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Spankings, especially from my father, were not just a perfunctory
pat on the behind. He meant for us to remember them and used a
slipper, belt, or anything else that stung. The number of whacks on
our bare bottoms depended as much on our reaction to being caught as
the offense itself. We could expect more if we had lied or talked
back.
Often with tears still fresh in our eyes, the four of us would go up
to my room and compare war wounds. Bending over, we'd back up to the
mirror to see whose backsides had the reddest marks. Mine were
always the worst, mainly because I had the most sensitive skin.
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