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 The Bait and The Switch
By Dave Crackpot
The picking out of a switch is a fine art. So many choices; Walnut (Walnut Tress dominated my home town), Oak, Pine, You neither want to get one too wimpy as your father will just send you out for another one yet you can’t get one to girth laden as you wouldn’t enjoy your supper properly. Or possible break something. The problem with becoming “switch worthy” in the woods is that there are an infinite amount of possibilities and choices.
It was a half an hour after church and much of the morning’s dew had fled embracing the noon time glow of an otherwise candescent early spring. This was good as a dry switch is preferable. My parents had a church board meeting to attend to so Mr. Fredrickson had invited me for a hike in the fields behind the church along with his son Hans.
Hans was in my Sunday School class, a stocky first generation America kid, an occasional bully with a Johnny Unitas crewcut. In this afternoon in 1976, my hair had grown long and blonde as my grandfather wasn’t expected for a visit for at least two more months… and the disco fad was at it’s height of torturing the family photo albums for years to come. Hans had a simple polyester blend shirt on.
With no undershirt.
And for not wearing an undershirt, Hans had become “switch worthy” and had to give a simple report on the purposes of the garment. Then pick out at switch, I was assigned to help. My father was more of a belt to the ass man, so my knowledge of this field of horticulture was limited. An Adult was asking so, always the people pleaser, I was enthusiastic to help.
It was really one of those days you remember as a kid; a few floating clouds in the sky, the perfect “no temperature,” or perhaps just north of brisk. There was very little pollution in the part of Northern California at the time. I was hoping to go cardboard sledding later in the day in my newly purchased denim bi-centennial tri-corner hat.
After numerous discards, I finally found THE switch as Mr. Fredericks basked in the February sunshine. I knew the sun felt good upon his face as he had loosened the second button on his shirt… which revealed his undershirt… the tank top kind that somewhat resemble a long bra. I would learn the specific name for the type of shirt many years later.
It was a good switch… about a centimeters across, green, stiff not too dewey, sprung from a band of weeds… it was somewhere between a weed and bamboo .. and it made a perfect “ffffpppt” noise as I championed it through the air. Even at eight years old I knew the sound was important…. The vision of my father removing the belt was always more frightening than the beating itself. Father’s know that.
“Is this good?”
He took it from me, even though I was only eight I could look him straight in the chin.
He raised his left hand (he was left handed, like me) and fffffptt… fffffpttt… fffffpt.
“David you have picked out an excellent switch… you have done a really great job”
He rubbed his hand through my And I smiled. I was so proud.
“Now Hans, come here”
and Hans squatted his hands on his knees… prepared to receive his reward.
Fffpt… SMACK…
On the back… On the back… On the back…
Not on the ass.
On the back.
I’d have to do a lot to get in the back. The back hurts.
Mr. Fredrickson smiled as he doled out 25 lashes onto his son’s back. One by one islets of scarlet started to stain the grey polyester blend and progressively ruined the shirt in a dotting sadist’s Morse code. The shirt was far redder than his eyes…
Which is another reason to always wear an undershirt.
I couldn’t see Han’s Face…
Hans and I didn’t speak much after that. I saw Mr. Frederickson at numerous events throughout my childhood and I couldn’t wait until I was bigger than him.
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