I Drink Time Like Water is the third in a series of essays on the Spirit of Water by the Water Stewards II. Published in the Marquette Monthly November, 2024.
– Brad Pickens
The enterprise begins with a dandelion market that sets up shop right on the front stoop of our house and is stocked with the abundant flowers of our unkempt backyard. Doll furniture and egg crates from the bedroom of two biglittle girls sit right along the way and dandelions proliferate upon the path and float gently upon the waters held in every bath toy, play kitchen pan, and pretty vessel that the girls own. The price per flower is highly variable and a fair amount of customer discretion is involved in the final, agreed-upon dollar amount for each proffered bundle of yellowflower. There is some minor upselling involved and the discerning consumer may procure a pocketful of pretty purple pips to compliment the sunny dandelions.
Bright voices venture that the savvy shopper might also wonder whether they happen to like butter. Instructions are provided for rubbing a dandelion upon one’s chinny-chin-chin. And the passersby remember the game and they oblige. Judgments are made about each person’s relative enjoyment of churned dairy products, based upon the dustlight pollenbright residue that is rubbed and released. And smiling customers walk away with bouquets of flowers and yellow chins. The girls celebrate each purchase with increasing excitement and when Joe gives them their first folding money, the spiritblown breath of the universe blazes through the neighborhood as the cry is raised: We made a dollar! And for whatever change those traveling down our block might happen to have in their pocket, they may purchase the water of life.
And the girls branch out into the lemonade racket. The first sidewalk lemonade shops reveal the relative value of broader product appeal, which is evident through increased earnings. On the day they discover the value of location, they stake out territory in our neighbor’s corner yard. Busier streets bring by more people and the shoebox cash register is tipped open by the breeze and dollar bill leaves trip gently across the lawn. A goodly portion of the ten and under population of the neighborhood is running back and forth from houses and corner stores to supply the steady stream of people with a joyous amalgam of water, lemon, sugar.
And the lemonade is sold at a set price that also varies based on whether or not you live on the block or whether the customer would care to add the highly recommended artisanally grown side yard mint leaves with strawberry slices and bits of colored candy that slowly change the color of lemonade from yellow to blue, red, green, and purple. Friendship drives traffic and lowers the suggested price, which is cheerfully paid at double the initially stated amount. Some people stay in their cars as drinks, payment, and change is shuttled back and forth in sublime inefficiency and others shout out that they’ll be back later as they ride down the road to the water.
A neighborhood full of four, six, seven, nine-year-old kids sell lemonade and busy themselves with learning how to be people and their teachers are the generous, kind, gruff, happy, sad, grouchy, demanding, loving parade of everybody who observes the selling of sugared water and decide that they wish to participate. I mow the lawn as the stand sells its wares, and I mosey down to the corner when I finish to purchase another cup. I sit on sunwarmed steps as I sip and watch the sales, and I drink in the goodness of people and the richness of life.
And I drink time like water, days go by, liquidbright shimmer and downdepth darkness, casual cups and deep draught desire. Flowing days that we do not know in the moment if this will be a day to place in pretty pots or to hold in infamy or if this day is just time that is folded into all the rest. There is joy and sorrow enough to drink, petty arguments and mature generosity. There is the evening tired clean up and the quiet of the after.
And I wonder what delights the girls have drunk from the day. People are embodied water flowing through time, chancing now and then upon popup shops of dandelions or lemondrink. For the price of a few quarters and some kindness, they carry away the gifted memory of yellowpetaled sweetwater. And the girls stand by the wayside, calling out to anyone who will respond: Come and drink.
– Brad Pickens
Brad grew up on his family farm, drinking water from a well dug by his great-great-grandparents. He returns occasionally to refill his water bottles. In addition to his part time role as a lemonade stand refiller, he is also an Episcopal priest.
