OUTSIDE MY OFFICE window, six purple allium heads sway, nodding in the breeze.
Clusters of six-petaled flowers spike from the center like needles in a pincushion.
The orbs, bigger than softballs, lighter than air, balance on the tips of long, slender stems.
They appear delicate, fragile. But they’re tough as nails, perched high, exposed, as if to say, “Look at me. Look at me.”
“SO, WHAT DID YOU THINK of the speakers?” I ask my daughter as we walk toward the clock tower on the campus of the University of Wisconsin, La Crosse, following commencement ceremonies. She has just graduated with a Spanish degree and I am curious if she shares my opinion of the commencement speeches.
My daughter is at first non-committal, certainly not enthusiastic, but not critical either.
“I felt like we were at a political science pep fest,” I tell her. She quickly agrees.
Between the two speakers—a political science graduate and the Wisconsin Public Service Commissioner, also a former legislator—I’ve heard enough references to politics and a certain UW-L political science professor that those comments overshadow all other content.
Given the context of this celebration, I don’t care who campaigned for President here beginning back with John F. Kennedy. I don’t care which Wisconsin politician was inspired by an instructor here. I don’t care about re-election in Wisconsin, especially since I am a Minnesotan.
It is unfortunate that I feel this way, but I can’t deny my reaction to commencement speeches laced with political references.
At one point during the graduation ceremony, I ponder leaving the stuffy, packed gymnasium in protest. I once walked out on a sermon that particularly needled me and I once failed to return to a theatrical performance. But I realize that exiting this time will serve no purpose except to disappoint my daughter.
Instead, let me offer this suggestion to university commencement organizers and speakers: Please, keep the spotlight on the graduates, all of the graduates. They have worked hard, and paid a lot of money, to earn their degrees whether in education, communications, a foreign language and, yes, even political science, and many other fields of study.
If you wish to recognize retiring faculty or single out individual professors for accolades, then do that at another ceremony. Like the graduates, they deserve their own hour of honor.
Keep even the slightest hint of politics out of the podium.
Commencement should focus solely on the graduates (although that “thank you” to the families was a nice touch) and all that they have accomplished.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
“WHY ARE THEY DOING A STORY on him?” my husband asks. “Lots of people have cancer.”
I look over at him as we are watching the 10 p.m. news, astonished really that he would say this. He is, after all, married to a former newspaper reporter and a current freelance writer. If anyone should understand why the media is reporting on Anthony Hauser’s leukemia diagnosis, it should be my husband.
“Why are they doing a story on him?” I repeat. “Yeah, lots of people have cancer, but he’s not just anybody.”
Anthony Hauser is the father of Daniel Hauser, the 14-year-old Sleepy Eye boy who a year ago fled with his mother to avoid court-ordered chemotherapy treatment for his Hodgkin’s lymphoma. That, I not so gently explain to my spouse, is why this is news. The elder Hauser reportedly is not undergoing recommended chemotherapy, adding another twist to this ongoing saga that initially captivated a nation.
This conversation with my husband gets me thinking about how those outside the profession view the media and the stories they report. Generally speaking, people tend to blame the messenger—whether it be a newspaper, television, radio or other media source—for all the “bad stuff” happening in the world.
I’ve heard many times the criticism from family and friends wondering why the media reports a particular story. “Because it’s news,” I typically respond although often I want to scream, “Because it’s news!”
And then I want to add, and sometimes do, “Please don’t kill the messenger.” In other words, do not target your anger at the media. Direct your discontent, your anger, at the criminal, the politician, the oil company, the disease, whoever/whatever caused the news that is upsetting you.
I recall several years ago a front page article in The Faribault Daily News about a brown bear at the local library. Had this been a real bear stalking patrons or holed up in a tree near the library, this would have been front page news. But rather, this story told of a brown bear puppet incorporated into children’s story time programming.
In this instance, dear husband, dear reader, you would be right in asking, “Why are they doing a story on this?” A piece like this belongs inside the newspaper, perhaps as a feature, if even that.
From a journalist’s perspective, such stories are “fluff,” at best. It’s not that reporters don’t like writing about subjects that make readers feel all warm and fuzzy, but their primary job is to bring you the news, even the bad news like Anthony Hauser’s leukemia diagnosis.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT PEONIES that enchants me unlike any other flower of spring.
Their intoxicating scent invites me to lean in close and breathe deeply.
They remind me, too, of vintage sepia photographs I’ve seen of brides enfolding peonies gathered from grandmothers’ gardens. These blossoms speak to me of romance and of love.
And they speak to me of the history in this town I’ve called home for 28 years. Beginning in 1927, Faribault was the “Peony Capital of the World,” celebrated with an annual festival and parade. I’ve seen images of floats blanketed with peonies by the hundreds, by the thousands. Long gone are the masses of peonies.
But, oh, how fabulous that must have been, to celebrate the peony, to inhale their sweet perfume wafting through the city streets.
In my backyard, a fern peony bud, April 16
Fern peony bud, April 30
Fern peony bud, May 5
Fern peony in bloom, May 17
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
AS A MINNESOTAN, I never intended to engage in a “find the cow” search when I crossed the border into Wisconsin several days ago. But in the free time between packing my daughter’s belongings and attending her graduation at the University of Wisconsin, La Crosse, I find myself scouting for bovines.
This little game, in which I am the only interested family participant, starts after I notice the “America’s Dairyland” slogan on Wisconsin’s license plates. That’s enough to get this former Redwood County dairy farmer’s daughter thinking about, and watching for, cows.
I don’t have to look far. Downtown La Crosse corrals herds of cows like these examples I photographed in businesses along Pearl Street West.
Cow art.
A glimpse of shoppers walking along Pearl Street West as seen from inside Cheddarheads, a gift shop.
Cheddarheads, a store packed with all things cows, all things cheesehead and even real cheese.
Packers' fans can support the team with their very own cheesehead hats stashed in this creatively-painted Holstein bathtub at Cheddarheads gift shop.
Hours later, after a long commencement program in a stuffy gymnasium, my husband, just-graduated daughter and I return downtown for supper at The Wine Guyz. Even here these cow-crazy Wisconsinites don’t let us down. While the I’m-so-glad-I’m-done-with-college daughter orders a glass of Argentine Malbac wine, we thirsty parents opt for beer.
We order Stone Soup and Spotted Cow from New Glarus Brewing Company to complement our platter of world cheeses and homemade pizza.
Even a Minnesotan like me appreciates Wisconsin-made Spotted Cow beer while imbibing and dining across the border.
As I swig my Spotted Cow brew, I’m pretty darned content, relaxing here in “America’s Dairyland” among cheeseheads and, dare I say, in the former football home of Minnesota Vikings quarterback Brett Favre. Nah, better not mention that.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
ON SUNDAY, I CAME face to face with homelessness for the first time.
Sure, I’d read the news stories and statistics. But in the deepest depths, I never quite believed that homelessness exists in Rice County. We are, after all, out-state Minnesota and not “the Cities.”
However, that naïve thinking—or perhaps it is more an attitude of not wanting to believe—changed when I met a homeless woman after Sunday morning worship services at the Lutheran church I attend in Faribault.
When the middle-aged woman and her companion, a young man perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s, walk into the nearly-empty narthex, I can’t help but notice them. In their worn, casual attire, they don’t really fit in.
Even writing that last sentence, I feel profoundly judgmental. I have just come from a contemporary “Connection” service where I’ve sung about embracing others. Although I can’t recall the exact words, I remember the line about a strange woman slipping into the pews and the staring glances of faithful worshippers.
I will admit that on Sunday morning I am more cautious than welcoming.
As the woman enters the narthex, I approach her because, clearly, she is looking for someone. “Can I help you?” I ask as she walks toward me. Her male friend (or maybe he is her son) is already half way across the room. I am keeping a distrustful eye on him. Earlier this year, a stranger prowled our church during worship services and stole a computer and other items. Since then, we as a congregation have been on watchful alert.
As I am thinking all of this, the woman asks to speak with the pastor, whom she met in March. “Which pastor?” I inquire, giving their names.
She doesn’t remember, but I tell her I will take her to the pastor. As we head toward his office, she explains how she already has been to another church in town that morning seeking help. She found none there, although she says she got a doughnut. That pastor had left for the day.
I am surprised that she shares this information and her first name. Perhaps she is trying to emphasize her desperate situation.
She talks about a man who “tricked” her and something about the wife he is divorcing and that’s why she is without a place to live. I don’t quite understand the situation. But rather than probe, which would be typical of me and my inquisitive nature, I keep quiet.
She seems to need a listening ear and I can at least give her that, and her dignity.
Then she apologizes for her comments. I tell her she’s entitled.
We are walking through the gym now where volunteers are setting up food for an afternoon reception. “Are you having a lunch here?” she asks, the new optimism in her voice noticeable.
“Oh, it’s a reception for someone who’re retiring,” I reply, knowing full well that’s she’s likely hungry. I wish I could offer her some food, but I don’t feel it’s my right to do so.
Then we are at the main office, where the pastor is just leaving.
“These folks would like to talk to you,” I say, wishing I could remember the woman’s name. Typically, I am good at recalling names.
As I turn to leave, the pastor is already jingling his keys, opening his office door to allow the pair inside. The door closes.
I walk away, wondering about this woman and, if by failing to remember her name, it will be easier for me to dismiss her and her homelessness.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
NOT ALL THAT MANY years ago, she was a little girl with an affinity for wearing skirts and hair ribbons. Today she is a young woman, shopping for business skirts. She wears her curly hair down now or, occasionally, up, minus the ribbons.
As a preschooler, she ran everywhere. Today she drives a sporty red car or walks to her destination.
Once she preferred to be alone, shut away in her toy room. Later, she grew to enjoy the company of friends, and even me.
In elementary school, her academic success began. She competed in a regional spelling bee every year she was eligible and brought home numerous ribbons and, one year, a trophy. Her dad still laughs about the time she asked him how to spell “silage.” He’s no speller.
Four years ago she graduated at the top of her Faribault High School class with a 4.0 grade point average and gave a commencement speech.
Smart. Sweet. Independent. Strong. A woman of faith. She is my daughter.
On Saturday, Miranda, now all grown up at age 22, graduated with the University of Wisconsin, La Crosse, centennial class. She earned a bachelor’s degree in Spanish and a double minor in International Studies and Communications Studies.
Miranda poses in front of the UWL hillside letters at the University of Wisconsin, La Crosse.
But that’s not all. She graduated with highest honors, which requires a 3.75 GPA or higher. In the College of Liberal Studies, her college, about 50 of the 459 graduates earned highest honors.
My daughter has, indeed, done well academically. I’m proud of her.
But I’m especially proud of her independent spirit. She is fearless, adventuresome. In a few weeks, Miranda leaves for a three-month public relations internship in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where she previously studied and did mission work for six months.
Yesterday, when we were packing her belongings, I coaxed her into sitting on my lap. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. “I’m going to hold you like this for four months,” I said, pulling her even tighter. “Then you can’t leave.”
I, of course, didn’t mean it. Well, I sort of meant it. As a mother, I selfishly would like nothing more than for my daughter to live in or near Minnesota.
But as a mother, I also know that I must let her go to live her dreams, to be happy—wherever that may be.
Looking down on La Crosse from Grandad's Bluff. To the right is UWL, my daughter's home for four years.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS AGO, 28 years seemed like forever.
I was not quite 26 then as I stood before the altar in a small Lutheran church in an equally small town and married the man I love.
Today, one rented lake cabin, several jobs, one house and three kids later, we are celebrating 28 years of marriage.
Of course, the years have brought much more than those major life changes. They have brought sorrow and laughter, trials and celebrations and, now, the advent of the golden years.
Through it all, Randy and I have been there for each other, which sounds so cliché. But we are a good team.
He balances my serious nature with his quirky humor. He makes me smile, even laugh.
He calms and steadies me when I need calm and steady.
He possesses an incredibly strong work ethic and faith.
Randy has always been supportive of me—as a stay-at-home mom, then as a mom and writer. For that I am grateful.
But mostly, I am thankful for the unconditional love of this man who has been my husband for 28 years.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
AFTER A LONG, DREARY, cloudy, rainy, cold week here in southeastern Minnesota, I needed something to lift my spirits.
So late Thursday afternoon, when the lighting was perfect, the rain no longer falling, I grabbed my camera and headed outdoors. I didn’t have to walk far before I noticed glistening raindrops clinging to begonia blossoms in a pot next to the garage.
First I simply bent in close to snap an image. Not satisfied, I knelt on the cement driveway and moved in even closer. By then I had become totally captivated by the raindrops, which clustered like opaque pearls upon petals.
In those few moments, as I composed photos, my spirits soared. I saw beauty before me. I welcomed the rain that this land, this dry, dry land, so desperately needed.
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
A FEW DAYS AGO while cleaning my office, I came across an obituary I clipped from the local newspaper in late March. Typically, I am not in the habit of saving obits. But this one intrigued me.
You see, the deceased, 78-year-old Harold D. Bauer of Rochester, was one of 11 children born to Lawrence and Leona Bauer. Right about now you’re likely thinking, well, what’s so unusual about that, Audrey? Big families were the norm years ago. You would, of course, be correct in concluding that.
However, the oddity in this family of Bauers is the children’s names. All 11 offspring have names beginning with the letter “H.”
What were those parents thinking?
For anyone who has more than one child, you’ll understand.
While growing up, I could never comprehend how my mom could call me by the wrong name. “Lanae, dust the furniture,” she might say, looking directly at me. Sometimes she realized her mistake; most often not. Given I have five siblings, this name confusion happened frequently. On occasion, my mom even called me by one of my three brother’s names, the ultimate offense in my youthful opinion.
But when I became a mother of more than one, I finally understood just how easy it is to call a child by a sibling’s name. In haste or anger or frustration, I have blurted out the wrong name. And sometimes, my brain is so full of thoughts that the incorrect name simply trips off my tongue.
Now, imagine if you were Lawrence and Leona Bauer, parents of 11 kids with all those “H” names: Harold, Hazel, Hope, Henry, Homer, Haven, Helmer, Harris, Harlow, Herschel and Harriet.
Can you imagine the mix-ups in that household? And what about teachers who had to remember all those H. Bauer kids? Imagine marrying into the family and trying to remember which “H” went with which face. It couldn’t have been easy.
And how did Lawrence and Leona even come up with all those “H” names? You have to admit that a few names on the above list are unusual.
After I got over my initial interest in all those H. Bauers, I reread Harold D. Bauer’s obituary. He has three daughters, whose names all begin with…the letter “C.”
Cindy. Candace. Charise.
I know, I know, you thought I was going to say “H.”
© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
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