FORTY-THREE YEARS. Three children. Three grandchildren. Three seems the focus number today, the date I married Randy 43 years ago.
It hardly seems possible that so many years, so many decades, have passed since the two of us exchanged vows at St. John’s Lutheran Church in my hometown of Vesta. On the Saturday afternoon of Minnesota’s 1982 weekend fishing opener, we gathered with family and friends in the church on the edge of town a half mile from my childhood family farm.
In hindsight, May was not the best month to choose for a wedding, especially when your dad and most of your paternal relatives are farmers. My parents never said a word about our chosen date of May 8. But my florist sister protested. That was Mother’s Day weekend and she firmly stated that she would not attend our wedding. So we changed the date to a week later. I should have called her bluff.
That aside, our May 15 wedding went on during spring planting season. Dad managed to take time away from the tractor to grill food for the groom’s dinner, to walk me down the aisle and to celebrate afterwards at the Vesta Community Hall. Some farmers missed our wedding to plant corn. And at least one angler opted to go fishing. Choices.
Life is all about choices. Randy and I chose to marry each other. And for that I am thankful. We’ve made a great team, facing life’s challenges and celebrating life’s joys together. I cannot imagine going through the difficult times alone, without Randy’s steady, calming presence. His laid-back, introverted personality balances my more extroverted emotional personality. Sometimes he frustrates me as I’m sure I do him. But it works, this balance.
Our similarities of background have proven a strength in our marriage. We both grew up on crop and dairy farms in families without much money, so we’ve always agreed on finances. At a young age, we were expected to pitch in and do farm chores. As the older among many siblings, we carried more responsibilities. We worked hard. We understood that our parents were counting on us. And when we talk about picking rock, we don’t need to ask, “What are you talking about?” I will say, though, that Randy picked a whole lot more rocks in rocky Morrison County than I did from my dad’s farm fields in Redwood County. But then again, Randy never worked an off-the-farm summer job detasseling corn.
Now here we are, 43 years later, Randy still working hard—full-time as an automotive machinist even though he supposedly retired several years ago. And me still writing and doing photography. But we make a conscious choice now to put our family before jobs. Or more like I “tell” Randy he needs to take off work so we can do whatever, such as travel four hours to Madison, Wisconsin, to see our four-month-old grandson. Oh, and Everett’s parents, too.
I love how Randy supports me in my writing, even attending the many poetry readings I’ve participated in through the years. I doubt my husband ever expected that he would be marrying a poet. Next week, at 6 p.m. on Thursday, May 22, I’m joining four other poets at Books on Central in Faribault to read poetry. Randy will be there in the chairs listening. I just need to “tell” him.
And I need to tell him this also. Happy 43rd anniversary, Randy! I love you! Thank you for being my partner in life.
© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
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