by Susan Thomas
"...and it's called Nineteenth-century Woman?" Amy asked.
"Yes, and you'll love it." Her cousin Lacey actually sounded enthusiastic. "I learnt so much... how to milk a cow, how to churn butter. Oh, it's really great."
Amy was both suspicious and bewildered. She had the brochure photographs in front of her, so the experience was real, but for her cousin to actually like something involving hard work was astonishing. Then there was the fact that Lacey was known for her practical jokes. Where was the joke here?
Amy had come from England to study in the US. The families had thought it a good idea for Amy to go to the same college as Lacey, and then Amy's aunt could keep an eye on both girls together. Amy was enjoying college life and her studies, but had to admit to herself she didn't like Lacey. Her cousin was lazy, selfish and manipulative, and enjoyed playing rather cruel practical jokes. Amy, who was none of those things, found her very trying. However, the thought of spending five days learning some of the things that a nineteenth-century farm woman would have to do, really appealed to her.
"I'm not sure I can afford it," she said thoughtfully.
"Not a problem, Ames. Mom paid for me and offered to fund you. You could have come with me, but you were visiting your folks back home."
"That's really generous of her. Okay, I'll go."
Had Amy been looking at Lacey's face, she would have noticed the gleam of malicious pleasure in her eyes. As it was, she was amazed at just how many papers she had to sign and date. Later, she realised that not reading what was written above those signatures was a big mistake... but that was later.
Now Amy did have a fault, and one well known to Lacey, which was she was often late to things. She'd oversleep, or get chatting to someone, or get her head into her studies or something, which then made her late for... well just about everything. Going to the Nineteenth-century Woman farm was no exception. She should have set out really early to arrive at around nine thirty, but it was nearly twelve before she got to the small town. The arrangement was that the guests should park in town and then be driven up to the farm in a wagon drawn by two horses.
Amy walked from her car to the meeting place to see the owner, Jack, sitting waiting for her on the wagon. He didn't look angry, but he did look stern and rather displeased.
"I'm so sorry," she gabbled. "I was into some college work and simply forgot I had to get out on the road."
Jack nodded and put her bag in the back. "We'll discuss that this evening. In the meanwhile, what we had planned is now all out of joint, so we'd best get you back for lunch first."
Amy enjoyed the journey to the farm on the wagon. She'd never been on a horse-drawn vehicle before. She quizzed Jack and found that the business did not make a profit. He and his wife Tania had inherited wealth, and this was a hobby. Nor was the farm truly a nineteenth century one. Electricity was laid on, there was running water and a septic tank that enabled flush toilets. Although they farmed in the old way, life would indeed be hard if they had to live as their forbearers did. Amy, fascinated, forgot that Jack had said, "We'll discuss that this evening," and so didn't worry about it.
When she arrived at the farm, everything delighted her. Her room was simple: wooden walls painted in some sort of colour wash, with ornaments made of pressed flowers and straw for decoration. The simple wooden-framed bed had a beautiful handmade quilt. Amy loved it all but was puzzled as to why Lacey had liked it. This was so not Lacey's thing. Amy liked to write stories, merely for her own pleasure, and she felt she would have a rich mine for her future work.
She was taken to the kitchen farmhouse which was huge with a table big enough for ten. Amy, however, was the only guest this week which in a way pleased her. A large blackboard hung on one wall, and Amy's name was written up on it but nothing else. She was a little shy, but now she would get the undivided attention of Jack and Tania, and she felt really comfortable with them. They were somewhere in their forties she judged, old enough to be her parents maybe, but not elderly at all. Jack was quiet and rather stern but friendly enough. Tania though was bubbly and happy and really made Amy feel valued and welcomed.
Lunch was delicious: homemade vegetable soup; home baked sourdough bread; two of the farm's cheeses, one smoked in their own smoke house; a selection of homemade pickles; a berry and apple pie and thick cream from their creamery. Amy was so full she thought she'd never move again, but she was told by a laughing Tania that she'd soon work it off. She was given a large apron to wear and taken to the creamery where she was made to wash her hands and wrists thoroughly and put a cover over her hair.
She had no idea what the narrow wooden barrel with the pole sticking out of the top was for, but she soon discovered it was a butter churn, and she was set to work. The work was hard, and Amy's arms and shoulders ached from pumping the pole up and down. Tania was busy preparing the butter to make into blocks with butter pats... a job Amy would have to do another time. When Amy and Tania had finished, they went back to the kitchen for a drink and were joined by Jack.
"I'm not sure what we do with Amy now," he said. "Coming late has thrown out my schedule some, and it's not time for milking yet."
Amy blushed at the disapproval in his voice.
Tania made a suggestion, "Well, perhaps Amy would like to get the trip to the woodshed over with."
Jack nodded thoughtfully, "That's a good idea, bring it forward from this evening. What do you say Amy? Get that woodshed trip over and then it won't be on your mind?"
Amy had no idea what they were on about. She didn't want to admit that she hadn't read any of the material that Lacey had made her sign, so she tried for a vague response. "Should it be on my mind?"
Jack and Tania laughed. "Let's put it this way," Jack was good natured in the way he spoke, "our lady guests don't like that trip out to the woodshed."
Amy wondered why that was. Perhaps it involved sawing and chopping. She certainly couldn't imagine Lacey wanting to put her carefully manicured nails in danger. She, however, was up for anything; it was all so exciting and enjoyable. "That sounds fine to me. Everything is so wonderful here."
They smiled at her, and Amy followed Jack as he led the way along a path to the edge of the farm compound. Ahead of them was a wooden structure larger than Amy had imagined. Shed to her meant the six feet by four garden shed at home. This structure was the size of a triple garage and clearly old. The lower part was made of logs and the upper of clapboard with a pitched, shingled roof.
Inside there was electric light and a strange smell of wood, sawn wood and earth. The floor was a patchwork of different types of stone. Almost half the shed was taken up by wood sawn and split ready for the fire. Stacks of branches awaited attention, and several saw horses of different sizes and shapes were around including a very odd one that Amy didn't understand. It was larger than the others with quite a wide top which was padded with old blankets fixed into position; one side had a bar running right across from one leg to another. On the wall hung saws, axes and hand axes of various sizes. Near the door was an old section from a tree bound with two iron hoops. It was clearly used for chopping.
Amy breathed in the scent of the shed and loved all these unfamiliar things. This certainly was a great nineteenth-century woman experience; she was so glad she'd come. She turned to see Jack reaching for a large belt that hung from the wall by its solid brass buckle. He showed her the belt. It was the heavyweight champion of belts: thick, heavy and well-oiled to keep it supple.
"Now," Jack sounded very serious, "I put the buckle in my right hand like this." Amy nodded. "Then I wind the belt around my hand like this and grip that with the buckle." Amy paid close attention. "Then I bring the end of the belt up like so and put that into my right hand." The doubled belt hung from Jack's hand, its brass buckle now obscured by his big hand.
"And what's that used for?" Amy was curious.
"Why, spanking you for being late of course. A trip to the woodshed is all part of the Nineteenth-century Woman experience. Now you get those shorts and panties down, bend over that padded horse, grip the bar and I can give you your ten licks."
Realisation washed over Amy like a bucket of ice water. Stacey had stitched her up. She'd deliberately kept this part of the experience from her. Amy guessed immediately that there would be a penalty of some sort if she just refused and left. "What happens if I run off?"
Jack laughed. "Last minute nerves are quite normal, but in time you'll value all these experiences. Nothing happens to you, but your aunt loses her $5,000 deposit."
Amy sighed; she'd been caught by one of Lacey's cruel practical jokes, and now she had no choice but to go through with it, or her aunt lost a huge sum of money. She stepped over to the saw horse but stood hesitating.
"Amy, I add penalty licks for delay. I'm starting that right now. One so far."
"But..."
"Two."
"Okay! Stop counting!"
But Amy's shorts were still up, and Jack's calm voice carried on. "Three."
Amy's fingers blurred into action and, facing the saw horse, her shorts were quickly down. She hesitated before pulling her panties down but, fearful of four extras, she got them down and bent over reaching to grasp the bar below. She felt hideously embarrassed that he was seeing her bare bottom and heaven knows what else. She put her legs tightly together.
"Good work Amy. Now don't go leaping up or that will earn extras too. Just keep your hands on that bar, and it will soon be over."
Abruptly there was a harsh blow across Amy's bottom followed immediately by a fiery line of pain. She grunted and screwed up her face surprised by how much that hurt. As the second one cracked down she heard the sound in the shed. Her grunt was much louder and her face screwed up again. Only two! How was she going to take this? The third made her lose her grip on the bar, and she replaced her grip savagely, not wanting any more than she was getting already. The fourth wrung a long cry from her.
Amy gritted her teeth and screwed up her face in anticipation of the next blow. She felt that every cry somehow rewarded Lacey, and she hated to do that. She felt the blow land right across the centre of her bare cheeks but managed to strangle her sound to a sort of "Mmmmm!" The licks were not coming fast and furious but slow and steady.
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