The Horseshoe Lake cabin where we stay once or twice yearly. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
CLOSING UP THE CABIN (not ours) proved more than a work weekend. Beyond pulling in the dock, mowing, raking, trimming trees, gathering sticks, cleaning rain gutters, scrubbing rust stains from the shower, draining the water heater and more, this was about family.
September sunrise on Horseshoe Lake. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
A spirit of teamwork, of gratitude, of enjoying this place along Horseshoe Lake in Mission Township in the Brainerd lakes area, prevailed. And it was all because of family. I love the Helbling family, which I’ve been part of for 42 years by way of marrying into it.
Gnomes were recently hidden in Mission Park, which is located several miles from the cabin. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
Randy and I joined three of his sisters, their husbands, and a niece and her family last weekend on this property his youngest sister and husband so graciously share. What a gift this has been to us. I love spending time in the quiet northwoods, immersed in nature, creating memories not only with Randy, but also with our eldest daughter, her husband and our two grandchildren. Campfires with s’mores, always s’mores. Walks in Mission Park. Lakeside dining. Fishing and swimming. Ice cream from Lake Country Crafts & Cones. Pizza from Rafferty’s. Great beer and conversation at 14 Lakes Craft Brewing. Day trips into nearby small towns. Lounging on the beach reading a book. Lying in the hammock. Watching loons and eagles. Doing nothing.
This visit we stayed in the main house, a section of which is shown here. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
And now, on this first weekend in October, we trekked three hours north to the cabin for the sole purpose of preparing the property for winter. An added bonus came in time with family. We worked together. Ate together. Laughed. Shared stories and memories and updates. We also built memories.
On a September cabin stay, three deer crossed the driveway. And we discovered bear scat, as did Randy this visit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
Homemade caramel rolls baked by Vivian reminded us of Mom Helbling, who died unexpectedly 31 years ago at the age of 59. Much too soon. Jon’s smash burgers reminded me of my mom, prompting me to share a story about the hamburgers she fried to hockey puck doneness, the reason I didn’t eat burgers up until several years ago. Jon’s were nothing like hers. He’s quite the cook, I discovered, as I enjoyed his stir fry, his scrambled eggs, his smash burgers.
September moonrise over Horseshoe Lake. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
I also enjoyed getting to know four of my great nieces and nephews. We played Hi Ho Cherry-O!, Go Fish and some panda bear game I never fully understood despite 8-year-old Emmett’s patience in explaining it to me. Autumn insisted I work on a princess puzzle with her, even though I insisted I do not do puzzles. I should note here that the Helbling family loves puzzles. Autumn insisted I help her, also insisting that I not quit. The first grader has a strong personality, a strength as I see it.
Squirrels were busy, too, as winter approaches. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
Three-year-old Quentin checked my heart several times as he did most family members after finding a stethoscope among the dress-up clothes. I also formed a firefighting crew, enlisting Emmett as acting fire chief when I had to step away to do some actual work. And sweet little redhead Annika, almost one and who looks a lot like a Who from Whoville, pretty much had her great aunt doing whatever she wished. That included jumping on my lap. My arms got quite the work-out.
Acorns, leaves and pine needles continued to fall as our crew headed home. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
And so these are the memories I gathered on this work weekend while squirrels scampered, acorns pelted roofs, the night wind howled, dust swirled, and pine needles and branches fell. Up north at the cabin is as much about place as it is about family and the memories we make there.
The Kletscher Family Coat of Arms of Posen-West Prussia. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2024)
REUNITING. RECONNECTING. REMEMBERING. Those words define reunions, whether among family or friends. Summer marks prime reunion time in Minnesota, including for me, especially this year.
I’m flanked by cousins, Joyce, left, and LeAnn. We were born within months of each other and grew up spending lots of time together at family gatherings. (Photo credit: Kirt Kletscher)
From Pine River in northern Minnesota to Vesta on the southwestern Minnesota prairie to the Twin Cities and elsewhere, I’ve reconnected with people who are important to me, with whom I share roots and/or connections. And it’s been a joy because the older I grow, the more I realize that time is not a given and we need to gather and appreciate one another. With hugs, love and care.
Myparents’ tombstone in the Vesta City Cemetery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)
My most recent reunion happened July 28, when Randy and I traveled 2.5 hours west to my hometown of Vesta in Redwood County for the Kletscher Family Reunion, held annually on the last Sunday in July. First we stopped at the cemetery to visit the gravesites of my parents, grandparents and other family members. I wiped away tears before we followed the gravel road into town, to the reunion site, the former Vesta Elementary School, now turned city hall and community center.
Vesta Elementary School in the 1960s.
The old school gym, site of the family reunion. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)
The school today, as a city hall and community center. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)
To walk back into the building where I spent my first six grades learning to read, write, spell, do math and more felt comforting and disconcerting, like stepping back into a school that no longer looks the same, but still holds the same memories. Clapping erasers outside on the east brick wall. Listening to Mrs. Kotval read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books after lunch. Scrawling letters in a penmanship book. Weaving a rug from rags. Building snowforts. Jumping rope on the front sidewalk. Performing on the stage. So many memories in this space.
A summary of a 30-page family tree/scroll. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2024)
And on Sunday, that space also held some 60-70 descendants of Henry and Ida Kletscher, parents of twelve, two dead in infancy and only three surviving today. The family tree, printed on 30 pieces of paper, stretched across several tables. I am one of 39 grandchildren, my children among 114 great grandchildren of Henry and Ida in a line that today also includes 114 great great grandchildren and one great great great grandchild. We are a large and prolific bunch that continues to grow. That we still gather annually is a testament to the strength of family bonds. I grew up near my paternal grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, spending lots of time together.
Everyone brings food for the potluck. There’s always blueberry dessert. The spread covers several tables. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2013)
But my generation and those thereafter have scattered well outside Redwood County. Family arrived from Wisconsin, Iowa, North Dakota and all parts of Minnesota from Blaine to Delano to Alexandria to Owatonna, Faribault, Waseca, and many other communities near and far. Those from even more distant locations like the East Coast did not attend.
As at all reunions, I intentionally circulated, attempting to converse with everyone at some point. This gathering, conversations were not so much about the past as about the present. We talked kids, grandkids, retirement (or not), health challenges, home improvement projects… There was a lot of phone scrolling, too, to show photos of grandchildren.
Aunt Iylene tatted these flags celebrating our German heritage and the Kletscher family’s new home in America. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2024)
I cooed over new baby Wren; met Aubrey from West Fargo, going into first grade and whose name was easy for me to remember (and mine for her); saw photos of a wedding dress under construction by bride-to-be Sarah; encouraged Andy, who is in a drug trial study at Mayo Clinic for his debilitating heart condition; listened to Lynn’s recitation of a humorous poem her teacher didn’t appreciate back in the day; admired Aunt Iylene’s tatting projects (which she gave away on Sunday and which honor Grandma Ida, who also tatted); listened to stories of heartaches and challenges and life.
A highlight of the reunion was watching and listening to Kirt play Ardyce’s accordion. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2024)
And then there was the impromptu concert by my cousin Kirt, who plays accordion. He brought his and was also gifted, at the reunion, with Aunt Ardyce’s 73-year-old accordion, a gift to her from her parents when she was only thirteen. She took lessons briefly as did two of her children. But the instrument has mostly sat in its case for seven decades…until Kirt picked it up and commenced to play, but only to a select few of us in the entry hallway. To watch my 86-year-old aunt, seated next to her nephew, listening intently to “her” accordion brought me such joy. I couldn’t help but think how happy this moment would have made my grandparents.
A plaque honors my grandpa and others who were instrumental in construction of Vesta Elementary School. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2024)
We were here, in this place, because of Henry and Ida. Henry served as clerk of Independent School District #639 when the Vesta School was built in 1958. To think that, 66 years later, Grandpa’s descendants would gather here to celebrate family felt incredibly right. Two hours after we ate a potluck lunch (which always includes blueberry dessert), we honored Henry and Ida with 1919 root beer floats. My grandparents were married in November 1919.
Here we were in 2024, a family still going strong—reuniting, reconnecting, remembering and honoring the legacy of Henry and Ida Kletscher. Henry, the 25-year-old farmer, who married Ida just days before her eighteenth birthday 105 years ago.
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FYI:In addition to the Kletscher Family Reunion, I’ve reconnected in July with Sue, a blogging friend; aunts from New Jersey and Missouri and family from Minneapolis; my son from Boston; and met three of Randy’s cousins originally from North Dakota. There are more gatherings to come with a Helbling Family Reunion in two weeks and 50-year class reunions for Randy and me in September.
My husband, Randy, and I exit St. John’s Lutheran Church in Vesta following our May 15, 1982, wedding. (Photo credit: Williams Studio, Redwood Falls)
FOUR DECADES plus two years. Or 42 years. No matter how you view it, that’s a lot of time. Today marks 42 years since Randy and I were married at St. John’s Lutheran Church in my hometown of Vesta.
A favorite photo of Randy holding our then 10-day-old granddaughter, Isabelle. (Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo April 2016)
As anyone our age will tell you, time passes too quickly. Here we are today, comfortably settled into our life together. Kids long grown and gone. In semi-retirement. Grandparents of two. Understanding that this life we’ve built has been one of much joy, but also one of challenges. Nothing unusual about that. Such is life.
Through the all of it, we’ve supported one another. Leaned into each other. Been there. Done exactly as we promised we would, in sickness and in health.
Randy stands next to an Allis Chalmers corn chopper like the one that claimed his dad’s left hand and much of his arm in a 1967 accident. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Randy is the kind of guy who quietly steps up and helps, does the right thing. Back in 1967, long before I ever knew him and in a part of Minnesota unfamiliar to me, Randy saved a life. His father’s. They were working together, harvesting on the family farm, when the corn chopper plugged with corn. Tom hopped off the tractor to hand-feed corn into the chopper. As he did so, his hand was pulled into the spring-loaded roller. The chopper blades sliced off his fingers while his arm remained trapped in the roller. As his father screamed, Randy disengaged the power take-off. He then ran across swampland and along the cow pasture to a neighboring farm for help. If not for that heroic action by a boy who had just turned eleven, my future father-in-law would have died.
This is my husband. Calm. Steady. Dependable. A son who saved his father’s life. He was never publicly recognized for his actions. (I think he should be, even now nearly 57 years after the fact.) Life went on for the Helbling family, Dad now minus a hand and part of an arm. It was not easy.
This is a photo snapped with a cellphone of the X-ray showing the implant in my wrist, held in place by 10 screws. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2018)
Randy has maintained that steady evenness throughout our marriage, a quality I appreciated when our younger daughter underwent surgery at age four, when our son was struck by a car, when I was in the worst throes of long haul COVID, unable to function. He’s always been there for our family, for me. When I broke my wrist six years ago, Randy stuck his hand out the van window to slap an imaginary emergency light atop the roof as I pleaded with him to drive faster to the emergency room. Yes, Randy possesses a sense of humor that balances my lack of a funny bone.
Admittedly, I don’t always understand his humor. But Randy still tries to make me laugh. Occasionally he cuts a cartoon from the local paper (I don’t read the funnies) and sticks it on the fridge. His latest came from “The Family Circus” with this line: Poems are like rap without music. When I finally noticed the clipping two days later, I texted him that Poems are NOT like rap. He knows I don’t like rap music.
Audrey and Randy, May 15, 1982. (Photo credit: Williams Studio. Redwood Falls)
Maybe he doesn’t like poems. But if he doesn’t, Randy hasn’t told me, his poetry writing wife. I bet if you had asked Randy 42 years ago whether he would ever attend a poetry reading, he would have vehemently replied, “No!” But he has. Many of them through the years, at which I’ve read my poems.
Randy is my greatest supporter in my writing career. He understands that the writing and photography I’ve done, and still do, are my life’s chosen work, not simply a hobby (as some others view it). I appreciate his appreciation of my creativity.
I appreciate his talents and skills also. Randy, supposedly retired from automotive machining (but not really), earns the praises of many a customer. They want “only Randy” to do their work. He is exceptional in his trade and truly irreplaceable.
Randy grilling. He grills year-round. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Randy has other skills I’ve come to value through the decades. He is an excellent griller, still grilling everything the old school way on a Weber charcoal grill. He’s also mastered making grilled cheese and tomato soup for Saturday lunch and omelets for Sunday brunch.
Randy can fool any cardinal with his realistic bird call. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
And he’s really good at cardinal calls. The bird, not anything related to his Catholic upbringing. Whether in the backyard or walking in woods, Randy will answer a cardinal’s trill with his own. Yes, he sounds just like a cardinal.
Our life together now includes grandchildren. Here Randy walks with Isabelle and Isaac along a pine-edged driveway at a family member’s central Minnesota lake place. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2020)
We’ve built this life together on love, laughter, respect, support, encouragement, faith and so much more. Forty-two years. Four decades plus two years. Days, weeks, months, years…of blessings in good times and in bad. There for one another. Always.
IT WAS A TUESDAY in January 1964. Wash day in the Kahmann household. Outside, a ground blizzard raged, reducing visibility on the southwestern Minnesota prairie. The events of that morning, of that day, would forever change the lives of siblings Karl, Patsy, Eric, Andy, John, Paul, Kevin, Katy, Karen, Phillip, Jim and Beth, and their parents, Jack and Della.
That sets the scene for House of Kahmanns, a memoir by P.G. (Patsy) Kahmann, oldest daughter, second oldest among 12 children. Sixteen months earlier, the family moved from Kansas City, Missouri, to Minnesota when Jack, a traveling salesman in a farm business, was relocated. They settled near their maternal grandparents, into a rental home by Granite Falls.
I expect Jack Kahmann was driving in weather and road conditions similar to this. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo, January 2020, used for illustration only)
This is familiar land to me in a familiar time. I was not quite eight years old in January 1964, living on a farm some 30 minutes away in neighboring Redwood County. I understand full well the fierce prairie wind that whips snow into white-out conditions. On that blustery morning, as Jack and Della and Della’s parents set out for medical and business appointments in Minneapolis, leaving the oldest, Karl, to care for the youngest children, Patsy and her school-age siblings boarded the school bus.
Rosary beads. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
Patsy was in English class when she got the devastating news. There had been a crash. A bread truck driven by an unlicensed 14-year-old ran a stop sign and then a yield sign before slamming into the 1957 Chevy driven by Jack. Della, mother of a dozen, was the most seriously injured. “How many Hail Marys will it take to save my mother’s life?” Patsy asks herself.
An altar in a southern Minnesota Catholic church. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
Faith, a strong Catholic faith, threads through this story. The Kahmanns were devout, prayerful, always in church. The church, or rather the local parish priest, would play the primary role in turning the initial tragedy into even more intense pain, suffering, separation and trauma for the family. Father Buckley demanded that the 12 children be placed with Catholic families while their parents recovered at a hospital 70 miles away. That, even though a Lutheran couple offered to move into the Kahmanns’ farm home and care for the children. Together.
At this point in the book, I felt my anger flashing. Anger over the inhumanity of a man of the cloth who is supposed to exude compassion, care and love. More atrocities by the priest followed. By the time I read the epilogue, I was irate, forgiveness far from my mind.
Love and forgiveness were taught in the Kahmann home. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
But the Kahmanns were a loving and forgiving family. (Not necessarily of that priest.) One evening after they are all reunited, Jack asks his family to pray blessings upon the driver of the bread truck. Three-year-old Phillip mishears. “God bless the red truck!” he shouts. Laughter erupts. I needed that humor in a story weighing heavy upon my soul.
I wanted to step into the pages of the book and hug those kids and make everything better. Just as Millie Bea did when the Kahmanns lived in Kansas City and Jack was traveling around the country and Della needed extra help with the kids. The book flips back and forth in time and place between Missouri and Minnesota, before and after the crash.
The Kahmanns were not unfamiliar with trauma. In June 1955, Andy’s hand was nearly severed in a hand cement mixer. A Kansas City surgeon successfully reattached his limb, even though a priest told Jack that his son’s hand had been amputated. That was untrue.
Family love is such a strong theme in this book. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)
Through all of this, themes of love, strength and resilience thread. The Kahmann siblings clearly looked out for and loved one another and got through some pretty awful stuff. Their motto, Patsy writes, was “No one died. We all survived.” They never talked about the accident. I’m not surprised. Who did back then? Eventually the family would relocate to Bird Island, 32 miles directly east of Granite Falls. It was a new start in a new place following their 75 days apart, “75 days of confusion, anxiety and foreboding.”
And now, with publication of House of Kahmanns—A Memoir, A story about family love and shattered bonds, about finding each other in the aftermath, perhaps these siblings are talking about all they endured. For Patsy, it is also about keeping a promise. In the book dedication she writes: To Mom and Dad/I promised you I would write this story. And she did, with honesty, pain and a great deal of strength.
Izzy’s birthday cake with fruit spread between layers and topped with fresh fruit (her choice of cake) was delicious. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)
My dearest Isabelle,
As you turn eight, I want you to know how very much I love you. I love you beyond words. And that says a lot given I’m a wordsmith.
You have brought me such joy. To feel your hugs, to scamper up the stairs to your bedroom to see your latest treasures, to listen to you excitedly talk about the latest Magic Tree House (or other) book you’re reading, to watch a video of you as a roaring lion during a school play, all are cherished moments.
My granddaughter, Isabelle, photographed when she was about 17 hours old. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo April 2016)
From the day you were born, I learned a new definition of love: granddaughter.
I love being your grandma. I love when you ask me to sit next to you at family gatherings, as you did at your recent birthday party dinner. I loved sitting next to you while playing BINGO at your brother’s preschool family BINGO night, even if you whined a bit because you weren’t winning. And you really really really wanted a prize.
One of my favorite photos: Grandpa and grandchildren follow the pine-edged driveway at the lake cabin. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2020)
I especially enjoy our time together each summer Up North at a family lake cabin. Taking nature walks. Sitting on the dock, feet dipping and kicking in the water. Eating ice cream at a shop in town. We are making memories that I hope will last you a life-time. Simple memories that center on family togetherness. On love.
Photographed at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
In your short life, you have traveled farther than I have in my sixty-seven years. Your world is wider, bigger, broader. You live in a diverse neighborhood. Your best friends are boys. You are learning Spanish already as a second grader. I am grateful for all of these. Your world is open wide. And you embrace it.
For a while, Izzy was into PJ Masks. I remembered this character, Owlette. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
You swim. I can’t. You roller skate. I did. You try to teach me the characters in the latest whatever interests you. I fail to remember the Paw Patrol pups and now Pokemon characters. I’m doing better at dinosaurs. But mostly it’s too much for Grandma to keep straight. Too much.
One of my favorite art pieces created by Izzy. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2023)
But it doesn’t matter, Izzy. What matters is that I love you and you me. You are my daughter’s daughter. Her first-born as she was mine. The April day you were born eight years ago opened my heart to a new kind of love. Deep and full and beautiful beyond words.
An old school BINGO card. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
ISAAC’S EXCITEMENT was palpable. He flew into Grandpa’s arms for a hug. They share a special bond; they are buddies. I love witnessing the love between them.
“Aren’t you going to give Grandma a hug?” my daughter asked Isaac. He wasn’t. Not initially. But then Isaac did. After his sister, Izzy, hugged me. There were more embraces for their parents. We were ready to go.
The six of us entered a spacious gathering room accented by a stained glass cross and other faith-based art. The buttery scent of popcorn permeated the space. Prizes covered tables. BINGO cards, some white, some green, layered more tables.
This was Family BINGO Night at Isaac’s preschool at a Lutheran church in the south metro. Randy and I were there to play the game, but mostly to spend time with our grandkids, eldest daughter and son-in-law. Making memories. Building bonds. Sharing moments.
Isaac and Izzy were there for one thing—to win at BINGO and claim a prize. They scoped out the goods, Isaac eyeing an alien painting kit and Izzy a Paw Patrol puzzle.
As we grabbed BINGO cards and settled onto chairs ringing a large round table, Izzy next to me and Isaac next to Randy, I could see the kids’ anticipation. Izzy fidgeted. Isaac’s cheeks were flushed. While we waited for the game to start, we picked up frosted cookies to go with popcorn scooped into paper boats. Sweet and salty. Yum.
Soon enough the BINGO calling began. Loud. But I managed, even with sensory issues caused by long haul COVID.
Playing BINGO at a church festival. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
We slid red plastic tabs across BINGO numbers. The adults played two cards each, doubling our chances of winning a coveted prize. Soon Marc was calling “BINGO!” and Isaac had his alien art. Good, one happy kid.
The BINGO rounds continued with no winners at our table. By then I was struggling visually, seeing double sometimes. My eyes are still healing from bilateral strabismus eye surgery and they were getting a work out playing BINGO. Not only were my eyes darting between two cards, but they were also occasionally focusing on the overhead screen to read numbers, when I was unsure I heard correctly. I felt my right eye muscles stretching, hurting. I needed Izzy’s help. She took one of my cards. I noted Izzy was becoming increasingly antsy about winning a prize. And then Grandpa came through and, boom, she had her puppy puzzle.
My siblings and I have a saying, “Life isn’t fair and the fair is in August.” I wanted to say that to Izzy, but I didn’t think she would understand. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019)
All was good and fine…until Grandpa won a second time and it wasn’t fair, proclaimed Izzy, that Isaac got two prizes and she only had one. Try and reason with an almost eight-year-old. It went something like this, “Well, Grandma won and she could have picked a prize for herself, but she let you pick one.”
“I thought Grandpa won,” Izzy replied, emphasis on Grandpa.
My granddaughter was right. I didn’t win. Randy did. Not only were my eyes tired. But apparently so was my brain. BINGO!
My eyes have always been drawn to rocks in nature, here in the creek twisting through Falls Creek Park, rural Rice County. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2020)
THEY WERE ROCK HOUNDS, the great uncles who hunted, collected, cut, polished and made rocks in to jewelry. The bachelor brothers were passionate about their hobby, delighted to share their enthusiasm, and their rock collection, with their great nieces and nephews.
I remember the excitement of arriving at Uncle Walter and Uncle Harvey’s Redwood County farm home, where they lived with my great grandma and with their sister Dora. My siblings and I nearly flew out of Dad’s Chevy, through the front door of the farmhouse and down the basement stairs to Rock Station Central.
Agates in water, Faribault Farmers’ Market. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2019)
My great uncles enthusiastically welcomed us, showing us Lake Superior and honey agates, garnets, geodes and all sorts of rocks they’d found on their forays West and to Minnesota’s North Shore. We fingered uncut stones and polished stones as the pair schooled us in identifying rocks. And they always, always, sent us home with handfuls of small polished stones. And occasionally they gifted us with jewelry they’d made.
The Straight River churns over rocks at Morehouse Park in Owatonna. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Although this scene played out decades ago, my fascination with rocks remains. I still find myself looking for agates, admiring unusual stones while out in nature. I’m no rock hound, simply someone who appreciates the beauty of rocks thanks to those two caring great uncles.
My friend Joy paints rocks with inspirational messages and fun art. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
Joy’s original rock art. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
But my interest, my search for rocks has taken a modern day twist, one Walter and Harvey likely would approve of even if not a purist form of rock collecting. I collect inspirational and artsy rocks with my camera. These are painted rocks upon which a single word, message or image has been written, painted or adhered. Whenever I find one—and I’ve found them in many public places throughout southern Minnesota—I photograph them. I feel the same giddiness I experienced many years ago in that farmhouse basement.
Found at Mineral Springs Park, Owatonna. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2020)
Colorful stickers on painted rocks found at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
Found in Faribault’s Central Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
My thrill in discovering painted rocks focuses on the positive messages or images thereon. There’s something undeniably beautiful and wonderful and uplifting about these inspirational rocks. I feel such happiness, such gratitude for the individuals who create, then share, these stones. Rather like my great uncles who showed their love for family via sharing of their rock collection.
Single words inspire on a series of painted rocks found at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
This painting of rocks has spread worldwide as The Kindness Rocks Project with a mission “to cultivate connections within communities and lift others up through simple acts of kindness.” It’s a simple, and much-needed, project in a world filled with discord, division and, yes, even hatred.
Found outside a meat market in Lonsdale. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
A simple message found at Falls Creek Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2022)
A fun find at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
We need more inspirational, artistic rocks scattered in public spaces. I’ve most often found them in parks, tucked along the edges of flowerbeds, sometimes on ledges and steps and at the bases of trees. I’ve found them along trails, outside a public library. Typically they are hidden in multiples.
An especially inspiring message written on a rock painted by Joy. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
All it takes are stickers and stones to create art, this found at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
This rock painted by a great niece sits on my office desk, a daily inspiration to me. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
My reaction is always the same. Joy. Excitement. I’m suddenly that little girl again standing next to her great uncles at Rock Station Central. I feel loved. I feel, too, as if I’ve uncovered a treasure, a treasure of kindness and positivity and inspiration. And that uplifts me, gives me hope for humanity, that much goodness still remains in this world.
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FYI: For anyone in southern Minnesota interested in rock collecting (like my great uncles did), the Steele County Gem and Mineral Club meets at 6 pm on the second Monday of the month at the Owatonna Public Library.
Photo used for illustration only. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
HE LOOKED NOTHING like a leprechaun. No pointy ears. No red hair or freckles. Rather he was a slim man with definitive wavy hair. Not at all what I expected given my Aunt Dorothy’s description of her fiancé. Clearly I misheard and in my 10-year-old self’s excitement missed the word “not.” “Robin does not look like a leprechaun,” Dorothy told me and my sister Lanae. We apparently were hoping for a boisterous leprechaun like that pictured on boxes of Lucky Charms cereal.
The morning after my uncle’s death, I called Dorothy at her New Jersey home. I needed to talk to her as much as she needed to talk to me. We share a special bond. She’s always called me, “My Little Princess.” I cannot even begin to tell you how loved I feel when Dorothy calls me by that endearing name. I never grow weary of those loving words.
But it is the loving name she had for her beloved Robin that sticks with me also. She always called him “My love” or simply “Love.” Dorothy and I talked about this in our phone conversation, about how the two met at a party at the University of Minnesota where Robin was doing his post doctorate studies. Within the year, they married. I learned from Dorothy that speaking love aloud to a spouse within a stoic German family is not only OK, but quite lovely. That has stuck with me through the decades. To be witness to the love my aunt and uncle shared was a gift.
CREATING A LIFE-SAVING DRUG
In his professional career, Robin gave another gift, one with a broad, life-saving reach. He was the lead chemist in the development of the compound Letrozole (brand name Femara) used to treat certain types of breast cancer in postmenopausal women. As I spoke with Dorothy, she underscored how grateful Robin felt to accomplish this, to potentially save the lives of women via this hormone therapy drug.
Robin was clearly passionate about research. He was also passionate about golf. But of one thing he wasn’t passionate and that was eating leftovers. He didn’t. I don’t know why I knew this or why it matters, but it was something we all simply understood about Uncle Robin.
AN EMBARRASSING MOMENT
That leads to a food story. Once while visiting my childhood farm, Robin’s dinner plate broke in his hands. He was just sitting there in an easy chair in the living room eating his meal when the vintage plate broke. Someone snapped a photo, thus documenting this as part of family lore. I remember the laughter that erupted and the absolute embarrassment this quiet Irishman felt. Perhaps in this moment he wished he could, like a leprechaun, magically disappear.
BLESSED BE HIS MEMORY
In the funeral flowers my youngest brother ordered from our family for Robin’s funeral, Brad included this fitting Irish blessing:
May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face. Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Loving words for an Irishman who looked nothing like a leprechaun.
A video features episodes of the TV series. (Image sourced online)
ANYONE WHO IS A GRANDPARENT will tell you it’s the best. That includes me, grandmother of two. Grandparents have all the fun of parenting minus the everyday challenges of raising children. We are also witness to much, sort of like observers of “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” Remember that original long ago TV series by Art Linkletter in which he interviewed kids and they answered quite honestly, hilariously?
Recently, my grandson celebrated his fifth birthday with a small party that included Randy and me (his other grandparents live in Arizona), his paternal aunt and uncle, and his older sister and parents. His other aunt and uncles live too far away.
Isaac starts opening gifts. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted, edited photo January 2024)
As we gathered in the living room to watch Isaac open his gifts, I felt the love that enveloped this little boy. He was so excited as kids are wont to be about birthdays. But then if I had a pile of gifts at my feet and I was only five, I might get excited, too.
Tearing into the packages, Isaac didn’t hide his feelings. When he opened a space sticker book from Opa and Oma, he stopped and was about to start sticking stickers…until his mom politely reminded him that he should open his other gifts first. It was clear he loved the sticker book.
Last spring Isaac and his mom planted flower seeds including zinnias, like these grown by my friend Al. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2019 used for illustration only)
But he didn’t love the red amaryllis bulb I gave him to plant. In fact, Isaac tossed the box to the side while I hastily tried to explain to him what was inside. “I don’t like flowers!” he said, this the boy who last summer seeded flowers, tended flowers, delighted in every bloom and earned the name Farmer Isaac. Maybe my grandson will change his attitude when the amaryllis blooms in about two months.
He also tossed aside a pom pom animal craft kit. He loves doing arts and crafts and goes through so many colored magic markers that Crayola should have a rewards program for his parents.
Thankfully Isaac liked the thick pack of multi-colored construction paper and the 3-in-1 space shuttle LEGO set Randy and I gave him. Before we left the party, he’d already assembled the shuttle and told me I should give all of his Uncle Caleb’s LEGOs to him. Alright then. I would need to clear that with my son.
It was Caleb’s gift, though, that had all of us erupting in laughter. Not because it was anything unusual or humorous. Rather, it was simply cash in a card. Isaac ripped open the envelope, pulled out the substantial monetary gift and flew out of the room and upstairs to his bedroom, bills clutched tightly in his hand. No one was going to get his money.
And then there was the bakery birthday cake, chocolate and frosted in bold hues, as vivid as any frosting I’ve ever seen. Isaac wanted blue frosting accented by a rainbow of colors to match the Numberblock theme of his party. “Numberblock” is an animated children’s series that teaches kids math skills via adventures. I’ve never seen it. My grandson, a math whiz, has and also has the toys spun off from the show. Ask him a math problem and he can likely solve it. I’m not talking simple addition and subtraction, but rather multiplication and other math problems well beyond his just-turned-five years. Did I mention that his dad is a math major and an actuary?
Back to that blue cake. The blue coloring of the frosting was much darker than Isaac’s mom expected. As we forked the heavily frosted cake into our mouths, our lips, tongues and teeth turned blue. The birthday boy never complained. But there was some quick wiping of teeth by adults and of the kitchen counter before the blue dye stained surfaces.
Hours after we left the party, my daughter texted with a message from Isaac. “I forgot to tell the birthday comers thank you,” he told his mom. Awwww. Melted this grandma’s heart, negating the tossed amaryllis “I don’t like flowers!” moment. Kids truly do say the darndest things.
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TELL ME: I’d like to hear a “kids say the darndest things” quote from you. Let’s laugh this morning.
A snippet of art gracing a holiday greeting card I received. (Minnesota Prairie Roots photo December 2023)
“IT’S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!” declared 7-year-old Isabelle as she hugged me tight, her bright smile making this moment even brighter.
It was Christmas Eve afternoon and a circle of family gathered in our small kitchen for a moment of profound happiness. My second daughter and her husband, John, had minutes earlier arrived from Madison, Wisconsin. Unexpectedly.
I felt overcome by emotion, my heart brimming with the joy of a mother who did not expect her second daughter home for Christmas. And now here Miranda stood aside her dad and her niece and her sobbing mother. I cried tears of happiness that all three of my adult children were here, in their southern Minnesota childhood home, together for Christmas. Amber from nearby Lakeville. Caleb from Boston. And now Miranda from Madison, 4 ½ hours away. Rare are the times we are all together. I hadn’t seen Caleb in a year.
Fittingly, a Christmas card from Norma, Izzy’s great grandma, arrived with this message the day after Christmas. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2023)
Izzy certainly got it right. This felt like a Christmas miracle. That she could witness her grandma’s unrestrained happiness was a gift, too, for my sweet granddaughter to understand how strong and deep the bonds of family love. I never stop missing my kids, even though the first left for college in 2004, the last in 2012.
And now here we all were, under the same roof again, only because Miranda managed a day off from delivering mail and packages. Christmas Eve morning she was dressed in her postal uniform, had packed her lunch and was about to head out the door for a long day of work when her phone rang. Her supervisor was calling to say she didn’t need to come in. She shared the good news with John and told him, “We’re going to Minnesota!”
Miranda texted her sister and the two agreed to keep her arrival a secret. That explains why, when I suggested to Amber that the grandkids open their gifts soon after arriving at our house, she wanted to wait. I had no clue, none, of the joyful surprise that awaited me.
We were visiting in the living room, the kids playing, when I heard the kitchen door open and then Miranda’s voice. I felt my mouth drop in disbelief. I leapt from my chair and made a beeline straight for my daughter and wrapped her in a vise of a hug. I felt my eyes filling with tears. I was overwhelmed by love, by happiness, by the joy of knowing we would all be together for Christmas.
My father-in-law painted this holiday scene, which is why I treasure it. Plus, I really like the painting. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
There’s nothing better. Nothing better than to be with loved ones. I expect, years from now, that we’ll still be talking about the Christmas surprise, the Christmas miracle, as Isabelle framed it. I hope that, years from now long after she’s forgotten the dinosaur sticker book and the LEGO set Grandma and Grandpa gave her, Isabelle remembers that moment in the kitchen. The moment when Grandma wrapped Izzy’s Aunt Miranda in her arms and cried. And the moment when Izzy tucked into my embrace, her face beaming, and loudly declared, “It’s a Christmas miracle!”
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