Marjory, however, was a firm believer in strict discipline. She had raised her own children with clear boundaries, never shying away from using spanking as a corrective measure when she felt it was needed. In her home—just like ours, with its compact rooms and simple furnishings—discipline was a matter-of-fact part of life, and she believed that consistency and follow-through were essential for raising respectful children.
She kept a sturdy wooden hairbrush, one if her trusty rubber soled slippers, and, on occasion, a thick, flat-backed wooden spoon in a specific drawer in her bedroom—each implement reserved for moments when she felt a lesson needed to be taught. Marjory would calmly select the appropriate tool, explaining her reasons without anger or drama, and made sure her children understood the consequences of their actions.
One evening, I accidentally knocked over my glass of orange onto Marjory’s brand new carpet. She was clearly upset, and although she managed to clean the stain, she told me she’d have to mention it to my mother. I spent the rest of the night anxious, dreading what might happen.
Marjory tucked me into bed, and I drifted off before my mother returned home. The next morning, I found mother waiting for me in the kitchen, her expression serious. She explained that Marjory thought I deserved a good old-fashioned smacked bottom for what I’d done. Not wanting to jeopardize their friendship—especially since Marjory never accepted payment for watching me—Mother agreed. Still, she didn’t really want to be the one to punish me, so she decided that from now on, Marjory would have her full permission to discipline me if needed.
Marjory felt it was best to deal with things right away.
After finishing her first cup of tea of the day, she took a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer and led me to the bedroom where I slept. My heart pounded in my chest as I shuffled behind her, the cool morning air prickling my skin. The wooden spoon looked enormous in her hand, and I could almost feel its weight before it even touched me. As she sat on the edge of the bed, she told me firmly that resisting would only make things worse. I could hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each second stretching out as I stood there, my hands trembling.
When she finally pulled me over her lap, the world seemed to shrink to the small patch of sunlight on the carpet and the looming presence of that spoon. The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack, and a sting shot through my thin pajama bottoms, making me gasp. The sound was startling—loud and final—followed by a burning sensation that spread across my skin. Each swat came in quick succession, the wooden spoon slapping against me with a rhythm that seemed to fill the whole room. I tried to hold back my tears, but the pain built with every smack, hot and insistent, until I couldn’t help but cry out. My face burned with embarrassment as much as my bottom did, and I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. The smell of laundry soap and Marjory’s perfume mixed in the air, oddly comforting even as I sobbed. I remember thinking how unfair it all felt, but also how helpless I was to change it. When it was finally over, my bottom throbbed with a deep, aching heat, and I could still hear the faint ringing in my ears from the sound of the spoon. Marjory’s voice softened as she told me this would be the new arrangement from now on, and that she did not only use the wooden spoon. I lay there, sniffling, feeling both punished and strangely relieved that it was finished.
(gap: 1s)
That first spanking with the wooden spoon was only the beginning. Over the next months, whenever I stayed over at Marjory’s, I learned just how seriously she took her promise to my mother. Each time I slipped up, she handled it with the same calm certainty—never angry, but always firm. I remember one Saturday morning, I’d gotten into a squabble with a neighbor boy and ended up tracking mud all over Marjory’s freshly mopped kitchen floor. She didn’t raise her voice, just sighed and told me to fetch the slipper from her bedroom drawer. The slipper was heavy and soft, its worn leather cool in my hand. When she sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned me over, I felt a different kind of dread than with the spoon. The slipper’s smacks were duller, more thudding than stinging, but the ache they left behind seemed to settle deeper, making me wince with every step for the rest of the day. Marjory would always explain what I’d done wrong, her voice steady, and remind me that she expected better.
Another time, I was caught sneaking biscuits from the tin after being told not to. This time, Marjory reached for her sturdy wooden hairbrush. Its polished back was cold and hard, and as she tapped it against her palm, I knew I was in for it. The hairbrush delivered a sharp, biting pain—each smack was quick and precise, leaving a hot, prickling sting that lingered long after she was done. I remember the way the brush felt almost clinical, as if Marjory was determined to make sure the lesson stuck. She’d always finish by giving me a tissue and a gentle pat on the shoulder, her sternness melting into a kind of quiet sympathy.
Sometimes, it was the wooden spoon again—usually for careless accidents, like breaking a plate or forgetting to do my chores. The spoon’s sting was sharp and immediate, but it was the anticipation that made it worse: the way Marjory would calmly tell me to wait in my room while she finished her tea, the sound of her footsteps in the hallway, the creak of the door as she entered. Each implement had its own character, its own lesson, and I came to know them all too well.
Through it all, Marjory’s demeanor never changed. She was never cruel or mocking—just matter-of-fact, as if this was simply how things were done. The smells of her house—polish, soap, the faint trace of lavender—became mixed in my mind with the nervous flutter in my stomach whenever I knew I’d crossed a line. Looking back, I can still recall the different sensations: the slipper’s dull ache, the hairbrush’s sharp sting, the spoon’s fiery bite. Each one left its mark, not just on my skin, but in my memory, shaping the way I understood rules, consequences, and the strange comfort of knowing exactly where the boundaries lay.
