Minnesota Prairie Roots

My husband dresses warmly to haul the Weber from a corner of the patio onto the top of the patio snowbank.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE two months can make here in Minnesota.

On January 17, my husband fires up the Weber grill atop three feet of snow in 26-degree temperatures. He’s bundled in a winter coat, stocking cap, gloves and boots.

Eight weeks later he tosses mounds of melting snow from the patio onto the lawn in near-60-degree weather on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Later, he’s grilling on a snow-free patio.

He’s shed his warm winter outwear, but doesn’t forgo the flannel. Not yet.

He knows that when you live in Minnesota, one warm March day holds only the promise of spring, not the reality of spring.

Randy grills on March 14 on the snow-free patio.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

WHAT’S WITH THE BUS?

I am more than a bit baffled by this school bus graphic used by the KSTP TV weather department to illustrate potential flooding in Minnesota.

I photographed this KSTP flood-bus graphic on my television set Saturday evening.

How does a bus relate to flood forecasting?

Honestly, I don’t know of any bus drivers who would purposely drive students onto or anywhere near a flooded roadway.

So what gives? Can anyone explain this bus graphic aired on Channel 5 news at 10 p.m. Saturday and on previous nights?

Text © Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

The well-used vintage Candy Land game of my youth.

DO KIDS STILL PLAY Candy Land?

How about Cootie, Scrabble or Monopoly?

As a child, I played all four and especially enjoyed any type of word game. Today I still like word games. Surprised?

My son will tell you that I am a social game player, meaning I play games primarily to socialize. He is right. If I win in the process, then that’s simply an extra bonus.

Him? He’s into strategic games like Risk and chess and Race for the Galaxy, a game we gave him for Christmas with rules so complicated that they fill a book. I’m serious.

Fortunately, he’s found others with the same mind-set at our church’s monthly Game Night. The serious gamers play the strategic games.

The rest of us, well, we sit and laugh and talk and eat and then laugh and talk and eat some more.

How about you? What types of board games do you like and why?

Or do you even play board games?

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

This Somali restaurant, Banadir Restaurant in historic downtown Faribault is now targeted for a new paint color. What about the building on the left?

FIRST THEY DIDN’T like green. Now it’s red.

What’s with this town?

Last fall some business owners, unhappy with the vivid green color of The Los 3 Reyes Bakery in downtown Faribault, successfully got that building repainted a subtle gray-green. How? After bakery owner Mariano Perez said he couldn’t afford to repaint his recently-painted bakery, the objecting business people passed the hat. (Read my Sept. 30, Oct. 6 and Nov. 9, 2009, and March 4, 2010, posts for more background.)

The bright green Los 3 Reyes Bakery, before it was repainted. What about that building on the right?

The Los 3 Reyes Bakery in downtown Faribault after it was repainted a subtler, almost gray- green.

All of this stirred up quite the debate in Faribault about the color of buildings in our historic downtown. From the man/woman on the street to the City Council to business owners to the Heritage Preservation Commission, everyone has an opinion, me included.

While I appreciate the historic beauty of old buildings, I really struggle with the whole idea of new government regulations or guidelines that aim at dictating color choices. Faribault already has sufficient guidelines in place to protect historic buildings.

What’s acceptable to me or the mayor or my neighbor as a color choice may be totally unacceptable to someone like Perez, who hails from Mexico.

And, just for the record, I embraced the original vivid green on Perez’ bakery.

Now, fast forward to this week, when the City Council adopted a resolution to apply for a Picture-It-Painted grant from the Southern Minnesota Initiative Foundation.

This time Banadir Restaurant, a Somali business two blocks from the Mexican bakery, is the target for a proposed new paint job. It seems “someone” doesn’t like the predominantly red, accented by green and white, building colors.

I as much as figured more buildings would be the focus of suggested facelifts.

According to the adopted City Council resolution (published on the city Web site), the Picture-It-Painted grant application was “developed jointly with the property owner of 211 Central Avenue and the Faribault Area Chamber of Commerce.”

The resolution continues: “…the City has determined there is a public benefit to submitting this application in order to preserve and enhance a contributing building located within the historic commercial district.”

OK then, how do you define “enhance?” Is a new paint color more enhancing than the red, green and white already on the building?

Or would this be a step toward limiting freedom of choice? I think so.

Information from the SMIF Web site states that “project priority (is) based on visual impact, public benefit, volunteer participation and support, intended use, and benefit to those in need.”

To add to the drama, consider this: City staff submitted the Picture-It-Painted grant before the City Council approved the submission. The grant application deadline was March 3 and the Council approved the resolution, by a 4 – 2 vote, on March 9. Is this normal procedure, to submit a grant application first and then ask for rubber stamp approval later?

The debate continues. Grant awardees will be notified by the end of March. Will Banadir Restaurant be repainted or not?

What’s your take on all of this? I welcome comments and insights.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Almost daily during the winter and into early spring, I sweep a pile of sand from my kitchen floor.

WHY DIDN’T I THINK of this earlier?

The idea didn’t enter my mind until the other day, when, as part of my morning chores, I shook out the rug inside the kitchen door and swept the underlying sand into a pile.

Could I recycle this sand, I wondered as I pushed it onto a dustpan and then dumped the granules into the garbage.

It seemed such a waste really to simply toss the sand that has been tracked into my house from gritty sidewalks and streets.

Think of all the sandboxes I could fill.

Think of all the money the city of Faribault could save on sand if every resident collected and returned the sand for re-use on roads.

Think of all the eroded beaches I could save.

Think of all the sandbags that could be filled to prevent spring flooding.

Think of all the sand I could give to the sandman.

Oh, yes, my ideas are innovative.

Maybe not practical. But, hey, I’m doing my best to think green and keep sand out of our landfills.

Sand collected in a dustpan from one good sweep of my kitchen floor. Could I recycle this sand?

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

DURING MY LIFE-TIME, mice often have terrorized me.

Dead or alive, they seem intent on imprinting frightening moments upon my psyche.

I suppose if you are not afraid of rodents, then you would not remember the dead mouse floating in a crockpot, the mouse running in circles around your feet in a locked bathroom, a mouse rummaging in a silverware drawer and other such encounters.

But I have experienced all of the above mouse moments, and more.

Therefore, you can understand why I react rather negatively to anything rodent-related.

My most recent mouse story comes from Walmart in Faribault, where my husband went to the garden section for a bag of charcoal while I shopped elsewhere in this sprawling store.

Later we meet and I note that he has selected a rather small (7.2 pound) bag of charcoal.

Well, he tells me, the two larger bags in the remaining inventory had been chewed on by mice.

I don’t understand. As far as I know, mice don’t eat charcoal, preferring instead watered-down chicken broth in a crockpot or peanut butter on a trap.

Uncertain whether to believe Randy, I think that perhaps the errant prongs of a forklift pierced the charcoal bags.

Nope, he saw the tell-tale mouse droppings and urine on the paper-lined pallet. Mice, he says, will chew on a bag to gather paper for a nest. Oh, great, more mice.

This all leads me to wonder how warehouses, trucks that transport goods or businesses keep rodents away. It’s a question I’ve pondered previously, but which now weighs heavy on my mind.

After all, if I’m going to “save money” and “live better,” I can’t accomplish that by shopping at a store that possibly harbors mice or, at the least, their droppings.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

MONDAY MUST HAVE BEEN the day for word bloopers.

While reading a story about Tom Petters, KSTP TV 10 p.m. news anchor Bill Lunn shared that defense attorneys are seeking a lighter sentence for the Minnesotan convicted in a major Ponzi scheme. Petters, he reported, has a tumor growing on his pituitary gland.

Lunn, however, incorrectly pronounced pituitary as “pit-you-airy.” He didn’t even flinch, so I’m certain he was unaware of his mistake.

I shouldn’t have laughed, because later I discovered a word blooper of my own.

Because I’m in the word business, people—in this case two sisters-in-law—find it particularly funny when I mess up on anything English-related. I suppose for them, it’s rather like the teacher scrawling a big red “F” across the top of a test paper.

Now, test your English teacher skills and see if you can find the error in the following excerpt from an e-mail I sent to family on Monday:

He has an impressive roster of classes lined up for his junior year that includes chemistry, psychics, pre-calc, an advanced English class, etc. I hope he can handle them all, but he assures me that he can. I certainly could not have, except for the English.

Well, well, well. See the mistake?

Annette did and writes: “Since Caleb is taking psychics, will he be able to do some mind reading or palm interpretations at our holiday get together? 🙂  Just joking, it is pretty rare to catch you making a spelling error.  (Like once in 10 years)  I presume with his science aptitude he is taking physics.”

And then this e-mail comes from another sister-in-law, Jamie: “I have to admit that I’m quite curious if Caleb will be studying to be a “fortune-teller for women” or if you meant to type physics instead of psychics (ha!).”

Yup, that darn spell check doesn’t always work.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

"Meet me by the elephants."

Run for your lives, zebraa!

AN AFRICAN SAFARI has never been my dream vacation.

But, on Saturday, I went on a safari of sorts.

I accompanied my husband to Cabela’s, the World’s Foremost Outfitter®, a.k.a. that store packed with guy stuff.

Randy has $125 in gift cards to spend. And since he’s not a sportsman, he decides to hunt for a new winter coat. He soon fixates on a bright red and gray coat that I find unappealing. I suggest a neutral brown and tan coat that will remain in style for more than a year. Thankfully, he listens, perhaps because the coat features a buffalo plaid red lining.

So, now, if you think this is the end of my story, it is not.

I must add here, however, that spending $159 on a Columbia coat is not typically something either of us would do. That’s just too much money, even if the coat was originally priced at $230. We justify the expense only because Randy has $125 in gift cards and he will get a $15 discount if he signs up for a Cabela’s Visa card.

Getting a credit card we really don’t need weighs on us. But, in the end, the $15 discount sucks Randy into applying for another credit card.

While he does the paperwork and pays for his coat, I go on safari. “I’ll be by the elephants,” I say. “Meet me over there.”

It is a good plan considering Cabela’s is about as big as Africa.

So I head for the wild animals—elephants, zebras, monkeys, lions, rhinos—displayed in an African safari type setting. Since I have my camera slung over my shoulder and time to kill, I start shooting.

On the hunt.

No playful kitty cat.

And then I wait. And wait. And wait.

Randy fails to join me on my African adventure.

Tired of shooting, and waiting, I set out to find my missing husband.

I must appear a bit lost myself as soon a Cabela’s employee inquires if she can help me.

“Yeah, how do you find a lost husband?” I ask.

She laughs and suggests I call him on my cell phone.

“We don’t have cell phones,” I answer.

A look of disbelief momentarily crosses her face before she offers to page him.

“He would love that,” I smile.

So, together, we head toward the front of the store, not because I want him paged, but because he still may be there buying his coat. He’s in line alright—the customer service line.

The clerk, though, wants to play a little joke on my husband. So I hang back as she walks over and tells Randy, “Your wife is waiting for you by the elephants.”

He knows, he says, and tells her that I shouldn’t let the elephants spray me. He’s a funny guy.

Then I come out of cover, curious to hear why my husband is waiting in customer service with a bag clutched in his hand. He says the check-out clerk rang up his coat as a credit card, rather than gift card, purchase. And because she can’t correct the mistake, he’s standing here waiting for someone else to fix the error.

Great.

While he waits, I check out another animal display. Then I view the fish in huge wall aquariums. I return and Randy is still waiting.

I’m getting more than a bit impatient, especially when the couple behind him is now at the customer service window. Randy tells me later that they knew the Cabela’s worker and he bumped them ahead of others.

I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes have passed since I found my lost husband. I’m leaning on a boat now because there is no place to rest my weary, I’m-really-tired-of-Cabela’s feet.

Finally, the purchase problems are resolved and we head out the door.

We’re both a bit ticked about the 30-minute wait in the customer service line.

But, hey, he got that $15 off his coat purchase, plus a free promotional Cabela’s cap and a free Mini Multi-Tool with LED Light that includes a flat-nose pliers, small blade, small screwdriver, wood saw and bottle opener.

And, I went on a lengthy African safari.

By the time I leave Cabela's, I feel ornery as a rhino.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

IF THIS HADN’T happened to me, I likely wouldn’t believe it either.

But nearly two years ago, while vacationing at a Wisconsin Dells waterpark, I suffered traumatic injury to my inner ear.

And how, exactly, did this happen?

I floated under a waterfall in a winding lazy river.

The pounding water hit my right ear at just the correct angle because I suffered permanent hearing loss, tinnitus and pain in my ear. My ear specialist has recommended a hearing aid.

All of that I can handle. Eventually I’ll swallow my pride and ante up the big bucks for the hearing aid.

I’ve gotten used to the ringing. My husband tells me if I answer, then he would be concerned. Get it? Ringing.

And the pain, well, it’s mostly bothersome at night and not intolerable.

But then came Wednesday night. Being a 50-something woman, I need to use the bathroom at least once a night, if not more. So, when I awoke at midnight, I sat up expecting to get out of bed like usual.

This time, though, the room was spinning, as in I-drank-too-much dizziness.

However, the only alcohol I had consumed were a few sips from my husband’s beer.

Earlier in the evening, I viewed a lot of alcohol at the liquor store. But I’m pretty sure that simply looking at, instead of consuming, alcohol does not cause dizziness.

After managing to make my way to the bathroom by clinging to the walls, I climbed back into bed. Four hours later I was awake again. Same scenario.

Luckily, when I awoke in the morning, I was fine.

But I’m a bit worried because my doctor told me that damage to my inner ear can be a precursor to meniere’s disease. Up until now, I had all of the symptoms except the vertigo.

Hopefully he’s wrong.

After all, I don’t want to give those people who already think I’m dizzy the satisfaction of knowing that I am, literally, dizzy.

I suppose, just to assure that I keep my balance, I should listen to my doctor’s advice and avoid cats.

Not literally.

But C-A-T-S as in:

Caffeine. That should be easy, you would think, because I’m not a coffee drinker, don’t even own a coffee maker. However, I like my chocolate. So, no, I can’t avoid caffeine.

Alcohol. This shouldn’t be a problem, you would think, as my alcohol consumption is basically limited to a beer with my weekly Friday night pizza. But then, on occasion, my sisters corrupt me with a Bloody Mary or a glass or two of wine. So, unless I avoid my sisters…

Tension. I’m the mother of a teenager. Need I say more?

Salt. I seldom use a salt shaker, but I like my chips. Do not, I repeat, do not, attempt to take away my chips.

In summary, I suppose I’ll have to risk the occasional ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Did you know that the Tilt-a-Whirl is made only blocks from my house?

OK. That’s another story…

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

HAS CURSIVE WRITING gone the way of the typewriter, landlines, the horse and buggy?

If my conversation with a Faribault High School English teacher Thursday evening is any indication, then the answer would be a resounding “yes.”

The topic came up during parent-teacher conferences, when I viewed a test my 16-year-old, her student, had taken.

“Is he the only one who doesn’t write in cursive?” I ask, dismayed that my son has printed his answers. “This looks like a third grader’s printing.”

The teacher rifles through her stack of papers. “No,” she tells me. “All of the students print.” She even showed me a paper with printing so minuscule I would have needed a magnifying glass to read the student’s writing. Seriously.

This inability to write in cursive bothers me. What happened to penmanship?

When I was in grade school, we actually had penmanship as a subject and spent many hours perfecting our cursive letters. I remember writing rows and rows of sweeping double-humped “n’s,” triple-humped “m’s” and capital “O’s.”

The teacher isn’t surprised, nor seemingly bothered, by this lack of cursive usage. When she was in college (which wasn’t all that long ago), student papers were typed, not handwritten, she says. I get that.

But still.

“Can he write his name?” the teacher asks.

“Yes, that he can do,” I answer.

Then I wonder: What kind of generation are we raising when many young people can’t write, and probably can’t read, cursive?

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling