Getting A Whipping
I wrote about getting whipped after I intentionally shot a neighbor kid with my BB gun. I knew better and deserved it. As a kid growing up in the 1950’s in rural southwest Texas, the practice of parental spanking was mainstream. I think Dr. Spock (the author, not the TV character) was talked about but old habits are hard to break.
My childhood was fairly uneventful. I was brought up in a loving household and small, mostly-German farming community (and related to about half the people in some fashion or another). I was actually a pretty good child and did not suffer any brutality, but I was spanked more than once. With a single exception, I never did anything really malicious. I was just very curious and sometimes careless… and a kid.
My parents were relatively permissive so, when I was disciplined, it was for stepping across some kind of line… like literally walking across the striped white line on Highway 90 when I was five years old. Or shooting Tommy Fitzpatrick in the back with my BB gun when I was in the third grade.
Spankings came in several flavors.
I base this on experience. And observation. I was not alone.
There was the quick swat on the butt from Mom’s hand as she said NO for some very good reason… and probably for the fifth time. Hard enough to get your attention but not much more. Sometimes, though, she’d throw you across her knee and lay down the law, all in one smooth motion.

Or she might grab a fly swatter that was hanging on a nail by the screen door. In the summertime, when you wore cutoffs, the danger was if you squirmed and caused her swing to go a little low… the wire mesh really stung the uncovered top back of your thighs.
If it was an old fly swatter, as most were, it would be a bit frayed in a spot or two and the wire edges would be exposed. Ouch!
If the infraction happened outside and there was a sapling tree or tall weed nearby, there was a chance either parent might break off a “switch” and use it on you, stripping the leaves off first to reduce wind drag as it whipped your behind. They stung! The ultimate shame was when you were told to go find a switch yourself and bring it back. For kids, this induces the same mental anguish as having to dig your own grave Mafia-style.

Dads were most likely to use a belt.
Theirs.
A big, wide, heavy leather one.
Doubled over.
If it was serious and during the day, Mom might quietly say “Wait until your Father comes home” instead of dealing with the punishment herself. That always put a damper on the day, and the evening was usually no better.
If the “last straw” happened in front of Dad, though, you might hardly see the belt coming off. You wouldn’t think a man could remove his belt that fast… it was like the belt loops were greased or something. Usually 2–3 hard swats that would be remembered for more than a day.
I should point out that any punishment I received would always come after fair warning. Usually multiple warnings. You know how it goes with kids. I actually have no emotional problems with any of the above.
The real reason I don’t like corporal punishment…
When I was in the middle of third grade, my parents decided farming was not going to be their future and Dad found a good “regular job”. So, my family moved down the highway to the bigger town of Hondo.
During recess one of my first days at the new school, two other boys and I went to the far corner of the playground where there was a dirt baseball field that had a very tall backstop made of telephone poles and chain link fencing. I’d never seen one like it. Just messing around, we were trying to see if we could throw a rock over the top of it. There were no other kids around who might get hurt and just a bare field on the other side of the backstop.

Shortly after returning to the classroom, we three boys were summoned to the Principal’s Office. He cited the rule against throwing rocks on the playground. I tried to explain that I was new and didn’t know it was a rule but he wouldn’t listen. There were no such rules at the little school I had just come from. I knew not to throw rocks at people, of course.
We each received a swat with a special wooden paddle that was hanging on the office wall. It wasn’t the worst I’d ever had, nor the easiest.
I didn’t realize until decades later that event led to a chip on my shoulder regarding authority. I’ve mostly managed to control it but have an issue to this day.
I love order and know rules are the glue of society, but inherently doubt people and organizations that trade in position and power as they are typically the first to ignore the facts for any number of reasons.
I hate unfairness and am troubled by inconsistencies. And, if you’re a curious person and go looking, it’s too easy to find them.
For me, trust was fractured too early by something that could have easily been forgotten… but was not because I was already recognizing patterns.
I can only imagine the lifetime issues of those who had truly bad childhood experiences. Sadly, there is often a behavior relayed to the next generation; a cycle set in motion that is hard to halt.
