What could be more splendid and true on a warm summer day like this than a lemonade stand by the side of the road? A card table, a red checkered tablecloth, Igloo cooler, plastic cups, and a good firm voice to carry your pitch.

But this kid, manning his stand along an interminable redwood fence in full morning sun, needed some priestly advice from his Dad. There are better ways to earn the money for a skateboard, Son. Go mow some lawns. Because no matter how nice it is out in the sun and sea breeze, how bittersweet the lemonade, how bright and bold your twelve-year-old voice, it’s not a one man job.

You need a brother, a sister, a couple of friends, with you when selling lemonade. The hours are long in solitude, and all that clear and chirping, pure untangled sunlight starts to ache.

I could have stopped and bought a cup, but I was on a mission. Still waters run deep; at 32mph, pity flows shallow, drains away. Besides, if he keeps this up, he’ll be a writer someday.

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