WOODWORKING

BY DAVE WOOD

The cure to misbehaving

My even-handed father only paddled my fanny once in my life. That happened when I was in third grade and had just tromped through the muddy highway from grade school and arrived home at the kitchen door. My mother had just mopped the linoleum, its patterns already worn smooth by three years of World War II. I usually obeyed my mom, but for some unknown reason I nonchalantly moved ahead and messed up her clean linoleum.

My father was having mid-afternoon coffee and witnessed the event. He arose from the oilclothed table and proceeded to paddle my fanny with his even hand. I never saw him so angry before or since. And then he sent me to bed without supper. When he went out to do the milking, my tearful mother brought to my bedroom a bowl of macaroni and cheese and I dined alone and in silence.

Many, many years later, my father confessed to me about his anger. I didn’t know that my mother was very ill, but he knew all too well and momentarily lost his temper and took it out on me. I assured him that all was forgiven, especially in that era when most kids fessed up and said they’d been whomped with a razor strap, or even rug beater. And then I asked him if his father ever whipped him.

“Never,” he replied. “Really? Why?” “Because I never misbehaved.” “Really? How could that be, were you afraid of Grandpa?”

“No. Your grandpa was a gentleman. He wouldn’t swat a fly, but after I saw what he did to my older sister Helen, I wanted to make sure he didn’t HOLD me.”

“Whaddya mean?” He explained that when he was little his 8-year-old sister kept pulling hairs out of Grandpa’s nose until Grandpa who was trying to nap, said “Stop that, Helen, or I’ll HOLD you!”

Helen kept at it until Grandpa arose from his interrupted nap, gently grabbed Helen, sat down on a chair and put her on his lap, encircled her with his bony arms and gently held her. Presently she began to scream bloody murder and unflustered Grandpa continued his embrace. More crying, sobbing, struggling to release herself. Grandpa held. Morning dawned and Grandpa sent the hired man out to milk the cows, while Grandpa sat with Helen, who drifted ou, awoke to breakfast and never flaunted an order from Grandpa for the rest of her life.

I immediately understood. For decades later, I was sent to live with the same grandparents, when I was little older than I was when my father’s spanking occurred. One day, Grandpa discovered shreds of his Bull Durham pipe tobacco in my harmonica. That meant I had been experimenting with that evil weed.

“I’m sorry, Davey, but I guess I’ll have to HOLD you,” said the old man, as he put me on his striped bib overall lap. Big deal, I figured. At least he’s not going to spank me. Then his blue chambray sleeved arms enclosed me. After five minutes I began to cry. Cries became shouts and struggling, but Grandpa held firm. Grandma put coffee be fore him on the kitchen table. Occasionally he’d take a sip, holding me with his right arm, firmly enough so I couldn’t escape. After two hours, he released me for supper.

And I’ve been a good boy ever since.

Dave would like to hear from you. Phone him at 715-426-9554.