Taking a Stand, With Lemonade

Communication between the White House and the nation may be near an all-time high, but the commander in chief can still use a little assist when it comes to reaching America’s grade-schoolers.

So cruising home from another music lesson, Mom swiveled in the front seat of the minivan to repeat his call to action. “You know,” she said, “the president wants each child in America to send a dollar to the children of Afghanistan.”

That was enough for Libby, 7, and Cole, 9. For Cole, the only question was: How would the cash get there? Libby wanted to shoot for something bigger: Just $1? “Why don’t we have a lemonade stand and a bake sale?” she implored her mother, Alison. “We can give all the money to the kids in Afghanistan.”

And so it was--on a Saturday when the grown-ups were worrying about mysterious white powders and planes falling from the sky--that a brother and sister from South Pasadena and two friends sold lemonade and cookies. And restored a little sanity in their small corner of a crazy world.

For these kids and, no doubt, thousands of others, there was not much explanation needed. They know some bad men crashed jet planes into some of our most important buildings. They know that our country is bombing another country far away. And they know poor kids could somehow get caught in between.

They had sold lemonade once or twice before and even managed to move a few items from a rather unremarkable rock collection. But on this hot Saturday, the business would be different for both the little salespeople under the umbrella and the dozens of customers who stopped to make a purchase.

Libby--tomboy, voracious reader, soccer whiz and self-starter--got things going, filling an impossibly large bowl with pan after pan of water, then repeated scoops of powdered lemonade. Cole--kind soul, scholar, Lego master and budding engineer--began sketching out two large posters: “For the Afghan Children,” one read, complete with an arrow pointing to a green map-blob labeled “Afghan.”

Soon, the sloshing lemonade was positioned atop the tippy card table down at the corner. The foil shrouds were pulled from paper plates laden with chocolate chip cookies, brownies and Rice Krispies treats. Each was priced simply, 25 cents.

The neighbors came first. Then the cars began to pull to a stop, one or two and sometimes a near-rush of three vehicles at a time. Dollar bills soon were beginning to fill a plastic cup.

Sophie and Laura waved tiny American flags to draw in the customers. Cole explained to the curious how the money would reach the Afghan children (through a special fund established by the White House: America’s Fund for the Afghan Children). And Libby cajoled those who seemed to be missing the point. “Hey, they’re just little kids! They didn’t do anything wrong,” she shouted at a convertible that slowed, but did not stop. “Stop and buy a little lemonade!”

Most people didn’t need the hard sell. Like all of us, they had been casting around for the right thing to do, even the right thing to feel since terrorists pulled the rug of tranquillity from under a comfortable nation.

At this rickety table under a shady oak they had found something solid they could all believe in: children helping children, reaching out in the big-hearted way that Americans like to feel defines them.

“Bless you, bless you,” one gray-haired woman said quietly, handing over a pair of bills from the front seat of her compact. A family in a sleek convertible Jaguar stopped and the father cheered his servers. “I love what you are doing!” he said.

Most customers didn’t want any change. Some didn’t even want a lemonade, stopping just long enough to hand off a few bills and offer a big thumbs-up.

One woman called out from her front seat: “Is all this money going to Afghanistan?” A chorus of young voices shouted back: “Yes!” Then Libby, still dressed in her striped uniform from her morning soccer game, hurried a single glass of lemonade to the giant SUV. The woman handed her a bill and said to keep the change.

Running back to her friends beside the lemonade pitcher, the 7-year-old’s eyes were as big as harvest moons: “A twenty! It’s a twenty!” she gasped.

A couple of hours later, most of the lemonade and treats were spent, and the kids returned to the kitchen table to spread out the wads of crumpled bills and all the coins. They counted it all three times to make sure they got it right ... $85.75.

Almost breathlessly, they began to hunt for a big envelope. To send it to the president. Right now.

Alison and I finally persuaded them that the White House takes checks.

Cole, Libby and their friend Sophie gathered around me on the living room couch to dictate their letter to the “President of the United States.” So much excitement still coursed through their young hearts that they tried to out-shout each other about what the letter should say. But they agreed to each dictate a sentence, in turn, until I had written down exactly what they accomplished that day.

Cole had the last turn. I don’t know if he had any idea how meaningful his closing was.

“From Cole Rainey, Libby Rainey, Sophie Kaminsky and Laura Selig,” it reads. “Your citizens.”