Minnesota Prairie Roots

WHAT DO A MAILBOX, snow and taxes have in common?

Well, thus far, they’ve all factored into my Friday.

I started my day with one simple objective, to get all of our tax information together for the tax preparer. I admit that I’ve been putting off this task because, honestly, I detest it. I am not a numbers person. I am not a person who likes forms. And even though I’ve kept meticulous records of expenditures throughout the year, gathering tax information still takes time, time I would rather use for writing.

So I am taking a break now from the tax stuff to get my writing fix, and to tell you about the mailbox and the snow.

I opened my mailbox around noon to discover two unwelcome pieces of mail. One, from the United States Postal Service, tells me that mail delivery to our house will stop unless we shovel our sidewalk and steps. Uh, yeah, when my husband cleared the snow the other day, he forgot the front steps and short sidewalk leading to the steps.

A snippet of the U.S. Postal Service warning delivered to my mailbox on this snowy Friday morning.

We are first-time offenders, but it is clear to me that “To Receive Mail delivery during the Winter Season: Snow covered or icy sidewalks, steps and driveways must be kept clear.” Now, if I knew how to underline that warning in red, I would, because the mail carrier used a red pen. I feel like the student with the failing grade, with a big red F printed across the top of my homework.

The second piece of unwanted mail comes from University Accounting Service, telling my second daughter that her college loan account information may have been compromised. Great, I think, as I email her and wonder if the mailing is legitimate.

Now, as I’m writing, snow is falling. There’s no sense, I think, in clearing the path for the mail carrier until this snowfall stops. And that could be spring.

Writing about snow makes me think again of my college daughter. She’s planning a trip from La Crosse to the Twin Cities today, so I hear from her sister. I’ve already emailed her, suggesting that she cancel the trip because of the weather. I doubt she will listen, but at least I’ve tried.

Now, I should get back to those taxes, because I really don’t want another federal government mailing with warning words bold-faced and underlined in red.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

The Cheese Cave opened last June along Central Avenue in historic downtown Faribault.

WHEN I PURCHASED a chunk of White Cheddar Cranberry Cheese at The Cheese Cave in Faribault a few weeks ago, I was thinking of my husband. He likes cranberries. I mean he really, really, really likes cranberries.

He will be the first to tell you, and I will agree, that my extended family is not much of a cranberry-consuming bunch. When we get together for Thanksgiving, one small can of cranberries feeds the whole family, with plenty left over.

That’s not to say I dislike cranberries. I simply don’t care for plain cranberries, jellied or whole. Now cranberry juice, oddly enough, is my favorite of all juices.

So with that background, you will understand that choosing a cheese speckled with cranberries would not be an expected choice for me. But remember, I was thinking of my cranberry-loving spouse.

Cheeses I purchased recently at The Cheese Cave, left to right, Cheddar blue, White Cheddar Cranberry and St. Pete's Select Blue Cheese.

I wasn’t considering the tastes of my nearly 16-year-old son, who likes cheese, yogurt and ice cream and drinks so much milk that a family cow would be a good investment. It turns out he not only willingly tried the White Cheddar Cranberry Cheese, but actually likes it.

He doesn’t, however, know the truth about this cheese. My son thought, still thinks, that he was eating cheese peppered with, well, hot red peppers. (I assure you, this cheese tastes nothing like Pepper Jack Cheese.) But I’m not about to tell my finicky I-don’t-like-fruit-except-for-bananas teen that he was eating a forbidden-from-his-diet fruit like cranberries.

And I don’t expect you to reveal this secret either.

This all reminds me of a sister-in-law, who shall remain unnamed. She liked Rocky Mountain Oysters….until she discovered that she wasn’t eating oysters after all, but…

The Cheese Cave is housed in a beautifully-restored building in downtown Faribault. The interior, with an arched ceiling and sandstone-colored walls, mimics the caves where Faribault Dairy ages its cheeses.

CHECK OUT THE CHEESE CAVE, one of the newest businesses in historic downtown Faribault and touted as a gourmet destination. Located at 318 Central Avenue North, this store serves as the retail outlet for The Faribault Dairy Company, award-winning makers of cave-aged Blue and Gorgonzola Cheeses. In addition to an interesting variety of cheeses, you’ll find gourmet foods here. You can also grab a bite to eat with specialty soups, sandwiches and salads served. Those can be paired with a limited selection of wine, beer and drinks. Cooking demonstrations and wine, beer and cheese tasting are also offered at The Cheese Cave.

The Cheese Cave, a blue cheese lovers destination for Amablu and St. Pete's Select Blue Cheese, made by The Faribault Dairy Company.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

NEVER HAS THERE BEEN a winter when so many people I know have been involved in motor vehicle accidents here in Minnesota.

The latest occurred yesterday, when Allison hit a slick spot on Interstate 35 north of Faribault and rolled her truck. A fence installed in the median to prevent cross-over crashes kept Ali’s vehicle from impacting an oncoming semi. A motorist found Ali dangling from her seatbelt, apparently unhurt. However, she and her unborn baby were being held for observation overnight in a metro hospital.

Last Friday evening, Tiffany rolled her car four times on a Rice County highway after a semi truck, minus the trailer, failed to stop at a stop sign. Tiffany opted to take the ditch rather than slam into the semi cab. She and two passengers received relatively minor injuries, the most serious a sprained wrist and a compression fracture of the elbow.

Molly, who suffered the arm injuries, said she would rather have the pain than what may have been.

Then there’s David, who two months after a serious accident on a snowy county road, remains in a medically-induced coma. I don’t know details of the incident, only that he was run over by a tractor. I pray almost every day for David and his family.

And finally, the most serious crash occurred nearly two weeks ago involving three vehicles on an icy stretch of Minnesota Highway 60 west of Faribault. The accident left 19-year-old Kim, who was born in an Ethiopian refugee camp and came with his Sudanese family to the U.S. in 1994, dead. I did not know Kim personally, but he attended the same Christian day school my children attended. During Sunday morning worship services at my church, Trinity Lutheran, we prayed for Kim’s family and the Sudanese community.

It’s been a long winter already here in Minnesota. But, no matter where you live, whether in sunny California, icy Arkansas or snowy Minnesota, be safe on the roadways.

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*Names of all individuals involved, except Kim, have been changed to protect privacy.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

A groomed skiing trail at River Bend.

WITH THE SUN FINALLY shining on Sunday, and I emphasize the words finally shining, I convince my husband to take a walk at River Bend Nature Center in Faribault.

I’m sure Randy would much rather be napping in the recliner, per a typical Sunday afternoon. But, perhaps, in a “if you’re happy, I’m happy” frame of mind, he obliges my request.

So, as we’re preparing to leave, Randy asks, “How long are we going to be there?”

“Not too long,” I respond, wondering why he’s asking. Maybe he wants to know how warmly to dress. Or perhaps he’s wondering whether he can fit in a nap after our walk.

In any case, he pulls on long johns and warm wool socks. “I don’t have any long johns,” I say, knowing full well that any good Minnesotan would own long johns or something to add another layer to the jeans. But I don’t. So, I’ll manage.

Camera in tow, I head out the door and then return moments later for a warm stocking cap to replace my headband. At least my head will stay warm.

Once at the nature center, we spot two guys leaning against a pickup truck, a sled dog in the truck bed. I walk over, ask them what they’re up to and they tell me they’ve just finished skijoring. Rats. If only we hadn’t stopped at the hardware store first before coming here.

So we head out to a trail, me with my camera slung over my neck and worried that I may lose my footing and tumble into the snow. Instead of surveying my environment, searching for good photo ops, I am looking down at my boots, at the uneven snowy path marred by ski tracks, rabbit prints and the deep indentations left by deer hooves.

Yet, I am determined. “Where are the red berries?” I ask, visualizing a photo contrasting red against the whiteness of snow. There are no red berries, no orange berries.

We see plenty of animal tracks, but no animals.

“Where are all the animals?” I ask. “Where do they go in the winter?” I am full of questions. My husband probably wishes I would just shut up.

Eventually, I realize that if I am to photograph anything, then the subject of my images will be the trees. My gaze turns upward. And I see there bare (or mostly bare) branches, stark and defined against the winter sky. In that moment, I understand that beauty can be found in the most unexpected of places, in the simplest forms, if we only see the trees in the forest.

Trees lean near the Nature Center's outdoor amphitheater.

A tree with character near a trail.

Behold the branches. Poetry in a tree.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling