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VISIT MINNESOTA MONTHLY ON THE WEB Online Article Index		Tank-topped and flip-flopped, I pump the pedals of my bicycle, passing the streets in Northeast Minneapolis named after U.S. presidents, creating and answering my own set of trivia questions: Under which president did the Teapot Dome scandal take place? Which president later became a U.S. Supreme Court Justice? Who was the guy who got stuck in the bathtub? The breeze whips my hair and everything feels easy. It's the kind of perfect hot summer day that makes you long for the tinny tune of the ice cream man and a pair of cute, sticky-chinned, scraped-shinned kids sitting behind a card table with a lemonade pitcher and a hand-lettered sign. Like the two girls I am approaching on the corner. "How are you guys doing?" I ask. "Fine, how are you?" Polite, respectful. A flowered cotton print T. Pink shorts. Tangled brown hair. I'm inconsistent about dropping change in panhandlers' cups, though I've become more generous since a friend reprimanded me for refusing a guy some of the Oreo cookies I was wolfing down while we waited for the subway in New York. (I felt like it was too pitiful an excuse for nourishment; she said I was just being selfish.) But I will always slam on the brakes or circle the block to support little kids with lemonade stands. "I'm doing great. I'd like a lemonade, please. Let me find you girls some money." I rummage through my bag, absently watching the girl pour some lemonade into a Dixie cup, when I read the sign: "Lemonade 50 cents." Fifty cents for a Dixie cup of lemonade. Well, I'll be damned. The Dixie cup starts to look more like a thimble. Now, I know that when you purchase lemonade from a stand, you're not doing it to bag a bargain. You're not really even buying lemonade. You're buying to support small-time entrepreneurs, you're buying the chance to pay with a dollar bill and say, "Keep the change" to a wide-eyed kid who responds, "Oh, gee ... thanks!" You're buying memories from your own days on the other side of the card table. But 50 cents! I start to wonder: Was this their idea or their parents'? Are they really just clueless as to the value of their product or are they intentionally using nostalgic branding to manipulate adults, the way Mickey Mouse has those big googly eyes to look more like a baby? I feel somehow responsible for setting these girls straight. Should I say something? Maybe I'll address it obliquely, something like, "Whoa, prices must have gone up since I was a kid." It takes a village, after all. But I waver, cup in hand. I remember the trauma of being a small girl teased by adults, and being too young to even understand the tease. (My great-uncle used to call me "Pickled Petunia," and to this day I still don't get it.) I take the cup from the girl and smile. It's lukewarm. It's about two-thirds full and resembles, in quantity and taste, the mouthwash I'm using to prevent the cavities I will get from drinking stuff like this. I swallow it in one gulp and tell myself to chill out. These are not loan sharks, sleazy brokers, or money-grubbing fly-by-night sales guys trying to make a quick buck off a slick gimmick. These are just a couple of sweet little kids out here on the sidewalk having a good time and enjoying the sun. I say thanks, and while I'm turning to my bike I see another sign, taped on the other side of the card table. It reads: "Delivered to your car." MM

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