the lemonade stand

It was the second week of July and just another sticky summer Sunday. We went dutifully to Our Mother of the Sacred Hearth All Saints non-partisan come one and all Church in the Wildwood. The sky pilot laid out his ten step plan for our lottery for life and everything we could possibly conceive. ‘Just follow the plan’ he said reading testimonials from believers from all over the world, emphasizing step one repeated again in step ten to give a little love to support the ministry and its outreach to the poor and down trodden of the earth. ‘You got to give to receive’ he said, with a wink and a smile. ‘Today with each $100 tax deductible donation I’ll be giving away a free copy of my book ‘You can take that to the bank’ along with a full color video of my latest mission trip to minister to Muslims at the site of one of the original seven wonders of the world’. Thought it was at Giza in Egypt. Didn’t know it was at the pyramid in Vegas.

Our little town of Happy Valley located in America’s Midwest is much like the city of Mayberry in The Andy Griffith Show. With a population of about 5,000 people and the county seat you don’t have to go far to pay your fines and taxes. But everything isn’t what it seems in River City. There’s trouble and it starts with an ‘L’. Now I’m grateful for the simple though misleading name of our town. Could be Hot Coffee Ms., Two Egg Fl., or Goobertown, Booger Hollow, or Toad Suck in the Hill Billy, Redneck capital of the world, Arkansas, home to Daisy Mae and Little Abner, Lum and Abner and the Jot ‘em Down store and the Clampetts country home before findin’ that bubblin’ crude and headin’ for the hills, Beverly Hills that is. All we have to our claim to fame is rows of corn, wheat, and soybeans with horse drawn buggies and folks with beards, bonnets, and a closet of clothes that gives them pause each morning, ‘Humm, let me see, what am I going to wear today’? Seriously I like the Amish kids I’ve met, they’re just like the rest of us…… sort of.

First time we actually met and made some Amish friends was last summer. Sis and I rode our bikes to Dairy Queen to get an ice cream cone. Walking out of the door after getting our cone, Sis noticed an Amish buggy in the parking lot sandwiched between two muscle cars. ‘Come on’ she said and I reluctantly followed. Walking up there were two girls and a boy sitting in the buggy enjoying an ice cream treat. ‘Can we pet your horse’ Sis asked? ‘Go ahead, indulge yourself’ the girls answered. I stood on the right and Sis on the left as we reached up to stroke its neck. The horse repeatedly turned it’s head back and forth back and forth before shaking his head and looking cross-eyed. Then as Sis rubbed his neck with her left hand holding her cone out with her right and within reach, the horse snatched her cone away and ate it in one bite. Moving his head up and down and neighing he opened his mouth bearing his teeth and began to grin. Sis was mortified as the girls in the buggy tried to stifle a laugh while pointing and saying something gesturing to the boy. He hopped out and walked up to us and took a long hard look and then spoke something to the buggy girls in German and walked inside. ‘What did he say’! Sis demanded. ‘Well’, they giggled, ‘he said you looked like twin cheeks of a babies ass on a fine misty morning’. The pavement started to melt where Sis stood and with eyes as dark as a summer storm she said, ‘tell him we may look like a baby’s ass, but every morning he has to look in the mirror at an ugly old man’s ass praying for the day he can grow some hair to cover the crack’!

He returned and with an uppity haughty look Sis snatched the cone he proffered, this is after all ice cream ya’all, and yelled at the buggy girls, ‘tell him’! As he began to mount the buggy the girls giggled and recounted what Sis had said. He then stepped down and slowly turned around clinching his fists, his face a maelstrom of madness as he marched briskly towards us stopping just a few feet from our retreating trembling forms. Then he took off his hat with a sweeping motion, bowed and lifted his head with a radiant smile that covered his entire face. It was as if the sun’s rays were brilliantly awakening the dawn. ‘Dear friends allow me to introduce my self. I am Euphrates Jansil-Baudasszinger, but you may call me Nat, and this worthy steed is Capone, an Amish gangsta horse pulling a Amish gangsta buggy. The ladies in waiting are Moon Unit on the right and Sunday Molly on the left my cousin's’. ‘We’re all cousins’ Sunday Molly yelled out. ‘At night like a shadow we protect the innocent on missions of mercy. The moment you think you hear hoof beats we disappear into the darkness, leaving behind our sign, steamy fresh horse apples with your feet enshrined’.

‘Enough’, Nat said. ‘You are the bankers daughters, buds that will blossom into beautiful women, and I must say well on your way. Soon your father will have to reinforce the door to keep your solicitors at bay’. ‘But how did you know’? I asked. Gesturing he said, ‘we have eyes everywhere. Our sources are impeccable. The citizens of Happy Valley only think no one sees, no one knows’……. ‘Shadow knows’. We stood mesmerized, staring, eyes transfixed, mouths open, barely able to speak, as the angels had got together to create a dream come true. He was gorgeous with blond curly hair, piercing blue eyes, and skin touched by the sun. A more beautiful man we’ll never see. We were utterly totally smitten. Life would never be the same again. He then nodded at Sis’s hand with ice cream melting all the way down to her elbow. She robotically lifted it to Capone who once again swallowed it whole, horse laughing with a grin. Suddenly able to move we said we’ll be right back and ran inside to clean up. Looking at each other in the bathroom mirror we put our hands to our mouths and started giggling. Rushing back outside they were gone, vanished, vamoose, in absentia. And for a moment we wondered if we had entered the twilight zone and was that Alfred Hitchcock getting into his smooth ride, Exile, with a blizzard and a burger? Except for their sign. We both looked down at our sandals. We were standing in steamy fresh horse apples!

This story is about Phelony, a genuine firecracker, outspoken with a flash temper, quick wit always got your back cute as a button sister and me. I know because I am Tulip her identical twin. I am the polar opposite of my sister and inseparable. My father is Don Knottsian, short, slightly built with a nervous disposition an over active thyroid and buggy eyes. He’s a good dad and President of The Big Heart Bright Horizons New Blossom Grand Fortune Bank. My mother, in all forbearance and honesty is a bleached blond bimbo who Dad dotes over and spoils parading her around at all the civic functions like a prized thoroughbred at the racetrack. A more peculiar and bizarre looking couple you’ll never see. Mom towers over him especially in her spiked heels with twin peaks and wonder woman figure and he just a grinning like a young child with their first bag of candy. Reckon you’ll just have to follow the money trail as they say.

We have an older sister Reign Beau who left home years ago and then us. Mom always said ‘you girls were a total surprise’…… never, a good surprise. ‘For the life of me I can’t figure how it happened’. Phelony would roll her eyes and whisper, ‘I guess we’ll have to friend her on our chat box channel with all our other 12 year old friends. She’ll get it….. eventually’. Earlier this summer we stayed at a motel at the beach and quietly passed our parents room on the way to cold pizza and RC in the tiny frige. Hearing the bed creaking and strange moaning sounds we looked at each other with buggy eyes and a shocked expression. ‘You don’t think they’re still doing it’ Phelony whispered. ‘Yuk’ I said ‘and double yuk’ Phelony countered. I don’t think we ever looked at our parents the same after that.

But let’s return to this soggy Sunday in Jim Carrey’s ‘The Truman Show’. We were on the cusp of teen hood and all knowledge and wisdom a little over five feet tall and a chest like the Bonneville Salt Flats, hot and bored when dad came to us. ‘I’ve got a suggestion that should be fun and an opportunity to experience good ole American capitalism’. With reluctance we agreed to this introduction to our first entremanureial enterprise. ‘I’ve got a piece of plywood and barrels and mom’s got a table cloth. You girls make signs and I’ll go to Wally World and get everything you need i.e. lemons, sugar, ice, a two and a half gallon container with a lid and spout, and plastic cups. We already have everything else you might want. It will be like getting a loan at the bank from our chief loan officer Harold House-Reckker only I won’t charge you interest on the money spent for your start up costs seeings I’m your dad and all. I’m sure Harry Butt our vice-president would agree with me this being your first time, you know the little fish in the big pond of men and money. But you know one of life’s lessons, ‘when life gives you lemons make lemonade’ he said, chuckling and nodding his head with a big grin as he walked away. Looking at me with a fishbowl expression Phelony said shaking her head, ‘he actually thought that was original’.

Now I don’t know the etymology behind our name but it was a cross my sister and I had to bear, especially at school when roll was called. Invariably the teacher would stop and smile and students would snicker as we hid our heads wearing a crimson halo when the name Crackenbottom was proclaimed, echoing in the room and down the halls or so it seemed. We even overheard Dad, with his best hapless, down in the dumps Barney Fife when’s a feller gunna catch a break look, tell Buzzard (Buzz) and Boob Bonefat who were our dwarfish and rather rotund new neighbors at a casual meet and greet, that with a last name like ours he was destined to only have daughters. Mrs. Bonefat laughed so hard she had champayne bubbles coming out of her nose. Yep, dad was Elmo and mom was Talulla Crackenbottom. We will never survive high school. We’ll just have to run away.

Well Monday arrived and by 11 o’clock everything was melting from the hot sun including our business which was beginning to heat up. It was kind of fun especially when Wacko and Smuckie Cornfoot stopped by on their bikes and flirted sippin’ lemonade. Bout two o’clock a police cruiser sallied up to the curb with lights flashing and a short siren sonata. Out strutted over-weighty Winkie Wannago-poop putting on his hat to cover his balding pate stepping in some water in the gutter by the curb wearing some hideous high top rubber shoes with soles as thick as tractor tires. Bellying up to our stand his wet shoes made the sound of breaking wind and Phelony wrinkled up her nose. She wasn’t about to miss this opportunity and sniffed the air. ‘Oh my, Is that the fetid flatulence of a porcine portobello, a malodorous air biscuit. Talk about an anal audio ripping the tendon. Such vinosity and flatuosity a real tail scutter’. I looked at her in shock, mouth agape as Winkie approached with a scowl saying, ‘you girls will have to cease and desist. You are in violation of city ordinance’, as he paused to look in a book, ‘URN4BS’. Insolently glaring at him with her hands on her hips Phelony asked, ‘and what felony are we guilty of’? ‘You are operating a business inside the city limits without a license’ Winkie said with a smirk and a belly burp. ‘And how much will that cost’? she asked. Once again finding the right chapter in his book he looked up at her with a ‘I win and you loose’ Grinchian glow, ‘$150’. Now with a ‘never, not over my dead body look’ Phelony said, ‘and if I refuse to pay the ransom’? ‘Then you will be subject to a fine and/or imprisonment’ he said, with a very cheesy Cheshire grin.

Now bout this time I looked up to see Middlelene MacDonald-Berger, the spinster lady from across the street who is normally doing a freakish pantomime with her arms waving and her jaw jabbering in her front window, sneaking up and videoing the whole thing. ‘I ain’t paying any fee for free enterprise’ Sis said and thrust out her hands for shackles. ‘Alright you little snot, it will be my pleasure’ Winkie said as he reached behind, no easy task, and grabbed his manacles to arrest Phelony. Reaching out to attach the cuffs Sis suddenly drew her hands back and Winkie grabbed for her, his shoes slipping on the grass as he tumbled over our stand soaking himself in lemonade while tearing Sis’s blouse. He then fell on top of her as I stood mouth open in frozen animation until I was startled by Sis’s scream….’Rape! Rape! I’m being Raped’! I then jumped on his back trying unsuccessfully to wrap my legs around his brobdingnagian bay window hoping for an eight straight out of the gate pummeling him with my fists on his shoulders and head while Middlelene got closer, getting it all. ‘That’s my sister you swank’! I yelled, ‘and this ain’t my first rodeo’.

Now neighbor’s appeared and lights and sirens could be heard as two more cruisers arrived along with the fire department and paramedics effectively blocking the street, traffic backed up on both sides with horns blowing and shouts of angry voices. Our dog Chew Barka, a German Shepherd, jumped the gate and began biting Winkie in his caboose tearing his pants and exposing his………..!!!!! Screaming in pain he was still on all fours on the ground stunned and recovering from the beating he had just received from a 82 lb. 12 year old girl who was defending her sister from assault and obvious police brutality. But Chewy wasn’t finished yet hiking his leg and peeing on his bare duece bigalow.

Coming to Winkie’s rescue the police led by chief Rollie Rollo-Koster, half Cherokee with war paint, poison tipped arrows, ridin’ bare back and shootin’ shafts underneath the horses belly, (pigs do fly!), pulled a dazed and pixilated Winkie onto his feet trying to cover his candy face bare cheeks with their hands, while a traumatized sobbing Phelony was being comforted by our neighbors. This was her hour! After sharing a tiny smirky smile with my sister, I heard Trixibelle our next door neighbor scream ‘beast’! issuing obscenities at the police, normally only fit for disgruntled Dallas Cowboy fans suffering yet another disappointing dismal defeat in search of that elusive ‘W’ and first round win at the end of the rainbow.

There was more folks here than a Friday night football game with arch rival ‘The Hot Dogs’ from Frankfort. Pickford Pooresapp, the editor of our newspaper, The Gaslight Gazette, was like a fly at a picnic interviewing people and getting first hand accounts and pictures. Yellow ribbon was stretched all around the front of the house identifying it as a police crime scene and paint was sprayed on the grass identifying were the bodies laid. After enduring two hours of grueling police investigation asking questions like: what was the amount of sugar we used in our lemonade and did we actually use freshly squeezed lemons, they finally left confiscating the contraband, our lemons and sugar. When mom finally showed up after a day of shopping with Thelma and Louise she drove right through the ribbon across our driveway never seeming to notice. Walking in the house with her arms full of packages she said, ‘Hi girls I trust you had a good day and now are more capable of managing the money we give you for an allowance. Us gals found some great buys at JC Penyea’s over in Water Proof where that man just drowned and then dined at this chic new restaurant called The Thai Tanic. I’m tired, exhausted from a full day of shopping and drinking to much Thai beetle juice. Boy it can hit you like a box of Christmas cookies. You girls take care of yourself like you always do and I’ll get a little rest’. All of this was spoken from her bedroom while we sat in the kitchen as we looked at each other without any response. We then busted up laughing.

Dad finally came home from a golf tournament in Scratch Ankle still dressed in his knickers and plaids doing his best impersonation of Payne Stewart. We hurriedly sat on the porch steps in a preplanned position with our elbows resting on our knees and our chins resting in our fists in a picture out of Norman Rockwell’s ‘America’. Phelony was softly singing some lyrics from an old Springsteen song:

‘poor man wanna be rich

rich man wanna be king

and a king ain’t satisfied

till he rules everything’

Well girls I hope you had a great day venturing into the uncharted waters of grand ole American capitalism’. We just sat their staring. ‘Well, give me an answer’! Phelony lifted her head and began to recite: the American dream is a glorious fantastic fictional fantasy to keep the masses sedated and malleable. You have to be asleep to believe it. The Financial scaffolding of fractional banking, debt, and capital formation has created a freak show of scams and greedy guru’s and a grotesque government of a zillion regulatory controls that they use tyrannically against their own citizens every day’. Dropping his jaw with his mouth wide open he yelled, ‘What the ‘H’ are you talkin’ about! ‘The word is Hell, dad’. He then threw his hands into the air shaking his head in frustration and stormed into the house. Before he closed the door he turned and said, ‘clean up this mess out here. What do you think our neighbors are going to say’!

After about two weeks an Amish buggy pulled up in front of our house driven by Nat. Moon Unit and Sunday Molly jumped out smilin’ and shakin’ their heads as they walked up to greet us. ‘Ya sure know how ta stir up a hornets nest don’t ya. I’m thinkin’ we’re pretty proud of ya takin’ on those bloody English like ya did’. They talked and their language was punctuated with German, and we thought; we gotta learn some of this. It would be so handy to use without folks cyphering what we is sayin’. Giving us hugs and needing to leave, they grinned and said in perfect English, f ‘em anyways, those sons of britches, they are such a pain in the ass. They then turned, waved, and skipped hand in hand back to the buggy, as we stood staring, stunned, and unbelieving, with our mouths wide open. Then Nat jumped out and assisted the girls back into the buggy, always the gentlemen, before turning to face us. He remembered! Doffing his hat, he bowed his head and then looked up with a wink and a smile saying, ‘Tis a pity my ladies, but I must bid you adieu’. It was to us a brilliant beam of light from a giant supernova eclipsing the sun leaving us in its wake, mere puddles on the pavement, a single grain of sand in an ocean of emotion fragile peddles of a flower blowing in the wind barely upright like a tottering Jenga tower.

The rest of the summer we spent a lot of time with Middlelene who we now affectionately called Granny M. She sold the video and rights to our story to one of those grocery store gossip peddlers. You know the ones with the sensational stories of trivil drivel, that you darest not look at but end up bringing home anyways. A picture on the front cover showed the cop on my sister and me on the cop with our German Shepherd Fifi, Fifi????? owning the rear. It was described as a brutal attack in broad daylight on two 14 year old Mennonite, Mennonite????? girls by the name of Felony, F not Ph, and Turnip not Tulip Crackenthebottom. Zeach! We were so embarrassed by the spelling of our names and now two 14 year old girls and a chest like either side of a bad penny. All we were guilty of was sharing lemonade, the real villain here, to weary citizens in a town now the denizen of police abuse, tyrannical banking, and municipal misconduct.

According to irreproachable magazine sources, Federal authorities were preparing to conduct a broad investigation including the Justice Dept. and ATF into over reaching and tyrannical police practices, the Treasury and Secret Service into financial fraud and bogus banking procedures and Homeland Security and the FBI into unlawful bureaucratic city government regulatory practices and possible connections with the crime syndicate and the flow of illegal drugs. Our trauma was described as a deep scar to our fragile psychological and emotional development with all the horrors associated with PTSD and a lifetime of reoccurring symptoms that only with lifelong counselling and psychotropic drugs could we hope to achieve a normal life with a family and children of our own, without having to be institutionalized at an early age. Our parents respectfully refused to comment saying only that this is a tragedy no family should have to endure. The entire community is in mourning the story continued for this beloved idyllic family, Mom, Dad, and the children, sweet innocent lambs, especially the friends of the All Saints Peckerwood church where they attend. The pastor was not accessible but away on another charitable missionary outreach to the poor and needy in the Bahama’s teaching how to love mammon and money and live the abundant life. The local police refused to comment.

It was in the third week of school that the story broke and we got a new lease on life and you know, a certain notoriety. This was a first for Happy Valley, but not quite as important as the winner of the outhouse race at the Bean Fest in Mtn. View Arkansas. Oh well. With the money Granny MacDonald-Berger received she would treat us two or three times a week to her favorite hamburger joint, Saun-yuck, with those cherry lime-aid route 44 summer heat sensations. She delighted us with stories of her youth, you know before there was any written history. And we gained a deep fear and respect for the elderly. As granny M would say, ‘don’t piss off the old people, cause life in prison isn’t the same deterrent as it used to be’!

A’ la Procaine

P.S. Police all over the good ole’ USA are cracking down on illicit lemonade stand operations, most recently in a town dubbed ‘Niceville’ Ohio where an eight year old girl was helping raise money for a community food bank. Kid you not!

P.S. II Not to be confused with the the health insurance business, ‘Lemonade’, that gathers information about you through your DNA given to ancestorial providers exploiting genetic markers of suspected health concerns to sell you unnecessary insurance, increasing your rates or denying you coverage. This intrusion of your privacy is protected by bloated bureaucracy and your local police.

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