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Mr. Fowler's Blue Ribbon Paddle

By

PJ Franklin
 

If it's summertime in the U.S.A, then it's time for a long standing American festival tradition, the County and State Fair. Whether a very large state-wide event or a very small county-based one, both classically feature carnivals of fun, games and rides for adults and children to enjoy.

But the heart and soul of any fair are the many venues and displays of local agricultural and home-grown or home-made products. These might be meticulously raised farm or ranch stock animals of all sizes and types, fruits or vegetables grown in a prize garden or tasty items baked in a country kitchen oven.

Some are even clever crafts or pieces of furniture hewn in personal woodsheds out back of the farm house or sewn in small parlor rooms off of farm kitchens. In any case, they are all annually judged friendly competitions to determine whose is going to be the best of that year's animals, products and creations. Who would get the first place blue ribbon, second place red or third place white ribbon? Does it really matter? No, not in the least.

* * * * * * * * * *

Back in the day …

Peter Jenks had looked forward to the Holcomb County Fair each summer since he was five years old. Back then and year after year, Peter would be escorted around the mid-American county fairgrounds by his parents, treated to carnival rides for his age group and spoiled with his share of cotton candy, hot dogs and ice cream cones. But the affable sixteen year old had long since grown past the need for parental supervision and for the last two years attended several days of the fair each hot August summer either in the company of some of his many high school friends or just as happily, alone.

Peter was not a rurally raised Holcomb county boy and could never personally boast of contributing to the fair as a rural counterpart might. He lived in the county's largest town of Hollister and attended the largest of the three Hollister high schools, his simply called Hollister High School. The other two were Claiborne High School and the smallest of the three, Maitland High School, the latter two named after venerated county seat settlers and pioneers.

Nonetheless, the Holcomb County Fair was always something that Peter looked forward to and this year's August fair would be no exception. In fact, Peter's house was a mere one mile walk to the fairgrounds and having worked part time all through June and July, Peter still had a bit of money to spend on anything he wanted to ride, play or eat at the fair's carnival area.

The county fair would last two weeks and Peter had already gone to the carnival portion of the fair with both male and female friends a few days before on opening day, but curious about some of the other fair venues that year, Peter returned the following Sunday afternoon and decided to stroll about the huge open-air animal barns and other competitive product display buildings.

Because of the day's early gathering heat and humidity, the animal barns seemed to stink especially bad and particularly so, the fowl exhibits, so Peter bypassed the rest of those and quickly headed for the nearest cooler indoor building, the one that happened to house the home-made craft displays and soon found himself looking admiringly at the woodcraft section.

Peter had taken his woodshop lessons at Hollister High School that year from Mr. Fowler, Gabe Fowler, and having only modest manual talent in that class, he still received an overall B in the class for his excellent academic performances on Mr. Fowler's written tests. Nonetheless, Peter could appreciate the skill and care that had gone into making the tables, chairs and other judged wood products on display that year. He noticed too that all of the finely crafted wood products were for sale, the Hollister Hospital Ladies Guild sponsoring the sales which would all be donated to charity.

Peter was about to leave that area and return outdoors when he spied a much smaller wood product that really caught his attention. He walked up to it and couldn't believe what he saw, it was a spanking paddle, very much  like those used by the designated disciplinarians at his high school only unlike those older worn paddles, this one seemed to have a shimmering and shiny new surface.

Peter looked around himself, almost embarrassed to be seen looking at it. Who and why had someone entered a paddle into the Holcomb county fair woodcraft judging contest that year? As far as Peter knew, paddles were for punishment, not decoration, weren't they?

All of the schools in the Hollister school district practiced parental encouraged and community approved good old fashioned corporal punishment, bare bottomed spankings for the younger boys and girls in the elementary or primary levels and paddlings in the secondary or high school level, but only for the boys.

Few boys, much less Peter, did not find themselves at one time or the other of any school year and semester bent over, holding onto the seat of a chair in a classroom, bent over the side of one of the three Hollister town's high school principals' desk tops or grabbing his ankles, bent over in a boys high school locker room. Boys would stay clothed in an otherwise public and co-ed attended classroom punishment; but would always find his jeans, cords or trousers with underwear, all bunched around his ankles in the otherwise private principal's office. Punishments in P.E. Class were a much different case, however, each Coach requiring the public paddling to be carried out with each boy stark naked in the gym locker room in front of all of his gathered friends for that day's spectacle of paddled bare bad-boy rears.

Peter looked closer and his eyes got bigger and he had to smile. Consequent of his woodshop class with Mr. Fowler the prior school year, Peter knew about the different kinds of woodworking hardwood maples. There was flame maple, birdseye maple and curly maple. It was very plain from the distinctively ridged wood grain pattern that the spanking paddle had been hewn from a single piece of beautiful blonde curly Sugar maple. The bumpy surface was an optical illusion, the wood grain making light dance off of the irregular surface features to fool the eye.

Peter's face then drew into a small smirk at seeing the first place blue ribbon laying across the paddle's handle with a small upturned price tag showing the charity price at a stout $10.00. Peter had never handled a paddle before, but a familiar tightening in his chest signaled that he wanted to handle this paddle and he might have tried were it not for the blue ribbon prize draped across the handle.

Peter had received maybe slightly more punishment paddlings than his male peers over his high school years to date, the product of a natural boyish mischievous nature with a dash of daring from time to time. He hated the pain during the punishments, but had learned that the resultant warmth and afterglow of his nether regions afterwards gave him ample grist to enjoy solo-activities, whether secreted away in a bathroom stall while still in school or at home alone in his bedroom or bathroom.

Just then, the Hollister Hospital guild lady in charge came up to Peter having noticed that the familiar young man was tarrying around the table where the paddle lay.

"Go ahead Peter, you may pick it up," she smilingly said.

Peter looked up to see a familiar face. It was Mrs. Mayberry, his old 8th grade social studies teacher. Peter smiled,

"Hello Mrs. Mayberry, are you sure it's OK?"

"Oh yes Peter, go ahead!" she said with just a little additional charm.

Now given the go ahead by Mrs. Mayberry, Peter carefully moved the blue ribbon from the handle and then his slightly tremulous hand reached for the paddle handle and finally picked it up.

The ½ inch thick by five inch wide paddle seemed to have a business end of about twelve inches with a five inch long handle, perfectly rounded smooth edges and two rows of precisely drilled holes. The pristine satin finish brought out the best in the shimmering curly maple wood grain. Just holding the paddle's weight in his fist gave Peter a shivery feeling all over his body.

Then Peter looked at the other side of the price tag at the name of the man who had made the paddle, it was his high school woodworking instructor, Mr. Fowler! That knowledge made Peter's chest tighten all the more, but it made sense.  Mr. Fowler had supplied all the Hollister High School paddles that had been used on Peter and his classmates over his years, no matter than none of those looked quite as fancy as the one in his hand.

After a few more moments, Peter carefully set the paddle back down on the table, making sure the blue ribbon lay back over the handle and the price tag face up. He gave out a small sigh as he looked up at Mrs. Mayberry. She smiled,

"It's a beautiful piece really Peter, do you wish to purchase it?" she asked.  Peter's immediate reaction was a small, but unnerving little blush. So it was true, teachers could actually read students' minds?

"Oh no mam, it's a lot more money than I have saved, besides, why would a boy want to buy a paddle?" he replied with a nervous chuckle and caught himself chewing on his lower lip, more familiar feelings starting to arise.

Mrs. Mayberry chuckled a little, "You may be surprised Peter. Perhaps someday you may need such a paddle to discipline your own sons or students should you become a teacher perhaps?"

It seemed funny how teachers especially always could remember the conversations that they might have had over years past with their students. Peter was quickly reminded how easy it had been to talk to Mrs. Mayberry about his career goals, even in junior high school. Wasn't being a teacher one of them?

"Oh well, perhaps … Um … thank you Mrs. Mayberry, but I must go now … bye!" Peter suddenly said with a small wave of his hand.

"Good-bye Peter, enjoy the fair," she said and then watched as the older boy turned, his fists clenching at his sides as he hurriedly rushed from the building.

Mrs. Mayberry looked after the retreating boy and then looked down at the paddle, quite undecided about what to think about Peter Jenks as she walked back to her ladies guild table, but was quickly distracted by an older couple that was looking at the price tag on a very handsome blue ribbon winning coffee table.

Peter quickly walked over the fairgrounds pavement and out the exit turnstiles onto the sidewalk that led back to his home. The walk back home took little time for a fit boy like Peter. He successfully avoided running into his parents as he entered the house, made his way efficiently to the bathroom next to his bedroom, entered, closed and locked the door.

Then, peeling his dark blue cotton dress shorts and white briefs down to his ankles right in front of the toilet bowl, Peter nearly didn't have to touch himself before his whole body tensed up into a glorious rapture.  On his fast walk back home, Peter's mind had already maximally stimulated his self-lusts with a vision of Mr. Fowler's blue ribbon curly maple paddle running amok over his bared bottom as he was stark naked and bent over before a locker room full of grinning schoolmates.

* * * * * * * * * *

Peter could only have hoped that was the end of the blue ribbon paddle's influence on his mind, but it wasn't. He became obsessed with it and wanted so much to secretly own the paddle, use it on himself to stimulate his self-lusts and maybe Mrs. Mayberry was right, he should become a high school teacher and then actually use it for the purpose for which it was created by Mr. Fowler.

Peter's frustrations grew when he discovered that he had but three dollars left from spending his prior summer job paycheck and another check was not due for a good two weeks. The fair would be over and the paddle long gone by then. Peter knew he could not risk asking his parents for advance money, they would want to know what it was for; no, that would be too embarrassing.

Should Peter ask Mr. Barnes, his boss, for a paycheck advance? Would he ask what the advance was for even if he agreed? Probably not, but that still felt too risky. There seemed no way out. Then Peter sighed, sat on his bed and then lay down face up on his pillow, one hand behind his head.

Peter then remembered that when he was but twelve years old, he had dared to pocket a one dollar bill that had fallen off from the kitchen table, one that seemed neglected. It wasn't stealing was it? Not if it was on the floor, the younger Peter had reasoned.

Peter had wanted to have a delicious ice cream cone and some candy for weeks, treats his parents seldom allowed. The dollar bill was too tempting that day so Peter pocketed the bill directly from the floor. Energized by his daring, Peter rushed out of his home that summer day while his parents were at work, they did not require Peter to have a baby sitter.

Peter went into downtown Hollister and used the one dollar bill, getting a tall swirly soft serve vanilla ice cream cone and a bag of candy to boot. He would eat both before returning home that day in the park across the street from the ice cream shop. His parents would never know.

Peter was right, his parents would never have known except that the nosy next door neighbor, Ms. Granger, had ventured out that day into downtown Hollister and noticed Peter's presence in the park that afternoon, by himself. Even she thought nothing much of it until later that day while working in her yard, Mrs. Jenks, Peter's mother, had called out to her, just to say hello after returning home from work.

One bit of casual woman to woman conversation turned into another and before long, Mrs. Jenks flew into the house quite unset with her son Peter. Just thinking about the memory right then gave Peter both a shot of anxiety, but also an inner excitement. He could easily recall his mother standing in the doorway, hands on hips, having just confronted Peter with his illicit trip to downtown Hollister. Peter had not tried to hide the truth of the dollar bill from her.

"You just stay in your room Peter and wait for your father to come home!"

Oh yes, dad came home and was told what Peter had done. Even as the older Peter now recalled the details, he pushed his trousers and underwear down towards his knees and started to firmly grasp his arousal.

"Pants and underwear down young man! Over my knee!" Dad had said after the brief verbal confrontation with his errant son, Peter, hairbrush firmly in hand.

Peter closed his eyes and pictured his twelve year old forlorn self standing up, taking down his trousers and briefs and then watching his dad sit down at his own bedside. From there, it was a simple and all too familiar trip over dad's lap, feeling his body jack-knifed forward, his bared tender bottom cheeks right on top of dad's knee.

Peter started the rapid build-up to his climax, the sounds of dad's rapidly deployed hairbrush from the past returning to his memory in just the right amount, pushing him over the edge. The problem with those kinds of memories are that you forget the pain and the crying and also the baby sitter and grounding you had to put up with for the rest of that summer long ago.

Peter cleaned himself up, pulled up his briefs and trousers and turning to his side, fell into a nap.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Peter?" mom said from his doorway, waking him up. Peter panicked at first about his trousers, but he was OK and turned his head towards the voice, "Yes mom?"

"Take some money from my jar in the kitchen honey and go to the store for me please? Get a loaf of bread and a jar of mayonnaise, your father has forgotten to tell me that he used the last of both for his lunch sandwiches!" she said with a little irritation at dad's bad habit.

"Sure mom!" Peter said and mom left. A short time later, he got up and went into the kitchen, pretty much having given up on his secret wish to buy Mr. Fowler's beautiful curly maple paddle that sat at the Holcomb County Fairgrounds. He went to find mom's "mad money" clear glass jar in the kitchen and did. It was partially filled with coins and greenbacks, mostly one dollar bills, but also several tens and fives.

In a moment, Peter might have wished his mom had not brought the jar to his attention. He could "borrow" the money he needed from the jar without mom knowing, pay for the paddle, and then repay the jar after he got his next paycheck, no one the wiser at home. The problem was, Peter didn't even want anyone at the Ladies guild at the fairgrounds to know who had bought the paddle, it just felt too embarrassing.

Peter did as his mother asked and took the right amount of money for the grocery purchases, but spent the entire trip trying to figure a way out of his paddle dilemma. If he took only a little from the jar, that would be better than taking the whole ten and risking mom might notice the reduction too soon, and then she might count the change in the jar and question him.

He already had three dollars in hand and re-admission to the fairgrounds would only cost a pittance of that. Peter made a plan for himself. It was an odd plan and required some things to take place that might not, but if it didn't work, he would be out nothing, the jar instantly replaced of the missing funds and he would just have to suffer not owning the beautiful paddle.

That night, as late as he thought he could afford before closing time, Peter left his home and walked to the fairgrounds in the darkness, paid the small admissions fee then carefully made his way past the carnival's colorful night lighted activities and on towards the woodcrafts building.

* * * * * * * * * *

Gabe Fowler was a widower; a well liked teacher of woodworking at Hollister High School as well as an older man of the world who understood boys, both in school and out in all their many moods and ways having raised three grown sons of his own. After school hours or during long languid summer days and evenings, he greatly enjoyed nothing more than spending hours and hours of time in his woodshed creating wood crafts, both large furniture pieces as well as smaller items.

The curly maple paddle that he had made and donated to the Hollister Hospital ladies guild for the charity sale at the Holcomb County Fair that year had been just one of several blue ribbon entries and at that, the smallest he had ever submitted. The phone call from Marlene Mayberry about the now missing paddle not to mention the five one dollar bills and a quickly scrawled anonymous "I.O.U." for the remainder of the price was puzzling, but still humorous.

Gabe Fowler not so naïvely dropped the remaining five dollars of his money off at the Hollister Hospital ladies guild office and thought nothing more of the paddle. It probably was just some kind of odd college age fraternity-like prank, maybe a dare; but also maybe some man or boy who simply admired the paddle for a number of reasons.  Stranger and more important things had happened and would happen in the world, a paddle was not important.

Marlene Mayberry had wisely said nothing to Gabe Fowler about who she thought had taken the paddle out from under their noses between one evening and the next morning and she could completely understand why Peter Jenks, her likely suspect, would not have wanted anyone to know about his secret. Marlene was not naïve about boys, about nobody actually and whereas she agreed with Gabe that it was harmless in most respects, she privately worried about how Peter might view himself for his less than honest deed.

Yes, Peter Jenks had pulled off "the heist" as he now called it. Why had he not learned his lesson from his twelve year old ice cream prank? Yes, it was only three one dollar bills that he had "borrowed" from his mom's kitchen jar, money that was easily replaced along with the promised anonymous I.O.U. back to the ladies guild, all from his next paycheck. If so, then why did he now feel like a total loser and a crook?

The thrill of the caper had totally passed. It had been a daring and exciting surprise to have found the woodcraft exhibit completely unguarded that late night, the ladies guild all gone for the evening. Snatching up the paddle, putting it in his paper sack and leaving the I.O.U. with the five one dollar bills had been so much easier than he had thought. When he returned with the paddle back home, he quickly hid it and then rushed to the bathroom to celebrate his escape with a huge toe-curling result, but that great feeling was now long gone.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Mayberry sighed as she walked into the Blueberry Café in downtown Hollister. Fortunately, the one Blueberry employee that she needed to see was on duty behind the front counter as expected, Peter Jenks. She sat down on a front counter stool at the far end.

Peter had been busy making a chocolate milk shake for a customer and only after he finished did he see Mrs. Mayberry sitting there. Peter's stomach wrenched. Mrs. Mayberry was a regular customer, but his instincts told him she had not come in to eat.

When Peter had finished delivering the milk shake, he got a coffee pot and a clean cup and slowly walked to Mrs. Mayberry, sat the cup down and filled it up.

"Thank you Peter," Marlene said a bit quietly. Peter sighed as he watched her mingle coffee creamer in with the black steamy liquid and stirred it without looking up,

"Mrs. Mayberry, I know why you're here, I was … well … I think I need to visit Mr. Fowler."

Marlene looked up, sighed and smiled, glad for Peter to so easily confess,

"He already paid the remaining five dollars back to the guild Peter. I know you'll do the right thing and don't worry, everything will be fine, you're a good boy Peter."

Peter's eyes misted just a little, "Thank you Mrs. Mayberry, I won't let you down."

"Good, now why don't you get me a piece of that delicious Blueberry café apple pie!"

"Right away, "Peter said and even added a free ala mode side car of vanilla ice cream to the pie order, paying for it himself with some of his own pocket change.

* * * * * * * * * *

A few days later, Peter got his paycheck, cashed it as usual and replaced the three one dollar bills that he had borrowed from his mother's kitchen jar, the deficit having gone unnoticed. A new crisp five dollar bill in his wallet, Peter then got the curly maple paddle and put it back into the paper sack and walked out of his house that afternoon and made his way to Gabe Fowler's home.

Gabe was working in his woodshed as usual, the radio tuned to the Hollister music channel which was playing his favorite swing orchestra tunes. He didn't hear Peter standing at the doorway; he just turned and seeing the boy, turned the radio off,

"Peter Jenks! What a surprise. Nobody ever visits me here, what can I do for you?" and then saw the paper sack. Peter took the curly maple paddle out of the sack and held it up, a sheepish expression on his face, the mystery of the missing blue ribbon winning paddle now solved.

Gabe smiled warmly, "Come in Peter, so, it was you that developed an interest in the paddle, was it?"

"Yes sir, it was, Mrs. Mayberry knows, but she's the only one besides you," and then Peter put the paddle down, got out the five dollar bill and held it out to Mr. Fowler.

Gabe Fowler held up his hand, "No, keep the money Gabe and neither will I ask you why you took the paddle and left the I.O.U. I'm more interested in how you feel about what you've done?"

It would have been so much easier to pay Mr. Fowler his debt and then just move on, but Peter knew it would not be quite that simple. His hand went down and he put the money back into his wallet.

"I learned so much from your class Mr. Fowler. When I saw the paddle, I knew it was curly maple. It's beautiful. I'll never have the skill to make something like that … I still feel badly for having schemed to steal the paddle and that's what it was. I did something like that when I was twelve. I knew it was wrong, but I took a one dollar bill that was not mine and got caught. Dad spanked my rear when he found out," Peter confessed most of his guilt away.

"When I was about your age Peter, my father had a beautiful fedora hat that he loved wearing. He wouldn't let his clumsy son, me, touch it for fear of my losing it. I desperately wanted to be seen about town wearing it, so I borrowed it one day and yes, I lost it. I got too caught up in myself, left it somewhere and somebody else snatched it up, I guess. Anyway, my father didn't say a thing, but the guilt caught up to me one day. We had a verbal argument about something else, but I ended up confessing about the lost hat to him. He walloped me pretty good that day."

"I guess I deserve to be punished too Mr. Fowler, "Peter quickly said, getting almost the whole point of Mr. Fowler's story, but nonetheless feeling the rest of the weight of his guilt lifting from his shoulders.

Gabe Fowler smiled, "Funny, my father asked me what he should do to me. I said the same thing just as you have. Even good boys make mistakes Peter, but then they know what should be done, so what do you think?"

Peter smiled at Mr. Fowler's clever trap, picked up the curly maple paddle and handed it to Mr. Fowler. Gabe took the paddle and smiled,

"I never intended that the paddle ever really be used, but then again, how would I have ever known had you not taken an interest in it. Tell you what, let's have you take one swat on the bare with this paddle for each dollar, ten. Then, you will promise me to hang it up with the blue ribbon somewhere safe and never use it again, just as a reminder about what happens when you go against your own good morals Peter, agreed?"

Peter looked at Mr. Fowler a long moment, knowing he would agree, but his real secret purpose for having the paddle would be soundly defeated, a small price to pay for doing the right thing.

Gabe knowingly smiled at the pause, "Oh, don't worry Peter, your secret is safe with me. After you've been punished, if you wish that is, you are going to make your own paddle in my shop here and that one, you can do with just as you please and nobody need know unless you wish to tell them."

Peter's eyes lit up, "Yes! I want to, thank you Mr. Fowler!"

"Good then. See that saw horse in the corner, I want you to pull it out of the corner, then I think you know what to do."

Peter nodded and walked over to the saw horse, feeling a growing excitement that he also knew would not last long. Curly maple is a very tough hardwood that is too brittle to use to make certain items like baseball bats. But as a paddle, it would do its job and painfully so. He pulled the horse out, then stepped back and lowered his trousers with his underwear to his ankles exposing his arousal, but paid it no attention.

Then just on instinct alone, Peter straddled the old saw horse sideways and bent forward, planting his hands firmly on the cross piece as Gabe Fowler approached his side holding the curly maple paddle.

"Very good Peter. Reminds me of days long past when I used that saw horse for my own sons right in this same corner. They would straddle the horse just as you have!"

Peter smiled for a moment at the comment and then felt the curly maple's paddle surface rub on his bare cheeks. His smile disappeared as the paddle drew back and Mr. Fowler planted a very hard stinging swat right across the center of his naked bottoms cheeks.

That harsh sting, followed by nine more from the shiny hardwood paddle, put away any doubt in Peter's mind that he had paid for his crime in a very proper way. Afterwards, Peter stood and lightly rubbed at his very sore and still throbbing bottom cheeks with his finger-tips, his arousal long gone for now. Mr. Fowler was already over at his work bench gently rubbing a soft chamois in a very loving way over the curly maple's still pristine and shiny surfaces. Peter finally pulled his underwear and trousers up and re-clothed himself and walked over to Mr. Fowler just as he finished.

"There, just like new and you too Peter. Well done son, " and Peter smiled as he watched his woodshop teacher find a soft cloth sack with a draw string and slid the once used and now retired blue ribbon winning paddle inside and set it down on the table top.

"Good, now, let's see what kind of wood we shall use for the paddle you are going to make for yourself, Peter!" and Peter nodded as well as rubbed at a familiar glowing feeling in the seat of his trousers, mostly fending off any thoughts of the other side for the time being.

"So, what kind of wood is this Peter?" Mr. Fowler asked as he held up a ½ inch thick slab of dark wood.

Peter smiled, "Looks like cherry wood, Sir!"

Gabe grinned, "Very good Peter, cherry wood indeed. I think this would make a fine paddle. I've never used cherry for a paddle, so yours will be very unique."

Gabe spent the remaining time with Peter that afternoon practicing drilling holes with old pieces of soft pine, then refresher time with the jig-saw and other manual tools that Peter would use over their future evenings together.

That night, Peter lay on his bed reliving the day's events, his hand stroking up and down his arousal, his backside still a bit of pink. Peter stroked himself into a wonderful oblivion recalling the mighty sting of the paddle and speaking of paddles, Peter's properly paid for curly maple paddle, complete with blue ribbon, now lay safely tucked away in his closet in its soft cloth sack, to remain a secret for the time being.

One month later …

Grinning ear to ear, Peter anxiously hurried over to the saw horse in Mr. Fowler's woodshed and readied himself to try out his brand new cherry wood paddle. It was same size as his prize curly maple, but was a handsome reddish dark wood tone instead. Bottom bared, Peter straddled himself and bent over as Mr. Fowler approached, admiring the paddle that his student had made.

"This is a handsome thing, well done Peter! Are you ready to try it out?"

"Yes Sir! Ten hard swats please!" Peter grinned and then steadied himself.

"Ten it is!" Mr. Fowler smiled and gave the cherry wood paddle its first inaugural use, ten hard bare bottomed swats firmly applied to its maker and owner, Peter Jenks.

* * * * * * * * * *

Years later …

"Who's next?" the deep voice of authority said. Greg looked up from his bench at Principal Peter Jenks and groaned. It had taken the new Hollister High School freshman a full month to finally have earned his first trip to the principal's office for a lesson in attitude, a pretty average time really.

Greg walked into the office and Peter closed the door, taking the referral slip from his hand. Greg saw something that the other boys had talked about who had gone before him that month and walked over to the wall.

"So that's what the guys have all seen," Greg said, looked at the vertically hanging curly maple spanking paddle with the now plastic laminated blue ribbon affixed down the paddle's length and also briefly glanced at the small brass plaque underneath.

"Let's get this done Anderson, trousers and shorts down, over the side of the desk, five swats this time, next time double!"

"Yesssirrr," Greg said glumly and did as he was told, wincing as he watched Principal Jenks pick up a dark wood paddle.

Peter came around the side of his desk and seeing that the freshman was ready, gave the boy five hard swats with the old and somewhat worn cherry wood paddle, gaining five loud yelps. Peter watched young Greg get up, turn his back and redress himself and as soon as he did, Peter excused the boy.

Greg opened the office door to leave the room rubbing his sore seat with one hand, but then Peter caught a brief glimpse of the quickly retreating student grabbing a little at his front side as well before he disappeared. Peter had no idea if the student was feeling a little energized in front as he used to get after a paddling, but he sighed anyway with his own private memories, then walking to his desk, found a small cloth and walked over to the wall.

He reached up and flicked the cloth a bit over the handsome curly maple paddle's length, then used a corner of the cloth to polish over the small brass plaque beneath. The brass plate's inscription read in part:

Peter turned. He didn't need to read the dates of Gabe Fowler's birth and death, he knew them by heart, the latter had been just six months before. Peter went to his desk and picking up the cherry wood paddle, rubbed his hand reverently over the worn surface for a few thoughtful moments and then set it aside and got back to work.

* * * * * * * * * *

Most small county fairs do not change a lot over the years. The carnivals stay the same, so do the traditional livestock and home-product displays and judging. Principal Peter Jenks had never neglected to not attend the Holcomb County Fair every year since five years of age and most years for quite a number now, he made sure to spend one day alone from his family of four, just walking through the animal barns and yes, the woodcraft building as well.

The following Holcomb County Fair year there was a woodcraft item seldom seen, a paddle, made of birdseye maple wood with a stout $45.00 price tag, the proceeds to go to the new Hollister Hospital building fund. If one were to look at the name of the paddle's maker on the back of the price tag, it would say "Peter Jenks, in honor of Gabe Fowler," a blue ribbon lying across the handle. The paddle sold the day after the fair opened that year.

© Copyright PJ Franklin August 24, 2009

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Last updated:  August 24, 2009