I was about seven years old, living in Madera, California with my family when on this sunny, summer day my older sister, Belva and her three children, Beverly, Connie and Janice, came over to spend the afternoon. My niece, Beverly and I were the same age. The four of us loved playing hide and go seek or a game of tag but on this day, we were playing a game of throwing ripe tomatoes at each other from the bountiful crop of tomatoes in my dad’s garden.
Mom came out of the house and gave us a stern warning. The warning was -- not to stop throwing the tomatoes -- but she said, “Don’t throw the tomatoes at the clean sheets on the clothesline, and don’t wipe your hands on the sheets either.”
We all agreed we would be careful not to touch the sheets and continued our game of dodge the tomatoes. We would chase each other around and around the house throwing gushy, rotten tomatoes. Sometimes we would hide and then run some more. As I remember, we had a blast splatting tomatoes on each other.
But the good times didn’t last long. My mom and sister called us all over to the sheets hanging on the clothesline, and they lined us up to observe the damage.
“Which one of you wiped your hands on the sheets?” came the accusation in the form of a question. Mom expected a confession, but none was forthcoming.
I knew I didn’t do it, so I thought I was in the clear. Unfortunately, the other three also denied any knowledge of the dastardly deed. Since no one confessed, we were all pronounced guilty, and the penalty would be harsh. We were told to go pick a good size switch from the Willow tree and bring it back to receive our punishment.
I don’t know how three-year-old Janice could have broken off her own switch. She was so cute and little. Her nickname was Tweety Bird because she talked like Tweety, the desirable lunch of Sylvester the Cat. I suppose it was possible that she escaped the wrath of our parents -- but at the time, I was more concerned about my own switch.
We all went to the Willow tree in the backyard. I knew the drill, since I had to make the trip quite often. I snapped off a small twig, removed the leaves and brought it back to Mom. As usual, Mom rejected my first choice and sent me back to get a bigger one. The second switch passed inspection, and she immediately dealt out my whipping. Of course I howled in pain as did my nieces as we received our punishment. I remember how badly the switch stung and the blistering whelps it left on my legs. Mom never held back.
To this day no one has confessed to wiping their hands on the sheets. From time to time, I ask my nieces, “Which one of you did it?” Not me, not me, not me is always the answer. Then who, if not you, as I know it was not me?” As time goes by and memories fail, I’m concerned this crime will never be solved.
And speaking of a crime. Was it a crime to be whipped with a switch? At the time of the switching, I knew it was a horrible punishment that I did not want, but the threat of it did not keep me from getting into trouble. My mother always had a strange saying she would tell me each time I would plead “Not Guilty.” She would tell me, “I would rather punish you for something you didn’t do than to let you go undone for something you did do.” I heard it so many times it is etched into my brain.
So, I grew up, not being sent to my room or told to go stand with my face to the wall for a time out, as I have seen so many parents do today, but I received blistering swats and spankings, as did my mother. She did not spare the rod because she and her ten brothers and sisters were not spared. It’s just the way it was.
I made the decision to spank my children, but I did not do it in the harsh extremely painful and humiliating way my mother did. I dealt out correction but not beatings.
I called my niece, Beverly, as I was writing this memoir, just to get her view on the subject. Amazingly, she remembered it exactly as I did. We laughed and enjoyed reminiscing about our many childhood adventures and the whippings we received. I can’t imagine we were really that bad to deserve such punishment and so often. But, if the culprit had confessed to the tomato crime and if we had not shared in the willow tree switches, Beverly and I would not have this vivid memory to recall nor the laughter and closeness as we shared this childhood escapade with each other.
Somehow, I don’t think the memory of our tomato game would be the same today and I would not be writing this memoir if all we had for punishment back then was a time-out instead of being swatted by our hand-picked switches.
