by Louis Woodley
I love to travel to other countries, learn a smattering of their languages, and experience their cultures, something you wouldn't do sitting at home. But one lesson learned overseas when I was a teenager left an indelible impression on me. I'd never heard the word 'skelping' before but I became all too familiar with it during my stay in Scotland, and it has followed me ever since.
My mother was Scottish, from a farming family, who came over to the States as a college exchange student and only intended to stay a year. But she met a dashing Engineering student who swept her off her feet (and apparently out of her clothes) because yours truly came along unexpectedly, resulting in a hasty marriage and a lot of paperwork for her to stay. She gave me a Scottish name, Blaire, as a concession to her heritage.
Needless to say, her family wasn't exactly enamored about Dad impregnating their daughter. However, it does take two to tango, and based on what I accidentally overheard during a late night bathroom trip and have never been able to bleach out of my brain, Mom is somewhat 'vocal' about enjoying the act in question. So, I doubt she was exactly ravished by Dad.
Anyway, once I was old enough to do the math I discovered that there were only six months between their marriage and my birth. They've never bothered to hide the circumstances of how I came about, and yet, for all their apparent efforts I remained an only child, so in a way I'm a lucky bit of procreation between them.
They've also never hidden the fact that Dad was somewhat of a persona non grata with our Scottish relatives. He was the Yank who'd taken her away from them, although he'd at least done the honorable thing and married her. We went over for my grandfather's funeral so the initial meet-and-greet wasn't under the best of circumstances. I was really too young so I can only remember snatches of details like the long flight, Mom being unhappy and then being surrounded by a bunch of people I couldn't understand what they were saying. I was honestly more impressed with the animals and the wide open spaces, since we live in the center of the city where you have to walk blocks to the nearest park.
My parents both had the wanderlust that they passed on to me, so once I got older we traveled across the US and to both Canada and the Bahamas, but we'd never gone back to Europe until the year I was 16. Then they found out about this two week wine tasting tour across France, Germany, and Italy that they wanted to go on, but unfortunately I was too young to be allowed to participate.
They felt that it was too much of an imposition to ask any of my friends' parents to put up with me for that long and they didn't like me being on my own when they might be unreachable in case of an emergency. So, they had a proposition for me. How would it be if we all flew over together, then they'd put me on a train so I could go up to Scotland and stay with Mom's family while they gallivanted around the wineries, then when they finished they'd let me choose what I wanted to see before we flew back.
I was admittedly a bit hesitant about spending a couple of weeks with family I hardly knew, but there were so many things I wanted to do like ride a double-decker bus, see Big Ben, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, etc. that I might never get the chance to see otherwise.
My parents gave me the hard sell, presenting it as a grand adventure and an opportunity to become fully immersed in another culture. I'd broached the idea of maybe spending a semester as an exchange student my junior year, so they saw this as a chance to make a trial run. If I was uncomfortable spending time with my own relatives who spoke (mostly) the same language then perhaps I wasn't cut out to spend months with total strangers. That was a telling blow to my ego. Why should I allow myself to be intimidated by my own grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins? Besides, I might meet some hunky guy in a kilt!
So, that summer we flew into Heathrow and spent a little time sightseeing before we crashed in the hotel from jet lag. The next morning, we took a taxi to the train station to start me on my journey. My tickets had been pre-ordered so my family knew when to expect my arrival in Edinburgh where my uncle would be waiting to pick me up and guide me the rest of the way home. Apparently they felt safer doing that than having me unsuccessfully switch trains and be lost in the station. Then I was off on my grand adventure.
We rode the subway all the time and a few short train rides but I'd never gone on one like this and certainly not solo. I'll admit I acted like a tourist staring out the window the entire journey taking in the sights as we headed north. Finally, we pulled into Edinburgh station and I'd been instructed to just wait for my Uncle Angus to find me rather than wandering aimlessly around the station. Thankfully, he was on the lookout for a shell-shocked Yank gaping around her so I was quickly found.
He gave me a brief hug before picking up my bags. My train had been slightly delayed so we didn't have much time to catch the train to Perth. Once we got onboard safely we talked during the two hour ride. He was quite honest about the fact that this was going to be a working vacation and I would be expected to pull my weight and contribute, something that Mom apparently glossed over.
Great, I'd be doing the same kind of grunt labor she'd been so eager to leave behind. He was the husband of my Aunt Lillian and after my grandfather died they'd moved their family into the house Mom had grown up in and now ran things. It seemed a bit odd considering Mom had a brother who theoretically should have been the more likely one to take over, but apparently Uncle Ian, like Mom, didn't share a love of the farming life.
But I quickly forgot about being put to work when he shared the other bit of news that my parents neglected to mention.
He informed me that they held with the 'old ways' and his sister had agreed that I should be bound by them as well while I was their guest. So, I should stay out of trouble unless I wanted a good skelping.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"Ah, you know, bare your bum, bend over and WHACK!" Uncle Angus pantomimed swinging his hand in a spanking motion, leaving no doubt what he meant. I was flabbergasted.
"Uh... you mean you'd spank my bare bottom?" I hated that my voice sounded like a childish squeak.
"Oh, aye, but not with my hand because that wouldn't be proper. No, that's what the tawse is for."
"Tawse?" I really squeaked now. "What is a tawse?"
"It's easier seen than explained so I'll show you when we arrive home. Your mum says you're used to a good hiding so there's no need to hold back on using it."
I must have looked shell-shocked because he assured me not to be concerned because it was a fact of life, so no one would think the less of me for getting a skelping and, anyway, wasn't it better that I was forewarned now rather than finding out in the heat of the moment? I'll admit that I'm not a candidate for sainthood and my parents are both fervent believers in corporal punishment, but it would have been nice if they'd given me an honest heads-up on what would be awaiting me in Tarsapple. Yep, that's the name of the urban metropolis where apparently I was going to get my bare butt smacked by some unknown implement with my parents' blessing.
I don't want to gloss over meeting my grandmother and other relatives, but I was a bit foggy from the jet lag and long hours on the train, and slightly distracted by the thought that they could be seeing my bare backside at any moment. Would the whole family witness my comeuppance and see far more of their American relative than she ever wanted them to see, or would she at least be afforded a modicum of privacy and howl in a bedroom? While it occupied my thoughts, I sure as hell wasn't going to say anything that might even remotely encourage them to provide a demonstration to welcome me. Nope, my goal was to remain as invisible as possible when it came to doling out sore bottoms.
My grandmother was just like the kind you'd expect to see in any movie about the British Isles, obviously the one who ruled the roost and the rest of the family bowed to her authority. There were some British mysteries I read where the guy referred to his wife as 'She Whom Must Be Obeyed' and that suited Gran to a T. I could see why Mom didn't have fond memories of her youth because she looked at me like I'd been granted an audience with the Queen and found wanting.
My Aunt Lillian at least made me feel welcome and not something the cat had dragged in. My cousins were actually the happiest to see me; apparently there was some cachet in having an American family member visiting in their social circle even though I was hardly a fashion icon (I was closer to Princess Mia before she discovered she was royalty and her grandmother remade her image).
Well, that's not exactly true. Two of my cousins seemed happy to meet me: 18 year old Maisie and her 16 year old brother Lachlan immediately made me feel welcome. On the other hand, 14 year old Rowan seemed to resent my presence. I wasn't sure what I could have done to possibly offend her until I discovered that we would be sharing her bedroom. That was certainly not what I was used to as an only child, so I could understand why she didn't seem thrilled about being forced to share. But at the time I had no idea how vindictive she was capable of being.
Lachlan was helping carry my bags down the hallway to Rowan's room when I saw it for the first time. There was a hook in the wall and from it was dangling what looked like a deformed belt. It was maybe 18-inches long and several inches wide, but it was split for about 2/3 of its length forming separate tongues. Was this the dreaded tawse?
My cousin saw me staring and quickly confirmed that this indeed was the family tool the adults used for tanning backsides. He assured me that it was as unpleasant as it appeared and if I was wise I would follow all instructions to the letter to avoid meeting it as long as possible.
It was an equal opportunity weapon because both of his parents and our grandmother were all skilled in its application. I shouldn't make the mistake of thinking that Gran was a softie; she could be as hard as flint when she was displeased with you and she had decades of experience wielding tawses against unwilling backsides so fighting my fate was unwise unless I truly wanted my backside to experience 'fulangas' (which he helpfully translated as 'suffering'). Great, this wasn't what I had in mind when I was thinking about learning a little of the local dialect!
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