(gap: 2s) When I was in my formative years, I was occasionally given a gentle smack, but never anything truly harsh. In truth, I often deserved these little reprimands, for I was a rather spirited and adventurous boy! My childhood was filled with laughter and delightful escapades, the sort of days that seemed to last forever, scented with freshly cut grass and the distant chime of the ice cream man’s bell.
It was Mother who usually administered these admonishments, though looking back, they were more dramatic than truly severe. Yet, there is one particular day that remains vivid in my memory—a day when Mother’s patience was truly tested, and her hand found my bottom with a little more determination than usual.
It happened during a summer holiday, the kind that glowed with golden sunlight and the promise of endless fun. My family, together with my aunt, uncle, and my cousin Edward, had taken up residence on a working farm. We shared a converted barn, its beams rich with the scent of old wood and hay, and the air alive with the gentle clucking of hens and the lowing of cows. Edward and I were the best of friends, eager to explore every corner of our rural kingdom.
Behind our barn, beyond a tangle of nettles and wildflowers, stood a rickety old fence, its paint peeling and its posts leaning like tired soldiers. There were barrels, rusted and mysterious, and a jumble of farm odds and ends that seemed to promise adventure. Most tempting of all was the plum tree, its branches heavy with ripe, purple fruit, hanging just out of reach over the fence. The plums that fell were sweet and sticky, but Edward and I, never content with what was easy, decided we must have the ones still clinging to the highest branches.
We set about our task with the determination of boys on a quest. We dragged over a battered wheelbarrow, stacked it with a crate and a couple of old milk churns, and Edward, being the elder and braver, climbed up first. He balanced precariously atop the fence, one hand gripping a branch, the other reaching for the juiciest plum. I scrambled up after him, my heart thumping with excitement and a little fear. Just as I reached the top, the fence gave a groan and, with a splintering crack, collapsed beneath us. Down we tumbled in a tangle of arms and legs, our laughter turning to yelps as we hit the ground.
I landed hard, scraping my shins and palms, the sting of splinters sharp and immediate. But Edward had landed on his feet, right atop a hidden wasps’ nest tucked beneath the fence. There was a moment of silence, then a furious buzzing, and suddenly Edward was howling, leaping about as if he had been set alight, swatting at his legs and feet as the wasps swarmed.
I scrambled to my feet, only to feel the sharp, burning pain of a wasp sting on my arm, then another on my neck. We must have made quite a sight, two boys shrieking and flailing, running in circles as the wasps chased us. Our cries brought the grown-ups running—my father, uncle, aunt, and Mother, all shouting and waving their arms, trying to shoo away the angry insects. In the commotion, I saw my uncle and father both get stung, hopping about and muttering under their breath, while my aunt and Mother managed to escape unscathed.
Once the wasps had been driven off and we were herded to safety, the grown-ups gathered round, faces stern and voices raised. My aunt, her cheeks flushed with worry and anger, demanded to know what on earth we had been up to. My father and uncle, meanwhile, were already inspecting the broken fence, muttering about repairs and costs, their concern for our injuries quickly giving way to concern for their wallets.
Edward and I stood there, hopping from foot to foot, our legs and arms throbbing with pain, when my aunt announced that Edward was going to receive a proper punishment. She seized him by the arm and marched him off towards the barn, her lips pressed into a thin line. My Mother, not to be outdone, took my arm in her firm grip and led me into the house, her eyes flashing with a mixture of worry and resolve.
Most of the smacks I had received from Mother up to that point had been quick affairs, delivered standing up. She would tuck me under her arm, give a few brisk smacks to the backs of my legs, and scold me for my foolishness. It was over in a flash, the sting fading almost as quickly as her anger. But this time, there was a different air about her—a sense that this was to be a lesson I would not soon forget.
The punishment began as usual, with a few sharp smacks to the backs of my legs, just below the hem of my shorts. But then, instead of sending me on my way, Mother marched me to the bathroom. She rummaged through the medicine cabinet and produced a brown bottle of antiseptic, its smell sharp and medicinal. She dabbed it onto my grazed shins, and I howled as the liquid burned, tears springing to my eyes. The sting of the wasps was nothing compared to this!
As I danced from foot to foot, Mother scolded me for my recklessness, her words tumbling out in a flurry of concern and exasperation. “Whatever were you thinking, climbing that fence? You could have broken your neck!” she cried, punctuating her lecture with another round of smacks to my legs. It was a curious sort of punishment—half care, half chastisement—and I was not sure whether to feel comforted or aggrieved.
Next, she inspected my palms, wincing at the sight of the splinters. Out came the tweezers, and she set about removing them with the precision of a surgeon, all the while muttering about boys and their foolishness. Each splinter was followed by a dab of stinging liquid and another smack for good measure. By now, I was sobbing openly, my pride as battered as my body.
From the other room, I could hear Edward’s cries growing louder, his pleas echoing down the hallway. His mother was clearly not holding back, and I wondered if my own Mother was spurred on by the sound of his punishment. Once my wounds had been tended to, she took me by the arm and led me to my bedroom, her face set in grim determination.
The room was bathed in the gentle afternoon light, golden rays slanting through the curtains and casting patterns on the floor. My heart fluttered in my chest, for I sensed that something different was about to happen. Mother sat on the edge of my bed, her back straight and her expression both kind and resolute. She patted her lap, and with a trembling lip, I found myself drawn across her knee for the very first time.
The world seemed to hush for a moment, as if the very house was holding its breath. I could hear the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the low murmur of voices, and, most of all, the desperate wailing of my cousin from across the landing. My own breath came in short, nervous gasps, and I felt terribly small and rather sorry for myself.
Then, with a firm but loving hand, Mother began the spanking in earnest. Her palm rose and fell with a steady rhythm, each smack sharp but never cruel. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and with every stinging pat, I felt a mixture of shame, regret, and a curious sense of relief that the suspense was over. My bottom smarted dreadfully, and soon my own cries joined Edward’s, though Mother’s voice was gentle as she reminded me, “This is for your own good, my dear. You must learn to be careful.”
At last, when my sobs had grown soft and my resistance had melted away, Mother paused. She rested her hand on my back, her touch now soothing and kind. “There, there,” she murmured, “it is all over now.” She helped me to my feet, and I stood before her, cheeks wet with tears, feeling both chastened and strangely comforted.
Mother checked my wounds once more, her hands gentle now, her voice soft with concern. “You must be more careful,” she said, dabbing at my shins with a cool cloth. But just as I thought the ordeal was over, she delivered a final few smacks to the backs of my legs, a gentle reminder not to forget the lesson I had learned. Then she left me alone to reflect on my misadventure, the door closing softly behind her.
I lay on my bed, sniffling and sore, listening to the sounds of the farm drifting in through the open window—the distant moo of a cow, the chirp of sparrows, the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees. I could hear Edward’s muffled sobs from the other room, and I knew he had fared no better than I.
Later, as we compared our wounds in the fading light, Edward told me in hushed tones how his mother had bent him over the end of his bed and slippered him most thoroughly. She had ignored his wasp stings entirely, focusing all her energy on making his bottom hurt far worse and for far longer than any wasp could manage. We both agreed that we would rather face a hundred wasps than another punishment like that!
That evening, we hobbled about the farmyard, unable to sit or lie down comfortably, our movements stiff and awkward. The grown-ups watched us with a mixture of amusement and sympathy, and even the farm dog seemed to sense our discomfort, keeping a respectful distance. That night, I tossed and turned, my legs, bottom, and palms burning as if I had spent the day roasting in the sun. It was three whole days before we felt brave enough to venture near the fence again, and even then, we gave the plum tree a wide berth.
Before we left the farm, the owner—a kindly old gentleman with twinkling eyes—presented us with a large bag of plums, their skins shining in the morning light. “For the brave explorers,” he said with a wink. They were the sweetest plums I had ever tasted, but even now, whenever I see a plum, I remember that summer holiday, the sting of the wasps, and the sore bottom that fruit cost me. And, in a curious way, I would not trade those memories for anything in the world.
