Back in my formative years, my parents would argue a lot. At one time, it led to an attack by my father on my mother, which seemed to be the order of the day on the rough council estate we lived in. Eventually, my mother left him with me in tow, and I was never to see him again. To be honest, I cannot say I missed him, he was not only a bully and a coward, he was a drunk as well. With further honesty, I say I would have never wanted to grow up to be like him
After my mother’s divorce, we were to move in with her sister, Hillary and her children, creating a lively household full of children and endless mischief.
The house in Bolton in the North of England was a quaint, old-style house with a basic but warm interior and a flourishing garden. It was an ideal setting for a family to grow and make lasting memories.
I was soon to make a special bond with My cousin James, who was just a few months older than I was.
James was somewhat middle-class, and I was lower class from good peasant stock.
However, none of that appeared to matter as It just appeared that we bounced off each other.
One day, we got the not-so-bright idea to think the fish in the tank needed more than just fish food. Thus, we decided to feed them everything we could find, from cereal to lettuce and even lunch meats.
The fish seemed so eager, their tiny mouths opening and closing as if pleading for more than their usual flakes. We felt quite accomplished until my Aunt Hillary walked in. We quickly realized the trouble we were in!
And we were both to get a taste of the wooden spoon on our bottoms that day for our troubles
Aunt Hillary led us to the living room, her face stern but composed. She made us bend over the arm of the sofa, our shorts offering little protection. The wooden spoon came down with a swift, sharp smack, and we yelped in unison. Each strike was firm but measured, a reminder of the consequences of our actions. The sting lingered, but so did the lesson. We knew we had crossed a line, and Aunt Hillary’s discipline, though painful, was a testament to her care and commitment to raising us right.
The sensation of the wooden spoon smacking against our skin was a mix of sharp pain and a dull ache that followed. The initial impact was a jolt, a sudden burst of heat that spread across our bottoms. The sting was intense, making our eyes water and our breaths hitch. As the spoon came down again, the pain layered, each smack adding to the burning sensation. Our yelps turned to sobs, the realization of our mischief sinking in with each strike.
Emotionally, it was a whirlwind. There was the immediate regret of our actions, the embarrassment of being punished, and the overwhelming sense of guilt. Aunt Hillary’s stern face, usually so kind, was a stark reminder of our wrongdoing. The room seemed to close in on us, the walls echoing our cries. The aftermath was a mix of relief and lingering pain. Our bottoms throbbed, a constant reminder of the lesson learned. We were sent to our room, where we lay on our stomachs, the cool sheets offering some comfort. The emotional weight of the punishment hung over us, but so did the understanding that it was deserved.
Aunt Hillary was an extraordinary woman who was some years older than my own mother, embodying the essence of the 1960s. She was strict yet fair, with a heart full of love and a mind brimming with wisdom. She had a way of making you feel secure and cherished, even when you were in trouble.
She adored gardening and had the most stunning garden in the neighborhood. She also had a deep love for reading, with a book collection that could rival a small library.
Aunt Hillary and I shared a unique bond. She was like a second mother to me, always there to provide guidance and support. Her discipline was always balanced with kindness, and I knew she only wanted the best for us.
Aunt Hillary had a distinctive style. She often wore floral dresses, and her hair was always neatly styled in soft curls. Her appearance was as warm and inviting as her personality.
We feared Aunt Hillary’s wooden spoon, which she would often threaten us with, though she very rarely used it. The mere mention of it was enough to keep us in line.
Aunt Hillary’s wooden spoon was a formidable tool. Made of solid oak, it had a smooth, polished surface that gleamed in the light. The handle was long and sturdy, designed to provide a firm grip, while the spoon’s bowl was broad and flat, perfect for delivering a sharp, stinging smack. It was a simple yet effective instrument of discipline, and its presence alone was enough to make us think twice about misbehaving.
Aunt Hillary would take the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer and wave it at us children menacingly, threatening to smack our bottoms with it. The sight of her standing there, spoon in hand, was enough to make us behave.
James and I got into more trouble over the years, but nothing as severe as the day we fed the fish.
Looking back, Aunt Hillary’s discipline was well-deserved, and I hold her in high regard and affection.
Both my mother and Aunt Hillary were no strangers to corporal punishment. Growing up, they were often disciplined by my grandparents for the slightest infractions.
My grandparents had a variety of implements for such occasions. There was the wooden spoon, much like Aunt Hillary’s, but also a sturdy ruler and a flat slipper. Each had its own unique sting, and each was used to ensure obedience and respect.
Even minor missteps, like speaking out of turn or failing to complete chores, could result in a swift punishment. My mother and Aunt Hillary would be made to bend over, their bottoms exposed to the sharp, stinging smacks of the chosen implement.
The wooden spoon was a frequent choice, its broad surface delivering a sharp, burning pain that lingered long after the punishment was over. The ruler, with its narrow edge, provided a more focused sting, while the slipper’s flat surface offered a dull, aching thud.
At school, they were subjected to the same strict discipline. Teachers wielded rulers and slippers, ensuring that any misbehavior was swiftly corrected. The sound of a ruler striking a desk was a familiar one, a warning to all students to stay in line.
My mother often recounted stories of her childhood, where even minor infractions could result in a swift punishment. Aunt Hillary, too, had her share of tales, each one a testament to the strict upbringing they endured.
Despite the harshness, they both grew up to be strong, resilient women. They carried the lessons of their youth into their own parenting, believing that discipline, though sometimes painful, was necessary for raising well-mannered children.
