Chicken wild rice soup in a hand-thrown pottery bowl at the 2013 Souper Bowl. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2013)
AS AN ART LOVER who also loves soup, the opportunity to buy a handcrafted bowl filled with soup proved a win-win in 2013. Today the annual Souper Bowl is still going strong at the Arts Center of Saint Peter.
Lots of handcrafted bowls to choose from in 2013. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2013)
This Sunday from 3-6 pm, the Arts Center fundraiser takes place at The Capitol Room, an event venue at 419 South Minnesota Avenue in the heart of downtown St. Peter. Here attendees can choose from an array of artisan bowls hand-thrown by local potters and then filled with a serving of soup from local vendors. Cost for the soup and bowl, yours to keep, is $20.
My chosen bowl and soup. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2013)
When I attended 11 years ago, I chose a simple green-with-traces-of-brown bowl for no other reason than I favor simplicity and green, nature’s hue. And I selected chicken wild rice soup because it, too, is a favorite.
Joel Moline and Thalia Taylor kneading clay during my visit to the arts center’s Clay Studio in March 2012. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2012)
In the years that have passed since that pottery purchase, I have used my Saint Peter soup bowl hundreds of times. I love the shape, the feel, the heft of this original piece of usable art. This isn’t just any soup bowl, but rather one made and shaped by the hands of an artist. And that means something to me. I appreciate the work of creatives.
Diners line up for soup or chili at the 2013 Souper Bowl. The event is first-come, first-serve. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2013)
And I value events like the Souper Bowl, which expose people to the arts, bring people together, build community. Sunday will be a busy day in St. Peter as this southern Minnesota city celebrates St. Patrick’s Day in a big way with a parade at 3 pm.
The Arts Center of Saint Peter, 315 South Minnesota Avenue, photographed on a visit there in March 2012. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2012)
With a cooldown expected on Sunday along with gusty winds, afternoon temps in the 30s will feel like the 20s, according to local forecasters. Seems an ideal day to warm up with a bowl of soup served in an artisan bowl.
Crocuses blooming on March 12. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
DAYS AFTER I BRUSHED aside leaf mulch, my crocuses are in full bloom under the bold sunlight of March here in southern Minnesota.
Veins run through the cupped purple petals popping with golden centers. They are beautiful to behold. Vibrant in a landscape of brown.
Due to the unseasonably mild Minnesota winter, these crocuses are blooming weeks earlier than usual. Had I not uncovered the perennials several days ago to find a lone blossom leaning, I would have missed this explosion of color in my front yard flowerbed.
I admire crocuses, daffodils and tulips, the first brave flowers of spring. That they even survive in this harsh climate seems a miracle in itself. Crocuses store food in corms, their underground stem system.
And so I want to take a moment to celebrate this clutch of crocuses, to recognize the importance of noticing that which is right before our eyes. All too often we hurry through our days without pausing to appreciate the little things. The flush of blossoms. The bright flash of a cardinal. The scurrying of a squirrel. Today may you stop, look and see, really see, the beauty within this day.
TELL ME: What little thing are you seeing today that bring you joy?
Appropriate signage for a tavern in St. Patrick, Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
BEER, BASEBALL AND BLESSINGS. Those words define St. Patrick, an unincorporated place of bar, baseball field and Catholic church northeast of New Prague. With the approach of St. Patrick’s Day, now seems a fitting time to revisit this southern Minnesota burg, which I photographed in the summer of 2015.
St. Patrick Church of Cedar Lake Township. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
St. Patrick’s Bonin Field, named after Father Leon Bonin, who brought baseball back to St. Patrick in the 1950s. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
Across the road from the St. Patrick cemetery sits St. Patrick’s Tavern. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
The stately church sits atop a hill, the ball field at the base on one side, the tavern on the other. Pray. Play. And then congregate over a beer and a burger basket at the tavern. Or, on St. Patrick’s Day weekend, corned beef and cabbage downed with on-tap green beer, while supplies last.
Born in Ireland, buried in the St. Patrick Church of Cedar Lake Township Cemetery in southern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
Bonin Field, home of the St. Patrick Irish. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
The bar and restaurant in St. Patrick. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
Even with the minimal time I spent in St. Patrick, I experienced its Irish heritage. It’s reflected on tombstones, in the very names of the church, ball field and bar. It’s reflected on signage. But mostly, it’s this feeling of sacredness, as if the patron saint of the Irish dwells here. In the pews. On the bleachers. Even, I expect, inside the bar. St. Patrick was, after all, a missionary.
St. Patrick’s steeple rises in the background, behind this cemetery angel. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
And then there’s the sacred art. Crucifixes. An angel statue. Tombstones that hold names and history.
The Holy Family tucks into a corner of the grotto. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
The beautiful face of Mary at the St. Patrick’s grotto. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
The loving hand of Mary rests upon her son, Jesus, in this sculpture at St. Patrick’s. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
Aside the church, a grotto welcomes with the most hauntingly beautiful sculptures.
St. Patrick may seem like nothing more than a country church, just another rural bar and a baseball diamond to passing motorists. But it’s much more, worth the stop for a close-up look at a place rooted in Irish heritage.
More signage on St. Patrick’s Tavern. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2015)
Next road trip back here, I’ll pop into the tavern, order a brew and maybe a burger, and raise my mug to the Irish who settled here, claimed this land as theirs. Here in St. Patrick, place of beer, baseball and blessings.
Under a layer of leaves, I found this blooming crocus. Already, in early March. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
IN TRULY UN-MINNESOTAN fashion, I have penned very little this winter about the weather. That is atypical of a life-long resident. We are, if anything, obsessed about weather in Minnesota. We take pride in our cold weather, our snow, in managing to persevere in an often harsh climate. Weather affects our lives on a daily basis.
But this winter season, our image as the Bold Cold North has significantly changed. These past four months have been primarily snow-less and unseasonably warm. Sure, we’ve had a bit of snow and some cold snaps with sub-zero temperatures. Yet nothing like we’ve come to expect.
As I write, I look out my office window to a scene devoid of snow. The temperature is 46 degrees. At 9:51 a.m. on an early March morning. Laundry is drying on the clothesline. And the sun blazes bright upon the monotone landscape.
Daffodils, too, are emerging early. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
If I look closely, I see signs of spring come too soon. I need only examine my perennial flowerbeds to find spring flowers emerging from the soil. Under a layer of dried leaf mulch, I uncover a single crocus tipped on its side. I push more leaves aside revealing tender shoots of crocuses and daffodils. They need sunlight to thrive.
Tulips on the south-facing side of my house started popping weeks ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2024)
Tulips and irises are up, too. Too soon. Not yet blooming. I noticed tulip bulbs popping greenery already in February.
All of this is an anomaly. We should be experiencing snowstorms and school closures, hearing the scrape of snowplows, the roar of snowblowers. Kids should be skating and sledding. As much as I appreciate the lack of icy roads and sidewalks, no snow to clear and no worry about winter weather, it just doesn’t feel right.
I’ve realized that I really do like the diversity of distinct seasons in Minnesota. There’s something to be said about anticipating spring after a long hard winter, like we experienced last year with record snowfall…
The restored Security State Bank Building clock in historic downtown Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
TIME, WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG, seems to pass slowly. You’re waiting, always waiting. To turn another year older. To master a skill. To gain independence. To do whatever seems so important you wonder how you can possibly wait for another day or week or month to pass.
Now I wish time would slow down. But it can’t and it won’t and so I accept the reality of time passing, of aging, of days disappearing too quickly. Of celebrating my 50-year high school class reunion this year. Of my youngest turning thirty. Of me nudging seventy.
A street clock in historic downtown Wabasha. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
In a recent conversation with a beloved aunt, she shared that she can’t believe how old her nieces and nephews are, considering she’s only twenty-nine. I love that about Aunt Dorothy, who has always and forever declared herself on the cusp of thirty while in reality she’s closing in on ninety. I like her thinking.
(Book cover sourced online)
By happenstance, I picked up a children’s picture book at my local library a few weeks ago that focuses on time. I’m not trying to go back in time to my childhood. Rather, I enjoy books written for kids. Many hold important messages and beautiful art that resonate with me. I highly-recommend you check out recently-published children’s picture books to see how they’ve evolved over the decades into some timely masterpieces of words and art.
Among the books I selected was Time Is a Flower, written and illustrated by Julie Morstad of Vancouver, British Columbia. In her opening page, Morstad writes of time as a clock, as a calendar, in the traditional ways we consider time.
A prairie sunset in southwestern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
But then the book unfolds, page by page, into time comparisons that are simplistic, everyday, ordinary, unremarkable. Yet remarkable in the way Morstad presents them with sparse words and bold art. If I could rip the pages from her book, I would frame her illustrations of a sunset reflected in sunglasses; a child’s long wavy locks woven with bird, butterfly and flower; and a wiggly tooth in a gaping mouth.
A swallowtail butterfly feeds on a zinnia. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Time is the moments, the memories. The details. Not necessarily the extraordinary. That is the message I take from Morstad’s book. Appreciate the caterpillar, not just the butterfly. Appreciate the seed, not just the flower. Value the slant of sunlight across the floor, and the shadows, too.
A princess by Roosevelt Elementary School kindergartner Ruweyda, exhibited in March 2023 at the Student Art Show, Paradise Center for the Arts, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
As I consider Time Is a Flower, I think of my dear aunt half a country away in New Jersey. Too many years have passed since I’ve seen Aunt Dorothy, so long that I can’t recall the last time we embraced. But I hold memories of her, of our time together. She was the young aunt who arrived from the Twin Cities with discarded jewelry and nail polish for me and my sisters. She was the aunt who called her husband, “My Love,” an endearing name that imprinted upon me her deep love for Uncle Robin (who died in January). She is the aunt who took me into New York City when I was a junior in college visiting her on spring break. She is the aunt who, for my entire life, has called me “My Little Princess.”
A 1950s scene in downtown Faribault honors history and the passage of time in this mural. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Yes, time passes too quickly. The clock ticks. Days on the calendar advance. Years pass.
Each spring the daffodils bloom. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
But within each day, seconds and minutes and hours remain. Time to live. Time to love. And time to remember that time is like a flower. Sprouting. Growing. Blooming. Dying. Time is a moment, until it’s a memory.
Most people no longer wear wrist watches. I still do. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
NOTE: Remember, this Sunday, March 10, time changes as we shift to daylight savings time in the U.S. We lose an hour of time as we spring forward.
An amaryllis begins to bloom. (Photo credit: Amber Schmidt)
THE BOXED BULBS on an end cap at a big box store caught my eye, as intended. I worked briefly as a grocery store clerk back in the day when cashiers read and punched prices onto cash register keys. I learned then all about moving products by strategically placing them on the end of a shelf row.
So here I was, falling for the age-old marketing gimmick of pushing impulse purchases. But on this day, I was thankful for that end cap display of boxed amaryllis bulbs. This would make the perfect birthday gift for my soon-to-be 5-year-old grandson. Or so I thought.
On Isaac’s birthday in early January, we gathered to celebrate. As Isaac opened his gift stash, it was obvious he liked some presents more than others. That’s the thing about kids his age. They can’t hide their honest reaction, their true feelings. He loved the LEGO sets, the sticker book, the… But when he pulled the boxed bulb from the gift bag, Isaac promptly tossed it aside. Not set the box on the carpet, but threw it. Not even an explanation from Grandma about planting the bulb which would flower in big, beautiful red blooms changed his mind. He didn’t care.
I should back up a minute and explain why I thought this would be a good gift for my grandson. Last spring I gave several packets of seeds to the grandkids. Spinach, carrot and flower seeds, which my eldest daughter planted with her son. He took an interest once the seeds sprouted and the plants grew. Amber called him “Farmer Isaac.”
The farm girl in me felt encouraged. My grandchildren, who live in a sprawling new housing development in the south metro, are far-removed from their rural heritage. It’s important to me that they understand their agrarian roots. Randy and I grew up on crop and dairy farms—farms with large gardens from whence came most of our food. Youth like Isaac and his sister, Isabelle, need to know that food originates on farms, not grocery store shelves. As preschoolers, they loved to dig in the dirt at our house. I would hand them shovels and the dirt would fly. Kids need to touch the earth, splash in mud puddles, gather sticks and pine cones and leaves and do all those activities that connect them to the land. And make their hands dirty.
But now here was this dormant amaryllis bulb all ugly and brown and not looking at all like anything that would ever grow. But, once potted, grow it did. When the first green leaves emerged from the massive bulb at the end of January, Isaac suddenly took an interest. “You better take a picture to show Grandma,” he instructed his mom.
Isaac loves space, puzzles, art and now amaryllis. (Photo credit: Amber Schmidt)
A few weeks later, the first of several flowers bloomed. And there was Isaac again in a photo, right elbow learning on the kitchen island by sheets of paper for his next art project, left hand on his world atlas, jigsaw puzzles and that once dormant amaryllis bulb now blooming in the foreground. His smile was wide, his happiness evident. The amaryllis had its moment. Big. Bold. Beautiful red. No longer tossed aside. Finally and fully appreciated by the birthday boy.
A row of John Deere tractors at the 2022 Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show, rural Dundas. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)
AS A WRITER, a storyteller, I read obituaries. Doesn’t matter if the deceased is known to me or not. I find obits interesting for the stories therein.
Stories weren’t always part of obituary writing. Obit style has evolved since I graduated in 1978 with a journalism degree from Minnesota State University, Mankato. And that is a good thing. Today’s death notices are not just summaries of facts, but rather personalized in a way that helps the reader understand the person as a person. That holds value to those who are grieving and to those of us who hold no connection to the individual.
I need to backtrack for a moment and share that writing an obituary was my first writing assignment in Reporting 101. Although I’ve forgotten details about that long ago college course, I remember the professor stressing the importance of spelling names correctly. That carried through to all types of newspaper reporting. First reporting job out of college, I learned a source was Dayle, not Dale.
Emmett Haala (Photo source: Sturm Funeral Home)
That MSU instructor also imprinted upon me the importance of obituaries. As I age, I find myself drawn more and more to reading obits. Too often now, I know the deceased. Recently, I found a gem in the obituary of Emmett Haala, 87, of Springfield (that would be Springfield, Minnesota), who died on February 28. His funeral is today.
Hanging out by a John Deere tractor at the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)
It wasn’t the basic facts about Emmett that captivated me, but rather his interest in John Deere tractors. He, according to his obit, “lived and breathed John Deere.” Now to anyone with a rural connection, the idea of fierce tractor brand loyalty is familiar. This retired mechanic began his career at age 14 at Runck Hardware and Implement in Springfield, eventually opening Emmett’s Shop in 1970. He was a trusted mechanic who serviced all machinery brands, but favored John Deere.
“Nothing runs like a Deere” is the John Deere slogan. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2017)
That tidbit got me reminiscing and also contemplating the importance of open houses in rural Minnesota. Events that continue today. Emmett, his death notice read, shared many memories of John Deere Days at Runck Hardware and Implement. He “…enjoyed making hot dogs and coffee for the throngs of people attending and showing the newest John Deere movie.”
To this day, I remain a fan of John Deere. Here Randy and I pose aside a vintage John Deere at Bridgewater Farm, rural Northfield in October 2023. (Photo credit: Amber Schmidt)
That was it. I was hooked. I attended John Deere Day at a farm implement dealership while growing up in southwestern Minnesota. While the event was a way for machinery dealers to get farmers inside their shops, the open houses were also a social gathering for rural folks. My siblings and I piled into the Chevy aside Dad and Mom for the 20-mile drive to Redwood Falls and John Deere Day.
Free food—usually BBQs, baked beans, chips and vanilla ice cream packaged in little plastic cups and eaten with a wooden spoon—comprised dinner (not lunch to us farm types). Maybe there were hot dogs, too, like at Emmett’s place of employment. Memories fade over the decades.
A worn vintage John Deere emblem. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2017)
But I do recall the John Deere movies shown post meal at the theater in Redwood Falls. Sure, they were nothing but advertisements for “the long green line” of farm machinery. But to a kid who seldom set foot in a theater, the promotional films held all the appeal of a box office hit. Plus, there were door prizes like bags of seed corn and silver dollars. I never won anything. A cousin did.
At the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2017)
And so all those John Deere memories and more—including the distinct pop of my dad’s 1950s John Deere tractor—rushed back. Putt, putt, putt. Emmett belonged to the Prairieland Two Cylinder Club. Nostalgia is powerful. So is the art of crafting an obituary. Many of today’s obituaries feature detailed personal stories, not simply superlatives. Stories that reveal something about the individual who lived and breathed and loved. Stories well beyond life-line basics. Stories of life. Stories that resonate, that connect us to each other. Stories like those of Emmett, who “lived and breathed John Deere.”
(Book cover image sourced online)
FYI: I recommend reading this guidebook to obituary writing by retired The Wall Street Journal obit writer James R. Hagerty: Yours Truly: An Obituary Writer’s Guide to Telling Your Story. Hagerty is the son of Marilyn Hagerty, columnist for The Grand Forks Herald. In a March 2012 “Eatbeat” column, Marilyn reviewed her local Olive Garden and gained instant internet fame.
THIS TIME OF YEAR, throughout the long stretch of winter months in Minnesota, I crave comfort foods. Food that warms me from the inside out. Food that fuels me with energy. Food that makes me feel better simply because it tastes so darn good. Basic, often carb-packed, foods that are staples of generations of Minnesotans.
Topping the list of comfort foods for me is tomato soup served with a grilled cheese sandwich. Both are easy to prepare. Nearly every Saturday from November to March, Randy opens and mixes a can of condensed tomato soup with milk before preparing accompanying sandwiches. He smears butter onto slices of bread, layers processed cheese between and toasts the bread to golden perfection in a frying pan. There’s nothing better for lunch on a cold Minnesota winter day than a bowl of steaming tomato soup with a sandwich oozing melting cheese.
A perfect comfort food lunch: homemade chicken wild rice soup with homemade bread. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Soup and chili are the ultimate comfort foods. There’s comfort in the scent of soup simmering on the stove, in the taste, in the act of wrapping hands around a bowl warmed by hot soup or chili. And then that first spoonful of chicken noodle soup or chicken white chili or tomato-based beef chili loaded with beans or chicken wild rice soup, all homemade. Ah. Every bite tastes of comfort. With the exception of tomato soup, all soups served in my house are homemade by me.
The same goes for macaroni and cheese, another ultimate comfort food. Years ago as a busy mom of three, I occasionally resorted to boxed mac and cheese in my hurry to get a meal on the table. But the unnatural yellow powdered cheese stirred into the cooked pasta was visually unappealing and didn’t taste any better than it looked. Today I make mac and cheese from scratch using evaporated milk, butter and shredded cheddar cheese. I love mac and cheese as much as any kid, unless, of course, theirs comes from a box.
A sandwich board outside the Belview Bar & Grill in southwestern Minnesota advertises some comfort food lunch offerings. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I also love tator tots. We joke about Tator Tot Hotdish here in Minnesota. I haven’t made it in years. But I still like tots. Plain or, even better, topped with shredded cheddar cheese, a dollop of sour cream and bacon bits. Yes, it’s calorie-laden and likely not at all good for me. But, gosh, that combo pleases my palate like no casserole ever could except homemade Chicken Wild Rice Hotdish (not casserole), which I absolutely love.
A plate filled with comfort foods, including mashed potatoes and gravy, served at the annual harvest dinner at Trinity Lutheran Church, North Morristown. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Potatoes are a comfort food. Whether shaped into a tot, mashed, baked or scalloped, potatoes are, for me, a comforting link to my childhood. I grew up eating meat, boiled potatoes with gravy and a side vegetable every night for supper, with rare exceptions. Our food came from our land, from our animals. It was good and wholesome, filling our stomachs, fueling our bodies to labor on the farm.
I recently tried a new banana bread recipe with a whole banana split length-wise and laid across the top of the batter. Delicious. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
I also find myself craving sweets during the winter. Banana bread and chocolate chip cookies fall into the comfort food category by my definition. A just-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookie with melty chocolate or a slice of day-old banana bread satisfy my craving for something sugary. I try not to bake often, though, unless I’m shipping a care package to my son in Boston, the grandkids are coming or there’s a birthday to celebrate. Or the bananas on the counter are getting overripe.
Soon I will crave salads like this raspberry chicken salad from the Amboy Cottage Cafe in Amboy. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
In a few months, comfort food will hold less appeal as winter transitions into spring. Then my food focus will turn to fresh asparagus, rhubarb and spinach salad topped with sliced cucumbers, portabella mushrooms, tomatoes and blue cheese made and aged in sandstone caves blocks from my house. I’ll eat healthier, feel less laden by heavy food. But when the seasons shift again to shorter and colder days, I’ll once again crave grilled cheese and tomato soup, mac and cheese, tator tots…all the foods that comfort during a long Minnesota winter.
Chocolate chip cookies baked by a friend. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
A lens on my new prism-free prescription eyeglasses circles the surgery location in Minneapolis. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
After a 1 ½-hour surgery to realign my misaligned eyes, I was still groggy. Yet, Kat noted, I was coming out of general anesthesia quickly and well. For that I felt thankful. Not everyone handles anesthesia without side effects.
Given my emerging level of alertness, I don’t recall timelines or all conversations. But I do remember the kindness of Kat. And kindness is key when you’re coming out of surgery.
There was no vodka in the recovery room (nor did I want any; I seldom drink hard liquor). (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
HERE, HAVE A DRINK
In addition to compassion and care, Kat gave me food and drink. It was well after lunch and I hadn’t consumed anything (except a few sips of water with Tylenol right before surgery) for many hours. Typically I get hangry when I don’t eat on time. Ask my family. Kat brought cranberry juice along with soda crackers and graham crackers and then ginger ale which she suggested I mix with a second cup of cranberry juice, a cocktail without the vodka. (I think Kat mentioned vodka, but maybe I did.) I shared that my Bible study group has a signature cranberry drink, sans the alcohol. Kat kept a watchful eye on me. I hope she didn’t notice that I didn’t particularly like cranberry juice and ginger ale mixed. Too sweet for me.
But I appreciated the sweetness of my caring nurse, who moved to Minnesota from Missouri, who was named Katherine, called Kathy by her mom and then called Kat in college. Kat suits her, even if she owns three dogs, not cats. More on that later.
At some point, before my surgeon came to see me in recovery, Kat suggested I change from my lavender paper gown into my street clothes. I was all for that. She removed my hospital slipper socks and then helped slip my socks and shoes onto my feet. Can’t have a just-out-of-surgery patient getting all lighted-headed by bending down. I managed the rest of dressing myself, proving I was becoming more alert, alert for the next step in surgery completion.
In the recovery room after eye muscle alignment surgery. (Copyrighted photo by Randy Helbling, January 22, 2024)
LOOK AT THAT “E”
Enter my neuro ophthalmologist surgeon, Dr. Collin McClelland, and a second doctor who had been in the operating room. I dreaded this moment when Dr. McClelland planned to tweak his work by pulling an adjustable suture stitched into my left eye.
Alright then. Look at that E across the room. Do you see one or two? Two. (He did some other vision checks, not just with the E, during the alignment process.) After my surgeon dropped a topical anesthetic into my left eye, he removed the steri strips adhering the suture onto my cheek. He hovered over me, his tools and face a blur. Don’t move. Look up to the left. You’re going to feel a tug. Yup. I did. OK, let’s check that E again. One or two? Two. OK, we need to do this again. Tug. Pain. You’re doing great. Check the E for the third time. Mostly one. OK, I’m going to leave it. And then my doctor worked to tie and cut that suture, simultaneously encouraging me with his gentle voice. You’re doing great. The adjustment process took 20 minutes and was made easier by my kind surgeon.
A section of a 1974 album cover from my collection. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
WE’RE OFF TO PROM
Kindness. I felt that in the care I received at M Health Fairview Surgery Center. Skilled care that came with humor and compassion and distractions that enabled me to manage eye muscle surgery. Kind Kat remained after Randy left to get the van from a nearby parking ramp. She escorted me to the restroom, our arms linking as if we were going to prom, Kat said. We needed a song, perhaps John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders,” theme for my 1970s era prom, I suggested. We laughed, Kat and I.
But I wasn’t laughing when we returned to my recovery room and I noticed Randy’s cellphone and charger lying on a chair, hidden beneath a tote bag. He was supposed to call when he reached the patient pick-up spot. But Randy was long gone, so I grabbed his phone and charger. Then Kat wheeled me onto the elevator that carried us downstairs to await Randy’s arrival, “old people” wrap-around sunglasses protecting my eyes. Thanks, Kat, for the (un)fashionable eyewear.
I’m becoming familiar with these two locations on the campus of the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
THE LONG MINNESOTA GOODBYE, SORT OF
I expected Randy to simply drive up. He didn’t. Rather, he retraced his steps in an attempt to find his phone. Kat called someone to clarify I had his phone. As we waited, I grew restless. I just wanted to go home. Kat sensed that, pulling out her phone to show me a picture of her three dogs. Not cats. I appreciated the momentary distraction.
Eventually, Randy arrived and Kat steered me to our van, guiding me into the passenger seat. Then she hugged me. That loving gesture filled me with happiness, as if I was Kat’s sister rather than simply another patient. Happy despite the eye pain. Happy despite the long, exhausting day.
That happiness soon vanished as Randy took a wrong entrance ramp and we found ourselves aiming east toward St. Paul rather than west toward Minneapolis. I was in no mood for a longer trip, even if lengthened by only 15 minutes. But onward, back home to Faribault to rest and begin healing. Five weeks out, I am doing just that, continuing to heal. And I am remembering, too, the many kindnesses and the skilled care given to me by my compassionate medical team.
WEEKS OUT FROM THE SPRING EQUINOX,The Little DQ of Faribault opened for the season with its usual opening weekend special of Peanut Buster Parfaits.
Randy and I, if we remember, stop by for ours each February. We not only like the ice cream treat layered with peanuts and hot fudge, but we also celebrate unshuttering of the small walk-up/drive-up Dairy Queen as the unofficial start of spring in our southern Minnesota community of some 24,400.
We also appreciate a bargain, the parfaits discounted to $2.49 this past weekend as they are for the DQ’s October closing. Last autumn we missed out on final weekend parfaits by two vehicles. At the drive-up window, after we’d patiently waited in line, the DQ employee told us they’d just run out of ice cream. Argh. The early bird gets the worm. Or, in this case, the ice cream.
But on Sunday afternoon, there was ice cream aplenty at the DQ along Faribault’s Lyndale Avenue. And only two vehicles crept ahead of our van to the drive-up window. We would get our pre-spring equinox parfaits.
Just as we placed our treats in cup holders, the sun broke through a previously mostly cloudy day. We considered momentarily sitting outside at a DQ patio table to eat our treats. But the noisy location at the intersection of two busy state highways is not particularly enjoyable. So we headed to a park near our house, settling onto a picnic table next to the playground and soccer field.
Picnic tabletop message. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo February 2024)
Before I even sat, I noticed words printed upon the tabletop: You all are Beautiful. Now I don’t condone graffiti, but I do value positive and uplifting messages in public places. Those words tasted as sweet as my ice cream treat.
As I settled in, the sun warming my back, a slight breeze cooled the afternoon temp of 49 degrees. I reminded myself this was only February 25 and atypical weather in Minnesota. We have had an unusually warm and nearly snow-less winter here. Despite a bit of a chill, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, under the blue sky.
River Bend offers a diverse landscape of woods and prairie. As a prairie native, I especially love the dried prairie grasses, like this singular stem photographed two years ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2022)
Prior to picking up our parfaits, Randy and I hiked at River Bend Nature Center to offset the calories we were about to consume. Or so we told ourselves. Now here we were, spooning way too many calories and too much sodium into our bodies. But sometimes you gotta forget the 710-calorie count, the too much sugar and salt, and indulge. We did.
As Randy held his parfait cup with his winter-gloved hand, I braved the cold against my skin and then worked through an ice cream headache. The faint beat of drums and of music carried across the park, presumably from a gathering down and across the street. We’d watched party-goers arrive and I momentarily considered crashing the house party of these acquaintances.
But I had my Peanut Buster Parfait. I had blue sky. I had sunshine. I had Randy beside me. I had people to watch. Young families arrived to play on the playground and soccer field. Ball and bike. And smiles to match that message: You all are Beautiful.
Beautiful. That word fit the moment on a beautiful February Sunday afternoon in southern Minnesota when I tasted, savored, almost-spring.
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
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