Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Hey, Ole, can you tell me about Eidsvold, Minnesota? April 7, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:54 AM
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Is this a hitching post at historic Eidsvold, in southeastern MN.? This ghost town's one remaining building stands in the background.

FROM OUR ROADSIDE perspective, the cement post near the ditch along Goodhue County Road 30 appears to be a historical marker. After all, a road sign posted by the county historical society denotes this as the former site of Eidsvold.

But when I walk up to the marker, I find no words, only a plain column topped by two iron semi-circles embedded in the cement.

My husband and I, who are on a Sunday afternoon drive into the historical Sogn Valley area of Minnesota, conclude this is a hitching post. Are we right?

We wonder too about the dilapidated building a stone’s throw away. Ignoring signs to keep out, we move in closer. I step over fallen branches to peer inside the structure, where oats spill from an open doorway.

Wood, muted gray by exposure to the elements, and rugged limestone, stacked irregularly to form an interior wall, invite me to wonder about this building’s history.

Who built this structure? When? And was it always used for grain storage?

I wonder, because I am always and forever wondering.

Who lived in this ghost town presumably named after Eidsvoll, Norway?

Up close, this sure looks like a hitching post to me. Am I right?

The Goodhue County Historical Society placed this historical interest sign at the ghost town of Eidsvold. The sign was erected to preserve the history of this former post office site and to recognize its historical contribution to the area.

A peek inside the interior of Eidsvold's single remaining structure reveals oats strewn on the floor.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Easter egg hunt rule #1: Remember where you hid the eggs April 6, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 8:54 AM
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My extended family gathers for instructions before the Easter egg hunt begins.

IF YOU’RE HIDING candy-filled plastic Easter eggs, then you really ought to remember where you place them. That’s the lesson learned Sunday afternoon at the annual family Easter egg hunt.

Typically, this job is tasked to the couple hosting Easter dinner. But this year my youngest brother and his wife, who had Easter at their house in 2009, have the eggs. And they don’t arrive until mid-afternoon.

So to expedite the process after their late arrival, we adults banish the kids to the house (although no one checks to see if they might be peering out windows), each grab an egg-filled bucket and set out on our mission.

Just to explain, each kid is assigned a specific egg color and “kid” is defined as anyone up to college graduation age, although that rule has been broken occasionally.

I choose to hide 14 eggs for my 8-year-old niece, Cortney, thinking that way I don’t have to hide them so hard. Plus if I choose my 16-year-old or my 22-year-old and then make the hunt too tough, I could be the target of their frustrations.

My 16-year-old son finds an egg.

Finding good hiding spots doesn’t concern me as I begin the trek around my sister and brother-in-law’s country home. I am more worried about whether I can remember all 14 hiding spots. So I devise a system, circling the house, mentally focusing on egg placement and “marking” hiding places as best I can. For example, when I dig an egg into the grass, I “X” the location with two sticks. Another time I bury an egg under the dry grass next to a small rock.

Fortunately, my memory method works because, as I soon discover, I’ve made the egg hunt too challenging for my 8-year-old niece.

Where, oh, where can those eggs be hidden? That's my niece, Cortney, in the foreground looking for eggs.

Sensing Cortney’s frustration, I begin giving hints. “You know David and Goliath,” I say. “What did David put in his sling to shoot at Goliath?” She looks at me blankly. “You don’t know that story, do you?”

OK, then. This is going well.

So I resort to leading her into the vicinity of hidden eggs and then encouraging her. “You’re getting hot,” I prod as she zeroes in on the location. “You’re getting cold,” I warn whenever she moves further from the hiding spot.

That seems to work as eventually my now-smiling niece finds all her green eggs.

Yahoo! Cortney finds her first Easter egg, "hidden" openly in a tree.

I am relieved, not only because Cortney finds the eggs, but because I remember all 14 hiding spots.

But not my oldest brother. Long after the rest of us have settled onto the deck and the kids are emptying candy from their plastic eggs, Doug and my 13-year-old niece are still prowling the yard for two elusive eggs.

Cortney empties candy from eggs.

We are already cracking jokes about Doug’s inability to remember where he’s hidden Stephanie’s eggs. Maybe a map would help. Maybe he needs to call in sick on Monday and spend the day searching…

But deep down, each of us knows, but won’t confess, that we could be the ones out there searching for eggs in the hiding places we can’t recall.

Even Buddy the dog relaxes on the deck while my brother and niece search for the last two Easter eggs.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

An Easter egg message April 5, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 8:12 AM
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THEY WERE, IT appears, trying to mess with my mind.

“They” would be two of my three kids—the two who were home to dye Easter eggs Saturday afternoon.

Dying eggs typically becomes a creative challenge in our household. Who can combine colors for the most appealing, or yucky, egg?

This year, though, the creativity was directed toward language, not visual arts.

My second daughter—the daughter who is home—is suddenly inspired. And as she writes her message with white crayon on a white egg, she is already giggling and looking directly at me.

This can’t be good.

As she dips the egg into the red-orange dye, spooning the liquid across the surface, the words begin to emerge.

She looks at her brother, encourages him to take a peek, all the while shielding her project from my peering view.

He looks and laughs a loud laugh of approval.

I am thinking hard now, wondering about this Easter egg greeting. Whatever the message, I am certain it is being written at my expense.

“Oh, I know, I know,” I suddenly exclaim. “It’s the mouse, the mouse.”

Although I do not guess her precise words, my daughter has written “Happy Easter! Guess who?”

"Happy Easter! Guess who?" my daughter wrote on an Easter egg she created especially for me.

The “Guess who?” part is all too familiar. At Christmas I received a plastic mouse from my cousin Dawn (although she doesn’t admit it) that repeated “Merry Christmouse! Guess who?” After awhile, that little phrase got pretty annoying. I suppose the mouse wouldn’t have been that annoying if my annoying kids hadn’t continued to torture me with the annoying mouse missive.

Now, I admit, they’ve gotten me again with that creative greeting on an egg.

Then, as I’m cleaning up after our egg dying session, I page through the Sunday comics laid down to protect the table. I find “Sally Forth” and a speech bubble that perfectly fits the occasion. The topic of the comic strip, surprisingly, is about Easter, albeit about eating the ears off a chocolate bunny

I lay the “Happy Easter! Guess who?” egg down atop the comic strip, next to this text:

“I’m trying to get inside my mom’s head…”

Focus on the speech bubble just to the right of the egg. It fits perfectly the motivation behind my daughter's Easter egg message, from my perspective anyway.

And they did.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Easter hope April 4, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 10:37 AM
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German words on a resurrection window at Trinity Lutheran Church, Faribault Minnesota.

IN THE LANGUAGE of our forefathers, the German words are as powerful, meaningful and promising today as they were yesterday.

“Ich bin die Auferstehung und das Leben.”

I am the resurrection and the life.

Yes, Jesus is the resurrection and the life.

As you celebrate Easter, may those words assure you of everlasting life through our risen Lord.

He is risen. He is risen, indeed.

Alleluia!

"I am the resurrection and the life." A stained glass window in the Trinity Lutheran Church sanctuary, Faribault, Minnesota.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Remembering my dad April 3, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 10:40 AM
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Elvern Kletscher, right, and a fellow solider in Korea.

I PULL OPEN the bottom file drawer and reach inside, rifling through the folders until I find it: “Elvern K. (Obits, death certif.)”

Today marks seven years since my dad, Elvern Kletscher, died at age 72 of esophageal cancer.

Every April 3, I reread my father’s obituary. I remember the man who enjoyed making tomato juice and horseradish. I remember the farmer who milked cows and worked the land. I remember my soldier-dad who struggled with the demons of war. I remember the father who loved his family and his Lord and left his children and grandchildren with a legacy of faith.

So it is while attending Good Friday services at my church that I think of my dad and his death.

I blame the pastor.

He begins his sermon by painting a picture of a loved one upon his/her death bed surrounded by family.

I am here, at the Veterans Administration Medical Center in Minneapolis on a Tuesday evening with my husband and son. We are at my dad’s bedside, two days before his death, although we do not know then that he will live only two more days.

The focus, says the pastor, is on making the patient comfortable.

I seek out a nurse for a glass of ice water to quench the thirst of my dying father. I lean in close, place a straw between his parched lips, so he can drink.

The family is gathered there, continues the preacher, to hear the dying wishes of the loved one.

“Take care of Mom,” he says. I listen to my father’s wishes as tears stream down my face. I can barely endure the grief. Although I am well aware that my dad will soon be gone, “soon” has always been an undefined time that I cannot comprehend.

It is then that the pastor’s message fully makes the impact he desired. I sense the grief the disciples felt in realizing their Lord would die. Tears seep into the corners of my eyes and I wonder if I will break down and flee from the sanctuary for the pain of this moment.

I am crying now, weeping, as my dad comforts me. He tells me not to cry, that he is going to a better place. I know that he speaks the truth. Yet I cannot endure the words. So I leave his side, but for a brief time, to stand outside his hospital room, to cry my tears of sorrow.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Mad about March in Minnesota April 2, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 8:01 AM
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My crocuses bloomed in mid-March, much earlier than normal for spring bulbs in Minnesota.

IF EVERY MINNESOTA March matched this past one, then I’d be a happy Minnesotan.

Typically, I dread this month that brings significant snowfall and biting winds, gray skies and a bleak landscape.

But this month just passed, this March, this I can take.

For the entire 31 days of March, our northern state, or at least the southeastern part where I live, received not a single flake of snow.

That is cause to celebrate because, up until then, this had been an incredibly long winter of too much snow.

I’ll take a snowless March any year.

Yeah, I know there are those naysayers who will complain about the dry conditions due to the lack of moisture. Yes, I understand that a dry landscape equals fire danger.

But, please, let us not bemoan a shorter winter, an earlier spring, butterflies in March, 70-degree days, shirt sleeves and shorts, blooming crocuses, farmers seeding oats on March 30…

In non-Minnesotan fashion, let us accept this gift without feeling guilty, like the other shoe will drop in April.

Yes, the weather’s “not too bad” and “it could be worse.”

So enjoy it, while it lasts.

A Goodhue County farmer had just finished chisel plowing a field when I snapped this mid-March photo.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Happy anniversary to Jeff and his Minnesota northwoods bride! April 1, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 9:13 AM

CONGRATULATIONS TO MY COUSIN, Jeff, and his wife, Janet, who earlier this week celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary.

Jeff and Janet were married March 30, 1990, at the St. Louis County Courthouse in Duluth with Janet’s two young daughters attending.

So, big deal, you say.

But this wedding, or should I say the announcement of this marriage, was, indeed, a very big deal.

Jeff shared the news with his parents, who live hundreds of miles away, via a printed announcement: “And four shall become a family.” He then revealed the basics of his unexpected (at least to his parents) marriage.

My aunt and uncle, who were unaware that their son even had a girlfriend, were shocked. They reacted as Jeff hoped. Marilyn called the Floodwood school where her son was teaching.

I’ll let Jeff tell the story from here: “There I sat, the secretary at her desk to my right, the principal at his desk in his office to my left, both just feet away, overhearing one side of this awkward conversation about my recent wedding.

“Mom, of course, had many questions—about Janet, about Heidi and Amber, about planning a wedding reception. Well, I was able to calm Mom down enough to tell her to look at the back of the card and remember what day it was, or what day had just passed.”

That would be April Fool’s Day. On the back, the new groom had written: “rehcstelk ffej morf gniteerg sloof lirpa na.”

From right to left, Jeff’s message read: “an april fools greeting from jeff kletscher.”

Yes, my creative cousin had just pulled off one of the best family April Fool’s jokes ever.

His mom responded with something like, “You’re terrible.”

Today, this April Fool’s prank remains the stuff of family legends.

In four months, the extended Kletscher family will celebrate this marriage hoax at the annual family reunion. We’ll have cake and homemade wines to toast Jeff and his fictional northwoods bride.

The party is not only a tribute to this legendary marriage, but also an attempt to infuse new energy into our yearly gathering. We are planning wedding-themed games and other surprises that may leave Jeff wishing he (and Janet) had stayed home.

#

EARLIER THIS WEEK, I e-mailed my cousin wishing him and Janet a “Happy 20th anniversary!” I also inquired about his plans for this special occasion.

He responded that they would be attending Maundy Thursday church services. “We have decided to keep things low key, as we know that the party at the end of July will be exciting,” he explained.

I immediately realized that Jeff had his anniversary date wrong. He was married on March 30, but Thursday, today, is April 1.

So, I e-mailed him back, noting the error and suggesting that he give Janet a dozen roses.

Of course, he offered a logical explanation for his mistake. “You are indeed correct, March 30th, but as time goes on, we have settled on celebrating on the 1st of April,” Jeff wrote. “Just easier for me to remember—you know how men are with keeping dates straight in their minds. I have a tough time remembering dates.”

I’m glad you said that, Jeff, and not me.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

He’s carrying a gun, at the airport March 31, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 8:01 AM

The replica sword my son purchased on an educational trip to Spain.

AS THE BOY clad in a cowboy hat walks past, I watch, stunned. He is carrying a shotgun. And he is at the airport.

From just feet away, I can see that his gun is clearly a toy. Still, I am surprised that the boy, who appears to be about six, can tote his fake weapon openly among a throng of disembarked passengers at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport Sunday afternoon.

A quick glance from afar and someone, anyone, could mistake his replica gun for the real thing.

No one seems alarmed, though, except me.

My concern is only momentary, however, as I soon focus on my 16-year-old son, who has just arrived from Spain via London and Chicago.

We are at the American Airlines baggage claim waiting for his suitcase. That is what I think, until he says we are also waiting for his sword.

A sword? What is it with boys and their weapons?

He has purchased a souvenir sword that arrives tightly secured in cardboard packaging. I am relieved. I want nothing to do with a sword-swinging teen swaggering through an airport terminal.

My security confidence has already been shaken by that gun-toting would-be cowboy.

Later, when we arrive home, I find the sword useless as a cutting tool, although certainly capable of impaling someone, anyone.

I keep my lips pressed tightly together, holding back the question I want to ask: “Why on earth did you buy a sword?”

Even though I asked my son not to bring home a gift for me, he did. He gave me a 24-carat gold necklace and matching earrings hand crafted in Toledo, Spain. This may have been his redemption for buying that sword.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Girls can drive tractors too March 30, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 8:05 AM

NEARLY 40 YEARS AGO, I broke gender barriers and became the first girl to join the Wabasso High School Future Farmers of America Chapter.

No one made a big deal about this achievement, not even me. But now when I think back, my decision to enroll in animal and plant science classes, thus becoming an FFA member, opened the door for WHS girls to join a once exclusively-male organization.

By my senior year, nearly a dozen girls had become FFA members.

Although I came from a dairy farm, I never intended to become a farmer. I took the agricultural science classes as an alternative to biology, a decision I later regretted. My regrets came on the day of an animal science field trip to a local locker. There we watched the butcher kill and butcher a hog.

I remember one of my classmates, John, teasing me relentlessly about possibly fainting during the butchering process. I never fainted; John did.

That’s my most memorable memory of FFA.

I did nothing else stellar that I can recall, except win an award. A senior yearbook photo shows me holding a plaque, which I think is the Chapter Farmer Scholarship Award. Unfortunately, the academic honor came only with the plaque and no money, which likely explains why I really don’t remember it all that well.

But that was 1974 and this is today.

Nearly four decades later, I am proud to say that my niece, Hillary Kletscher, presides as president of the Wabasso FFA and is a regional FFA director. She’s done well in soil judging and has also attended state and national FFA conventions. I’m sure she’s done lots more of which I am unaware.

Recently, Hillary garnered a national FFA honor for her chapter when the T-shirt she created for the National FFA T-shirt Contest was selected for production and sale in 2010 and 2011. The design beat out hundreds of others to finish in the top 12 and then, finally, in the top six after online voting.

Wabasso High School's winning T-shirt design, front and back.

The process in creating Wabasso’s winning T-shirt began last spring when students were talking about getting their driver’s license. “Adam Schroepfer (a Wabasso FFAer) brought up the point that he had been driving his tractor since he was little and didn’t need a license and he should just drive that to school. So wa-lah, the theme,” says Hillary.

And wa-lah, now the Wabasso FFA Chapter will receive 50 percent of the profits from their T-shirt sales during the first year of sales.

So here’s to you, Hillary, and to all the other Wabasso High School girls, past and present, who proved that girls can drive tractors too.

#

For information about purchasing Wabasso’s winning T-shirt and to view the other top designs, log on to www.ffa.org.

Text © Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

T-shirt graphic courtesy of Hillary Kletscher

 

Claiming my son in baggage claim at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport March 28, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 8:51 PM

COULDN’T ANY REASONABLE mom expect that when her 16-year-old son returns from Europe, he would embrace her before claiming his luggage?

Not my boy.

Late Sunday afternoon I watch as my teen walks toward me after landing at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. He has been gone for 10 days on a Faribault High School Spanish class trip to Spain, and I am anticipating his welcoming hug.

But as he approaches, getting closer and closer, he suddenly veers to the right, directly for the baggage carousel.

I am devastated, especially when I see one girl running into her mother’s arms and my boy running, well not exactly running, the other way.

I am momentarily stunned by this unwelcome welcome.

Then I take action, seeking him out in baggage claim. We nearly bump heads as I reach up to hug my lanky boy-becoming-man and hold him, only momentarily, close. We are, after all, in public view.

He seems more interested in finding his black suitcase among all the other black suitcases and securing his souvenir sword than in seeing either me or his dad. Maybe it’s a boy thing.

Earlier, several mothers tell me how they talked to their traveling teens daily. Me? I got one e-mail three days after departure. Maybe it’s a boy thing. Or maybe it’s not having a cell phone thing. (At least he can’t accuse me of being a hovering helicopter mom.)

On the drive home, I am anxious to hear all about my son’s European travels. But I know that with my teen, waiting for him to share information works better than quizzing him. Yet, I ask a few questions. He tells me Toledo was his favorite destination, that America should have a high-speed rail system. I hear bits and pieces, bits and pieces.

Finally, I ask, “Are you hungry? We’ll pick up a pizza.”

“I’m sick of pizza,” he says. “I’m hungry for sleep…and milk.”

True to his word, upon our arrival home, this weary traveler accepts the large glass of milk I pour for him. And then he’s into the shower and off to bed.

But before my son drifts off, I lean in and gently kiss his forehead before treading quietly down the stairs to wash a mountain of dirty, stinky laundry.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling