Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Veterans Day 2025: Reflecting on Dad’s letter home from the frontline in Korea November 11, 2025

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On the back of this photo, my dad simply penned “a letter from home.” I appreciate this photo taken by an unknown buddy while they were in the service. (From the Elvern Kletscher photo collection)

A SHORT BIT AGO, I reread a letter my dad wrote home to his parents in southwestern Minnesota on his 22nd birthday in March 1953. Dad penned the letter thousands of miles away in Korea, where he was fighting on the frontline during the Korean War.

Among my dad’s “Korea stuff” are a book of military instructions he carried into the battlefield, a newspaper clipping about him, and his dog tags atop his letter home, the chain circling the words “hell hole.” (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo November 2023)

One long paragraph of that missive stands out for me on this Veterans Day. That is Dad’s anger at the draft board and at those who thought it necessary to send young men like him into what he termed a “hell hole” and a war against Communism that he didn’t think could be won.

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. (From the Elvern Kletscher photo collection)

I expect many others thought like Dad. How could you not after shooting, killing, watching your buddies die in battle? After living with hunger and bone-chilling cold in a mountainous land far from home.

At the time of his letter, Dad was especially concerned that his younger brother, Harold, would be drafted. He vowed revenge if that happened. I suppose when you’re an older brother and you’ve seen war like he has, you don’t want someone you love to experience the same. Dad’s words were just that. Words. Words written by a combat soldier weary of war. A soldier frustrated. A soldier counting the months until he could leave Korea and then be discharged from the Army.

Dad vented to his parents. He called for those in positions of power to come to the Korean battlefields, to see for themselves the realities of war. I imagine many a soldier wished the same, that officials, leaders and decision-makers understood the results of their policies, actions, decisions, orders.

My dad came home from Korea with the wounds of war. Mental, emotional and physical. He was wounded by shrapnel at Heartbreak Ridge. He experienced depression and post traumatic stress disorder.

Yet, he returned to America still patriotic, a proud American whose sacrifices and service were not then recognized. He served in what would become known as “The Forgotten War.” How demeaning, to be ignored, unsupported, just like Vietnam War veterans. Only decades later did Dad receive the Purple Heart he earned on the battlefield.

The Rice County Veterans’ Memorial in Faribault. This photo and five other vet-themed photos I took hang in public spaces at the new State Veterans Home in Bemidji. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Dad went on to become an active American Legion member, serving as commander of the local post. He taught me and my siblings to respect veterans and those who died in battle. We attended every Memorial Day program in my hometown of Vesta. Afterwards we gathered at the cemetery for the playing of taps, prayer and a gun salute. We wandered among the tombstones.

I joined the Junior American Legion Auxiliary, which mostly involved selling poppies on Poppy Day. I also read “In Flanders Fields” at the community Memorial Day program and placed paper poppies on a wreath. My mom was an active American Legion Auxiliary member.

Dad integrated back into life in rural Minnesota upon his return from Korea as if nothing had changed for him. But it had. And it did. Going through his box of “Korea stuff” 72 years after he wrote that birthday letter home to his parents, I glimpse the “hell hole” of war he experienced. My anger rises, too, for all he endured and suffered on the battlefield and upon his return home to rural Minnesota.

© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A letter to my granddaughter on her birthday April 4, 2024

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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.

Happy eighth birthday, my darling Isabelle!

With love,

Grandma

Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

From Minnesota healthcare leaders: “Heartbroken & overwhelmed” December 15, 2021

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Coronavirus. (Photo source: CDC)

SOME TWO WEEKS until Christmas and nearly two years in to the COVID-19 pandemic, Minnesota medical leaders on Monday issued a strong warning to the public along with a plea for the unvaccinated to get vaccinated.

Nine healthcare executives—including the head of the world famous Mayo Clinic—signed a letter which published in newspapers throughout Minnesota. These two statements banner the message:

We’re heartbroken.

We’re overwhelmed.

The carefully-crafted letter is powerful. Emotional. Factual. And, oh, so necessary. I feel deep gratitude to these healthcare leaders who joined in sending a strong message to Minnesotans. We need to hear this. All of us. Vaccinated. And unvaccinated.

The decision not to get vaccinated affects every single one of us. That’s clear in the words of these medical professionals, in daily media reports and in information from the Minnesota Department of Health. Emergency rooms are full. Hospital beds are full. And that means challenges in accessing healthcare. For treatment of COVID-19, cancer, injuries, heart attack… That should concern anyone and everyone. None of us knows when we might need immediate emergency medical care. The situation is “critical,” according to the letter.

I appreciate the honesty. The statement “…every day we’re seeing avoidable illness and death as a direct result of COVID19” points directly to the root of the current crisis. And the frustrations felt in the medical community. “How can we as a society stand by and watch people die when a simple shot could prevent a life-threatening illness?” Exactly. How? Why? I don’t get it and I share the frustrations of those nine Minnesota healthcare leaders and their associated healthcare teams.

They conclude their letter with an “ask.” Get vaccinated and boosted. Wear a mask (regardless of vaccination status). Socially distance. Get tested if you feel sick. Encourage others to follow those steps. None of that is new. But it just does not seem to be sinking in. Especially in rural areas. My roots are rural. I love and care about our rural communities. But the truth is that in many areas of Greater Minnesota, vaccination rates are low, COVID case counts high. This virus doesn’t care about rural or urban boundaries.

In Faribault, I see very few people masking in public. Our vaccination rates in Rice County could be better, especially in those under age 49. Of those eligible for the vaccine, from age five on up, only 62% have completed their vaccine series, according to Rice County Public Health (December 13 statistics). We’ve already lost 147 of our friends, family members and neighbors to COVID in our county. Some died before vaccines became available. And I expect, although I can’t confirm, that some recent deaths of seniors may be from break-through cases in that vulnerable population. But many likely are among the unvaccinated, a situation repeating throughout the country.

I feel for the doctors, nurses and other medical personnel staffing our hospitals. I have no doubt they feel heartbroken and overwhelmed. The stress. The demands. The never ending flow of COVID patients. The death all around. The grief. The helplessness. Day after day after day. Endless physical and mental exhaustion.

I am grateful for their fortitude. Their strength. Their compassion. Their care. And now, today, I feel grateful for this united message from nine healthcare professionals calling on all of us to come together, to do our part to end this pandemic.

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NOTE: I moderate all comments and will not publish anti-vaccine, anti-mask and other such views on this, my personal blog.

© Copyright 2021 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A letter to Dad on Veterans Day November 11, 2021

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U.S. Army Cpl. Elvern Kletscher, my father, in the trenches in Korea. (From my father’s photo collection)

DEAR DAD,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to ask. And then to listen.

I’m sorry I didn’t recognize earlier that you were suffering.

I’m sorry I was too busy with my own life and family to realize that I could have, should have, tried to understand.

An in-ground marker honors my father, Elvern Kletscher, a Korean War veteran and recipient of the Purple Heart for wounds he suffered at Heartbreak Ridge in Korea while killing a sniper. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2011)

Nearly 19 years have passed now since your burial, since that brutally cold early April day when I wrapped my arm around Mom in the wind-swept hilltop Vesta Cemetery. I felt her body shivering, shaking with grief as she accepted a folded American flag.

Moments like that imprint upon me as I remember you—husband, father, grandfather, son, brother…and veteran.

You were buried with military honors. The firing of guns. The mournful playing of taps. An in-ground military marker notes your final rank as a sergeant in the US Army. Awarded the Purple Heart, albeit 47 years after you were wounded on Heartbreak Ridge in Korea.

My father, Elvern Kletscher, left, with two of his soldier buddies in Korea. (From my father’s photo collection)

Today, on Veterans Day, I think of you. Honor you. And consider how fighting as a boots-on-the-ground combat soldier in the mountains of Korea forever changed you.

I recall the few stories you shared through the decades. You watched as a mortar killed your friend Ray, who was scheduled to leave Korea the next day. He left behind a wife and infant daughter. Dad, your grief led me to search for that “baby” two years after your death. I found Teri living in Iowa and with only minimal knowledge of her birth father. I have yet to meet her, but want to some day.

Some day. Days and weeks and months and years pass and then some day is too late. Now I hold a shoebox brimming with curled black-and-white photos and other items from your time in the Army. Your Selective Service System registration certificate. A well-worn mini black book of prayers, hymns and devotions from the Ladies Aid in Vesta. Faith and prayer carried you through many a hellish day and night in Korea.

On the back of this photo, my dad simply penned “a letter from home.” I appreciate this photo of my dad taken by an unknown buddy in Korea. (From my father’s photo collection)

In a letter to your parents, a copy tucked into a folder labeled “Korea” in my office file cabinet, you termed the war-torn Asian country a “hell hole.” Likewise, an over-sized embroidered decal declares “RETURNED FROM HELL.”

I have no doubt that war was hell for you. “Shoot or be shot,” I remember you saying. You spoke, too, of bitter cold, of hunger, of orphans begging for food across barbed wire fences. Of horrible war-time atrocities that I can’t bear to write here.

My dad carried this memorial service bulletin home from Korea. In the right column is listed the name of his fallen buddy, Raymond W. Scheibe. (From my father’s collection)

And then when you arrived home—bringing with you a folded memorial service bulletin from Sucham-dong, Korea, dated July 31, 1953, and including your buddy Ray’s name—the horror and grief you experienced remained. But few, if any, acknowledged your struggles back then. You were expected to resume life as usual, returning to rural Minnesota to farm the land, to milk cows, to marry and raise a family. Post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) was not yet recognized.

I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry about the neighbor who laughed as you dove to the ground when a rifle fired during pheasant hunting.

I’m sorry, Dad, for the fear you felt when guns fired during a small town parade.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you like I should have been.

Near the end of your life, you found empathy and care in your veterans’ support group. That comforts me. Those men understood what you’d experienced. For that I am grateful. They provided the emotional support I failed to give you. I’m sorry, Dad. So sorry.

With love,

Audrey

© Copyright 2021 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A letter to my daughter on her birthday November 16, 2014

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Miranda, celebrating her birthday today.

Miranda, celebrating her birthday today. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo September 2014.

Dearest Miranda,

I never imagined, before I had children—before you or your sister or your brother were born—how deeply I could love a child.

But the day you were born, my heart opened wider, my love deepened to depths unimaginable. There was room in my heart for you and your sister and then, six years later, your brother.

Some day, when you become a mom, you will understand the fierceness with which a mother loves—how she hurts and cries and rejoices and desires nothing more than the best for her children.

I think of you every single day. Some days my heart aches at your absence. And I wish I could wrap my arms around you and hug you and feel the softness of your beautiful curls.

You are a beautiful, strong, caring and compassionate young woman with a mind of her own. Remember how, as a preschooler, you shut yourself in the toy room and played alone for hours? When I’d check on you, you’d ask me to leave. And even though I did, it wasn’t easy to walk away, to feel like you didn’t need me.

But I’d like to think we always need each other, that our love for one another runs deep through our veins, that no matter the distance between us, we remain connected.

I consider how strong you’ve been. At age four you clutched your Big Bird, took a nurse’s hand and walked toward the operating room while I dissolved into tears in your father’s arms. You never cried.

And years later, when you had to wear a back brace 23/7 for a year, you didn’t complain. I cried. But you soldiered on and did what you had to do.

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 of Argentina. File photo 2013.

You’ve always seemed fearless to me, ready for any new adventure. You flew solo to Argentina to study abroad and then back twice thereafter, fighting off a mugger once. I don’t like to think about that attack even now because the thought of anyone ever remotely coming close to harming you scares me. I love you so much and want you always to be safe.

You give of yourself with selfless compassion from a faith-filled heart. Not once, but twice, you helped with clean-up after Hurricane Katrina. Even in your life’s chosen profession as a Spanish medical interpreter, you continue to give.

I am proud of you. Your name means “admirable.” That seems fitting for you, my precious daughter.

I love you now and forever. Happy birthday!

With love,
Mom