When we were kids we used to go to this awful, polluted lake. Of course, we didn’t realize how polluted it was at the time. But, we probably should have. It was a man-made lagoon inside a gated community. I don’t really understand how or why my family decided that this was the best place to go (or how we managed entry every weekend??). I suspect we went because it was the closest place to go. Never mind the fact that we were just a few miles away from one of the most beautiful rivers in California. Three forks of stunning views, giant, hot rocks, fishing, canoeing and general good times. Unlike the piss-warm water we swam in, the river produced nice cool, snow-melt from Tahoe’s Sierra Nevada’s. The river was filled with minnow, trout and suckers, all harmless and skittish. Contrasting the lake’s giant catfish who had zero fear of humans and would frequently nibble your toes as you swam.

Despite all of this, as a kid I thought it was the greatest place. Sandy beaches, a floating dock, a playground, boats…and the snack shack. Now, growing up we weren’t allowed to eat sweets. No soda, no candy, no chips, no processed foods of any sort. The problem with this kind of avoidance is that it creates what all abstinence-only programs create. Immense desire.

I would save up pennies, nickels and dimes — change from couch cushions, payphones, sidewalks and store floors — to get those small, individually packaged, plastic-wrapped jolly ranchers. Watermelon, sour apple, cherry, they were all exotic and bursting with flavor. The intense sugary sensation stinging my throat and bringing tears to my eyes. They were five cents a pop and I would buy as many as I could. The only problem was that they all had to be consumed almost immediately and, obviously, I had no intention of sharing. If not eaten by day’s end they would melt in the hot sun, or worse (because a melted candy is still edible) they would get sand in their plastic creases and become too gross, even for a junky.

On occasion, we would be treated to a meal at the snack shack. If money wasn’t too tight and we’d all been perfectly behaved that day. Chicken fingers, french fries, stale chips with oozing, orange cheese-product. We felt just like the other kids. Eating their hot dogs and listening to the top 40 over distorted speakers, sitting at the picnic table, talking about their favorite t.v. shows and who’s pool party was the best. We felt like we were part of some larger human experience, the childhood we might have had. Hell, we felt American.