As mentioned elsewhere in my writings, my parents originally came from Eastern Europe (former Soviet Union) and considered child nudity completely normal, especially in warm whether. My sisters and I grew up roaming round the house in our undies and playing under the sprinklers during summer. I guess this was nothing unusual back in the day; it was an age of innocence when there were very few prohibitions against juvenile dishabille.

There were also certain benefits to be reaped from disregarding social conventions. In my case, I learned early on that a half-naked girl gets far more attention than a clothed one, and found every possible "excuse" to shed my clothing whenever we had guests or relatives over.

This exhibitionistic streak became a slight problem after a few years, as my folks had trouble keeping my clothes on inside the house. I was always walking into the living room in my panties, hoping to surprise our visitors. My parents never freaked out over this; they knew I was just a little girl trying to get a reaction. I was usually ushered back upstairs with a light smack on the bottom, much to everyone's amusement.

On the other hand, my Mom soon noticed that while I thought nothing of walking around the household in my bare knickers, I absolutely hated being undressed in public. Being one of the most wily women in human history, she often used my sense of modesty to her best advantage.

For example, if I were taking too long to get dressed in the morning, she'd threaten to send me to school in nothing but my scanties. This was usually enough to galvanize me into action, and I'd always be ready within two minutes flat (I thought about calling her bluff on several occasions, but the nerve failed me each time).

By the time I reached adolescence, Mom and Dad were employing public humiliation as a form of "behavior modification" – especially when we were camping around Lake Ridgewick. My folks were old-school hiking enthusiasts, and used to take us camping at least three times a year. We all looked forward to these periodic vacations, but being something of a tomboy, I tended to run wild as soon as we arrived. This was a matter concern for Mom and Dad: between scaling outcrops and stirring up hornets' nests, I was constantly getting into mischief. By the end of the second day, my folks were normally at their wits' end trying to curb my "enthusiasm."

That was usually the point at which I was ordered out of my clothes.

I should mention straight up that this was the last resort when I was getting out of hand; the one sure way to keep me safely around the campsite. They knew I wouldn't stray too far if I were stripped to my undies, so after the usual warnings had been ignored, my Mom would call me over to the tent for the Dreaded Walk of Shame.

I'd start blushing as soon as I heard her tone, because I knew from prior experience precisely what to expect. There was a kind of ritual I had to follow: first, I was made to stand to attention by the tent while my parents gathered up all my belongings and locked them away in the car. Next, I was forced to take off almost every stitch of clothing – one piece at a time.

I usually began to plead around this stage, trying to broker deals and promising to be on my best behavior if she'd only let me keep my clothes on. Needless to say, it made no difference whatsoever: Mommy never listened to my protests; she'd given me fair warning and I was fully aware of the consequences. I had no one to blame but myself.

My head always started spinning as I pulled my t-shirt over my head. I frequently experienced a drifting, out-of-body sensation, as if I were watching myself from someone else's perspective. Goosebumps swept down my torso while Mommy slipped my shorts down, leaving me in nothing but my fresh cotton panties. I was then instructed to stand perfectly still with my hands laced on the back of my neck while Momma checked me over for nicks, scratches and poison ivy.

Around this point, people would suddenly appear out of nowhere, staring in curiosity as they passed along the main pathway. Lake Ridgewick was a popular tourist site and swimming hole; during the summer, there could be dozens of campers and day-trippers wandering about on at any given hour. Naturally, this made my forced striptease all the more embarrassing; there seemed to be hundreds of casual spectators walking past, casting inquisitive glances in my direction (inevitably, many of them were kids I knew from school).

After Mommy finished packing my remaining clothes away, she'd return to find me crying in child-like misery. The shame was utterly overwhelming – I was on open display to every stranger in the vicinity, reduced to a half-naked, weeping infant. Words cannot adequately describe the abject humiliation I experienced.

After reassuring me that this for my own good, Mommy would point out my boundaries and explain which areas were off limits. They wanted me to stay within visual range of the tent, I wasn't allowed to leave the camping grounds for any reason. No trail blazing, no rock-climbing, no exploring. I was allowed to go swimming in the nearby reservoir but only in the shallows. She would conclude by reminding me that going off alone was completely forbidden, and that breaking any of these rules would result in a willow-switch across the bottom.

"I'm sorry we have to do this," she would conclude, "but you've left us no other choice." She would then send me off to play with my sisters, both of whom were (of course) fully dressed. This seemed indescribably unjust to me, since they frequently went off by themselves, but I knew from long experience that the matter simply wasn't open to negotiation.

As a general rule, I wasn't even allowed to wear my sandals, unless we were traipsing through the woods with Mom and Dad. Even then, I was still required to stay slightly ahead of my parents without veering from the path. Daddy carried the switch in his right hand, ready to motivate my steps if I started falling behind. As I quickly discovered, there really was nothing like a hot, smarting bottom to put a spring back in my tread.

I suppose all of this must sound rather cruel and unusual, but looking back over the years, I know it wasn't as bad as it sounds. At the end of the day, my folks were trying to keep me safe, after I'd demonstrated I couldn't be trusted when left to my own devices. It only took me a couple of days to adjust to my "newd" circumstances, after which I settled into an otherwise normal routine with my family.

The only parts I truly regret were the daily collisions with children I knew from school. They always asked me why I wasn't wearing any clothes, and I had no alternative but to tell them the truth. Even now, two decades later, I can still hear their laughter echoing through the clear, green woods…