I got the hot end of a switch many a time as a kid. I survived.
I had to go pick one out and bring it to my mom. If it was too small she would go get one that wasn’t.
Psyops, southern style.
One day while burning leaves the fire made its way to the bush and burned it. I didn’t exactly get in its way.
So Ma just went to the Bolo paddle (without the ball).
I recall as a young boy when my older teen brother got in trouble - once he was caught with a group stealing a friend’s car for a joy-ride. The sounds coming from upstairs of our Dad delivering justice made the rest of us remember what was in store if we stepped out of line...
I got the hot end of a switch many a time as a kid. I survived.
I had to go pick one out and bring it to my mom. If it was too small she would go get one that wasn’t.
The same with me and my brothers. Dad would hand us his pocket knife and and tell us he didn’t want any willows smaller than his little finger.
Psyops, southern style.
Same here. Only we had an apple tree. The warning was, “Would you like some apple tea?”
Know what you mean. We had a huge weeping willow where she could get the one of her choice.
Trying to guess which one was the smallest "big enough" switch was part of the agony.
Ever notice how polite most southern kids are?
Me too, my mom hit us on the legs, winters were better than summers.
I wonder what the statute of limitations is on getting switched. I have about 3000 counts to file against my dad, including mental cruelty for making me cut my own switch.