Longing for Lemonade and Friendship

I come from a family that is serious about lemonade.

And I don’t mean that metaphorically.

I mean, literally, we were serious about the drink. And selling it.

See, my parents were from a generation that believed in nourishing a certain entrepreneurial spirit in children.

And my mother had this beautiful lemon tree in our garden.

I’m pretty sure our oldest sister Julie had been the first to do the lemonade thing; Jackie followed Julie and finally the torch was passed to me.

Basically, the summertime lemonade-protocol, as taught to me by my sisters, was as follows:

1.) Make a sign on stiff white poster board that says LEMONADE FOR SALE, 50 CENTS A CUP.
Decorate with scratch n’ sniff magic-markers, glitter and stickers.

2.) Haul a little red wagon and a large cooler out of storage.

3.) The lemons must be picked, squeezed, then poured into the cooler with water and white sugar.

4.) 1 can of Minute-Maid Lemonade from concentrate is to be dumped in the mix, along with two large containers of ice cubes.

Next, my hair would need to be braided into two pigtails.

“ Because people will buy more lemonade if you look cute.” said Jackie, knower of all things.

I’d load the heavy cooler, a pack of Dixie cups and the sign into the red wagon, along with a small, dusty card-table and paint-chipped stool.

And then, very carefully, so as not to let anything tip over, I’d pull that red wagon with one hand and hold Warner, our German Shephard’s leash, with the other.

Warner was a reject from the Seeing Eye Dog school in San Rafael.

He didn’t make the cut for blind people, but he was the gentlest, most soulful creature you ever met and he always participated on lemonade days. Ostensibly to guard the business, but also because, as Jackie pointed out,“ People buy more lemonade when there’s a cute dog,”

The best days for business on the Venice Boardwalk were the 4th of July when al the roller-bladers, bikers and joggers were out getting sweaty.

Sometimes couples would stroll by.

“AWWWWW!” the lady would squeal, usually wearing a bikini the size of a postage stamp.

“Babe, look at that cute little girl selling lemonade! We have to buy some.”

I’d look up from under my lashes.

“I really appreciate your business.” I’d say. “How is your day going?”

And they’d squeal again, as if a child speaking in a complete sentence was the most cunning trick.

“You are SO adorable.” they’d say. “We’ll take two cups. And here’s a tip.”

At a certain, point, business was going so well, I thought, why stick to just lemonade?

So I brought my friend Genevieve on board and together we discussed expanding the business model.

After much deliberation, the executive decision was made to sell lemonade and art together.

We had a whole pricing system—75 cents for the really good drawings, 50 cents if they were only medium good, and 25 cents if they were only kind of OK.

The offerings were crayon, pastel, or colored-pencil drawings on my father’s white computer paper.

Most were drawings of the beach or horses, ponies, pegasuses, unicorns, or fairy, but sometimes also greeting cards that said “Happy Birthday”, “Merry Christmas!” or “Happy Hannukah”.

Between the art and the lemonade, we would rake in about 50-60 bucks in a couple hours; a veritable fortune when you are in the second grade.

Gen and I would tuck our bounty safely away in our fanny-packs and blow a small portion of it on vanilla frozen yoghurt. Or a supply of Jolly Ranchers or Red Vines from Davy Jones Liquor Locker.

Eventually we tired of art and lemonade and decided once again to expand into a new business model.

Gen and I happened to be taking gymnastics at that time, so somehow the idea came about to create a live, door-to-door gymnastics show offered to the neighbors.

This model involved putting on our leotards, arranging our hair in big, poofy side ponytails, making our heads resemble the lopsided top of a pineapple.

And then go about knocking on the neighbors doors.

If they answered the door, we’d press play on our boombox.

And then subject our audience to an elaborate choreography of synchronized cartwheels, round-offs, hand-stands, high kicks, sommersaults and leapfrogging passionately off each others backs, all performed to the tune of Phil Collins “Susudio.”

The routine would end with an earnest attempt at the splits.

“Well GEE” they’d say. “You girls are just super!”

The poor neighbors were astonishingly indulgent, considering we were essentially forcing them to watch, hostage-style

Virtually everyone smiled and put a dollar in our hat, even if it was mostly given in hopes we would go away.

But I think maybe, just maybe, they actually liked it and wished, even though they were grown-ups, that they could be part of a live gymnastics show too.