A good whoopin’.
It’s happened to many of us. To the fortunate others, it has not. Corporal punishment. Punishment intended to cause pain. In polite, more acceptable terms, a spanking or a paddling. Less acceptable, but perhaps more accurate: slapped with an angry hand, whipped with a belt, struck with an object like a stick, ruler, or spatula. A caning, a thrashing, flagellation, a strapping, a lacing, or at the more extreme end: a beating. A good whoopin’.
“Pull down your pants.”
The anticipation. Then the delivery. Whoosh, crack, pain. Just like that. Then again. And again.
When I was a boy, my mother delivered the corporal punishment. I was the oldest by about five years, so she had plenty of opportunity to get some of the meanness out of her system, as I never saw my brother or sisters experience what I had, though they did get the occasional spanking.
Was I just that much more incorrigible, a child who deserved to be smacked? I asked myself that question many times.
I was mischievous, daring, an inveterate explorer, often pushing the boundaries. I don’t recall a lot of lickings before my next sibling in line was born. As best I can remember, it all started not long after my mother miss-carried and lost a brother I never knew when I was about three years old. She and my father began arguing more, and yet, three more children were born.
I never saw my mother hit my father, nor my father hit my mother. And my father never hit me. But good ole’ Mom sure hit me. Hard and often. Sometimes it was a random strike at whatever part of me was most convenient. A smack on the head, a punch in the shoulder, a slap in the face, a yank on my hair. Other times it was an orchestrated event where I was orally chastised, often at great length, then the pants came down and I would take a set number of lashes in the biblical fashion on my bare ass. It didn’t seem to depend on the transgression, as most I remember as being minor. It depended on my mother’s mental state of the moment. She had me pull down my pants, set me over her knee, and hit me with whatever was close at hand. A yardstick, a ruler, a hairbrush, a stick, or a belt.
One time when she was hitting me with a yardstick, as I silently counted the blows, she broke the yardstick over my ass. She stopped. Then she laughed. I counted this as good luck as she was only just getting started, and I laughed, as well. I’d broken the yardstick on my skinny little butt! I’m sure I didn’t consider how insane it was to laugh because I’d stopped being whipped. I had yet to develop the keen sense of irony that I have to this day.
Mother had a variety of ways of meting out her punishments. The most diabolical was to send me out to a willow thicket in the field and select a willow reed to be thrashed with.
“Go out and find yourself a strong willow branch and bring it back to me,” she’d say. As you may know, willow branches are very flexible – they are like whips. For ages, willow was used as a horse whip. What a dilemma: I was to select the branch to be used in my punishment.
One day, when I was about 10, I didn’t return. I just kept walking. Past the willow grove, through the fields to my favorite spring-fed pond in the far reaches of the farm’s fields. I sat in the shade of an old maple, or maybe it was a box elder, and thought long and hard about my alternatives. Should I keep walking to the nearest road and not look back? Should I just jump in the water and drown myself? I didn’t know.
I sat for a very long time, then stripped off my clothes and jumped into the pond as I’d done many times before. The cool water brought me around, cleared my head, and brought me back to the present. I surfaced, and then I dove down again. As the bottom grass tickled my face, I decided what to do. I was going to walk back without the god-damned willow reed and announce that I was never going to the willow grove again. If I was beaten, I’d get up in the middle of the night, take all the money I could find in the house, which wouldn’t be much, walk into town, and get on a bus to somewhere. Anywhere. And I’d never return. I’d die first.
I went back to shore, slowly dressed, and then, over the hill, I saw my Grandpa walking to the pond. He knew where to find me. They’d been looking for me. He took me in his arms, gave me a long hug, and I explained what had happened. He shook his head and we walked back to my parents’ house without words. He had me wait outside while he went in and talked with my mother. When he came back out, he said, “You can go in now, there’ll be no lashing today.” I walked through in through the kitchen, past my mother, who turned her back to me as I passed by, and went to my room. Later, we all sat around the table to eat dinner in mostly silence. I had little appetite. I just wanted this dinner to be over. I wanted this life to be over.
Much later, I talked to my grandparents about my mother’s behavior. She was their only child. They said they’d never touched her in anger or with malice when she was a child, and they did not understand how she came to be like this. They thought it may have been due to a horse riding accident she’d had when she was seven years old. Like me, she’d ridden and driven horses as a very young child. Like me, she was a daredevil rider, and one day she was racing a car on the dirt road alongside the field when her horse stumbled at a full gallop, throwing her. She hit her head on a rock and lost consciousness. The car driver took her to the hospital in the nearest town of Beloit, Wisconsin. She went into a coma and didn’t come out for three weeks.
When she finally opened her eyes, she couldn’t talk, walk or move her arms. She wasn’t paralyzed. Her brain had simply turned those functions off. It took several months before she regained mobility and speech. She had to learn to talk and move again from the beginning.
That was my grandparents’ theory, and it’s as good as any. I just had to learn to protect myself from my mother when her brain was on fire.
Now, it’s often said that children who have experienced constant physical abuse often take on those same characteristics as they grow older and into adulthood. It was exactly the opposite for me. As a child, an adolescent, a teen and an adult, physical violence revolted me. I looked on the school bullies with scorn and disgust. I walked away from many fights, though I defended myself as necessary and defended others when needed. I detested violent and aggressive school games like football, and I refused to play them. My sports were track and field, skiing, basketball, skating, and riding horses. To this day, I detest those who resort to physical violence.
I forgave my mother. My grandmother often told me to “always forgive, but never forget.” I follow her words to this day.
I’m most thankful for my grandparents and their farm across the field from my parents’ house. I spent as much time as I could with them. I loved the farming life, milking cows and goats, herding sheep on my horse with my grandfather’s German Shepherd, Prince, and being intensely involved in the life and death of every creature through all the seasons. I enjoyed hard work and helping my grandfather with everything from fencing to haying to animal husbandry. I nursed the orphan lambs through the first weeks of their lives. The farm gave me strength and purpose.
Here’s the final story I’ll tell on this subject.
One day, my mother came across the field from our house to my grandparents’ farm looking for me. She was madder than a wet hen about something only known to her, and she started yelling at me about being irresponsible, not returning home on time, being just like my father, and whatever else surfaced. I knew it was time to start putting distance between her and me, but when she saw me take off she grabbed the baseball bat I’d been playing with and came after me. I headed for the nearest tree I could quickly climb at about the same time my grandfather came running from the barn. He caught up with her, took the bat from her hands and told her to go home. I spent the next days at my grandparents’ house, sleeping in my favorite place on earth, the large screen porch overlooking the big valley below. It was pure peace. I slept there many summer nights and late into the fall.
My mother, her soul at rest at last, used to say my grandparents “spoiled” me.
They didn’t spoil me. They saved me. I know exactly how lucky I am to have had them nearby.
Summers, I lived mostly with my grandparents. My grandmother was an excellent cook, so I ate well. She taught me about cooking and baking. After supper, I played from the Lutheran hymnal or 1950s sheet music on Grandma’s old piano, listened to classical music on WCCO radio on the porch at bedtime, and drifted off into deep sleep. I woke each morning to birds chatting in the misty sunrise that settled over the St. Croix River Valley from the porch of their 19th century farm house, had a hearty breakfast, and went out to help Grandpa with the chores. I milked cows – and goats – collected the eggs for market, tended the huge garden, pruned trees in the apple orchards, rode my horse out into the fields, drove the tractor, and built forts.
As it happened, in the coming years I did run away from home a few times. My mother and father got divorced. My mother kicked me out of the house at 17. Later in life, we reconciled to the extent we could.
All’s forgiven, nothing is forgotten.
14 thoughts on “A good whoopin’”
So sorry Steve, but you certainly overcame those hurts to become a fulfilled man. I know well the ire of a mother towards an unwanted child.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Having a mother like that taught me valuable lessons on dealing with adversity. It also taught me to not hold a grudge because that will only erode your soul. Telling the story, seeing it in writing, knowing that I got through it, and seeing that I learned from it reassures me.
So many parts of your story are very familiar. As they say….what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. I have often thought, in the end, I was the lucky one. It made me very independent When you can’t do anything right, it gives you the freedom to be who ever you are.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It was part of many lives of people I knew, unfortunately. We lived it, survived it, and learned from it. Same for me: made me independent as hell and put a lifelong rebel streak in my soul, for which I’m grateful.
Thanks for the story Steve. It is not like a midwest guy to open up about one’s childhood. Well written, factual, and not flowery like most writing of today.
By the way I was in Port Townsend the other day and saw a car just like your’s. First I thought it may have been you but than I thought you would not take your car out on a rainy day…….Curt
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Curt. A chapter in life that I needed to examine as part of my memoirs. It wasn’t all roses.
So much inexplicable. Jim’s Dad was a lot like you only his Dad was a Freudian psychiatrist Winthrop a brain on fire. So glad we are finally in a world where people can talk openly about family violence. Jim’s mom fought long and loudly to tell family secrets to friends and neighbors and anyone who would listen. Everyone was uncomfortable because every family had skeletons in their closet that ruffled the notion of happy ever after if they were shared. Jim’s dad who forgave but never forgot found it painful and awkward. (He never trusted his own emotions for fear of becoming his father.) But Lois said if successful people like them, a doctor and political activist, living the good life wouldn’t talk about the violence in their own life nobody would. And how would doctors learn to talk about it and help their patients? Quite a saga. Jim’s dad and mom were two of the most remarkable people I’ve known, for striving to break yet he pattern and the stigma. Because you and Jim share your stories I believe others will find courage and grace too.
Live Well, Torrie
Sent from my iPhone
LikeLiked by 1 person
We are formed by our experiences, but we should not be a slave to them. I’ve told this story, in depth, in detail that would fill a book, to myself for years, pondering how it affected who I am. I got flash memories to remind me that it was still there, in my brain. I’d see a parent smack their child in the grocery store or on the street, and it jolted me back. I could feel their pain. I wrote this months ago and set it aside. I went back in, took out some disturbing thoughts I’d attached to the original draft, and then this weekend, late at night, I hit publish. I felt a cool wave wash over me as I freed the electrons locked in my mind and on a computer file into the public domain. There, I’ve done it, I thought. Now I’m ready to continue on the journey that is my memoir. Turning 70 today reminds me that the clock is ticking. Hope all’s well! It would be great to see you two if you’re ever up here. We’ll be in San Francisco next year for Shannon’s wedding! Oops, did I say too much….
Exciting! Hope you give yourself a day or to to enjoy the city. We are a half hour south between SFO and Stanford, and love to share our wonderful Bay area with friends. Is Shannon living in CA now?
LikeLiked by 1 person
I plan to. We love The City, and I thoroughly enjoyed my work assignment those few years ago. Restaurants, symphony, galleries, theaters, bars….all within an easy walk. (I got my start in federal service working for the Army recruiting battalion at Fort Baker back in ’82.) Shannon and Jake moved from LA to NYC last year for new jobs and exciting new opportunities in the music world. They’ve chosen to get hitched in the Bay area because that’s Jake’s home, so they have all kinds of relatives and friends within easy travel. Jake’s family is connected with a winery in Sonoma, so I think that’s where the wedding will be. Soon as I know the plans, we’ll be in touch to get together when we’re in town!
Thank you for posting this. I remember that ritual, although I didn’t experience it to the extent you did. Like you, it was my grandparents who provided stability for me, except they lived north of Bismarck, a good ten hours’ drive away from Minneapolis, where I also listened to WCCO. My sister and I spent summers with them, big city kids in a town not quite a thousand. Thank God for grandparents and open fields and small towns.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’ve been thinking on this for some time. I jotted notes, then let them sit. But as I’m writing my memoirs, it became clear that this formative experience was essential to discuss because it was so pervasive. Spare the rod, spoil the child was the rule of the day, both at home and in school. But this way of thinking should not ever be normalized. Children should never be beaten. I can’t help but look around at the ills in society and wonder what part corporal punishment played the current miasma of violence and dysfunction. Thanks for reading – and thanks for your feedback!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, Mom did not expel all of her anger on you! I was on the painful side of many tools of anger over the years. She seemed to enjoy inflicting pain. Even the memories are painful.
I suspected as much, but by the time you were in that age bracket, I was spending as much time as possible away from the house, and as you may remember, she kicked me out the day I turned 18. I didn’t know the details in the case of you three, so I concentrated on what happened to me – didn’t want to get out of my lane. I don’t think it was so much anger as it was mental illness combined with a mean streak a mile wide. Her pain infliction was not only physical, but psychological. I would note that I soft-pedaled the experience. There was much more, often daily. But I said what I had to say, and I wish I’d said it sooner.