Dad never spanked me. I grew up on a farm in the 50's. It was a regular neat childhood. I mean, I was free to roam around the place, and work was just a part of life. So was play. Taking care of the animals and doing my chores and going to school and just being a boy.
At the time it was just a part of my life and I thought nothing of it, but I often was present when Dad spanked Mom. It wasn't every day, mind you, and he wasn't mean or abusive. But it would be provoked by a supper that didn't turn out very good, or something around the house she did or didn't do. I would come in the kitchen for a cold glass of milk and sit on the stool at the end of the counter where I could reach the cookie jar. Dad would be telling Mom that he didn't appreciate something. And I never can really remember what it would be from time to time. I guess Mom did.
Anyway, he would just quietly tell her to bend over the table and grab the other side, which she would quietly do. He would then lift up her dress and pull down her panties. You would think she'd be crying and pleading with him not to spank her, but she never did. She just quietly did as she was told and Dad would say, "Frankie, get the paddle for me will you?" I'd open the bottom drawer and hand him the paddle and then sit back down on the stool and grab another cookie.
He never cared that I was there; after all, I've been seeing this for as long as I can remember. Then he'd quietly tell her what she did that was wrong or maybe it was something she should have done but didn't. He'd spank her until she cried, but once in a while, he would stop for a few moments, lay the paddle down on her back and begin rubbing her bottom. Then his fingers would disappear into her back side, or under her to somewhere else. Being a kid I had no idea what he was doing, but his fingers would come back wet and he'd ask, "Why are you wet?" And she'd answer something like I don't know and he'd say, "Don't lie to me, Marjorie, why are you wet?" And she'd say spanking always made her wet.
I was by this time all but invisible, but not wanting to leave, and just sat there quietly watching this. Soon there were drops of wetness coming down her leg. It didn't look like pee, but I wasn't going to ask, and then Dad would say, "Well, it looks like it's time for the rest of your spanking." He'd pick up the paddle, and once again begin swatting her red bottom.
Like I said, he never spanked me. And even sometimes at night I would get up for a drink of water or use the bathroom, pad down the hallway in my bare feet, passing my parents' room. Dad would be sitting up in bed with Mom lying across his lap and he'd be swatting her bottom while talking real quietly.
You would think that this kind of treatment would make her mean or mad, but, no, my mother was the kindest, sweetest person, and I guess it was just part of her life. I would never come out and ask about it. I mean, that would be like asking why do your parents sleep together? Or why does Mom do all the cooking and Dad all the complaining?
I realize I lived through many winters on the farm, but most of my memories are of summer. And warm springs and falls. The year I was 19, Mom got a letter that her sister and her husband had died in a horrible car crash. We didn't usually take long trips together, but we did go to the funeral. Funerals are bad enough for everybody, but as a kid, and especially one who didn't even know these people very well, it was just long and boring. But I got to meet my cousin Becky.
She was 18 and she was devastated that her parents were suddenly gone. In addition, there was no where for her to go, and she was thinking she'd end up in an orphanage or some horrible place. But my parents agreed to take her home with us. We had a nice big house and just us. So, we helped her pack, and assured her we were good decent people, and the whole family agreed that was all for the best.
At first, Becky didn't fit in very well. Well, in all fairness, she was still grieving over her loss. And for several weeks we all just pretty much left her alone, even though it was apparent to us, that she was turning into a spoiled brat. She acted like we were all supposed to do whatever she said and whatever would make her happy. Soon, she was complaining about every little thing that wasn't right. We were patient with her at the start, but I could tell Dad's patience was rapidly coming to an end.
One evening she complained about everything. It was too hot, she didn't like pork chops, she didn't think she should have to help with the dishes, she wanted to stay outside when it was time to come in and start baths. Finally Dad looked up from his paper and said, "Becky, You're going to have to learn to be a little more agreeable around here, or I'm just going to have to put you over my lap and start giving you a few spankings until you come around". She looked up and said, "I don't have to do what you tell me; you're not my dad!"
