Lemonade stand teaches mixed lesson

My kids have been teasing for a lot of things lately. Their requests run the gamut from the typical candy and gum to the more specific nail polish colors and expensive reading materials. Price is never an object when you’re spending your mom’s money.

Rather than saying my usual “No,” I thought to capitalize on the summer season with a capitalistic proposition: “You want it, you earn it.” Enter my kids’ first lemonade stand, an opportunity to equate hard work with profit.

Squeeze lemons, not Mom. A lemonade stand on a warm afternoon somehow appealed to the pair. Kate immediately began making a sign, while Connor started planning how to spend the profits.

Product development followed. They created a kind of lemonade not offered by most young proprietors: Raspberry lemonade with real lemon pulp, garnished with black raspberries floating on top (until they became lemonade-logged, disgusting and sank).

We mixed the lemonade in a large glass beverage dispenser. This showcased the lemonade’s deep pink color and the fruit, but more importantly prevented pitcher pouring spills and subsequent ant patronage. The fact the dispenser also kept out other bugs was an unintentional benefit.

Proper placement of the stand was an issue. Repeating “location, location, location” to myself, I lugged a card table toward the road. The kids needed to be close enough to the road to be visible, but not so close as to risk getting flattened by the occasional car that careens off the road.

We settled for a spot 10 feet from the road under a shade tree. I taped on Kate’s “LEMONADE: 25 Cents” sign and the kids placed the lemonade, a stack of yellow cups, and a bowl of pretzels on the table. The pretzels were my idea, the equivalent of salty tavern snacks to make potential customers thirsty.

“Good thinking, Mom!” Connor praised. And it would have been had the kids not eaten all the pretzels themselves. I went back into the house and positioned myself for subtle spying on the operation. Unfortunately, I could only see, not hear, their transactions.

Within five minutes of setting up shop, the first customer called on them. I missed it because nature had called me. “Mom, mom!” the kids came bursting into the bathroom, waving a $5 bill. “A lady stopped and gave us this and didn’t even want any lemonade!”

I went outside and checked to make sure they didn’t have a frog or turtle floating in the lemonade dispenser. Nope. The woman had just been promoting junior commerce.

“Not all customers will be so generous,” I said at their beginners’ luck. “It won’t happen again.” Until it did. Repeatedly. The next carload of people purchased three cups of lemonade and handed them two $5 bills. Just to further weaken my credibility.

I got on the horn to my sister Kerry. “Quit your day job,” I instructed. “We’re opening a lemonade stand.”  Where else could you take in small bills at that rate while remaining fully clothed?

Next, a couple stopped and paid $2 for two cups of lemonade. Instead of being grateful for the 400% voluntary mark-up, the kids were greatly disappointed. Business history indicated greater generosity to be the norm. Plus, they were itching to make change with the quarters they’d assembled for that purpose.

They got a few more customers, but closed up shop after a business-blocking black raspberry clogged the lemonade dispenser tap and the neighbor kids showed up to play. Predictably, someone stopped right at closing time to make a purchase. In all, they grossed $25.75 for an hour’s work.

I suggested framing their first $5 bill, but Kate offered it to me for supplies. What instinctive business ethics! Didn’t she know I couldn’t possibly accept it? Maybe she did, which is why she offered it. I accepted only a nickel, to even the amount they had to divide.

Connor bought a book and Kate bought some candy with the first few dollars of their respective shares. They saved the rest. I saved my nickel to toss into the next wishing well I encounter, along with this plea: “Please let the next lemonade stand experience teach a more realistic business lesson.”

Crust is a necessary part of the bread

I pulled out from under the broiler a pan of whole grain bread slices bubbling with co-jack cheese, plated them, and started cutting them into strips: A quick hot breakfast on a cool summer morning. My mouth was already watering for my share when my son’s voice short-circuited the drool reflex.

“Cut the crust off mine.”

I went from Kristy Crocker to Frugal Gourmet in nothing flat. “Guess again,” I said. “We’re not wasting any of this. Have you priced bread lately?”

Lately? How about ever?

My stupid question was accompanied by an amusing mental picture of my eight-year-old son fretting over meal planning, compiling a grocery list, circling store circular items, clipping coupons, comparison shopping, stocking up on household staples during canned good sale days, requesting rain checks, praying for truckload sales, raiding other shoppers’ carts, and picking through clearance bins.

I smiled at the thought of him enlisting friends to pick up extra “limited quantity” items for him, complaining about produce prices, crying over expired milk, checking for cracked eggs, lamenting bruised bananas and flattened bread, demanding his refund rights under Michigan scanner error law, mailing in rebates, and pushing a passel of candy-obsessed kids in a shopping cart with a wayward wheel.

Lucky for him, he’s a boy, not a mom. And if he marries smart, he just might be spared an adult lifetime of that kind of fun. Plus, at eight, weren’t we all somewhat blissfully oblivious to home economics? As long as there were still checks in our parents’ checkbook, there was still money in the bank, right?

“The crust is the best part,” I lied.

And the check’s in the mail, you can’t get pregnant the first time you fool around, and those pants don’t make you look fat.

Connor demanded to know why the crust is the best part. So I was forced to do some of my best parental speed thinking. Hey, that would make a good reality show: “Parents Say the Darndest Things.” Each week we’d see parents like us struggling to recover verbally after being ambushed by our children. Win big prizes for what we already do for free!

“Because the crust makes you appreciate the middle even more,” I told him. I may have come up with that logic on the fly, but unlike most of what I tell him, it’s true.

Like most people, I’ve spent a substantial amount of time replaying situations in my mind, inserting coulda, woulda, shouldas. It’s hard to accept that despite my best intentions, I still manage to trip myself up, let others down, and offend when no offense was intended. While it’s symptomatic of being alive, it still hurts when it happens.

However, those crusty, cringe moments remind me I’m human and keep me striving to be a better mother, daughter, wife, employee, and community member. They’re not-so-gentle reminders that the mirror is the first place I need to look for the source of my troubles.

Like bread, the frequently tough surface of life can be cut away to reveal a rich interior, waiting to be served with a side of perseverance. You can’t have one without the other. I know. I’ve tried. And failed.

If it weren’t for the contrasting crust of mistakes and hardship, I wouldn’t feel nearly as good when I finally say, do, or write the right thing. Experiencing the wide divide between how good and how bad life can be is essential to growth. 

Bread baking is hard work. In no time, you find yourself immersed up to your elbows in sticky business. Halfway through, you feel all kneaded out. Then just as you’re most tempted to give up, the loaf suddenly takes the desired shape and you pop it into the oven.

A crust forms around the bread to protect the most delicate parts of the loaf from exposure to the extreme temperature. Our own crusty exteriors insulate us when life unexpectedly turns up the heat. Crust is a necessary nuisance to preserve our softer best.

“I ate my crust,” Connor announced. “It wasn’t so bad.” That was good to hear. Acquire a taste for crust early in life, son. It’s not going away.

Mowing cuts a swath across summer

To some, summertime means sun, relaxation and vacation. To me it means playing catch-up on the outdoor work I’ve put off the rest of the year and the seasonal tyranny of lawn mowing.

When I happened to be in Kalamazoo on April 15, I witnessed a commercial lawn mowing service already out along West Main Street, buzzing grass in front of a business. “Are they nuts?!” I asked my dog, Sousa, who was seated next to me in the car. She panted in agreement.

The April 15 lawn mowing violated not only my sensibilities, but also my own rule to never fire up a lawnmower before May 1. It’s bad enough to have to give in to May-September lawn mowing lunacy, but those who start keeping up grass appearances even earlier are seriously weed and otherwise whacked.

Maybe it’s different if you have the funds to hire it done or can write it off as a business expense. But quite possibly you need to think about sprouting a life outside of your lawn.

Actually, I enjoy lawn mowing. Always have. It’s relaxing. I do my best contemplating to the hum of the engine and whir of the blades, until my reverie is interrupted by hitting some unforeseen object, surreptitiously left there by nature, the kids, or the dog. Chores parallel the rest of life.

My first paying job involved shoving a push mower around my grandparents’ nearly one-acre of lawn. Their thick, over-seeded grass took nearly four hours each time. I’d stop midway through to give the mower and myself a rest.

Once I made the mistake of testing the exhaust to see if the mower had cooled enough to resume work. My fingers blistered instantly, forcing me to finish the pushing job with my right hand in a bag of ice. I was determined to earn the coveted 10 bucks toward purchasing a new three-speed bicycle!

You can imagine my joy when Uncle Bob helped Grandma acquire a riding lawnmower, reducing my mowing time by two-thirds. I’d don a pair of sunglasses, short-shorts, and  a bikini top to get in some paid tanning.

At the first sign of my bouncing along their property line, my grandma’s neighbor would suddenly get the urge to mow his lawn. Never mind that he’d just mowed it the day before. He’d start circling counterclockwise at speeds that had us repeatedly meeting along the property line for a smile and jiggly wave.

His eventual wink telegraphed his motives, so I would purposely mow another section of yard until his wife came out and collared him with some indoor maintenance request. By the end of summer, the heavier than usual rainfall and my budding shape ensured his house was in tip-top shape. It was Grandma’s turn to wink, sizing up the situation through her living room window.

Lewis Katz was my childhood lawn-mowing hero. His manicured, ornamented Eight-Mile Road yard inspired awe. I’ve never viewed such perfection, with the exception an adulthood neighbor’s lawn.

When I lived in Kinderhook, I mowed my lawn every week or two, whenever I found the time. But Barney mowed his lawn daily! If he and his wife weren’t getting along, which was most of the time, he’d mow even more frequently as an excuse to get out of the house.

The solution seemed obvious: Since Barney was going to mow lawn anyway, and since his grass didn’t really need it, and since he deeply deplored my lawn mowing infrequency, Barney should mow my lawn.

I propositioned him with a proposal for making some extra cash. His answer surprised me. Not just no, but Hell no! Couldn’t I see he really had the retirement thing going on full-time?! He was already swamped with busyness. But never too busy, I noted, to find the time to complain to everyone about his neighbor’s half-hearted lawn care habits.

So I bucked up and continued to mow lawn my way. I cut the grass May through September without letting it to cut into my schedule. Twenty years later, the only thing that’s changed is I no longer wear short-shorts and a bikini top. I’ve outgrown them, along with mowing around public opinion.

Oh, to be able to throw like those girls!

“You throw like a girl,” my son taunted my daughter the other day. Granted, hers hadn’t been the best of throws, but while not aligned with the target, it was very much in line with the prowess of a seven-year-old arm of either gender.

With the global positioning powers of a grown-up girl and speed honed from experience, I got directly in his face.

“Throw like a girl?! What does that mean,” I demanded of her eight-year-old critic.

“You know,” he said, “all wimpy-like.”

Of course I know what he meant, but I still didn’t like it. That “you throw like a girl” remark has probably been around since the dawn of humans, long before there were organized sports.

“Hey, Eve . . . . could you toss me that apple? No, throw it overhand. And put a little spin on it and some muscle into it. Otherwise I’m going to have to think of an insult to describe how you do it.”

Fortunately, I have never been called a sissy for throwing like a girl. Growing up down the road from my cousin, Lucky, and playing various sports by the hour with him and his friends negated that.

The humbling privilege of playing summer ball and on school teams with outstanding female athletes like Deb Merchant, Julie Heator, and Pam Frost also made me run faster, throw harder, and jump higher. I want the same for my daughter.

Union City graduate Catherine Converse has guaranteed through family athletic tradition and personal tenacity that she’ll never be indicted as a wimp. Two weeks ago I witnessed Cat, now 27, rack up 105 yards on 15 carries en route to the West Michigan Mayhem women’s football team beating the Indiana Speed 21-0.

The victory left five-year veteran Converse and her team undefeated (8-0) and favorably positioned for the Women’s Football Association play-offs, outscoring their opponents 332-15. Wow!

Last year my kids met Converse and two of her Mayhem teammates when they stopped by our house for a story and photos. The conference game they saw the women play last summer proved to them why “Cat” Converse is valued by her teammates, praised by Mayhem Coach Matt Koch, and admired by women’s football fans.

Waiting for that game to start, my daughter played with Mayhem Co-Captain Lisa Luedtke’s young nieces, tossing around a souvenir football. The littlest sat behind me in the stands this June 27, yelling, “Go Aunt Weesa!” It crossed my mind she’s not likely to someday get accused of “throwing like a girl.”

Cat Converse’s brother and Mayhem Defensive Coach, Peter Converse, can’t recall heckling his younger sister athletically. In fact, he gives high marks to all the Mayhem women for their interest in football and willingness to learn. “Once they start playing, they quickly realize why guys like the game so much,” he says.

On Saturday, July 11, the West Michigan Mayhem will continue its quest for a national championship by facing the Columbus Commets on Mayhem home territory in the first round of the Women’s Football Association play-offs. On that same day in Philadephia, the Philadelphia Liberty Belles and the Indiana Speed will square off.

The winners will meet July 25 for the National Conference championship. The outcome of that game will determine who advances to the August 15 WFA “Super Bowl” equivalent in New Orleans, to play the American Conference title-holder. Last year the Mayhem made it to the championship game, losing there to Texas. This year’s Mayhem team is even stronger and free of major injuries.

I hope lots of young female athletes will be there to root for Cat Converse and the Mayhem July 11. It’s an opportunity to see women throw, run, carry, block, and tackle anything but like stereotypical “girls.” The game will be held at 7 PM at Vicksburg High School stadium , 501 East Highway Street, Vicksburg.

Ticket prices are $10 for adults, $5 for seniors and students, and free for children 10 and under. Military, police, and firemen are also admitted free with I.D. verification. The tailgating fun will start early in the parking lot, setting the tone for an evening of good football. Check out http://www.westmichiganmayhem.org.

High time to tackle tomato terrorism

Summer produce season is just around the corner. I take that back. It’s already here, heralded by a magnificent crop of morels, followed by the appearance of asparagus, and the annual resurrection of black raspberries.

I’ve just cited my favorite warm weather fungi, vegetable and fruit, favorites because they require nothing of me other than picking. I merely stumble upon morels, spot asparagus growing in odd places, and stroll out my back door to find tangles of black raspberries.

My kind of gardening: No weeding needed, just the ambition to pick ‘em and fix ‘em. But the breakdown occurs in the fixing. I don’t always get around to timely fixing.

Like many people’s refrigerators, mine represents good intentions gone bad. I’m rotting fresh asparagus in it as I write. The problem with produce is there’s nothing gradual about its harvest. You go from scarcity to abundance with no inbetween.

Maybe some people can coax produce to ripen according to their availability to cook it, eat it, and/or preserve it, but not me. Something that ripens on Tuesday doesn’t keep well until I have weekend opportunity to deal with it.

Despite storing it by the mustard and ketchup, fresh produce resists similar shelf life. I’ve therefore renamed the various compartments of my refrigerator the wilter, the rotter, and the molder, in honor of the functions they perform for produce.

I recently observed with avid gardener Barbara Brott that this time of year we start shoving down the throats of our families all the leftover produce we put up last season. Thanks to our careful rationing of stored produce through fall and winter, we enter spring with overstocked pantries and freezers.

“Hurry and eat these frozen strawberries, kids,” I command. “Finish them so we can freeze some more.” Trouble is, we become so burned out on them that we have no stomach for the fresh ones come June and July. Then the cycle starts anew, us never getting to enjoy fresh produce. Talk about crazy!

Anyway, there’s no time to eat with friends and relatives foisting their extra garden produce onto you. It’s the worst at Fredonia Grange, where having a large vegetable garden is a pre-requisite for membership.

“I put a bag of tomatoes in your car,” a fellow Granger told me. He failed to mention it was a large garbage bag. Those “free” tomatoes cost me $40 in canning supplies and a whole Saturday to preserve. And I don’t even like tomatoes.

Tomato terrorists are nothing compared to the zucchini zealots. Despite years of growing their massive green missiles, they never seem to grasp that one seed can produce not just a hill, but a whole mountain range of unwanted squash.

When another Granger announced he and his wife had brought zucchini to give away, I shouted to my husband, “Quick, lock the car!” You’ve got to stay on your toes to outwit the produce pushers.

I see them as a greater public health threat than the methamphetamine makers. Law enforcement should scrap its war on drugs and focus on the sweet corn skirmishes and blueberry battles. With the FBI already keeping tabs on who’s buying fertilizer, expanding into seed catalog subscriber and Rototiller user monitoring seems a natural next step.

Garden variety criminals ought to be prosecuted for their vegetable violations.

Did you know August 8 is designated as “National Slip a Zucchini on Your Neighbor’s Porch Day?” That’s a fact. Please don’t celebrate early, zucchini growers. At least have the decency to wait until your special day.

Working 50 miles from home disadvantages me. I must request vacation time in order to be armed and ready for produce ambushes. My annual 9-1-1 distress call goes something like this, “Please patrol my street more often. We have vegetable vigilantes in the neighborhood and it’s unsafe to leave my porch unattended. HELP!”

Seriously, if you are going to insist on over-planting and guerilla gifting me with cucumbers, no more overgrown, yellowing ones that are all squishy inside. They may have made good cucumber boats for bathtub floating when I was a kid, but I’ve since outgrown that pastime.

If you can’t curtail your produce pushing, at least be courteous.