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Bell or Belt

Mom's solution

By Mike BallPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
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Bell or Belt

My mom had a cow bell as her better-get-your-butt-home signal. It was most often used as our call to dinner. It was a real cow’s bell and was all clunk-ditty-clunk—not like someone baking the hell out of it with a drumstick in a late sixties rock band—she would just jangle it from the handle, and if you were outside and pretty nearby, you could hear it, get home in a matter of minutes, and not get in trouble. But if you were inside a friend’s house, especially with the radio, stereo or tv on, you were pretty sure not to hear “the bell,” and catch hell for it when my mom had to send a sibling to find you, or worse, if she came to find you herself. And there was no excuse good enough. Saying you couldn’t hear the bell inside was surely countered with, of course, “Well you shouldn’t go inside then,” and, “Stay where you can hear the bell.”

The whole ring the bell thing only came about because we would tell our mom where we were going, then never be there when she telephoned or sent word to come home. She knew we weren’t ever going to stop what we were doing to trudge all the way home to tell her we were changing locations, so she came up with the ring the bell strategy. She assured us she would only ring it if it were very important, and when we heard it, we had better run home and not take our sweet time. It was pretty much a “bell or belt” situation. Well it wasn’t long after our twentieth argument over the strategy that my mom found a solution. Antique shopping one day while we were at school, she came across an authentic one-room-schoolhouse teacher’s bell. It had a large contoured wooden candle, a large bell and clacker, and was built to be heard ringing across town and prairie. Problem solved. You could literally hear this bell underwater in a pool half a mile away. Now it really was “bell or belt.”

My mom never was one for the belt, though. That was my dad’s domain. The old, “Wait til your father gets home,” really meant something in our house. My old man didn’t mess around either. It was all a production. He would send us to our room, and that was the worst part of it, the waiting seemed interminable, and we’d be crying loudly before he even got there. He would make his way down the hall toward our room slowly. He’d fold his thin leather belt in half, hold it at the ends, press his hands together and, pulling them apart rapidly, he’d snap the belt loudly. You’d hear him coming for you, snap…snap…SNAP! The horror didn’t end there. Not only would he whip you hard, he’d yell unintelligibly as he did it. Something like, “yazer sdizzle fallER HAAAPH!” Building up in fury til he struck, “measler fringer hallER MAAHH!” I’m sure there was spittle flying about, but I never pulled my face out of my pillow to see. It was frighteningly weird and, I must admit in retrospect, supremely effective. I for one was terrified of getting the belt and would do whatever I could to, on a daily basis, actively avoid it. And another aspect of this form of corporal punishment that should be admitted here is this: we didn’t get the belt that often, and I honestly can’t think of a single time when I got the belt and didn’t clearly deserve it.

Despite all her best efforts with the bell and all, we drove our mom crazy. Literally. She only tried to use the belt on Steve and me once when we were little, and she cried more than we did. In fact, my brother and I laughed at her. I know that sounds mean, but we really couldn't help it. She was so pathetic compared to Dad's Godzilla show. I remember she locked herself in her room, and we didn’t see her until morning.

After moving to Solana Beach, my dad was not always around. Off and on he would be living elsewhere, but always made it home for weekends for chores or fun. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Newt was a great dad that did all the great dad things and more. From the fifth grade through high school and beyond, I can’t remember him missing anything any of us ever did, but he and my mom fought A LOT. So the wait-til-your-dad-gets-home was sometimes a few day’s wait and lost its punch. In fact, the last time I remember actually getting the belt was our first day moving to Solana Beach. I had just turned eleven. We hadn’t even actually gotten to our new home. We had just pulled off the freeway about a half mile from our house and my dad had had enough of his four kids fighting and screaming in the car, so he pulled over the Pontiac Tempest station wagon, lined us up along the freeway barrier chain linked fence, and whack whack whack. I only recall three whacks. I don’t think Jo Jo got the belt that day. In fact, I don’t think she ever actually got the belt. Ever. Of all the kids, she was the one who knew when to keep quiet.

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About the Creator

Mike Ball

Mike Ball has recently started self-publishing short stories and longer work fiction. He is excited about exploring new publications and seeks your response to these first efforts. Bon Appetit!

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