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My dad (who was a career naval officer) rarely hit us. He would usually advance at us slowly, speaking in a very low, slow menacing voice:

DAD: “What...did...I...tell...you...about...hitting...your...sister?” (As we backed up and he advanced, he would cock his hand so that it was nearly hovering in front of his left shoulder, knuckles out. As this entire exchange takes place, my dad would slowly and inexorably back us into a corner or other area with no escape)

US: “...not to do it...” (haltingly)

DAD: “You dumb bunny...don’t you understand english?”

US: “...yes...” (timidly)

DAD: “Yes WHAT?” (voice rising slightly)

US: “...yes SIR...”

DAD: “Apologize to your sister, and if I hear any more of this, you are going to regret it.”

US: “Yes Sir.”

At this point, he would back out of the way, and it was clear you were expected to walk by him out of the trap you were in.

This was the most dangerous spot which we all dreaded. As you passed, his hand, which had been cocked the whole time, would give you a short whack to the occipital bone on the back of your skull. His heavy gold Holy Cross ring with the big red stone, would put a small, stinging dent there as his wrist flicked at the end.

We feared his voice and his Holy Cross ring. But this was what he did when we were in our mid-teens.

When we were younger, and my mother had had too much of our misbehavoir, she would send us up to our rooms. As my dad entered the front door, we could hear them talking in low, uninintelligible voices.

As my father mounted the stairs, mixed in with his heavy footfalls, we would hear the metal clink of the belt buckle and the swoosh of the belt as he pulled it out with a flourish.

Then, like a hangman testing the trapdoor for his gallows, my father would fold the dreaded belt double, holding in in both hands and vigorously snap it several times.

Upon hearing this, we would quail and back away from the door...he would enter, using the same voice and flail at us with the belt. We would cry and squirm, but...the belt never hurt. It was all show. There was nothing behind his poorly aimed swings at your legs, and the ones that did hit didn’t hurt at all. But we got the point...

However, we feared my mother.

The belt was her tool of choice, and with her Italian and Armenian heritage, she wielded it with righteous anger and a wild excess of emotion and power, shrieking like a banshee at us as she did it.

She left red welts on our legs, and we always realized that my three brothers and two sisters had pushed her too far when my dad was out at sea in the Navy. For many years, she had to handle the six of us by herself, and for our deliberate tortures, she was justified in delivering the belt.

Well, at least that is what we think TODAY...:)