For the record, I was not an evil child.  At least I don’t think so.  I say this because I do not remember (save one) any of the crimes although I have vivid memories of the punishments.

Please keep in mind that this was when corporal punishment was still in vogue and, in fact, expected by both perpetrators and corrections officials.  In today’s world I could have sued Mom for everything she had. 

These occasional “corrections” took place when I was a wee lad probably before I was 6 years of age (save one).  I say this because there were certain size restrictions; meaning that I remember trying to hide in small places.

I knew whenever I had crossed that line from precocious to criminal because Mom’s face had a tell.  Mom could get mad and her face would turn red but even then she could still be calmed down by some random act of cuteness or contrition.  If, however, she put her tongue in her cheek so that her face pushed out on one side – the end was near.

Three things you must know.  First, Mom did not paddle.  She did not rap knuckles.  She preferred the switch.  For those who may not know, switches are very young, thin, flexible branches that grow from the base of a tree that if allowed to grow to maturity would eventually create a new, tall, strong base adding itself to the existing tree.  At the switch stage however, these branches are basically small organic bullwhips and were most effective when used on the legs.

There was a tree of at the edge of the driveway whose purpose in life was to produce these weapons.  Every year it would generate a new batch of high quality, skin peeling switches that were the envy of the neighborhood parents.  Mom could have made a fortune by starting a cottage industry.

Second, the rear part of our house was not enclosed but was propped up on cinder blocks and open on two sides.  Too small for parents, but large enough for a kid.

Thirdly, I was always wearing shorts so that my legs were always bare.

From the parent point of view, the switch technique eliminated the immediacy of punishment because you had to get a small knife or scissors, leave the house, walk to the tree, assess the pros and cons of each potential tool, cut it and then return to the victim.

From the child point of view, the switch technique heightened the terror and dread factor exponentially,  heightened it to the point of desperation.  So at least few times, I chose to use this delay to crawl under the house.  I’m not sure how long I thought I could hide but terror does things to a boy.

So there we would be, the plot of infinite action movies.  The outmanned hero, trying desperately to escape after striking a blow for democracy at the enemy versus the superior equipped enemy stalking his prey unforgivingly.

Mom was good.  Real good.  She learned very quickly that I was more of afraid of the things that might be under the house than I was of taking a switching – although the two were very close.  She would walk around so that all I could see of her was from her calves down and tell me about all the rats and snakes and crawly things that lived under the house and the terrible things they did to young boys.

My next tactic would inevitably be to crawl out from under the house and run.  This proved to be humiliating as well as terrifying because she would catch me.  She was faster than she looked in those days.

As I grew certain things conspired to eliminate this correction practice.

1)      I became a better kid.  Questionable but possible.

2)      I started school and started always wearing blue jeans.  I don’t think I wore another pair of shorts until I was in high school.

3)      When I was old enough to mow the law, the first thing I would do is cut down the switches around that tree.

4)      I could finally out run my mother.