The Cookie Girls

It doesn’t take much to make a difference

The intersection was precarious. It was a “Y” where if you went left it took you the long way into town, past the lake and the ominous-yet-magnificent Catholic Church that sat high above Lake Memphremagog, the lake that bridges us with Canada. If you took a right, you cut past a cement plant and straight down into town, no muss no fuss. The intersection was on a hill, so the green space in the middle of the Y was also a pretty steep incline, just tufts of grass mixed with road gravel and ugliness. The cement plant keeps the intersection bustling with big trucks blasting back and forth. There are no crosswalks, because it is not a place for passersby.

As we approached, we noticed there was a table set up on the hill in the middle of the Y, and maybe a couple of kids gathered around it. Precarious as the intersection, was the action happening in the middle of it.

“Oh, it’s the cookie girls,” my son said, “and we need to stop.”  He eased his speed. As the girls came into view, his braking was a welcome reprieve from the constant careening around corners, accompanied by me hollering to slow down while desperately grabbing the arm rest. My hollers were often hidden due to his (sometimes really good and other times incorrigible) music booming as he sang along. I was usually shouting either- “You’ll blow the speakers!” or “Slow fucking dowwwwnn!” In between a chorus or two he would calmly chide me to “relax, mother, I’ve got this.” The singing, I’m sure, was done in part as an extra attempt to smother my pleading cries to quit the careening. He’s actually a good driver, but driving with teenagers is a feat of trust and brazen bravery, every time, for a long time.

There was no place to park, but my son chose the left hand route and pulled up alongside the hill.

The two girls, both about ten yours old, ran to the car, approaching my window, with a plate of homemade cookies in hand. They looked like the kind of cookies you buy at the store- the premade roll of dough out of the refrigerator section.

I rolled down my window. “How much for a cookie?” I asked.

“Well, it’s two for 50 cents.” the girls said. My business brain immediately went into criticize mode. “Who helped them with these price points?” I thought. “Shouldn’t they be encouraged to sell the cookies for at least a dollar each??”  I thought about what to do.  I knew I wasn’t paying 25 cents for a little cookie they were risking their lives in a precarious intersection to sell.

Have no fear, my son had it covered.

“How much for the whole plate?”  He asked.  He asked it in this stern voice, with a lilt of a smile. Suddenly I saw him as an adult, a father, an actually responsible person. It used to feel like a surreal dream, my son a together adult, but all of a sudden, I could see it. He was going to be okay.

“Oh, ten dollars!” They said, suddenly giddy with hope.

He and I exchanged a glance and immediately began to dig though our wallets that, post Covid, never carry cash. But with a stroke of luck and love, and just plain old like-minded beauty, we came up with ten dollars. We handed out the money. They handed in the cookies. A paper plate, no wrapping, just straight up, fucking store bought, homemade cookies.

“We hope you have a great day!”  The girls shouted and smiled.

My son said, “Thank you for the cookies!  Keep selling stuff!”

I rolled up my window, as the tears rolled down my face.

I looked over at my son.  He smiled.  He said, “and that’s how it’s done. I did this yesterday too.”

We drove the long way, into town, to the taco shop. We always go the long way for the view. We sat at a little table and he bought me a burrito.  He paid with his stern voice and lilt of a smile. “I’ve got this mother, put your money away.” He is wise, kind and happy, which is all we all need to change the world.

#teenagers #love #hope #trust #kindness #smallacts #parenting #singlemomlife