Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Viewing North Korea’s threats from a personal perspective April 5, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:31 AM
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HAVE YOU CONSIDERED North Korea and the recent missile threats lobbed against the U.S.?

I have.

U.S. Army Cpl. Elvern Kletscher, my father, in the trenches in Korea.

U.S. Army Cpl. Elvern Kletscher, my father, in the trenches in Korea.

For me it’s personal. Personal because some 60 years ago my father, dead 10 years now, fought as an infantryman in the Korean War. On February 26, 1953, he was struck by shrapnel at Heart Break Ridge. In May 2000, he was awarded a Purple Heart for those wounds. I don’t need to explain Heart Break Ridge. The name tells the story.

Today I reflect on his horrible experiences there and wonder whether that war was worth all the death, all the physical and psychological damage inflicted upon those who fought? Like my dad.

I suppose you could wonder this about any war. Was the war worth the lives lost, the lives changed?

The answer to that question cannot be tidied into a succinct statement, for the response would vary depending on your perspective—perhaps as a soldier, a parent who lost a son or daughter, the daughter who watched her father struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

War is never neat and tidy, but rather complicated.

Did the Korean War halt the spread of Communism? Yes, in the south.

This photo, pulled from the shoebox which holds my dad's military photos, is simply labeled "front line." That would be "front line" as in Korea, where my soldier father fought.

This photo, pulled from the shoebox which holds my dad’s military photos, is simply labeled “front line.” That would be “front line” as in Korea, where my soldier father fought.

Yet, despite the signing of a truce, a definite uneasiness has existed between the two Koreas, separated by a 155-mile long, 2.5-mile wide fortified Demilitarized Zone, for 60 years.

Now North Korea’s new leader, Kim Jong-un, has thrown the region into even more uncertainty by his actions and threatened actions. I won’t expound, only note that when I heard mention of North Korean missiles on standby to possibly strike U.S. targets in  Hawaii, Washington, Los Angeles and Austin (Texas), I listened. Anytime a specific place in the U.S. is named, the entire situation becomes much more personal.

I suppose that is part of the strategy, to heighten anxieties. With so much information out there, whom do we believe? Is North Korea capable? Is it not?

This photo from my dad's collection is tagged as "Kim, Rowe, Allen & me, May 1953 Machine Gun Crew." That's my father on the right.

This photo from my dad’s collection is tagged as “Kim, Rowe, Allen & me, May 1953 Machine Gun Crew.” That’s my father on the right.

What would my Dad, who termed Korea “a hell hole,” say about all of this?

What would Teri Rae say about all of this? She was only six weeks old when her dad died. My father witnessed Ray’s death on the battlefield. (Click here to read about Ray.) He never forgot. I’ve never forgotten either the heart-wrenching and horrific story of the Nebraska soldier who never returned home to his wife or his first-born.

These are my thoughts as I consider the unsettling situation unfolding in Korea.

What are your thoughts?

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

In loving memory of my farmer dad April 3, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:56 AM
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The barn where I labored alongside my father while growing up on the southwestern Minnesota prairie. File photo.

The barn where I labored alongside my father while growing up on the southwestern Minnesota prairie. File photo.

CALL ME THE BARD of barns, if you will, for barns have inspired me to pen poetic words and to compose poetic photos.

There is something about a barn rising strong and majestic or sagging with the burden of age that moves me. I am reminded of my childhood years toiling in the barn—scraping manure, wheeling ground corn in the wheelbarrow, forking silage.

Cats clumped in corners. Buckle overshoes slapping against cement. WCCO booming “Point of Law.”

Fly specks. Pink baby mice. Long sandpaper cow tongues.

The milkhouse, attached to family barn. File photo.

The abandoned milkhouse, attached to family barn. File photo.

Stuck drinking cups overflowing. Twine on bales. Pails of frothy milk.

Cracked, chapped bleeding hands slimed with Cornhuskers lotion.

Footsteps of my father. Time with Dad. Gone 10 years ago today.

A snippet of the land my father farmed, my middle brother after him. The land and farm site are now rented out.

A snippet of the land my father farmed, my middle brother after him. The land and farm site are now rented out.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The squirrels what? March 30, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 3:02 PM
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MY SECOND DAUGHTER phoned the other day, just to talk. The conversation turned to Easter, which she will celebrate alone or in a Wisconsin hospital. She’s a Spanish medical interpreter and will be on call on Easter.

“Are you sending me a chocolate bunny?” she asked.

I guess I am now, I thought, then the next day purchased and mailed a chocolate bunny.

That got me thinking about Easter traditions, like the chocolate bunnies we give our kids. And dying eggs. And Easter morning church services. And Easter egg hunts, once a part of extended family Easter dinners, now in the past as we don’t all gather anymore.

Traveling through Madison Lake last weekend, I noticed this sign for an Easter egg hunt.

Traveling through Madison Lake last weekend, I noticed this sign for an Easter egg hunt.

But many communities still have community Easter egg hunts, like the one held at the Rice County Fairgrounds in Faribault last weekend and the one this morning on the campus of Shattuck-St. Mary’s School.

I remember, as a child, participating once in an Easter egg hunt at the Redwood Falls High School football field several blocks from by grandpa’s house. We searched for hard-boiled dyed eggs, not flimsy plastic orbs manufactured in China. The finders of the few golden eggs each received a dollar bill. The rest of us got, well, boiled eggs. And we were happy.

I heard on the radio yesterday that the city of Richfield had a problem with theft at this year’s egg hunt. Seems the squirrels nabbed some of the eggs.

That does not surprise me. I recall watching a squirrel steal my niece’s pink plastic egg during an Easter egg hunt many years ago. She was practically in tears. Over an egg.

Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Buried in snow March 26, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:55 AM
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I WANTED TO VISIT his grave, touch the cold stone with my gloved hands, allow my eyes to linger on his name, to remember my dad, dead 10 years now on April 3.

A trip back to my hometown to visit my mom had thrown me into a temporary melancholy mood as I lounged on her loveseat, head crooked into a pillow, legs angled up as we talked about aging and death and funerals (too many recently).

When I mentioned that I’d often thought about the safety layers of generations separating me from death, my husband glanced at me like I was crazy. My 80-year-old mom understood, though.

The road past the Vesta Cemetery, which sits just outside of this southwestern Minnesota town of some 330.

The road past the Vesta Cemetery, left, which sits just outside of this southwestern Minnesota town of some 330. You can see a portion of Vesta’s grain complex to the right.

Later, she stayed back at her house while Randy and I drove out to the cemetery, to honor my dad whose gravesite I do not visit often enough because busyness and blizzards have kept me from the prairie in recent months.

We headed north out of town along Cemetery Road, tires crunching on gravel, toward the cemetery edged by evergreen trees. At my feet, the short black snowboots I’d borrowed from my mom bumped against my legs.

Some of the gravestones are barely peeking out of the snow.

Some of the gravestones are barely peeking out of the snow.

I wondered aloud whether the cemetery roads would be plowed of snow swept in by prairie winds. A few blocks later I spotted waves of snow washing over tombstones and roadways. I could not reach my dad’s grave without snowshoes or a snowmobile.

The closest I would get to my dad's grave was viewing the cemetery through t

The closest I would get to my dad’s grave was viewing the cemetery through the van windows.

We eased past the cemetery, drove down to the first farm place to the north, turned around in the driveway and crept past the cemetery again, back into town.

I carried my mom’s boots inside, snugged them into a corner of her kitchen, before reclaiming my place on her loveseat.

I told her about the tombstones buried in snow. Then we talked about dad’s funeral—the bitter cold of that April day, the cutting wind.

And I remembered, although I did not speak this, how I’d perched on a hard folding chair in that hilltop cemetery 10 years ago, leaned toward my mother shivering in cold and in grief, and wrapped my arm around her.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The proposal March 20, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:15 AM
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HE ASKED.

She said, “Yes!”

And I’m going to be the mother-of-the-bride.

Monday evening, on the one-year anniversary of dating, Marc proposed to my eldest, Amber.

Marc and Amber, newly-engaged and celebrating at the St. Paul Grill. Marc ordered a steak, saying, "That is what a man does after he asks a woman to marry him."

Marc and Amber, newly-engaged and celebrating at the St. Paul Grill. Marc ordered a steak, saying, “That is what a man does after he asks a woman to marry him.”

I am excited and happy and thrilled, all those joyful words reserved for those occasions when you feel blessed beyond measure.

I am going to be a mother-in-law, welcoming a wonderful son-in-law into our family. Marc is all I could ever hope for in my daughter’s husband. He is a man of faith. He loves and cherishes my girl and makes her incredibly happy.

From the first photo I saw of the two of them together, I knew, just knew, they were totally head over heels in love. I could see it in their eyes, in their broad smiles, in the way they leaned into one another. I just knew.

Amber and Marc in Bakersfield, Ca., Marc's hometown.

Amber and Marc in Bakersfield, Ca., Marc’s hometown.

For months they long-distance dated, flying back and forth between LA and Minneapolis. The time between visits grew shorter until, finally, Marc relocated to St. Paul last October, shortening their dating miles to the drive between the Twin Cities.

I understood, with absolute certainty then, that this relationship would result in an eventual proposal of marriage.

The ring.

The ring. Beautiful.

The obvious question, then, is how did these two, a native Minnesotan and a native Californian, meet? Beth, a college friend (of Amber) who lives in California and who met Marc via another college friend, thought the two would be a good match. Text messages, Facebook exchanges and phone conversations preceded their first date in March of last year.

I became aware of Marc only after Amber, who had visited Beth in the fall of 2011, announced in March 2012 that she was flying to California. Again.

“Why would you want to go to California?” I inquired of her. “You were just there.”

“Well, there’s this boy…”

Now that boy will become my daughter’s husband.

I snapped this photo of Marc and Amber walking across the parking lot at Faribault High School after my son's graduation in early June. It's one of my favorite images of the couple.

I snapped this photo of Marc and Amber walking across the parking lot at Faribault High School after my son’s graduation in early June. It’s one of my favorite images of the couple just because, ya know, it’s so sweet. Now they are walking into their future together.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Photos courtesy of Amber and Marc

 

Some green bling to wow you on St. Patrick’s Day March 17, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 3:32 PM
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I AM A JEANS AND T-SHIRT kind of girl woman. Casual attire defines my wardrobe.

I dislike shopping, especially for clothes and jewelry, which shouldn’t surprise anyone, especially my next-youngest sister. She received my hand-me-downs when we were growing up. Fashion was not my forte, she will tell you.

She would be right. I want comfort and casual in clothes and if those clothes also happen to be fashionable, well then that’s a bonus.

The same goes for jewelry. I’m your basic wedding/engagement ring, earrings and wristwatch kind of accessorizing woman. Sometimes I’ll throw a necklace or scarf around my neck when I dress up. Typically those accessories have been given to me by the daughters who have considerable more fashion sense than me.

Likewise, my husband seems to possess a certain ability to choose jewelry that appeals to me. Just look at these earrings he gave me for our 30th wedding anniversary last May.

My “Sweet Romance” 30th anniversary earrings.

My mouth gaped when I saw all this sparkly bling in my favorite color, green. I was speechless for a moment as I viewed the “gems” (no, they are not “real”) which remind me of my mother’s vintage rhinestone earrings and necklaces. I love, love, love these earrings.

However, I have nothing fancy enough in my limited wardrobe to match their beauty. But I don’t care.

This morning after church I pulled on a green plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Then I slipped designer Shelley Cooper’s “Sweet Romance” earrings into my pierced ears and thought of my sweet husband who has a knack for mostly (there was that scented hot pad) choosing gifts I love.

And what’s not to love about Cooper’s jewelry line? According to her website, this Californian…

…is a jewelry artist, designer, historian, and businesswoman who has nurtured a love of antique jewelry into a flourishing design and manufacturing company that exquisitely produces the original collections of Sweet Romance. Her designs, derived from a life-long study of antique and vintage jewelry, radiate the authenticity and spirit of many eras of fashion history.

The collection’s legacy designs enfold stories and memoirs about jewelry, the women who inspired it, and the historical times that gave it expression. These storylines illuminate the lives and times of queens and consorts, fashion doyennes and socialites, vamps and starlets, dreamers and romantics, and our great-grandmothers.

I’m no queen or consort, fashion doyenne or socialite, vamp or starlet, or even a grandma. But I suppose, as a writer, I could be considered a dreamer and a romantic. And now I have the earrings to prove it.

FYI: This unofficial endorsement of Shelley Cooper’s “Sweet Romance” jewelry line was unsolicited and written solely because I love the earrings. My husband paid full retail price for the earrings purchased at Crossings at Carnegie in Zumbrota and Ms. Cooper certainly does not know me, a mostly unfashionable Minnesota blogger.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

“It was a dark and stormy night…” March 15, 2013

Snoopy's GuideJUST THINKING about the scene—my husband and kids lying belly down on the carpet reading the Sunday funnies—makes me smile.

My mother’s heart swelled with love to witness this weekly connection between father and daughters/son. Back then, I considered only that bonding aspect, that break from full-time mothering, the laughter that spilled from the living room.

I’ve never been a reader of comics, considering them a waste of time. Besides that, I’m a serious person, not inclined to reading anything remotely humorous. But now, at age 56, it is not too late to admit that I was wrong. Comics offer not only laughter, but insights into life and much more. Duh.

Thanks to Minnesota writer Sue Ready, who blogs at Ever Ready, I discovered the value in comic strips via her recommended reading of Snoopy’s Guide to the Writing Life, published in 2002 by Writer’s Digest Books and edited by Barnaby Conrad and Monte Schulz.

It was the title, not the comedic aspect, which grabbed my attention. I am always interested in reading about writing and this volume offers insights from noted authors like Ray Bradbury, Fannie Flagg and Danielle Steel, among about two dozen others.

Their advice, though, isn’t presented in a straight-forward manner. Rather, the selected writers are prompted by cartoonist Charles M. Schulz’s Snoopy strips, specifically featuring Snoopy the writer at his doghouse rooftop typewriter.

Why had I forgotten that Snoopy was a writer? Perhaps because I have not read all that many Peanuts cartoons.

Snoopy faces the sometime issues of writer’s bloc, criticism (from the ever present loud-mouthed Lucy), rejection and more. But the problems somehow seem funny when faced by Snoopy and not me.

The canine is stuck on beginning his stories with “It was a dark and stormy night,” or a slightly revised version. How often do we writers also become stuck, writing in the same way or, even worse, writing how we think we should write?

Author Fannie Flagg advises:

The joy about writing is that as long as you write from your heart, a thousand English degrees cannot compete with that.

How true. Readers can sense when you write from your heart.

I found Snoopy’s Guide to the Writing Life packed with pieces of useful advice, some which I already knew, some not. Here are some paraphrased gems I plucked from the book:

  • Too much time on the typewriter (translate computer) can cause double vision. (Correct.)
  • Avoid boring descriptions and heavy explanations.
  • Understand your subject and your market.
  • Surprise is an important element of humor (and writing in general, might I add).
  • Stop seeking approval and advice and trust your instincts.
  • “Try to leave out the parts that readers skip” (direct quote that I could not paraphrase).
  • Plot develops from character, a point emphasized by more than one writer.
  • Just write. Every day.

Now, one of my favorite lines comes from Monte Schulz, the son of Peanuts creator Charles M. Schulz. Monte surmises that writers write “for the music of beautiful language.” I love that phrase because I totally get what he means. As a writer, and especially as a poet, my heart rejoices when I find the exact word or line which makes my poem sing. It is a glorious moment.

Then, on the second to last page of Snoopy’s Guide, writer J.F. Freedman throws in that element of surprise, at least for me, when he writes:

 Great comic strips…are a fine introduction into literature, and are damn good writing in and of themselves…

And after reading (in this book) more than 180 “Snoopy at the typewriter” comic strips, likely more comics than I’ve read in my life, I’d agree with Freedman. Damn good writing, indeed.

WHAT WRITING TIPS can you offer? Let’s hear them.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Shopping for antiques in St. Peter is like way cool March 14, 2013

IF YOU HAD PREDICTED 40 years ago that I would be poking around antique stores someday, celebrating the past, remembering the days of my youth, I would have rolled my eyes.

The mere suggestion of such behavior would rate as totally uncool.

But long ago I discovered that antiquing is, indeed, cool, if not downright groovy. Just to be clear, I categorize 1970s merchandise as collectibles, not antiques.

Patrick's on 3rd anchors the corner on the left with Diamonds in the RUST on the right. Diamonds sells merchandise from antiques to present. Love that name.

Patrick’s on 3rd (bar and restaurant) anchors the corner on the left with Diamonds in the RUST on the right. Diamonds sells merchandise from antiques to present. Love that name.

That said, when I entered the charming Diamonds in the RUST shop along Park Row Street three doors down from Patrick’s on 3rd, which I’m told makes the best burgers in St. Peter, I automatically fell in love with the place.

Diamonds in the RUST, looking toward the front of the store.

Diamonds in the RUST, looking toward the front of the store.

See how the sunlight streams through those windows and onto the floor and merchandise.

Love how the sunlight streams through those windows and onto the floor and merchandise.

Light flooding through a street-side bank of tall windows, patches of sunlight slipping across the wood floor, artfully arranged merchandise and then, that most fabulous find of all, a Joseph’s coat of many colors sweater, defined this as one happin’ place.

Seventies coming of age child that I am, my eyes connected with that multi-colored sweater like a hippie drawn to a peace symbol.

The sweater similar to one I wore in the 70s.

The sweater similar to one I wore in the 70s.

“I had a sweater just like that,” I shared with the shopkeeper, although, on closer inspection, I discovered this to be a Tommy Hilfiger replica and not exactly like the sweater I paired with my hip huggers. Oh, well, I thought, and then wondered aloud if my mom, the keeper of everything, had saved that groovy sweater from my teen years. It’s possible; I recently retrieved lime green cuffed, flared pants, with about a size 18-inch waist (was I really that tiny once?), from her basement.

Ah, how antiquing prompts memories…

I own a vintage Chinese checkers board similar to these, found at a garage sale 30 years ago.

I own a vintage Chinese checkers board similar to these, one I found at a garage sale 30 years ago.

Then I spotted two Chinese checkers boards flaunting their psychedelic hues. I always connect Chinese checkers with my farmer dad, gone 10 years now. He never had time for board games. But pull out the metal Chinese checkers game and he was right there with the rest of us gathered around the Formica kitchen table, his clumsy fingers guiding marbles into place.

I would never buy a dead (or live) pheasant, but someone might.

I would never buy a dead (or live) pheasant, but someone might.

More memories of my dad surfaced when I sighted a taxidermy pheasant perched on a slip of wood set upon that beautiful wood floor. I am not a hunter. But, as a child, I would occasionally accompany Dad on his way to the slough—a grassy waterhole long ago drained and converted to farmland—to hunt for pheasants. It wasn’t the actual act of walking the land, searching for pheasants, that appealed to me. Rather, it was the rare opportunity to be with Dad when he was not in the barn or field that drew me to the hunt. I did not understand that then. But I do now.

Pheasant glasses like this are coveted by some members of my extended family.

Pheasant glasses like this are coveted by some members of my extended family.

I didn’t purchase any of those memory items at Diamonds in the RUST, only snapped photos, including one of a set of pheasant glasses that would interest my middle brother or niece’s husband.

A snippet of downtown St. Peter, along Highway 169.

A snippet of downtown St. Peter, along busy U.S. Highway 169.

Down the block and around the corner, walking St. Peter’s main drag, I slipped into a memory lane high when my husband discovered copies of Tiger Beat magazine in another antique store. Oh, my heart. The Beatles. The Monkees.

My beloved Tiger Beat magazine.

My beloved Tiger Beat magazine.

Cousin Joyce, who was two months younger than me, but way more worldly because she had two older sisters and therefore knew about stuff like boys, green eye shadow, David Cassidy and fishnet stockings long before me, introduced me to Tiger Beat. Back in the days when relatives still “visited” each other, Joyce and I would stretch out on her bed stomach side down, knees crooked, feet rocking, paging through the pages of Tiger Beat. And for a few hours I felt like I was hip and, mostly, totally, in love.

BONUS PHOTOS:

Another 70s find in an antique store that was closing for good on the day we shopped there.

A 70s bridal gown found in an antique store that was closing for good on the day I shopped there.

Love that cobalt blue in glassware showcased at Diamonds in the RUST.

Love that cobalt blue in glassware showcased at Diamonds in the RUST.

The whimsical design of these elephant glasses (shot glasses/juice glasses?) caught my fancy at Diamonds in the RUST.

The whimsical design of these elephant glasses (shot glasses/juice glasses?) caught my fancy at Diamonds in the RUST.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

This Minnesota mom welcomes her daughter back from Argentina, again March 12, 2013

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:16 AM
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WE RETRIEVED HER between bouts of morning and late afternoon snowfall from the parking lot of the Culver’s restaurant in Lakeville, wrapping winter coat arms around her thin frame.

Miranda in Valles Calchaquies, near the town of Cafayate in the Salta province.

Miranda in Valles Calchaquies, near the town of Cafayate in the Salta province.

She, her arms and torso snugged in a borrowed red parka, shivered in the Minnesota winter. Already she missed her beloved Argentina where the summer sun’s rays brushed bronze upon her skin.

As she and her dad lifted her travel-worn suitcase and lavender backpack from the trunk of her sister’s car, shifting them into the trunk of ours, I savored the sweet moment of her homecoming. Nearly four weeks earlier I’d embraced my second-born, tears trailing down my cheeks as she turned away. The scene of her wheeling that suitcase, slipping through the airport doors, remains imprinted upon my memory.

But on this Sunday afternoon, joy defined the minutes, the hour, in which all three of my adult children (it always seems odd to write that contradiction of words, “adult children”) and the boyfriend of the eldest, slid into a corner booth at Culver’s. The restaurant marked a deliberate dining choice by the oldest daughter whose sister once raved about the fast food eatery. Ironically, it’s headquartered in Wisconsin, where the returning traveler now lives.

Unique restaurant architecture in Cafayate, Salta province.

Unique restaurant architecture in Cafayate, Salta province.

I truly cared not where we ate. Rather, I cared that my family surrounded me. With two of my three now living 300 miles away in opposite directions, such togetherness happens only a few times a year. I am not complaining as many more miles, even oceans, separate families.

A tango band performs on the street during a fair in San Telmo barrio of Buenos Aires.

A tango band performs on the street during a fair in San Telmo barrio of Buenos Aires.

But tucked deep into the recesses of my mother’s worries exists the possibility that my second daughter, some day, will return to Argentina. Permanently. Twice she’s lived there, once visited. She’s been mistaken already numerous times as a local, Spanish flowing fluent from her tongue.

While she can claim a knowledge of Spanish as her own, I have passed along this genetic love of language, this appreciation for words and sentence structure and communication.

Riding the cable car in Salta.

Riding the cable car in Salta.

This desire to adventure, though, wells from within her, sourced perhaps from me. I intentionally encouraged her, like her sister before, her brother after, to travel, to see that which I’ve never seen, never will, for I possess not a distant traveler’s heart.

This has been my selfless mother’s gift—this unfurling of the fingers, this revealing of the palm, this opening to flight, this letting go.

Every Thursday afternoon the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo march in front of the central government of Argentina. They are honoring the memories of, by most accounts, 30,000 protesters who disappeared during the "Dirty War" between 1976-1983. The then military/dictorial government, so my daughter tells me, kidnapped

Every Thursday afternoon the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo march in front of the central government of Argentina, in Buenos Aires. They are honoring the memories of, by most accounts, 30,000 protesters who disappeared during the “Dirty War” between 1976-1983. The then military/dictatorial government, so my daughter tells me, kidnapped those who opposed the government and placed them in detention camps. Those detainees “disappeared,” killed in the camps or drugged and dropped from planes into the ocean, she further explains. Why have I not heard of this or why do I not remember this?  The white scarves identify the group and, she says, are embroidered with the names of the mothers’ lost children.

BONUS PHOTOS from Argentina:

Casa del Gobierno (House of Government) in San Miguel de Tucuman.

Casa del Gobierno (House of Government) in San Miguel de Tucuman.

El Mirador (Lookout), Valles Calchaquies, Salta.

El Mirador (Lookout), Valles Calchaquies, Salta.

An open air market in Purmamarca, Jujuy province.

An open air market in Purmamarca, Jujuy province.

A herd of vicunas, Jujuy province.

A herd of vicunas, Jujuy province.

A meat stand at Mercado del Norte (North Market), San Miguel de Tucuman.

A meat stand at Mercado del Norte (North Market), San Miguel de Tucuman.

Valles Calchaquies near Cafayate, Salta province.

Valles Calchaquies near Cafayate, Salta province.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Photos courtesy of Miranda Helbling

 

She’s off to Argentina, again February 15, 2013

On the way to the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

On the way to the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

SHE’S LEAVING ON A JET PLANE and I know when she’ll be back again…

In reality, she’s already gone, already landed in Buenos Aires, albeit two hours and ten minutes late due to an “aircraft change” in Houston. I’ve gathered that information from the United Airlines website with no way of personally confirming her arrival.

But I can surmise my second daughter is on the ground, on her way via shuttle bus and then a taxi to the hostel where she’s booked several nights.

And I will tell you this: I don’t like any of this—her traveling alone with no real concrete itinerary and no immediate way of instantly connecting across the 6,000 miles that separate us.

She has no personal computer, no cell phone, at the moment.

Approaching the MSP Terminal 1 drop off site.

Approaching the MSP Terminal 1 drop off site.

I should be accustomed to this really, this being her third trip to Argentina. But those first two times she had a home base in Buenos Aires, studying and interning in the capital city.

Back "home" in Faribault, packed and ready to go.

“Home” in Faribault, packed and ready to leave for Argentina.

This time, though, my daughter is vacationing, taking a month away from her job as a Spanish medical interpreter to revisit her beloved South America and the friends she made there. I admire her independence and her fearless spirit. I really do. I have encouraged such qualities in all of my children. But now I am paying the price.

I cannot help myself. I am a mom. Moms worry.

And, if I was not so darned nosy and had not sought out information from my girl, I would have less to concern myself.

But I asked and she told me about the planned lengthy bus ride to Tucuman in northern Argentina. When I questioned the safety of this mode of transportation, she told me about the time her college friend Devon was riding such a bus. Would-be robbers smashed a window, but the bus driver, knowing their intent, sped away.

Then there’s Tucuman, where my girl and her friend, Ivana, were mugged by two guys on a motorcycle, in broad daylight several years ago. Crime has only gotten worse in that city, Ivana says. My daughter won’t be carrying a purse this visit. Just in case, I have copies of her credit and bank cards and her passport.

She’s planning a 16-hour journey on Train to the Clouds, a train that will take her high into the mountains and villages of northwest Argentina. To alleviate my concerns that she will be traveling on some rickety old train, my daughter showed me photos on the train’s website. That reassured me…until she mentioned the medical personnel assigned to each passenger car to deal with health issues related to the high altitude. I suppose that should reassure me. It did not.

And then my eldest had to mention the stray dogs that roam Argentinean streets.

For the next few weeks, I will try to pretend that my daughter is still only 300 miles away in the Midwest. That is my strategy, plus lots of prayer.

My daughter didn't fly Delta. But these are the only planes I saw when leaving Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport after my husband and I dropped her off.

My daughter didn’t fly Delta. But these are the only planes I saw when leaving Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport after my husband and I dropped her off.

IF YOU’RE A PARENT of adult kids who love to travel, how do you cope? I could use some tips.

Since writing this post, I received an email and a call from my daughter reporting her safe arrival.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling