We are not friends. Your greeters ignore me when I walk in the door. They just stand there. They only pay attention to me as I’m leaving, demanding to see my receipt. Did I really purchase that box of diapers or am I pulling a fast one?
Your tile floor smells like urine. Your employees are not helpful. My fellow customers ignore the “12 items or less” sign and pile their Cheetos, Red Baron pizzas and Michelob high on the counter, while I wait, seething inside, to purchase my 3 items. You allow such atrocities.
And your strawberries. Your strawberries. Walmart, sweet Walmart, these are not strawberries:
This, my friend, is a strawberry:
We went to French Prairie Gardens, to their annual Strawberry Festival.
This is the 4th year in a row that we’ve attended and each year it gets a little less quaint and farmish and a little more…Walmart-esque?
Trailers advertising “BBQ & Brew” have appeared out of nowhere and they now charge not only for the berries, but for the 45 second tractor ride to get out to the strawberry field.
No matter, we had a great time!
There were farm animals to pet and feed (note: J Man has no fear and will stick his fingers into any fence he can fit them into! Miss Rae, not so much. Notice the lack of baby girl/billy goat pics?)
There were “pigs” to ride.
And of course, there were strawberries!
In years past, we haven’t been able to stop our kiddos from hand over fist, shoveling strawberries (dirty, clean, red or green- they don’t care:) into their mouths. This year, they were a little more particular.
A) The strawberries were not as abundant and it took a little more searching.
B) It was super muddy.
Even so, the sun was shining…
The strawberries were amazingly sweet…
And I see some shortcake in the near future…
…just not from Walmart…