This happened one summer, on vacation at my grandparents’ farm.
It was a rainy day, so grandmother suggested that after lunch, we should bake cookies while my grandfather was in the barn feeding the animals. My grandmother looked every bit the classic 1950s grandmother: her hair was neatly curled and pinned up, she wore a floral print dress with a crisp white apron tied around her waist, and sensible shoes. She had a gentle face framed by cat-eye glasses, and her hands always seemed busy, whether kneading dough or straightening a tablecloth.
Back then, it was just the way of things that my grandfather took care of all the yard work and maintenance around the farm. He’d be out in the barn, tending to the animals, fixing fences, or working in the fields, while my grandmother managed the house. She was in charge of the cleaning, cooking, laundry, and all the daily chores that kept the home running smoothly. Occasionally, she’d step out into the garden to pick some vegetables or flowers, but most of her time was spent inside, making sure everything was in order. That was simply how families divided up the work in those days.
It was all great fun mixing up all the stuff that had to go into the cookie dough.
While the cookies were baking in the oven, my grandmother told me to go and play with some of my toys. However, I was so fascinated with the baking process that I kept going back into the kitchen to look at the cookies through the oven door. My grandmother, with her apron dusted in flour and her glasses perched on her nose, was not pleased – she lectured me for being in the kitchen without permission, and she sent me to watch TV in the living room with a sharp smack to my bottom.
While watching TV, through the kitchen door I could see my grandmother take the cookies out of the oven. I was very excited that there would soon be freshly-baked cookies to eat. I asked my grandmother if I could have one – but I was told firmly that they were too hot, and anyway we had to wait until my grandfather came in for his afternoon coffee to sample them. I wasn’t best pleased with that, but went back to my TV.
Eventually, my grandmother slipped out of the kitchen to do something else. I snuck back in there, took a spatula and tried to reach for a cookie. Of course, my grandmother caught me in the act. She told me off again and said I would have to wait.
I tried telling her I was hungry – she replied that I could have some fruit, to which I replied in disgust: “Eew!” Grandmother was by now losing patience with me. She told me not to be rude, and I was put to sit in ‘time out’ in the living room, again accompanied by another sharp smack to my bottom. Grandmother, still looking every bit the 1950s matron with her floral dress and stern expression, told me that if she caught me near the cookies one more time, I would get a proper spanking.
I’m sorry to say that during that time out, I was not thinking about my behaviour – I was only thinking about the cookies. When my punishment was over, I pretended to play with my toys – but when grandmother went out to see how my grandfather was doing, I went into the kitchen again and this time took a cookie.
I was about to take my prize back to my bedroom, but my grandmother had seen me sneaking out of the kitchen – and noticed she was one cookie short.
I heard her stern voice behind me. “Sarah – stop right there!” I tried to hide the cookie behind a bag I was carrying but my grandmother demanded to see my hands, and there was no escape. I held out both hands, and there was the cookie in one of them.
My grandmother’s face was serious, her eyes fixed on me through her cat-eye glasses. She sat down on my bed and motioned for me to stand in front of her. Her voice was calm but firm, and I could feel the weight of her disappointment. “Sarah,” she began, “I am very disappointed in you. I told you not to touch the cookies, and you disobeyed me. But what’s worse is that you tried to take something that wasn’t yours. That is stealing, and stealing is always wrong, no matter how small the thing is.” (short pause)
She continued, her tone growing even more serious. “When you take something that doesn’t belong to you, you break trust. Trust is one of the most important things in a family. If I can’t trust you with something as simple as a cookie, how can I trust you with bigger things as you grow up?” She looked at me for a long moment, her disappointment clear. “Stealing hurts people, even if you don’t mean to. It makes people sad, and it makes them worry about what else you might do. I want you to be an honest girl, Sarah. I want to be proud of you, and I want you to be proud of yourself. Being honest means doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.” (pause)
My grandmother’s words stung almost as much as the punishment that was to come. She finished her lecture with a gentle but unwavering firmness: “I love you, but I cannot let you think that stealing is ever okay. I need you to remember this lesson, because honesty and trust are what make you a good person. I am very disappointed, but I know you can do better.” (short pause)
Only then did she take me by the arm and walk me to my bedroom. She sat down on my bed and looked me in the eye, her cat-eye glasses glinting and her floral dress perfectly pressed. “That’s a very disobedient girl! Didn’t I tell you you would get a good spanking if you didn’t leave those cookies alone?”
(dramatic pause) The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with anticipation and dread. My heart pounded in my chest as my grandmother, with a calm but determined expression, gently but firmly guided me across her lap. The familiar scent of her floral dress and the faint aroma of cookies still lingering in the air seemed to contrast sharply with the seriousness of the moment. I could feel the coolness of the room against my skin, but that sensation was quickly replaced by the heat of embarrassment and fear. (pause)
My grandmother’s hand rested on my back for a moment, steadying me, and then the spanking began. The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing sound, sending a jolt of pain through my bottom. Even through my clothes, each smack stung fiercely, the sensation building with every strike. The pain was sharp and immediate, radiating outward and making my skin tingle and burn. My legs kicked involuntarily, and I gripped the bedspread tightly, trying to hold back the tears that were already welling up in my eyes. (pause)
The rhythm of the spanking was relentless—firm, measured, and purposeful. Each smack seemed to carry not just physical pain, but also the weight of my grandmother’s disappointment and the seriousness of my disobedience. The sound of her hand meeting my bottom filled the room, mingling with my own cries and sniffles. My face burned with shame, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and fast, as the lesson truly began to sink in. (pause)
The pain was not just physical; it was emotional, too. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and deeply sorry—not just for taking the cookie, but for letting my grandmother down. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, almost solemn, as if time had slowed down to make sure I would never forget this moment. My grandmother’s voice, when she spoke between smacks, was steady and unwavering: “I want you to remember this, Sarah. Stealing is never right. I love you, but I must teach you this lesson.” (pause)
By the time the spanking ended—after what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a minute or two—my bottom was hot, sore, and throbbing. I was sobbing openly, my body shaking with the force of my tears. My grandmother lifted me gently, her sternness softening as she pulled me into a hug. I buried my face in her shoulder, crying out my shame and regret, while she stroked my hair and whispered that she still loved me. (pause)
The impact of that spanking stayed with me long after the pain faded. It was a lesson not just in obedience, but in honesty, trust, and the consequences of my actions. The memory of the sting, the embarrassment, and the overwhelming sense of having disappointed someone I loved made a deep impression on me. Even now, I can recall the heat, the ache, and the heavy silence of that room, and how it changed the way I thought about right and wrong. (pause)
Eventually it was over. I was stood back on my feet and got a hug as I cried into my grandmother. She told me she still loved me, and that I could come out of my room when I had stopped crying and was ready to say sorry and behave myself.
(short pause) Looking back, I realize that stealing—even if it was just a cookie from my grandmother’s kitchen—was something that was never tolerated in our family. Taking something that didn’t belong to you, no matter how small, was seen as a serious offense. My grandmother always said that if you let a child get away with stealing cookies, next thing you know, they’ll be stealing bigger things—maybe even the crown jewels! (short pause) The lesson was clear: any kind of stealing, big or small, had to be stamped out right away, and a spanking was the way to make sure I remembered that lesson. (pause)
I finally emerged about 15 minutes later and said sorry like a good girl to both my grandmother and grandfather. They were both drinking coffee and eating a cookie but because I was still being punished, I wasn’t given one. However, after dinner my grandmother relented and I finally got to taste the cookies which had cost me such a well-smacked bottom.
