With a small exception here and there my Dad only whipped for four things: lying, stealing, cheating or sassing.
Break a lamp. Tear your clothes playing. No problem.
Notice, I didn’t include “disobey” in the list of whipping offenses. He also whipped for that too, of course, but he was rarely disobeyed and never to his face.
I asked him once what would he do if he told one his children –he had seven by my mother — to do something and they said, “No.” He jerked like I had slapped him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It never happened.”
Dad’s definition of sass was broad. It included a disrespectful look on your face or tone in your voice and it paid you to remember that.
This happened when I was a teenager:
I was sitting on the toilet when I heard him call my name, “Pat!”
I didn’t ignore him. I didn’t yell back, “I’m in the bathroom!” or “Just a minute!” either. I knew better. I yelled, “Yes, sir! Coming, sir!” And then I stopped doing what I was doing, flushed the toilet, pulled up my pants, and reported.
Dad was hard of hearing so I stood in front of him, to one side, so he could see my face and read my lips.
“Sir?” I said, signaling my arrival.
He was sitting in his easy chair. “Hand me that paper will you,” he said, pointing to another chair two steps from where he was sitting.
I handed him the newspaper.
[I did NOT say, “Is this all you wanted? Is this why you got me out of the bathroom? Because you were too lazy to get up and get the paper yourself?” Not hardly.]
He could hear a little and the flush of the toilet finally registered. He asked me, “Were you in the bathroom?”
“Yes sir,” I said, keeping my voice flat, as level as a table top.
“I didn’t know you were in the bathroom.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move either. I hadn’t been dismissed.
“That’s all,” he said.
Extra post coming Thursday, the two-year anniversary: Lost on Blood Mountain, Part I
