I stepped on the brake, did a u-turn in a vacant parking lot and drove back the way I’d come. Who wouldn’t stop at a kid’s lemonade stand on a hot July day?

In truth, I wasn’t certain it was a lemonade stand. I’d been on a quick errand, driving south out of town when I spotted the youngster playing tug-of-war with persistent wind gusts as he struggled to erect a shade umbrella. A few minutes later, errand completed, I was driving back home when I again spotted the kid. He’d given up on the umbrella and was grappling a large, hand-printed sign that threatened to fly off with the wind. 

I couldn’t read the sign, but I had to turn back. Maybe he was selling huckleberries — hope springs eternal. Or any kind of berry. Or cherry. As I walked toward his table, he pulled a gallon of pink lemonade from his cooler. Oh, well.

Before I could even express interest, he was pouring me a glass. 

“How much is it?” I asked. He didn’t hand me the glass but put it on the table and pointedly shoved it in my direction.

“Free,” he responded. 

“Why are you giving away lemonade?”

“Sumthin’ to do.”

As I sipped, he reached into his cooler to pull out a tall bottle of Coca Cola. He took a swig, and I couldn’t help myself. 

“Why are you drinking Coke when you have all this lemonade?” Dumb adult question that got the answer it warranted. He shrugged.

Probing further, I learned that his name was Wyatt, his grandmother had made the lemonade, he’ll go into the fourth grade next year, he knows who his teacher will be but has no opinion whether he’ll like her. About this time, a man walked up.

“How much for a glass?” he asked.

“Free.”

“How’re you gonna make money that way?”

In a rebuke to capitalism, Wyatt poured another glass of lemonade. The man turned to me and said, “Hi, Mary.” I looked at him questioningly with only the merest inkling of recognition. He grinned, told me his name, and I realized I hadn’t seen him for at least a dozen years, when he’d done some work on my old house. As we chatted, Wyatt disappeared into the adjacent shop — apparently headquarters for his enterprise. He returned with a pickle jar bearing the sign, “TIPS.” It was suggestively seeded with dollar bills. The man and I both stuffed in more folding money. Long gone are the days of ten-cent lemonade stands.

The man left, and I continued my inquisition.

“Tomorrow’s the Fourth!” I declared in that bright, patronizing adult tone that must make kids want to flee for their lives. “Do you have fireworks?” I persisted.

“I have three mortars,” he declared, barely concealing his pride. In a burst of loquaciousness he added: “We’re going to the park.”

In this dry valley of sagebrush and highly flammable grasses, folks eagerly patronize the fireworks stands and then — in deference to the wildfire danger — bring the explosives to our large city park on the Colville Indian Reservation. The city obliges by having ambulance and fire truck at the ready as well as putting out dozens of empty oil barrels for the resulting trash. Around nightfall the skyline erupts with utterly spontaneous, un-choreographed bursts of color and noise that continue until midnight or so. Insanely entertaining.

“I live across the river from the park,” I told Wyatt. “I’ll watch for your mortars.”

He nodded solemnly, my attempt at humor unnoticed. When I drove away, he did what I least expected from a shy, about-to-be fourth grader. He waved.