Confessions of an Eight-Year-Old Beer Vendor

Think back to when you were eight years old.  What did you want to be?  What were your wildest dreams and fantasies?

Me?  I wanted to sell beer.

Lots of beer.

Allow me to explain.

I grew up in Yukon, Oklahoma, a middle class suburb of Oklahoma City.  My old neighborhood was a sprawling subdivision of homes that sprung out of some old farmland back in the 60’s and 70’s.  All around the housing development were cattle ranches and wheat fields as far as the eye could see.  Still, Surrey Hills was its own self-contained suburban utopia.  On the northern edge of the subdivision rested a strip of shops that contained a tiny little convenience store appropriately named the “Itty Bitty”.  On the southern edge of the subdivision was Surrey Hills elementary school, site of both my first kiss AND my first “wedgie” (both occurring in totally unrelated incidents).  Winding through the center of it all was a meandering golf course “for members and guests only.”

We weren’t members of the golf club.  My family was neither poor, nor wealthy.  My dad (and hero) was a general manager for a local tire company, and made a decent living.  Some others in the neighborhood were a different story.  They worked in the oil industry in the late 70’s and early 80’s and made pantloads of money.  So, I was good friends with their kids, who had open tabs at the golf club.  There, I tried to look like a regular while I sipped on mooched Shirley Temples and ate my body weight in maraschino cherries.

One hot summer day, walking home from the club, we noticed how many golfers were driving by in their carts, sweating like crazy.  My friend T.J. and I immediately had the idea to open a lemonade stand.  So, we went to T.J.’s house, filled a Radio Flyer full of Solo cups, a pitcher of lemonade, and a homemade sign, and snuck on to the #15 tee box.

We taped our sign to the wagon.  “Lemonade – Small Cups, 10¢    Big Cups 25¢”  The first thirsty foursome approached.  As one of the men stepped out of his cart, he chuckled and said, “Are you sure you don’t have any beer?  I sure could use one!” Recognizing T.J. as the son of a club member and me as his mooching friend, he pulled out a pocketful of change and purchased a few cups of lemonade for himself and his buddies.  Nice guy!  We pocketed the 70 cents and beamed at the thought of the 20 pieces of Super Bubble it would buy us at the Itty Bitty.

The next foursome arrived at the #15 tee.  A man with giant, swollen gut tottered out.  He spotted our sign and said with a smile, “You got any Coors?”

“Nope.  Sorry.  Just lemonade.  Small cups ten cents.  Big cups a quarter.”

He came back, “I’ll take a big cup then.”

We handed him his drink and took his quarter.  We watched silently as they teed off, mentally noting the brisk sales pace.  Two groups of golfers.  Two sales.  This is too easy!  Like shooting fish in a barrel.  We were marketing geniuses.

Just then, a third group came and went without a sale.  This dampened our mood a bit.  Was the market softening already?

Then a fourth group made their way to the tee box.  Before even exiting the cart, a plaid-clad duffer boomed, “I’ll take a Bud!”  His buddies laughed.  We gave our sales pitch, but we were largely ignored this time.  They hit their tee shots and drove off without buying a thing.

In the silence of the moment, I complained, “Man.  I wish we were selling beer.  Everybody asks for it.”

I looked at T.J.  His eyes got a bit larger.  “My dad has beer.  Lots of it!”

Before the words were out of his mouth, we were packing up the Flyer and heading toward his house.

We didn’t even enter the front door.  Instead, we went straight into the garage where the “special fridge” was located.  Inside, we found a decent inventory.  Though it wouldn’t supply a fraternity party for more than an hour, it would satiate plenty of foursomes.  T.J.’s dad stocked the good stuff, too.  Coors and Bud were in demand, and we had 6-8 of each!  Add to that a couple of Michelob and a stray Pabst Blue Ribbon, and we had quite a selection.  We stashed the beers in the wagon, poured in some ice, and headed back to #15.

When we arrived, we doctored our sign to feature our newest item.  Because demand was so high, we priced the suds through the roof.  Cans – 50¢, Bottles $1.00.  The first cart approached.

Half-looking, the first golfer wheeled out of his cart.  He jokingly asked, “So, you kids got any Miller?”

I replied, “Nope.  But we do have Budweiser, Coors, Michelob, and Pabst.”  There is still a wet spot on the cart path where the man’s tongue hit the pavement.  “Oh.  And we have lemonade if you want it, too.”

For the first time, we saw one of our customers pull out bills instead of change.  He handed us $2.00 and grabbed four cold ones out of our makeshift cooler, laughing the entire time.  He passed the beers to his buddies as we nearly peed our pants with excitement.  Lemonade was for sissies.  Beer is where it’s at.

Every single cart that passed the #15 tee box bought beer from us.  We sold out in less than an hour.  We had over twelve dollars in our pockets.  With this kind of money, we could buy so much Super Bubble that we could chew on one piece for a minute or two, spit it out before the flavor fades, then unwrap another piece without even thinking about it!  Luxury at its finest.  But why stop there.

“Does your dad have any beer?”  T.J. asked.

“Yep.”

Again, we packed up the Flyer and walked a few blocks to my house.  When we walked through the front door, my mom asked “So, how is the lemonade business?”

Without making eye contact, we barked, “It’s great!” and moved toward the garage fridge.

My dad was not a big beer drinker, but we usually had a decent stash left over from dinner parties and neighborhood get-togethers.  Inside the fridge we found a hodge-podge of brews left over from a family Christmas party seven months prior.  Being only eight years old, I knew nothing of old, skunky tasting beer, so we filled a bag with as many as we could carry, and headed back through the house.

“Whatcha’ got in the bag?” my mom inquired.

“Some beers.”

To this day, I am still amazed at my mother’s emotional restraint in this situation.  As a father, if I saw my eight-year-old son hauling beer through the house on a hot summer day, I would immediately think the worst.  He’s gone off the deep end!  Where did we do wrong?  How much does celebrity rehab cost?

Instead, my mom patiently asked, “So, what do you need the beers for?”

“We’re selling them on the golf course.  Nobody buys lemonade, but EVERYBODY buys beer!  We’ve made twelve dollars so far off the stuff we got from T.J.’s house!”

“Hmmmm.  I’m not so sure that’s the best idea.  Those are your dad’s beers, so you should ask him if you can have them.  We should call him.”

Though my mother could have shut down our bootlegging operation right then and there, she always loved sharing such parental joys with my dad.  Smiling, she dialed the numbers and handed me the phone.  My father answered.  His voice sounded as if it was coming from an echo chamber.

“This is Ken Dannemiller.”

“Hi Dad.”

“Hey Scotty.  Whadja’ break?”  To this day, this is my dad’s default when we call.

“Nothing.”

I contemplated the best way to ask.  After all, Dad was the linchpin to my achieving financial wealth in beverage sales.  I had to be persuasive.  Unfortunately, my eight-year-old communication skills lacked the finesse of a high-priced power broker.

“I need your beers.  I want to sell them on the golf course.  We already sold T.J.’s dad’s beers and made twelve dollars.”

I heard a huge belly laugh coming from the echo chamber.  However, it was not my dad’s laugh.  Apparently, he was in a meeting with a client and had me on speaker phone.  I can only imagine the pride my father felt in that moment.

“Twelve dollars, huh?”

“Yeah, Dad!  Isn’t that great!”

“That is great, son.”

Trying to close the deal, I glance at T.J. and quickly add, “So, can I have your beers?”

“Well son, I would love for you to make some more money, but I see a problem.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  Not just anybody can sell beer.  You have to have a license.”

“Can I use yours?”

“Not a license to drive.  A different kind of license.  If you aren’t at least 21 and have a special license to sell beer, then you could go to jail.”

“Jail?  For selling beer?”  I can still hear the other man laughing in the background.  T.J.’s eyes are the size of a Wham-O Frisbee.

“That’s right.  I don’t want you to go to jail, so I’m going to have to say no.”

My emotions were a strange mixture of fear, anxiety, and dejection.  Not only had my business plans been shunned, I was also in danger of getting thrown in the clink for selling suds on hole 15.  I imagined life on the chain gang.  In the face of such opposition, I caved.

“OK Dad.”

With a knowing glance from my mother, we walked back to the garage and deposited the beers back in the fridge.  She helped us make up another pitcher of lemonade.

That day, we made another two dollars selling the legit stuff.  With our day’s take exceeding fourteen dollars, we wheeled our wagon down to the Itty Bitty and invested no less than ten bucks in a mountain of candy and pocketed the other four.  That night at T.J.’s house, we unpacked our stash of Starburst, Now & Laters, Chic-O-Stix and tons of other junk and dumped it all into a communal bowl.  We played Atari and gorged ourselves on the fruits of our labor until we both puked in Technicolor.

In retrospect, it was crazy, impulsive, and ill-advised.

Then why did it feel so great?

Because instincts trumped anxiety.  When opportunity presented itself, we went for it without hesitation.  Passions ignited.

I’m beginning to feel like I’m at a crossroads in life.  A full-grown adult this time.  Opportunity may be knocking once again.  Very softly.  But there’s no need to call Dad.  I know the rules.  And there’s no risk of incarceration.  All I’m lacking is the child-like exuberance.

Anyone know the way to the nearest lemonade stand?

On Divinity and Dementia

Several days ago, the world lost one of its more vivacious citizens.  Nobody famous.  You didn’t hear about it on TMZ.  She left the world without much fanfare.  Her name was Toni, my brother-in-law’s mother.

Which makes her my…

well…

I’m not sure.

Let’s just call her my adopted grandmother, since all of the lovely women I once called “Grandma” have long since passed.

Back in 2004, Gabby and I had just returned from Guatemala.  We were in the midst of touring the country delivering concerts of original songs and stories from our mission year, trying our best to raise money for different charities.   As part of this effort, I had produced a CD to sell at our shows.  While the album didn’t go platinum, it did flirt with “yet-to-be-recycled aluminum” status, selling tens of dozens of copies.  Such was my short-lived career as the lead singer in a pasty-white, solo, Christian ballad-themed boy band.

It’s a niche market.

Somehow Toni had obtained a copy of the aforementioned CD.  When our tour came to Nashville, she passed a note through my mother requesting we come over for a visit.  I was instructed to bring my guitar.  We didn’t know Toni very well at this point, but were happy to spend some time visiting with family.

We arrived at Toni’s place and trudged up her steps.  She had anticipated our arrival and rushed to the door with gusto.  Toni wasn’t a large woman by any stretch of the imagination, but her personality was huge.  Tan skin.  Glowing smile.  Bright white hair.  An unforgettable Italian with a New York accent.  Her exuberance kicked her voice up an entire octave.  She welcomed us as if we were the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol.

“Come iiiin!  So good to seeeee you!”

She showered us with a variety of kisses, hugs and semi-inappropriate pats.  Had she been one more branch removed from our family tree, we may have considered pressing charges.  Realizing it was simply a good old-fashioned case of violent endearment, we let it slide.

We all sat down in the living room and she brought us glasses of water.  She wanted to know everything about our year as missionaries.  Her questions were deep and detailed, the product of a faith that had been well-worn.  Like a favorite pair of slippers.  As we talked about how we found God in Guatemela, she would punctuate each story with “Fantastic” or “How wonderful,”  spoken with a tone that was at the same time curious and all-knowing.  As if we were describing a movie she had already seen, but she was enjoying reliving it through the eyes of someone else.

It wasn’t long before she pulled out my CD.  I had no idea that we had been lured into the lair of the world’s foremost music junkie.

“Sing something for me, honey.”

It was less a request and more of a demand.  But how could I resist?  I pulled out the guitar and sang for her.  As soon as the first note came out, her eyes disappeared. A smile crossed her face.  She began to hum along.  Her hands danced in front of her, conducting an imaginary choir.  This continued for several songs.  At the end of each one, she would shower me with a chorus of “Beautiful’s!” and “Oooooh’s!”

When the private concert was finished, she made me promise to sing for her again sometime.  I agreed.

And such was the beginning of our relationship.

Our families would get together for significant birthdays and holidays.  Each time, I would bring along my guitar.  After the food had been put away and dessert had filled our bellies, we would sit in the living room and conduct a spontaneous jam session at Toni’s request.  We were always reluctant to begin, racking our brains to find songs we all knew.  Eventually, my dad, brother, sister, brothers-in-law and anyone else would settle on a tune or two and the fun would begin.  Toni was always asking for more.

*A family get-together with Toni and the other beautiful women in my life

But time can be cruel.  As years went on, Toni’s love for music never faded, but her mind did.  Many of you have been along on this journey and know it all too well.  It starts with a little forgetfulness.  Then repeating stories.  Then mild confusion.

We attended my dad’s choir concert with Toni a couple of years ago.  She sat in the front row.  Humming.  Smiling.  Hands dancing.  But something was different.

When the clapping died down after each number, you would hear Toni’s voice through the silence.  “That was beautiful!”

“That one was so loud!”

“I think I’ve heard that one before.  Loved it!”

She even came up to one of the singers afterward making kissing noises and saying, “Boy did I like you!  Beautiful voice!  And good lookin’, too!”

For family members, it can be both heartbreaking and hysterical.  Our social conditioning tells us that such unfiltered comments aren’t appropriate.  We cringe, hoping that our loved ones don’t say something truly embarrassing.  But the glaring honesty brings about a laughter that breaks the tension.  Nervous laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

For the past year, the laughter waned.  Toni’s unfiltered comments got shorter and shorter.  Her eyes wouldn’t quite focus.  There was less talking.  More forgetting.  Details.  Faces.  Names.

Family members would talk to her.  Tell her stories.  Ask her questions.  Explain what was happening.  But her mind was like a broken cup.  Words and images would come in for a moment, and then slip through the cracks.  They wouldn’t stay long enough for Toni to register them and reply.  Confusing.  Frustrating.

There was sadness over what was lost.  Memories of the exuberant, faithful, grandmother that brought a lively energy to every gathering.  But the person Toni had been was now gone.  Someone had turned her color film to black and white, a gradual tragedy played out over the course of months and years.

So the relationship moved beyond conversation.  Sometimes family would simply sit with her.  Be with her.  An acceptance that people are more than the memories they have created and the works they can perform.  In the absence of shared words and stories, there were lots of hugs.  Kisses on the cheek.  Whispers of “I love you” in her ear.

In her last months, all I could see was Toni slipping away from us.  But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Imagine losing yourself in the music.  Taking off the filter.  Saying what you’re feeling without worrying about what others will think.  Finding it harder and harder to understand this world that operates under strange rules.  So you stop questioning.  Give up control.  Own the silence.  There’s no need for words anymore.  Just be.  That’s enough.

Slipping away?  I don’t think so.

More like she was drawing nearer to God.

Enjoy the choir, Toni.  I hear it’s Heavenly.

The Nose Knows

It started today.  And I never saw it coming.

I was going through my morning routine.  Visit restroom.  Brush teeth.  Shave.  Shower. Put on clothes.  Deodorant.  Fix hair.

But somewhere between clothes and deodorant, I got distracted.  As I turned my head I caught a glimpse of something in the mirror.  Like a flash of light.  Or an apparition.

What was that?

I turned my head again.  Leaned in this time.  At a certain angle, the light caught something protruding from my nose.

Upon further inspection, it was a hair.

A long hair.

Braidable.

* Hindsight being 20/20, I could have used one of these snazzy finger-shaped trimmers.  Boy does this fella’ look happy!

How could I not have seen that before, I thought.  It was obvious that this hair was lost.  God had intended for this hair to grow from the top of my head, or at the very least, an eyebrow, but it hit a detour somewhere inside my melon and wound up in my schnoz.

At this point there was only one thing to do.  I had to remove the wayward follicle.  As most of you know (and don’t even try to deny it), there is no elegant way to do this.  Lacking any of the proper implements, or even a pair of hedge clippers, I simply grabbed tightly with thumb and forefinger and pulled.

* Even this solution would have been an improvement

What came next was an audible *snap* followed by a searing pain emanating from the core of my body.  I appears that this hair had been growing since my second birthday, taking root in my spleen and meandering through my central nervous system throughout my lifetime, finally breaking through to daylight this past Memorial Day.

My eyes watered.  My knees buckled.  My sinuses cleared.  I am fairly certain this is what childbirth would feel like if God had chosen to place a uterus in all our foreheads.

When I recovered my faculties, I looked down at the offending party.  It was no ordinary hair.  It was abnormally shaped.  Thin at one end, then fat in the middle, then thin and slightly curled at the other end.  Like a mythical tree from a Dr. Seuss book.  I’m sure if I sliced it, I could have counted the rings to determine its age.

Slightly rattled, I put the hair in the trash, and went about my routine.

Later, in the car, my mind flashed to images of guys I’ve seen in my lifetime.  Guys whose noses are home to dozens of these crazy hairs.  Guys who looked like they spent hours sniffing dryer lint screens.  And the common thread with all of them is that they are all closer to the end of their lives than the beginning.

And that’s when it hit me.

One day we wake up and realize we’ve crossed that threshold – moving from “growing up” into “getting old.”  For some of us it’s a birthday celebration.  For others, it’s living through a crisis.

And for me, it was a hair.

Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t think I am as “grown up” as I need to be.  This post is testament to that fact.  I firmly believe that you spend your entire life learning, and you don’t come to understand what it’s all about until that magical moment when The Great Rogaine Master In The Sky calls you home.  At 38 years young, I am far from that, God willing.  But there is good chance that I have more years behind me than I do in front of me.

Coming to grips with your own mortality can do one of two things to a person.  Choice #1: it can cause you to look at your life and compare your contributions to those of others.  Like a couple of weeks ago when Shaquille O’Neal (also 38 years old) retired from the NBA.  This little newsy nugget led me to realize that my dreams of NBA stardom would likely never come true, adding age to that long list of limiting factors including lack of jumping ability, endurance, strength, size and full body tattoos.  And unfortunately, that’s the case with this perspective.  When we choose to compare ourselves to famous people like Mother Teresa or Warren Buffet, and feel like we have woefully fallen short, the end result is a bad case of the “blahs.”

It’s defeatist thinking.  Sadly, a lot of us go there.

Choice #2 is to look at the time we’ve spent on earth and remember all we’ve learned.  The lessons of life.  Experience gained.  The strength we’ve built celebrating successes and facing down failure.  The anxiety that accompanies this line of thinking is not that we feel we haven’t measured up.  Rather, we’re anxious because we feel like there’s something more.  A way for us to connect our experience and our values to our work.  A yet untapped purpose that’s been growing since your second birthday.  Taking root in your soul and meandering its way through your nervous system.  Ready to burst forth in an unexpected place.

Time for another good, long look in the mirror, I think.

***  I would love to hear from those of you who have plucked far more crazy hairs than I have.  What unexpected purpose have you found, and how did you stumble upon it?