During my childhood, I spent about six months living on my aunt’s farm. It was a typical farm with horses, cows, ducks, and pigs, but horses were the main attraction.
In the summer, I joined the local kids for fun activities like swimming in the pond, chasing frogs, and flying kites.
There was also a woodshed on the farm, used exclusively for disciplining naughty children. Inside, it housed a strap, a paddle, and a single chair.
The shed, illuminated by an oil lantern, was situated about half a mile from the main house. The old house once stood nearby, but my dad had demolished it and built a new one on higher ground before I was born. Remnants of the old house remained, including the wood used to make the paddle.
Most parents in the area preferred using the woodshed for discipline, as it was more intimidating than a child’s own room. One day, I had my first encounter with the woodshed.
While I was watering the horses, my aunt approached me, furious about a call from my best friend’s mom. I was in trouble for teaching my friend a bad word. Despite my protests, my aunt didn’t believe me and dragged me to the woodshed by my ear.
My aunt was a stern woman in her late forties, with sharp features and piercing blue eyes that could see right through you. Her graying hair was always tied back in a tight bun, and she wore simple, practical clothes that spoke of her no-nonsense attitude. She had a commanding presence, and when she was angry, her voice could cut through the air like a knife.
Standing in front of the woodshed, I was instructed to go inside. My aunt lit the lantern, revealing a new addition – a padded wooden horse.
The woodshed always had an eerie, haunted feel to it. The creaking of the wooden planks underfoot, the flickering shadows cast by the lantern, and the cold, damp air that seemed to seep into your bones all contributed to its creepy atmosphere. It was as if the shed held onto the echoes of past punishments, whispering them into the ears of anyone who dared to enter.
Among the neighborhood children, there was a rumor of a ghost that haunted the woodshed. They said it was the spirit of my great-great-grandma, who had lived on the farm long ago.
She was described as a tall, thin woman with a stern face, her hair always in a tight bun, much like my aunt’s. She wore a long, dark dress with a high collar and lace cuffs, and her eyes were said to be piercing blue, just like my aunt’s. The children believed she watched over the woodshed, ensuring that discipline was maintained.
She sat in the chair and began scolding me, her voice rising with each word. She lectured me about the importance of using proper language, emphasizing that there are some words that are absolutely forbidden. Her eyes bore into mine as she made it clear that such behavior would not be tolerated.
Then, she ordered me to bend over the horse. I couldn’t touch the ground with my hands or feet.
I watched as she took the paddle off the wall. It was a formidable piece of wood, about two feet long and half an inch thick, with a smooth, polished surface that gleamed in the lantern light. The handle was wrapped in leather for a firm grip, and the edges were rounded to prevent splinters. The paddle had a weight to it that made my stomach churn with dread.
She positioned herself behind me, and I felt the cold, smooth surface of the paddle press against my bare bottom. The first strike landed with a sharp crack, sending a jolt of pain through my body. I cried out, but my aunt was relentless. She delivered 25 to 30 solid whacks, each one stinging more than the last. The sound of the paddle striking my skin echoed in the small shed, mingling with my cries.
Afterwards, she had me lie over her knee, rubbing my sore, red bottom. She made me promise never to use such words again, punctuating her point with a few more hand spanks. I yelled my agreement, and finally, she let me go to play.
