Between our properties was a vast apple orchard owned by the Allen family, who were locals. Mr. Allen was a boat builder and lobster fisherman, and he had even helped construct my grandparents’ summer home back in 1917.

Everyone held Mr. and Mrs. Allen in high regard. Mr. Allen was a towering figure with hands like baseball mitts. He wore large striped overalls and flannel shirts on cool Maine mornings, or a white T-shirt otherwise. He smoked a pipe and often sat in a rocking chair on his front porch. Mrs. Allen reminded me of Mrs. Claus, always baking pies and cookies, filling the house with wonderful aromas.

The apple orchard was Mr. Allen’s pride and joy, and no one was allowed to enter it. We all respected that rule – mostly. The Allens were the only ones with a telephone. During the war, summer residents didn’t have phones because the metal for wiring was used for the war effort. Most summer folks were there to escape business, so no one was in a rush to get ‘connected’ with home.

After playing at Jesse’s house all morning and enjoying a lovely lunch on the lawn served by her maid, we decided to head back to my place. As we walked and chatted, we noticed the apples were very ripe. It seemed Mr. Allen hadn’t had much time to harvest them, as they were falling to the ground.

Jesse and I crawled through the fence to gather the fallen apples. Most were already rotting, so we looked up at the ones on the lower branches. We could reach a few, but most were just out of reach, requiring us to climb.

We debated, concluding that the fallen apples indicated the Allens had more than they could manage. I climbed the tree and handed some apples down to Jesse, who held what she could. She set them down and I handed her more to take home. I thought I might make something for Mrs. Allen.

Suddenly, Jesse gasped. Before I could turn safely, strong hands lifted me out of the tree and set me on the ground. We looked up into the furious face of Mr. Allen. He was a giant to us, and we were terrified, even though we knew him well.

“You two know I told the kids I’d whip anyone caught in my apples, right?” We were paralyzed with fear. Whip us? What did that mean?

We began to explain as he picked us up, one under each arm, and headed towards the porch. As we reached the road separating the orchard from the house, I saw Nanny coming. She was looking for me. I was never so happy to see her.

Mr. Allen didn’t put me down. Nanny reached us and asked what had happened. He told her he was going to whip us for stealing apples and climbing his trees. Nanny knew that was the penalty. Everyone for miles around knew that was the penalty. If Grandmother could see me now, she would encourage Mr. Allen to do it, I was sure.

Jesse was a mess, sobbing and carrying on as if something had already happened. I looked at Nanny helplessly. Nanny asked to speak to Mr. Allen privately, and he agreed, telling us we were going to the woodshed with him right after his conversation with Nanny.

Jesse collapsed on the grass in sobs. I sat down beside her, and we clung to each other in fear. Why had we tried to ‘rescue’ those apples? Why do I do these dumb things? I get into so much trouble!

I don’t know what Nanny said, but a deal was struck. She would take Jesse home, inform her parents, and request that she be punished. Then she would take me home and punish me.

Mr. Allen insisted it had to be a whipping in a woodshed, ‘the old-fashioned way’. I think he relented to Nanny because we were girls and because she was Scottish, like his family.

We went to Jesse’s house first. Her nanny was out shopping, but Nanny talked to Jesse’s father. He told Jesse she would have to go to the boathouse with him and be spanked with a shingle.

Jesse was hysterical, pleading for him to change his mind, but he was already marching her through the tall grass towards the boathouse when we turned to leave.

We had to pass the Allen house on the way home, and Nanny told Mr. Allen (who was outside as we passed) about Jesse and her father. “Good,” he replied, “now get this one to the woodshed too!”

The walk home was dreadful. Nanny lectured me the entire way. She couldn’t believe a big girl of nine could be so disobedient as to violate such a community rule. We were only guests here, and the Allens had always been so good to everyone. We could not trespass on their property. Those were not wild apples, etc. I heard it all, non-stop, all the way home on that dirt road.

Nanny took me into the house and told my grandmother what I had done. Mother and Father were in Boston, and Jeff was taking a nap. Grandmother told Nanny to do what she felt was best, as she had pretty much raised me from infancy.

Nanny took me to the garden shed, where the landscaping tools were kept. It wasn’t very large, but it had enough room to move around freely. She unbuckled my overalls, and I started to cry.

Finding a box to sit on, she pulled me towards her and said she was going to use a paint stirrer paddle on my behind. There were several in a drawer in the shed that hadn’t been used yet, but I figured I’d use one up fairly quickly.

Nanny placed me face down over her lap.

As I lay there, Nanny placed her left hand on my back, holding me in place on her lap, and with her right, reached into the drawer for a clean paint stick. I could feel the tension and fear building, for Nanny was a hard spanker – lots of experience. I was glad Grandmother wasn’t here.

Then she slid her left hand up my back a bit and pressed me down onto her knees. It was at that point that the dreaded paint stick began to do its damage. Over and over again, Nanny whipped me with that stick, just as Mr. Allen had ordered. It was certainly ‘old-fashioned’ – over her knees. He was getting his wish.

I was sobbing and sobbing, begging Nanny to stop. She did. It wasn’t too bad, for I think in her heart of hearts she was doing this to please Mr. Allen and Grandmother.

She pulled me upright and pulled up my underpants and overalls. As she fastened my straps over my shoulders, she told me that picking apples was really fun, but we would have to find an acceptable place to do it. She hugged me, and I sobbed into her shoulder.

As we walked back to the house, Nanny told me I would have to explain to Grandmother my understanding of why what I had done was not acceptable. Then she said I would have to write a letter of apology to Mr. Allen and deliver it right away. I was afraid to go, but Nanny said she would go with me.

Hand in hand, we walked up the dirt road, and tentatively, holding back a bit behind Nanny, I handed the letter to Mr. Allen. He asked if I had been whipped, and I nodded with my lip trembling.

Then he gave me a whole bag of apples and told me that if I ever wanted to help him, I would be most welcome. It would have to be a real job, though, and no sneaking into the orchard, or I would see the inside of his woodshed. I never went into his woodshed. Our garden house was bad enough!