Correction-Lesson: Ignorance
is Blessed
Sometimes Served with Biscuits
Remember that BFF thing?
Yeah, it turns out its origin is sneakier than I thought. While
we were all distracted by Phoebe Buffay in the ’90s, the idea of having a
“Best Friend Forever” was already well-established by the 1980s. That knowledge changed nothing; my Granny was
my BFF as a child. She also doubled as Warden of Correctional Services, but
that’s a story for another day.
Speaking of corrections…
Granny always had a unique way of ensuring you paid for your sins. Her
interrogations would rival any seen in a 21st-century crime drama. That slow
march, the steely glint in her eye – the only thing missing was a tiny
interrogation room and a spotlight. “You
know what you did and when you did it, don’t you?” she’d ask. I swear I
sometimes felt like I was shrinking in place.
So, here’s how
“corrections” often played out:
Picture this. My crime: the
unauthorized acquisition and misuse of delicious eggs intended for sale or
breakfast (not mud pie construction).
Testament: A
scenic walk, a meeting with a tree, and a lesson in the true purpose of a
“switch.”
Granny’s “turnaround
road” was no joke. It was a long, winding path through acres of farmland—the
perfect setting for maximum contemplation of your crimes. I swear the birds
knew I was on my way and would start singing sad little songs as I passed.
Finally, we’d reach the
orchard.
Picture this: a six-year-old with zero survival skills
being told to pick a weapon for her punishment. Granny’s voice rings through
the decades: “There are some low-lying limbs about your height. You can
reach them.”
Here’s where youthful
ignorance takes center stage. I was genuinely proud of myself for procuring the
perfectly sized switch. In my childish mind, this was a test, and I was nailing
it!
Spoiler alert: It was not a
test.
Back to Granny, the architect
of my humiliation. With tear-filled apologies and an air of martyrdom, she
proclaimed, “This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.” I
mean, was this supposed to be reassuring? Trust me, at that point, I could feel
the sting even before it happened.
With the deed done, my
backside smarting, and a discarded switch (now in two pieces) at my feet, it
was time to walk back to the house.
Grandpa would be waiting with some cryptic remark about
“comeuppance” (which sounded as awful as its definition).
But here’s the twist that
even child-me eventually learned: Granny’s “corrections” were harsh,
but they always came with a side of love. The walk home was filled with reassurance and
often ended with a hug and a hot biscuit with homemade butter and jam.
My takeaway from all of this?
Don’t raid the hen house.
Eggs are best used for food.
Granny’s punishments were
more theatrical than painful. She cared far more about the lesson than the
whacks.
Somehow, through it all, I
DID grow up into the force of nature she predicted I’d become. Maybe all that
switch-picking did help.
“corrections” often played out:
Picture this. My crime: the
unauthorized acquisition and misuse of delicious eggs intended for sale or
breakfast (not mud pie construction).
Testament: A
scenic walk, a meeting with a tree, and a lesson in the true purpose of a
“switch.”
Granny’s “turnaround
road” was no joke. It was a long, winding path through acres of farmland—the
perfect setting for maximum contemplation of your crimes. I swear the birds
knew I was on my way and would start singing sad little songs as I passed.
Finally, we’d reach the
orchard.
Picture this: a six-year-old with zero survival skills
being told to pick a weapon for her punishment. Granny’s voice rings through
the decades: “There are some low-lying limbs about your height. You can
reach them.”
Here’s where youthful
ignorance takes center stage. I was genuinely proud of myself for procuring the
perfectly sized switch. In my childish mind, this was a test, and I was nailing
it!
Spoiler alert: It was not a
test.
Back to Granny, the architect
of my humiliation. With tear-filled apologies and an air of martyrdom, she
proclaimed, “This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.” I
mean, was this supposed to be reassuring? Trust me, at that point, I could feel
the sting even before it happened.
With the deed done, my
backside smarting, and a discarded switch (now in two pieces) at my feet, it
was time to walk back to the house.
Grandpa would be waiting with some cryptic remark about
“comeuppance” (which sounded as awful as its definition).
But here’s the twist that
even child-me eventually learned: Granny’s “corrections” were harsh,
but they always came with a side of love. The walk home was filled with reassurance and
often ended with a hug and a hot biscuit with homemade butter and jam.
My takeaway from all of this?
Don’t raid the hen house.
Eggs are best used for food.
Granny’s punishments were
more theatrical than painful. She cared far more about the lesson than the
whacks.
Somehow, through it all, I
DID grow up into the force of nature she predicted I’d become. Maybe all that
switch-picking did help.
