I crafted this sign in February to carry during protests in Faribault. My message remains relevant today in my community. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo by Randy Helbling)
THIS MORNING, outside a Faribault grocery store, I observed a White man overtly express his disgust for three Somalis. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, looking directly at them.
I knew exactly what he meant. And it made me sick to hear the Lord’s name taken in vain by this man who clearly held nothing but disdain for Somalis. His tone of voice, his word choice, the way he looked at the trio told me precisely how he felt. And it was not loving, accepting or kind.
Here’s the situation leading to the man’s outburst: A Somali man, returning his cart to the grocery store cart corral, offered his cart to a Somali mom and her son heading into the grocery store. The cart rolled a short ways across the pavement. Not toward anyone. Not toward any vehicle. But it was enough to prompt the White guy to emphatically state, “Jesus Christ!”
I was so taken aback by his two words that I turned around and looked at him. He didn’t see me. He was walking away toward his parked vehicle. But I hope he felt the heat of the fire flaming from my eyes. Such intolerance does not sit well with me.
Onward I went with my grocery shopping, crossing paths occasionally with the Somali mom and her son, about 13. I waited in the check out line behind them, observed the son unloading groceries and then packing them to wheel out in his cart.
As I walked toward my vehicle, I saw the boy wheeling his cart back toward the grocery store. I stopped him. “I’m so proud of you for helping your mom,” I said after confirming the woman was his mother. His face lit up into a broad smile. “Thank you,” he said.
Two words. Beautiful. Appreciative. And nothing at all like the words spoken by the man who failed to see what I saw—a mom and her son heading into the grocery store on a Saturday morning. Just like me.
A beautiful floral-themed LOVE mural in Northfield. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
WHEN WE CONNECT, when we give of ourselves, beautiful things happen.
Several months ago, I was the recipient of an unexpected gift. Hours later, I was the giver.
Such moments make life joyful and meaningful, causing us to pause and consider how much our words and our actions matter. For we are, if anything, all alike in our basic humanity. We need each other. We hold the power within ourselves to make a positive difference in the lives of others.
Ann did exactly that for me. I was out protesting, as I am nearly every Saturday morning in Faribault, when Ann showed up with a brown paper gift bag. A little background: Ann lived up the hill from me many decades ago and we’ve since bumped into each other occasionally about town. This winter we reconnected on the protest line.
My friend Ann, center, in her flower power sweater at the March No Kings Day protest in Faribault. Another No Kings Day protest is set for 11 a.m.-noon on Sunday, June 14, outside the Rice County government services building in Faribault. It’s part of a nationwide event on June 14. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2026)
At the third No Kings Day protest in March, Ann arrived in a vivid 1960s/1970s vintage vibe sweater she’d crocheted. I loved her flower power sweater so much that I blurted, “I need one!” Of course, I really didn’t expect Ann to craft a sweater for me. But she suggested I talk to her again in the fall, when she had more time for crocheting.
The flower power tote Ann crocheted for me. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2026)
Fast forward a month and there was Ann holding that gift bag toward me on the protest line. “I made something for you,” she said. Inside I found not a flower power sweater, but a handcrafted flower power tote bag. Ann’s unexpected gift brought me nearly to tears as I considered the hours she spent crocheting, crafting something she knew I would appreciate and love. And I do.
Ann apologized that it wasn’t a sweater, explaining that she’d made several already and couldn’t tackle another. That didn’t matter to me. I never expected a sweater. So to receive this surprise from Ann, who is an incredibly strong, kind, compassionate and caring woman, meant a great deal to me. I felt enveloped in the warmth of her kindness and love.
Faribault area farm-fresh strawberries. Photo used for illustration only. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Hours later, I extended kindness to a shopper in the produce section of a local grocery store. When I commented on the price of strawberries, Pam (not her real name) and I commiserated over the high cost of groceries and everything in general. That led to a political discussion and venting from both of us about the current administration, the war in Iran and more. I invited my new friend to protest with me on Saturday mornings.
But Pam can’t. She’s a caregiver for her disabled husband. It’s hard for her to leave him, even to shop for groceries. Pam shared more, which I will keep confidential. But it was enough for me to offer her encouragement and to acknowledge the challenges she faces as a caregiver. Her husband was having an especially difficult day, which weighed heavy on Pam. I could see that she needed affirmation, acknowledgment of her feelings, and support.
Encouragement I received from a friend in a mini card sent years ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I could offer all of that to Pam as I, too, have been a short-term caregiver. I didn’t tell her that. This was Pam’s story, not mine. But I tried to uplift her. “Can I hug you?” I eventually asked. Pam accepted my offer. And then we embraced, not in a superficial pat-pat on the back way, but in a tight hug that held the emotional depth of two women who understand the importance of human connections.
Tears brimmed her eyes and mine when Pam told me we were meant to meet that afternoon in the produce department of a local grocery store. I agreed. The cost of strawberries jump-started our conversation. But humanity and my genuine concern for Pam took us beyond casual conversation to a memorable moment. To a hug. Warm and genuine and real. A gift to both of us.
Audrey Kletscher Helbling with Santa at a Faribault grocery store. (Photo credit: Randy Helbling)
WHEN I SPOTTED SANTA at the grocery store yesterday, I decided to get my picture taken with him. You’re never too old for Santa, right? But the Jolly Old Man didn’t even notice me, so busy was he guzzling his Coca-Cola while marketing Coke products.
I hadn’t considered that Santa would need a side job, especially during the hectic holiday season. Isn’t managing the elves, feeding the reindeer, making public appearances, reviewing kids’ Christmas lists and packing the sleigh enough for one man to handle?
But I suppose Santa, like all of us, is feeling the effects of higher prices. He’s paying tariffs on parts the elves can’t make. Mrs. Claus needs baking ingredients that have skyrocketed in price. The North Pole toy workshop heating bill is likely high, even higher than in icebox Minnesota. So Santa probably welcomes the extra income from his grocery store side hustle.
Undeterred by Santa turning his back on me, I cozied up to him and asked my dear husband to snap a photo. Randy obliged, but not without a look of concern. I didn’t care. I needed a spark of fun in my day. Santa obviously paid me no mind.
Now, if the marketer of Coke products, the supervisor of elves, the giver of wonderful gifts had taken the time to chat with me, I would have handed him a Christmas wish list. What I’d really like Santa to bring to this world, especially this country, are compassion, kindness, respect, empathy, peace and love.
In all reality, Santa can’t deliver on that. Only we can.
A sign in the produce section of a Faribault grocery store. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)
I’M DRAWN TO SIGNS. Business signs. Roadside signs. Homemade signs. Nearly all signs, except political signage, attract my interest. The campaign signs I can do without, especially those that are in place too early and well beyond allowable time-frames (as in my neighborhood). But I digress.
Perhaps it’s the creative in me that leads my eyes to appreciate the artistry of signs. I consider fonts, color, design, art—all the pieces that come together in conveying a message. Sometimes the individual parts work. Other times, I’m left wondering.
That’s exactly how I felt upon viewing a sign recently in the produce department of a local grocery store. It was the sloth art which caught my eye. I’ve always thought sloths to be ugly-cute. Except for their sharp claws, they appear cuddly. I just want to wrap one in a hug, feel its long, furry arms embracing me.
Considering the hand-drawn grocery store sloth art snagged my interest, the sign accomplished its original intent—to make me look. But I felt confused. What’s the connection between a leaf, twig, bud-eating sloth and vegetables in a produce section? There is none, as far as I can determine. The slow-moving mammal eats neither corn nor Brussels sprouts. I do.
And sloths live in the tropical rainforests of Central and South America, far from the cold and snow of Minnesota, which can feel tropical in the heat and humidity of summer. Sloths can be found in Minnesota hanging on trees inside the Tropical Encounters exhibit at Como Park Zoo and Conservatory in St. Paul. Perhaps Chloe from Como inspired the grocery store artist. Who knows?
Whatever the story behind the produce section sloth sign, I appreciated it. But not enough to purchase corn or Brussels sprouts on this April day in southern Minnesota.
Hy-Vee in Faribault grilled pork burgers outside its patio area on Thursday with a tractor parked nearby. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
I LUNCHED YESTERDAY with a guy from northern Rice County who farms and runs an auto body repair shop. The shop is Andy’s primary business with crop farming secondary. He rents out some of his acreage, tending only his alfalfa field. He has plenty of customers for his hay. Mostly people with horses and dairy goats, he said.
This massive tractor provided photo ops outside Faribault’s Hy-Vee grocery store. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Before Thursday, I’d never met Andy. But I asked if Randy and I could join him at a patio table outside Faribault’s Hy-Vee. The grocer was serving free pork burgers, chips and bottled water as part of its “Feed the Farmers that Feed America” event. The Iowa-based supermarket chain is working with Feeding America-affiliated food banks to help end hunger. A donation jar was filling with bills.
A farm site north of Faribault, photographed from Interstate 35. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2023)
Events like this remind me just how important agriculture is to all of us. Without farmers, we’d be hard-pressed to feed ourselves. Or at least I would since I don’t have a garden or animals or anything except two broccoli plants started from seed by my 4-year-old grandson.
A tractor waits at a stoplight aside other traffic on busy Minnesota State Highway 21, just off Interstate 35 in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Events like this remind me also that agriculture is an important part of my community. Farm fields surround Faribault. Tractors rumble through town, sometimes past my house.
Parked at the Hy-Vee event, a corn (and beer) themed ATV. Guests enjoy free pork burgers on the patio. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo June 2023)
Although I was raised on a crop and dairy farm, I don’t always consider how agriculture impacts us in our daily lives. Without farmers working the land, tending crops, the shelves at HyVee and other grocery stores would be empty. Farmers’ markets wouldn’t exist. And I’d be really hungry because, as much as I like broccoli, that’s not enough to quell my hunger.
Not candy conversation hearts…buta collection of my mom’s vintage valentineswhich can also be conversation starters. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
CANDY HEARTS. I’ve never liked their chalky texture and taste. But these hard pastel candies are as much a part of Valentine’s Day history as valentines, red roses and chocolates. And they are a starting point for conversations: Be mine. Hugs. Love.
What exactly is love? It’s not a word completely defined without context. Yet, there is a basic understanding of romantic love, of love within a family, of love between friends. But what about the everyday love that we can express in words, especially towards those not in our friends and family circles?
Let me explain as I reflect on several conversations with strangers over the weekend. There’s nothing particularly dynamic about these brief encounters. Still, they are worth noting given each exchange reaffirms the importance of connecting with others as we go about our daily lives, sort of like handing out candy conversation hearts. I should note that I am comfortable initiating conversations with people I don’t know, if it feels right.
(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
HEART HAPPY
So there I was, in the check-out lane at a local grocery store when I noticed the man behind me with a shopping cart full of healthy foods. (Yes, I do notice what others are buying.) “You eat oatmeal, too,” I said, nodding toward the two cylinders of old-fashioned rolled oats standing side by side in his cart.
“Ever since I had my heart attack 13 years ago,” he said.
While I don’t remember my exact rambling reply, it went something like this: “Oatmeal’s supposed to be good for your cholesterol and the first time I ate it I thought I can’t do this every morning and then I added fruit…”
“Lots of fruit,” he qualified, when my run-on sentence ended. We fully agreed on the need for lots of fruit.
“Good for you that you’re eating healthy.” And then I wanted to tell him about how my father-in-law hated oatmeal and stuffed it in his pockets at Catholic boarding school in North Dakota but then I ran out of time because my groceries were being scanned and I had to move on, minus any old-fashioned oats in my cart.
Heart-shaped cut-out cookies I baked on a previous Valentine’s Day. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
HOMEMADE SWEETNESS
That same morning, I popped into the post office to mail homemade M & M cookies to my son in Indiana. He’d celebrated his birthday only days prior and I’d failed. I failed to mail him a box of goodies. He obviously expected one. The day before his birthday, Caleb texted to ask if he should be expecting a package. Uh, no. My mom guilt kicked in big time and the next morning I was in my kitchen baking cookies.
Waiting in line at the post office, I wondered how long it would take those sweets to arrive in Lafayette. I once shipped homemade cookies that somehow ended up in Montana, arriving 10 days later in Indiana. So you can understand my apprehension. As I stepped up to the window, the postal clerk asked the usual “anything liquid, hazardous, perishable…?
“Are cookies considered perishable?”
I expected the usual no, but instead got a yes. The clerk clarified by asking if I baked the cookies. When I confirmed I had, she advised me to touch “yes” on the screen, further clarifying that this didn’t mean the cookies would arrive any earlier or that they wouldn’t be diverted to Montana. But I am happy to report the package arrived in Lafayette on Monday, unbelievably fast. I appreciated that the postal clerk appreciated that homemade cookies lack preservatives and are, indeed, perishable or at least capable of going stale. I have to think that conversation with her factored into the swift delivery.
Red roses from my husband for a previous celebration. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
LIKE GETTING A DOZEN ROSES
On to another grocery store, once again waiting in line, this time on a price check for the customer ahead of me. I decided to guess the price of the mixed bouquet of wrapped flowers he held. “I’d pay $7.99 for them,” I said. “But they’re probably lots more because of Valentine’s Day.” I was way off. They were nearly $17.
“You should have guessed higher,” he said.
“Whoever they’re for, she’ll appreciate them.” The cashier concurred.
“They’re for my daughter, for her dance recital.”
That simply made me smile in the sort of way that filled my spirit with happiness and joy. The love of a father for his daughter. Had I not initiated a conversation, I never would have experienced this everyday, love-filled dozen roses moment.
A fused glass heart created by Northfield artist Geralyn Thelen for the “Spreading the Love” sculpture, public art installed in downtown Northfield. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
SUNSHINE ON MY SATURDAY
As I moved ahead, waiting for a teenager to bag my groceries, I noted her long hair cascading in ringlets. “I love your hair. It’s beautiful. How do you get it to curl like that?”
She explained how she rolls curlers into her hair and sleeps in them overnight. Her wide smile revealed to me just how much she appreciated my sincere compliment. As she pushed my shopping cart across the grocery store parking lot toward the van, this bubbly young woman commented on the sunny day and asked how mine was going. Her very being radiated warmth like the February sunshine. It was as if we were exchanging conversation hearts when she wished me a wonderful day and I reciprocated.
Life is filled with opportunities like this. Maybe not to talk about oatmeal or cookies or flowers or curly hair or sunny mornings. But to interact, to connect, to show others that we value them, that they matter to us in the everyday moments of our lives.
WE ALL HOLD WITHIN US the ability to express kindness. That needn’t come in a grandiose gesture, a well-thought-out plan. Rather, we can show kindness in random opportunities presented in everyday life.
Take such an opportunity several days ago as I waited with bread and a pound of butter in a grocery check out line. Behind me, a mom and her daughter stood, too, with a carton of strawberries. Ahead of us, a clerk scanned a young woman’s bottle of salad dressing, jar of spaghetti sauce, bag of meatballs and a hefty pack of bottled water. All of the items went into a shopping cart, which the 20-something customer would need to remove before my purchases went therein. If you don’t pay 25 cents to get a cart before entering the store, you don’t leave with a cart.
As I paid for my two items, I observed the young woman wrestling the case of water from the cart while simultaneously clutching the other purchases in the crook of her left arm. I envisioned the jar dropping, spaghetti sauce and glass splattering, shattering across the floor.
“Here, I can help,” I offered, reaching toward the clutch of groceries in her arm. She smiled, released her purchases to me and grabbed the package of water. “I’ll follow you,” I said, trailing her out the store. I limped and struggled to keep pace while dealing with back and leg pain. But I made it to her van at the far end of the parking lot and waited while she opened the door, placed the water inside, then reclaimed her other groceries. “Thank you,” she said, then repeated, her face flashing a wide smile.
“I’m happy to help,” I said and wished her a good day.
I don’t share this story to applaud myself. I share this story because it’s an example of how a stop at the grocery store gave me the opportunity to be kind. I could have chosen to simply watch the young woman struggle with her groceries. But I didn’t. I opted to help, to take the extra time to do what was right. I hope that you, too, find such moments to reach out with acts of kindness. In today’s chaotic and tension-filled world, where disagreements and meanness seem all too prevalent, we need to connect, to help one another. Whenever we can. However we can.
TELL ME: I’d like to hear your stories of simple kindnesses extended or received. Let’s celebrate the goodness in this world.
BONUS KINDNESS STORY: Days after I finished this post and before it published, I noticed my 80-year-old neighbor outside her car parked at the end of her inclined driveway. I was about to grab my shoes and head over to see if something was wrong. But before I could do that, a motorist stopped his car, backed and parked next to her car. Then I watched as a tall and lean young man pulled my neighbor’s recycling bin up her snow-covered, icy driveway to her garage. I doubt she knew him. He was just some guy passing by who saw a person in need and stopped to help. What a fine example of random kindness. This is what I’m talking about, spontaneous giving because we care about each other as human beings.
AS A WORDSMITH, I appreciate creative marketing. And that defines a new line of ice cream sold at Fareway Foods, a Midwest grocer with a store in my community.
Fareway is unique among grocers. The business is closed on Sundays, following the company philosophy that Sunday should be a day of rest and a time for families to be together.
That business value explains the name Cookie Doughn’t Work on Sundays, a cookie dough flavor in the new Fareway Premium Ice Cream made by Blue Bunny. How clever is that doughn’t?
Other names include You Had Me At Cheesecake, Better Choco-late Than Never, my favorite (in taste, that is) Truffle Shuffle Salty Caramel and more. The salty caramel pairs perfectly with apple crisp.
Winter isn’t exactly prime ice cream season in cold Minnesota. But that doesn’t stop me from grabbing a carton of Fareway’s new, since May, branded ice cream. The names got me initially. Kudos, marketing team. But the taste and price have made me a repeat customer.
TELL ME: Have you come across an especially memorable marketing name for a food product? I’d like to hear.
IF YOU NEEDED ONLY ONE green pepper for a recipe, would you buy three?
If you wanted only one lemon, would you purchase a half dozen?
You probably wouldn’t. But the discount grocery store I shop is now offering some produce items only as pre-packaged and in larger quantities than I want or need. That troubles me. Produce is perishable, which means I likely will end up tossing fruits and vegetables that spoil before I can eat them. With only two in our household now, we don’t go through food nearly as quickly as with three kids at home.
So you might suggest I shop at another grocery store. I do, for the items I can’t find at my regular grocer. But often times purchasing say a single pepper at the second choice store will cost more than buying three packaged peppers at the discount grocer. I am a budget conscious shopper. I have to be given outrageously high health insurance premiums (about $1,300/month now and soon to be $1,500/month) are sucking away the major portion of my family income.
The bottom line is this—I don’t like bulk packaging of food or other items such as tissue and toilet paper. The manufacturer is forcing me to buy more. More, more, more. That seems to be the American mantra in a world with too many people starving and living in poverty.
TELL ME: What do you think of this pre-packaging trend?
A snippet of a domestic violence poster published by the Lutheran Church, Missouri Synod. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo 2015.
HE EXITED AHEAD OF US, the man with his right arm in a cast. His whole demeanor exuded anger as he strode from the grocery store pharmacy empty-handed.
Then the f-word started flying like missiles zoning for a target in the parking lot. “Where the f*** is she?” he shouted, followed by a string of more f-words. Clearly he expected her at the door, waiting for him.
His fury struck me like a coiled rattlesnake. His every move, his every word, heightened my concern. For her. His poisonous words flowed in a venomous assault on the absent woman. If he could verbally attack her in public without her present, what would he say and do in private?
“If he does anything to her, I will call the police,” I told Randy. My husband knew I meant it. I will not hesitate, ever, to phone law enforcement when I see someone being abused. I have done so in the past. If an abused woman was my daughter, my sister, my niece, my friend, I would want someone to speak up, to take action, to refuse to remain silent.
My eyes traced the irate man’s path across the parking lot toward a maroon SUV too distant to notice license plate or details. We watched, listened. I was already mentally preparing to punch 911 into my smartphone.
A photo of police reports published in the Faribault Daily News in May show the pervasiveness of domestic calls to local law enforcement. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo May 2017.
But no criminal laws had been violated, only human rules of common decency and respect. “He has anger control issues,” Randy observed. I agreed. I feared his rampant rage might explode into physical abuse of the woman behind the steering wheel. Heck, he had already verbally abused her in her absence. I doubt that ended once the vehicle door slammed.
I stood next to our van on the opposite side of the lot, eyes following the vehicle as it turned right onto a frontage road and eventually onto Minnesota State Highway 60 heading west out of Faribault.
I wondered and worried. Could I have done more? What awaited this woman? Would she be OK? Or would he blacken her eyes, clench his hands around her throat, shove her around? Would he tell her she was worthless and no good and a b****? Would he strike with those venomous words, “f*** you,” while she recoiled in fear?
Perhaps I am wrong about this man, this situation. But my gut and observations tell me otherwise. I trust both; they have never failed me.
I hope victims of domestic abuse will focus on that word, HOPE, and take action to reclaim their lives, lives free of abuse.
FYI: If you are in an abusive relationship (and that covers not only physical, but also verbal, mental, psychological, emotional, spiritual, technological and financial abuse), please seek help. Talk to a trusted friend, family member, clergy or anyone who can help you. Reach out to your local women’s shelter or advocacy services. If you are in immediate danger, call 911. The probability of violence against victims heightens substantially when they try to leave their abusers. Do not do this alone, for your own safety. You deserve to be free. Free of any type of abuse.
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
A chance encounter with Santa at the grocery store December 17, 2025
Tags: Christmas, commentary, Faribault, grocery store, holidays, Minnesota, Santa Claus
WHEN I SPOTTED SANTA at the grocery store yesterday, I decided to get my picture taken with him. You’re never too old for Santa, right? But the Jolly Old Man didn’t even notice me, so busy was he guzzling his Coca-Cola while marketing Coke products.
I hadn’t considered that Santa would need a side job, especially during the hectic holiday season. Isn’t managing the elves, feeding the reindeer, making public appearances, reviewing kids’ Christmas lists and packing the sleigh enough for one man to handle?
But I suppose Santa, like all of us, is feeling the effects of higher prices. He’s paying tariffs on parts the elves can’t make. Mrs. Claus needs baking ingredients that have skyrocketed in price. The North Pole toy workshop heating bill is likely high, even higher than in icebox Minnesota. So Santa probably welcomes the extra income from his grocery store side hustle.
Undeterred by Santa turning his back on me, I cozied up to him and asked my dear husband to snap a photo. Randy obliged, but not without a look of concern. I didn’t care. I needed a spark of fun in my day. Santa obviously paid me no mind.
Now, if the marketer of Coke products, the supervisor of elves, the giver of wonderful gifts had taken the time to chat with me, I would have handed him a Christmas wish list. What I’d really like Santa to bring to this world, especially this country, are compassion, kindness, respect, empathy, peace and love.
In all reality, Santa can’t deliver on that. Only we can.
THOUGHTS?
© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling