Dirt Clods and Other Swell Stuff
	  	Corporal Punishment

     As all young boys, I looked for new adventures. Not being experienced in
life and often unaware of the pitfalls and subsequent consequences of poor
decisions, I frequently found myself falling short of personal fulfillment and
success and in trouble with Mom. A stern scolding from Mom followed. 
     Most of the time her words went into one ear and out the other, having
little effect. But the stern look on Mom’s face stayed with me . . . at least until I
could make her smile. Getting her to smile meant being spared of corporal
punishment when Dad came home from work.
     My father was not just a civil engineer.  He was a history and music buff,
high fidelity and stereo geek, and a clever, perhaps even diabolical, inventor.  His
brand of corporal punishment was unique with his own signature.  He didn’t swat
behinds with his hand, belt or a switch.  Nope.  He invented a special tool which
had two purposes: delivering a monumental swat to the bottom of misbehaviants
and killing flies.
     This instrument of swift justice was made by his own hands from hickory
and leather.  The hickory handle was exactly 14 3/16 inches long based on precise
calculations to provide maximum speed at impact delivered by a five foot seven
inch lefty from Red Wing, Minnesota.  
     The business end of the “death swatter” was of soft pliable perfectly
tanned and well oiled Harder Slaughterhouse cow hide 5 1/4 inches wide by 6 5/16
inches long.  These precise outside dimensions plus strategically located holes of
three different sizes within the field of leather created a supersonic speed that killed
flies a foot away from impact.
     The “death swatter” test trials were so impressive that I spent one entire
weekend sucking up to Dad, offering to do any kind of chore he could think of in the
hope that I could store up enough credit to avoid any future encounter with the
dreaded swatter.  
     I even promised not to bug Sis for a whole year.  Dad didn’t buy that one.
Instead he suggested that I pull all the rusty nails from ten thousand old planks he
had collected to build a garden shed.
     “Sure thing, Dad,” I said eagerly, not knowing that less than one hour later
I would somehow pry a rusty nail out of a plank and plant it into my palm.  The
tetanus shot hurt worse than the imbedded nail but was nothing compared to one
smack with the “death swatter.”