There was a psychologist on the radio Monday morning taking calls from listeners. A grandmother phoned in and said she was worried about her six year old grandson. He threw "hissy fits" when he didn't get his way and caused scenes at church, in stores, in restaurants, etc. He screams, gets on the floor and throws himself around and stamps his feet. The psychologists advised "time outs" when the tantrums occur, and if this didn't help, the child would need to be put on medication. The exhausted granny said she'd try the time outs. If that works, I've got a bridge I want to sell you.

That kid needs his behind blistered with a switch and told to behave. When I was growing up, I had a cousin who had only one child, a spoiled rotten brat who wasn't allowed to play out with the rest of us because his Mama didn't want him to get dirty, and truly, she thought he was better than the rest of us. We called him Prissy Britches. He whined and threw tantrums if he didn't get his way. Then a momentous event occurred. His parents had to go to a funeral in Tennessee, and knew Prissy Britches might cause a scene, so they asked Aunt Lizzie, who had five kids, to watch him while they were gone.

Prissy Britches sulked and whined as they pulled out of sight, then threw a tantrum. We stood in a circle watching this performance in awe, then Aunt Lizzie jerked him off the floor and tore his bottom up with a switch. Aunt Lizzie was a no nonsense woman. Time outs? Explanations? Nope. You throw a hissy, and you're gonna get switched. Period.
All the kids had chores to do, and Prissy Britches had to sweep the porches and wash dishes, every day. He'd gear up to tantrum, then see the switch in the corner and sulk--but he did his chores. Then bad news. His parents had been in an auto accident in Tennessee and would be laid up there for weeks. Aunt Lizzie said she wouldn't mind keeping Prissy Britches and when his mother asked in a weak voice how her boy was doing, Aunt Lizzie said he was doing just fine.

As the days passed, Prissy Britches learned to climb into the treehouse and didn't cry when he scraped his knee. He and the other boys wrasseled and played in the yard and got dirty and dunked each other in the swim hole and rode bareback on Ada, the swaybacked plowhorse. They ate everything on their plates without coaxing and got brown as Indians working in the garden and playing outside. The other kids didn't call him Prissy Britched anymore--they called him by his given name, "Bert."

Bert found he liked helping in the kitchen, and learned to basics of cookery from Aunt Lizzie. After his parents recoved and returned home, they hardly knew the pouty sulky boy they had left behind. When he grew up, Bert moved to California and went to culinary school and became a well known chef. When asked once about his career, he said "I owe it all to a switch and a summer with Aunt Lizzie," which nobody understood except us.

susil