Lemonade

I place a table and chair at the front of my property, just in from the street. I cover the table with a table cloth, then place a stack of paper cups and a pitcher of iced lemonade on the table.

A man comes along, mops his brow in the heat, and pours himself a drink. Hmmm, refreshing, he says to himself, and passes the word to his friends that walk in the same neighbourhood.

Others stop by from time to time, have a drink of lemonade. Sometimes a few people stand around, discussing a topic of the day. I often join in, it’s a great way to meet new friends. From time to time people argue with me about lemonade, or the chairs I put out. That’s great, I can always use help, and the kinds of people walking down my street usually have really valuable experience to share.

I add a small book stand, where I sell books I enjoy reading to a few passers by. I’m not making enough to pay for the lemonade yet, but I like making lemonade, so extra pocket change is handy when I’m shopping for books myself. Everything is great, I’m glad I started giving lemonade away.

But every once in a while, someone stops, has a drink, and spits it out in disgust. “Lemons!” they often say, and hurry away. They never leave their name, or tell me what is bothering them. Too sweet? Too sour? Would they like to taste my Lemon and Bay Leaf Crème Brûlée? or my Sweet Lemon Risotto?

No, they pass out of my life, leaving a crumpled cup on the table and a puddle of lemonade on the sidewalk as the only evidence they were ever there. In time, I toss the cup away and the puddle evaporates. And when I pour another jug, people stop by and the cycle begins anew.

The lemonade is a very rewarding hobby, I meet some great people, I learn new things, and there’s a small feeling of accomplishment when I see people enjoying another pitcher (I have to remember, it’s only lemonade, this isn’t Haute Cuisine).

It’s a good life.  ¶ 8:19 AM