Life in Utila continues to be kind to me. I've been busy with many aspects of writing: a weekly writer's group meeting, involvement in several online writing forums, a new volunteer position as Communications Director for a local community group, and daily writing of short stories and a novel in the works. Yesterday I was honored as winner of an online writing competition. My story was chosen by my writing peers, which was both flattering and validating. Some of you have asked to read the story...a themed writing about winning...so I'm sharing it with you here on my blog and hope that you will enjoy it.
The Summer of Sour Lemons
Stuey Martin, at age eleven, was a year older than me. He was small in stature. Freckles danced across his thin face, and over-sized ears were usually sticking out beneath his Boston Red Sox cap. He could always be seen riding his bike around the neighborhood, but he never joined the rest of us when we played hopscotch or kick the can on our dead-end street.
Eddie thought it was because he had a bum leg. "I bet he has a limp from an accident or something," Eddie mumbled.
Arlene, as always, interrupted to give us her opinion. "My mother says he must have been born like that." The look on her face dared me to disagree. I knew better than to do that.
A few days later, I saw Stuey riding towards me on his bike. Mama was making lemonade, and I had coerced her into giving me a few of the tart, juicy pieces to suck on. As I sat on the curb, the prized lemons firmly in my grasp, I was hoping the shade from the red maple would offer some relief from the oppressive heat.
Stuey slowed to a stop just a few feet in front of me. "Whatcha got there?" he asked, eyes fixed on my lemons.
Having just placed one of the wedges between my teeth, I answered, "lemons". It sounded more like "yemas", but I was pretty sure he knew what they were before he asked.
"Can I have one?" he asked. Looking up at Stuey's expectant face, I answered with a boldness that took me by surprise. "I'll share them with you if you tell me what happened to your leg."
Stuey hesitated, eyes downcast, but his lemon-craving got the best of him. "Okay," he said. "I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else."
Arlene's smug, horse-like face came to mind, and I thought about what it would be like, winning an argument with her. After a moment's hesitation, I held out the handful of lemons and smiled. "I promise."
We sat side-by-side on the curb, sharing our refreshing summer treat, as Stuey told me about having polio when he was seven. "I was sick for a long time. Mom says I'm lucky, though, because I almost made a full recovery. My left leg is just weaker than my right, so I walk with a limp. The doctor says it might go away by the time I'm grown, though."
I was impressed. Stuey didn't seem to feel sorry for himself at all. I had heard about polio. Mama said lots of people were paralyzed from it, and some even had to be put in iron lungs to help them breathe. I was glad that hadn't happened to Stuey.
When he had finished his lemons, he got on his bike and rode away. I was ashamed of myself for blackmailing him, but I wouldn't go back on my word. I would never tell the other kids what he had shared with me. I still like sucking on lemons sometimes, and when I do, I always think of Stuey Martin and that summer of sour lemons.
