Protesters stand along Minnesota State Highway 19 by Ames Park in Northfield during the June 14 NO KINGS protest. This is one of my favorite signs among the many held by hundreds of protesters. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2025)
I LEANED MY HEAD against Randy’s shoulder, my left hand gripping the rod of a protest sign and a small American flag. I felt such profound sadness in that moment. The moment when a pastor asked for a period of silence in honor of Minnesota State Representative/House Speaker Emerita Melissa Hortman and her husband, Mark, assassinated in their home during the early morning hours of June 14.
Flag Day. Nationwide NO KINGS protest day. A day of gathering turned tragic here in Minnesota.
A strong statement against a system of government by one person with absolute power. I suggest you look up these words, as I had to with some. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2025)
I alternated between leaning into my husband and leaning my bowed head against the bottom of my NO MORE KINGS protest poster held high, the sign with the cursive words, “I value freedom,” scrawled on the back side. The wind blew, swept my hair across my face like a veil covering sadness. The heaviness felt palpable here, in Ames Park in Northfield, along the banks of the Cannon River. But so did the energy.
This shows just a portion of the massive crowd gathered for Northfield’s NO KINGS protest. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2025)
We were a group of hundreds—maybe even a thousand (I’m not good at estimating crowd size)—gathered to publicly express our concerns about leadership in this country, about decisions being made that negatively affect all of us, about the state of and future of our democracy… It was my first protest. Ever. I wanted, needed, to be here. To remain silent seems complicit.
I’d already arrived when a friend texted that Minnesotans had been advised by state law enforcement not to attend NO KINGS protests. That warning linked to the suspect in the shootings of the Hortmans and of State Senator John Hoffman and his wife, Yvette. We would later learn that NO KINGS fliers were found in the vehicle of Vance Boelter, now accused in the double murders and attempted murders.
While your eyes may focus on the protest sign in the middle, look to the right. and this sign: IF NOT ME, WHO? IF NOT NOW, WHEN? (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2025)
That explained why, on the way to the riverside protest, I overheard a woman telling a couple that her police officer son had advised her not to participate in the rally. She was going home. I was not. Nor were any of the others converging on Ames Park at noon. I wasn’t scared. Vested safety people, trained in conflict resolution and de-escalation, were in place. I felt safe in the masses, which, I suppose, is an unrealistic perspective. But I refuse to be silenced by fear, by the words and actions of those who attempt to suppress voices. And intimidate.
And there were those, including the drivers of a white pickup truck and of motorcycles which repeatedly roared past the rally site, spewing their opposition in noise and in political flags bannering messages I won’t repeat. But they, too, have a right to protest. Peacefully. Just as I do. And I wrote that on the back of a second sign: FREE to PROTEST. But, mostly, passing vehicles honked in strong support.
So many positive messages promoting love, compassion, care, kindness… (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2025)
At this rally of people opposing the current administration and its policies and actions, I felt a unity of purpose and a deep, cohesive concern for the future of our country. I felt uplifted, embraced, empowered. Speakers spoke (although I couldn’t hear most). The pastor led us in prayer. We sang—”The Star Spangled Banner” and “We shall overcome.” We cheered. We chanted. We waved our posters and flags. And a group held an over-sized American flag, which I couldn’t see from my vantage point deep in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.
We were mostly an older group. Baby Boomers. Grandparents. Even octogenarians. Perhaps some protested during the Vietnam War. Or served this country. We’ve lived a few years, enough decades to understand that we need to rise up against authoritarianism. Enough to understand what’s at stake. But there were some young people, too, like the dad behind me with his preschool daughter playing in the grass. He clearly cares, if not for himself, but then for his child.
I saw this mural, “The Inheritance of Struggle,” inside the Memorial Student Union at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, Tuesday afternoon. It shows “the contributions made by people of various ethnicities and cultures in the form of tears, sweat, blood and life in the building of the United States.” It’s fitting for today, Juneteenth, and for NO KINGS day. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2025)
The morning after the NO KINGS protest, I left for Madison, Wisconsin, to spend time with my 5-month-old grandson (and his parents). As I snuggled Everett, I thought, he (and my other two grandchildren) are part of the reason I chose to protest. Their lives stretch before them. I want them to live in a country where they are free. Free. I want them to live under a government based on a three-pronged system of checks and balances, not one ruled by a king or some version of a king or dictator. I want them to live in a kind, caring and compassionate country. Not a selfish, uncaring, divisive nation filled with hatred.
I returned to Minnesota yesterday and am catching up on laundry and writing. And, along with my fellow Minnesotans, I’m collectively grieving the assassination of an elected official and her husband. And I’m thinking, this is what it’s come to in Amercia…
A sculpture in a southern Minnesota Catholic church shows Mary holding the hand of Jesus. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
AS A KID, he set up an ironing board as an impromptu altar and made his two brothers attend Mass in their southside Chicago home. They teased, “You’re going to be Pope.” And today Robert “Bob” Prevost is just that, Pope Leo XIV.
I love that story, among the many reported since Prevost was selected by a Conclave of Cardinals to lead the Roman Catholic Church. He is the 267th pope and the first American elected to that powerful position.
From everything I’ve read and heard in media reports, he seems a good choice. His brothers say he will address tough issues (like immigration) and will bring people together. I’ve heard the words “building bridges” used often when referencing Pope Leo XIV. I am hopeful this man, who speaks five languages and who spent most of his church service in Peru, can use his global experiences and perspectives to make a positive difference in the world.
Oh, how we need a leader like him, described as humble, intelligent, calm, a good listener, unafraid to criticize, to be a voice of reason.
Ten years ago I photographed this polaroid picture and comment at an exhibit on voting rights at St. Olaf College in Northfield. This seems applicable to today. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2015)
IN THE 1970s, students at my alma mater, Minnesota State University, Mankato, protested the Vietnam War. Today MSU students are protesting the detainment of an international student and the revocation of visas for five others who attend this southern Minnesota college where I studied journalism.
US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has also detained a student from Riverland Community College in Austin, Minnesota, and from the University of Minnesota in the Twin Cities. Other international students from colleges across the state have also had their visas revoked. The same is happening at college campuses throughout the country. Students snatched off the street, from their apartments, by ICE. Pffff, gone, just like that with no explanation and no initial access to their friends, families and legal assistance. This does not sound like the United States of America I’ve called home my entire life.
I’m not privy to specifics on why particular international students were targeted. But I have read and heard enough reliable media reports to recognize that these are likely not individuals committing terrible crimes, if any crime. In most cases they have done nothing more than voice their opinions whether at a protest or via social media. College campuses have always been a place for students to speak up, to exercise freedom of speech, to be heard. To protest.
I photographed this inside my local public library, not recently, but not all that long ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I’m grateful that student journalists at The Reporter, the Mankato State student newspaper where I worked while in college, are aggressively covering this issue. In particular, I reference the article “SCARED TO LEAVE MY HOUSE’—Mavericks react to ICE-detained student, what’s being done by Emma Johnson. She interviews international students who, for their own protection, chose to remain anonymous. It’s chilling to read their words. Words of fear. Words of disbelief and disappointment in a country where they once felt safe and free. The place where they chose to pursue their education, jumping through all the necessary legal hoops to do so. And now they fear speaking up and are asking their American classmates and others to do so for them. So I am.
We’ve always been a nation that welcomed international students. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I photographed this sign on an American Legion post building in a small southeastern Minnesota community. It’s a reminder that veterans have fought for our freedom, including freedom of speech, and that we have always been a welcoming country. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
These are troubling times. In my life-time, this has always been a nation where we’ve been able to freely express ourselves, where that freedom has been valued. We can agree to disagree. Respectfully. Without name-calling. Without the fear of suppression, retaliation and/or imprisonment. But I see that changing. Daily. And that, my friends, is cause for deep concern.
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NOTE: I welcome respectful conversation. That said, this is my personal blog and I moderate and screen all comments.
Corn rows emerge in a field near Delhi in my native southwestern Minnesota prairie.(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I COME FROM A LONG LINE of engaged citizenry rooted in the rich dark soil of the southwestern Minnesota prairie. On that land, generations of my family used their voices and skills to create change, to make the place they called home a better place. My paternal great grandfather, Rudolph, started that engagement by helping found a Lutheran church in my hometown. Pre-building, congregants met in his farmhouse.
My grandfather, Henry Kletscher, served as school board clerk when Vesta Elementary School was built in the late 1950s. I attended school here. (Vintage photo from my collection)
From that church to school boards to county boards, from elementary schools to high schools to college campuses and more, countless family members have served and continue to serve others by representing them, crafting policies, improving lives. I am proud of that legacy.
Now you might ask, what about you, Audrey? I, too, have served, but in a different capacity. I’ve never held a desire to lead, to run for elected office or even sit on a board. Rather, I’ve observed, used the written word to inform others. During my years working as a newspaper reporter, I covered endless county board, city council, planning and zoning board, school board, caucuses and other meetings. I learned a lot about how government does and doesn’t work during those many hours of scribbling notes, gathering quotes, writing news stories. I learned, too, that individual voices matter and are heard. And I shared that in my unbiased, balanced reporting.
Today I craft writing that is not straight news reporting, because I am no longer a newspaper reporter. Rather, my writing is personal and sometimes opinionated. My voice matters…as much as anyone’s.
An opinion piece I wrote in 1974 for my high school newspaper. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2025)
While coming of age near the end of the Vietnam war, I began writing angsty poetry about the war. I purchased and wore a POW bracelet, a thick silver band that wrapped around my wrist. It was engraved with the name of an American soldier held as a prisoner of war. I also wrote the occasional opinion piece for my high school paper. Not about the war, but on other topics.
A photo of my dad, Elvern Kletscher, taken in 1980. (Photo from mycollection)
It was my dad, a dairy and crop farmer, who inspired me to voice my thoughts in the May 24, 1974, issue of my school paper, Rabbit Tracks. In an opinion piece titled “Farmers Develop Backbone of America,” teenage me wrote about low farm prices and how farmers were struggling to survive. I had witnessed my dad dumping milk down the drain during a nationwide protest by the National Farmers Organization. All these decades later, I more fully understand how difficult that must have been for Dad. He depended on income from milk sales to provide for our family. But he sacrificed and let his voice be heard in that NFO protest.
Spring planting in Minnesota will soon be underway. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Sunday evening I listened to another farmer voice his thoughts, this time in the open mic part of a Town Hall meeting attended by hundreds in nearby Owatonna. He drove from Janesville to share concerns about how tariffs will negatively affect his farming operation via market loss, dropping crop prices and rising costs for everything from tractor parts to fertilizer and fuel. This farmer of 60-plus years pleaded with his Congressman, Representative Brad Finstad (a fourth-generation farmer who was invited but did not attend), to listen and to do something. It was a powerful and particularly emotional delivery.
This was one of the many signs displayed at the Sunday Town Hall in Owatonna. Organizers rightly guessed that Congressman Brad Finstad would not attend. He was also invited to a recent Town Hall in Faribault, but did not show. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2025)
Emotions are running high right now across this country. I cannot imagine anyone who would disagree with that. We may disagree on policies, decisions and leaders. But we still—as of this writing—have a voice, even as efforts to suppress our voices continue. We can protest, like my 82-year-old uncle did on Saturday at the Minnesota State Capitol. We can attend town halls to learn, to speak, to let our voices be heard. We can contact our elected officials via phone and/or email and tell them what we think. We can engage. We can vote.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
A long line of speakers and attendees of all ages addressed numerous topics from veterans’ issues to education to housing to healthcare to democracy and more at the Sunday Town Hall in respectful conversation. The common threads weaving through the event were a deep concern for what is happening in our country and to assure our voices are heard.
The beginning of Mary’s letter to the editor, penned in 1974 for Rabbit Tracks. The headline is so fitting for 2025. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2025)
I leave you with this opinion piece published in the October 15, 1974, issue of my high school newspaper. An 11th grader wrote about posters she created and which students were defacing. Here’s Mary’s closing sentence in a letter to the editor titled “Keep Hands, Pens Off”: A lot of time and effort has been put into these signs and the least you can do is keep your hands off of them. If everyone is so anxious to write something on the wall, make your own posters. How applicable those words are to today.
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NOTE: I welcome respectful conversation here. That said, I moderate all comments on this, my personal blog, and make the final decision on publishing comments.
Lots of jelly beans and other candy were sold in a Minnesota shop I visited years ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
ONCE UPON A TIME in The Land of Plenty, there lived a ruler who, before he took office, declared that he would be king for a day, or some such wordage. He relished power and absolute control with the zeal of a kid unleashed in a candy store. Except even kids in a candy shop realize they can’t devour every piece of sticky taffy, every morsel of chocolate, every jelly bean in sight. Their stomachs would hurt. And they would soon be barfing all over the kingdom.
But the narcissistic leader, who promised to make the country the best it had ever been (because he craved praise and power), apparently did not understand this about consuming too much candy. Or he didn’t care. Once in office, the-man-who-would-be-king gathered his team, granting unfettered powers to one of them in particular. He pulled out his guidebook and magical pen and scrawled his signature across endless pieces of paper imprinted with orders to create an even more wonderful and efficient Land of Plenty, at least in his eyes. Such was his insatiable desire for adoration, domination and control. His plan to become king for a day extended well beyond a day into mindless infinity.
Candy galore in another Minnesota candy shop. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
He proposed acquiring more land to add to his empire, focusing his efforts on the countries of Adanac and Dnalneerg, both of which wanted nothing to do with him, understandably so. But that didn’t stop the ruler from obsessing on the topic, for he was a determined man. Do this. Do that. Say this. Say that. Toss out an endless stream of threats and vitriol and perhaps some of it would stick like gum to the bottom of a shoe.
On and on it went. Each day something new. More taxes, which he called “tariffs” and a good thing for his subjects. He advised those who farmed the land to “have fun.” He fooled no one (OK, maybe some too many) with his spin on tariffs. Mass firings, deportations, funding cuts, closures and more (too many actions to count really) happened daily under the ruler’s authoritarian hand.
If anyone protested, spoke up or voiced opposition, the ruthless leader worked to quiet them. There were street snatchings and threats. Intimidation. Disrespect. Denial. Deflection. Distraction. Lies. Verbal attacks. He used all sorts of tactics to create fear, to suppress anyone who disagreed with him, his team and his/their words and actions. That included bullying the printers, lawyers and judges of the land, calling them all sorts of derogatory names. He threatened to come after them, to silence them, to show them who held the power. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes not.
In this fictional story, chocolates are banned from candy shops. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
Yet, one plan appealed to the unsuspecting masses. And that was the opening of more candy stores, with promises to give away millions, perhaps even billions, of pounds of candy. To qualify, subjects needed only to sign an irrevocable loyalty pledge, which seemed reasonable on the surface. But there’s always the fine print. They would need to agree with the mighty ruler’s ideology and actions or risk losing four years of a free candy supply or, worse yet, be locked up for rebellious attitudes or other so-called subversive acts. If the subjects looked even closer at the fine print, they would see that candy shops were forbidden from carrying chocolate. Surely that would be the deal breaker for most because, well, who doesn’t love chocolate? All candy, in fact, was to be colorless.
Nearly endless flavors of taffy and candy are sold in this mega Minnesota candy shop. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
But most failed to read the fine print, so focused were they on a four-year supply of free candy. Such a sweet deal. They trusted that the ruler had their best interests in mind. He didn’t. Even kids understand that too much candy can cause a tummy ache that leaves them regretting their selfish gluttony.
This, my friends, is no April Fool’s Day joke.
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FYI: While this short story is written as fiction, it is (as is most fiction) rooted in truth. It is also a commentary, a way for me to use my voice. Whether you agree or disagree with the content is your prerogative and right. Just note, though, that this is my personal blog and that I moderate all comments and have the final say in those I choose to publish or not.
An American flag flies in rural Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I DEBATED FOR SEVERAL DAYS whether I should write this post, because it could be misconstrued as purely political. It is not. Rather this is a story about a grassroots gathering of people sharing information, ideas and opinions. Democracy at its core. This story is about us as Americans—listening, learning, agreeing or disagreeing, and letting our voices be heard.
Tuesday evening I attended a town hall meeting in Faribault hosted by DFL Senate District 19. It was open to everyone, regardless of political affiliation. But the crowd was decidedly Democrat, as you would expect given the hosting group. Republican Brad Finstad, who represents the 1st Congressional District in Minnesota, was invited, but did not attend. His district includes parts of Goodhue, Rice (where I live), Steele and Waseca counties in rural southern Minnesota.
Some 300 constituents packed the space, overflowing into adjacent rooms. Yes. Even I was surprised by the turn out. That tells me a whole lot of people have concerns about what is currently happening at the federal level and how government action is, or will, impact them. I expect not a single American will be untouched, whether directly or indirectly, by slashes in government personnel and funding and/or by changes in domestic and foreign policies.
A sculpture at the Northfield Area Veterans Memorial. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Town hall organizers lined up speakers to address topics covering a broad range of subjects affecting a whole lot of people and programs—farmers, education, healthcare, seniors, veterans, those with disabilities, communication, nonprofits and much more. I was impressed by how well prepared these speakers were with facts and statistics. I learned a lot.
A vintage voting booth in the former Northfield, Minnesota, town hall. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I’m not going to give you a detailed report of what each speaker said. Rather, I want to share several messages or phrases which really resonated with me and which should resonate with every American, no matter who they voted for. The phrase “we the people” was repeated by one speaker and embraced by the crowd. “We the people” means us. Americans, not members of one political party or the other. And, yes, I’m well aware of how those words from the preamble to the Constitution are being used politically as a mantra of sorts. But in this context, “we the people” references our right to speak up, to be heard, to tell our elected officials what we think and what we would like them to do as our representatives in Washington DC. That can be done by attending town halls like this; the meeting was video taped and will be sent to Representative Finstad. We can be heard via phone calls, emails and letters. We the people have power in our voices, in our votes, whether Democrat, Republican or Independent.
Photographed on a back country road near Morgan in southwestern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Secondly, a local educator asked the crowd and Finstad to ask themselves this question: “How are the children?” So, yes, how are the children, when many live in poverty, when federal funding for education is in imminent danger of being mostly cut, when…fill in the blank here? I think we can all agree that children are our future and we ought to care about their health, happiness, education and much more.
A pile of wheat. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Third, one of the speakers shared that, as someone of the Catholic faith, he is called upon to help others. He called upon Representative Finstad, who is also Catholic, to do the same. That means feeding the hungry (funding USAID, for example), protecting Medicaid and Social Security, etc. all of those ways and places we help one another as human beings in this country and abroad. Now I’m not Catholic; I’m Lutheran. Doesn’t matter. My faith compels me to show love, compassion and care for others, especially those in need. America once did that as a country. Generously. But that is changing. We have bounty and resources we can share to help starving children, to provide medical care, to help others in any way we can. It is the right thing to do as a nation blessed with great bounty.
Rural Rice County, Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Fourth, a local farmer spoke about $3.2 million in contracts with farmers in our district which have now been broken by the U.S. government. The consequences will be devastating to those farmers who have already invested those federal monies in their operations. Trust has been broken, she said. I think we can all agree that when a legal contract is broken, it’s a breach of trust.
A symbol of freedom, an eagle sculpture at Veterans Memorial Park in Morristown, Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
There’s so much more I could share from that town hall session. But I want to conclude with this. I encourage you, if you have the opportunity to do so, attend a town hall meeting. Listen. Learn. Engage. Let your voice be heard. Remind your elected officials, too, that they need to listen, learn and engage.
FYI: A second Town Hall Meeting hosted by DFL Senate District 19 is set for 6 p.m. Sunday, April 6, at Mineral Springs Brewery, 210 N. Oak Ave., Suite 1, in Owatonna. It will follow the same format as the Faribault Town Hall with a moderator, speakers and an open mic. Representative Brad Finstad has been invited.
Blowing snow reduces visibility during a prior winter storm in Rice County. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
AS I WRITE this Tuesday afternoon, a sense of foreboding looms. Grey, with a tinge of otherworldly light, defines the sky. Branches of bare trees lean. Unbalanced. Darkness encroaches, presses upon the earth with an anticipatory heaviness. By the time you read this, my area of southern Minnesota will be under siege with a full-blown blizzard. Unless the weather forecasters are wrong.
But this time the forecast of up to eight inches of snow with wind gusts topping 55 mph seems likely. I’ve already asked Randy to stay home from work because driving 24 miles in white-out conditions would not be smart. Or safe. The National Weather Service warns of treacherous travel, potentially life-threatening conditions. Power lines and trees laden with heavy wet snow could snap.
The weather rather matches my mood. I feel a sense of foreboding on so many levels. I struggle sometimes to see the light for the grey skies, for the oppressiveness that prevails. I wonder what will happen next. What storm is brewing?
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
During a weather event, I can prepare. Take precautions. Buy bread and milk (note I didn’t write, “buy eggs”). Stay home. Shelter in place. Face whatever comes. I’ve lived through blizzards, wind storms and even a tornado. I am a hardy American who happens to live in Minnesota, next to our wonderful Canadian neighbors.
And so that is the approach I must take. Stand strong against the negative forces. Speak up. Continue to show compassion, care, kindness, love. Hold hope. Understand that blizzards don’t last forever, although this one seems never-ending.
A city of Faribault snowplow hits the road during a past winter storm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Every single snowplow matters in removing burdensome snow from roadways. Imagine what a fleet of snowplows can do against the deepest snow drifted by raging winds. I’ve seen the results. Roads are cleared. The snow melts. The sun shines. Winter ends. The trees bud green. That is my visual hope during these grey days tinged with an otherworldly light.
I AM WRITING THIS OPINIONATED POST with no apologies. As an American woman with a college degree in mass communications (news/editorial emphasis) and experience as a newspaper reporter, I’ve always felt strongly about a free press. Even more so today with threats to that freedom. If you are unaware of current actions against the press, research and read. A free press is a vital part of democracy.
The second page of the Daily News from the August 15, 2017, issue explains the importance of a free press and its role. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2017)
Journalists serve, among other roles, as government watchdogs. That means they, ideally, provide accurate and balanced reporting on government, at all levels. The “fourth estate” holds the government accountable via the stories they write. Not agenda-driven stories shaped by a biased editorial perspective or by information spoon fed to them by a press secretary. But rather stories based on quotes, actions, interviews, facts. Good solid reporting. Not misinformation, disinformation and/or propaganda. I must, though, state the obvious here. Not all sources speak truth to the media. And not all media write truth.
Suppression and criticism of the press are nothing new. Some of the criticism is deserved. Much of it is not. You may like journalists or you may not. That’s not the point. The point is that we need a free press, one unsuppressed/uncensored by those who are in positions of power. If you think otherwise, then look to history and to countries under authoritarian leaders, dictators. Under those leaders, messaging is/has been carefully controlled. Manipulation, intimidation and absolute power rule.
I started my newspaper career at a small town Minnesota weekly, typing my stories on a manual typewriter. This photo was taken in a Hastings antique shop, where I left a message. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
During my journalism career, I have not been immune to those who wanted to control what I wrote. They did that sometimes in a back door way via criticizing me and my work and/or by shutting me out. Thankfully, my editors always had my back.
Let me give you some examples. While covering a school board meeting for a small town southern Minnesota weekly, a teacher said some things that were controversial. Decades out, I can’t recall details. But I do remember how this teacher fumed about my quoting him in a news story. The quote did not reflect favorably on him. But he made the statement at a public meeting. And it needed to be reported. Readers could decide what they thought of his comments.
In that same community, a local realtor called me out for quoting him in a story about a city council meeting. Again, I don’t remember details. But he was absolutely irate and verbally attacked and bullied me for what I’d written. (Sound familiar? Bullying. Fake news.) My reporting was accurate. I was not about to cave to his pressure. Once again, my editor stood up for me. He knew I demanded the best of myself in my work and that I would settle for nothing less than fair and accurate reporting.
Flash ahead to a different small town where I, once again, found myself despised. This time by a school superintendent. He didn’t like that I covered a student walk-out. It happened. I observed, interviewed him and students. And he retaliated. Every time I attended a school board meeting, he refused to give me an agenda or the packet of information distributed to board members and to the editor of the local weekly newspaper. (I worked for a regional daily.) He refused to talk to me. He made no effort to hide his disdain or to make information accessible to me. His was clearly an effort to stop me from reporting on anything school related, including school board meetings. His strategy did not work.
Published in the Faribault Daily News in August 2017 as part of the “Whiteout” campaign. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2017)
Attacks on journalists have become more rabid in recent years. I think we can all agree on that. Don’t kill the messenger for the message he/she delivers. Respect those journalists who truly are doing their best to report fairly and accurately and who hold themselves and their work to high standards. Turn to those reliable sources for news.
Certainly, some media outlets and journalists are incredibly biased with specific agendas. They have become mouthpieces for government leaders, political parties and issues. I’m not praising those who are manipulating people to shape public opinion and to push ideas. Unfortunately, though, I see more and more government leaders, politicians and others targeting dedicated-to-the-craft journalists. These hardworking reporters are being shut out, degraded and abused because they accurately report what they see and hear in their watchdog role. Kinda like me with that small town school superintendent decades ago, just a lot more amplified and with much more serious consequences.
Thankfully, plenty of journalists committed to writing the truth still remain. They are strong men and women of integrity and morals who give a damn about democracy and a free press. Now, more than ever, we need to recognize the value of a free press, underscore FREE. Even though I no longer work as a newspaper journalist, I still strongly value freedom of the press. It is, always has been, a cornerstone of democracy.
(Book cover sourced online)
FYI: I encourage you to read Chasing Hope—A Reporter’s Life by Nicholas D. Kristof, currently an op-ed columnist for The New York Times. The two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist worked as a foreign correspondent in Hong Kong, Beijing and Tokyo. He witnessed some pretty horrible atrocities—including the massacre in Tiananmen Square, the genocide in Darfur and much more—and offers remarkable insights via his experiences, observations and exceptional storytelling.
Of special note in Kristof’s book is a reference to an August 2008 campaign rally in Lakeville, Minnesota, which the author calls “one of the finest moments in American politics in my lifetime.” Kristof shares a story about Senator John McCain, who was then vying for the Republican Presidential nomination. I refer you to pages 239 and 240 in Chasing Hope. This book is worth the read for that story alone. It will give you hope. And, no, I’m not telling you more. Read the book.
A photo I took of a sharing library in Pine River, Minnesota, prompted me to write this essay. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2024)
IF I WAS A REBEL, and I’m not (although a streak of defiance runs through my veins), I’d write a strongly opinionated piece on a controversial topic.
But I don’t like conflict. I prefer status quo to chaos, normalcy to the unexpected. Yet, that is not reality. Life can be easy and hard and good and awful and a whole mix of everything. Sort of like Sideways Arithmetic from Wayside School. I like school. Never liked math.
Nor do I particularly like William Shakespeare’s work with the exception of Romeo and Juliet. Who doesn’t love a love story, even if tragic? Shakespeare’s other writing seems archaic, boring and impossibly unrelatable. I offer no apologies for that view.
I am decidedly a fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, who certainly has her critics, too. But her detail-rich writing in Little House in the Big Woods, On the Banks of Plum Creek, Little Town on the Prairie and more inspires me as a writer. Plus, I grew up some 25 miles from Walnut Grove, smack dab in the middle of the Minnesota prairie. When you live in a land of wide open spaces, big skies and sweeping winds, you approach writing from a detailed perspective that engages all the senses.
I can’t make much sense of sweeping Absolute Power, which has nothing to do with the senses. Not common sense anyway. Common sense tells me Spider Man is not real. Nor are heroes of the Justice League. Yet, I’d like to call in Superman, Wonder Woman and other superheroes to tackle the threats facing us today, and save the day.
Or perhaps strong-willed orphan Sally Lockhart of The Ruby in the Smoke could clear the smoke obscuring vision. Her experiences dealing with unseemly types qualifies her, in my opinion, to take on anything. Like uncovering lies, aggression, narcissism, manipulation and diversionary tactics. I appoint her to abolish the Department of Government E, or something like that, for starters.
Yes, there’s lots to contemplate. But today I’ve escaped to the sharing library, visually pulled a few books from the shelf to create this essay. And if nothing I’ve written resonates with you, then consider Lunkers Love Nightcrawlers. Head to the lake with a container of nightcrawlers, drop your baited line in the open water or drill a hole in the ice. Fish for answers. Good luck.
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NOTE: I’ve underlined the titles of books from the sharing library which I’ve incorporated into this essay.This essay is not the piece I wrote for the contest I referenced here last week.
Seeking help in Monticello. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2022)
THIS MORNING IN READING one of two daily devotionals, I was reminded of the need to help others. The referenced scripture, Leviticus 25: 35-37, published with the October 6 Our Daily Bread devotion, brought back a scene which unfolded recently in Monticello.
On our way home from a short stay at a family member’s central Minnesota lake cabin, I spotted a woman holding a sign along State Highway 25 just before the Interstate 94 overpass. She stood in a center island, at a stoplight, traffic swarming around her. Her sign, with many misspellings, requested help for her and her three children. Help to pay for food and rent. Basic needs.
I felt in that moment a sense of compassion, yet an inability to aid this woman. And, I admit, I also felt a bit of uncertainty, a hesitancy, a questioning of whether she truly was in need. That reaction bothers me. Why couldn’t I simply trust the truthfulness of her request?
That brings me back to Leviticus, chapter 25, verse 35:
If one of your countrymen becomes poor and is unable to support himself among you, help him as you would an alien or a temporary resident, so he can continue to live among you.
That’s a powerful directive. Help him, or in the case of the woman in Monticello, her. Whether you are a person of faith or not, the Bible holds important messages that today fit the definition of “social justice.” Compassion. Mercy. Grace.
Not all of us are in a financial position to assist with gifts of money. But there are many other ways to help our friends, family, neighbors and, yes, even strangers. Encourage via kind and supportive words—written or spoken. I like to send uplifting cards with handwritten notes of encouragement. Pray. Engage in conversation, mostly listening. It’s about taking the focus off ourselves and placing it on others. Educate yourself via reading, attending community events that enlighten and more. Volunteer.
The woman in Monticello, even though I couldn’t aid her, gives me pause to reflect. So many people are struggling. With health issues, relationships, finances, simply trying to meet basic needs. Throw in the current divisiveness in this country, an ongoing pandemic, worldwide threats and conflicts, and the situation can feel overwhelming. Yet, we are all capable of doing something. Of reaching out with compassion and care. Of connecting. Of encouraging, supporting, uplifting in some way, large or small, that shows our humanity.
TELL ME: In what ways have you helped others, whether family, friends or strangers? Specifics are especially welcome.
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
In which I protest, grieve & reflect June 19, 2025
Tags: America, assassination, commentary, government, grief, June 14, Minnesota, mural, news, NO KINGS protest, Northfield, protest, protest signs, reflections, Rep. Melissa Hortman, Sen. John Hoffman, thoughts, United States
I LEANED MY HEAD against Randy’s shoulder, my left hand gripping the rod of a protest sign and a small American flag. I felt such profound sadness in that moment. The moment when a pastor asked for a period of silence in honor of Minnesota State Representative/House Speaker Emerita Melissa Hortman and her husband, Mark, assassinated in their home during the early morning hours of June 14.
Flag Day. Nationwide NO KINGS protest day. A day of gathering turned tragic here in Minnesota.
I alternated between leaning into my husband and leaning my bowed head against the bottom of my NO MORE KINGS protest poster held high, the sign with the cursive words, “I value freedom,” scrawled on the back side. The wind blew, swept my hair across my face like a veil covering sadness. The heaviness felt palpable here, in Ames Park in Northfield, along the banks of the Cannon River. But so did the energy.
We were a group of hundreds—maybe even a thousand (I’m not good at estimating crowd size)—gathered to publicly express our concerns about leadership in this country, about decisions being made that negatively affect all of us, about the state of and future of our democracy… It was my first protest. Ever. I wanted, needed, to be here. To remain silent seems complicit.
I’d already arrived when a friend texted that Minnesotans had been advised by state law enforcement not to attend NO KINGS protests. That warning linked to the suspect in the shootings of the Hortmans and of State Senator John Hoffman and his wife, Yvette. We would later learn that NO KINGS fliers were found in the vehicle of Vance Boelter, now accused in the double murders and attempted murders.
That explained why, on the way to the riverside protest, I overheard a woman telling a couple that her police officer son had advised her not to participate in the rally. She was going home. I was not. Nor were any of the others converging on Ames Park at noon. I wasn’t scared. Vested safety people, trained in conflict resolution and de-escalation, were in place. I felt safe in the masses, which, I suppose, is an unrealistic perspective. But I refuse to be silenced by fear, by the words and actions of those who attempt to suppress voices. And intimidate.
And there were those, including the drivers of a white pickup truck and of motorcycles which repeatedly roared past the rally site, spewing their opposition in noise and in political flags bannering messages I won’t repeat. But they, too, have a right to protest. Peacefully. Just as I do. And I wrote that on the back of a second sign: FREE to PROTEST. But, mostly, passing vehicles honked in strong support.
At this rally of people opposing the current administration and its policies and actions, I felt a unity of purpose and a deep, cohesive concern for the future of our country. I felt uplifted, embraced, empowered. Speakers spoke (although I couldn’t hear most). The pastor led us in prayer. We sang—”The Star Spangled Banner” and “We shall overcome.” We cheered. We chanted. We waved our posters and flags. And a group held an over-sized American flag, which I couldn’t see from my vantage point deep in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.
We were mostly an older group. Baby Boomers. Grandparents. Even octogenarians. Perhaps some protested during the Vietnam War. Or served this country. We’ve lived a few years, enough decades to understand that we need to rise up against authoritarianism. Enough to understand what’s at stake. But there were some young people, too, like the dad behind me with his preschool daughter playing in the grass. He clearly cares, if not for himself, but then for his child.
The morning after the NO KINGS protest, I left for Madison, Wisconsin, to spend time with my 5-month-old grandson (and his parents). As I snuggled Everett, I thought, he (and my other two grandchildren) are part of the reason I chose to protest. Their lives stretch before them. I want them to live in a country where they are free. Free. I want them to live under a government based on a three-pronged system of checks and balances, not one ruled by a king or some version of a king or dictator. I want them to live in a kind, caring and compassionate country. Not a selfish, uncaring, divisive nation filled with hatred.
I returned to Minnesota yesterday and am catching up on laundry and writing. And, along with my fellow Minnesotans, I’m collectively grieving the assassination of an elected official and her husband. And I’m thinking, this is what it’s come to in Amercia…
© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling