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I was thirteen years old in the spring of 1975 and finishing up my seventh-grade year at Wilmington Junior High School located in the suburbs east of Nashville, Tennessee. I am Kenneth Sutton and will share my first and only experience with a school paddling, what I learned from it and how it shaped my life.

To fully appreciate the story, one needs some preliminary information.

I was a good kid – well-behaved, a follower of rules, respectful, good student, responsible. You get the idea. Despite that, I was a rambunctious boy and so, on occasion, I would find myself in trouble. My father, may he rest in peace, had a quick solution to put me back on the right path. Dad had a belt – wide, leather, faded brown, firm yet flexible – that he kept hanging from a hook on the back of the hall closet door. That belt had long before stopped being used to hold up Dad's pants having found a new purpose of lighting up my bare butt when I found myself on the wrong side of the rules. Dad rarely had to whip me but, when he did, it was a memorable experience. Corporal punishment was the standard discipline method used in the South in the 1970s even in the schools. You messed up at school – you got your ass paddled. Being a good kid and student, I had avoided the paddle at school for almost eight years.

I always loved making things with my hands. When we moved from elementary school to junior high for seventh grade, we were finally old enough to take Industrial Arts – better known as Wood Shop. I had been looking forward to that class for months. Unfortunately, my mother almost brought that dream to an abrupt end.

Any sixth grader interested in taking Industrial Arts had been given a permission form before school let out for the summer. Because students would be working with power tools, a parent's signature was required before we could enroll. I should have waited for Dad to get home from work, but I was too excited.

Mom, will you sign my permission slip? It's so I can take Wood Shop next school year.

She read the form, frowned, and looked back at me.

Kenny, I don't like the idea of you using those dangerous power tools. You'll end up cutting your fingers off – or worse. I don't think I'm signing this. Pick another elective, like Music or Art.

I wasn't about to give up that easily.

Mom, I've got to learn sometime. Besides, Dad lets me use his tools here at home.

That's different, honey, she replied. When you're working here, your dad is around to supervise you and make sure you're safe.

What neither of us realized was that Dad had just come home from work. He had quietly walked in and heard most of our conversation.

From the doorway he said, Well, Brenda, do you think the school is just going to turn a bunch of twelve– and thirteen-year-olds loose with power tools and no supervision? There'll be a teacher there to show them how to use everything properly and safely. Truth be told, he'll probably get better instruction and supervision at school than he gets from me.

Dad had saved the day.

He took the permission slip from Mom's hand, signed it, and handed it to me.

There you go, he said with a grin. Enjoy the class and learn something. Just don't make me regret signing it.

Mom crossed her arms and shot Dad a look.

David Sutton, I swear, if our son goes through life without all ten fingers, I'll never forgive you.

Dad just chuckled, shook his head, patted me on the shoulder, kissed Mom on the cheek, and headed to their bedroom to change out of his work clothes.

As the surrounding community continued to grow, Wilmington Junior High quickly ran out of classroom space. The influx of families with school-age children created a need for more room. Portable classrooms helped relieve some of the overcrowding, but they were not practical for Industrial Arts, Band, Music, and Art because those classes required larger, specialized spaces.
To solve the problem, three years prior to my arrival at Wilmington, the county had purchased the property next to the school. On it stood an old brick-and-cinder-block warehouse that was converted into classrooms with generous space for the music and arts programs and accessible to the main school building via a long covered concrete walkway. The building became known simply as The Annex.

My Wood Shop class was held in The Annex. The renovated building had a short hallway with acoustics unlike anything I had ever experienced. Almost everything that happened there sounded ten times louder than it really was. The band rehearsing, the whine of power tools from the wood shop, students talking between classes, and even ordinary footsteps seemed to echo through the corridor. It gave The Annex a personality all its own and made it feel very different from the rest of the school.
 

—oOo—

Mr. Will Sanders taught Industrial Arts and also served as one of the assistant football coaches. Unlike most teachers, who taught five class periods, he taught four. His schedule included seventh-grade Wood Shop, eighth-grade Wood Shop, Mechanical Drawing and Drafting, and, because he was also certified in mathematics, eighth-grade Algebra. During lunch, he traded the classroom for the cafeteria, where he served as the lunch monitor.

Mr. Sanders looked every bit the part of an imposing football coach. Standing six-foot-three and weighing around 250 pounds, he was built like a tank, with broad shoulders, a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and a stern expression that could make a new student think twice before speaking. At first glance, he seemed intimidating.

The surprise was that his appearance couldn't have been more misleading. Beneath that formidable exterior was one of the kindest and most patient teachers in the school. He genuinely loved teaching, cared about his students, and never seemed too busy to listen. His classroom was relaxed while also being structured, and his easygoing manner made it a place where students felt comfortable asking questions and learning from their mistakes.

There was, however, one exception. Shop safety was sacred. The moment a student ignored a safety rule, the gentle teacher disappeared and a harsh disciplinarian took over. His voice hardened and his expression reflected anger. It wasn't anger for anger's sake; it was the seriousness of a man who understood that carelessness around power tools could change a life in an instant.

We liked Mr. Sanders. We enjoyed his classes, trusted him, and respected him – not because he demanded respect, but because he earned it. That's a rare quality in any teacher.

From the very first day, Mr. Sanders made it clear that shop safety was not simply another chapter in the curriculum – it was the curriculum. Before anyone laid a hand on a saw, drill press, or even a hammer, we spent the first class of the year discussing safety rules. On the second day, our assignment was to write every one of those rules ten times. To an outsider, it might have sounded like punishment akin to writing lines. It wasn't. Mr. Sanders wasn't trying to make us miserable; he wanted those rules burned into our memories. His reasoning was simple: if the rules became second nature, we wouldn't have to stop and think about them when we were standing in front of a spinning blade or a running machine. He even gave everyone an easy A on the assignment. The lesson was far more important than the grade.

The list covered all the basics. Never operate a machine until you had been properly instructed on its use, function, and safety features. Keep your fingers a safe distance from moving blades and always use a push stick when the job required it. No open-toed shoes were allowed in the shop. That rule always seemed a little humorous to us boys because, even though girls were invited and encouraged to take Wood Shop, none ever did. Only girls wore open-toe shoes to school. None of us boys would have been caught dead wearing sandals or flip-flops to school. He said the rule was there because rules were made for everyone, not just the people likely to break them. There were other safety rules as well, though the details have blurred together over the years. One, however, has remained crystal clear in my mind because Mr. Sanders treated it as a holy thing to be revered. Any time a student picked up a tool – whether it was a hand tool or a power tool – safety goggles had to be on. There were no exceptions, no excuses, and no second chances. If you were working, you wore eye protection. Period.

At the time, we probably thought he was overly cautious. Looking back, I realize every safety rule, every demonstration, and every stern command came from the same place: Mr. Sanders was protecting the fingers, eyesight, and lives of a room full of hormonal kids who often believed they were indestructible. Mr. Sanders always had his safety goggles at the ready and, before approaching any machine, would don them. It was him being a good teacher and setting a good example. It was his way of reminding us that our eyes were ours to protect and that no project, no assignment, and no moment of carelessness was worth risking them. To Mr. Sanders, eye protection was not optional. It was the one rule that stood above all the others.

We learned very early just how serious safety was to Mr. Sanders. Just two weeks into the school year, Jerry Pearson, a bit of a class clown at the time, discovered that lesson firsthand – and the rest of us by seeing what went down with Jerry. During a class lesson on the different types of wood and their uses, Jerry decided it would be funny to flip on the power switch on the lathe while Mr. Sanders was teaching.

In that one moment, Jerry had managed to violate two of the most important safety rules in the shop. He had turned on a machine without understanding its purpose and function and he had done so without wearing safety goggles. He may have only intended it as a joke, but in Mr. Sanders' shop there was no such thing as a harmless joke when it involved a machine.

Mr. Sanders stopped the lesson mid-sentence, glared at Jerry, put his own safety goggles on, walked over to the lathe and switched it off. He then calmly laid a hand on Jerry's shoulder.

Pearson, come with me.

Jerry was led out of the classroom to the small hallway. On the way, Mr. Sanders stopped by his desk, dropped his goggles on his blotter, and removed a paddle from one of the desk drawers. The classroom suddenly became silent and a collective gasp could be heard.

Mr. Sanders' reputation as the hardest paddler in the school was well known at Wilmington. Even as newbie seventh graders, we knew this, because eighth grade friends and older siblings clued us in with horror stories – some from a personal encounter and some from the overheard experiences of others.

Mr. Sanders made the paddle himself. The blade was four inches wide and eighteen inches long with a six-inch handle wrapped in masking tape. The paddle had four holes down the center of the blade. The holes had been carefully drilled, beveled and sanded.

The door from the shop classroom to the small hallway closed but we could all hear what was happening due to the amplifying acoustics. The door to Mrs. Amon's class – she was the music teacher next door – opened and the sounds of the school chorus practicing stopped. Mrs. Amons was being summoned as a witness. Mr. Sanders began giving Jerry instructions about emptying his pockets and how to lean with his palms on the wall and look forward.

Jerry then started begging. Please, Mr. Sanders, it was just a joke. I'm sorry, give me another chance.

If Mr. Sanders answered Jerry, we didn't hear it. All we heard next was a sound that could have been mistaken for an explosion as wood met denim and echoed against the walls. We then heard Jerry let loose with a pained howl and we heard his feet stomping on the floor. Then the entire annex fell silent. The band stopped practicing, the chorus stopped their chatting and we could no longer hear muffled voices from the art room. Every kid in our shop class seemed to be holding his breath. The only sounds in the building came from Jerry's paddling.

The second lick was even louder and after it landed, Jerry began sobbing loudly and, through his tears, begging for the paddling to end. Typically, it would be social suicide for a boy to cry during a paddling after just two licks but everyone made exception for a paddling from Mr. Sanders. No one could ever make it through a session with his paddle without crying. Jerry was the second youngest kid in the seventh grade, having just turned twelve in August. Neither Jerry's crying and begging nor his age seemed to deter Mr. Sanders from his mission.

The explosive cracks and the wails, cries, and pleas continued interrupted only by orders from Mr. Sanders telling Jerry to get back in position or to stop trying to reach back. Jerry got six licks, which was the maximum number allowed. Jerry's loud and intense sobbing was then the only sound. We then heard Mrs. Amons return to her class and soon the singing resumed. The band started playing again and Mr. Sanders returned to the classroom without Jerry.

Mr. Sanders now had a sad expression. His face told all of us that he did not like giving out paddlings. The paddle was returned to its home and Mr. Sanders jumped right back into the lesson. A good ten minutes later, Jerry sheepishly slipped into the room. We all rightfully assumed that he had gone to the boys' restroom to try to pull himself together and clean up. His face still showed tear streaks, his eyes were red and puffy and he walked slowly and stiffly. Jerry was gently rubbing at his bottom with one hand and we could see that his hair was wet with sweat. Jerry quietly made his way to his desk and carefully lowered himself into his chair. When his bottom met the seat, he gasped and let out a whimper. Jerry spent the rest of the class period with his head down on his desk, sniffling. News of Jerry's misfortune quickly spread through the Wilmington grapevine and he was flavor-of-the-day. We had Mr. Sanders' class for the last period of the day so Jerry was saved from inquiries until the next day. Everyone wanted to hear from Jerry what a paddling from Mr. Sanders was like. All Jerry would say was, It fucking hurt. Jerry's days as a class clown ended in the hallway of The Annex that day and, by the end of March, he was chosen student of the week by the faculty.

Mr. Sanders' paddle claimed two more boys over the course of the first semester. Larry Jenkins got two licks for three accumulated tardies and Dennis Caldwell was caught using the band saw without his safety goggles, earning him a full six. Otherwise, class was uneventful, I was learning a lot, and Industrial Arts quickly became my favorite class and Mr. Sanders my favorite teacher.

—oOo—

For my thirteenth birthday in February, my uncle gave me a puppy – a pug I named Fishface. Yeah, looking back, it was an idiotic name but I was thirteen and when I saw my new puppy, the first thing I said was his face looks like a fish. Thus the moniker was born. I had always wanted a dog and my parents and uncle felt I was then old enough to take on the responsibility for another creature's life. I adored Fishface and spent most of my free time playing with or caring for him. Mom loved animals; she just didn't like the idea of animals in her house. That meant that Fishface was relegated to a pile of blankets in the corner of the garage where his food and water were kept. On days with nice weather, Fishface would roam about our large, fenced backyard. That is important information as it makes my final project for Industrial Arts make sense.

The final project for the year was to design and build a practical household item out of wood. First, we had to decide what to build and design plans for the item including dimensions and drawings, even if rough, of the process. We then had to calculate the cost of the project. All that information was to be turned in for a grade and Mr. Sanders' approval. Projects selected by my classmates included a spice rack, foot stool, end table, and a clock along with the typical cutting boards and birdhouses. I decided to build a doghouse for Fishface, which I realized would be a huge undertaking. I worked hard and had every detail meticulously presented in my proposal. Mr. Sanders gave the proposals back to us on a Friday – two weeks prior to when we were supposed to start building. Mine had A- written at the top. That excited me but what concerned me was that he had written Let's talk about this across the top of my proposal. I waited around at the end of class so I could talk to him.

Uh, Mr. Sanders, you want to talk about my final project? I am sure the nervousness showed in my voice.

He smiled and got to the point. Yes, Sutton, I do. I think it is a great idea but I have a couple of questions before I can approve it.

I sighed with relief and was heartened that he had indicated that approval was likely going to be given. Uh, yes, sir. I'll try to answer whatever.

Sutton, do you fully understand the scope of what you are proposing? I do not see you being able to complete it during the provided class time. You'll need to commit to some after-school time in the shop. Are you able and willing to do that?

I smiled, Oh, absolutely! I'll put in however much time I need to finish it.

He nodded his head. Also, the projects are intended to be taken home and, hopefully, put to use. How do you plan to get your doghouse home? It isn't going to fit in a car.

Yes, sir, I figured that out. My uncle has a pick-up truck and I've already asked him to help me get it home.

Mr. Sanders seemed satisfied. It does sound like you have given the project the thought and attention it needs and I will approve it with one change.

Yes, sir. What would you like changed?

You indicate in your plans and cost analysis that you will be using asphalt shingles for the roof of the house. That is a problem because your entire project is supposed to be made of wood with the only exception being mechanical elements that can't be made of wood – like Pearson's proposed clock. He's going to need to use a mechanical clockwork to make it complete. You need to change your roofing material to wood. It can be any wood but I strongly recommend cedar planks as they are impervious to insects and water. Using cedar planks will change your cost – it will be more than using shingles. I only have a certain budget that each student is allowed to use. If there are any cost overruns then the student needs to be responsible for covering those.

I jumped right in with my reply. Sure! I can change it and use cedar. I've got allowance saved up. I really want to build it and my dog really needs a house since Mom won't let him inside.

He smiled. OK, Sutton, go for it but I need a revised plan and cost analysis by Monday. And . . . with the new roofing plan, I'll change your grade to A+. The only reason I didn't initially give you that grade was because of your plan to use shingles instead of wood.

—oOo—

We were allowed two weeks for completion of our projects. We were on the fourth day and I had already stayed after school the two days prior. I was very pleased with my progress and already loved the way Fishface's new home was turning out.

I was using the table saw and cutting boards that I would use for the front of the house and needed to verify the length of the one that would be going across the top of the opening. I turned off the saw and went back to my desk to check the details of my plans. To better read my plans, I pulled my safety goggles off and placed them on my desk. I got the information I needed and went back to the table saw, turned the power on, and began my cut. Yes, I had forgotten to put my goggles back on because I let myself get in a hurry. I realized this as soon as Mr. Sanders was standing next to me, shutting down the power to the saw.

He wasted no time getting to the point. Sutton, we need to step out to the hallway. I'm rather certain that you know why.

My hands went to my face and I quickly realized what I had done – or, not done. I whispered under my breath, Shit. I know Mr. Sanders likely heard my slip-up but chose to ignore it. I nodded my head in understanding, swallowed hard and headed out of class. The other guys soon knew something was up because Mr. Sanders called out for everyone to shut down their machines. Power tools could not be used if he was not in the room. All eyes were soon on me as I exited the shop. Mr. Sanders met me in the hall, paddle in hand.

My knees were shaking and I was rubbing my palms on the sides of my shorts trying to get rid of the sweat already forming on them. I must have been holding my breath or something because Mr. Sanders looked at me.

Sutton, breathe!

I sucked in air and then blurted out, Mr. Sanders, I'm scared.

His hard expression softened and he placed a hand on my shoulder and, instead of using my last name, like he typically did with us students, he calmly said, Kenny, it is normal to be scared. Have you ever been paddled at school before?

I shook my head and answered, No, sir. I added, But, sometimes, at home, Dad has to give me a whipping so I sort of understand what's going to happen. Still, this seems . . . different.

I'm not going to sugar coat things, Kenny. This is going to hurt – a lot. He paused. But, that is the point. I'd rather you have some pain in your backside than in your eyes. Kenny, I know you didn't deliberately defy the safety rules. I know you had a memory lapse and were likely rushing to get back to work but that doesn't matter. I need to send a message that safety goggles are never optional. That short-term lapse on your part could have cost you your eyesight. It only takes a second for wood to split and splinter sending shards into your eyes or for sawdust to blow in your face.

I nodded and quietly answered, Yes, sir, I know . . . I understand. I added, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.

He patted my shoulder. I'm sure it won't but I need to make sure of that. Let's get this over with.

What do I need to do?

I was told to empty my pockets and place whatever was there on the floor. He then showed me where to place my palms on the wall and how to stand with my feet apart. He pointed to a mortar joint where two of the cinder blocks met and told me to stare at that spot and not look back. I did what he had asked.

He stepped to Mrs. Amons' door, opened it and went inside. I heard the singing stop and then she was standing right outside her closed door looking my way.

Nothing else was said.

—oOo—

The explosive sound rattled the hallway. The pain registered immediately. I then yelped. A white-hot burn consumed my entire butt. My knees felt weak and I immediately regretted my decision to wear thin cotton shorts that day. I don't know if denim jeans would have helped quell the pain much but the thin cotton of my shorts and the even thinner material of my briefs did absolutely nothing as far as protection.

Another explosion sounded as the second lick landed slightly below the first. The area of overlap became a study in agony. I moaned and swayed my bottom from side to side and began stomping the floor. I was desperately trying to put out the fire raging on my ass. I realized the entire building was quiet. The only sound I heard was my ragged breathing.

Kenny, I need you to keep your bottom still, please.

The third lick caught me right on the crease where my butt met my legs. My knees buckled and I screamed out, Please stop!

The pain was a burning sting that made my skin feel raw but the pain also travelled deeply through the muscle. My entire butt hurt and hurt badly. I panted out, I can't . . . uh, I can't . . ..

He answered quietly, Yes, you can, Kenny. You're halfway there. Remember to breathe.

I then burst out sobbing. Deep, intense sobs that made my whole body tremble.

The fourth lick crashed into me in the exact same spot as the first. I soon realized that the next two would follow the same pattern – landing on top of a previous lick. I felt sick. My crying increased and one of my hands left the wall as I instinctively wanted to block the paddle from landing.

Mr. Sanders snapped at me, Hand back to the wall! I don't want to accidently whack your hand or arm.

The fifth and sixth licks came quickly one after another and, as predicted, landed on top of a spot that had already been paddled. I am sure that Mr. Sanders was showing a small degree of mercy by quickly giving me the last two together instead of spacing them out. The paddling ended. I stayed in place and cried. Mr. Sanders thanked Mrs. Amons and she went back to her class.

Sutton, it's over. You took it well.

I was still blubbing and hiccupping and curious as to how Mr. Sanders could think I took the paddling well. I had sobbed like a toddler and begged and pleaded all the way through. Slowly, I stood upright and dragged my hand across my face to clear off some of the snot and tears. I tried reaching back to soothe my butt but jerked my hand away. Even a gentle touch reignited the pain. I could feel the heat through my shorts.

Sutton, look at me.

I turned and faced him. I managed some coherent words, I'm so sorry. Please don't be mad at me forever.

I never was mad at you. Sure, I was disappointed and a bit shocked but I do understand how it happened. You had a lapse in judgement and it cost you. As I said, I'm glad it only cost you some fire in your butt and not an eye injury or blindness. It's history now. Move forward and do a better job of thinking through every step you make in the shop. You're a fine student and one of the best wood workers I've ever had the privilege of teaching. Sutton, we all have bad days. You've had your bad day and accepted the consequences of it with character. Good character will take you far in life.

I was mostly hitching and sniffling at that point. I simply nodded my head.

I have to get back to class. Go to the restroom and pull yourself together and clean up a bit. Take whatever time you need.

—oOo—

The restrooms were right inside the entrance to The Annex. I stared at myself in the mirror and didn't recognize the boy looking back at me. Hair matted with sweat, red and swollen eyes, tear and snot stains, and red cheeks had replaced my normal reflection. I turned on the water and splashed water on my face for a good thirty seconds. I pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and wiped my face dry and blew my nose. I turned around and looked in the mirror while easing my shorts and briefs down in the back. I was shocked at the sight. My entire bottom was swollen and dark red with raised maroon circles left behind by the holes in the paddle. The skin was shiny and I could see that several bruises were starting to form. Today, the condition of my butt would be considered evidence of abuse. Fifty years ago times were different and what I had gone through was considered normal and acceptable. Neither us kids nor our parents and teachers assumed a bruised and swollen bottom after a spanking, whipping, or paddling to be anything but standard and ordinary.

Returning to the classroom, I faced a shop full of shocked stares. I flashed a weak smile and headed to my desk. I was glad I didn't have to sit down. The first thing I did was to put my safety goggles on. I then verified the length of my cut and returned to the table saw. The simple act of moving around and cutting lumber was painful. I was happy that Wood Shop was my last class of the day, meaning I didn't have to worry about sitting down in other classes.

I stayed after school again that afternoon to work on my doghouse project. Mr. Sanders helped by offering suggestions and pointing out little things I could improve. He even complimented my work more than once, and never said a single word about what had happened earlier. As far as he was concerned, the matter was over. I walked the nearly mile home at my usual slow pace, although that afternoon I had another reason for taking my time. It had been over two hours since my paddling, but every step still reminded me of it. My bottom was unbelievably sore, and a deep ache had settled into the muscles beneath the bruises.

When I got home, I skipped my usual after-school snack. Instead, I headed straight for the bathroom and stood under a cool shower until I finally felt halfway comfortable. I pulled on an old T-shirt and a pair of loose cutoff pajama bottoms before sitting down at my desk to start my homework.

That lasted about three seconds. The moment I settled into the chair, I sucked in a sharp breath and jumped right back up.

Well, I muttered to myself, standing it is. I moved my work to the top of a bookshelf to make it easier to stand and write without bending. Bending is another move I wanted to avoid.

Doing homework on my feet wasn't exactly ideal, but it beat sitting.

Mom was away that week visiting my grandmother on the other side of the state, so it was just Dad and me. When I heard his car pull into the garage, I knew I had a decision to make.

I could hope he never found out – or I could tell him myself before the small-town gossip mill beat me to it. I'd heard enough stories from my friends to know how this usually went. Nearly all their parents believed in the same rule: If you got spanked at school, you got spanked again at home.

Dad and I had never talked about what would happen if I ever got paddled at school. There had simply never been a reason to. I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen just as he came in from the garage.

Dad . . . uh, I need to talk to you.

He glanced over, immediately sensing something serious.

Sure, Kenny. Take a seat and tell me what's going on?

I'd rather stand, if that's alright.

He raised an eyebrow.

Stand? Why?

I took another breath and got to the point. I got paddled today.

He looked at me for a moment, then quietly pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat down facing me.

I see, he said calmly. Start at the beginning.

I told him everything, from rushing to make another cut, to Mr. Sanders stopping the saw, to the trip to the hallway. I didn't leave anything out. When I finished, the kitchen fell silent.

Dad rubbed his chin for a moment.Hmmm . . .. Finally, he nodded. Sounds like that hurt.

I managed a weak nod. It did.

Another quiet moment passed before I forced myself to ask the question that had been hanging over me the entire afternoon. Dad, would you please wait a few days before you give me my whipping? I . . . honestly don't think I could handle it today.

He looked genuinely puzzled. What makes you think I'm going to whip you?

I blinked.

Well . . . because . . .I shrugged awkwardly.Everybody else's dad does that if they get paddled.

Dad let out a quiet chuckle. Your grandfather had that same rule with me and your Uncle Ken. (I am named after Dad's brother.) He shook his head.

Once or twice, maybe it made sense. But most of the time it didn't. We already knew we'd messed up, and all it did was make us resent him for piling on. He leaned forward.
Now, if you'd deliberately ignored the rules or if you'd been showing off, fooling around, or being disrespectful then we'd probably be having a different conversation.

I stared at the floor.

But that's not what happened. He paused. You got in a hurry. You quit thinking for a few seconds. He paused again. Around power tools, that's all it takes – a few seconds and you're blind for life or you end up a few fingers shy.

I nodded.

Mr. Sanders had every right to paddle you. Shop safety isn't something you compromise on, and I agree with how he handled it.

Then he smiled. But you've already paid for your mistake.

He paused just long enough for me to wonder if there was a however coming. I don't see any reason to punish you twice.

I felt every ounce of tension drain out of me. So . . . no whipping?

He grinned. Not unless you're asking for one.

That earned the first genuine smile I'd managed since the paddling. No, sir. I think I'll pass.

I thought you might.

He stood up, then looked at me with a crooked smile. So?

Yeah?

How's your ass?

I couldn't help laughing. Swollen. Red. Bruised. Sore as hell. I hesitated. Honestly, I think it looks worse than after one of your belt whippings. Why'd you ask?

He nodded. I was wondering if school paddlings had changed much since my day. Guess they haven't because that's exactly how I remember it.

He gave me a quick hug then patted me gently on the back – carefully, avoiding anywhere lower, then headed toward his bedroom.

The subject never came up again.

—oOo—

I made an A+ on my doghouse project, and Uncle Ken helped me haul it home. Mr. Sanders thought it was excellent work and so did Dad, Mom, and Uncle Ken.

Fishface disagreed. He absolutely refused to use it. I'd carry him over and set him inside, and within seconds, he'd wriggle right back out as if the thing were on fire. It all worked out though because Mom grew attached to him and gave up trying to make him an outside dog and invited him into the house. Fishface considered that a far better arrangement.

The next year I eagerly signed up for Mr. Sanders' eighth-grade shop class. In high school I took four years of Industrial Arts and added in drafting and furniture design classes. Those classes led to a career as a finishing carpenter and custom cabinetmaker. Eventually I started my own business, and years later I retired and passed it on to my son. I loved every day of that work because I truly loved what I did. That love began in seventh-grade shop class under the guidance of Will Sanders.

That doghouse stood in our backyard unused for three years before I finally gave it to my cousin, whose new dog actually appreciated it. Every time I saw it sitting there, I remembered the days I spent building it – and the lessons that came with it. Shop safety was the most important lesson but I also learned about slowing down, thinking first, accepting responsibility for mistakes, and moving forward after they'd been paid for. Those lessons all became part of the way I approached every job for the rest of my life. Looking back now, that painful afternoon in 1975 helped shape both the craftsman I became and the man I grew into.