I was the first child born to my parents of 5 children. My mother was 17 when I was born, in late November of 1940. Dad had just turned 25. Dad worked as a logger in Northeastern Oregon, near LaGrande. My spankings began the roughly two weeks after I was born. In those days a mother and her baby usually stayed in the hospital for several days. In my case it was 10 days. After leaving the hospital my mom stayed with her mother in town for a few more days.
My dad had cut a hole in the fence along the Grand Ronde River, built a platform for a 10' x 16' tent, installed a tin wood stove for heat and for cooking, and that was my home for the next two years. That first night when I came home, when mom got ready to put me to bed, my dad spanked me. He tells me this was because he figured once I'd gotten over the pain and shock, I'd settle down and go to sleep.
For the next roughly 18 years of my life, I was either spanked, whipped, beaten or all three on almost every day of my life. For example, around age 4, Dad became angry with my mother, turned her over his knee and began spanking her. I ran up to him, trying to grab his hand and stop his whipping my mother. He backhanded me across the room, and continued spanking her. I'm not sure why he spanked her, except to say she wasn't the best of cooks and had probably not cooked something to his liking.
On another occasion when I was 8 y.o.a or so, he had me helping him stack hay. He didn't like the way I handled the pitchfork, I probably weighed about 1/3rd the amount the twisted hay I was trying to stack, and he struck at me with his pitchfork. The tine went between my big toe and the next one. He then whipped me to make his point. (Pun intended).
Around that same time, he had me helping him sack coal that had been delivered to be used in our heating stove. I was having difficulty holding the sack open for him in the breeze, so he showed me his anger by whipping me. When we were finished sacking the coal, he had me put the shovel away that he was using. I leaned the shovel against the wall where such tools were usually kept, glanced at him and realized he wasn't happy with me for some reason. Thinking I'd placed it wrong, I turned the shovel around. Looked at him, and could still see the anger in his eyes. I decided to try placing the blade of the shovel against the wall with the handle pointing down. Again, looking at him I could see the displeasure. I tried once more, by turning the shovel around. At about that time, he grabbed the shovel from my hands and swung it at me, striking me on my right hip with it, knocking me down. I got up and limped to the house. I never did learn just what set him off, but realize that my fear of him, provoked the onset of his anger.
On another occasion, (when I was around 11 y.o.a), I was helping him at his part time job at a local bakery, which he cleaned three times a week. In those days paper was used to line the garbage cans. I was busy lining the trash can, when he swung a push broom at my head, striking me on top of the head and opening a gash about three inches long which bled profusely. Before that day was done, he'd also spanked me. By that time, 1951-52 he was studying with the witnesses.
Around the same age, we were getting ready to attend the fireworks show at Toppenish, WA on the July 4th. We had a few chores to do before leaving, which included watering some plants. I was rolling up the hose, glanced up and realized that he was angry with me for not rolling the hose up quite the same as he liked it to be taken care of. Before that chore was finished, he'd grabbed the hose from my hands and whipped it across the side of my head. The brass coupling caught me just above the ear. Another bloody gash.
Dad used his hand to spank me. He used switches cut from a handy tree. He even used a folded up piece of barbwire fencing on one occasion as his instrument of punishment. I have scars yet that were inflicted by him. Some of which I can't remember why, but they are reminders of his abuse.
The last time he struck me, occurred when I was nearing 18. He'd gotten an 80 gallon water heater to install in the basement of the old house we lived in. I was on the bottom backing down the stairs and somehow allowed the tank to get against the block wall that lined the stairway. The result was a scratch on the tank of about 6" in length. When we got the tank set down, and straightened up, he promptly struck me in the chest with his fist, knocking me across the room and to the floor. I gathered my wits, stood up and told him, warned him that I had finally had enough of his treatment. He asked me what I thought I might do about it, and I told him if he ever struck me again, one of us would die.
At that point, he dropped his raised fists and turned and walked away. Two weeks later I left home and have only been back for visits.
I might add that Dad broke my next younger sister's arm when he grew angry at her because she couldn't learn to tie her shoes. As the eldest child I know that as we grew, the abuse of my siblings was much less than the punishment meted out to me. I also was responsible for my younger sisters and brother's behavior and often I was punished for something they did, because I'd been charged with keeping them out of trouble while my parents did shopping, or went to a movie by themselves, etc.
In later years, Dad admitted that by today's standards he'd have spent years in prison for his abusive ways. He's going to be 95 this coming November, and while I love him, I have no respect for the man.
As to the comment made by someone prior to my joining this thread about abused children grow into abusive parents, I can only say that I spanked my son less than five times during his years growing up. And all of the spankings but one were done with my hand, applied to his bottom. I'm ashamed to say I did use my belt on him one time.
I believe I'm entitled to say because of living the life of an abused child/teenager that I know the difference between spanking, whipping, and beating. I should add that Dad wouldn't stop spanking me until I cried which often took up to 20 slaps on my rear before I'd break down and cry. I often wet my pants before I would cry, because of the pain. To this day my pain tolerance is high. I've had surgery on my knees, broken bones and have required very little pain medicine because of that high tolerance.
