My father’s older sister, Aunt Gracie, was about a dozen years his senior. I was very close to her and her three sons—Joseph, Patty, and especially Johnny, who was just a year older than me. Johnny and I were inseparable, almost like siblings.
I often spent weekends at their house, sharing Johnny’s bed. Aunt Gracie treated me with the same affection she gave her own children, making me feel like royalty. She would bathe Johnny and me together, and sometimes she’d notice my bottom was red. She’d ask if I’d misbehaved, who had spanked me, and if I deserved it. Admitting these things was always awkward, but Aunt Gracie firmly believed in spanking. More than once, she told my dad he should take charge of disciplining me, rather than leaving it all to my mom.
That wasn’t the only time I was punished in front of another kid. Once, my mother spanked me in front of my younger brother after I hit him. I definitely deserved it, and my brother seemed pleased to see me get my comeuppance. But the worst was when my grandmother used a huge clothes brush on me—again, I had it coming.
Even now, I can’t quite figure out why I was so mischievous, considering I was spanked at least monthly for seven years straight.
Only the harshest punishments stick in my memory, but those are unforgettable. It’s hard to erase the image of my mother telling me to spread my legs so she could smack the most sensitive part of my backside.
There was one time my mother spanked me so hard I couldn’t sit down afterward—it felt like sitting on burning coals. She thought I was being defiant by not sitting, so she spanked me again. After the second round, I forced myself to sit, even though it felt like I was on a volcano.
But the most vivid and detailed spanking I ever got happened during a weekend at Aunt Gracie’s. Johnny and I, feeling adventurous, decided to swipe some of her cigarettes and sneak off to the woods to try them. We were both nervous and excited, thinking we were doing something daring. But the reality was far from glamorous—the smoke was harsh, and we both ended up coughing and feeling sick. We barely made it back to the house before we both threw up.
The noise caught Patty’s attention, and he ran to alert Aunt Gracie. She rushed in, saw our condition, and demanded an explanation. Embarrassed and ashamed, we confessed to taking her cigarettes and trying to smoke. Her face shifted from worry to shock, then to stern disappointment. She wasn’t happy, but her first concern was our well-being.
She quickly gave us some bitter-tasting anti-nausea medicine, making sure we drank it slowly. Once she was sure we were okay, she undressed us and put us in the bath. The smell of smoke and vomit lingered, and she scrubbed us clean, her silence heavy with anticipation of what was coming next.
After our bath, Aunt Gracie dried us off and told us to wait in her bedroom. Walking down the hall felt like heading to our doom. Johnny and I exchanged anxious looks, both knowing what was about to happen. We sat on the edge of her bed, barely whispering, the tension almost unbearable.
After what felt like forever, Aunt Gracie came in holding a big wooden spoon from the kitchen. Johnny gasped when he saw it. She sat at her vanity, facing us, her posture strict and her gaze steady. “Alright, boys—who decided to take my cigarettes and smoke them?” she asked. In a panic, Johnny blurted, “It was Eddie’s idea, Mom!” I was shocked—it had been a joint plan, but Johnny threw me under the bus, probably out of habit from dealing with his older siblings.
Aunt Gracie didn’t hesitate. She called Johnny over, and he reluctantly obeyed. She pulled him over her lap, adjusted him, and raised the spoon. The first smack echoed, and Johnny immediately started squirming. She delivered a series of firm, measured swats, each one met with Johnny’s cries and tears. He wasn’t used to such discipline—being the youngest, he usually got off lightly. But this time, Aunt Gracie was making a statement. She continued until his bottom was bright red, then let him up. Johnny’s face was streaked with tears as he gingerly sat back down.
Then it was my turn. Aunt Gracie called me over, and I approached with my heart racing. She pulled me across her lap and showed me the spoon, as if to warn me. She knew I’d never been spanked with a spoon before, though she was well aware of my history with parental discipline. The first smack stung, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Still, she was thorough, making sure every part of my backside felt it. I tried to stay strong, but the pain quickly built up. I glanced at Johnny, who watched with a mix of sympathy and satisfaction.
When she saw I wasn’t crying, Aunt Gracie switched to her hand, delivering sharp, stinging slaps that finally broke my composure. I started to squirm and sob, unable to hold back the tears. She kept going until she was sure I’d learned my lesson, then let me up and told me to sit next to Johnny. Both of us were squirming, unable to sit still.
She then gave us a stern talking-to, her voice booming: “Don’t ever do anything like that again. If you do, you won’t be able to sit for a month of Sundays!” The message was clear, and we both nodded, still sniffling.
Aunt Gracie sent us off to bed. As we left her room, we bumped into Patty in the hallway. He’d probably heard everything, and his eyes widened when he saw our sore behinds. “Wow,” he said, clearly impressed by how hard we’d been punished. It was obvious I’d gotten the worst of it, and Patty would tease us for years, calling us the “Red Butt Boys.”
That afternoon, Johnny and I put on our pajamas and crawled into bed, even though it was still early. The pain and embarrassment lingered, but so did a strange sense of solidarity. We’d gone through it together, and it brought us closer as cousins and friends.
Later, Aunt Gracie called us down for dinner. We ate quietly, still feeling the sting, and she let us watch TV for a bit before sending us back to bed. I thought that was the end of it, but I was mistaken.
A couple of days later, when my dad came to pick me up, Aunt Gracie told him everything. Dad seemed satisfied that I’d been punished enough and considered the matter settled. But Mom saw things differently.
The day after I got home, I was in the bath when Mom walked in, holding a pair of my briefs. Her expression was serious. “Eddie, Aunt Gracie told me what happened with you and Johnny and the cigarettes. I’m going to spank you after your bath.” Her words hit me hard. I started crying, pleading, “Aunt Gracie already spanked me.” But Mom was unmoved. She left the room, leaving me to dread what was coming.
After a few minutes, Mom called me out of the tub. I dried off, put on my briefs, and went to her room, still sobbing. She was waiting on her bed, which looked huge and intimidating. Without a word, she pulled me over her lap, positioning me so my legs dangled and my head nearly touched the floor. The humiliation was intense, but I knew there was no escape.
Through my tears, I tried one last protest: “Aunt Gracie already spanked me and I said I was sorry!” Mom’s reply was firm: “That doesn’t count, young man.” She began spanking me hard and fast, her hand landing with precision and force. The pain was instant and much worse than Aunt Gracie’s spoon. Mom had a method—she always used the lower part of her hand, near the thumb, believing it was most effective. Each smack found the most sensitive spot, and I couldn’t help but cry out.
The spanking seemed endless, but eventually Mom stopped. She turned me to face her and said, “Eddie, I spoke to Aunt Gracie. She didn’t spank you enough. You were very naughty! Do you understand?” I could barely speak, but managed a tearful, “Yes, mommy.”
She gave me a final warning: “Don’t tell your father about this, or I’ll spank you again.” She turned me around, checked my thoroughly punished backside, pulled up my briefs, and sent me to my room. “Go to your room—and don’t come out until I say so.”
I ran to my room and stayed there, feeling a mix of anger, shame, and regret. It seemed so unfair to be punished twice for the same thing, and that my punishment was harsher than Johnny’s. But as I lay there, I realized the lesson was clear: sneaking cigarettes and smoking them wasn’t worth the pain or the trouble.
That evening, when Dad came home and we sat down for dinner, he noticed how uncomfortable I was. He asked if something was wrong, but I denied it. Dad looked puzzled, but didn’t push. I think he guessed what had happened, but chose not to say anything.
Looking back, those two spankings—from Aunt Gracie and from Mom—stand out as some of the most unforgettable and formative moments of my childhood. They hurt, both physically and emotionally, but they taught me about consequences, honesty, and the complicated nature of family discipline. And, of course, they gave Johnny, Patty, and me a story to laugh about for years.
