Crime and Punishment

You were punished in the 50s. No time outs, no use your inside voice: you were punished when you were bad. Going to your room was the prelude. Going to your room usually meant that sooner or later you would receive a painful reminder that your parents were in charge and that there was no negotiating.
Usually I would be punished for talking back to my mother or for fighting with my brother Carl. If it wasn't too serious, Mom would handle it all and Dad wouldn't hear a word about it. A spanking from Mom stung more than hurt, because most times her heart wasn't really into it.
We didn't misbehave outside of the home too much because Mom's form of justice was swift and to the point. Act up in a store and you found Mom grabbing a lock of your hair and twisting it tight as she led you out the door and into the car. No yelling or slapping, just a painful tug on your head and you were outta there. It didn't take long for you to know that you were expected to behave yourself in a store or a restaurant.
After she realized that her hand wasn't that intimidating to us, she began to use one of those wooden paddle ball handles. Without the ball, of course. That thing would leave you stinging for quite a while. Later she found a small piece of wood that was perfectly flat on one side. We called it "THE BAT". I even inscribed it thus with a pen. When the bat came out of the kitchen drawer you knew it was serious. Just a few quick swats across your butt was all it took for order to be restored.
I could be sent to my room for minor infractions, but that wasn't really punishment to me, because I could read or just lie on my bed, perfectly happy being alone. This would inevitably lead to my brother making faces at me, for which he would be punished if caught.
Mom had a special place for my brother when he was exceptionally evil. He would be banished to the hall closet until she thought he had had enough time to reflect and to learn from it. The only thing was; Carl liked it in there. He enjoyed being in a closed, dark space and wouldn't want to come out when Mom called "time's up." He was absolutely no help in dealing with the thing that lurked in our bedroom closet.
When you did something totally horrible, something that crossed a line your mother drew somewhere, your father would deal with it.
Fathers worked all day. They were subject to stresses and strains that we knew nothing about, and when they came home the last thing in the world they wanted to do was mete out justice to their disappointing offspring.
You cried when your mother told you she was going to tell your father what happened and you began crying when you heard the car pull in the drive. Dad's punishment was brief but decisive. A hard spanking and it hurt. It didn't happen often, and you tried awful hard not to bring it on yourself ever again.
Your mother yelled at you all day so you got used to her. You father's reprimands with all of their intensity would burn you to the core of your soul, and leave you a trembling mass of exposed nerves, hoping you'd never, ever have to endure his anger .
Your parents expected obedience and respect. Their disappointment in you was handled swiftly and with violence. Restrained violence for the most part, but it still hurt and it still embarrassed.
It was the way they were raised so it was all they knew. They tried their best. After a while there were no spankings, just yelling and scolding and lecturing. Television time and playing with your friends curtailed. A kinder,gentler parenting.
They told us it hurt them a lot more than it hurt us.
Maybe so, but boy did it ever sting.