Yes, Mom ruled with an iron fist and a wooden spoon. Actually it was 3 spoons; made from the finest ash, the same wood they were making Willie May’s bats with. The size varied according to the crime I committed.
Mom was adamant about what she demanded, and when she said something that was it. “You can’t go to the movies today.” Me: “Why not?” “Because I said so, that’s why,” pretty strong words, words that meant business. I would through the rest of the day, accepting those words knowing full well that a wooden spoon would back them up.
Mom had another weapon in her arsenal, the “point” which she pretty much reserved for the girls. I would always get the point with or without words or spoons. The point was a very pointed expression she would use to save her breath, and get across her wishes. Getting her point across had real meaning.
My Dad was really not a disciplinarian, but rather the lame threat Mom held in reserve. I can only remember once when my Dad chased me, all the other times were just a little yelling and an occasional threat. We never feared Dad, but Mom would say: “Wait till your Father gets home.” I would usually laugh and she would then reach for one of her wooden spoons.
“Where is he? If I get my hands on him, wait; wait till your father gets home. Wait, just wait till you get married, and have children of your own, I wish one on you just like yourself.”
She sure could sound pretty definite.
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