It was the mid-1970s, a time when discipline was a common part of upbringing. I was staying with my great aunt after my parents had gone to France. She was a stern, elderly woman with little patience for disobedience. I was used to doing things my own way, but that meant nothing in her house.
My great aunt, with her silver hair always neatly pinned up, had a presence that commanded respect. Her sharp blue eyes missed nothing, and her thin lips rarely curved into a smile. She was tall and carried herself with an air of authority, her back always straight, and her movements deliberate. Despite her age, she was remarkably strong and agile.
She imposed a strict bedtime on me – eight o’clock, which I despised. Normally, I stayed up until I could no longer keep my eyes open. The first night I refused to go to bed, she sent me to the stairs with a sharp swat on my bottom. I was shocked, having never been hit before!
In the second week, I woke up one morning feeling exhausted and unwell. But like any typical child, I ignored the heavy-headed, stuffy feeling and played outside until I collapsed on the grass, feeling quite ill. A neighbor’s child called for my great aunt, who rushed out to help me.
The next thing I remember is being in the tub as she wiped me down with a cool cloth. Then she lifted me out (despite her age, she was very strong), wrapped me in a towel, and led me to the guest room. I could barely walk, feeling so weak. Everything seemed to be spinning. The last thing I recall is being helped onto the bed and having a cool sheet pulled up around my chin.
The next morning, I felt the same, though less dizzy. I opened my eyes and just lay in bed, afraid that any movement would make the nausea worse. A short while later, the door opened and my great aunt bustled in.
“Oh, good, you’re awake – how are you feeling?” “Not so good,” I croaked. She came over to me and felt my forehead. “You do feel a little warm – stay there.”
I wasn’t moving at all, trust me. No way. Not with a churning stomach. She came back a few minutes later as my eyes were shutting again. I heard her moving around but didn’t open them. I heard her fumbling and then she was pulling the sheet down and I was lying there.
“Meagan Rose!” Her voice scared the life out of me. I had never heard such an angry tone. Suddenly, I was across her knee and my legs were pinned under one of hers. Then I heard it – like a gunshot.
Smack!
A second later, I felt a stinging across my entire bottom and I screamed. It wasn’t long before the next smack landed on my bottom. I cried out and my eyes filled with tears. It seemed like it would never end. I howled and cried and yelled, trying to kick my legs – but they were firmly held under my aunt’s leg. “Please, auntie – I’m sorry, I’ll never spit again. Please stop!”
Smack, smack, smack.
“Ow! Auntie, please stop!” I was sobbing and my bottom felt like it was on fire. My great aunt made sure to cover all of my behind but focused mainly on the ‘sit spot’. As I cried, I knew it would hurt to sit for a long time to come.
Smack, smack, smack, smack!
And then – it seemed to be over. I didn’t try to get up; I was no fool. I lay over her knee, crying. I reached up to rub my poor bottom and my hands were pinned down. Suddenly, another smack came down on my already sore bottom – but this was much harder than auntie’s hand.
Whack, whack, whack, whack!
I screamed as loud as I could – this pain was unbearable against freshly-spanked skin. She whacked me about 10 more times and then it finally stopped. I saw the thing she had been hitting me with – her old hairbrush. It was a heavy, wooden brush with a thick handle and a broad, flat back. The wood was polished and smooth, making it much more painful than her hand. Each strike from the hairbrush felt like a hammer blow, far more intense and stinging than the smacks from her palm.
