There are few things quite so endearing as a small, gullible child selling lemonade at the curbside on a hot summer day. Unless you absolutely, unrepetantly hate children, it is hard not to smile as you pass one by.
I like children in small doses. They possess that limitless curiosity which only a small percentage of adults seem able to maintain. They ask all manner of questions, things which most people write off as silly, but would be hard-pressed to answer themselves.
“Why is the sky blue?”
“Hahaha, run along now you silly monkey.”
But taking children out of the equation entirely, I still love lemonade, tax scams, and unsanitary food handling. It’s true. What makes a diner feel like home are the spotted silverware, greasy, smoking chefs, and hackling waitresses. My body has an immune system, and it may as well earn its keep.
Unfortunately, it seems lemonade stands, like the buffalo, are quickly disappearing from the American landscape. Part of it, no doubt, is the growing hysteria over stranger danger and pandemic flu, and the other part, I suspect, is just spoiled laziness.