A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 13, 2002 || 12:18 pm


Many Southern children of my generation were raised in homes where spankings were meted out as discipline and correction. Most of these children –forlornly referred to as ‘Generation X’– have no problem that they were subjected to the old “…rod…child…” idiom. Hell, most of us wear it like a badge of honor; everybody who was spanked has at least two really-really-really good “beatin’” stories polished up and on reserve to whip out at parties and family potlucks and such.

My father swears to this very day that he didn’t spank us girls. He did, actually, but he may not recall it because it was honestly infrequent.

You know those, “JUST WAIT’LL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!!” mothers? Well, my momma wasn’t one of those mothers. She was quite the opposite. She believed in getting to the heart (and/or hiney) of the matter rightfuckingthen. Thusly, Henry hardly ever had to put his arm to work.

Sometimes we wished he got a little more swingtime. With him, it was clip-clip-clip, “three licks and yer OUT”. Dad was the power hitter who went in for speed. Mom went in for distance; she knew she couldn’t spank as hard, so she spanked longer. You were, like, checking your watch and shit: “Mother, we’ve been here fifteen minutes now….it’s time for me to watch the Wonder Twins….can we wrap this up?” You wondered why her long, thin arm didn’t simply snap the fuck off.

By the time I was six, my folks had stopped spanking me (Biff, my ex-husband, fervently believes that’s what’s wrong with me to this very day). This was due to the fact that I had a high pain threshold and a short memory (or plain old disregard) for the boundaries of trouble (partly because of that high threshold?). The demise of rabblerousing-sans-encumbered-conscience came with the advent of the personal, Beth-directed lecture on Parental Disapproval And Disappointment. That stayed with me far longer than did any spanking. I was an intellectual child, and I was sunk with the ‘talkin’-to’.

Before such a time arrived, however, there were those moments that hang around in my memory, definitive times my mind has captured. Two of them happened at the bottom of the fifth (year, that is).

In fine Southern fashion, one day I was ordered to go pick a switch so that my mother could ‘tear my fanny UP’. She and my memaw and aunts were all busy in memaw’s tiny kitchen, canning up bushels and bushels of peaches: pickling, jamming, jellying and preserving. It was haahhhhht (my grandfolks deemed air conditioning unnecessary and expensive) and crowded; any disruption set the neat little process off-kilter, pushed the quiet female machine out of whack.

I knew this, but I didn’t care, because I was an impatient, impudent little child. I kept hovering around the edges, bugging my mother for what I wanted (don’t even remember WHAT now…that’s how insignificant it was) until she made THE Announcement:

Jacqueline Elizabeth!! I….have had….ENOUGH.”

….and then it’s on. It was as if the Almighty himself had rent the heavens and was about to rain it all down, baby. Even if her tone of voice didn’t convince you, the use of The Full Christian Name most certainly did. It said, “This is a proclamation of the highest order! It must be heeded, ir terrible, awful, simply tumultous things will happen!” She had rage-induced lockjaw, after all.

She levelled her gaze at me. “Miss Priss (a name I was called often in my errant youth), as much as I would like to bust you in your smart mouth, I will not.” Whew. Maybe I’ll survive the outer limits of wrath, after all.

Here she bent at the waist and put her face mere inches from mine. Oh God! She’s trying to hide what she’s saying from all witnesses present! I’m fucked! “What I will do is tell you to go out there in the yard and pick a switch off of a tree or bush and bring it back to me so that I may give you the spanking that you have earned.” Sheeyut. Tooooo easy, speasy!

She put her hands out, palms facing one another, firmly holding three feet of air, “This long. Understand?” I did. I nodded, almost giddily. I get a project. Maaaaan, alive!

“Make it quick, girl.” I would, as it is bad to let any Southern Momma stew in her own wrath, much less a German-Italian-Irish one.

My cousins –who doubled as playmates and persecutors– had been standing below the kitchen windows and had heard every word. Of course they mocked and jeered, it was prerequisite. At any time it could be them, so when it wasn’t, the relief was orgasmic.

I trudged resolutely into the foliage of the side yard, heart to the task, before brilliance struck. While I was looking about, five-year-old logic had crept into the equation.

“Hmmmmmm,” I thought, “Big switch, BIG hurt. Little switch…little hurt.” Delighted with my own cleverness, I chose the greeenest, whippiest thing I could ferret out and broke it off gleefully. When I reached the back corner of the house I was careful to put on my somber, penitent face. Touch of fear. You know.

The roomful of women looked up, sixteen eyes observing me in swing top and bloomers and askance hairbow nestled in stubbornly thick blonde tresses. Taking note of the switch was paramount in this rite of passage; it was elemental to the story that would be passed on, both later that day and to future generations. My Aunt Shirley started when she saw the whiplike thing clutched in my hand and she opened her mouth to speak, but my Aunt Trish silenced her with a hand on her arm.

“HA!” I mused, “Aunt Trisha is on my side.” I make the trip to see my aginig Aunt Shirley frequently these days. I send Trish a Christmas card WHEN I hazard to remember….the Dirty Bitchtm.

From then on I selected the biggest, deadest thing I could find that would even remotely pass for a switch. Things that were very nearly logs. Things that crumpled and shattered upon touching my behind. I was precipitous, but I was no dummy.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Another time found me and my mother in Woolworth’s. I was acting like a little saddle-shoed, pigtailed asshole and after a couple Attempts At Correction, my mother made THE ANNOUNCEMENT. Christian name and all. She drag-walked me to the checkout stand, stopping en route to select a thick black leather belt –no buckle, just the strap– off a round display rack that we passed.

When we arrived at the checkout, momma thrust the belt at the cashier: “Here. Ring this first, please.” Forever well-mannered, she. One’s comportment is paramount.

She kept my hand firmly in hers the whole time. The cashier rang the belt and placed it back into my mother’s waiting palm. As she punched the keys on the manual register, tallying everything else, my mother tore the tags off the belt and led me to the end of the checkout stand, where she proceeded to light my ass up.

Hey, sometimes the only vein of logic a kid comprehends is housed in the nerve that runs from the ass to the brain.

My only regrets about the incident?

1) That she was so matter-of-fact and resolute. She should have prefaced that particular spanking with the declaration, “He who hesitates is LOST!!” and

2)”Ride Of The Valkyries” was not playing in the background.

Aw, hell….I may just start incorporating these elements into the story. My mother is the stuff of legend, anyway.

3 worked it out »

  1. delmer 11.14.2002

    “It shouldn’t hurt to beat a child”

    -that’s why my kids will never have braces….well, maybe leg braces.

  2. dave 11.14.2002

    crap. your mom was jules from Pulp Fiction?

    “…and i will strike down upon thee with great vengence and fuuuurious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. and you will know i am the lord when i lay my vengeance upon you…”

  3. tel 11.14.2002

    beat on the brat…beat on the brat…beat on the brat with a baseball bat…OH YEAH! OH YEAH!


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