Lemonade

I love lemonade stands. Hopeful children on the side of the road with a card table, homemade sign with large marker letters, maybe a plate of cookies too. I could be driving in the opposite direction, but I'll turn around to get a drink. They happily pour lemonade into a paper cup and take the change I pass out the window. You never see a mob at a lemonade stand.

Then there are the parents supervising, hanging back at a distance to give their young ones a feeling of independence, maybe sitting on the front porch or weeding a flower bed. A mom walks over to my car when I stop, grinning thank you. The kids are too shy to talk with this overly friendly stranger. After the children run off, the mom and I chat a few minutes about how long they've lived in the house or their summer plans. Years later, I can still identify at what homes I've stopped for a cup of lemonade.

Lemonade is a mix of biting tart and sweetness, not unlike my summer memories.

We rode bikes in our bathing suits, fished in the creek for trout, caught crayfish without getting pinched. Homemade Popsicles made with orange juice. Slip-n-slides, sprinklers and water guns. Crickets at night. Lighting bugs winked in the backyard underneath the crabapple trees. 

The black patchwork tar on the road bubbled in the heat. We'd pop the bubbles, staining our finger tips black. When the occasional car came down the street, we'd get out of the way, waiting patiently for it to pass. Fresh cut grass in a strait line behind my brother's push mower. I asked to learn, but was never permitted. Raking up the trimmings into neat piles my job as a girl.

Swim team practice in the morning required us at the community pool early. Coach instructed us on how many laps with what stroke. When the whistle blew, we dove in. By the time we reached the other end, the shock of the cold water gone. My swim team medals never went higher than a sixth place win.

I took in the mail and watered the vegetable garden at my best friend's house for the two weeks his family spent in Barnegat with their sail boat. The boat sat in their garage the rest of the year; I wondered what it was like on the water. I galloped for hours on their long driveway, my ten speed no longer a bike, but the Black Stallion. I won the Triple Crown and Grand National on that bike, a Two Guys going-out-of-business find. 

At Bible camp, we knew all the hand motions for "Father Abraham" and "This Little Light of Mine" as we sang under the shade of a pine tree grove. My first crush on a sandy-haired councilor named Olaf. I prayed to be picked Camper of the Week, presenting my best behavior to take home the wooden plaque, but it went to my little sister. That night, I cut my knee on a rock and cursed when I saw the blood. My sister scolded me, saying she didn't want to be around me if I talked that way. I still have the scar on my leg.

Flashlight tag with a crowd of neighborhood kids. Our front yard catalpa tree home base, the streetlight gave just enough light to run into the darkness. My best hiding spot high among the branches of the largest crabapple tree on our property. I closed my eyes, holding my breath when the flashlight beam came close.

Then it was over.

The air colder at night, TV commercials promised Back to School shopping. The end of the season pizza party at the pool.The 4-H Fair, signaling the last remaining days of summer, fun but bittersweet. We savored the last bit of summertime, wanting to drain every last bit of its sweetness, just like a glass of lemonade.

An original New Jersey Moms Blog post. Monica grew up in the Martinsville section of Bridgewater. Visit her personal blog Paper Bridges.