Maybe, “Austin is back due to mild interest” is closer to the truth.

OK, fine, I promised a friend I would mow her lawn if she complained to my editor that I hadn’t been in the op-ed section lately. During my hiatus, however, I have spent time enriching my life by yelling at people to get off my lawn, pining for the old days and telling kids how easy they have it. Most of the time the 15 and under crowd doesn’t bother to look up from their endless slaughter of video characters when I’m yammering on. One day, though, they actually put their game on pause after I said, “When I was your age, I used to get paddled at school on a regular basis.”

Apparently there has been some talk about bringing state-sanctioned beatings back into the school system, so, for once, I had the kids’ rapt attention.

I explained that I went to grade school in Tennessee, where hitting someone to further their education was the norm. I had a pretty standard career in corporal punishment and was whacked by people of all colors. For instance, Miss White was the math teacher; Coach Brown was the gym teacher, and Mrs. Greene was senile and the geography teacher. Miss White had good technique, and it could sting for sure, but she was so pretty it was worth a whuppin’.

With Coach Brown, discipline tended to have a lot of collateral damage. One day while the class was sitting in the bleachers answering roll call, a group of kids didn’t view attendance with the same gravity as Coach Brown. He slapped his notebook closed and said, “That’s it. Everybody gets paddled.” In unison, 35 12 year olds nearly stewed their pants. We lined up in quiet desperation, shuffling toward the back of the queue in hopes that coach would fatigue.

We learned two things that day: Don’t talk during class, and Coach Brown had a lot of stamina.

Then there was Mrs. Greene; she was the best. She was actually older than the geography she was teaching and, if she remembered to spank you at all, swinging the plank took more out of her than the spankee.

The greatest paddler during my school years was, without a doubt, Mr. Jernigan. He was the giant, looming shop teacher. He wore thick-rimmed, black eyeglasses that mimicked the bristly eyebrow that started at one side of his head and went uninterrupted to the other side. One day, our class was in the drafting room learning all about the t-square. It seems I may have answered one of his questions with a bit of unnecessary frivolity. (That’s right, me, a smart ass. Try and get your head wrapped out that.) He stopped in mid-sentence and gently put his t-square down. “Mr. Austin,” he said, “would you accompany me to the shop floor.” It was the second time that week I nearly stewed my pants. I remember following him down the steps and noticing that his neck was wider than his head. Sweat had soaked through my “Bee Gees” T-shirt when we came to a stop.

“Austin,” he said, “you’re a funny guy.” I let out a silent, “whew,” he brought me down here to compliment me. He grabbed a 10-foot piece of lumber and started looking down the grain. “I like funny guys,” he said. Relaxed now, I made an “aw shucks” sound and helped him carry the wood to the table saw.

“But there is a time and place for jokes.” He cut a section off the board’s end. “Don’t you agree?” I had to admit that his notion had merit. He went on about how his job was to educate students and that it was harder to do so with a wannabe stand-up comedian in the room. He probably said something else, but I lost focus when I noticed the wood on the bandsaw was being cut into the shape of a paddle, a big one. As he sanded off the rough edges he politely suggested I hold off with the funny stuff until after class. Then he turned to me and gave a smack with the board into the palm of his hand. A stark echo went through the cavernous room. I managed to squeak out “Yes, sir.”

He put the paddle on the table, gave me pat on the back and thanked me for understanding. Now that is how you paddle.

— Chris Austin is an award-winning humor columnist & The Beachcomber’s circulation manager.