A Step Back to the Old World

Author's Note:  I apologize in advance because this post will undoubtedly become one of those long, rambling posts that's filled with wistful looks back on the past.  One of those posts that make you, the Reader, envision a specific topic based on your interpretation of the title, but after reading a paragraph or two, realize that you're in for a whole heady trip through my transgressing consciousness.  No diy tips here.  No pretty images to pin.  No links to other fascinating web pages that will fill the minutes until quitting time.  If you're looking for fluff, click on, my friend. If you're in a quiet, contemplative mood, scroll down memory lane with me.

This past week I visited a living history museum in the southeast corner of the state called Old World Wisconsin.  It was on the list of Summer Must Do's, and I knew the kids and I could squeeze it into the last hectic weeks of vacation.  This was not my first trip to the museum, however.  I had been an employee there for three glorious months, a Summer long ago between high school and college. This was my first trip back since then.

When the pasture stands empty

Plan on a two year time frame if you're thinking about raising beef.  Ideally, you buy in the Spring and send to market just before the third Winter.  Beef always does better in pairs, so it is suggested that at least two are purchased at a time.  Keep track of all your costs:  purchase price, hay, grain and butcher fees.  If the beef is still 'on the bucket' when you buy them, you'll need to figure in the cost of milk replacer as well.  Also consider running barbed wire atop your fences because beef will push and test all boundaries.  If done efficiently, you can raise two beeves for two years and, in selling off one, recoup your overhead costs.  Homegrown beef is not only economical but also produces a quality product.

For two years you'll carry buckets, fork hay, rotate pastures and muck out paddocks. Expect to be slobbered on, pushed around, bellered at and stepped on.  Two years of daily attention can be a daunting commitment, but when the time is up and the pasture stands empty, your heart will ache for it.

Keep Calm and Mom On

Well, Mothers, we're just a little over halfway through the Summer.

Will you survive the rest of it?

Consider your muchness

muchness - noun : the quality or state of being great in quantity, extent or degree.

These past few weeks, I have felt a slow slipping away of my muchness.  I blame it on the ever-popular scapegoat, PMS, the cold, dreary "Spring" that we've had so far, the monotony of my daily farm chores and the ferocious case of stomach flu that recently took out the whole family.  But whatever the reason, there seems to be a slow leak.  Life is losing its luster.

So what do you do when you know your muchness is fading?  You don't feel like yourself, and you're stuck in that proverbial rut that all too often takes longer to climb out of that it did to fall into?  I stopped to consider a few of the beautiful woman that I know who've not lost their muchness.  They seem to have it in abundance, for all different reasons, and it's taking them in all different directions.

Under a layer of ice

The entire barnyard was literally creaking this morning.  The cows were bellering.  The geese honking, and the sheep were skeetering around, trying to understand why the ground beneath them was shattering with every step.

Last night we had lightening and thunder.  Rain ushered in by driving winds eventually turned to sleet.  Northern Wisconsin, along with several other states, were also hit with measurable snowfall on top of this ice.  Thank God we were at least spared that!  The weatherman predicts that it will melt off today, but warns that we should brace ourselves for a second round again tonight.  *sigh*   Oh, Spring, where are you?

the old horse-drawn hayrack inside the ewe's pasture

latch on the dog kennel

Spring :: Art Nouveau Style

Any good Hausfrau wouldn't be worth her salt if she didn't celebrate the First Day of Spring!  Even though we have -10degree wind chills here today, I'd like to extend a happy reminder that warmer days are coming, slowly but surely.  

And nothing gives fuel to my optimism better than the decadent images of the incomparable Alphonse Mucha.   One of my favorite artists, he did several renditions of Spring.  But he also did several groupings that depict all the Seasons.  

So take a moment to reveal in the Art Nouveau opulence, and I'll see you on the brighter side of the pasture!

Hausfrau

These are the hands...

...of a Hausfrau.

Most people think we spend the day dreaming, napping and sipping coffee.  Well, believe me, I've tried to do just that.  But then the sheep need hay, the cows need corn, the chickens need water, the laundry piles up, the dishes pile up, the children run amuck and the Husband wonders what in the hell happened.

God Made a Farmer

How badly do we miss Paul Harvey? 

And how proud are all the homesteads across the country this morning?

God Bless the Farmers.

I could almost hear the angels sing.

Inspired by Tonya over at Pumpkin, Pie, Painter and her blog post about random acts of kindness, I got to thinking about the random things that have happened in my life over the years.  You know what I'm taking about.  Those odd coincidences, strokes of good luck or happenstances that seem so perfectly timed.  There are three occasions that really stand out for me.  And while I say that these are *random,* I really don't believe that at all.

The most recent incident happened one morning as my husband, Hank, and I were looking around the kitchen, realizing that almost everything in the room was vintage.  The only things that weren't made before 1950 were the dishwasher and Mr. Coffee.  Okay, maybe the toaster is only from the '60s, but you get my point.  Now I refuse to give up the dishwasher, and we haven't found a successful way of hiding it, so that's a dead issue.  But, on the other hand, something could be done about the coffee pot.  I casually mentioned that I'd check the thrift store next time and went on flipping the pancakes.

The following week I came across a West Bend percolator coffee pot for $3.50.  Inside was the aluminum basket, cord and owner's manual; all in great shape.  Flipping through the manual, I found a page that read "Please record date of purchase here for warranty purposes."  In an old school script, someone had written in pencil the exact month, day and year of Hank's birthday. 

About six years ago, good friends of ours from high school lost their baby in utero at seven months.  It seemed to be only a matter of mere days when complications escalated, and the worst was a reality.  The mother delivered a stillborn baby girl and named her Emily.  I was four months pregnant at the time with my second child and hearing the news was devastating. 

Driving to the funeral in Milwaukee, I tried to keep my mind off the day's events and stare blankly out the window.  But motherly instincts run deep, especially when your hormones are ramped up, and all sorts of thoughts were going through my head.  But there on the four lane, a blue dump truck roared past our car.  It was rusted and dirty.  The tailgate chains were swinging, and gravel was pinging off the wheels.  Across the top of the tailgate in white lettering was written, "Only God knows why."

For our fifth wedding anniversary, Hank's parents gave us $25.  Typically we'd use the money for a nice dinner out, but that year I decided to go Bible shopping.  I had a pretty persnickety list of requirements.  I wanted (1) a King James version* (2) in a simple, traditional style.  I wanted (3) family tree pages so I could record births, marriages and deaths.   (4) I didn't want Jesus' words printed in red.  (5) No study guide questions in the back, and (6) no cheesy, outdated photos of the Mass parts.  This was going to be the Schimstock Family Bible to pass down through the generations, and I wanted it perfect.

So I went to the local Christian bookstore and browsed their expansive collection of Bibles.  Standing in front of a huge wall of options, I couldn't find what I wanted.  For nearly half an hour, I flipped through Book after Book, and none of them met all of my criteria.  Discouraged, I was about to go home empty handed when I spotted one copy bound in white, with gold edging on the pages and a ribbon bookmark.  This Bible was on sale for $20 and had unequivocally everything I wanted.  When I took it to the check-out counter, the clerk turned it over in her hands and said she'd never seen it before.

No, I don't believe any of these things happened just randomly.  The coffee pot, the dump truck and the Bible were all brought into my life at exactly the moment that I needed it, for exactly the right reasons.  I believe that God presents each of us with offerings, both great and small, as reminders that He's still watching.  The key is to recognize those moments and act on them.  Give thanks for the blessings in your life (I really do love coffee).  Reach out to others when they need it (our friends went on to have a healthy baby girl).  Take the time to strengthen your Faith (our Bible is filling with family memories).  God helps those who help themselves, but He's willing to give you a hand once in a while.

*Some scholars believe that Shakespeare had a hand in translating the King James version of the Bible.  Being a Shakespeare fanatic, I thrill at the possibility.  It does make sense that if you were the King of England, rewriting the Bible in 1611 to bear your name, you would call upon the greatest writers of the day.  One especially tantalizing clue can be found in Psalm 46.  Count forty-six words in from the beginning, and you'll find the word "shake."  Count forty-six words in from the end, and you'll find the word "spear."  Shakespeare was age forty-six in the year 1610 when this text was being commissioned. 

New Year's Blessing

I am the New Year.

I am unused, unspotted and without blemish.

I stretch before you 

three hundred and sixty-five days long.

In every hour of every day,

I will give you sixty minutes

that never have known the use of Man.

It remains only for you to fill them 

with love, joy, hope and charity.

I am the New Year.

I am here but once.

Take hold of me and live.

~ author unknown

Engine Specs and Emotional Strings Included

Because my husband, Hank, is too modest to toot his own horn, I shall toot it for him.  Or rather...I will toss aside the cheap, little, tooty horn that says, "Hey, look what I can do," and grab my 1937 sax which in my mind embodies the sultry, sexy years of smoky, nightclub, jazz band playing that regrettably eluded my youth and honk out some ear-splitting, God-awful noises like you've never heard before.  It's been many years since I've played, but I'll embarrass myself in front of the world just because it needs to be done.  I love my husband.  I love his car.  And here's her story.

Chapter One:

Original 216 Straight Six with 3-Speed Transmission on the Column

Hank bought the 1950 Chevy in our second year of dating during college.  It was the classic story of Boy seeing Car lost among the hedgerows of the farmer's field.  By combining his tax return that year with a little savings from his Ramen and hotdog grocery budget, Hank was able to save up the $500.  The farmer towed the car out of the mire.  Hank put on *new* tires, freed up the brakes, and we drove it 100 miles across the state, literally.  It made the trip without incident.

Chapter Two:

305 V8 Small Block Chevy with Turbo 350 Automatic Transmission

In those first few months of ownership, Hank yanked the engine and upgraded to a small block Chevy.  Because of this habit of his, I automatically assume most Greasemonkeys replace the original engines of their hot rods as a matter of course, but I've learned over the years that this is not necessarily the case.  Nevertheless, Hank and I were happy to tool around our college campus in the Chevy, mostly still stock except for the engine. At times this was the only car that Hank had running, driving it well into December one year until funds were available to patch together his '86 Blazer.  But we were proud to use the Chevy when we married just after graduation.

Chapter Three:

350 V8 Small Block Chevy with Turbo 350 Automatic Transmission

During those early years of marriage, we lived in an apartment near my parents' home.  Hank stored the Chevy in my dad's barn and there swapped in yet another engine.  This time a slightly larger small block.  It was also in that 100 year old dairy barn which had been converted into a auto garage that Hank finally turned his attention to the rest of the car, most notably the exterior.  Or rather I should say it was outside of that barn where the exterior saw its first paint job.  Dad didn't want paint on his new concrete floor so Hank stripped the chrome, masked and papered and learned to use a spray gun outside, picking a day when the breeze was at its lightest and the bugs at their least energetic.  At last the Chevy was sloughing off those years of cornfield dirt and really feeling like a kid again.

Chapter Four:

350 V8 Small Block Chevy with Turbo 350 Automatic Transmission

and Twin Turbochargers

Twin turbochargers?  I understand very little of this new upgrade, but know only than it had never been done before in Pasturelands.   It was a brilliant manipulation of pvc and shoehorning; a sheer wonderment to anyone who dared opened the hood out of disbelief.  The Chevy was stretching her legs, breathing fire through those turbos, and she was much faster.

Chapter Five:

350 V8 Small Block Chevy with Twin Turbochargers

 and 700R4 Overdrive Transmission
with Multi-point Fuel Injection

In amongst those years we spent becoming adults, finding real jobs and carving out our roles in society, Hank continued to upgrade, to tweak, to dare.  I think the official reason for the overdrive trans was to improve the fuel economy.  But more likely someone told Hank he couldn't do it.  With that upgrade, the Chevy was now even faster, and we could admit with a smile that our unassuming, Grandpa car was a 'sleeper.'

Chapter Six:

Gen III 5.3 liter Chevy with Twin Turbochargers

 and 700R4 Overdrive Transmission
 with Multi-point Fuel Injection

And this next progression is evidence that when a young couple does not have children, money flows into all sorts of ridiculous avenues.  What are we up to here?  The fourth engine and the sixth configuration?  The Chevy was scarey fast now, and Hank spent a lot of time in the garage tuning it all in.  But as for me, I was disillusioned with my 9-to-5 and decided that it was time to (A) buy a house and (B) start a family. 

Chapter Seven:

350 Small Block Chevy with 5 speed Manual Transmission

 At last the Chevy settled down out of its own riotous youth and became the car that our children have lovingly referred to these past years as "the Big Red Car."  Today, with her small block and 5-speed, she's finally come into her own and embodies that quiet confidence that only comes after years of self-exploration.  But do not make the mistake of thinking that she allows those barn cats to walk over her hood from lack of pride.  It is now, more than ever, that she has secured her place in the garage.  

 

 After years of concentrating on only the mechanics of the Chevy, it was finally time to spruce up the exterior again.  So this time, in his own barn, spraying paint on his own floor, Hank masked and papered and laid out black scallops across the front clip, on the rear fenders and roof line.

 The Chevy continues to make the rounds to all the Midwest car shows and provides a snazzy backdrop whenever I decide to play the pin-up.  Indeed, the Chevy is recognized more quickly than Hank himself, as happens when you frequent the show circuit.  At these events, drivers remain anonymous while their hot rods are fondly remembered for their sleek lines, sumptuous interiors or, in our case, the fact that many spectators saw this very same Chevy on a grocery run at Piggly Wiggly just last week.

And even with that mild 350 small block, she held her own, pulling a 15.042 second quarter-mile at 92 mph down at Union Grove last summer. You should have seen her driving back home from the track, prouder than all getout. 

In fact she's so secure in herself that she occasionally brings home our new projects.  No rivalry.  No jealousy when our heads are turned by new hot rod prospects.  Here she's towing home our 1930 Model A sedan from Illinois.  And Hank would like me to point out the fact that, yet again, a Chevy is pulling a Ford.  Loyalties run deep around here.

 On other weekends the Chevy's content to pull our '68 Scotty for family camping trips.  We haven't ventured much outside of Wisconsin, but the Grand Canyon is calling. 

In fact we've put car seats in her since the kids were tiny.  They love riding in the back because basically it's like sitting on the couch, and the view out all that expansive glass is much better than in our other cars.  Only on the rare occasion when Hank decides to leave a little rubber on the road, and the cabin fills with smoke to the point that you can't see who's sitting next to you, do the children complain a bit.  But then on the other hand, I've been asked more than once why my car can't go as fast as Dad's.

 Really we treat her like a workhorse on some days, whether it's hauling the canoe to the beach...

 ...hauling the grill to the picnic...

 ...hauling the Christmas tree home...

 ...or hauling nearly 3000 pounds of unprepped, heavy metal in a 1000 pound trailer to the scrapyard.  Only once, in all the sixteen years that we've owned her, has she broken down and had to be towed.  I didn't take a picture that day.  It almost made me cry.  

Our other hot rods have come and gone.  We traded that Model A for my Ford Shoebox, and I have to admit that I'm more attached to the Chevy simply because of the emotional investment over all these years.  Once in a while, Hank reminds me that when the Chevy was pulled from that farmer's field, he wasn't looking for long-term commitment.  The Chevy wasn't his idea of the perfect hot rod; it was just an opportunity.  But even so, we've never considered trading her.  She's stood the test of time; she's become a member of the family.  I told Hank years ago that selling her is simply not an option anymore.  I'd rather park her in the barnyard and let the kids play in her. 

But knowing Hank, as only a lucky few do, the Chevy will be reincarnated, engine after engine, paint job after paint job, new frame, new interior, whatever it takes.  Hank has been the only one to work on her all these years, proudly doing every inch of the mechanics, electrical and bodywork.  Sometimes he was learning as he went, but being the protective parent, he never passed her off to someone else's care.  After all, she has yet to drive Route 66.  She's yet to run at Bonneville.  Yet to put all those pompous limos to shame at our son's prom.  Yet to park outside the church at our daughter's wedding.  So watch for her at the car shows or heading West across the Plains because the Chevy ain't done yet.

the impact of Pearl Harbor

All of us know the story of Pearl Harbor.  "Yesterday, December 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy - the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked..."  As children we learned about it in school.  As adults we saw the sweeping  Jerry Bruckheimer movie starring Ben Affleck.  A lucky few among us may have even visited the memorial site shown above. 

This past Veteran's Day I was inspired to do further research on some of the names I heard connected to the day's events.  I read about the Doolittle Raid over Tokyo, a direct retaliation for the bombings.  I researched the status of the United States' air and naval power, both before and after the attack.  I checked out Tom Brokaw's book, The Greatest Generation, from the library.  But is that all Pearl Harbor is now?  Interesting reading? 

The United States was struck down to its knees by the Japanese invasion.  However, when Congress declared war the following day, the Nation collectively dusted itself off and rolled up its sleeves.  Roosevelt's administration put the policies in place to ready the country.  Industries stop making cookware and started making bullets.  Men enlisted.  Women enlisted.  Those on the home front set up fund raising events, planted Victory Gardens, and ran scrap drives.  The Nation mobilized and never slowed down for four years.

So I got to wondering, do we still have that spirit within us today?  Would each of us be willing to sacrifice, bear the responsibility, and work together towards a common goal?  Now I'm sure there were plenty of complaints in the 1940s when folks really started to feel the effects of rationing.  And I'm sure there were some who profited on people's patriotism.  But it really must have been something to be part of such a profound national movement.

Now maybe it's due in part to the holiday season that my thoughts turn towards my charitable obligations.  After all, this is the season of red buckets.  But in one short month those ringing reminders will be off the streets.  Soon we'll all be back to our regular routines of immediately saying "thank you but I'm not interested" to all those unsolicited phone calls from the Cancer Society and the Special Olympics.

So this year I am challenging myself to look back on history and recapture that feeling.  The feeling that swept the Nation in 1941.  A feeling of determination and responsibility.  A need to step up and make a difference.  In the past I've volunteered time to run the children's story hour at the library every week.  And I chaperone school field trips.  I bake desserts for the funeral dinners at church and sing in the choir.  But somehow this seems lacking.

I'm not sure what it is yet, but I want to do more.  Maybe the Boys and Girls Club?  The local food pantry?  Or maybe I'll start by visiting my elderly next door neighbor a bit more often.  Small things count, and one by one, they all add up.  And if each of us extend a hand or volunteer an hour, we could transform our communities into the kind that the Greatest Generation fought so hard to preserve. 

So how about you?  Are you doing your part?

Honoring All Who Served

Friday morning I went to my children’s Veterans’ Day Program at school.   The local VFW and assembled veterans were seated at the front of the room while the children sat on the floor facing them.  

The mother in me was moved by all those high-pitched, little voices trying to hit the high notes in the National Anthem.  I’m always surprised how quickly my eyes well up where my children are involved.

The daughter in me teared up as I thought about my father.  At the age of eighteen, he was drafted into the Army and spent two years overseas during the Korean War.  His jacket hangs in my closet; his portrait in my dining room.  He was dashing.  And though he never talked about those two years, he was fiercely proud.  He passed away five years ago.  

The historian in me mourned the inevitable loss of the collective human experience over the last seventy years.  The veterans passed the microphone down the line, stating their names and ranks.   “I fought in the Battle of the Bulge.”  “We bombed Hanoi.”  “I was a radio operator in a B-24.”  “Medic, Vietnam.”  “U.S. Army Infantry, third generation Veteran.”  These men had countless stories of duty and valor, heartache and fear, but we would not hear them.  If they are anything like my father, they don’t talk about it.  They are seen as Grandfathers and kindly old neighbors, the audacity of their youth softened by time.  Their recognition comes but once a year, on Veterans’ Day.  

I left that elementary school gymnasium and headed straight for the library.  I checked out Tom Brokaw's book, The Greatest Generation.  I'm on page 114 tonight, and I may just pass up the new episode of Upstairs, Downstairs to continue reading.  As Brokaw states, these were ordinary men and women who were asked to do extraordinary things.  

They should continue to be honored every day.  

We should never forget.

My father, 1950.

farmpunk : : my turn

Hank and I thought ourselves quite witty the day we coined the term "farmpunk."  Ours eyes widened and our conversation accelerated as we rushed to define it.  It all started with a mild mannered discussion regarding Steampunk, but what if the punk was taken out of the Victorian Era and placed elsewhere?  Somewhere more accessible to us, personally, on a daily basis; like on a farm?

But how exactly do you punk a farm?  Google searches lead to an interesting, albeit short, list of what was already labeled farmpunk.  To our dismay, we had not coined the phrase, but the movement appears to be in its infancy.

Let's begin with a general definition of "punk" as set forth by the Urban Dictionary:

"Punk is:

1. the personal expression of uniqueness that comes from the experiences of growing up in touch with our human ability to reason and ask questions.
2. a process of questioning and a commitment to understanding that results in self-progress, and by extrapolation, could lead to social progress.
3. a belief that this world is what we make of it; truth comes from our understanding of the way things are, not from the blind adherence to prescriptions about the way things should be.
4. [and my favorite] everyone has the potential to be punk."

Perspective from Wearing History

This morning I sat down with the intention of typing out a witty post regarding my most recent sewing project and the dangers of using vintage trims.  But as I scrolled down my blogger dashboard, I came across this post from Lauren over at Wearing History.  Now I know many of you are probably already following Lauren's journey through the vintage fashion world, but if you missed her post this week, it's worth a read. 

Her fabulous reproduction pattern line and stunning museum-quality fashions aside, Lauren still has the ability to connect to the home sewer, the struggling crafter, hunched over her sewing machine, ripping the seam... again.  Lauren is genuine and sincere in her comments and commitment to her craft.  If you find yourself doubting your talent or direction in life, find inspiration at Wearing History.

A Summer's Evening

The other evening I noticed that the house was a little too quiet.  Supper was cleaned up; the kids weren't wrestling on the couch; Hank wasn't clicking away on facebook.  I was all alone in the kitchen.  So I wandered out into the barnyard to investigate. 

I found my daughter sitting in the grass, a pile of clover at her feet, braiding a chain.

The 122 bales from our first cutting were patiently waiting to be put up.  While not a huge crop, this alfalfa/clover/grass combo is perfect for the animals.

Bumper and Rusty were methodically devouring one of said bales.  It's been so dry here that the pastures just aren't maintaining growth like they should.  I hope we can get at least two more good crops off the field to see us through the winter.

Behind the main barn, the skid loader sat idle, but obviously some project was in the works.  The ewe's manure pile had been partially scooped away.

Finally followed the noise and found Hank spreading that manure pile on the freshly cut hayfield. I thought about using this photo as my cover shot on facebook.  It's picturesque, but it is manure.  Still debating...

And just about then my daughter came running up to show me, "Mom!  Look!"  She was mighty proud of her first handmade flower crown.  We put it in a shallow pan of water and kept it overnight in the fridge.  Moral of this post:  when you find yourself alone in a quiet house, take a moment to search out the simple, every day pleasures that are going on right outside your window. 

The Practical Art of Gift Giving

Giving gifts must be one of the best things about the Christmas season.  Seeing the anticipation in a child's eyes.  Watching their little hands flurry around a present, ripping and tossing the paper.  Squeals of delight when they exclaim, "This is just what I've always wanted!!"  Oh, yes, children love gifts, and we love giving them.  But what happens when those children become adults?  Is the thrill gone?  The excitement, the anticipation, the secrecy?  Not in my family!

I am the fourth of five children, and as we got older, we continued to exchange gifts.  But it became a new art.  Gifts became less about the toy you'd always wanted, and more about what you needed.  Practical is a theme with our family.  No sense in wasting this perfect gift giving occasion on frou-frou things. Let me explain ...

 

No matter how old we got, we were always trying to debunk the secrets of Christmas, getting a giggle out of catching Mom hanging candy canes on the tree which was technically *ahem* Santa's job.

When our youngest brother went off to college, we made sure he was supplied.  His new spiral notebook reads, "School prepares you for the real world which also sucks."

When our oldest brother got his first house, he needed to be outfitted with all those things that bachelors never think of.  Perhaps he didn't need two potato peelers and two can openers, but hey, we were looking out for him.

And what could be more heartfelt (and useful) than new tires?!

Or a case of oil?!

Of course, practical doesn't have to be boring.  I received this refurbished runner sled one year.  I'm not sure that I've ever found snow that was icy enough to run it on, but it makes a smashing porch decoration!

And sometimes practical gifts involve work.  One year my (then new) husband, Hank, asked for a Wolf Whistle horn for his car.  Dad came through, and Hank was under the hood, installing the horn, that same day.

We always try to honor what's on the Wish Lists (as long as there's some sense to it).  Carhartt's overalls make for a great gift.  Unfortunately giving farm equipment to a city boy can lead to interesting outcomes.

Practical can come in multiples, too.  Dad liked to shop in bulk.  And, seriously, who doesn't love shop towels?  It may be the universal gift, whether you are a mechanic, farmer, housewife, painter; there is always something that needs extra absorbency!

This caught on other years as well.  Perhaps there was a buy three, get one free sale?  In any case, these gifts are warm and cozy.

When I was expecting our first baby, Hank and I received a rocking sheep.  A practical gift for you; hours of  fun for the baby!

On Baby's First Christmas, she received Noah's Ark and a shearling bomber hat.  Okay so the hat is a wee bit practical, but so gosh darn cute!

And regardless of the year, Dad was always on the hook for the obligatory flannel shirt.

The epitome of practical!

I guess my family's logic in all of this is, I'll buy you the necessary day-to-day things, allowing you to spend your money on the frou-frou toys that you've always wanted.  Once in a while we'll break out and suddenly someone is unwrapping a crystal cookie plate or hand-blown glass ornament.  This is quickly followed by a set of new kettles, of course.  Our stout German background keeps us grounded.  And after we've changed the oil in our car, we come in for another piece of stollen.  

Merry Christmas!

A very special Barn Hop