Minnesota Prairie Roots

Packaging on August Schell Brewing Company Lakemaid Beer features a half-woman, half-fish.

Miss Salmon promotes Lakemaid Beer.

WHEN MY HUSBAND thunks the heavy beer case onto the kitchen counter Friday night, I do a double take.

“What kind of beer is that?” I ask, peering at the curvy mermaid women lounging on the side of the beer box.

“Schells,” he says, and I lean in closer.

Initially, I am offended that August Schell Brewing Company, from the conservative German community of New Ulm, would use this tactic of attractive women to lure beer drinkers.

But after I’ve calmed down a bit, given it some thought and done some research, my opinion changes.

The whole concept of Lakemaid Beer™ is really quite ingenious as it aims to hook anglers and also supports International Game Fish Association game fish research and conservation. A portion of the profits go to the IGFA.

Credit for the Lakemaid idea goes to the Twin Cities advertising firm of Pocket Hercules, which drew its inspiration partly from the legend of freshwater mermaids and from the Rainy Lake Mermaid sculpture positioned on a rock in the middle of Rainy Lake, according to the official Lakemaid Beer™ website, www.lakemaidbeer.com.

Schells and Rapala USA have teamed up to market this limited edition beer as an “angler’s lager…a beer that captures the essence of fishing, fun and the flavor of lake country.”

Released just in time for the May 2008 fishing opener, this classic American lager with a mild malt flavor aims to draw both warm and cold weather fishermen with seasonal releases.

The winter edition my husband reeled in features half-fish, half-women sporting furry bikini tops and wearing warm ear muffs, hats and/or scarves. To further promote the product to ice fishermen, the beer box includes a mini pin-up calendar insert complete with Lakemaid spotting tips.

January’s tip suggests: “Knocking on the ice with your boot or fist in rhythmic cadence is a reliable way to attract Lakemaids. Also, scoop your holes regularly. If a Lakemaid is going to surface she’s likely to favor a clean hole over a slushy one.”

Clearly, Schell’s brewery, Rapala and its marketing firm are expanding on this whole Lakemaid lore to sell beer and fishing gear. They’ve even created a National Lakemaid Reporting Center, for goodness sakes. The whole concept is, obviously, a keeper or Schells would have tossed the beer back into a Minnesota lake long ago.

Even non-anglers like my husband have taken the bait.

“I want to try some of your beer,” I tell Randy as he pours his Lakemaid into a mug. “Are women allowed to drink this beer?”

“You’ll start growing a fish tail maybe,” he replies.

So I grab my mug of Brau Brothers Brewing Company Strawberry Wheat brew.

He can keep his guy beer.

Six of the 12 Lakemaids featured on the packaging of Schell's Lakemaid Beer, winter edition.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

WHEN WAS THE LAST time you received a handwritten letter in the mail? Such correspondence seems a rarity in this age of instant communication via e-mail, twitter, Facebook and cell phones.

But on Monday, I received two handwritten letters—one on the palest of pink stationery and the other on plain white, lined notebook paper.

That Kathleen and LeAnn embrace this nearly obsolete craft of putting pen to paper makes them the recipients of this week’s Minnesota Prairie Roots virtual Friday flowers.

This combination of flowers and decorative grasses was photographed at the Lyndale Park Rose Garden in south Minneapolis this past August.

I appreciate anyone who engages in the art of letter writing, for handwritten letters are among life’s sweetest pleasures.

There’s something truly uplifting and connective about receiving a handwritten letter, for such words can be read and reread, and cherished. These missives convey a personal, caring touch that electronic communications will never offer.

My friend Kathleen writes with a free flowing flourish of cursive words, exclamation points and smiley faces that sweep across the page, reflecting her bubbly, outgoing, always positive personality.

My cousin LeAnn, on the other hand, prints her words carefully, neatly, in block letters that march precisely across the lined sheets of paper. This reflects her more reserved, introspective personality.

I savor both letters and both of these individuals who are part of my life.

For the joy you sent to me in your handwritten correspondence, thank you, LeAnn and Kathleen.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

ANYONE WHO VALUES old barns will appreciate Wisconsin Barns, a recently-published book that takes readers on a photographic and historic journey aimed at preserving these rural icons.

Photographer Ernest J. Schweit and writer Nancy Schumm-Burgess profess their passion for barns, denoting their combined book effort as a way “to preserve the memory of the structures and the way of life they represent, before they would be lost to time and the elements.”

And a fine job these two do in achieving that goal.

For two years, the pair traveled the backroads and highways of Wisconsin searching for barns. The result is a remarkable compilation of 107 photos and factual snippets of information about the subjects photographed.

Schweit’s photographic talents shine in his composition, attention to lighting and awareness of the landscape as integral elements in best showcasing the selected barns. For example, the dreary gray sky mimics a weathered and dilapidated barn near Lomira. In another image, Schweit uses expanses of sky and corn fields to emphasize the smallness of a barn and windmill seemingly set in the middle of nowhere. In numerous instances, he’s shot photos of red barns in the winter, creating a sharp and beautiful contrast of color against the stark, white landscape.

Through her writing, Schumm-Burgess shares with readers, in brief summaries, gems of historical information. She incorporates facts about architects, barn styles, the relationships of barns to their geographical locations, farming practices and more.

I even learned something about a company with roots in Redwood County, Minnesota, my home county. Sears, Roebuck and Company, which originated in tiny North Redwood, sold barn kits that included instructions, wood and the hardware to build an entire barn.

So whether you’re from Wisconsin or Minnesota, like me, or anywhere else, and love old barns, like me, you’ll find Wisconsin Barns a delightful visual and informational treasure-trove.

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Wisconsin Barns is available at bookstores and gift shops, through online retailers or from Farcountry Press at 1.800.821.3874, www.farcountrypress.com. The 80-page softcover title retails for $14.95.

Also, check out Schweit’s websites at www.ernestjschweit.blogspot.com and
www.mfisherstudios.com.

© Text copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Book cover image courtesy of Farcountry Press, Helena, Mt.

Snow buries a lawn chair on my backyard patio.

IN MINNESOTA, weather often dominates conversation and no more so than in the winter.

Inches and inches of snow have piled up into impressive snow banks, at least here in southeastern Minnesota during the past month. Temperatures have been so consistently, bitterly cold that the entire state, not just International Falls, could be considered an icebox.

Snow just keeps piling up, everywhere.

This has made many of us a bit squirrelly.

So, just for your entertainment, here are some weather tidbits from the frozen northland.

“Man, it’s a tropical 12 degrees,” my 15-year-old son says at 7:50 a.m. Monday before stepping outside. As the back door closes, I hear him mutter, “Uh, it’s still cold.”

Our grill, held in winter's grip.

And from KSTP television news anchor Bill Lunn comes this comment: “My truck has more salt on it than a bag of pretzels.” He’s referring, of course, to all the road salt that crews dump onto our roadways and which ends up coating our vehicles in a fine layer of white.

White vehicles, white woods, white everything. This is Minnesota in winter, as seen from my backyard.

My husband and I surmise Monday evening that the then 17-degree temperature qualifies as a heat wave, remembering that at one point on Saturday, the temperature registered at minus 17 degrees below zero, a 34-degree difference.

“Buses on plowed roads only.” That crawler scrolled across television screens constantly last week as southern Minnesota dealt with yet another raging winter storm.

My favorite snow story comes from Redwood County, where an eastbound vehicle became stuck along Minnesota Highway 19 near my hometown of Vesta. Once released from the snow’s hold, the motorist followed a snowplow to Redwood Falls and was then ordered to stay put. The traveler apparently didn’t heed that warning. Later, the same vehicle became stuck again, in the exact same location near Vesta. However, this time the driver was heading west towards Marshall.

Don't fence me in. Apparently the Redwood County motorist took that literally. Here's my backyard fence, casting a shadow upon the snow.

If you have an interesting snow story or tidbit to tell, I’d like to hear it. I’ve already begun gathering stories and photos from southwestern Minnesota and I’ll share those in a later post.

In the meantime, enjoy the warm-up supposedly headed our way.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

I brought home a jar of Ryan's delicious, Minnesota-made pure maple syrup.

“YOU WENT TO A PANCAKE breakfast?” my incredulous daughter Miranda asks, emphasizing you and pancake.

Yes, I have confessed to attending a Sunday morning pancake breakfast at my church, Trinity Lutheran in Faribault.

Typically, I do not attend pancake breakfasts. As my immediate family well knows, I eat pancakes only when offered no other alternative. And if I have to eat pancakes, I prefer mine laced with blueberries or mini chocolate chips, anything that will disguise the taste of a plain pancake.

The smell of frying flapjack batter nearly churns my stomach. This reaction, I believe, is triggered by memories of attending a free pancake breakfast at the National Guard Armory in Redwood Falls as a child. Then, I waited too long in a long line in a crowded building that was not well-ventilated.

But this Sunday, I am at the pancake breakfast because my friend Larry, who is going with his wife, Vivian, on a mission trip to China, has asked me to work. “I will do anything except make pancakes,” I tell him.

So I am serving sausages beside Sharon, who is serving pancakes. I’m not sure I should admit this, but the pancakes actually smell kind of good. And that’s good, because just feet away, volunteers pour batter onto counter top griddles and flip pancakes by the dozen.

During a lull, my pancake-flipping friend Leann asks if I’m going to eat. At first I decline, but then give in to hunger pangs and join her with a plate of two pancakes and a sausage.

But it’s more than the pancakes that lure me to the table. Maple syrup tempts me. Ryan, son of my pancake-serving friend, Sharon, made the syrup using sap from trees tapped on his Cannon City area acreage. And even though I’m a life-long Minnesotan, I’ve never tasted pure maple syrup.

I am surprised, expecting thick syrup to pour from the bottle. Instead, this syrup runs like water onto my pancakes.

But the taste, ah, the taste.  It is, I discover, unlike the overly-sweet pancake and waffle corn syrup found in most kitchen cupboards. Ryan’s pure maple syrup offers just a pleasant hint of perfect natural sweetness.

Later, when I’ve finished my pancakes, served more pancakes and pitched in with clean-up tasks, I pick up the quart jar of Ryan’s syrup that Ryan’s dad, Carl, has given me. It’s a beautiful color, this amber liquid, a flavorful treat as much for the eyes as for the taste buds.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Ryan's Minnesota-made maple syrup is a beautiful amber color.

If you’re interested in purchasing Ryan’s Minnesota-made maple syrup, e-mail me or send your contact info via a comment (which I won’t publish) and I’ll connect you with Ryan.

FINALLY, AFTER 20 MILES, my legs have warmed to the point where I no longer complain about the cold.

Now I can actually focus on my surroundings, if only I could see more than the faint outlines of farm buildings, snow-plastered road signs and the big dipper suspended above this expanse of flat land that stretches seemingly forever. I would prefer to drive this area in daylight, with camera in tow. But…, we are on our way to a company Christmas party on Saturday evening.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I ask my husband, who assures me that Dakota County Road 47 leads to Hampton and the Black Stallion.

Eventually, we reach Hampton. Stop by the church, drive several blocks, turn right, drive through downtown, past a bar with “Lucky” in its name, turn left, then right again into the Black Stallion parking lot, next to busy U.S. Highway 52.

The name of this place, Black Stallion, intrigues me. My imagination can spin a fanciful, fictional story that probably resembles nothing close to the historic reality of this place. However, I suspect that in the heyday of supper clubs, the Black Stallion likely drew a crowd of well-dressed diners on Saturday nights. Most of those supper clubs, like the Lavender Inn and the Evergreen Knoll in Faribault, Jerry’s Supper Club in Owatonna and the Cat and the Fiddle between Mankato and New Ulm, have closed. I forget later to ask a waitress about the history of this long-time eating establishment.

I forget too to look for the black stallion statue that, from atop a towering sign, has become a roadside icon here.

Inside, I hang my coat in the coat check room, a supper club nicety I’ve long forgotten. In the large room reserved for the Parts Department, Inc., Northfield (NAPA), party, I try to find a warm spot away from the blast of frigid air that sweeps in every time someone enters the restaurant.

Later, much later, we settle in at tables linked together—one group of us on one side of the room, the others on the opposite side, a round table in between. I find myself placed at the joint of two tables, my back to a red wall.

Behind that wall, laughter erupts and spoons clink against glasses. “A wedding?” I ask.

“An anniversary,” answers Kathy, whom I’ve just met and who is seated across from me next to her husband, Marv.

Beside Kathy sits Turbo. He’s a high school senior and a 130-pound wrestler, a teen with energy that matches his nickname. By the end of the evening, he and my husband, whom he calls Rudy, are planning an October trip to a cranberry fest in northern Wisconsin. They intend to camp in our hail-battered 1988 Plymouth Grand Voyager van. I’ve decided I’ll bunk out in Turbo’s Superior, Wisconsin, dorm room rather than travel with this duo. And to think this road trip talk evolved after Randy, AKA Rudy, ordered a piece of cheesecake.

“I have cranberry cheesecake in my refrigerator,” Kathy says and tells us it came from Eagle River, Wisconsin, home to an annual Cranberry Fest that includes cranberry beer, cranberry meatballs, cranberry cheesecake,  cranberry brats and more.

“Let’s go,” my husband says upon hearing “brats and beer.”

So the conversations go. We talk, in the course of the evening, about kangaroos in Australia; veterinarian school; a $400 dog bought at a campground; a trashed, foreclosed home; the difference between Bohemians and Czechoslovakians; H1N1: snowdrifts (that from a Chicago native who knew nothing of snowdrifts before moving to Northfield); closet-sized dorm rooms; losing 12 pounds in four days to meet wrestling weight; how Turbo looks just like his dad, Calvin, whom he calls Calvin and not Dad; heart health (Roger) and hip health (me); treacherous roads; forecast 40-degree temps (where did you hear this, Elaine?); frozen ponds in Florida; *snow homes; and whether Randy’s middle name is Alexander because I am drinking a Brandy Alexander.

Sometimes it’s just crazy talk. But that’s OK, because we’re laughing, enjoying each other’s company, here at the Black Stallion. Here, where the food tastes supper club good and the powder room is wall-to-stall princess pink.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

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*How do I explain “snow home?”  When I was growing up on the southwestern Minnesota prairie, rural students needed to choose a designated home to stay in should they become stranded in town during a snowstorm. This was a “snow home.”

Not just graffiti, but a poem at Sibley Lake Park.

WORDS UPON WOOD. Who wrote them? Why?

Because I am innately curious, I wonder, often, about many things.

I wonder about the words gracefully written upon the wooden railing of a public dock at Sibley Lake Park in Pequot Lakes this summer. We had stopped there for a picnic, eaten inside a shelter where a group of women were gathered for bible study. I felt intrusive, listening to their intimate prayers.

So when we finished our sandwiches and our chips and our one-serving pudding cups, we wandered toward the lake, my husband, son and I, down the steep hillside of steps. There at the bottom, two men angled the waters. We engaged in small talk.

None of them noticed the words, none of them except me. Live WELL. Laugh OFTEN. Love ALWAYS. And then in strong, uppercase letters, as if added as a postscript by another writer, the word DIE.

Was the writer angry? Spurned by a lover? Depressed?

I wonder about these words, this poetry written upon wood at water’s edge.

Beautiful Sibley Lake in Pequot Lakes, August 2009.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

This week's virtual Friday flower is a rose from the Lyndale Park Rose Garden near Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis. My Aunt Rae took me here when I visited her in my younger days. I returned to the garden for the first time in years this past August.

AFTER A HOLIDAY BREAK, Minnesota Prairie Roots virtual Friday flowers returns this week.

I already had two individuals selected for this honor when a third popped out at me Thursday morning from the editorial section of the  Faribault Daily News. The name should be familiar as I wrote about Tom Dominick in my December 18 Friday flowers post. Then, Tom and his wife received a monetary gift from a stranger while shopping at Walmart. It was a holiday boost the couple, who are raising their grandchildren, needed.

Let’s fast foreword now to Christmas Eve, when the Dominicks again received a generous gift from an anonymous Christmas angel. But this time, Tom decided another person needed the present more than his family. “Someone we know is dealing with multiple tragedies and sadness this holiday season; so from one heart to another, in your honor we’ve shared your love and kindness,” Tom wrote, describing how he paid it forward.

Because of his generous spirit, Tom has been selected as a recipient of January 8 Minnesota Prairie Roots virtual Friday flowers, a rose.

The second rose goes to my Aunt Rachel, who is recovering from recent knee replacement surgery in her Arkansas home. Rae has had a rough go of it and still isn’t feeling all that great.

I can relate somewhat, because I underwent total hip replacement 19 months ago. Although I didn’t face the same post-op issues as my aunt, I know that it takes time to regain strength and mobility. So, Rae, if you’re wondering whether you will ever ditch that walker, you will.

The final rose goes to my cousin Dawn from Morgan, who made this one memorable Christmas. She is the mastermind, following in her mother’s footsteps, behind a unique gift I received shortly before Christmas. Under the guise of Annie Mary Twente’s ghost (see my December 23 post), Dawn sent me a plastic toy mouse that poops candy and squeaks “Merry Christmas!” or “Merry Christmouse!,” depending on who is listening.

This little gag gift garnered more guffaws than anything as my family holed up together for several days during the Christmas snowstorm. My son even went so far as to place Chris Mouse on my chair before we sat down to supper one evening. That was nearly the end of Chris as I didn’t look before I sat and sent the screeching rodent skittering onto the dining room floor.

Thank you, Dawn, for bringing unexpected laughter to my family on Christmas. Like Tom Dominick, I may just pay the deed forward.

Chris Mouse caused quite a stir at my house this Christmas.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Minnesota Highway 30, which we drove last Friday, is closed today due to white-out conditions. When this photo was shot a week ago, snow was blowing and drifting across the highway.

TRAVELING LAST WEEK through Watonwan, Cottonwood and Redwood counties was enough to jog my memory of just how brutal winters can be on the southwestern Minnesota prairie where I grew up.

Fierce winds whip snow across open fields and across roadways, hardening into glacial-like ridges. I was thankful last Friday that snow wasn’t falling too as we were driving Minnesota Highways 60 and 30, or we would have been in trouble. You don’t want to find yourself in the middle of nowhere, in white-out conditions, in temperatures that are in the sub-zero range.

That was a week ago.

Today, a dangerous winter storm rages across the southwestern corner of Minnesota. Nearly every roadway, including the interstate, is closed and snowplows have been pulled off the roads.

Winds are pushing the feather-light snow onto highways and county roads, forming rock-hard drifts that make travel impossible. Semis and cars are stuck, stopped right there in traffic lanes, trapped in impassable snowdrifts.

This is the reality of wind and snow on the Minnesota prairie.

The southwestern Minnesota prairie, in the summer, is a place of remarkable beauty. I took this photo several years ago near Walnut Grove, the childhood home of author Laura Ingalls Wilder.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

The glass on the left is correctly printed with a pied piper on the 11th day of Christmas. The other glass, however, places a piper on the 10th day instead of a leaping lord.

A drummer is accurately printed on the 12th day of Christmas glass on the left. The glass on the right incorrectly showcases a leaping lord.

YESTERDAY WOULD HAVE been the time to write a post about Epiphany, the day the wise men brought gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh to the baby Jesus. But I got sidetracked by other topics and writing book reviews for Minnesota Moments magazine, including a review of Garrison Keillor’s Life among the Lutherans.

That reminds me of Sunday morning, when I was sitting in Trinity Lutheran Church listening to the sermon, which started with something like “This is the 10^th day of Christmas, you know, 10 lords a leaping.”

Now that statement got me sidetracked right away as my mind momentarily diverted to the 12 days of Christmas glasses stashed in my kitchen cupboard and in three boxes somewhere in my home.

I’m sorry, Pastor Kinne, but I wondered at that moment what type of artwork graces the 10^th day glass in my collection. I looked this morning, expecting to see a lord a leaping. Instead, there stood a stately man blowing on a musical instrument, which I can’t identify because I don’t know my musical instruments. But this image still didn’t seem right to me.

So I further examined the 10^th day glass, did a bit of googling and discovered, horror of horrors, a mistake. The 10th glass in my collection reads: “The tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me ten pipers piping.” According to several websites and Pastor Kinne, it should be10 lords a leaping. The leaping lords are on my 12^th glass, which should have 12 drummers drumming. But a drummer graces the ninth glass, which should be nine ladies dancing. What a mixed up mess.

But back to that sermon. My thoughts then meandered to my good fortune in finding 12 days of Christmas glasses for my three kids, who were already arguing over who would get my collection some day. I never realized they cared so much about holiday glasses that I received 30-plus years ago from Al Egesdahl of Egesdahl Funeral Home and Furniture Store in Gaylord.

One holiday season, Al marched across the street to The Gaylord Hub, where I worked as a newspaper reporter and photographer, and plopped down a cardboard box crammed with those dozen 12 days of Christmas glasses. I’m not sure why Al gave me those glasses. Maybe he was just being a good neighbor. Minnesota Nice. Or maybe, now that I know the truth, he was simply trying to dump misprinted holiday glasses on an unsuspecting 22-year-old.

That doesn’t matter really as these glasses became a family treasure. Eventually, each of my kids acquired 12 days of Christmas glasses. Miranda found hers first at a garage sale. Last year I discovered a set for Amber at a Faribault antique store that was going out of business. And then, this past summer, I bought the final set for $2 at a garage sale. Guess what my son got for Christmas?

All of this I was thinking as the Lutheran pastor talked about Epiphany and how the wise men’s gifts connect to Christ’s three roles as prophet, priest and king. As a prophet, Christ foretold of his death, represented by myrrh, an embalming fluid. Frankincense tied in with Jesus’ duty as a priest, a mediator between God and us, making the ultimate sacrifice for our atonement.  And, finally, the gold, obviously, relates to his position as a king, ruler over all.

Considering the thousands of sermons I’ve listened to through the years, I’m surprised I had never heard this explanation. Or maybe, just maybe, my mind had wandered to 10 lords a leaping. Or was it 10 pipers piping?

A dancing lady is printed correctly on the drinking glass to the left for the ninth day of Christmas. The glass to the right is wrong with a drummer depicted on the ninth day.

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DID YOU KNOW THAT in Latin American cultures, kids get the bulk of their Christmas gifts on January 6, Epiphany, rather than on Christmas?

It’s true, as my daughter Miranda discovered last year while living in Argentina.

On the night of January 5, kids leave water and grass outside for the camels. The next morning the food and drink have disappeared, replaced by presents. Children believe that wise men come on camels bearing gifts for Dia de los reyes, Three Kings Day, the 12^th day of Christmas, Epiphany.

Now I like that custom, which is certainly more biblical than our Santa Claus. It keeps the focus on the true meaning of Christmas, the birth of Christ.

But I wonder. Could we possibly convince all those good Lutheran Sunday School students that camels would trek across the snow to deliver gifts? And where, exactly, would snowbound Minnesota kids find grass for the camels in January?

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling