Dear Susan,

I have enjoyed your magazine for a few years now, and thought it was high time that I told you and the readers of my own experiences.

I was 12 that summer of 1957.  The school year had just ended, and my spirits were high with the feeling of freedom that only comes to children, although of course I envisaged myself as practically a teenager.

There wasn't a whole lot to do in our small NW Missouri town, so when three older guys (they must have been 14-15) asked me to hang around with them I was really excited and flattered.  When they told me one of their favorite things to do was to hot wire Billy's father's old truck and take it for a spin when the father was at work. It was a little scary, but I wasn't about to tell them that.  The fun didn't last too long, though, because a couple of miles outside of town there was Billy's father standing close to the road talking to a farmer.  We were caught.

Of course our respective parents were told.  I didn't get a chance to find out what happened to the other guys, because after a fairly severe spanking I was told I was being sent to spend the rest of the summer with my Aunt Ellen and my 17 year old cousin Katie who lived in Kansas City, in order to get me away from the company of these "bad influences."

Aunt Ellen picked me up at the bus station, and on the drive home I was told what was expected of me.  Being a kid, of course I got it wrong a few times, but she'd just talk things over with me.  Even though spanking was de rigueur in those days for correcting children, Aunt Ellen didn't believe in it.

That's what I thought anyway, until we were having a pool party about two weeks after I'd arrived, and I pushed a little girl (about 9 or 10) into the pool.  It was meant in fun – at the public pool back home, kids did that to each other all the time. She cried, Katie told Aunt Ellen, I was taken into the house, she sat down, I went across her lap, my shorts came off, and I was given a spanking, to my consternation.  Everybody outside must have heard the smacks and my crying, because a boy teased me about it.  I had a wrestle with him, which only made everything look worse than it was.

The next day (over my objections) we went shopping for some clothes for Katie and me.  First we went to the women's/girls section.  It was boring and very embarrassing for me to be there, but remembering the unpleasantness of yesterday, I kept quiet.  We'd been there about 20 minutes (it seemed like hours) when my aunt said, "She doesn't seem to be very happy about getting new clothes," indicating a girl of about my age standing in front of a mirror in a really dumb-looking, short, frilly dress.

"That's probably because that's a 'he', not a 'she'," said the lady clerk who was helping us (yes, clerks were very helpful years ago). "We get at least a few of those in here every month.  I think their mothers believe in helps them with their manners or respect or something."

"Hmmm," Aunt Ellen said thoughtfully, as she turned to look at me.  "You probably wouldn't be as likely to push and hit people if I put you into little dresses, would you?"  I might have been able to avoid what happened next if I had said something like, "Please, dear Auntie, I wish you would reconsider, because if you dress me like that I'll likely have to defend myself by fighting every kid in town.  Please, if you don't mind, reflect upon this proposed course of action."  Well, a 12 year old's language skills aren't quite that developed, and what came out of my mouth was, "No! You can't!"

That statement produced two things:  every eye in that section turned to look at me, and Aunt Ellen said, "Oh, think I can, and I think a certain little bottom needs a spanking to convince you of that."

"Is there a place where this little fellow and I can take care of some business?" she asked the clerk.

"People usually use that large dressing room at the end for this sort of thing," she said indicating a dressing room with a door that had openings of a couple of feet at the top and bottom.

There are those moments in life when the concept hits you that something very unpleasant is about to happen, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.  This was definitely one of those moments.  I was marched into that room with everyone looking at me.  I was told to undress.  "You won't be needing any of these for a while," she said folding my jeans, shirt, etc.  Then she called out to the clerk:

"Oh, Miss, could you bring me some pairs of panties in a few different sizes and styles?"

We waited, and then the clerk opened the door, and in addition to several pairs of panties she was carrying a hair brush.  "Sometimes this helps to convince these naughty boys," she said, "especially if you spank once with the bristle side and then in the same place with the wooden side. We always keep a hairbrush in the girls' department."

"What a delightful idea," said my aunt, and she started using her newly found technique.

It didn't take long before I'd do anything to escape that instrument of torture.  I've been humiliated and mortified in my life, but nothing has ever approached being led out into the store dressed only in frilly rhumba panties with the pinkness of my bottom and the backs of my thighs peeking out beneath all those ruffles, and with all of those smiling faces looking at us.

We spent the rest of that morning trying on dresses, playsuits, undies, hats, etc.  Then we went to the hairdresser where I got a pixie cut, then back to the store for some make-up for me.  And that's pretty much how it was for me for the rest of the summer.  My cousin enjoyed treating me as a fussy little sister, and it was very humiliating for me, because I had a puppy crush on her.

The dresses and stuff were sent home with me.  My mom only dressed me up once, but that was enough for me to know that she would do it, and I avoided it like the plague.  As embarrassing as this experience was, I'd have to say my manners and such did improve markedly, and there's a lot to be said in support of this sort of disciplinary action.
A happy Christmas to you and the staff,

G. K.

Sales ladies in department stores would know more about petticoat punishment than any paper-waving Ph. D., and this woman was obviously always well prepared for any mother coming in to the shop with this in mind. It is a pity that none have ever written their memoirs, but I suppose that it is not a job that lends itself to literary achievement.
Susan