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I got spanked, whacked, drubbed, knuckled and swatted as a kid. My parents were big believers in fair, evenly applied corporal punishment. None of it involved whips, pillories, thumbscrews or bleeding.

Looking back, I don't resent any of the floggings I got as a kid. Best as I recall, I had all of them coming. And many more, if the truth were known.

My father was the physical disciplinarian in the family, although Mom didn't shy away from doling out whatever was necessary to prevent total anarchy.

Mom once slapped me on the top of the head with a flyswatter. It didn't hurt but I cried anyway because it covered my pancakes in fly parts.

Career army, the Old Man was much more military about it. There would be a formal hearing where charges were brought by the aggrieved: Mom, siblings, neighbors, #%@* school, the fire department, etc. Usually this occurred when he got home from work.

At this court martial I was given an opportunity to plead my case (almost never a good idea), whereupon a verdict was deliberated on and rendered. Then it was up to my room for the predetermined number of whacks.

This sounds like a long process, but honestly it could all take place in about eight seconds.

Mom: "He set fire to the shed again."

Old Man: "Did you?"

Me: "There was a spider in—."

Thump. Crash! Bump-bump-bump. Slam. Whack! Whack! Whack!

Alone in my room with a warmed-up butt, I had plenty of time to reflect on what I had learned. This invariably set the course for the next drubbing.

"# %@* spiders think they're so smart. Just wait until I make a flamethrower."

Some might find this form of parental control abusive, but I'll tell you that it worked. There are buildings, forests and entire neighborhoods still standing today because I knew what would happen when my father got home.

It went something like this. I'd be mentally comparing a cousin's head against a cat door at grandma's house. About the time I figured out that it would just barely fit, there would come a moment when my butt tingled with ominous memory.

Butt: "Man, I wouldn't do that."

Me: "But it would be so cool. I could tie his head to the fridge."

Depending on my level of boredom, I would listen to my butt or proceed with the understanding that it was worth it in the end.

There was a formula for it all. I had to calculate what kind of day my parents were having, compare that to the amount of noise the victim might make, and figure how much it would cost to fix.

As I got older, the corporal punishment occurred less frequently. Mom had to resort to waiting for me to go sleep before getting out the flyswatter. My father eventually had to wait for me to come home before he could hold court.

Did any of it help me become a better person? It's possible to argue in favor of both answers. All I care about is that it helped keep me from becoming the kind of man my wife wouldn't marry.

Marriage is where I learned that a complete lack of physical contact for misbehaving was a far worse punishment. That was really scary.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.