Back When I Was A Good Little Girl

I was a very compliant and respectful child. Still, I received enough spankings to cause me to admit that I had my moments of rebellion. My teachers all were glad to have me as a student. I was smart, cooperative, didn't talk much in class, and never disregarded instructions. I was pretty much a model student until I got into high school. But that's another story for another time.

At home I was obedient most of the time, but I guess you could say that I was lazy, and I had no other desire than to play. That's not unusual for a child, but it was enough to get me into a bit of hot water from time to time.

Speaking of hot water, one of the most hated duties that I had was washing the dishes. My mother would get everything ready for me which meant that she filled the dishpan with the hottest water that came from the faucet. And the rinse water she prepared was just as hot. All I wanted to do when I had finished a meal was to run outdoors to find my friends, or sneak off to my room to play with my dolls. But, the dishes had to be done, and it was my job to do them. To my mother's dismay, I immediately had to go to the bathroom. Every time. And if she insisted that I start the job anyway, and my dad wasn't around, I would whine and cry and yell and insist that I couldn't wait. So, off I would run to sit in the bathroom for a long, long, long time. I needed to wait long enough for the dish water to become cool enough for me to put my hands in it. 

Soon my mom would begin to come to the door to remind me that the water was getting cold. Yes, I was counting on that, but I didn't say so. Her calls became more and more frustrated, "Shirley Ann! Your water's getting cold!" It wasn't a good sign when she used my middle name.

Finally I would emerge, positive that the water would now be tolerable. But when would I ever learn? Mom had either just changed the water, or as soon as she saw me enter the kitchen she would hustle over, dump the nice cool water, and run more hot water. Again I would begin to whine and cry, and that's when I had gone too far. Out came the yardstick, and my poor legs ended up red and sore. She never aimed at my bottom. And I never learned my lesson.

Finishing my meals is what caused me the most trouble. I was a very picky eater. I didn't, and still don't like vegetables. There were some meats I didn't like, liver, sometimes she cooked things like beef tongue, we had a lot of ham, which I still don't care for, and we had a lot of fresh fish. The rule was if it's on the table you have to eat some of it. I knew that rule. But, I just couldn't get that asparagus or carrots into my mouth. I tried, but I would gag every time. The worst part was that the longer I waited to eat it, the colder it got, and eating cold asparagus or cold cooked carrots is the worst thing in the world. So, I sat and sat and sat. And my mother would say over and over, "Shirley, clean up your plate." I couldn't. I tried hiding the vegetables under my plate. I tried throwing up on my plate. Nothing worked. Even Peewee the parakeet would nag at me, "Shirley, clean up your plate."

Eventually here she would come with the yardstick. It was a very thick yardstick with half inch size holes lining the center of its length. Those holes whistled when the stick was swung quickly. I was sitting on a wooden, hard backed chair, and every time my mother would swing that yardstick the holes would make a shrill whistle, and I would shift to the other side of the chair. Strike one. Immediately she swing the yardstick on the other side of the chair. The whistles would blow, and I would quickly shift my bottom over. Strike two. Mom broke many yardsticks this way by hitting the chair rather than me, and I would end up not getting the spanking. Strike three was when there was no more yardstick to wield, and she would send me to my room for the whole day. I never cared. Even if I couldn't play with my dolls, I didn't get a spanking, the yardstick was broken, and I ended up not having to finish that totally gross, cold asparagus.

The yardsticks weren't all the thick ones with holes. Many were thinner which meant they stung more. But all were usually free at the hardware store or even other stores had them. This makes me wonder why she only kept one yardstick on hand. She was a seamstress, so she used them for better purposes than to torture me, and always used them. If she had more than one, the second one never came out when I needed special attention. I wonder, well, do you suppose that she loved me enough to punish me, but not enough to hurt me? 

There were times, just a very few, when I did something bad enough that mom would spank me then tell dad when he got home, and then I would get another spanking. Dad took his sweet time in the process, giving me plenty of time to sweat. Mom spanked me out of frustration, but Daddy planned and gave it a lot of thought. He would then invite me into the bathroom, talk to me about what I had done, and tell me how disappointed he was. Then, with his huge, strong hand he would spank my bare bottom as I leaned over his knee. Those were the worst spankings I ever got. I was again sent to my room for the night, no supper, no dolls, into bed. I usually cried myself to sleep over those spankings. They hurt the worst mostly because of my broken heart over Dad's words to me.

I did a very unwise thing once. I tried not crying when he spanked me. No, I never tried that again. That was the time I cried because my butt hurt.

I guess I should say that I really was not as well-behaved as I would like to make you think, and I deserved every spanking that I ever got, and then some. I did tell you that my mom spanked me out of frustration. Once, when I must have been out of my mind, and I knew I was going to get a spanking for not coming home from the neighbors when she called me, I ran from her. I'm glad that happened in the 1950's, because today she would be charged with child cruelty for taking one step and swinging her foot and literally kicking my butt all the way home.

As a 70 year old woman, I can positively tell you that I never have resented those spankings. Some left red marks, but none hurt me. I learned that my parents loved me enough to care about my behavior and safety. I learned that bad choices gave bad results, one way or another. I learned to respect authority, and especially to respect the wishes and love of my parents. I learned that everything is not going to be always "my way", and that selfishness and self-centeredness were not appreciated in this world. And, I learned to hate yardsticks.