Carl and Cañon City's Civil War #T

Last week we saw a little Cañon City episode involving a youngster named Earl Cecil.  Today's tale is set in the same locale at about the same time.

The Tuttles lived about three-quarters of a block west of us at, oh, say, about 610 Mystic Avenue.  The Tuttles had two children, twins Carl and Carlene who were about the same age as I which at the time of this event would have been eight.

Mr. Tuttle, or Rev. Tuttle as he was known in the  community, was pastor of the Four Square Gospel Church a few blocks south on Fifth Street.  Thus it was that Carl and I had this in common: we both lived in a preacher's home.  Not the same one.  That is about all we had in common except the neighborhood, for we did not cotton to each other, so to speak.  I don't know if this had anything to do with the fact that our parents' churches might have been competing for the same clientele, or if we simply didn't much care for one another.

The setting is the garden behind the church were I am standing on the east verge of the veggie patch.  Father was four or five rows into the garden with a hoe.  He was intent on what he was doing and about then who should swagger up the alley beyond but Tuttle.  Carl, I mean.  In my memory's eye, Tuttle always swaggered.  Carl stopped opposite me, stared in my direction, his version of the evil eye, I think.  I stared back; neither of us said a word.  He bent to the ground, picked up a donie and heaved it in my direction.  Missed me, but with no formal declaration, war was on.  I bent and grabbed a rock, threw it toward him.  Missed by a mile.  Even my own dad would tell you I throw like a girl.  Oh, that  I could throw like some of these modern-day high school softball pitchers.

So Carl grabbed his second missive and wham!  Hit me square in the middle of the forehead.  Blood spurted, bells rang, and I, with all the strength my little eight-year old lungs and larynx could exert screamed, "YOU! DEVIL! YOU!"

Instantly my male parental unit became aware of my existence, dropped his hoe, took three or four quick steps toward me, grabbed my arm, and without a word hauled me into the house.  With no attempt to assess the damage to his only male offspring, he, in emulation of Mother Hubbard, spanked me soundly.

Then he cleaned the wound and patched me up.

From the Land Down Under

Bob Warr posted this yesterday.  He in turn got it from Leah.  It belongs here as well.

"The punters know that the horse named Morality rarely gets past the post, whereas 

the nag named Self-interest always runs a good race." 

~Gough Whitlam, writing in the London Daily Telegraph on October 19, 1989.

 Australia's 21st Prime Minister, Edward Gough Whitlam,

11 July 1916 - 21 Oct 2014 RIP

The Little Buck Private and Corporal Punishment #T

Sometimes an incident from my past recreates itself full-blown in my mind and offers the suggestion that I blog about it.  On other occasions, I, thinking the well is drying up, sit and cogitate on my past (reminisce) with intent to think of something to write about.

If you have followed String Too Short to Tie a sufficient length of time, you have been exposed to a number of real-life experiences I have had.  If, because most of them tend to cast me in a light such that by all appearances I was a good child, one who engaged in no negative behaviors to share, you conclude that I never had encounters with discipline, be disabused of the notion.  Surely you do not think that the sessions involving my father, or mother for that matter, flailing my little legs with a peach switch were engaged in merely because my parents and I enjoyed the dance.

Correction was not limited to the use of the switch, of course, as there were counseling sessions in which the rewards of good behavior were touched on, if more detailed attention were given to the wages of sin.  Then of course there was Daddy's razor strop, an instrument of correction truly to be avoided.  There was never any of the "Wait 'til your father gets home" from Mama, either.  She would simply direct one to the yard to get the switch, and "It had better be a good one."

Lest you misunderstand any of this, let me remind you that scripture says, "He who spares the rod hates his son."  I was a much-loved, a well-loved son.

But, and I am quoting my father here, I have said all that to say this.  I vividly recall one incident which I am quite sure occurred when I was seven years of age.  I have no idea which of the Ten Commandments or what Rule of the House I had violated.  But I remember the "session" with clarity as though it were just this morning.  Mother was the administrator of justice in this instance, and the tale begins as I entered the kitchen with the switch I had been directed to obtain.  I handed it to Mama.

Mama took my hand and led me into the back bedroom.  She closed the door.  Remember, there was a little sister in the house who needed not to be disturbed by the proceedings.  As was her wont, Mama delivered the "This hurts me more than it hurts you, blah, blah, blah" speech.  She then took my left hand in her left hand and flailed my little legs a few times.  She let me go, turned toward the door, and I laughed.  Mama seemed to consider that to be inappropriate behavior.  She spun around, and perhaps a bit less gently than she had handled me before, she grabbed my arm and switched me again.

This time as she was leaving, I laughed again.  She returned to me, and I observed quite quickly that as she was punishing me some more, the tears were rolling down her face, and when she started sobbing, I burst into tears of  my own.  This may have been the desired behavior, for we then fell sobbing into each others arms, assuring one another of the deep and abiding love that existed between us.