Strawberry Festival

Growing up, my gymnastics team marched in the Strawberry Festival parade every June, in which we did sweet tricks in our red body suits and white shorts that our moms bought at Jamesway and tried to make sure we didn’t land in horse crap. This, and sunburns and burning my hands on hot tumbling mats, are my childhood memories of the Strawberry Festival.

This year was Henry’s first Strawberry Festival. He did not wear a red body suit or white shorts. 

We ate strawberries:

  

And watched the parade:

  
There were fire trucks and white people and fried food.

  
And the big kids helped the little kids get the candy out of the street before they got run over by a fire truck or a white person eating fried food. 

  
Then we dropped Henry off at the church tent and went and tasted lots of wine in another tent. 

  
(He was with his Gangy, and it was a Methodist church, so, totally fine.)

Then we stopped at my aunt’s house to use the bathroom, but she was not home, so Tim and I may have peed in her backyard. Successful day all around.