbbed. By the end, I was weeping, my cheeks wet with tears, my nose running, and my bottom covered in angry, raised lines that stung whenever my clothes touched them. The walk back inside was a blur, my legs shaky, the world muffled by my own sobs. For days afterwards, every time I sat down, the welts would remind me of Aunt Linda’s firm discipline.
Even at school, corporal punishment was simply part of life. I was paddled three times—once in the fourth form, twice as a freshman. The headmaster’s office always smelled faintly of chalk and floor polish, the air heavy with the hush of authority. The paddle hung on the wall as a warning, its surface smooth and worn from years of use. When my turn came, I would be called forward, my heart pounding so loudly I could scarcely hear the headmaster’s words. The paddle would come down with a flat, echoing smack, the pain spreading in a hot wave that made me grit my teeth and blink back tears. My hands would grip the edge of the desk, knuckles white, as I tried not to cry in front of everyone. When Mother found out, she gave me another spanking at home, her disappointment stinging more than her hand. She would sit me down, her face tight with worry and displeasure, and spank me until my bottom was burning, the pain mingling with the ache of having let her down. And when Father returned home, he would finish the lesson with his belt, each stroke a lesson I felt deep within. That was a day I shall never forget—my lesson was well and truly learned, and I spent the evening lying on my stomach, the welts throbbing with every heartbeat, the sheets cool against my hot skin. The shame and regret lingered long after the pain faded, a memory etched into every movement.
My grandmother, Patricia, was usually gentler with us younger children. She liked to pat our bottoms or give a playful pinch now and then—unless we had just been disciplined, of course! Her house always smelled of lavender and old books, and she would hum hymns as she worked in the kitchen, her hands gentle and warm. When she did spank us, it was more a warning than a punishment, her touch light but firm, the sting fading almost as soon as it landed. But the look in her eyes—disappointed yet loving—always made me wish to do better.
Yet even Grandmother Patricia had her limits. One summer, my sister Karen and I stayed with her while Mother was recovering from surgery and Father was caring for her. The days were long and slow, filled with the sound of cicadas and the distant whistle of a train, the air heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass.
One afternoon, Karen and I thought it would be great fun to jump on the bed in the guest room, the old springs squeaking beneath us, dust motes dancing in the sunlight. We ended up breaking it, the mattress slumping to the floor with a crash that echoed through the house. Well, Grandmother Patricia was most displeased! Her face turned red, her lips pressed into a thin line. She slipped off her sandal, the leather soft from years of use, and sat down, her back straight and her eyes stern. Both of us received a thorough spanking over her knee, the slap of her sandal sharp and quick, each smack blooming across my skin like fire. The pain was sudden and bright, making me gasp and squirm, my legs kicking helplessly. The room seemed to shrink, the only sounds our cries and the steady rhythm of the sandal. Afterwards, we were put in time out—at our age, it was most humiliating. We stood in the corner, hands on our heads, our sore bottoms on display, the sting lingering long after the spanking was over. But not nearly as embarrassing as knowing Grandmother Patricia had not seen my bare bottom since I was a baby, and now she had just spanked it bright red. The marks did not fade for a couple of days, and every time I sat down, I was reminded of Grandmother’s firm but loving discipline. The rest of the day, I moved carefully, the memory of her sandal a constant, burning presence.
She left us standing in the corner, hands on our heads, our sore bottoms on display. I can still remember the throbbing from that sandal, and the sight of Karen’s little scarlet bottom out of the corner of my eye. The marks on my own did not fade for a couple of days, and every time I sat down, I was reminded of Grandmother’s no-nonsense love. The embarrassment lingered, and for the rest of the visit, we were careful to behave, the lesson well and truly learned.
