I remember my grandmother well—she was a great influence in my life, and I will never forget her. Her presence was like a warm, comforting blanket, always there to shield me from the harshness of the world.

Every summer, we would go to my grandparents’ summer home in Maine for vacation. It was such a great place – right on the ocean and lots of land to roam. There were forests of evergreens and five beaches (small ones), so we had many choices of scenery. The salty sea breeze would fill our lungs, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore was a constant lullaby.

One summer, I was permitted to go to grandmother’s alone. My brother Jeff was going to visit another relative and my parents stayed home, for my mother was expecting another baby any time. The anticipation of a new sibling added an extra layer of excitement to that summer.

A cousin came to visit and brought her daughter Leslie, whom I instantly loved. She was like a china doll. I just wanted to dress her up and play with her with tea sets and all that girls do while playing with dolls. My grandmother told me to stay on the night back porch with her, for she did not know the woods as I did, and I was too young to be a guide. The porch became our little kingdom, a place where imagination reigned supreme.

We did very well for quite a while but then I really wanted her to see my favourite beach. It meant going down a path in the woods for some distance – well, out of sight of the house. I suggested that we go and Leslie agreed, looking up to me as the ‘big girl’. The path was like a secret passage, leading us to a hidden paradise.

I was so caught up in the magic of the moment that I did not realise that I had caused a real alarm back at the house. I could hear people calling us so I ran with Leslie back to the house, while everyone was out looking. I left her with the tea sets on the porch and ran up to my bedroom, which was in the back of the house, facing the wooded path. I stood at the window with guilt pouring all over me. The weight of my actions pressed down on me like a heavy stone.

My poor grandmother, then in her 70s, came up to the steps and happened to look up at the window. “There she is!” went the cry. I crumbled to the floor, frozen in shame. How could I have done such a thing? The look of relief on her face quickly turned to one of disappointment.

Grandmother came into my room and closed the door. She told me that my mother had told her that I was such a good girl, that I could always be trusted to tell the truth and to obey. Grandmother was shaming me with every word she was saying. Each word was like a dagger, piercing my heart.

She said that if nanny was here instead of helping my mother, she would spank me. I started to cry, because I knew that was very true. Grandmother said that she would just have to do it. I begged her not to. My pleas fell on deaf ears, and I felt a sense of impending doom.

She took off her gold chain necklace and watch pin, which she placed carefully upon my bureau. Then she closed the two windows in the room and removed her sweater. I had never seen her move with such a deliberate motion. This was no frail grandmother. I backed into the corner, just watching. Her movements were methodical, almost ritualistic.

From a cabinet that sat on top of the bureau in the back she removed an antique, ivory hairbrush, very smooth on the back. I didn’t even realise it was there, for I didn’t use the very top little drawers of that bureau. The hairbrush was cool to the touch, its ivory surface polished to a gleaming finish. The bristles were firm, yet flexible, promising a sting with each stroke. It was a relic from another time, a symbol of discipline and authority.

Grandmother’s voice was so gentle, yet cold, that I never thought of protesting from that moment on. Her tone was like ice, sending shivers down my spine.

I was so much in awe of her that I said nothing – just hung my head in shame. The silence between us was deafening, filled with unspoken words and emotions.

“Do you know what I have to do?” she asked. I nodded. “Do you know why?” I nodded again. She pulled my left arm around so I was facing her right side and then pulled me down over her knees. I remember the wrinkles around her ankles. Those wrinkles told stories of a life well-lived, of hardships endured and lessons learned.

She pressed down on my back and then began to spank me with the brush. The first strike landed with a sharp crack, the sound echoing in the small room. Each stroke sent a jolt of pain through my body, the smooth back of the brush biting into my skin. It went on for quite a while, so I know I was very rosy on the bottom, but each stroke was not difficult to bear. I had the feeling that she really didn’t want to do this. The rhythm of the spanking was almost hypnotic, a dance of pain and penance.

My bottom became hotter and hotter, the sting intensifying with each strike. The room seemed to close in around me, the air thick with my shame and the rhythmic sound of the hairbrush. When I knew I had had enough, I cried that it really hurt. She stopped and stood me up. I felt my bottom and it was very hot. Grandmother told me I had to stay here in my room until dinner, so after she left the room, I lay on my bed and cried my eyes out. I had such shame. The tears flowed freely, washing away my guilt and sorrow.

I dressed for dinner by myself, and when I came down I felt that everyone was looking at me, but no-one said anything. I was told that I could not be alone with Leslie again that summer. I was told that she was too little for me. I think I was relieved, somehow. The weight of responsibility had been lifted, but the lesson remained etched in my memory.

As I grew older, I often reflected on that summer and the lessons it taught me. It was a time of innocence lost and wisdom gained. My grandmother’s discipline, though harsh, was a testament to her love and care. She wanted me to grow up to be a responsible and trustworthy person, and in her own way, she succeeded. The memory of that summer remains a poignant reminder of the complexities of love and discipline.

Years later, I would visit the old summer home, now empty and silent. The echoes of our laughter and the memories of those sunlit days lingered in the air. The beaches, the forests, and the house itself were all witnesses to the stories of our lives. And in the quiet moments, I could still hear my grandmother’s voice, guiding me, teaching me, and loving me in her own unique way.