Jen’s “spankings for the bad {grade school} boys” comment swept me back to Cincinnati, to my seventh grade grade art class taught by Mr Ertel. Mr. Ertel looked like a thin-faced version of Richard Nixon with black greasy hair and bald temples. He taught us to draw and he snapped us out of our day dreams with morsels like, “You don’t kill time, time kills you.” He wanted us to be good students, but more than that he needed to prepare us for what lay ahead, and he used his own blend of hard knocks and disappointment.
Mr. Ertel’s principle project that year was Steve Kugler, a solid juvenile delinquent, who went away to military school for two years and returned to us, endlessly polite – sir this and sir that – but unrepentant. Mr. Ertel, a shepherd of Steven’s wayward soul, repeatedly sat him down at empty tables during our drawing periods to counsel him about a young thug’s dim future. I admired my art teacher’s efforts though years later Steven and his father were sent to prison for running a chop shop.
Anyway, Mr. Ertel backed up his set of class rules with a long, heavy wooden paddle that he used to send fifteen year olds back to their seats with burning bottoms and watery eyes. My transgression? I clumsily knocked my chair to the floor. “The paddle or a quarter,” he said to me. Meaning I could walk up in front of the class while he took batting practice or pay a quarter to avoid the pain. What did I do? I froze. As I used to when called upon to answer any question. Surely, in this case, I knew the answer, and surely, given that my own father used the narrow strip of leather that held up his pants to discipline his sons, the pain would be far less. Still, I froze. I knew I couldn’t cough up a quarter because I would have been labeled a chicken shit. But what if that broad piece of wood hurt more than the belt and tears cascaded down my cheeks in front of my friends? Fortunately, for me, my long lack of a response gave Mr. Ertel a chance to back off. He asked, ” Didn’t you know knocking your chair over is a paddling offense?”
“No,” I squeaked. And that was that.
Anon
One great story, Michael. (It’s so amazing to me that you have so many of these inside of you.)
Chris
Good Lord. Can you imagine someone threatening your kid like this. Makes me cringe.
Anon is right…you are your mother’s son when it comes to stories.
BirdBrain
Excellent story. Reminded me of my 7th grade Social Studies teacher – who broke a yardstick over my head one day. My offense? Talking to my friend. Imagine!
Jen
How awful for you Michael! Jr. High is horrid enough with all the bullies and popular kids making everyone else miserable, but it’s a crime that the teachers used to be able to discupline this way.
I was scared stiff of my principal and would avoid his hall at all costs. It was so creepy to hear the smack of the paddle and cries of the children coming from his office.
Jen
And you were hit in the head BirdBrain??? How was that not considered abuse? Glad the pendulum has swung in the opposite direction for our children.
michael
I can’t believe they were still paddling kids by the time you got to school, Jen. I wonder if that was an Ohio thing because I don’t remember it happening when we moved to Indiana in 1963.
Jen
That would have been 1975/6. I remember one kid in particular, Russel something. Such a troubled kid. He would get paddled for not doing his homework at least once a week. I wonder what became of him…