Simple.

I do not lack for charming carved wooden tchotchkes. I'm not even sure where they all came from, other than family. I don't remember ever not seeing this little woodland diorama somewhere in my childhood home. I always liked the tiny fawn, the neatly stacked logs, the pine trees. It's not Christmassy, except by association. 

But the population of little handcrafted German things was way higher at my Uncle Dick and Aunt Helga's home. Walking into that house in December was like walking into Santa's Black Forest workshop. Dick makes and repairs cookoo clocks, and the house was filled with them. Helga made incredible cookies and cakes, and my tummy was always full of them.

Helga passed away about a month ago, after a long and sweet life. She was the person who--by example--finally convinced my mother that real whipped cream was in fact worth the work. My mom listened to the siren call of convenience quite often, because she worked hard and didn't always have time to play Pleasantville. But Helga served whipped cream with pie and it was like a light on the road to Slinger. She simply explained, with her gentle German accent, that it was best to use just cream. Mom was a convert. No more Cool Whip for our household! 

Helga no doubt performed many more good works over the course of her life, but the memory of the whipped cream revelation stands out to me as an example of how a very small, seemingly silly thing can just make life better. And that's a fine lesson to teach. I will miss Helga, and I'm glad I have this small, seemingly silly little deer scene, because it brings her to mind.