It was like any other hot summer day. The sun was still shining bright at 5:30 p.m., and my brother and I were happily walking through the field to our Grandma’s house, which we did every day. She lived next door, and it was our second home. Living in the country as a kid, we had the most fun because we were never bored. Believe it or not, we had endless things to do outside. We were privy to a lot to create adventure after adventure. Country living was good living.

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As we were walking to my Grandma’s house, we were laughing and playing like we always did—soaking in every fun moment before school started back. As we continued to walk in record-breaking temperature while swatting the gnats from our face, and hearing the crunching sound of dry brown grass beneath our feet, I turned to my brother with excitement and said, “Look what I got from home!” I’d swiped a box of matches from our kitchen drawer. My brother said, “If momma knew you had those, you’d be in so much trouble.” Me being a silly kid, I burst out laughing. For some reason, I liked lighting matches and blowing them out over and over again. Crazy, right? I know. But I found it fun. And, amusing, too. I guess I was channeling the rebel within.

While we continued to walk, I started lighting matches and blowing them out. Derrick yelled at me and said, “Girl, you better stop doing that before you drop a match on this dry grass!” If you know anything about dry grass, it mixes with a box of matches like oil and water. Despite my brother scolding me—I did it anyway. I thought to myself, “He’s not the boss of me.” Well, on the third match that I struck, I wasn’t so lucky. I dropped the lighted match in the grass. Within seconds, the field was in a blaze! Again, Derrick yelled, “Girl, I told you to stop striking those matches! Look what you did!” He scurried and tried to find dirt to smother the fire, but by that time, the fire was out of control. At that moment, I burst into tears.

All of a sudden, my dad and two uncles were running to the scene with buckets of water and water hoses. My Grandma was right behind them, yelling at my brother and me to get out of the way. I looked down at our house, and I saw my mom standing outside with her hand on her hip. I got knots in my stomach. My brother looked at me like, “Girl, you’re toast!” An unmeasurable amount of fear consumed me—I knew I was in serious trouble.

My mom yelled to both of us, “Come home now!” As we walked home, it felt like I was walking to my death sentence. She said, “What happened in the field?” My brother stood behind the gas tank. It was clear that he wasn’t going down for “arson.” I had to think fast, stall, and prolong my punishment as long as I could. So I said, “Momma, let me tell you something.” That was my classic line each time I got into mischief. I told her everything that happened—but there was a caveat to my explanation—I made light of it being an “accident.” I was sure that would do the trick. Wrong!

Her exact words to me were, “Girl, I’m about to be on you like ugly on an ape!” I started crying again because I knew what was next. She said, “Go and get a switch from that tree.” My brother—still hiding behind the gas tank was petrified, too. I came back with the switch, and the rest was history. Another butt whipping was in the books!

I’m thankful that I learned a valuable lesson—never play with matches again.

What childhood lessons are you thankful for?