What a Boy Remembers...A true story, written by an adult child of a "spanking" family

One bright sunny day.
          I was about 5 or 6
                   following my father to his workshop in the basement.
I recall crawling up on a nearby stool,
          or perhaps I was standing by his workbench,
                   The sun pouring in a tiny window near the ceiling.
"What are we going to do today, Dad?"

I was so proud of my Dad.
          And proud of working with him.
"What are we going to do today, Dad?"

My father took a piece of naked 2x4,
          He began to shape it on his jigsaw.
"What are we doing today, Dad?"

He cut the piece of wood.
Then he sanded it.
"Wow, look at those hands", I thought.

Then he stained it.
He took a stencil and some paint.
He stenciled a name on it.
He told me that it was Old English.
And he showed me that it was my name.
"What are we doing today, Dad?"

The letters were so beautifully articulated,
            with curlicues and everything.
The letters were a beautiful shade of pale blue
            on a dark stained background.
He was so proud of his work.
            I was so proud that I had helped him.

He then shellacked it. And let it dry.

It was called "The Paddle."

Days later, or maybe weeks,
I failed to pick up my toys. <Whack!>
I failed to do a chore. <Whack!>
I failed to love properly. <Whack!>
I failed. <Whack!>

This is what I remember about my dad.