Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Adin Castle, a “bright spot” in the lives of many June 11, 2026

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Adin Castle (Photo source: Parker-Kohl Funeral Home, Adin’s obituary)

PHOTO BY PHOTO, I scrolled, stopping halfway through the collection of 265 images. I’d seen plenty, enough to understand that Adin Nathaniel Castle, 19, of Faribault was much loved.

Today Adin’s family and friends will memorialize him, then bury him at Maple Lawn Cemetery. He died on May 24 from injuries sustained in a head-on collision on Minnesota State Highway 3 in Castle Rock Township. The other vehicle reportedly crossed the center line, hitting the car driven by Adin’s girlfriend, Arianna Hess, 18, according to the state accident report. Adin died at the scene. The crash remains under investigation. The couple was on their way out of town on a date.

I didn’t know Adin in life. But I certainly feel like I know him in death based on his online obituary and the accompanying photos and guestbook comments.

Oh, those photos. Frame after frame I see Adin grow from newborn to child to teen, surrounded always by family and friends. At the apple orchard. Fishing. Celebrating birthdays. On the playground. In a canoe. Getting his hair cut. Playing ball. In a Halloween costume. Working on cars. A baby become boy become man. Smiling. Happy. Embraced by so much love.

KIND WORDS

“You raised a good son,” Kathy writes in an online guestbook. Adin is survived by his parents, two siblings and other family.

By all accounts, Adin was a light in the life of many, including customers at Glenn’s Service, an auto repair and tire shop, towing service and gas station in Faribault. He worked there the past three years as an attendant.

Imagine being so appreciated and so valued that you are remembered as bright, smart, polite, respectful, hardworking, helpful, smiling, funny, chatty, caring, humble and positive. Those attributes, among others, are tagged to Adin. To be remembered in such a way speaks to his character.

“A bright spot at the (gas) pump,” notes Kathy.

SO LUCKY…

Adin loved working on vehicles, especially Ford vehicles, his obit reads. He also enjoyed fishing, camping, drawing, star gazing and date nights with his true love, Arianna. She writes: “Adin was always a great man who took pride in his community and his family and I was so lucky to get to love him. I’ll miss you, my love.”

“…so lucky to get to love him.” I love those words typed by Arianna. She shows incredible strength in personal grief, a deep understanding of what it meant to love Adin.

PASSIONATE ABOUT VEHICLES

He was passionate about cars and trucks. His family is taking that love and running with it, inviting mourners to drive their classic cars, trucks or favorite rides in the procession to the cemetery. I expect Adin would have liked that.

The community has rallied in the face of this unspeakable tragedy with kind and loving words and via contributions to a GoFundMe account to help cover funeral and medical expenses. Donors have gifted $11,767 toward a $13,000 goal.

Adin lived only a short while on this earth. But the positive impact he made on others is evident. That much I understand about the young man I never knew, but now know.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

An unexpected prairie place: “Little Yellowstone of Minnesota” June 4, 2026

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Ramsey Falls in Redwood Falls. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

WATER RUSHES OVER the aged granite rock, roaring into the gorge below. It is a scene so beautiful, so unexpected, that this 256-acre city park has been dubbed the “Little Yellowstone of Minnesota.”

Park signage along the river in the zoo area. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Recently I revisited Ramsey Park, also known as Cansa’yapi, translated to “where they paint the trees red” from the Dakota language. A Mdewakanton Band of the Dakota live near neighboring Morton and refer to their traditional Minnesota River Valley homeland as Cansa’yapi.

On this day, I come to see Ramsey Falls along Ramsey Creek, which feeds into the Redwood River inside the park. The Redwood then flows into the Minnesota River.

If the creek level is high, water spills over two areas of the rock. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Ramsey Falls, with its 30-foot drop, is the star attraction in this park founded in 1911 as a state park with ownership transferred to the city of Redwood Falls in 1957. This is a gem in a county marked by farm fields, farm sites, small towns and mostly flat topography.

A side view of the swayback bridge from a previous park visit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Here, within this park, narrow roads twist and turn through woods, descending to the river bottom. Creek and river waters flow. Three and a half miles of cemented hiking trails (new since I left the area 50 years ago), run throughout the park. A swayback bridge built in 1938 by workers with the Works Progress Administration Project along the Redwood River adds an historic architectural element to the park.

Zooming in on a buffalo through a fence. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

For anyone who loves the outdoors—fishing, hiking, camping, picnicking—this park offers it all. The park is also of interest to geologists and history buffs. A small zoo with its resident buffalo and other animals has always been an attraction, too.

The Redwood River photographed from the swayback bridge. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

But it is really the land and the water that brings visitors like me here. Hills and gorges. Waterways. Trees thickening into dense woods, vastly different than the shelterbelts protecting farm sites from prairie winds.

Crossing the WPA swayback bridge over the Redwood River. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

I remember coming here as a child and feeling like I’d entered a different world. Yet, I was still in Redwood County, only 20 miles from the flat farm fields of home to the west. I recall the terror I felt when Dad maneuvered the Chevy around a tight hairpin curve in the park, the steep hillside falling below us. I remember standing in awe of Ramsey Falls, and being more than a little afraid of stepping too close to the fence at the falls overlook. I remember the car dipping across the swayback bridge.

Teenage years took me along a steep, narrow dirt path down to the massive rocks beside the falls for a picnic lunch with friends.

A bird sings in a riverside tree. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

On this afternoon, I lean into the sturdy overlook fence, focus my camera on the rushing waterfalls, notice the surrounding greenery, appreciate this Little Yellowstone of Minnesota. I’ve never been to the Wyoming national park, thus have no comparison to make. That really doesn’t matter; this place holds its own Yellowstone beauty.

The small zoo is home to several playful goats, other animals and birds. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

At the Ramsey Park Zoo, I focus on the buffalo, who seem considerably more docile than I remember. Still, I respect them and understand their importance to the Dakota, original inhabitants of this land. Long gone are the caged monkeys that once entertained me with their antics.

Close up with a buffalo in the Ramsey Park Zoo. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Ramsey/Cansa’yapi Park lies 110 miles to the north and west of my current home in Faribault. Decades removed from Redwood County, I still feel connected to this oasis in the prairie where the water falls and they paint the trees red.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Westward bound deep into Minnesota farm country May 28, 2026

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A red barn and red outbuildings define this farm site along U.S. Highway 14 west of Owatonna. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

THROUGH SEVEN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA counties we traveled—Rice, Steele, Waseca, Blue Earth, Nicollet, Brown and, then, home to Redwood. Westward bound.

Another farm site west of Owatonna. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Only occasionally now, mostly for the annual family reunion and on this day a beloved aunt’s funeral, do Randy and I follow this 125-mile route back to my native Redwood County.

West of Owatonna, a cloudy morning sky dwarfs a distant farm site. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Every trip, I see the immensity of sky and land as the landscape unfolds before me. The farther west we drive, the more rural the look, the feel, with the exception of Mankato and New Ulm.

A barn photographed along highway 14 west of Mankato. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

We bypass the small towns along four-lane U.S. Highway 14 while passing endless farm sites and fields.

This mammoth barn sits along Broun County Road 29 west of New Ulm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

I have my eye on the view from the passenger side of our van, scanning the land, watching for photo ops. Photography can be a challenge while traveling at highway speeds. Still, I try, managing to capture images that document the ruralness of this place.

A well-kept, sturdy barn along Brown County 29 west of New Ulm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Barns, especially red ones, always grab my attention. They symbolize agriculture more than any other building. Yet, most no longer center a farming operation. Absent of animals, many barns have been repurposed or have fallen into heaps of rotting wood. I always appreciate a well-kept barn still standing strong against elements and the passage of time.

A greening field west of Morgan along Minnesota State Highway 67. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

This trip I’m also cognizant of crops at the beginning of the growing season. Corn is popping up in rows across the land, green shoots reaching toward the sun, the sky. Green is good. When my next trip this direction comes in late July, that corn will stand towering and dense across acres of fields.

Entering Redwood County on Minnesota State Highway 68 east of Morgan. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

I may not be a farmer, but my connection to the land more than 50 decades removed from my childhood farm remains strong. I still look at the crops. I still hope to spot a herd of Holsteins. I still see a silo and mentally climb the interior ladder to throw down silage. I still eye a grove of trees with the playfulness of youth.

Farmward Cooperative, left, with downtown Morgan to the right. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

While nostalgia runs high on trips like this deep into Minnesota farm country, reality is that farming remains as challenging as ever with ever-rising expenses, low commodity prices and the uncertainties of weather. Will rain fall when needed? Will storms come with devastating wind and hail? Always, always, the risks exist from planting to growing to harvest.

Sky meets land and farm sites along Brown County Road 29 west of New Ulm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

But on this day, mile after mile after mile, I see the hope of a farmer. I see a way of life. I see dreams.

Minnesota State Highway 19 stretches before us between Redwood Falls and my hometown of Vesta. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

And I feel small in this place where land and sky dwarf farm sites, where fields stretch across endless acres, where the highway ribbons ahead of us across seven rural southern Minnesota counties, westward bound.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The aftermath of a hit-and-run from a mother’s perspective May 15, 2026

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Twenty years ago an ambulance took my son to the Faribault hospital after he was struck by a car while crossing the street. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

SHE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND, the mother said, how anyone could drive away, leaving her son lying in the road. I don’t understand either.

Tuesday morning the Fridley woman’s 17-year-old son was struck by a vehicle while riding his bike to Spring Lake Park High School. The driver left the scene.

Twenty years ago to the date, May 12, 2006, my then 12-year-old son was also struck by a vehicle while walking to his school bus stop along Willow Street less than a block from our Faribault home. That driver, too, left the scene.

Neither of the boys was seriously injured. My son suffered a broken bone in his hand, bump on his head, possible rib fracture and scrapes. The teen from Fridley suffered scratches and skid marks across his body, according to a media report.

But we all experienced trauma, compounded by the drivers of the vehicles who drove away. Drivers who left our sons lying in the street. Drivers who failed to show the decency and compassion to stop. Drivers who, for whatever reason, decided to continue on their way while our boys, our families, dealt with the fall-out of their actions and decisions.

I understand the anger of the Fridley mom. I felt the same 20 years ago. While time has mostly erased that anger, the questions remain. Who? Why? I would like to ask the driver, “How could you simply drive away, go about your morning, your day, your life as if nothing had happened, as if you had not just hit a child and left him lying on the side of the street?”

Despite a description of the vehicle as a blue 4-door, possibly a Chevy Cavalier or Corsica; a $1,000 reward (which is no longer valid); and investigative efforts by Faribault police, the driver was never found. Twenty years after this crime, I wonder if that driver carries any guilt.

I carry the memory of that day, fully aware that the results could have been much worse. Likewise, the mom in Fridley realizes the same. She is only in the early stages of dealing with her anger, her trauma, her questions. Twenty years removed from the hit-and-run involving my son, all three of those issues remain, although lessened by the passage of time, by the gratitude I feel of still having my son.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Honoring mothers, including mine, on Mother’s Day May 7, 2026

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A photo of me with my mom taken several years before her death in 2022. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo by Randy Helbling)

AS MY FIFTH MOTHER’S DAY without my mom approaches, I’m thinking of her, missing her, remembering her.

She lived a long life, living until nearly ninety, something none of us expected given her heart issues. Several times we were called to her hospital bedside to say goodbye. I remember one instance when Mom was not expected to make it through the night. The next morning she woke up much-improved and told us, “I guess God wasn’t ready for this stubborn old lady.”

I’ll never forget that. But I would argue that Mom was not stubborn. She was kind, caring, compassionate, loving and patient. With six children, she had to be patient. I raised three children and understand the patience required of mothers.

We all hold memories of our moms—positive, negative and otherwise. Moms, like all of us, are imperfect. But they try. They do their best.

Mom’s journals. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

And sometimes they leave us a gift that offers glimpses into their lives. My mom left a stack of notebooks journaling her life from 1947-2014 with a few years missing. These are not diaries with personal feelings and thoughts expressed, but rather a documentation of daily life.

I treasure these notebooks filled with her handwritten observations and notes about life in rural southwestern Minnesota. Hard work filled her days. I pulled out her stenographer’s notebook dated 70 years ago to learn what she was doing in the 10 days before my birth.

Even into her senior years, Mom was still working, supervising a family horseradish-making event and then counting jars of the condiment. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2012)

There was the usual washing clothes in the Maytag wringer washer, mending, housecleaning, baking and preparing meals. But Mom also picked grapes with my dad, made grape juice the next day and the following day made 32 jars of grape jelly and 18½ quarts of tomato juice. And she was only days away from delivering me.

The day before I was born, Mom dusted floors, baked bread and cherry nut cake, took 13 dozen eggs into town and then celebrated her wedding anniversary with her in-laws. I’m tired simply reading that list of work she accomplished while nine months pregnant.

At 3 a.m. the next morning, Mom awoke in labor and arrived at the Redwood Falls hospital at 4:20 a.m., giving birth to 8 lb 12 oz. me 36 minutes later. That’s cutting it close, in my opinion. But when you go into labor in the early morning, need to get your one-year-old son to his grandparents’ house, and then travel 20 miles to the hospital, well, the time lapse seems reasonable.

The only photo I have of my parents, Elvern and Arlene, with me as a baby. My dad is holding my oldest brother, Doug. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo)

Six days after my birth, Mom returned home. I should note here that on her fifth day in the hospital, Mom wrote, “Days are plenty long.” I suppose for a woman used to being busy all the time, lying around proved difficult. But she should have enjoyed the respite from work while she could.

Shortly, Mom was back in full work mode, not only caring for a newborn and a one-year-old and doing other routine household chores, but also feeding a crew of men picking corn on the farm for several days running.

Oh, how I admire this generation of Minnesota farm women who fed and cared for their families and others without the modern conveniences of today. No automatic washer, dryer, dishwasher, microwave. No bathroom or phone in our old farmhouse. Food came mostly from the farm, not the grocery store. And that meant gardening and putting up produce.

A sample entry from Mom’s journals. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I’m thankful my mom found time to journal daily. Even if her entries were only several lines long, she apparently thought this documentation important. And I suppose in farming it was, allowing her and my dad to look back on the previous year’s weather, planting and harvesting progress, and such. But I think, too, writing in those spiral bound notebooks gave her a creative outlet and time for herself.

My mom saved everything, including this Mother’s Day card I made for her in elementary school. I cut a flower from a seed catalog to create the front of this card. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted image)

Mother’s Day offers a time to reflect on motherhood. Most give selflessly, love unconditionally, do the best they can. Mine did. And she left, too, her words chronicling everyday life as a mother and as a farm wife. As a writer I cherish this gift, not only on Mother’s Day, but always.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Down the memory aisle of variety stores in Minnesota April 14, 2026

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A section of Main Street in Kasson where I discovered a variety store of sorts in the second building from the corner. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

ONCE UPON A TIME, long before shopping online became a thing, long before malls and long before the prevalence of big box stores, small town Main Street centered retail commerce.

A Ben Franklin store in downtown Park Rapids, which I popped into and photographed in 2017. The store has since closed. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2017)

Mom and pop shops prevailed, mostly meeting a community’s basics needs. But even back in the day, a few chain stores existed. I’m talking five-and-dime variety stores like Ben Franklin and Woolworths.

The Woolworths store along Central Avenue in downtown Faribault, photographed during its grand opening on June 11, 1969, and closed years ago. (Photo courtesy of the Rice County Historical Society)

As a Baby Boomer, I hold fond youthful memories of these two stores. Of buying 45 rpm vinyl singles, nail polish, embroidery patterns, fabric… But even into adulthood I shopped at both, including at Woolworths along Central Avenue in downtown Faribault. Here I bought goldfish (for my kids) scooped from tanks in the back of the store. Here our family bought basics and other goods.

That variety store closed long ago, along with many other businesses that once claimed space in my community. Today Faribault’s downtown looks much different than when I moved here 44 years ago. That’s to be expected. Businesses close. New businesses open. A few endure for generations. As a place and times change, so do its businesses.

I didn’t notice the sign on the building, but rather a small hometown sausage sign on the window to the left of the door at KLG. That drew me inside. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

But occasionally I discover a place that takes me back to yesteryear in a flashback of memories. That happened recently in the small town of Kasson, just west of Rochester along U.S. Highway 14. While walking through the downtown, I found KLG Store. The name itself told me nothing about the business. But a printed sign in the front window advertising “Kasson Hometown Sausage Sold Here!” drew me inside. Not that I like sausage. I don’t. But I appreciate quirky no-frills signs.

Clerk and customer confer about fabric next to cubbies of yarn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)
Piles of fabric cover tables. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)
Bolts of fabric are stashed under the tables. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

Yet, once inside KLG, I was immediately drawn to cubbies of yarn, then tables and shelves packed with bolts of fabric. I forgot all about the sausage. Instead, I ran my hands across cloth, eyed the colorful prints, remembered my teen years when I stitched nearly all of my clothing.

Rows of spooled thread to match with fabric. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)
So many colorful patterns. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)
Lots of choices for quilters, crafters, seamstresses… (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

I haven’t touched my sewing machine in years. For a moment I thought perhaps I should pull it out of storage and resume a creative activity I once loved. Spools of colorful Coats & Clark thread had me visually pairing thread with fabric. Psychedelic prints had me visually pinning and cutting patterns for a seventies fashion statement. Oh, the memories.

The vintage fold-away baskets, right, prompted me to ask if this had once been a dime store. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

Then a stash of vintage collapsible fold-away baskets distracted me, temporarily pausing my fawning over fabric, yarn and embroidery patterns. The red, green and gold fabric and metal baskets with wooden handles are signature five-and-dime store staples.

These embroidery transfer patterns brought back lots of memories. I used such patterns to embroider clothes and more in the 1970s. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

Turns out KLG once housed a Ben Frankin store. I felt giddy upon learning that, but also a tad melancholy. The fold-away baskets reminded me of the passage of time, of how quickly the decades fly.

This sausage originated in Kasson, but is now made in Waseca. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

This building in some ways still houses a variety store with fabric, yarn and notions; products produced via laser engraving, digital and screen printing; and Kasson Hometown sausage, brats and other meats filling coolers. The hometown sausage, though, is no longer made in Kasson, but rather at Morgan’s Meat Market in Waseca.

Looking from the back of the fabric and notions section to the yarn at the front of the store. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

Times change. Businesses change. But sometimes remnants of the past remain, like those fold away shopping baskets inside KLG. Durable baskets that took me back in time to Ben Franklin and Woolworths along yesterday’s Main Street.

Shelved fabric bolts are sorted by color and seasonal design. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

TELL ME: If you have any special memories of dime stores, I’d like to hear them.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Moon musings April 3, 2026

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The rising moon, photographed in the parking lot at St. John’s United Church of Christ, Wheeling Township, rural Faribault, on Palm Sunday. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo March 2026)

HEY, DIDDLE, DIDDLE, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.

Goodnight room. Goodnight moon. Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.

Blue moon. Harvest moon. Full moon.

Moon, moon, moon. Whether in a nursery rhyme, a children’s picture book or in a weather report, the moon has always focused our attention.

MOON MEMORIES

As a child, I found myself drawn to the full moon of harvest season. On an October evening, when extended family gathered in a small farmhouse to celebrate my bachelor Uncle Mike’s birthday, the moon shone upon the farmyard and surrounding fields. In the shadows, my cousins and I played “Starlight, Moonlight,” a nocturnal hide-and-seek, until we were called back to the farmhouse for soda pop. There we gathered around a wooden crate of bottled pop while moths beat their wings against the screen door in a desperate attempt to reach a porch light.

Light. In the deep cold of a winter evening, moonlight guided me from barn to house on my childhood farm. My boots crunched against the packed snow, my breath haloing around me, my fingertips numb from doing chores. High above, the moon hovered.

MOON WALK

On July 20, 1969, the moon morphed well beyond a literary subject or a guiding light for me. I watched Neil Armstrong step onto and walk on the moon from the comfort of Martin and Hattie Schmidt’s living room in Posen Township on the southwestern Minnesota prairie. My family was visiting them for the evening as was customary back in those days.

MOON GO-AROUND

All these moon memories rushed back on Wednesday, April 1, when Artemis II launched into space for a go-around, not a landing, on the moon. This time I sat in the comfort of my living room, watching lift-off on my flat screen color television, not a black-and-white bulky TV.

While I didn’t experience the same thrill I felt as a child witnessing the moon walk, the blasting of a rocket into space still impressed me. Such power. Such an unimaginable concept that four astronauts (including a woman) could travel into deep space, thousands and thousands and thousands of miles to the far side of the moon.

And then home. To the moon of nursery rhymes, children’s picture books, seasons and memories.

TELL ME: What are your personal moon stories?

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

About that chocolate bunny & other Easter stories April 1, 2026

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An inflatable Easter bunny photographed in Courtland (west of Mankato) many Easters ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

LAST EASTER I FAILED as a mom. I failed to mail a chocolate bunny to my adult son who lives in Boston. It wasn’t that I forgot, but rather that I didn’t want to spend the money for a chunk of chocolate which seemed overpriced at the time. I also really didn’t think my son cared all that much about getting a bunny from me. He did.

So this year, more than a week before Easter, I picked up a 3-ounce solid chocolate bunny for $2.97 and mailed it for $8.10. Not exactly fiscally smart. But sometimes you can’t put a price on tradition, love and expectations of a loved one.

A stained glass window inside Holden Lutheran Church, rural Kenyon, depicts the crucifixion of Jesus. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

That got me thinking about Easter traditions, both secular and faith-based. Easter, for me, has always been a mix of each with the primary focus on celebrating Christ’s resurrection.

Eggs dyed with my mom several years before her death. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

As a child, I dyed eggs with my five siblings and parents, something I continued with my three children. As a child, I set my repurposed yellow plastic cottage cheese container, filled with plastic grass, on the kitchen table. The next morning my siblings and I awakened way too early to search for our Easter “baskets” hidden somewhere inside our farmhouse.

I’m sure Mom would have preferred we slept in. But you can’t curtail a child’s excitement over getting candy, a rare treat back in the day. The goal was always to find our baskets before heading to worship services at St. John’s Lutheran Church in Vesta.

If we could get away with it, we inked our arms with temporary tattoos from the Easter egg dyeing kit. Mom preferred we wait until after church to stamp our skin. But we kids didn’t always listen.

We did, however, listen when Mom told us to get ready for church, the boys in their suits or other dress clothes and us girls in our Easter dresses and bonnets. Or as my sister still reminds me, in the ugly yellow daisy dress handed down from me to her.

My vintage 1960s purse, which I still have. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I still remember with great fondness the ensemble—a lime green skirt and jacket with a sleeveless floral top—stitched by my godmother one Easter. I carried a lime green purse, completing the fashionable look. Oh, how I wish I still had that 1960s outfit. Perhaps my granddaughter could wear it. Or maybe not. She might just tell me, “To be honest with you, Grandma…,” as she did recently about a frozen cheese pizza she didn’t like.

My favorite Easter hymn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Once my siblings and I arrived at St. John’s in our Easter finery, we scampered up the steep steps to the balcony. There we joyously sang “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” with other Sunday School students. That remains my favorite Easter hymn.

While decades have passed since those childhood Easters back on the southwestern Minnesota prairie, the lessons I learned and the faith that grew inside me remain strong.

The risen Lord centers a trio of stained glass windows above the altar inside Trinity Lutheran Church, Wanamingo. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Now, as the aging matriarch of the family, I find our Easter celebration evolving. My eldest daughter and her husband often host Easter dinner. And if I don’t worship at my own church, Trinity Lutheran, I join her family for worship in their Lakeville church, ironically named St. John’s.

Halfway across the country, my son will likely be alone on Easter. But he will at least have the chocolate bunny I mailed to him from Minnesota, without fail this year.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Flurrious George & Curious George March 4, 2026

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Winning names in the 2025-2026 Minnesota Department of Transportation Name a Snowplow contest. (Graphic credit: MnDOT)

MINNESOTA WINTERS can get long. So long that many of our older residents flee to Arizona or Florida, becoming snowbirds for a few months before returning here in the spring. They don’t have to worry about shoveling or plowing snow or navigating snowy roads.

But for those of us who live here year-round, winter requires stamina and distractions to endure the snow, ice, cold and darkness that hallmarks Minnesota winters. In recent years, the Minnesota Department of Transportation has provided an entertaining diversion from winter in its annual Name A Snowplow Contest.

Recently, the winning names in the sixth annual competition were announced, demonstrating once again the creativity of those who came up with monikers for snowplows in each of MnDOT’s eight districts. It’s a process to get there from submissions, to selection of finalists, to voting. This year nearly 19,000 people voted, with “Oh, For Sleet’s Sake” as the top vote-getter. Gotta love that wintry version of “Oh, for Pete’s sake!”

As a creative myself, I’m always surprised by the names, most of them a play on phrases, a song, a pop culture whatever. You really do have to be up on your current musicians and such. I am the first to admit that I am not.

My mom holds Curious George. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2021)

But “Flurrious George,” the name picked for District 6 in southeastern Minnesota with headquarters in Rochester (my district), is rooted in a name familiar to me. It’s based on the mischievous monkey in the Curious George children’s picture books. You know, the monkey who messes with The Man in the Yellow Hat.

Yet, this snowplow name stretches beyond a monkey and a man to a personal memory. Of my mom. In the final years of her life, when COVID-19 kept me from seeing her in a long-term care center 2 ½ hours from my home, Mom developed an attachment to Curious George. She couldn’t get enough of this monkey’s antics. She loved to watch Curious George cartoons on DVDs stacked in her room. Mom was so fixated on the story that a staff member, on her own time, shopped for a stuffed toy Curious George for her. She clutched that monkey like a toddler’s security blanket.

I don’t know what happened to Mom’s Curious George. I wish I had the plush monkey she cradled on her lap, touched with her fingers. It would connect me tangibly to my loving mother, who died four years ago in January 2022.

I’ve never really cried over losing Mom. I just haven’t. Until today. As I was writing this post about a snowplow named “Flurrious George,” I remembered photographing Mom holding Curious George when I visited her in March 2021. I hadn’t seen her in a year due to COVID visitor restrictions. I clicked on the story I wrote five years ago. I read. I scrolled. And I cried.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The Boss Baby, aka Everett, turns one January 21, 2026

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Everett and his Boss Baby-themed birthday cake. Photo intentionally cropped to only show a portion of Everett. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2026)

I OCCASIONALLY CALL HIM “darling Everett.” His parents sometimes call him “Sweet Pea.” He is my grandson Everett, who recently turned one and whose birthday we celebrated in Madison, Wisconsin, on Sunday.

For one day, he was also “The Boss Baby.” That 2017 movie themed Everett’s party with watching the film a prerequisite for party-goers. Everett likely could have cared less whether he was a birthday boss. He did, however, look adorable in his upper management tuxedo style onesie worn for photos only. The size two suit was too small and couldn’t be bottom snapped onto his nearly 30-pound lengthy body. So off it came shortly after the party began.

Everett has been above average in size since birth. His wide chest and 10-pound birth weight complicated his delivery with my daughter nearly dying due to severe postpartum hemorrhaging that required three units of blood. So, yes, this party brought back memories of Everett’s difficult birth and how thankful we all are that his mama survived.

Everett gets messy eating his birthday cake. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2026)

Here was this beautiful baby boy a year later strapped into his high chair fisting a thin slice of a custom made Boss Baby three-layer cake, all eyes on him. As we—parents, maternal grandparents, aunt, uncle, cousins and a family friend—gathered round to sing “Happy birthday,” Everett took it all in. And I felt the love that comes with celebrating someone you love deeply and widely.

Next to Everett’s birthday banner, his mama hung photos she took each month to document his growth during his first year of life. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2026)

I know I am biased as Everett’s grandma. But he is one cute baby with a head full of blonde curls. He was born with dark, straight hair. In the past year, this one-year-old has grown and changed so much, as babies do. Everett began walking on his birthday and by party day moved with confidence. His new-found skill brought many a smile.

Guests played a customized BINGO game created by Everett’s mom. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2026)

It was a joy-filled afternoon for all nine of us gathered on a cold January afternoon in eastern Wisconsin to celebrate Everett. We laughed, took lots of photos of the birthday boy while he ate his cake and sort of opened gifts. We played Everett BINGO, a customized game that tested our knowledge of the birthday boy. He could have been a Felix or a Cora. Ceiling fans once mesmerized him. His favorite Pokemon is Pikachu, according to his two young Minnesota cousins.

These are the memories I hold now of my grandson’s first birthday party, the memories I carried back to my southern Minnesota home a four-hour drive away. I miss Everett already. I also missed out on holding and cuddling him because he would have none of that. From anyone. He’s become a mama and daddy’s boy in the presence of anyone mostly unfamiliar to him, dear family or not. That was hard on me. I wanted to scoop Everett into my arms, hold him, read to him, do all those things grandmas do with their grandbabies. I recognize this as a phase because Everett’s mama was the same way at this age.

For now I hope frequent video calls will grow Everett’s trust of me. His oldest cousin Izzy, 9, has an even better idea: Move closer to family. If only The Boss Baby would make an executive decision to relocate hundreds of miles west to Minnesota. Or at least far western Wisconsin. The Minnesota division of his company would appreciate that immensely, thank you.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling