THE STRAP An old leather belt hung limp on a bent nail, like a harness, just inside the pantry door. Its sole purpose was for my correction, for keeping a young boy reigned in. “The strap.” That’s what my Grammy called it. It seemed as though it was off the nail more than on it. But I guess that’s what kept it limber, at least more than I care to think about. You see, Grammy raised me. It was just the two of us on the farm, located in North Central Pennsylvania. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy task for an older person on their own raising a kid like me. I probably would have gotten on anybody’s nerves. So, when I got out of hand, I got the strap. And after all these years, I can still hear it crack like a whip in my mind, just before I do something crass, a thing I know Grammy wouldn’t approve of. “Stop! I didn’t… Ouch!” Grammy would hold my left arm with one hand, and strap me with the other as I twirled in circles, trying to escape her grasp. I can still hear the crack and feel the stinging burn; it wrapped around my upper thighs, released, and struck again. After four to six lashes, Grammy’s demon would leave her, and she would hang the strap back in its place on the nail. One hot summer day, Grammy asked me to help her do some yard work. Lazily, I agreed. Did I have a choice? But before we started, I made a request. “Grammy, when we’re done, can you take me and my dog Nipper swimming at Bair’s creek?” She said, “We’ll see.” So we worked together for a while, and then excitedly, I quipped, “Can we go pretty soon?” Grammy said, “Bob, don’t mention it again, or we won’t go at all. I’m not telling you again!” I might have brought it up a few more times. I don’t remember off hand. But the last time I asked, well, it set Grammy off her rocker! “Bob, I told you for the last time. Come here! Get over here right this instance!” I held fast to my spot in front of the porch, like a statue. She bolted for the back door to the house, flinging the screen door open so hard that it almost came off its hinges. I heard the pantry door bang against the kitchen wall, and then Grammy reappeared, her face red with anger. She was off the porch in a full trot with the strap in hand, coming for me. I had never seen her so mad. I don’t know why she didn’t just wear the darn strap. That way, it would always be close at hand. But when I had heard the screen door slam shut, I took off running as fast as I could as Grammy swiped at my arm, just missing. I bolted down our gravel driveway with Grammy close behind, yelling, “Bob you get back here or you’ll get it worse!” I cried, “No! No! Don’t! I didn’t mean it! Don’t strap me! I don’t want to go swimming anymore!” But then I realized I was the only one running. I heard no other footsteps behind me and no one hollering at me. So I stopped the sound of my clippity-clop feet and turned around. To my surprise, there in the driveway, Grammy laid face down. Being only a boy, I knew it to be serious, and I envisioned Grammy’s soul leaving her body. It was dispensed in a plume of dust particles, with the sun’s rays drawing it up toward heaven. Right then, I ran back to where Grammy laid and reached down and grabbed that strap - that wicked strap - rolled it up, and threw it as far as I could. But that was not the last encounter I had with Grammy or the strap!