Subject: Shamus Fitzpatrick
From: Hbrushed <Hbrushed@aol.com>
What follows is fiction - to the best of my knowlege there is no Seamus Fitzpatrick, and there is no Dominic DiMarco, and even if there are two folks with those names, they likely don't live next door to each other! This is just something written for fun. If you are under 18 or if you don't like the spankings of young girls, then read no further!
Reader's Digest used to have a feature called "My Most Unforgettable Character" in which people would write about their friends and acquaintances. If I had that opportunity now, I know who I would write about.
Seamus McNeill Fitzpatrick.
Mr. Fitz, or Mr. Fitzpat. That's what we called him. To the adults in the neighborhood, he was "Old Seamus ." To the kids, he was "Mr. Fitz," and to himself, well, he always called himself "Seamus Fitzpatrick." For as long as I can remember, Mr. Fitzpat lived next door. Mr. Fitz was retired when I can first remember him, but he was never old. A short, strong, barrel-chested stump of a man with a ruddy face and wavy, uncontrolled hair that had once been red.
Mr. Fitz had raised four girls of his own by the time we moved in - beautiful Irish girls - Casey, Shannon, Corrine and Heather Fitzpatrick. Just as his girls were moving out and his life was settling down, my Italian family with four girls moved in next door to enliven his retirement. The DiMarco family; Mom, Dad, Angela, Theresa, Lisa, and me - Maria. If Mr. Fitz was looking forward to a quiet retirement, he was not to have his wish fulfilled.
Although we had completely different ethnicities, the two families grew close. Mr. Fitz was a first generation Irishman, and Dad was a second generation Italian. They made an unusual pair, Seamus McNiell Fitzpatrick and Dominic Vincent DiMarco. Sometimes it was a wonder they could communicate at all with Mr. Fitzpat's heavy brogue and Dad's propensity to slip into Italian when he got excited. Our backyards melted together without fences, and any outing by one family ended up with both. It was during one of these outings, with six Fitzpatricks and six DiMarcos that Mr. Fitz became even more intimately associated with our family.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was the opposite of Mr. Fitz. As boisterous and lively as he was, she was quiet and stern. Although the whole neighborhood called him Seamus or Mr. Fitz, everyone (including Mr. Fitz!) called her Mrs. Fitzpatrick. It was during this big picnic that we learned that the large and carefully pruned peach tree in the Fitzpatrick backyard not only produced wonderful fruit, but it also produced long and supple switches which Mrs. Fitzpatrick had used on the bottoms of Casey, Shannon, Corrine and Heather when they misbehaved.
This revelation led to a long and entirely too frank discussion of daughter rearing. The Fitzpatrick girls blushed and giggled as they recounted the many times that each of them had been sent to the tree to select a few stingy switches, then reported back to the angry Mrs. Fitzpatrick in the kitchen. As the girls would return to the kitchen, their mom would bend them over the counter, and raise their skirts for a good, stinging switching of the seat of a naughty daughter's underpants. When rendered necessary by particular naughtiness, the skirts were raised and their panties were lowered for and even more emphatic switching of a little bare Irish bottom. For their more serious offenses they had to wait for their daddy, who would tip a bare bottomed daughter across his knee and spank the little pale bottoms with his hand until they were bright red.
It was great fun to hear of the distress of the lovely girls next door and to imagine their embarrassment as their bare bottoms were spanked or switched. As my dad got into the spirit of the discussion, it became embarrassing and horrifying to us as he and Mom joined the fun and explained our punishments! As brightly as the Irish girls blushed, we soon joined them as Mom explained that a hard-backed wooden hairbrush used upon a girl's bare bottom as she squirmed over her knee was a wonderful way to make a point. Daddy explained, just as Mr. Fitz had, that a daddy didn't need anything more than his hand to spank a naughty daughter, and we were forced to admit that he could certainly make an impression when he tugged down our underpants to spank us. While the Fitzpatrick girls blushed, the DiMarco girls were scarlet! For them, it was ancient history - for us it was yesterday, today and tomorrow!
Mom seemed to take a great interest in the girls telling of their switchings. She questioned them about the stinging they provided. Did their mom switch their bottoms only, or also the tops of their thighs? Did the switch sting through their underpants, or was it much worse on their bare bottoms? Did they bend over completely, or just lean over a little? We delighted in the girls giggles as they talked about sticking their panty-clad bottoms out in the kitchen to receive their correction, and the bright red blushing of their cheeks as they recounted the embarrassment of having their panties dragged down so unceremoniously. We all grinned as they talked about the few times that Mrs. Fitzpatrick had all four girls bent over the counter at the same time, all with their panties around their knees as she switched up and down the row of pale, freckled bottoms.
All of us DiMarco girls quit grinning the minute that Mom asked Mr. Fitz if she might, once in a while, prune a switch from that tree for one of us. We were horrified as she bluntly told all of the Fitzpatricks that hand spankings seemed to have little effect on her daughters, even with our panties pulled down. She explained that she was seeking some punishment that would be less emphatic than a hairbrush spanking, but more effective than a hand spanking. It sounded to her that a good switching, on the bare or on the seat of our undies, would fill this little gap in her punishment repertoire.
The whole picnic trooped over to the peach tree as the Fitzpatrick girls plucked various size switches and explained their merits to my mother. As the Fitzpatrick girls laughed and stung each other on the rear with the different switches, the DiMarco girls were very subdued since we saw the intensity of Mom's concentration on their instruction.
It was some weeks later that the first of the DiMarco girls felt the sting of a switch, and blushingly I admit that it was me. Mom had delivered a few more traditional spankings in this time, and we were all relieved to believe that Mom's interest in switchings seemed to have passed. I was about 8 years old this day and had been a miserable brat most of the day. Mom had been looking out the kitchen window, and I'm sure that just seeing that tree brought back her memory of our picnic discussions.
"That's it, Maria. Go ask Mr. Fitz if you can take a switch from his tree, and bring it back here right now."
I was bawling as if I had already been spanked as I trudged across the yard to the large garden that Mr. Fitz tended with such care.
"Ah, Miss Maria," he bellowed as I approached, "And what brings you over to Seamus Fitzpatrick with tears on yer wee face? Have you hurt yourself, my lovely little lady?" Mr. Fitz had the most colorful and pleasant way of talking.
"I need....I need....I have to...I..." and my voice was leaving me. I pointed at his tree, and he realized what was happening.
"So, my wee miss, you've come to prune my tree a little now, have you? Been into a little mischief, eh, lassie? Well pick a good one now, missy. You won't be wanting to come back for another in a few minutes, now would you? Go on, now and hurry - you don't want to make Mrs. DiMarco even angrier by stalling out here talking to old Seamus Fitzpatrick, do you?"
I picked a switch at random and ran back to the house. As I held the dreaded switch, Mom took charge of pulling down my play pants and leaning me over the seat of a kitchen chair with my pantied bottom sticking out.
Swish, swish swish! She and that little peach switch set my bottom on fire! I squealed and squirmed and hollered as the little switch sting my nearly bare rear. Unlike the hairbrush, the thinness of the switch stung tiny portions of my bottom with each application, and the times that Mom missed my panties and caught my bare legs stung even worse. The switching didn't last long, but the stinging of my bottom stayed with me for a long time, and my recounting of the experience stayed with my sisters, too!
Mom must have approved of the change in behavior that the switch brought to me, for it was only a few days later that my then 16-year-old sister Angela was scampering over to the peach tree. When she returned she was made to lift her dress above her waist, and since she was so much taller than me she was made to lean over the back of a kitchen chair, instead of the seat. As Angie stood there bent over the chair, Mom promptly peeled her panties down to her ankles and then laid it on with the switch. Since they were right in the kitchen, Terri and I both got so see as Angela howled and squirmed as the switch soon painted thin pink lines across her round bottom and down across her thighs.
In the next few weeks Terri and Lisa also felt one of Mr. Fitzpat's switches, and a procedure was developing. Mom's hand spankings were gone now. When we were bad we were either taken to her bedroom for a dose of her hairbrush, sent off to retrieve one of Mr. Fitzpat's switches, or stood in the corner to await Dad's arrival home. Our switchings were always delivered without our outer clothes, and often without our underpants as well. As we leaned over the back or the seat of the chair, Mom would sting our bottoms with these little bits of Fitzpatrick peach tree.
It was Mom's rule that if Mr. Fitz was outside - on his porch, in his yard or in the garden - then we had to ask his permission to pick a switch. If he wasn't outside, we were able to just pick one. If we brought back one that was too little or too short, Mom would lead us back out to the tree again to find one that better suited her and her plans.
Although I detested being switched, it was the humbling experience of asking Mr. Fitz for permission to snap a switch from his tree that I dreaded. It was even worse when his wife, one of his daughters, or even granddaughters were visiting, and I had to ask him if I might have a switch. Mrs. Fitzpatrick would always nod with a stern and satisfied look on her face. His daughters would look at us with knowing grins, or sometimes sad looks of compassion. These looks from of the observers were even worse to bear than asking for permission to take a switch. Contrary to my wishes, Mr. Fitz always granted permission.
"Ah, my sweet Maria, is it another switchin' for yer little backside now? What has gotten into you, girl? I see you in that peach tree more than I see you in church anymore! Go on, now sweetheart, you might as well get it over with. Yer mother is awaitin' to switch ya, and you'll not be wanting to make her lift yer skirt for it, now would ya?"
Winter wasn't much help. Though Mr. Fitzpat was rarely out, the tell-tale footprints in the snow circling his tree told the neighborhood that one or more of the DiMarco girls was having trouble sitting down.
During one week, each of us had to retrieve a switch. "You DiMarco girls are going to be the death of me sweet peach tree this summer, do ya know that now? Why doncha girls behave yourselves and save me poor tree from being stripped bare? Thank the saints above that Mrs. Fitzpatrick isn't still switching me own girls too, or I'd have a dead tree back here waiting to become firewood! Go on, pick one if ye can reach any anymore. Seamus Fitzpatrick is going to have to set a ladder up for the DiMarco's to reach their switches soon, doncha know? Now hurry along, fer when Mrs. DiMarco is ready to spank a wee girl's bottom it wouldn't do to make her wait, now would it?"
One time, after Mother had to drag me out by the ear to select a more substantial switch, Mr. Fitz told her, "Now be going easy on the little fannies, now Mrs. DiMarco. A girl is allowed a little mischief now and again, wouldn't ya know, and she doesn't always need a spankin' when she's been bad." After Mom patiently explained what I had done to Mr. Fitzpat, while I stood there bawling, he looked over at me and said, "Now you'll be a happy girl, Maria that its not Mrs. Fitzpatrick that has ahold of your little ear right now, for she'd be taking your little pants down and a-switching you 'till the sun sets behind the hills! You run along now, little lass, and take your mother's medicine." I was puzzled by the reference to my pants, since I was wearing a skirt, until Mother had me back in our kitchen. As she was taking down my panties, she called them my 'little pants' and it dawned on me that 'little pants' was Mr. Fitz's colorful way of saying underpants.
The lack of air conditioning and Mr. Fitzpat's habit of sitting on his porch meant that he was often able to hear our reaction to Mom's use of his switches. "Ah, Miss Angela, 'tis it you to be fetching a switch fer yer mama today? Miss Maria was here just yesterday, and I swear I'm gonna have to get cotton for Seamus Fitzpatrick's ears for all the caterwauling ye DiMarco girls make when your momma is a-switchin' yer wee bottoms!"
"Now, little Maria. If yer after tellin' me that yer here to pick a switch for Miss Theresa, then why would the tears be runnin' down yer own wee cheeks as after the flood of the Donovan River? Ye wouldn't be trying to tell a story to an old story teller like Seamus Fitzpatrick, now would ya sweetheart? I'm thinking that the switch is for yer own little sit-upon, lassie, and I'm thinking that you better gather it up and get home before yer sweet mother comes a-lookin' for ya now. Scoot along, and best of luck to you or Miss Theresa, whichever is gonna be singin' the high notes this afternoon."
"Is it two of you girls come to break up me tree today? Yer mother's arm is sure to fall off, now isn't it girls? Not that you'd be worried about yer mother's arm at a time like this, now would ya, dears? Casey and Shannon often plucked me tree together, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick was nearly worn out before she striped their little bums. Now you'd better hurry along now before your mother forgets all about Seamus Fitzpatrick's tree and starts to lookin' for her old hairbrush, now shouldn't you? And from the hollerin' that I heard yer mother doing just a minute ago, youll be having yer little pants off for you today, too, now wouldn't ya think? You'd be after having one of Mr. Fitzpat's switches than yer mother's brush on yer bare bottoms, now wouldn't you girls? Get you over to the tree, now, and pick a good one so's you don't make Mrs. DiMarco even angrier, won'tcha now."
Well, we DiMarco girls are all grown up now, and the switchings and spankings are all over - at least for this generation. The poor tree is still shedding its new growth on occasion as the Fitzpatrick grandchildren are growing, and it looks so cute to see Casey or Shannon holding a misbehaving son or daughter by the ear as she plucks a switch from the tree and heads for the kitchen. And, as time goes by I suspect that it will surrender a few more switches as the DiMarco grandchildren grow and visit.
What a remarkable character - Mr. Seamus McNeill Fitzpatrick.