Ever since I was a little girl living in Oxnard, I fantasized about the strawberry festival. I envisioned an all-around strawberry paradise of unimaginable proportions.
We never went because it was literally held in our backyard (Oxnard is a smallish city) and we truly believed in the certainty behind the words: "there's always next year." But year after year we kept missing it. Until this weekend.
My sister Irene and I picking strawberries near our grandmother's house. Circa 1986. |
There were long lines for everything.
The Früli line (strawberry beer) went around the corner. We waited about an hour for Benny to get a face painting.
There were crowds everywhere, just trying to get their hands on an attractive order of a strawberry something.
Meanwhile, protesters outside the festival boycotting the event handed out flyers reminding us that strawberry field workers are commonly mistreated on the job (didn't expect this)! I guess you can say the experience was different than the expectation.
That's not to say we regret going. After all, we do feel a sense of pride knowing that so many people travel from all over the place to enjoy two days of strawberry madness in my very own hometown!
Berry good memories indeed.
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