GET ME THE SWITCH!

My parents were disciplinarians. Not tough, but firm. Their instrument of torture was the switch. A nice green limb from a young tree, heavy at one end and very slender and bendable at the other end which made a clean swipe.  If the switch broke after a few uses, a new one had to be picked. Daddy would order my sister or me to “go out and find a good switch.”  Sis and I learned soon how to find the best ones. We’d take time to find the “daddy” size. When we discovered a green limb, we’d call him to cut it for us with his trusty knife. We then cleaned it of leaves and tiny branches. Finding the best limb was sometimes worse than the “bite”.

Our back legs got the switches. Not the lower legs or the arms.  The very threat of its sting was enough of a reminder when we passed the refrigerator where the switch sat lounging across the top, a silent reminder of its power. Like obedient children, if there were no switch, we'd announce to Mother its absence. 

The earliest I remember having a switching was when I was five years old. A seven-year-old girl was playing with me one late afternoon.  In the course of play she announced she knew some nasty words. She told me about three and said, "I double-dog dare you to say them to the next person who walks by." Now if you are double-dog dared something, you have to carry out the dare. (I’ve forgotten those “nasty” words in the intervening years.) They seemed like foreign words at the time and I had to practice  the correct pronunciation. We watched until a lady walked towards her home that same evening.  I went up to her and said “$*&%r.” She stopped, asked me “Where do you live, you nasty little girl?” I pointed to the house behind me. She walked straight up to the door and knocked until my daddy came to the door. He was on his way to work for the evening. She explained the situation and demanded, “I think you should punish your daughter for such ill behavior.”

The next morning Daddy and Mother sat with me on our front porch. I had dreaded this talk.  “Where did you learn the words?” they demanded.  I replied, “Betty said she knew some and would teach me.”  I worked hard to hold back the tears trying to roll down my cheeks. “She dared me say them to the next person walking by.” With a stern look Daddy said, “You should have known those were not good words. You still will get a switching, but remember, you can’t talk like that anymore.” 

"But. Dad. I was double-dog dared . . ."  My parents just didn't understand; I still got the switching.

To this day I don’t swear, unless I'm mad as h---.