A LESSON FROM MY YOUTH

One day my father came home to the sweet aroma of corn cooking on top of the coal range.
I don’t remember bringing home any corn, he said. He looked serious; his look had the austerity of a warrior.
We could barely look at him, and knowing our father, we knew we were in trouble.
But dad, it’s just a few cobs. (no, it wasn’t, it was a pot full). The funny thing is that we had plenty of sweet corn
on our own farm, we just had to ask dad to bring some. I think we were just up to
some mischief, it was dangerously fun. Where did you get this from, said he. From the farm, that one up there just passing the olive groves.
Give it back, said father. We knew we couldn’t give it back because they were already cooking, but we knew what he meant.
--Go to the farmer and apologise.
My little sister and our friend Natalia went pale, and I went red. Different reaction to the same 
thing: embarrassment. Off you go, said father. We went through the back door fast as
a rabbit running from the fox.
We came back around an hour later, because the farm was quite far, we had to cross big fields to get to the house.
Father was doing something; I can’t remember what, it was a long time ago, after all.
Happily we said: the farmer said not to worry, he has fields full of corn and it’s okay if we get
some. That’s not the point, said dad. --They are not yours to keep. That day we had a lesson on honesty.
Not that we weren’t honest. We just weren’t honest on that day.
Lesson taught; lesson learnt. But oh, boy! Those cobs tasted wickedly good.