Spankings were quite common in the 1960s. This is a true story from 1963.
In July 1963, my family went on a road trip, and my sister Katherine and I got into a shouting match which led to pinching, hitting, and kicking. I was 13, and Katherine had just turned 15 the week before. Katherine and I fought a lot in those days. I was jealous of her because she was very pretty, blond with hazel eyes, and had always been popular at school, whereas I was more nerdy, a bit on the chubby side, wore glasses, and had a hard time making friends, facts that Katherine took great pleasure in rubbing in my face.
I don’t remember what we were fighting about that particular day, but we had been at each other’s throats nonstop. My parents warned us to cut it out, but we didn’t. My dad gave us several more warnings.
The last warning was, “I’m going to pull this car over and spank the next one who your mother or I hear or see fighting!”
Our parents hadn’t spanked either one of us in over two years, so I don’t think we took the threat seriously. We were both quiet for about a minute, and then out of nowhere, my sister slapped me on the face and pulled my hair, which led to another mini back seat brawl.
“Damn it!” My dad swerved the car over to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. “Katherine, I warned you, young lady! Didn’t I? My dad angrily got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He opened the back door on the side where Katherine was sitting and he yanked her out of the car. My sister immediately started yelling, apologizing and pleading.
“No! Please! No! I’m sorry! Please. I won’t hit Ellie again! Please! I promise! NO! Not here! Please, I’m too old!”
I looked outside of the window and I saw my dad taking off his belt. Oh, this was too good to be true. Katherine was going to get just what she deserved!
I tried to watch, but my dad took her into the woods behind some trees with thick leaves blocking most of the view. My sister was loud so I could hear her screams.
“NO! PLEASE DAD NO! NOT THE BELT! NOT THE BELT! PLEASE! I’M SORRY! I’LL BE GOOD! I PROMISE! NO! NO PLEASE! STOP! NO! I’M TOO OLD! STOP! DON’T TAKE THEM OFF!”
Through the leaves I could see the bottom of my sister’s and father’s legs, and I saw my sister’s yellow pants yanked down to her feet and then my father pulled her to the ground where they were mostly out of view. All I could make out were her sneakers trying to kick but were restrained by her pants being wrapped down around her ankles.
“Please don’t! I’m too old! No! NO! Please! Please don’t pull them down! KEEP THEM UP! Please not here! DON’T!”
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of my dad’s leather belt slapping against bare skin. The screaming became howls, and then loud cries, which meant that my dad’s belt was hard at work.
Katherine and I had both gotten the belt a few times in our childhood. If we were wearing pants or shorts he would tell us to pull them down, or if we were wearing a skirt he would flip it up, then put us over his knee and pull our panties down. Then he would fold his belt in half and give us a few whacks with it, usually between 5 to 10, and boy it hurt! I don’t think our dad has ever given us more than 10 licks with the belt, but this time Katherine was definitely getting more. I wasn’t counting the number of slaps but they seemed to go on for over a minute, and Katherine’s wailing became more agonizing. I went from feeling happy that she was getting punished to feeling sorry for her.
After what seemed like an eternity, my dad and sister returned to the car. Dad still had his belt in his hand.
“Katherine, I don’t want to hear a peep out of you! Now get in the car!”
My sister was sobbing and sniffling, and her neatly brushed blonde hair was now a wild mess with pieces of leaves embedded in it. With one hand my sister opened the car door, while with the other she was clutching her bottom. I noticed that her pants were still unbuttoned, and her zipper was down, but I thought I should wisely keep my mouth shut. Her cheeks were tear-stained and wet from crying and were bright red, blushing probably from embarrassment. What could be more humiliating for a 15-year-old girl than a bare bottom spanking? Katherine closed the door behind her and sat down, shifting from side to side like she was having a hard time getting comfortable.
As my father restarted the car, my mother turned around in her seat and lovingly looked over at her, handed her a tissue and said, “Katherine, I’m sorry that you were spanked at your age, but you were warned several times.”