I was raised by parents who firmly believed in “spare the rod, spoil the child.” When we did something wrong, and they found out, it ended in a spanking. Usually with the wooden spoon, though I remember having to go pick my own switch more than once. We’d have to wait in our room upstairs until Mom came up, sat on a bed and said, “Elizabeth, get over here.” God, those words were terrifying. I feel like it always went oldest to youngest, but I may just be making that up. We’d all get punished together, so first was best, because it was over and you could just cry while the other two were getting theirs. Last was the worst, with all the anticipation. In the end, though, I guess it didn’t really matter when you went, it still hurt like hell.

I know at some point in the process, we’d have to say why we were in trouble, what we did wrong, and, I think, ask for forgiveness. At the very least apologize. I’m thinking this was before the hammer fell, because I know I was usually too upset to talk after. Was there a prayer too? My sisters have better memories than I do, they’d know. And the rule was you had to cry. Crying meant you were really sorry, and the bad-behavior demon/devil/evil was broken. That’s not a joke, the devil made us do bad things, made everyone do bad things. My parents did a brief stint at a couple’s therapy group program at the church. When they fought, my sisters and I formed a ring around them, shouted “STRIFE BREAK” and stamped our feet to get the devil out.

I had a weird childhood.
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