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The Lemonade Stand
When I was a boy, we had three robust lemon trees in the backyard. The lemons were large and ugly with rough bumpy rinds resembling an old man’s face. The flesh was mild, not too tart and not too sweet. One day, my siblings and I set up a lemonade stand. My little sister made the lemonade while my brother and I dragged a folding table and a piano bench to the sidewalk in front of our house. I scrawled a primitive sign reading “Lemonade 5 Cents.” My brother had the idea to add “10 Cents” above the price then cross it out to make it look like we were having a sale.
We started around 1:00 on a Saturday. Twenty minutes passed before we saw our first car. The driver was Mr. Schwartzberg, owner of the local dry cleaners. I flashed the lemonade sign but he sped past without stopping. I felt an immediate sense of failure as if he’d rejected me personally.
This went on for the next hour. Some drivers slowed and waved, others ignored us. One guy said he’d come back later though he never did. “Why did he have to lie,” I asked my brother. “Because he’s a lawyer,” my brother said. “All lawyers lie.”
Our only sale came from the neighbor across the street, Mr. Barnow the tv weatherman. He bought three cups making our take for the day thirty cents, a dime each. I was crestfallen.
