You can see them, two cute little tweens, one with pink-tipped hair, selling lemonade in front of my house. People stop, not because they are thirsty or hot, but because they like to support young entrepreneurs. Or because two blond girls are smiling and waving at them and it’s irresistable. Or because they are in no hurry to get home after work anyway.
Selling lemonade is a rite of passage for . . .
First 50 Words - Prompts for Writing Practice 
Dimitrius never knew his granny. She died when his mama was still just a little girl. When they visited her grave his mama told them that she wasn’t really there, that her body was never recovered from the place where she died. Curious, Dimitrius asked his mama how his granny died in this far away place. In a whisper Dimitrius could barely hear his mama replied, “Lemonade”.
Dad, would you like American or British lemonade for 25 cents?
What?
American is lemon and sugar with tap water but British is with sparkling water.
Gee, Marty.
Yes, I remembered you said that, market, er… pigmentation increases your turnabout.
Ha, Ha, Son, you’re a chip off the old block.
Grandma Nye used to make pink lemonade for the family Memorial Day picnic that we would often celebrate on their flagstone courtyard. It was served in a glass pitcher with different colored lemons decaled to the outside. The glass pitcher had a red lid. I remember sitting at the backyard table hearing the ice clink on the side of the pitcher. Pink lemonade is always comforting.