The Old-Fashioned Discipline

THE OLD-FASHIONED DISCIPLINE (Shenendoah Valley, 1951) One summer afternoon when summer wheat was high --most already taken in-- and clouds were like lost sheep drifting over the mountains, my uncle-- for whatever reasons-- took a carnival pony-whip to his oldest son. He burst out the back door, already poised in action, the instrument up to strike, and brought the lash down on the boy’s shoulder --surprised, set to run, my cousin stood in midstep-- he hollered once-- a streak of blood crept over his skin, then another, sometimes the lash left only a bruise, a dark welt. The gaudy bright-colored whiplash sang or whispered as it came down again and again-- and soon he was a mess of stripes and cuts as he stood where he was enduring the whipping, knowing-- somehow-- he deserved this-- and only a single tear dangled on his nose refusing to fall. Meantime, bees buzzed in the clover, birds sang in the willow, and clouds like lost sheep drifted over the mountains.