by Rusty W. Mitchum
I was talkin’ to a man the other day, and he told me that he could remember every whippin’ he ever got when he was a kid. Well, I told him that he must not have gotten too many whippin’s then. There’s no way I can remember how many whippin’s I got when I was a kid. In fact, there was one year that I’m pretty sure a day didn’t go by that I didn’t get one.
Whippin’s, for you young’uns out there, is what parents used to do to keep their kids in line. There were different kinds of whippin’s, too. There was spankin’, and paddlin’, and switchin’, and the worst kind in my opinion, the belt. That’s right, a belt.
Now, a spankin’ basically was being slapped on the rear end with the hand. We always considered this sissy whippin’s, and were mainly used on little bitty kids and girls. Oh, every once in a while a momma might pop her son on the bottom with her hand if he was actin’ up in the grocery store or something, but if they were at home she’d get somethin’ a little more lethal.
I was talkin’ to a man the other day, and he told me that he could remember every whippin’ he ever got when he was a kid. Well, I told him that he must not have gotten too many whippin’s then. There’s no way I can remember how many whippin’s I got when I was a kid. In fact, there was one year that I’m pretty sure a day didn’t go by that I didn’t get one.
Whippin’s, for you young’uns out there, is what parents used to do to keep their kids in line. There were different kinds of whippin’s, too. There was spankin’, and paddlin’, and switchin’, and the worst kind in my opinion, the belt. That’s right, a belt.
Now, a spankin’ basically was being slapped on the rear end with the hand. We always considered this sissy whippin’s, and were mainly used on little bitty kids and girls. Oh, every once in a while a momma might pop her son on the bottom with her hand if he was actin’ up in the grocery store or something, but if they were at home she’d get somethin’ a little more lethal.
Paddles were mainly used in the schools. Yep, believe it or not we used to get whippin’s in school. A paddle was the last line of defense a teacher had, and they knew how to use them. Heck, I’ve seen a lady teacher no more than a hundred pounds bring tears to a boy twice her size. And Heaven forbid you makin’ a coach mad. Man, those guys would send you to Kingdom Come (that’s Heaven for you heathens out there).
Teachers took pride in their paddles, too. They sort of reflected their personalities. Our coach’s paddle was a baseball bat, shaved down flat on both sides. It was about a half-inch thick. The grip was wrapped with friction tape so it wouldn’t go flyin’ out of the coach’s hands and injure an innocent bystander. Our shop teacher’s paddle was clear Plexiglas and had holes drilled through it. The holes were in there to cut down on wind resistance and to make some really interesting looking whelps on your tail. Most of the lady teacher’s paddles were small lightweight, and puny lookin’. But believe me, they just looked puny, they weren’t. Some teachers had you sign the paddle after you got whacked with it. It was sort of an honor to have you name on a paddle, and every boy wanted to have his name on it, but he sure didn’t want to go through what it took to get it there.
There were some rules to paddlin’, though. They could only give you a set of three licks maximum. Of course there was no rule as to how many sets they could give you. If you were to be an example (teachers were always makin’ examples out of people, mostly boys), you might get your three licks, and then the teacher would take a breath and give you three more. This was really not necessary, because if they were any kind of paddler in the first place, after the first lick you were numb from your waist down anyhow.
What, you may ask, would warrant a paddlin’. Well, back then it wasn’t much. I got one for chewin’ gum. Normally, a kid will be warned about chewin’ gum.
“Rusty. Are you chewing gum?” the teacher would ask.
I’d swallow the gum. “No Ma’am,” I’d reply
But the time I got the paddlin’, it was: “Rusty. Come up here.” I did what I was told.
“Now, bend over.” Again I did what I was told.
“POW!”
“Now, spit that gum out!”
What she didn’t know was that when she hit me, it shot out of my mouth and had flattened itself on the far wall.
Now we come to switches, I hated switches. Switches were not used on your rear end; they were used on the back of your legs. Plus, they were fast. By the time it took for one lick with a paddle, you could be hit a jillion times with a switch. With a paddle you could stand there and take it pretty well, but a switch did somethin’ to the nervous system in your legs. Your legs would involuntarily twitch, jump, and do all sorts of things. This wasn’t good, because if you moved it made the switcher mad and they switched the switchee that much more. Like I said, I hated switches. Just thinkin’ about them makes me want to throw-up.
But as much as I hated switches, I hated belts more. In reality, the belt is probably the least lethal from all of the above, except maybe the hand. The deal with the belt is the psychological aspect of it. It would go something like this. First, you’d do somethin’ bad. Then, your parents would find out about it. Then, you’d see your dad start to unbuckle his belt. Then, you’d start blubberin’ somethin’ about, “It’ll never happen again.” Then, your dad would double the belt, and hold it by the two ends. Then he’d spin you around and “POW!” Now, what most kids don’t know, is that the doublin’ of the belt makes the POW sound as one side strikes the other. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it hurts, but that POW makes it sound a whole lot worst than it is. It was like you got shot or somethin’. If you noticed, no where in this scenario did it mention where the parent asked for an explanation. That’s because back then, explanations were meaningless. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ that maybe the child was innocent. Let me tell you this. Of all the whippin’s I ever received, not a one of them was unfounded.
Nope, I can’t remember all the whippin’s I got, but I can sure remember the last one. It was for getting’ kicked out of Sunday school Class. Why, you ask? It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t get kicked out of Sunday school. The teacher, Mr. Howard McFarland, is one of the finest gentlemen you’ll ever meet (and has the sweetest wife in the world). Unfortunately, he had the task of tryin’ to teach a bunch of teenagers who thought they were smarter than he was. (Yes I know, you’re not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition, but what do I care? Teachers do not have paddles anymore.) Two of the rowdier kids in that Sunday School classe had pushed Mr. McFarland to his limit and were asked to leave. Believe it or not, I was one of them.
When I got home, I received my last whippin’. Do I blame Mr. McFarland? Heck no! Like I said, he was, and still is a wonderful man. (Did I mention he has the sweetest wife in the world?) I was the culprit. Did I deserve the whippin’? What do you think? Do I miss those days? Well, believe it or not, I really do. Except for those switches. Man, I hate switches.
Teachers took pride in their paddles, too. They sort of reflected their personalities. Our coach’s paddle was a baseball bat, shaved down flat on both sides. It was about a half-inch thick. The grip was wrapped with friction tape so it wouldn’t go flyin’ out of the coach’s hands and injure an innocent bystander. Our shop teacher’s paddle was clear Plexiglas and had holes drilled through it. The holes were in there to cut down on wind resistance and to make some really interesting looking whelps on your tail. Most of the lady teacher’s paddles were small lightweight, and puny lookin’. But believe me, they just looked puny, they weren’t. Some teachers had you sign the paddle after you got whacked with it. It was sort of an honor to have you name on a paddle, and every boy wanted to have his name on it, but he sure didn’t want to go through what it took to get it there.
There were some rules to paddlin’, though. They could only give you a set of three licks maximum. Of course there was no rule as to how many sets they could give you. If you were to be an example (teachers were always makin’ examples out of people, mostly boys), you might get your three licks, and then the teacher would take a breath and give you three more. This was really not necessary, because if they were any kind of paddler in the first place, after the first lick you were numb from your waist down anyhow.
What, you may ask, would warrant a paddlin’. Well, back then it wasn’t much. I got one for chewin’ gum. Normally, a kid will be warned about chewin’ gum.
“Rusty. Are you chewing gum?” the teacher would ask.
I’d swallow the gum. “No Ma’am,” I’d reply
But the time I got the paddlin’, it was: “Rusty. Come up here.” I did what I was told.
“Now, bend over.” Again I did what I was told.
“POW!”
“Now, spit that gum out!”
What she didn’t know was that when she hit me, it shot out of my mouth and had flattened itself on the far wall.
Now we come to switches, I hated switches. Switches were not used on your rear end; they were used on the back of your legs. Plus, they were fast. By the time it took for one lick with a paddle, you could be hit a jillion times with a switch. With a paddle you could stand there and take it pretty well, but a switch did somethin’ to the nervous system in your legs. Your legs would involuntarily twitch, jump, and do all sorts of things. This wasn’t good, because if you moved it made the switcher mad and they switched the switchee that much more. Like I said, I hated switches. Just thinkin’ about them makes me want to throw-up.
But as much as I hated switches, I hated belts more. In reality, the belt is probably the least lethal from all of the above, except maybe the hand. The deal with the belt is the psychological aspect of it. It would go something like this. First, you’d do somethin’ bad. Then, your parents would find out about it. Then, you’d see your dad start to unbuckle his belt. Then, you’d start blubberin’ somethin’ about, “It’ll never happen again.” Then, your dad would double the belt, and hold it by the two ends. Then he’d spin you around and “POW!” Now, what most kids don’t know, is that the doublin’ of the belt makes the POW sound as one side strikes the other. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it hurts, but that POW makes it sound a whole lot worst than it is. It was like you got shot or somethin’. If you noticed, no where in this scenario did it mention where the parent asked for an explanation. That’s because back then, explanations were meaningless. I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ that maybe the child was innocent. Let me tell you this. Of all the whippin’s I ever received, not a one of them was unfounded.
Nope, I can’t remember all the whippin’s I got, but I can sure remember the last one. It was for getting’ kicked out of Sunday school Class. Why, you ask? It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t get kicked out of Sunday school. The teacher, Mr. Howard McFarland, is one of the finest gentlemen you’ll ever meet (and has the sweetest wife in the world). Unfortunately, he had the task of tryin’ to teach a bunch of teenagers who thought they were smarter than he was. (Yes I know, you’re not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition, but what do I care? Teachers do not have paddles anymore.) Two of the rowdier kids in that Sunday School classe had pushed Mr. McFarland to his limit and were asked to leave. Believe it or not, I was one of them.
When I got home, I received my last whippin’. Do I blame Mr. McFarland? Heck no! Like I said, he was, and still is a wonderful man. (Did I mention he has the sweetest wife in the world?) I was the culprit. Did I deserve the whippin’? What do you think? Do I miss those days? Well, believe it or not, I really do. Except for those switches. Man, I hate switches.