Ruining It For Everyone

Our parents (especially our mom) were never ones to "spare the rod."

Nonetheless, we got away (my sisters, brother and I) with a whole metric ton of crap we should have received a switching for.

Deb reminded me of this, when she read of the tree-climbing incident. She remembers that we took a beating when all Mom really did was scold us very hard about the dangers of tree climbing.

But since my Lil Sis was always (no really, I mean always) into something, she remembers a lot of butt-whippings. The wicked flee where no one pursues, or something like that.

I mean let's be honest. Mother was a stay-at-home mom but do you really believe that she could have been on top of everything four rowdies like us were into?

Not at all likely, so many of my childhood memories consist of us getting away with some pretty epic stuff.

It was a wonderful time.

I will say, looking back, that there may have been the occasional miscarriage of justice.

Take the Cowboy Incident.

By way of background let me explain that polio was a devastating and much feared childhood disease at the time. Everyone knew of families that suffered the heart-rending results of polio.

I don't recall much at all about it except that it always occurred (I believe) with the onset of a high fever, so that logically (or perhaps not) overheating was to be avoided at all costs.

And so it was that one warm (it's the South, so that that term is relative) summer evening, I was riding my imaginary horse across the high plains of the American West. Tracking down bad guys, as nearly as I can recall. Like Buchanan ( background singing: Randolph Scott), I rode alone.

Suddenly there was this shrill shrieking in the distance. Thinking myself ambushed by murderous Native Americans, I dove for cover, pulling my trusty six-shooter.

Something much more to be feared than native hostiles met my sight as I looked around for the source of the caterwauling: Mom striding across the yard with a determined look on her face.

"What are you doing, hot as it is, with all those clothes on?"

I was dressed as I imagined any cowboy might be, in jeans, t-shirt, a flannel shirt and a denim jacket. Indeed Randolph Scott himself never looked so spiffy or decked out to deal with whatever despicable villains I might encounter.

"I'm PLAYIN,'" I whined.

"Get all that stuff off right now!" she insisted.

"But I'm a COWBOY!" I defended myself.

She replied with a swat to the behind and a firm admonition to remove the excess clothing at  once lest I become a victim of polio.

This was very serious stuff, as I pointed out, though I will admit that my thoughts were not focused at all  on her watchcare over her child (me) but instead how she had ruined my perfectly good time and how I (at the time) hated her.

Not like you haven't been there at some point in your younger years so stop looking down your nose as though you haven't.

It was all quite unfair to my way of thinking.

You know my dad put it all into perspective some time later.

Mom was the main enforcer in our family, so Daddy would only intervene when he perhaps thought we weren't getting the point.

So maybe once a year or so, he would round up us three oldest and apply his belt a lick or two to the appropriate area. When my sister Brenda complained once that she hadn't been doing anything, he replied:

"Then this is for the things I didn't catch you doing."

You know there's a kind of rough frontier justice to that statement that I think even Randolph Scott could appreciate.