Call us wild and crazy, but my wife and I enjoy visiting museums.

I blame television for this sorry state of affairs. Over the years we have fallen into the habit of consuming such televised fare as “Antiques Roadshow” and “American Pickers.” We will watch, gobsmacked, as stratospheric prices are assigned to ordinary items we used when we were kids.

“Don’t you have one of those in the attic?” my wife will ask as yet another old object is revealed to be worth more than the gross domestic product of Liechtenstein.

“Sorry,” I’ll reply. “I’ve peeked in the attic and all that’s up there is blow-in insulation and cobwebs.”

She’ll shake her head and reply “I can’t believe that you’re the only antique in this house!”

I wouldn’t mind visiting museums except for the cost. I’m not talking about the admission fees, which are usually nominal. The problem is that my wife has never met a gift shop that she doesn’t like. She always manages to find something that’s “cute,” which often translates to “expensive.”

“Ooh, we have to buy this!” she’ll coo, holding up some tchotchke that, against all odds, we had managed to live without for lo these many years.

Despite the expense, visiting museums has been an overall positive experience. A museum is a place where you can enjoy art or learn about history. Sometimes you can enjoy both art and history at the same time. A good example might be The World’s Largest Ball of Twine, located at Cawker City, Kansas. (We have never been, but it’s on our bucket list.)

Some years ago, my wife and I visited Branson, Missouri. We did numerous touristy things in that tourist Mecca, including touring the Hollywood Wax Museum. Many of their wax figures looked real while others seemed really creepy. A wax museum is a unique combination of art and history.

After closely examining the paraffin-based facsimile of John Wayne, I exclaimed, “Yuck! That’s disgusting!”

“What?” asked my wife.

“His ear is full of wax!”

My wife shook her head and muttered to nobody in particular, “I can’t take him anywhere!”

We once went on a business trip that found us in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Since we were in the vicinity, we decided to visit the nearby South Union Shaker Village.

The living-history museum featured many examples of Shaker furniture and Shaker clothing, although there was no mention of anything relating to earthquakes. Oddly, there were also no tabletop salt or pepper dispensers available in their gift shop. It’s true: the Shakers had no shakers.

The South Dakota Agricultural Heritage Museum, located on the campus of South Dakota State University, is a museum that’s close to home and close to our hearts. The museum’s crown jewel is a ginormous 1915 J. I. Case steam tractor, a gleaming machine that’s so impeccably restored you could swear that it just rolled off the assembly line. I have often stood and gawked at the mighty behemoth, imagining what it would be like to toot its whistle, open its throttle and chuff along at its top speed of 2.4 mph.

The Ag Heritage Museum recently hosted an event called Frost Fest Famers Market. My wife and I saw this as an excuse to get out and shake off the midwinter doldrums. I also wanted to learn about frost farming.

Vendors proffered their wares on tables that were scattered throughout the museum. A few paces away from an antique wooden corn picker was a lady who was selling homemade bread and vast assortment of jams.

“We need to buy a loaf of her wheat bread and some jam,” I said to my wife. “Whole wheat bread is good for you. Slathering a bunch of jam on it would help us get our minimum daily requirements of both fruit and fiber. What could be healthier than that? Plus, we’re doing our part to preserve local history.”

Minutes later, we met a lady who was selling homemade donuts.

“Making homemade donuts is becoming a lost art,” I told my wife. “We need to support this nice lady by purchasing at least two dozen donuts.”

A guy named Trevor was selling hydroponically grown radishes and herbs. The idea of enjoying fresh local greens was too tempting to resist. Besides, it must be an art to grow veggies in the dead of a prairie winter.

Before long, a slew of shopping bags were dangling from my arms. It wasn’t until we got home that I discovered that my wife had purchased several items at the museum gift shop.

But I was too busy enjoying all those artfully produced goodies to complain.