As I got into the house, there was mom, and laying at my ‘spot’ at the table was a pair of scissors. I knew what it meant, instantly, and started begging: “Please, mommy, not a switch! I’m sorry! My butt is already bruised. I’m sorry! Please, no, please, please” etc. She literally didn’t say a word, just waited until I talked myself out and then pointed at the back door. So out a-switch-picking I went.
Switchings were very rare. This was only the third of my life. They were for only the most severe punishments. As I found a decent branch of the bushes behind our house, I started crying again, cut it, and cleaned off all the twigs and leaves and bumps, getting it ready to tan my own hide.