The big boy played hookie from school today because I was too lazy to actually get him there on time. It was an unusual choice.
We wandered into our neighbor’s yard and just happened to have a big box with us. (That is something that would never happen to an adult: having a big empty box in your hands for no reason whatsoever. But kids are masters at carrying things to and fro). The big boy started gathering all the lemons beneath the lemon tree. It smelled so good under there. The exotic perfume of lemon and orange blossoms always makes me feel as if I live in a magical far-off land. But that same smell is the harbinger of the intense desert heat to come. It is bittersweet and too short lived.
So, anyway, he picked up all the nasty, old lemons off the ground and suggested that we sell them to make money (I think all of my excitement over my new patterns and online commerce is rubbing off). Selling lemons seemed like a really good idea to me—and I suggested a lemonade stand. Good, old-fashioned fun.
Aaaah, the lemonade stand! It is an experience that feels bigger than it is because of historical precedent, collective memory, nostalgia and cultural vernacular. It is the sort of afternoon that never exists even when it is actually happening and you are in the middle of experiencing it—it feels like a transcendental moment from a time far away—from before we were even born. It is an age-old archetype of childhood, and even if the lemonade isn’t homemade we still conjure wooden spoons and fiesta-ware bowls filled with mounds of white sugar. We conjure a time when every woman wore an apron all day long—an apron in lovely softly bright cottons.
There is a lot of waiting involved in a lemonade stand. A lot. It is really peaceful. Apparently, no one really stops for a lemonade these days. But we did have two customers. They were delivery men from Macy’s. They paid well over the requested $.25. They were our big fish. They completed our reverie.
1 comment