CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

"Dogs and cats may fight and spat for ‘tis their nature true, 

But, children of one family, you should never have that to rue."

That 19th century doggerel came from some exercise book which sought to combine the teaching of
reading with moral training. It was repeated often to my sister and me by our beloved Aunt Bern, as she sought in vain to influence our behavior.

As with many siblings, my sister and I had what at times must have seemed like continuous squabbles. As the older one, I assumed the more authoritative role, but in fact, my sister learned early how to get her way or how to arouse my ire. Sometimes, I suspect, she did this deliberately. At others, I was just an easy mark, because of the wide differences in our dispositions and temperaments, and because my reactions were always predictable.

Unfortunately I suffered the plight of all perfectionists. My sister, on the other hand, sailed through days without a worry over inconsequential details. This difference brought us into almost constant conflict. Our dear mother, always hoping for harmony, arranged for us to play piano duets. They turned into disasters with Marjorie, the ogre, lashing out at Chns, the angel, for making a mistake. Then it was tap dancing. We were both pretty good dancers and so were frequently asked by local organizations to provide entertainment. Rehearsals for this would cause vigorous upheavals. I wanted perfection. My sister settled for the fun of dancing.

When we went to Miss Jennie Drake, the dressmaker, Miss Jennie would sigh as she tried to have me stand still and not squirm over itchy organdy collars or scratchy wool. Then she'd look to heaven or my mother for help when I'd begin to make suggestions about pleats not being exactly right, or a waist not tight enough. As my sister's turn came, Miss Jennie woud beam at Chris' complete cooperation. Once Miss Jennie said, ‘I }] declare, I believe Chris would be happy dressed in a potato sack while Marjorie..." she trailed off in tired dismay.

One summer I refused to attend with my sister the week-long 4H camp held on the sandy banks of the Choctawhatchee Bay because I knew what would happen. Sure enough, when we went to the camp to bring her home the clothes in her suitcase were all a jumble, the bunk bed a mess of crumpled covers, crackers and sand. As I fumed at her for these conditions, she was not the least disturbed or affected by my admonitions or the situation.

In all the arguments I came across as the villain, and I suppose I was the aggressor. My mother never physically punished me nor did Cattie, our nurse. Mamma pleaded for peace. Cattie, whose given name was Catherine demanded it and from time to time would threaten with, "Marjorie, if you don't behave, your daddy’s gonna’ have to take a switch to you’. I never took her seriously.

I'd heard of boys at school being paddled and Mr. Kinsall, the principal, would regularly walk about the school exhibiting an awful looking paddle with four holes in it. Only boys who were considered incorrigible were paddled. Such punishment was unthinkable for a student who strove for high marks in subjects as well as deportment. I'd never observed a paddling or a switching and it never occurred to me that it could ever happen to me.

One Saturday afternoon, when I was eight or nine years old, my parents must have been at wits' end over the battling between my sister and me. My father came into the backyard where just a few minutes before Chris and I had been playing, until she had run crying into the house. "Marjorie," he said, "Catherine and Chris both tell me that you have hit your sister and Catherine says she has warned you this must cease. Now, I'm sorry, but I must try to impress on you that you are to stop this."

My sister was looking arxdously through the screen door. Mamma was nowhere in sight. Cattie stood on the porch, hands on her hips, shaking her head from side to side.

Daddy continued, "I want you to go and select a thin little switch from the peach tree and bring it to me." In a state of unreality, I did as I was told, selected a small branch with green leaves on it and brought it to my father. With a quick movement of his hand, he went down the branch, took off the leaves and walked into the house. Head down, I followed. Before I knew it, I felt the sting on my legs. My sister began to loudly wail. This distracted me and also made me angry. Why should she be crying when I was the one being punished? I don't think I received more than three or four "switches". It was

quickly over. Without a word or a tear I turned and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind me.

“Marjorie,” my father called.

“Yes, sir,” I responded and stopped my march. For a moment I feared he was going to have me go through the whole thing again.

Instead, he admonished, "You are not to slam doors. Come back and close it properly."

I did and then turned and walked out to the edge of the backyard to hurse my emotional wounds, while sitting in a favorite camphor tree. As I sat in the cradle spot of the tree, I examined my legs expecting to see welts and

scars. There were no marks at all. But the sting of the indignity caused a terrible ache in my chest and burning in my throat.

As the afternoon wore on, my sister came out and asked if it hurt. I did not answer. After more unanswered questions, she left. The pain in chest and throat continued. At last, the approaching night caused me to have to leave my perch and go into the house.

Daddy was waiting for me inside the hall. He looked very tall. No words were spoken. He just knelt and took me in his arms. With those arms about me the tightness in my chest and burning in my throat melted as tears began to flow. My mother came out of the kitchen where she had been nowhere in sight. Cattie stood on the porch, hands on her hips, shaking her head from side to side.

"And Daddy's going to take us downtown to get an ice cream cone after supper,” my sister joyously exclaimed. For her this terrible event was over.

I really didn't feel like ice cream or a supper surprise, but they were all so eager to make me happy that I tried to enter into the welcoming circlea a big sister should.

That evening, at least, my sister and I did not argue. And I didnt complain when Chris insisted, as we were going to bed, on having the light left on in our room, a practice I hated. I was too exhausted. Besides, it was nace to feel the love and acceptance of my family.

"Good-night, honey,” Mamma said as she tucked me in. “You know your daddy loves you. He just wants you to behave like a good girl.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know," I said and ducked under the covers as I felt the lump in my throat returning.