Skip to main content

Discipline

Main Street, Cuba, Il.
Allow me to share a story with you. You see, 2014 is the 40th year anniversary of Cuba High School’s class of 1974. My class. You’ve all heard the tiresome cliche, “Times flies.” Well, it does. No kidding! While going through scanned photos of my High School year books, I was transported back in time . . .

“You know how this goes,” said my sixth grade teacher. “Face the chalk board, feet spread apart, bend over, hands on the desk - sssmaaack as the paddle hit its mark on my hind-side. 

Honestly, I don’t even remember what this paddling was for. But I do remember the sting, and the embarrassment I felt standing in front of the class. No, I wasn’t the only one. Like all schools we had our share of misfits. In our small, rural farming community of west central Illinois I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no shootings, and no serious vandalisms. Well, ok, we did tend to torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife. A group of us would hide behind Mr. Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and throw leftover rotted tomatoes as “Barney” drove by. Anyway . . . 

During those formative grade school years, 1965-1967, the sting of Mr. Tarter’s paddle was a regular occurrence. The entire grade school feared this disciplinarian. His paddle was prominently displayed for all to see. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember any girls getting the paddle. Oh well, I’m sure we deserved it. We were told repeatedly:

“No running in the halls.”

“Stop shooting spit-wads at each other.”

“Do not throw snowballs at the girls.”

“No sliding on the ice,” and many other boneheaded activities that only the boys always got into. Yes, we can laugh about this now but back then this was serious stuff. The principle always sent a note home with the student who received discipline. I remember many classmates in tears, more afraid of the note and what their parents would do than the paddling itself.

We received paddling because we were rebellious. In our school discipline was never administered out of anger or loss of control. I recently read that a 1995 government report from Sweden found that child abuse and teen violence actually increased dramatically after spanking was outlawed in that country.

Anyway, back to the issue at hand. I’ve been working on a Powerpoint presentation for my graduating class’s 40th year reunion. It’s more of a tribute really. My High School class of 1974 graduated with a whopping 60 students. Ten percent of those classmates have now passed on. Two just this past August.

Have you ever taken time to really examine those photos from the past? Or looked at what your community involvement was during those developmental years? After reviewing the documented facts, I’ve noticed that my recall of activities and events may be a little blurry. However, from the yearbook photos I’m able to quickly identify all of my classmates. Thankfully, my memory is still somewhat intact. Then I go to our class’s FaceBook forum and I’m startled, Who are these people?

You know you’re getting older when you compare your high school photo to what you see in the mirror every morning and wonder, Who is that? Scary.

Well, I need to quit rambling and get back to that PowerPoint presentation I promised - discipline. I’m sure Mr. Tarter won’t be there to paddle me if I don’t follow instructions or complete my assigned task. However, the discipline he established, in me, drives me to finish what I begin, with pride.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

The Compass of Cuba: Mom

🎄  Preview of this week's  On the Fly  blog: A Holiday Tribute to Mom. As the holidays hustle with pixels and beeps, the world scrolls along in a smartphone-y sleep. I log off for a moment—just one little minute— To breathe in the past and to sit myself in it. My mind doesn’t wander to faraway places, Or trips full of tickets and new airport faces. Instead, it drifts backward, as memories do, to Cuba, Illinois, where the best moments grew. To a home full of warmth, in the wintry Midwest, Where my mother—dear “Marcie”—put love to the test. With a smile that could melt the most frigid of dawns, and hugs that hung on you like shivering fawns. She came from La Rochelle in France, brave and bright, Across oceans and war shadows, into new light. A town full of strangers soon felt like her own, And her courage built up the foundation of home. “Oh yes, we know Marcie!” the locals would say— “It's Doc Ball’s French lady! She brightens the day!” She cleaned, and she cooked, and sh...

Feeling Human Again

In this episode, The Unexpected Thankfulness of Feeling Human Again I’ll be honest with you: My triumphant return from France was not the glamorous homecoming I had imagined. No graceful glide back into routine. No cinematic jet-setter moment where I lift my suitcase off the carousel and wink at life like we’re old pals. Instead? I came home and immediately launched into a two-week performance piece titled The Great American Couch Collapse. My days blurred together in a haze of soup, hot tea, tissues, and desperate negotiations with the universe for just one nostril—one!—to function properly. The living room sofa became my emotional support furniture. And any creative idea that dared tiptoe into my congested brain was gently shown the exit with a firm but courteous, “Not today, friend. Try again later.” When life hits the pause button like that—when you’re exhausted, sick, and mentally unplugged—how do you find your spark again? Somehow, today, I felt it. A tiny shift. A clearing of th...

A Holiday Reflection–Mother's Love

In this episode,  How a Mother’s Love Built My Memories– A Holiday Reflection As this holiday season approaches and the world buzzes with shopping, planning, and busy schedules, I find myself embracing something wonderfully simple: taking a moment to pause. Not to check off a list or recharge devices, but to breathe deeply, remember fondly, and honor the person and place that have shaped my sense of home long before I had the words for it. This year, after regaining my strength from a lingering post-travel fog, my mind didn’t wander to exotic destinations or future adventures. It drifted backward—across oceans and time—to Cuba, Illinois, in the early 1960s, and to the woman whose love built the foundation of my world: Mauricette Elaine (Bontemps) Ball. My Mom . We came to Cuba after leaving La Rochelle, France, in 1959—a transition so dramatic I only appreciate its enormity now. My mother, barely in her mid-twenties, stepped off that plane and into the Midwest with a courage that s...

Believing Is Seeing

🎄 In this episode, Believing Is Seeing . . . It's December, we bustle, we wrap, and we dash. We sort life into boxes— myths  here,  to-dos  in a stash. We whisper of Santa (adult code: “Not Real”), but hold on one minute—let’s rethink this whole deal. For the stories we cherish, the movies we stream, hold more truth in their sparkle than we grown-ups may deem. So hop in this sleigh and hold on real tight— We’re chasing down Santa by the glow of his light! Scott Calvin once landed in the North Pole’s cold air, with elves, cocoa, and snow everywhere. He squinted and frowned—“This just  cannot  be so!” (Like thinking tangled lights will detangle if we  blow .) Then Judy the Elf gave a cocoa so steaming,  and said something simple . . . yet surprisingly gleaming: Seeing’s not believing—no, that’s not the key. "Believing is seeing!"   Just trust, and  you’ll  see!” Kids don’t need a map or a satellite screen to know Santa’s workshop is her...