To continue my Wal-mart shopping adventure, I pass on the donuts, pay for my purchases and make my way to the parking lot. A young boy meets me at the door, "Mam, do you want to give a dollar? We are raising money for. . ." and he looks over his shoulder for help from a lady smoking a cigarette sitting at card table. "Mama, what are we getting money for today?" I just say, "No thank you," and move on to my car, holding onto my purse.
I notice the church going lady get into her Buick Lesaber - that fits. What doesn't quite fit is the "Trimspa" family climbing into their late model Lincoln Navigator. Who knew? How presumptive of me to think they would have been in some souped up pick-up truck complete with NASCAR stickers. But, my preconceived notions are vindicated when I spot the decal covering the back window that reads: "Rest in Peace, Dale Earnhardt, King of NASCAR, 4-29-51 to 2-18-01".
As I finally get to my car, I am met by a Jehovah's Witness who hands me a pamphlet and says, "God Bless." I honestly don't think this was the experience Sam Walton had in mind when he envisioned his empire. By the time I got home I felt like I had endured close encounters of the third, fourth, and fifth kind. The unfortunate thing is - this is a weekly occurrence here. It's not like they only come out at night or seek their own kind.