SPARE THE ROD AND...

Spare the Rod and …

By

George S. Harris

You know the old saw—Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child.  Well, let me tell you—my grandmother, Oceola (Ola) Sutton Barnes, lived by this rule.  At least that seemed to be the case in the early years of my life.  I suppose there were really only a couple of incidents where I got a lickin’, but they have stayed with me all these years. 

When I was about five years old, my parents and their best friends, George and Hattie Brown, planned a night in Tulsa to attend the Ice Follies.  Naturally, I thought I should be included in the affair, even though I probably didn’t know what the “Ice Follies” really were.  I simply thought I should be included—because.  And I proceeded to throw what my mother called a “hissy fit”.  I never have figured out where the term came from, but that what it was.  Today, we would call it “acting out” or a “tantrum” or some other learned psychological term, but then it was just a “hissy fit”—a good old-fashioned mid-western and southern term. 

Innately, kids know that such actions can result in some kind of reward to get them to stop even though there are times when it may result in a sound trouncing (another interesting word of unknown origin).  Kids will take a chance that their actions will lead to a reward—candy, a toy, a movie, an ice cream cone.  Psychologists know that random rewarding is one of the best methods for reinforcing a desired action.  Of course, in this instance, random rewarding only leads to more of the undesired action.  While they are many things, parents just aren’t very good psychologists.  So, it‘s tantrum-toy; tantrum-ice cream; tantrum-etc.—you get the picture. 

The reward I demanded for my stopping my “hissy fit” was every boy’s dream—a 2-bladed Keen Kutter pocketknife.  George Brown agreed and went to the hardware store to buy it for me.  The Browns and my folks were off to the Ice Follies and I had my Keen Kutter.  Life was good.  To test my new possession, I sat on the back stoop of my grandparents’ house and began to whittle away at the edge of the porch.  Everything was fine until my grandmother came out the back door and saw my attack on her porch.  I was always “George Stanley” when I was in trouble with her.  In her sternest voice she said, “George Stanley, cut that out!”  In my five-year old squeaky voice, I replied, “I’ll cut your guts out!”  I am still amazed today that I have managed to live to be 79 years old.  By all rights my life could well have ended at age 5.  Now my grandmother was no small lady.  At age 57, she was somewhere around 5 feet 8 to 10 inches and almost 18 stone or 250 pounds.  But could she move!

When I saw the look on her face, the old “fight or flight” instinct came to the forefront and I ran for my life.  It was down the driveway, up the sidewalk to the end of the block (I wasn’t allowed to go any further), across the street, back down the sidewalk to the other end of the block, across the street again, back up the sidewalk to the house and up on the front porch (my second mistake).  My grandfather, Psalter Goodwin (PG) Barnes, was sitting on the front porch witnessing the race—he simply reached out, grabbed me and held me until my grandmother could take over. 

My grandfather shaved with a straight razor and, therefore, was the owner of a razor strop—a ingenious device for sharpening his razor.  An inherent secondary use was the disciplining of errant children or, in this case, grandchildren.  Needless to say, a liberal application was made to my backside that day.  And my precious Keen Kutter was confiscated, to be turned over to my parents when they returned from Tulsa.  I don’t know if I ever got that knife back, but, needless to say, I have never threatened to cut anyone’s guts out either. 

For lesser crimes, my grandmother’s weapon of choice was a willow switch.  And this was always a humiliating experience since she made you go to the end of the street where an enormous willow grew and pick your instrument of torture.  If you were unfortunate to have the switch break before she had applied the necessary strokes to your little skinny bare legs, you were required to go fetch another switch.  An equal application of strokes would be applied with this new weapon. 

If you believe I have painted my grandmother as a tyrant, you couldn’t be further from the truth.  Our grandmother was a most loving person.  When we were in trouble at home, we would run to our grandmother for protection.  She was our refuge and while my brother and I did get our fair share of whacks from her, when I look at the outcome, two successful men with successful children (many of whom got their fair number of whacks), I think my grandmother did all right.  We were never injured, we never bled, but we did learn right from wrong with probably what was the gentle application of the razor strop or the willow switch.  There was never a malicious stroke. 

So, spare the rod and spoil the child—Dr. Spock, you may have had it wrong all these years!