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(I posted this in a related thread the other day.)

My mom used to use the belt when she administered corporal discipline. We were all sure that she would do it if she threatened, since we all thought her sanity hung by a thread anyway (six kids, all a year apart, father at sea for eight months at a time)

My father, when forced to discipline us by our mother (”Go to your room...you father will deal with you when he gets home...”) would use psychological warfare on us.

We could hear him come home...the adult voices talking downstairs, then...the long, slow footfalls up the stairs accompanied by the noisy unbuckling of the belt and the slooshing sound of it being withdrawn from the belt loops.

Then, for added effect, he would double the belt on itself and snap it. He would do this two or three times, it would emit a loud snap, not unlike that of either a belt hitting flesh, or a hangman’s trapdoor slamming open (in my juvenile mind).

He would come in, lecture us in a deep,threatening voice about the transgression, all the while advancing towards with the belt.

He would usually take about four or five swings as you squirmed around, mostly landing glancing blows. Rarely did he make real stinging contact. My mother was much more accurate and painful. She was very quick to anger, but very quick to cool as well.

But we feared my dad the most. It was not The Belt we feared, it was The Ring. He saved the ring for those times when the punishment was on the fly...when the transgression occured under his watch, usually after repeated warnings.

He would advance closely...speaking low and threateningly, sometimes with his hand pulled back as if he was going to backhand you, which he never did.

The discipline would go something like this...

DAD: “What did I tell you about hitting your sister...?” (advances slowly)

ME: “T..to not to...” (backing slowly)

DAD: “Did you hear what I told you, you dumb bunny...?) (Hand is now raised slightly facing you...clearly visible is the back of his hand and...the red stone on his Holy Cross Class Ring that he got when he graduated from his V12 program as a young ensign in the spring of 1945. That was The Ring.)

(Additional note: My dad very, VERY rarely swore at us...we laugh at the “Dumb Bunny” thing and we don’t understand it and it seems hilarious now, but...faced with the ring, it sounded like the Declaration of Doom.)

ME: “Yes...yes...”

DAD: “Yes WHAT?”

ME: “Yes SIR.”

DAD: “When I tell you what to do, you LISTEN to me.”

This was followed by two or three ineffectual and easily dodged cuffs by him that completely missed the mark. Then he would stand off to the side and allow you to pass while he stood still.

It was at this point when danger was highest. There was nothing you could do but walk by and not look back. You knew it was coming. Sometimes he didn’t do it, just to throw you off. But usually he got you with The Ring.

As you walked by and exposed the back of your head, he would whip out his hand in a light backhand motion and ping you on the back of the skull with the stone of that ring...and sometimes it really smarted.

My dad was a gentle man, and I know he loved us dearly. We were all petrified of him, of disappointing him or crossing him was something we all avoided at all costs. He was all bluster...we looked at my mom out of the corners of our eyes when she was on the warpath, but...we knew he would never deliberately hurt us. He just wanted to scare us.

When my dad passed away, I had custody of the ring. When we went down to Arlington National Cemetery to bury him, I wore that ring, just that once. In my grief, it must have slipped off of my finger. I lost it and never found it. I searched my house and belongings for a year, but never found it. I suppose someone down in Arlington will find a Holy Cross class ring with a red stone someday, and they will wonder about the man who wore it.

If I could have one thing, out of all the things that I have that were his, I wish I had not lost his ring.