There is a line from a song recorded by Gladys Knight & the Pips (among others), “The Way We Were,” in which she says, “Everybody’s talking about the good old days.”
It appears that everyone that I have talked to from the age of 48 to 90 are very disappointed in the quality and the values of today’s society and they long for “the good old days.” They feel the young people are rude, untrusting, selfish and disrespectful. Many believe that the breakdown of the nuclear family, the concerned neighbor, the tough teacher and the church are the reasons we are having so many problems
We are traveling to a space in time and jogging the windmills of your mind.
Do you remember when your mother cooked dinner and everyone in the family ate at the same time? There was one menu and if you did not like it, you did not eat. Even more so, the dinner table was a meeting place to discuss family business.
My father was a brick mason and he would come home from a very exhausting day of work. He would give each of his children a quarter to do certain things to make himself comfortable. I would get my quarter for getting his right house shoe and my brother would be paid for getting the left one. My sister would serve the table. Denise was the youngest and being born on my father’s birthday, Oct. 31, she did not have to do anything. Being born on Halloween and being extremely spoiled, I thought she was a witch. One day while we were having dinner, she became angry with me and took one of my mother’s teacakes and threw it at me. If you are not familiar with a teacake, it was a combination of a big cookie and a big pancake. Of course, when she threw it I ducked and it hit my brother.
He became angry and we started to fight. That was a big mistake. My father did not tolerate family fighting so we ended up getting whipped with his razor strap. Of course, being two years older than my brother, my father believed that I should have been able to be in control. As a result I received a few more licks for lack of maturity.
Speaking of whippings, there were several weapons used. There was the razor strap, ironing cord, belt, and back of the hand. My father was so good with the hand, that if we were all crowded in the back seat of our 1949 Pontiac and forgot how to act civilized, he could slap all of us with one sweep of his hand and never take his eyes off the road. He could also read minds.
I remember growing five inches over one summer and my voice got a little heavier. I never sassed my father, but one day he hit me in my chest and almost knocked me out. I asked him what did I do wrong? He stated, “Nothing.” But he reminded me that he did not like my body language and just in case I thought I could challenge him, I would have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my life. What is scary is I was starting to think I could take my old man. This was before the Psychic Friends Network. He read my mind.
Even though my father was tough, I would take 100 whippings from him rather than one from my mild-mannered mother. This sweet lady would hit you with anything. First of all, she would tell you to go get a switch from a tree or a bush. This would be the weapon used to beat some sense back into you. It would always be a pleasure to see your siblings get a whipping, but you better not laugh. Unfortunately, that was hard to do because my mother would spank my sisters on their legs and they would try to out jump the switch. This would cause anyone watching to get the giggles and Mom would terrorize anyone laughing.
There was also the delayed mind torture. She would say you are going to get a whipping. Days would go by and nothing would happen. Soon as you got comfortable, she would pounce on you like a woodpecker in a lumberyard. Then the most confusing part would take place. She would have the nerve to say, “Come over here, boy, and sit in my lap and show Mama some love.” You’re thinking, “This lady is crazy!” But once you sat in her lap of love, you realize the true meaning of tough love.
There were many more whippings to come from my parents and any parent in the neighborhood if you violated rules in their jurisdiction.
Was it brutality? Absolutely. But guess what, I wish they were here to whip me one more time so I could say thank you for whipping me and my siblings into shape and making us who we are. I guess if there is one more line from a song that I would dedicate to the parents who are having trouble with disrespectful children, it would be a song from the Dazz Band:
“Whip it baby, whip it right, whip it Baby, whip it all night!”
WORDS OF WISDOM: A well-trained memory is one that permits you to forget everything that isn’t worth remembering.
I’ll plant U now and dig U later. Peace and chicken grease!
Hugh Burrell can be reached at (313) 872-3437 and HughBurrell@aol.com.
