Growing up in the early 1970s, things were different—especially when it came to discipline. Back then, spanking was just a fact of life. For most parents, it was the answer to everything: bad grades, talking back, running in the house, you name it. Nobody really questioned it, and it seemed like every kid I knew had their own stories about getting their backside tanned for one reason or another.
I had a girlfriend I really liked, but I dreaded spending time at her house because trouble always seemed to find us. And in those days, trouble almost always meant a spanking.
What made it even scarier was Sally’s mother, Ellen. She was a big, fearsome woman—towering over everyone, with broad shoulders and a scowl that never seemed to leave her face. She always looked like she was on the verge of exploding with anger, her eyes narrowed and lips pressed tight. She wore long, dark house dresses that made her seem even larger, and her heavy slippers slapped against the floor with every step, announcing her presence like a warning. To us, she looked almost monster-like, and her constant angry glare made her even more intimidating.
Ellen was a firm believer in spanking, and in the 1970s, that meant she didn’t hesitate to spank either or both of us if she thought we deserved it. It was just how things were done.
It wasn’t just us—Sally and her three sisters all got spanked from time to time. Whenever someone misbehaved, Ellen would call them over in her booming voice, pointing to a spot right in the middle of the living room. She’d make the guilty child stand in front of her, then, with a practiced motion, she’d sit down and pull them across her lap. Sometimes she’d use her heavy slipper, other times she’d reach for a wooden spoon or even a sturdy hairbrush that she kept handy. The sound of that slipper smacking against fabric was unforgettable, and the sting of the wooden spoon was legendary among the younger ones. She always made sure everyone in the room could see, as if the spectacle itself was part of the punishment. No one ever dared to protest—her glare alone was enough to keep us frozen in place, waiting our turn if we’d all been caught together.
These spankings were given in front of each other and in front of her three sisters, which was pretty normal for the time.
But the most unforgettable moment happened during one of Sally’s Brownie troupe meetings. Sally and I got into a heated argument over a board game. It started with some name-calling, then escalated into shoving and grabbing at the game pieces. The other Brownies tried to ignore us at first, but soon our shouting and scuffling became impossible to overlook. The commotion grew so loud that it brought the entire meeting to a halt.
Suddenly, Ellen stormed into the room, her slippers thudding ominously on the floor. The room fell silent as she glared at us, her face thunderous. Without a word, she pointed at both of us and ordered us to stand in the very center of the room, right in front of all the Brownies. Every eye was on us as we shuffled forward, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Then came the ritual. Ellen sat down heavily in her chair, the room so quiet you could hear the faint creak of the floorboards. She beckoned Sally first, her finger like a judge’s gavel. Sally, trembling, stepped forward, her face pale. With a swift, practiced motion, her mother pulled her across her lap. The anticipation was excruciating—everyone could see Sally’s knuckles turning white as she gripped her mother’s dress, her legs dangling helplessly. The heavy slipper was raised, and for a split second, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Then—CRACK! The slipper landed with a sharp, echoing smack that seemed to vibrate through the air. Sally gasped, her body tensing, and a second, then a third smack followed, each one punctuated by the sound of fabric snapping and the faintest whimper from Sally. The sound was so loud, so final, that a few of the Brownies flinched in their seats, some covering their mouths in shock, others wide-eyed and frozen.
My turn came next. My heart pounded so hard I thought everyone could hear it. My legs felt like jelly as I walked to the center, the heat of a hundred stares burning into my back. I was pulled across her lap, my face inches from the carpet, the smell of her house—soap, dust, and something sharp—filling my nose. I could feel the rough fabric of her dress against my cheek, her arm like a steel bar across my back, pinning me in place. The slipper came down, and the pain was immediate—a hot, stinging slap that made my eyes water. Each smack seemed to last forever, the sound echoing in my ears, the sting blooming across my skin. I bit my lip, trying not to cry out, but a small yelp escaped anyway. The humiliation was total: I could hear the whispers, the gasps, the shifting of feet as the other girls watched, some horrified, some fascinated, all of them witnesses to my shame.
When it was over, Sally and I stood there, red-faced and teary-eyed, our backsides throbbing, while the rest of the Brownies stared at us in stunned silence. The air was thick with awkwardness and the faint scent of fear. No one spoke. I could feel the weight of every gaze, the judgment, the pity, the relief that it hadn’t been them. The meeting never really recovered after that. For the rest of the day, I felt like I was moving through a fog of embarrassment and pain, every step a reminder of what had happened. That moment of public punishment was so mortifying, so intense, it stuck with me for years—and honestly, it was the final straw that made me break up with Sally just to avoid her mother!
After the spanking, the room remained eerily quiet. The Brownies sat stiffly in their seats, unsure of what to do next. Some of them glanced at each other, their faces pale, while others kept their eyes fixed on the floor, as if afraid to draw any attention. The leader tried to resume the meeting, her voice shaky, but the energy had completely drained from the room. Activities that were usually fun and lively now felt forced and awkward. No one wanted to play games or sing songs. Even the adults seemed uncomfortable, exchanging uneasy glances as they tidied up the craft supplies.
Sally and I avoided each other for the rest of the meeting. We sat on opposite sides of the room, both of us nursing our wounded pride and sore backsides. I could see Sally wiping her eyes when she thought no one was looking, and I kept my head down, wishing I could disappear. The other girls whispered in small groups, casting quick, sympathetic looks our way, but no one dared to say anything out loud. The sense of humiliation was overwhelming, and I felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter for the rest of the afternoon.
When it was finally time to leave, I hurried out the door without saying goodbye. My legs still stung, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. As I walked home, I replayed the whole scene in my mind, feeling a mix of anger, shame, and confusion. Part of me was furious at Ellen for making such a spectacle out of us, but another part wondered if I really had deserved it. I kept thinking about the way everyone had looked at me—like I was both a troublemaker and a victim at the same time.
That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the memory of the slipper and the sting of public humiliation. I wondered if the other girls would ever forget what happened, or if I’d always be remembered as the one who got spanked in front of everyone. The event left a mark on me—not just physically, but emotionally. I became more cautious, more careful about how I behaved around adults, especially those who seemed quick to anger. I also started to distance myself from Sally, not because I didn’t like her, but because I couldn’t face the possibility of going through something like that again.
For weeks afterward, the incident was all I could think about. I dreaded running into any of the Brownies at school or in the neighborhood, afraid they’d bring it up or tease me. But to my surprise, most of them never mentioned it. Maybe they were just as shaken as I was, or maybe they understood how awful it felt. Still, the memory lingered, shaping the way I saw authority and punishment for a long time.
Looking back now, I realize how much that day changed me. It taught me about fear, shame, and the power adults have over children. It also made me more empathetic toward others who found themselves in the same position. Even now, the sound of slippers on a hard floor can send a chill down my spine, and I can’t help but remember that afternoon in Sally’s living room—the sting, the silence, and the lesson I never forgot.
(short pause) And as I reflect on it now, I can’t help but see Ellen in a different light. Back then, we only saw her as a terrifying authority figure, but now I realize she was struggling with her own pain. After her husband left her for a younger woman, Ellen seemed to unravel. Looking back, it’s clear she was mentally unstable—her anger, her unpredictability, the way she lashed out at us. It wasn’t just about discipline; it was about her own heartbreak and frustration spilling over. I didn’t understand it as a child, but now I see that her outbursts were as much about her own suffering as they were about our misbehavior.
