Ah! Winter in very rural Up-state New York. I was nine years old; my kid brother Denny, three years younger. One problem: my grandmother [Dad’s mom] was visiting. I didn’t like her much; I suspected Dad didn’t either, but there were proprieties to be observed.
My grandmother, head erect and coiffed in the imperial silver of the ruling class, brought to child-rearing the evangelical and behavioral austerity which put one in mind of a Puritan cleric. She felt that children should have fun, but only as a last resort. If we yelled during play, she advised us – based on dubious medical findings – that we would go mute in a month or so and never speak again. If we crossed our eyes in fun, it was her stated belief that our eyes would stay that way, we would be ugly, and no one would ever want to marry us; that we would die alone, in squalor, wherever that is. My grandmother; though not much of a party person, would have been an ideal companion for a witch burning or a meeting of the local Inquisition.
One snowy day, she was walking up the road which led to our house and that evening swore to Dad that Denny and I had thrown snowballs at her. As God is my witness, I don’t remember doing this, being the respectful, well-mannered child I was. Looking back, I might have done it if I thought I could get away with it. But with only the three of us on the road, and no one else within six miles in any direction, suspects were few… two to be precise unless we assume Grandma threw snowballs at herself and framed us.
“Jack, the children threw snowballs at me today and I want them punished severely!”
My father, little suspecting the storm he was entering, had just arrived home from work; he hadn’t even shaken out of his overcoat. The look on his face was that of a man trapped. But he rallied quickly. Dad had always been adaptable, but in this instance ‘dishonest’ proved a better word. It was in this way Dad fought for soil and air; at any cost he would climb over vanquished rivals, not join them; this included rivals with whom he shared a blood-line.
Now, as a child, I knew Dad always preached there were good reasons for plain, honest dealing. In this situation however, he evidently concluded there were better reasons against it; and so he seized upon the idea of a sham punishment.
He glowered at us while Grandma’s face flushed with the thrill of victory. “Go upstairs and prepare for a whipping!”
When we got upstairs, I started to unbuckle my blue jeans, while Denny started putting on extra shirts and pants.
“What are you doing!?”
“Preparing.”
“That’s not what he meant!”
Denny just shrugged and kept struggling into more shirts. He always was the bright one.
Himself closed the door to the bedroom, pulled out his belt, stared at Denny’s recently acquired corpulence, bent near us and whispered hoarsely, “When I start hitting the desk, you guys start hollerin!’ And don’t laugh!”
He larruped the bejeepers out of my desk while my younger brother and I set up a doleful duet; wailing a harmony which, we later learned to our general satisfaction was clearly audible throughout that large old house. T’was a religious experience; and Dad was not known for regular church attendance.
He went downstairs after beating my desk; manfully concealing [well, almost concealing] his remorse. His part was played with a frightening sincerity. Here was a man who might well never recover; oh, on rare occasions he might smile sadly, and in lighter moments, he might whistle just a few bars of “Asa’s Death.” But those who knew him best would say that Jack Garvin was never quite the same man after his mother made him beat those wonderful boys with a belt.
Grandmother kept hugging Dad. “What was I thinking!? All of this for a few snowballs!” she sobbed. He was too broken up to respond. Encore! Encore! Brother and I raced downstairs after stopping hurriedly in the bathroom to splash a bit of wetness on our cheeks. [Well, when you need tears in a hurry…] We entered the kitchen dabbing convincingly at our eyes, not wanting to miss a moment of his performance. Dad looked over grandmother’s convulsing shoulder and arched a monarchal eyebrow at us in warning, invoking silence and complicity.
The upshot of the story is that parental and filial loyalty were simultaneously served and my father split the leather of his brand new belt. A small price to pay, in the minds of Denny and me, for the wear and tear saved on two young bottoms.
By Lucky Garvin [email protected]