Member-only story
The wooden spoon has its many uses.
Grandma used it to stir the pot as the sweet savoury smell of her brown stew wafted into the hallway.
After a hearty meal, I was always waiting for the unknown. This caused all my childhood anxiety.
Grandma’s mood — now dark. I winced as the wooden spoon landed on my bare buttocks, smack after smack. Five strikes per cheek.
I couldn’t sit down.
My schoolteachers found out and I ended up in care. Thus began my downward spiral.
The wooden spoon left more than a scar. I panic each time I see one.
Why I wrote this
Last year, I did a short story writing course and each week we were assigned writing homework. One of those weeks we were asked to write a one hundred word story.
I thought long and hard about what to write about and then the image of a wooden spoon flashed through my mind. I thought about food and its importance in one’s childhood.
Most children look back at their childhood with fondness. But what about those who don’t?
‘My schoolteachers found out and I ended up in care. It was very unpleasant.’
I also thought about the care system and how messed up and…
