One Christmas time, (got your popcorn?) a box of Poptarts disappeared from our kitchen pantry. My mom brought all 6 kids of us into the kitchen, lined us up against the counter, and asked "Who stole the Poptarts?" Nobody answered. We all looked at each other, but nobody copped to taking them. Because I was a known, frequent thief of pickles out of the pantry, suspicion fell upon me. Mom, in her frustration over not getting a confession, felt safe in assuming me guilty of this newest pilfering. "Terry, because you won't admit your crime, your dad and I are forced to not give you any gifts for Christmas." Boo hoooooooooooo I couldn't believe it! I really didn't steal the Poptarts, and I was being wrongly accused!! I was devastated. I think Mom had figured this was the ultimate way to wrangle a confession from me... but since I didn't do it, I couldn't confess! She truly regretted her decree, when she saw that the confession wasn't forthcoming. But, she knew that she couldn't withdraw her words or she would lose her own credibility. So, lo and behold, I received not a single gift from my parents that Christmas under the tree. I did however, receive some gifts from Santa, whose handwriting on the tag bore a suspicious resemblance to my mother's...

Years passed. We never had heard who actually had stolen those horrid Poptarts. Poptarts have become a legendarily sore subject with me. Then, sometime this past year, I was joking around with my brother. The dreaded subject came up. He, rather shame-facedly admitted, that it was HE who had taken that box of Poptarts. I hardly knew what to say, and still don't. Ah, the things we do in childhood which come back to haunt us when we are FIFTY! Who'd a thunk it?