SPANKY
My mom always told us that if we couldn't say something nice about someone, we should say nothing at all. The next six hundred and fifty four blank pages are devoted entirely to Child and Family Services. (Well, she didn't say we couldn't tell whom it was that we wouldn't say anything about). Out of respect for the rain forest I have not included the pages in this manuscript. Blank page
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On what seems to be a completely unrelated topic, some veterinary surgeon should figure out a way to stitch the front ends of horses to the already existing horses' behinds that run our various government departments. I was going to say horses' asses but mom didn't allow cussing either. Anyway if somebody could figure that out, they could be harness broke into good working teams and at the same time hungry cattle ranchers could switch from cows to genetically modified horse fronts and start a whole new industry nobody ever thought of before.
Oh now don't you 'tut-tut' me. When you're saying derogatory things about somebody, governments don't count. I mean, just look how they talk about each other. Besides, they got diplomatic immunity or something like that. I wasn't even going to talk about them anyway. Well, I wasn't but it just sort of slipped out before I could stop it.
What with school being out and all in the summer, half the kids under the age of sixteen are regularly grounded for not getting home on time, or staying in their pajamas all day, or not pitching in with the chores. It got me to thinking about my own upbringing and how those situations were dealt with back then. Naturally, the subject of spanking crossed my mind. Well there you go then. We know the government frowns on that sort of stuff. That's how the government and you know who crossed my mind. The question that came up was, is spanking illegal? Is it a criminal offense? It was in my mind that there had been a recent change in legislation, or so I thought.
So I glommed on to the Internet to see what there was to be learned. Wouldn't you know it? Up pops that Ontario case where the (unmentionable) people did (unmentionable) things to some children and their families that caused a whole bunch of them to flee to the United States as refugees. It was an awful uproar. Everybody was so busy dancing around protecting their horses' behinds that they all missed the important roll that spanking or not spanking plays in the drama of life itself. What - have I missed something? Are today's adults too glued to the TV or the Casinos to participate? Are our children too sensitive about their "rights" to give up blowing everything to smithereens in their video games and be part of a family and all it's subtle little intricacies?
How far do we have to get from reality before somebody notices we're lost and want to go home? Shoot, even Shakespeare admitted that 'all the world's a stage' and that we're all players in it. So before this turns into a negative rant filled with another six or seven hundred blank pages, let me tell you about how these sorts of things used to be choreographed in our house. Heck, come to think of it, these little theatrics were better than anything you could hear on Lux Radio Theatre, especially if they were happening to your brother or sister, and not you.
The thing was that there were certain spankable offenses and everybody knew the rules. The biggest one was talking back, especially to your mother. That one was so big that you'd probably go straight to H E double hockey sticks unless it got corrected in a hurry. Almost as bad was the crime of lying. Mind you, there were degrees to this one and it could get pretty complicated. Now an outright, bald-faced lie was one thing. There was no getting around that. Such an offense called for just plain old crime and punishment. But things like 'I didn't know what time it was', which really meant 'I was having too much fun to notice the time' were something else. They had a thing that you-know-who would call wiggle room. Those could be manipulated to a degree unless they became chronic, which was my problem all too often.
Wellsir, my old man was a thespian of the highest order. He could play our little foibles like a Stradivarius. It was uncanny. Of course, he was always ready for us. By the time he got home from work, the scene was set. The minute he walked in the door the radio got turned off.
That was standard procedure. After all the noise that went on at the factory all day long, he needed some peace and quiet. This was a really good time for us to do our homework. He'd wash up and change out of his dirty clothes before lying down for a half-hour nap while mother finished preparing supper.
See what I mean? The father comes home with his ears ringing from the factory noise. He's worked so hard that he needs a nap before he can even eat supper. The mother dutifully prepares his meal and gently wakes him to join the family at the supper table. Now you tell me. Is he the king or what? But wait, that's just the beginning.
See all the events of the day were touched on at the supper table, even the spankable ones. I say touched on because the real discussion didn't come 'til much later. Firstly, the supper table was a place for harmony, not confrontation. Secondly, the place to work out such problems was in front of the throne - that was dad's big easy chair - and then not until he'd finished reading the paper.
Timing - it was all timing. You'd have at least an hour after your indiscretion first surfaced to mull over your fate while doing the dishes and whatever else you could think of to kiss up. Finally, when your hour of judgment arrived, you were pretty well a basket case. See, whatever the misadventure, it wasn't as though you hadn't been warned beforehand. One of the aces dad had up his sleeve was the major guilt trip trick. Every time he had a job for you, or allowed you to do something, there was always a caveat. "Can I rely on you for that?" was attached to just about every activity. Talk about a millstone around your neck. The thing was that when you said it in German, it sounded like a command from Gabriel himself.
The second worst thing about a spankable offense was the lecture. You had to stand in front of the king on his throne and hang on every word. And he always had plenty to say. I never did know anybody who could talk longer about not coming home on time than my old man. I learned the lesson of letting my eyes glaze over after about forty minutes of hearing about how it was well past time that I learned to be responsible. When he caught me drifting, he just started all over. There went another forty minutes.
The absolute worst thing about a spankable offense, if it came to that, was not the spanking itself. Heck, I got more bruises coming home from school every day than I ever got from a spanking. That was nothing. It was the high drama leading up to the spanking that always got me. There was a set script for this whole business. Once a judgment had been handed down, the whole family sprang in to action - even me. Each of us had a specific role to play. Mother would make like this would be just too traumatic for her to concentrate on her work. So she'd wander around the house wringing her hands and groaning. My siblings would disappear around the corner where they could snicker in safety at their idiot brother. And me - well by this time in the scenario, my brain was so addled I could do nothing except follow instructions. Now it was time for the ultimate humiliation.
Dad sat there on his throne, grim faced and told me to go get - the chair. Obediently, I went and got - the chair.
"Put it there," he pointed. I did.
"Not that way. Turn it around sideways." I did.
"Go bring me the strap." Son of a gun if I didn't do that too. Here I was, hauling all my own torture equipment into the living room while he - the king, sat there looking like the reluctant judge and jury. It was like a mini crucifixion with lesser consequences.
The last thing he would say as I numbly parked my target neatly over the chair was, "I wish it didn't have to come to this."
I, in a feeble attempt at defiance would think to myself, 'Yeah, you'll beat me and then I'll die, and then you'll be sorry.' I could almost see them in my mind, mourning over the loss. Whack, whack, whack.
"Go put things away where they belong. Then we can put this behind us." I never did find out whether the reference to the 'behind' was a pun or not.
The curtain had fallen on the final act and the whole performance was a triumph. You could almost hear the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah being played. The only thing missing was the standing ovation.
Fortunately for us all, every so often I'd forget my lessons and provide the opportunity for a repeat performance. Dad never lost his talent for what was right and proper either.
I got to thinking that some of these dead people should have met my old man. Well, they're not really dead, but obviously they got no life of their own the way they go sticking their noses into other people's business, so they might just as well be. Maybe if they had got a lesson or two from him in their youth they'd have some idea of how families ought to be run. There sure wouldn't be as many horses' asses (Oops - Sorry mom) behinds around, meddling in things they have absolutely no idea about. Just think - the scriptures could be put back in the bible where they belong instead of being on the front page of the newspaper, and them do-gooder protectionists might actually have time to do some good. They might even try to focus on getting a life of their own, but that's a whole other story. Maybe then a family could get back to the business of being a family without having to look over it's shoulder every ten seconds to see if the family Gestapo is lurking around.
