I guess I must’ve been around 8 and Brother 6 the year we plundered the pantry. We were at Grandmaw’s house while our folks went out that December evening, and she’d decided to take a quick nap. The pantry never would’ve crossed our minds, except the last thing our grandmother did before she drifted off to sleep was forbid us to enter the little room off of the eat-in kitchen.

It was forbidden fruit, and as soon as she was snoring, we undid the little latch and opened the door. As it creaked open, we stood hand in hand, our mouths hanging open in shock. Stuffed into the pantry was what seemed to us like every toy in the universe!

Grandmaw, we decided, had been holding out on us. There was a my heart’s desire, a Zoom Loom, piled on top of board games and a Barbie and four whole, completely unread books! Brother was squealing in little whispery squeals about the plastic-wrapped Rock-em-Sock-em Robots game he’d found.

We tore into the toys with glee, though I had some niggling questions. I hadn’t known that Grandmaw liked Nancy Drew, but she loved to sew, so the Zoom Loom kind of made sense. Brother wasn’t trying to make sense of anything except the red and blue ham-fisted robots in his new game. He asked no questions, except about the minor assembly required.

We played for hours in the pantry, and Grandmaw got a good nap. I don’t remember if she woke up and caught us, or our parents came in and we ran out to tell them of our discovery. What I do remember is a heated discussion between Grandmaw and our folks. They quarantined us in another room and talked in whispers. We heard snatches here and there, but only one thing interested us. We kept catching the words “Santa Claus”.

We clutched one another in terror. Had we plundered Santa’s toys, and not Grandmaw’s? How did they get into the pantry? Why would the jolly old fellow need a pantry to store toys in, when he had a whole magical workshop at the North Pole? The questions hung in the air between us in a miasma of fear. We’d ticked off Santa, and our naughty little gooses were cooked.

Later that night, Mama explained the whole thing to us. Santa was trying out a new delivery system in an effort to increase efficiency. He made early drops in some areas, storing the toys in places where children weren’t likely to go exploring. Mama was going to send him a note giving the new idea a big “thumbs down”, but she was sure he was angry. Maybe, if we were really, really, (and here she sighed resignedly) good, between then and Christmas, he would forgive us. But it was a big maybe.

It was probably only a couple of weeks, but to us it seemed like months that we had to tow the mark. We were afraid to step even a tiny bit out of line, because we knew that the steely, twinkly eyes of Santa were upon us.

Christmas morning finally arrived, and Brother and I lay in our twin beds as long as we could stand it. We didn’t want to risk cancelling out all of that painful goodness by catching Santa under the tree. We kept waking and whispering to one another, wondering if he’d made his delivery, yet, or if he was coming at all.

It was maybe 4:30 when we finally ventured out into the living room. We went on tip-toe, clutching hands and praying. When we stepped across the threshold, we almost cried. There, spread around Mama’s beautifully decorated tree, were all of the toys that we’d discovered in the pantry. We’d been forgiven.

I learned a lesson that year. Brother never got over the excitement of finding the toys, and he would look every year, into adulthood, for his Christmas gifts. I was a year-and-a-half older, and the relief that I felt when I saw that Zoom Loom had little to do with the wondrous scarves and pot-holders that I could make. I was aware that I’d held onto the magic for one more year, and as we dove into the slightly used booty, I said a silent thank you to Santa for letting me continue to believe.