WHEN WE were growing up, I think it's safe to say that our mom was the meanest mother on the block. Not the kind that would steal your ball because it went into her yard.

Mary Elek was the kind of mother who you didn't want to cross ... ever. Even if you were an adult.

Anyway, back to childhood. What made my mom so tough was that she wasn't afraid to yell at any kid in the neighborhood if they did something wrong, and was more than willing to back it up with a whack upside the head. She had a look that could make anyone back down. I don't think she feared any man or woman and certainly not a smart-ass kid.

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My mother was a big believer in the "spare the rod, spoil the child" theory, which means a good ass-whipping once in a while does a kid some good. Personally, I wasn't in favor of this theory as a child, but I wasn't making the Elek house rules. We revisited that theory several times a week, just to make sure it still worked.

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When I went to school (you have to say that line with a deeper voice and with some authority), it was still OK to administer corporal punishment with a paddle. It was near the end of that period, but the male teachers had no problem getting physical with some of the unruly kids. Of course, unruly then meant mouthy ... not homicide suspect in training.

A couple of the teachers had paddles from "the old days," which probably was the previous school year.

The threat of the paddle hanging from the teacher's desk did a lot to keep law and order in the classroom.

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One time, my brother, Tim, the two boys next door – Barry and Joey Kamensky – and I had gotten into some kind of trouble. It's hard to say what kind of trouble, because there were so many incidents. Most involved brothers fighting with each other. But Mrs. Kamensky decided she would punish us. So she came over and pansy-slapped our shoulders in front of our mother.

Our mother was incredulous – slack-jawed – at what she just witnessed. So she stepped in and really whacked us. By now, of course, it didn't really hurt, and pretty soon my brother would laugh at her. Which of course made the Irish woman really mad. She had red hair for a reason, you know.

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Our sixth grade teacher was Mr. Rossi. His first name was Mister, and his last name was Rossi. I don't know if he had a middle name. I thought he was a giant. He seemed to be about seven feet tall. Years later, I learned that he was no giant. Maybe 5 foot 9.

He was a great teacher. It was still the one-room concept, and in that one room, he taught history, English, science and geography. He also taught binary numbers, but I had a really tough time wrapping my 10-year-old brain around that concept.

There were no computers then. There weren't even calculators – I know, you're aghast.

Mr. Rossi was occasionally stern but exceedingly kind. I think we all liked and respected him.

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My fifth-grade teacher was Miss Muir – an old school marm who had never married and lived just up the street from us. She was Tough with a capital T. She knew one method of teaching, and basically it was her way or ... well, there was no alternative. It was her way.

My mother liked her a lot.

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I got paddled one time in my 12 years of public education (13, if you count kindergarten, but why bother including that). I was in the eighth grade, and I got nabbed for doing something. It was in the lunchroom, no doubt, and I was given a slip and told to report to the gym after school

I was a little worried and a little proud that I'd get paddled and gain a little respect for being the school "bad boy" – even if it was for just a day. On the other hand, the teacher who gave me the note was an elderly no-nonsense gym teacher, and I was a little afraid that he might really bust my ass with his paddle.

When I got to the gym, there were about five other kids waiting to get whacked. None of us were really bad kids, just a little mischievous. There was a small balcony above the gym, and we were told to go up there and grab the rail. We didn't have to strip. The guy was tough, not a pervert.

I didn't see a paddle, and I guess he didn't have it with him, because he whacked us with his clipboard. I was thinking, "That's it?" I was going to say, "My mother hits harder than that." Which, of course, was true. But I thought better of it, because if he really did get his paddle, I would have been in some serious trouble. I had a small butt then, and he probably would have broken me in half if he had put a little muscle into it ... if he had the paddle, that is.

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My sister had Miss Muir the next year. If my sister was absent that day, Miss Muir would come into our class and ask, "Michael Elek, where is your sister?"

That was a shock to my delicate psyche, because the entire class would turn around and stare at me. It was baffling at the same time, because Tim usually was sitting at the desk next to him or very close. She never once burst into the room and said, "Timothy Elek, where is your sister." It was always me she asked. Every time.

Years later, when she retired, and I learned that she was a human being, I should have asked her about that. On my way home from my paper route, I often saw Miss Muir on her front porch. I occasionally helped her carry groceries into her house. I was still a little intimidated by her. I never called her anything but Miss Muir.

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Around the neighborhood, my mother was still the No. 1 intimidator. Miss Muir was a rank amateur compared with Mary Elek.

 
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