I remember back in my formative years, in the early 1970s, my parents would often go away, and when they did, it was almost certain I’d be staying at my aunt and uncle’s house. They were quite well off, living in a modern bungalow with all the latest conveniences—dishwasher, color TV, even central heating, which was a big deal back then. But what really stood out was the dynamic between my aunt and uncle. My aunt was short and plump, with round metal-rimmed glasses perched on her nose and a head of striking red hair. She didn’t just have red hair—she had the classic ‘red headed temper’ to match: quick to anger, passionate in her reactions, and never one to back down from a confrontation.
She ran the household with a rod of iron. Every detail of daily life was under her strict command, and her word was law. From the moment you stepped through the door, you could feel her presence—sharp, watchful, and utterly uncompromising. She set the rules, enforced them without hesitation, and expected absolute obedience from everyone, children and adults alike. Meals were served on time, chores were completed to her exacting standards, and any hint of defiance was met with swift, decisive action. There was no room for negotiation or leniency; her authority was absolute, and she brooked no nonsense. The entire family moved to her rhythm, and even my gentle uncle deferred to her in all things. She was the dominant partner, her assertive personality filling every room, and it was obvious to everyone that she was in charge.
Discipline in her house was never left to chance. My aunt believed firmly in the power of a sore bottom to teach a lesson, and she didn’t hesitate to use smacking as her go-to method of punishment—not just for me, but for her own children as well. Sometimes it was a quick smack with her hand, other times she’d reach for her trusty wooden spoon, and on more than one occasion, she’d slip off her slipper and use that instead. It was a regular part of her approach to keeping order, and we all knew that misbehavior would be met with swift, stinging consequences. There was no ambiguity: if you stepped out of line, you could expect to be disciplined, and she made sure the lesson stuck.
My parents weren’t big believers in physical punishment—maybe a smack or two, but nothing more. My aunt, on the other hand, was a firm believer in sore bottom lessons, and I learned plenty of them at her hands.
On one particular occasion, my aunt, uncle, my two cousins, and I went out to dinner for my uncle’s birthday. The restaurant served a huge salad in a big bowl with large wooden spoons for serving. I’ve never been a fan of veggies and wasn’t about to touch the salad, but my aunt quickly plopped some onto my plate with the spoons and said, “Eat it.”
I replied, “I don’t like salad—I’m not eating it.” She responded loudly enough for everyone at the table to hear, “Well, perhaps you’d like your bottom warmed instead, you ungrateful little child?” I snarled back, “Fine—I’ll eat it.”
But I didn’t. Instead, I carefully dropped piece after piece onto the floor, thinking I’d get away with it—until a cucumber landed right on my aunt’s foot. She was furious! Without a word, she grabbed me by the elbow, her grip like a vice, and yanked me up from the bench. My heart leapt into my throat as the wooden spoon clattered in her other hand. The restaurant seemed to freeze for a moment, every fork pausing mid-air, every conversation stalling as she pulled me away from the table. The shock of her touch sent a jolt through my body—her fingers digging into my arm, the heat of her anger radiating through my sleeve. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment as she marched me past rows of staring diners, their eyes wide, some whispering behind their hands. The clack of her shoes and my stumbling steps echoed sharply on the polished tile floor, each footfall a drumbeat of dread. I tried to shrink into myself, wishing I could disappear, but there was no escape from the spotlight of their attention. My ears rang with the low hum of voices—“What did that child do?” “Is she really going to…?”—and I caught glimpses of faces, some disapproving, others almost curious. The smell of food and coffee seemed to fade, replaced by the metallic tang of fear in my mouth. As we neared the bathroom, the door loomed ahead like the entrance to a dungeon. My stomach twisted with anticipation and humiliation, knowing what was about to happen and that there was no way to avoid it. The door swung open with a creak, and the cold, sterile air of the ladies’ room hit me. I could hear the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the tile, the sound impossibly loud in the sudden hush. My mind raced—maybe she’d change her mind, maybe someone would stop her, maybe I could still talk my way out of it. But deep down, I knew there was no escape. I was about to be punished, and everyone knew it. (short pause)
Everyone in the restaurant watched as she dragged me, crying, into the ladies’ bathroom. A few women even got up from their tables and followed us in to watch.
Inside, my aunt quickly bent me over the counter. “You keep both of your hands on that counter, young lady, or we’ll do this at the table instead!” she ordered. “No!” I shouted. “I promise I’ll eat it and I’ll be good! I’m sorry!”
Smack! Too late—I was going to be punished right there in the bathroom, with about five people watching. “I warned you before we left to be good, didn’t I? This is what happens when you don’t listen to me!” Smack, smack, smack! The wooden spoon stung so badly! I could see the women and girls watching me out of the corner of my eye in the mirror. One little girl looked horrified.
“Now, instead of eating your dinner, you’re in here getting the spoon across your bottom in front of strangers! How do you like it?!” (Smack, smack, smack!) “Please stop—I promise I’ll be good!” I cried through my tears. “No, I’m not done yet! I want you to be sore enough to remind you to be good every time you sit down.” I was given another five good smacks with that horrible wooden spoon.
My aunt handed the spoon back to our waiter, but to my complete embarrassment, he returned it, saying, “The owners would like you to keep this, to use whenever you feel the need. We wish more parents would discipline their children the way you do—we’d see a great improvement in manners here, I’m sure.”
I finished my meal in silence, my two cousins taunting me quietly. Near the end, my older cousin was caught and threatened with my “new toy.”
If you enjoyed this story from my childhood, please like and subscribe to help keep these memories alive. Thank you.
