When I was ten, pottery making fascinated me. I would read library books on the subject, collect clay in small pots and create lumpy bowls with the Play Doh. One hot August afternoon I lined up my still-wet clay pots wondering how to bake them when it occurred to me that just a few feet away in the kitchen stood a huge oven, perfect for baking my pots. Now I knew that the stove was off limits but in the fever of my dedication, I decided to do it. My parents wouldn't be home for hours, so I transferred the pots to the oven and turned it on the highest setting. The hour went by excruciatingly slow as I alternated between looking down the road for my parents and checking the condition of my pots. At the hour's end, I eased out the pots on a tray and moved them outside. Only one broke, falling on the floor in my haste. My parent's return found me on the front porch reading a book. With my mother silent in the doorway, my father approached me and asked if I used the oven while they were gone. Shocked frozen at being caught, I shook my head no, refusing to believe that they had found me out. Meanwhile, they had seen the evidence on the floor, smelled the hot oven and felt the residual heat in the kitchen. I didn't have a chance in hell, but I still tried to brazen it out. I was taken out the back where I lined up my booty and was given ten swipes with the mahogany hair brush you-know-where. After a few yelps, I stood there suppressing tears as my father finished my punishment. Then he asked me if I knew why I was being punished. I mumbled, "For using the oven?" He shook his head and said, "No, not that." "For not asking permission?" "Not that, either," he declared. Then it dawned on me that I was always taught that lying was the worst sin in the world. "For lying?" I whispered. "That's it." he nodded. "Now promise me you'll never lie again." "I promise", I stuttered. That painful memory stayed with me for a long time, getting me through the toughest of the teen years. |
