Author: bruce

In the quiet town of Willowbrook, a peculiar tradition thrived behind the white picket fences and within the walls of the Turner family’s grand, ancestral home. Every year, as the autumn leaves painted the town in fiery hues, the extended family gathered for a Thanksgiving feast like no other. The patriarch, George Turner, a man whose stern demeanor was as constant as the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, had instilled in his sons a very specific way of expressing their gratitude. It was a tradition that had been passed down through generations, a bizarre yet cherished ritual that was as much a part of their holiday as the roast turkey and pumpkin pie.

The house buzzed with excitement as the extended family began to arrive. The aroma of roasting meats and baking bread filled the air, mingling with the laughter of children playing outside. The women of the family, dressed in their Sunday best, bustled about the kitchen, preparing the sumptuous feast that was the centerpiece of their celebration. The men, in their crisp shirts and tailored slacks, congregated in the living room, sharing stories and sipping on sweet apple cider, their faces alight with the warmth of camaraderie and anticipation of the evening’s peculiar entertainment.

The youngest son, Timmy, though 15, was already well-versed in the peculiar tradition. He watched his uncles with a mix of awe and trepidation, knowing that one day, he too would stand in their place. The older boys and men, their faces a spectrum of ages from teenage to middle-aged, chuckled and whispered among themselves, sharing memories of past Thanksgiving spankings. The atmosphere was light, yet charged with a palpable tension that only grew as the dinner plates were cleared and the desserts set out.

George, his eyes twinkling with both mischief and affection, called the sons to the center of the room. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “It’s time for our annual show of thanks.” The women and children gathered around, curious and excited, as the sons lined up before their fathers. The room fell silent, save for the crackling fireplace and the occasional giggle from a young cousin. The fathers, each one sterner than the last, took their places behind their boys, their large hands resting on the small of their backs.

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