The Cookie Tree

The Cookie Tree

Telling Mom you were bored was a mistake. “Oh, that’s terrible!” she’d say, meaning it was a terrible thing for me to say. “Look at all these toys and to think you’re bored with all these toys and there are so many kids that don’t have toys. Shame. Go draw me a nice picture - you like to draw. Go clean up your room - when’s the last time you cleaned your room?” Yeah – it was a mistake.

It was one of those sweltering August afternoons that southern Ohio was famous for. It was so hot and sticky that even the thought of doing anything remotely interesting was immediately unappealing and probably would require energy my sluggish nine-year-old body simply didn’t have. Yet before I could successfully remove myself from the scene of my faux pas Mom appeared bearing her 50-cup coffee dispenser, packages of drink mix and a box of Dixie cups. Minutes later I was at the end of our simmering driveway with a card table, lawn chair, and sweating metal tank of grape Kool-Aid and blankly staring out into the abyss of our deserted cul-de-sac.

I’ve had successful drink stands before, but today, nothing was moving on the street other than the heat waves coming off the concrete. This was not a good idea. After what seemed like hours I had only dispensed ten cups all of which I had drunk myself. In all that time - I had not seen a single kid anywhere. I drew shapes in the condensation on the tank to pass the time. When I was about to pack it in a kid on a bike appeared at the end of the street. He stopped and peered down the half block toward my stand. “Kool-Aid”, I yelled as I waved him in, "Kool-Aid!" He looked at me a little longer and rode off. Mom appeared with a box of Kroger Butter-Rings. “How much did you sell?" I looked up at her. “Nothing” I said, “I think I’ll go clean my room.”

“Here, give them a cookie if they buy a cup. It will help with sales.” The same kid appeared at the end of the street again – but now facing the other direction. “Free cookies”, I yelled. He rode off again. Mom went inside and I went back to melting into the chair’s nylon webbing.

Maybe that kid went and got his friends. Maybe he rang doorbells. Maybe he blew a special whistle only kids could hear. But somehow the word had spread, and kids were everywhere. They came running on foot, on bikes, in wagons, from behind houses, from under rocks and between bushes. I swear a few parachuted in. Dozens and dozens at a time. I kept running in for more supplies. When the Kool-Aid ran-out, the lemon-aid appeared. When that was gone Mom mixed up a batch of sweat tea. Giant Jet-Puffed marshmallows (cut in half with a scissor) appeared to shore up depleted cookie supplies. My Ked's shoebox filled with coinage given eagerly ten cents at a time.

“Stop…Stop! Don’t buy that junk!” Mark Delgato from next door came running from his garage waving his hands and yelling at the crowd of kids around my stand. “Stop!” Although Mark and I we were not friends he was not a bad kid – just one you had to keep your eye on. As a normal twelve-year-old he took great delight in practical jokes like removing the chain from your bike so when you start to pedal you fall forward, busting your nuts on the crossbar. “Don’t waste money on this junk,” he continued, completely disregarding me and my fledgling business, “save your money for my cookie tree!” 

Now I must admit that his cookie tree concept was an inspired idea. Mark and his cousin Tozzie bought a ton of different types of cookies and hung them, 2 per wax paper bag, from the limbs of a large oak tree in the yard between our houses. The better the cookie the higher up they were hung. Oreos, Sugar Wafers and Chips Ahoy were way up. Fig Newtons, Nutter Butter and Nilla Wafers and the like were mid-way up. Appropriately it followed then that the worst cookies were at the bottom. Animal Crackers, the Oreo knock off -Hydrox and the saw-dust-like Lorna Doones, dangled from the lowest limbs, some within easy reach of tiptoes and outstretched arms. Hung on a thin branch at the very top, was the Holy Grail, a pair of Hostess Cupcakes, which were not technically a cookie – but coveted none the less.

The brilliance of the Cookie tree was not that you paid twenty five cents for five cent worth of cookies you probably already had at home. Nor was it the allure of the Easter egg-like experience of finding hidden treasures among the leaves. The genius of the idea was that it was an event, a public competition - like swinging a mallet trying to ring a bell at the carnival. Everyone would know your climbing prowess and corresponding bravery level by the type of cookies you came down with.

Tozzie manned the event entrance, received the kid's money, handed out torn pieces of paper as tickets, and sent the would-be contestants in groups of two to Mark at the base of the tree. Mark collected tickets and regulated flow up into the tree. Two went up as high as they dared in five minutes, grabbed a cookie bag– and then were told to come down. Two up, two down. Two up, two down. After a half hour the waiting line had grown. Mark determined that his system was taking too long. Four up, four down. Eight up, eight down. The massive oak tree shook from the activity. Arms and legs would flash in and out of view. An occasional shoe would fall followed by a few unfortunate leaves. Then, from up high came an unidentifiable yell, “I got it”. Minutes later, a triumphant Tommy Rossell plopped to the ground from the canopy – cupcakes in hand. Kids gathered to look at his prize like they had never seen cupcakes before – as if the cakes somehow had been transformed by their high-altitude throne. Actually they were fairly smashed. Tommy told onlookers of his climb, his near fall and his final success in between bites.

Capitalizing on his recent fame, Tommy made his own cookie tree the following week in his yard but on a smaller scale and in a much smaller tree. Although apparently brave, he was never the brightest kid on the block, choosing to skip the bothersome bagging and hanging process altogether. Instead, he simply wedged cookies in branch forks or in depressions on the larger horizontal limbs. The few kids that showed up inadvertently shook most of the cookies loose in the throes of their initial collective climb –sending the remaining cookies showering down into the muddy lawn below. Whereas a kid might consider eating a smashed cookie or even a partially wet cookie – they won’t eat muddy ones, at least no kid over four years old. “Dead cookies” one kid yelled, and with that everyone left thus officially ending the 1967 cookie tree season. For weeks afterwards though, it was not unusual to spot a squirrel sitting in a tree eating a Nilla Wafer or unearth a decomposing Lorna Doone while raking leaves.