Monarch on the common milkweed flower. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2023)
I’VE ALWAYS HELD a fascination with milkweeds. Their clusters of vanilla-scented dusty pink flowers draw me to a plant that seems more flower than weed. Unless you were my dad, who wanted the common milkweed removed from his acres of soybeans. Yes, I hoed or pulled plenty of milkweeds from the fields on my southwestern Minnesota childhood farm.
Milkweeds grow next to the conservation building at the Rice County Fairgrounds against a backdrop of identifying milkweed photos. Those include six types: common, poke, purple, butterfly, whorled and swamp. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
My thinking has shifted since then. Today I plant, rather than eradicate, milkweeds. Dad, if he was still alive, might wonder how his farm-raised daughter strayed so far from hoeing to growing.
A monarch caterpillar. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
The answer is easy. Long ago I learned the value of milkweeds to our monarch butterfly population. The butterfly lays its eggs on milkweed leaves. And milkweed is the sole source of food for monarch caterpillars. If we want the monarch population to grow, thrive and survive, we need milkweed plants. It’s that simple.
A sign at Hy-Vee grocery store explains the importance of milkweed to monarchs. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
More and more I’ve spotted milkweeds growing in public places in and around Faribault. River Bend Nature Center. Falls Creek County Park. The Rice County Master Gardeners’ Teaching Gardens. Beside the conservation building at the Rice County Fairgrounds. Even in flowerbeds at Hy-Vee grocery store.
Milkweeds grow among phlox. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
If you walk by my house, you’ll see stray milkweeds popping up here and there. Along a retaining wall. Among the prolific phlox in my messy flowerbeds. The husband has orders not to mow, pull or otherwise remove milkweed plants.
An unripened milkweed pod. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
This time of year, seed pods are forming on milkweeds. Perhaps it’s the writer, the poet, in me that loves the shape of those fat green pods that will eventually dry, burst open and spread seeds on wisps of white fluff carried by the wind.
Milkweeds flourish among prairie flowers in the Rice County Master Gardeners Teaching Gardens, Faribault, (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
Seeds wing across the landscape, just like monarchs. I remember a time when monarchs were prolific. Yes, even in rural Minnesota where I labored to get rid of milkweed plants.
I discovered milkweeds planted outside Hy-Vee. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
Naturalists, gardeners and others are working hard now to bring back the monarch population. It’s taken time, effort and education to convince people to plant milkweeds for monarchs. I don’t expect butterfly numbers will be what they once were—when monarchs flitted everywhere. But we have to start somewhere, do something. And that begins with each of us. Educating ourselves. Caring. And then deciding that milkweeds really aren’t weeds after all. They are vital to the survival of the monarch butterfly. It’s OK to plant milkweed seeds or allow nature to plant them.
Monarch on a thistle flower. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I, for one, delight in watching monarchs flit about my yard. They are magical as only a butterfly can be. Delicate, yet strong. Poetically beautiful. Carrying memories and grace on their wings.
An educational sign among the flowers at the Rice County Master Gardeners Teaching Gardens. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
FYI: Nerstrand Big Woods State Park is hosting a “Monarchs and Milkweeds” presentation at 10 a.m. Saturday, August 24, in the park’s amphitheater. Kathy Gillispie, who raises monarchs from eggs, caterpillars and chrysalises, will speak about her experiences with monarchs. The program is free, but a state park parking pass is needed to enter the rural Nerstrand park.
Peaches fill a box and now my fridge. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
PEACHES PACK my refrigerator. Several ripen in a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter. Big, beautiful Colorado peaches.
Signs directed people into the peach pick up spot in the basement. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
Earlier this week, Randy and I picked up a 20-pound case of peaches in the basement of First English Lutheran Church. That’s a lot of peaches—around 40—for two people to eat. But I love peaches. And we’ll share some with our eldest daughter and her family.
People wait in line for their peaches at First English Lutheran Church. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
A steady stream of people flowed into the cold church basement late Tuesday afternoon for their pre-ordered peaches, sold as a fundraiser by the youth group. We paid $37 for our full box. That’s $1.85/pound. I have no idea if that’s a “good” price. It doesn’t matter. I prefer peaches shipped directly from the grower. I also like supporting local church youth, because I was once that mom of kids raising monies for mission trips and youth gatherings.
Peaches no longer come in wooden crates, but in cardboard boxes. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
Peaches, though, mean more to me than simply supporting a good cause and eating one of my favorite fruits. Peaches take me back to summer on the farm, into the kitchen. There my mom pried open a wooden crate of peaches wrapped in pinkish tissue paper (saved for later use in the outhouse). Then she dropped the peaches into a large kettle of boiling water to remove the skins. Next, she halved or sliced the peaches into Mason and Ball quart jars. Topped with lids and ringed, the jars went into the pressure cooker. Once removed, the jars cooled and sealed. Then we carried the jars to the cellar.
Beautiful (and delicious) Colorado peaches sold at First English. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
I admire farm women like my mom who labored to preserve fruits and vegetables to feed their families during the winter months ahead. And winters on the prairie were long and harsh. Many a cold, snowy evening, Mom would pull open the kitchen floor trap door and send me down the open wooden steps into the depths of the dank, dark, dirt-floored cellar lit by a single light bulb. There I selected a quart jar from the wooden shelves. Whatever fruit Mom wanted. Pears, cherries, plums, apples, peaches. The preserved fruit would complete our meal of meat, boiled potatoes with gravy, a side vegetable (pulled from the freezer) and homemade bread.
We ate well. Good food without preservatives. Beef from our cattle. Vegetables from our garden. Apples from local trees. And then all those fruits, purchased in crates and preserved. No additives. Just simple, good food.
Fruit-themed banners add a festive flair to peach pick up. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
I always thought I would follow my mom’s example of planting a big garden and preserving food. But I never did. I live on a mostly shady lot in town. I raised only three children, not six like her. I have easy access to multiple grocery stores, unlike her. Fresh fruit is readily available. I prefer fresh. And, if I’m really honest with myself, I never wanted to labor in the kitchen for hours during the hot summer putting up fruits and vegetables.
Carts were ready for volunteers to wheel peach cases to vehicles. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)
Still, I buy that case of peaches from First English. All those peaches, minus the tissue paper wrappings reused in the outhouse. In many ways, I am honoring my mom, hardworking farm woman of the Minnesota prairie. As I pull ripened peaches from a brown paper bag to slice into my morning oatmeal, to eat with a meal or to incorporate into a crisp, pie or galette, I think of Mom. She, who showed her love for family not in words or hugs, but rather in rows and rows of quart jars filled with fruit. Jars shelved on planks in the dank, dark depths of the dirt-floored cellar.
A farm site west of New Ulm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
WOULD YOU PICK rock, walk beans, clean up pig or cow muck? Joe and his crew will.
I can, too, as I’m experienced. But I have no desire to return to those farm tasks that are now only long ago youthful memories.
The sign I spotted in a Redwood Falls convenience store. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2024)
Recently, I saw a sign, more like a note, posted by Joe on a convenience store bulletin board in Redwood Falls, deep in the heart of southwestern Minnesota farm country. I grew up in that area, on a crop and dairy farm.
Rocks picked and piled at field’s edge. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2014)
Like Joe, I worked the land and labored in the barn. I picked rock, which is exactly as it sounds—walking fields to pick rocks from the soil and toss them onto a wagon or loader. Rock removal is necessary so farm equipment isn’t damaged during crop prep, planting and harvesting. It’s hard, dirty work when done by hand.
Likewise, walking beans is hard, dirty, hot work. That job involves walking down rows of soybeans to remove weeds and stray corn plants, either by hand or by hoe. At least that’s how I walked beans back in the day. Today that may involve spot spraying herbicides.
A tasseling Rice County corn field. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
And when I worked corn fields, it was to detassel corn for the Dekalb seed company. I arose early, boarded a school bus with a bunch of other teens, arrived at a corn field and proceeded to walk the corn rows pulling tassels from corn plants. Dew ran down my arms, corn leaves sliced my skin, sweat poured off my body as the day progressed under a hot July sun. Of all the jobs I’ve had, detasseling corn rates as the most miserable, awful, horrible, labor intense work I’ve ever done.
Inside a Rice County dairy barn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I’d rather shovel cow manure. And I did plenty of that along with other animal-related farm chores.
If Joe and his team are willing to take on tasks that are labor intensive, hot and smelly, then I applaud them. We need hands-on folks who are not afraid to get their hands dirty, to break a sweat, to do those jobs that place them close to the land. Jobs many other people would not do.
An abandoned barn and silo along a backroad in the Sogn Valley of southeastern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2021)
I don’t regret my farm work experiences. I learned the value of hard physical labor, of working together, of understanding that what I did was necessary. Certainly farming has changed, modernized in the 50 years since I left the land. Machines and computers make life easier.
But sometimes it still takes people like Joe and his crew to plant their soles on the earth, their feet in the barn, to make a farming operation work, even in 2024.
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.
Watching the auction from behind the auctioneer’s truck at the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Consignment Auction on May 25 south of Dundas. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT AN AUCTION that evokes nostalgic curiosity, drawing people together to peruse second-hand merchandise, perhaps to bid, perhaps only to watch silently from the side. Even to mourn.
The auctioneer and clerk sell and record items sold. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Recently, I attended the spring auction at the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines showgrounds south of Dundas as an observer. I didn’t need any of the goods sold on consignment with all commissions donated to the nonprofit. But, still, I watched and wove among the items auctioned by Valek Auction Co. of Northfield.
Lining up for bidding numbers. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
A familiar milk bucket, just like the one my dad used when milking his Holsteins. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
I felt like I was back on the farm, filling a bushel basket with silage for the cows, scrubbing the milk bucket with a brush, mixing milk replacer in a galvanized pail, watching corn flow into an aged grain wagon…
A grain bin repurposed as a shelter/resting area at the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines showgrounds. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Rural auctions like this, for those of us who grew up on working farms or still live on them, are like steps back in time. Decades removed from farm life, I would feel out of place on a modern-day farm with all the technological advancements, the oversized equipment. That bushel basket, that milk bucket, that pail, that grain wagon…all are the stuff of yesteryear. Farming today is much less labor intensive, more efficient.
Items are auctioned off a hay rack. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
A vintage hay loader. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Merchandise lines the gravel road. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Still, we often hold onto the past, the memories of back-in-the-day, the “way it used to be.” Nostalgia runs strong at auctions. I saw that, felt it, overheard it as folks gathered around the auctioneer’s pick-up truck, leaned on the hay rack piled with auction goods, meandered among the merchandise lining both sides of a gravel road.
A 1950s vintage stroller, exactly like the one used for me and my five siblings. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Many of the auction items were vintage, likely pulled from the back corners of a dark machine shed or abandoned barn or from weeds along the edge of a grove. The rusted metal baby stroller could have been the one I rode in, the pitchfork the one I used to bed straw, the hand-reel lawnmower my grandma’s.
A vintage grain drill. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Planting dates written inside the lid of the grain drill. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
This particular auction held so much relatable history. I doubt I was alone in feeling that way. While looking at a vintage grain drill, an implement used to plant small grains, I discovered historic documentation. There, on the underside of a metal lid, a farmer recorded the dates he planted oats, barley and wheat, beginning in 1951 until 1969 with a few years missing. Planting and finishing dates are important to farmers as they put seed in the ground, anticipate harvest. I thought of this farmer who 73 years ago wrote that first entry on his grain drill, holding the hope of harvest within him.
Inspecting before bidding starts. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
There’s a certain reverence and respect in rural auctions. An honoring of farmers and farm life and the responsibilities that come with tending the land. This isn’t just stuff being sold to the highest bidder, but rather something of value, of importance, that once belonged to another. I remember standing at my father-in-law’s farm auction decades ago and feeling a certain sadness in the sale of items gathered from shed, house, barn and elsewhere.
Lil Fox Wagon, one of several on-site food and beverage vendors. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Farm auctions represent the final verse in a hymn, the congregation gathered, the auctioneer chanting the liturgy. Comfort and community and closure come. At the hay rack. Among the rows of numbered auction items. At the lunch wagon. All until the last item is sold.
Resting during the morning auction. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Hallelujah. And amen.
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NOTE: Check back tomorrow to read my prize-winning poem, “Sunday Afternoon at the Auction Barn,” published in 2014 in a Minnesota literary anthology.
An abandoned farmhouse near my hometown of Vesta. The house no longer stands, but represents to me the financial hardships of growing up in southwestern Minnesota during the 1960s and 1970s. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
THE RESIDUALS OF GROWING UP in poverty remain today in my life. I am careful with my money. I don’t spend much beyond paying bills and for necessities. I seldom buy anything new for myself. Dining out, which I rarely do, always leaves me feeling guilty, thinking about how many groceries I could have bought with that money (although not that many anymore).
This is a thinking pattern ingrained in me by a mother who was a child of the Great Depression. I suspect she picked up on thriftiness from her mother. My mom stretched and budgeted and managed to raise six children on a Minnesota farm with income generated from crops and dairy cows and with food from the land. We wore mostly hand-me-downs and clothing stitched from feed sacks. There were no birthday gifts from our parents, no family meals out, no a whole lot of everything. But we had love. Lots of it.
I share this because it explains why I am the way I am. Content with what I have. And appreciative of second-hand. I don’t need new. Currently, recycling, upcycling, repurposing, keeping stuff out of landfills is trendy. I’ve never been labeled as trendy. But apparently I am now.
That brings me to a number of events this weekend in my area which fit my budget and environmentally-friendly way of living: book sales, plant sales and flea market/garage sales.
You can still find Little Golden books in stores today, like these at JT Varieties & Toys in Plainview. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2022)
First up, books. I love to read, always have. Mom read Little Golden Book storybooks to me. And she let me select a book from school book orders. That’s how important reading was to her. Without a library in my hometown, this gave me access to books.
Some of the books I’ve purchased at past book sales. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Today I live blocks from a public library and bring home stacks of books. I’ve also carried bags of books home from used book sales. This weekend Faribault’s American Association of University Women hosts its annual used book sale, its final one after 54 years. Hours are 10 am-7 pm Friday and Saturday and from noon – 5 pm Sunday.
Puzzles borrowed and bought new and used. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
In neighboring Waterville, Friends of the Library are hosting a used book sale from 8 am – 4 pm Saturday in Langerud’s Garage, 503 Marian Street. There’s no set charge for books, just a freewill offering. Oh, and they’re also selling puzzles, sure to be popular with puzzle enthusiasts.
And for those who love garage sales, like me, Waterville is also hosting city-wide garage sales on Saturday. There are garage sales, too, at Christ Lutheran Church in Faribault (Friday and Saturday) and at Nerstrand United Methodist Church (Saturday). Just check the classifieds in your local paper and you’re sure to find garage sales in your community.
A scene from a 2022 RCHS Flea Market. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)
One other fun event is the Spring Flea Market from 8 am – 2 pm Saturday at the Rice County Historical Society in Faribault. I always enjoy poking through the merchandise and talking with people I haven’t seen in awhile.
Plants for sale at the Owatonna Farmers’ Market in 2014. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Finally, gardeners looking for plants and free advice can get both at two separate plant sales on Saturday in Faribault. GROWS Garden Club is selling plants from 8 am – noon on the southeast corneer of Central Park. And from 9 am – 2 pm, Rice County Master Gardeners are selling plants in the 4-H building at the Rice County Fairgrounds.
A scene at a previous Car Cruise Night in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
Two more things: Friday evening is Car Cruise Night from 6 pm – 9 pm along Central Avenue in historic downtown Faribault. It’s free as is entrance to the Straight River Art Festival from 9 am – 6 pm Saturday at Heritage Park in Faribault. The event features art, music and food.
Norwegian treats at a past Trondhjem celebration. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
And then two more things: Historic Trondhjem Church, rural Lonsdale, is hosting a Syttende Mai Celebration beginning at 1 pm Sunday. The event features music and stories by Steven K. Anderson of the Brainerd Lakes area, Norwegian songs sing-a-long and a reception with Norwegian goodies afterwards. Over in Owatonna at the Village of Yesteryear and Steele County History Center, the Sons of Norway will also celebrate Syttende Mail from 1 pm – 4pm with music, crafts, a medallion hunt and more.
So much to do…at no or minimal cost. My mom and grandma would have appreciated all of these budget-conscious opportunities. Just as I do.
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.
The only photo I have of my mom holding me. My dad is holding my brother Doug. (Minnesota Prairie Roots)
MOTHER’S DAY. It’s a day that can feel both sad and joyful. Sad if your mom is no longer living. Mine isn’t. Joyful if you have children, no matter their age.
It is a Sunday of gathering, of remembering, of honoring, of celebrating motherhood. Perhaps with a meal together. Perhaps with flowers delivered or received. Whatever, however, the focus should be one of love and gratitude.
I feel grateful for my lovely mom, who taught me kindness, compassion and care. Sure, she had her moments. Who wouldn’t with six kids spanning 12 years? We tested her patience more than once. But that didn’t diminish her love for us. Her own mother died at age 48, when I was only two months old, and I cannot imagine how difficult that was for my mom and her three younger siblings. So treasure your mom. Time together is precious.
The card I made for my mom as a child. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo)
So are words shared. As a writer, I value greeting cards as a way of expressing love and other emotions. My mom did, too. She saved cards, including a simple card I created for her in elementary school for Mother’s Day. I cut a flower photo from a seed catalog and pasted it to the front of a folded piece of paper, then printed I love you Mother. Audrey inside. The editor in me wants to add a comma and change the formal Mother to Mom. But I doubt Mom much cared. She was just happy to get a handcrafted card from her eldest daughter.
Likewise, I love getting greeting cards from my now-grown children. One arrived in the mail today from my second daughter, who lives 260 miles away in Madison, Wisconsin. I last saw her at Christmas. Her job as a letter carrier for the US Postal Service keeps her working 10-12 hours daily, usually six days a week. So seldom does Miranda have adequate time off to travel to Minnesota. I couldn’t help but think, as I opened her Mother’s Day card, that Miranda was likely dropping similar cards into mailboxes along her route.
Mothers always appreciate flowers. These were a gift from my daughter Amber and her family in 2021. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2021)
She chose a lovely floral design card that is certainly “me.” And then my sweet daughter penned the most loving message. One that left me in tears. Hope you have a nice, relaxing day surrounded by the people you love. We love & miss you. Love, John & Miranda.
A plane leaves Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I will be surrounded by people I love—my eldest daughter, Amber, son-in-law and two grandchildren—on Saturday. But “the people I love” also includes the rest of my family. And in that moment tears fell at the missing of Miranda and her brother, Caleb, both of whom I haven’t seen in more than four months. Caleb lives in Boston.
This photo of me with my mom was taken two years before her death. Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2020 by Randy Helbling)
To be a mom is to understand that separation is inevitable. Our kids grow up, move away, sometimes farther than we’d like. Things keep us apart. Death also separates. Daughters and sons have lost mothers. Mothers have lost children. But in the end, love remains. As does gratitude. I am grateful for my mom. Grateful for my three children. I am grateful to be a mother.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there! You are loved. And appreciated.
Just-published, a 116-page anthology featuring the poetry of five Northfield, Minnesota, poets. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)
ON AN APRIL AFTERNOON when gray skies reverberated thunder and unleashed sheets of rain upon parched southern Minnesota, I read their words, table-side lamp pooling light onto pages. It felt right, to cozy under a fleece throw, to immerse myself in the poetry of Becky Boling, Heather Candels, D.E. Green, Steve McCown and Julie A. Ryan on a day meant for sheltering indoors.
Outside the Northfield Public Library during a 2019 celebration of Hispanic Heritage Month. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2019)
Antiques on 4th in Cannon Falls. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2021)
Youthful memories of grandmothers, homemade ice cream, small towns as they once were and much more flow through the pages. At times I feel as if I’m reading about “the dusty excess of nostalgia” of my life, as Steve McCown writes “In an Antique Store.” His mention of a Tom Thumb toy cash register sends me back to a long ago Christmas. His poems are sparse, yet fully-descriptive in the way of language carefully-culled by a man who taught high school and college English.
An Elvis impersonator performs during Bean Hole Days in Pequot Lakes. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2021)
Likewise, Julie A. Ryan, has me reminiscing with “Candy Cigarettes,” the chalky white sticks of fake cigarettes that I, too, “smoked” in the 1960s. Ryan paints with her words, revealing the visual artist side of her creativity. She mentions Van Gogh and painting and also leans into music within her poetry. Especially powerful is her poem, “’68 Comeback Special,” in which she shares about a near-death experience, of almost meeting Elvis. Her final poem, “We Look West,” titles the book, summarizing well the transition of life from sunrise/birth to sunset/death. That themes the anthology, the movement of life from east to west.
Performing at The Contented Cow in downtown Northfield. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo August 2020)
In her poetry, Becky Boling moves readers through life from playground monkey bars to motherhood to contemplating old age. I am particularly drawn to “Violin Lesson,” in which Boling observes her young son learning to play the violin. From a deep cushioned armchair, she is caught up in the artistry, the beauty, the movement as am I through her observational writing. And then she closes with the emotional thought of not wanting the moment to end, of understanding that some day she will let her son go. As the mother of three, I feel her sadness at the lesson completed. I expect in her 36 years of teaching Spanish and Liberal Arts at Carleton College in Northfield, Boling has observed the movement of young people whose parents let them go to learn and grow their independence.
A southwestern Minnesota prairie sunset between Redwood Falls and Morgan. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
D.E. Green, who taught English for 33 years at Augsburg University, has likely seen the same. His poems reflect life and love. Particularly endearing is his poem, “For Becky: Love Sonnet after Neruda,” written for Boling, to whom he’s married. (They also share the position of interim co-poet laureates in Northfield.) His appreciation for and study of Shakespeare show in this love poem, as touching as any love poem I’ve read. “I love you unthinkingly/like a deep breath, a careless yawn, a sigh,” he writes. Beautiful. Green also reflects on his life lived “good enough” and on life during retirement. His poetry should be required reading for anyone closer to west than to east.
My mom lived in a care center, confined to a wheelchair in the end years of her life. I took this photo of her hands about a year before her January 2022 death. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo December 2020)
Heather Candels, too, reflects on her passing life in a poem aptly titled “Passing.” But it is “Situation Comedy,” a poem about a 104-year-old woman living in a care center, which elicits an especially emotional reaction from me. I can picture the centenarian shoving her walker (as my octogenarian mom did) to the dining room, then sitting with Grace and Lloyd, whom she secretly calls Grease and Lard. “Something has to be funny about all this,” Candels writes. The former English teacher is a gifted storyteller who brings unexpected emotional lines to her writing.
In “A Sign,” Heather Candels writes about racial injustice via white lilies of the valley and “their colonies spreading underground/roots nurtured by the rich dark soil…” This poem alone is reason enough to buy this anthology. Photo taken in Madison, Wisconsin. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2020)
And then there are the poems that touch on tough topics, on social issues, on disparities. Climate change. Evidence in the Nuremberg Trials. Racial injustice. Poetry doesn’t right life. But it opens our minds, causes us to think, reflect, perhaps take positive action as we move from east to west.
My friend Joy’s chickens. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I’M NO CHICKEN farmer. I’m not even particularly fond of roaming chickens (ducks or geese). But this time of year on “Chick Days,” I feel nostalgic, remembering the delivery of newly-hatched chicks. They arrived on my southwestern Minnesota childhood farm via the U.S. Postal Service, cheeping raucously and, I’m certain, desiring to escape their cardboard boxes.
A snippet of a promo for “Chick Days” at a local business.
Today, chicks still ship via mail, but need to be picked up at the post office or at a local supplier on “Chick Days.” That may be at a farm store, a grain elevator, a feed store…
A boarded up hatchery in southwestern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Gone are the days when chick hatcheries were found in many farming communities. But this is not Mayberry anymore. Rural America has changed significantly since I was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s with businesses now shuttered, buildings vacated.
A 1950s or 1960s era greeting card from a hatchery in Minneota, Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)
But, if you look closely enough, dig deep enough, ghosts of those businesses remain, including chick hatcheries. Among the vintage greeting cards my mom saved (she saved everything), I found a holiday card from Dr. Kerr’s Hatchery. That was in Minneota; that’s Minnesota minus the “s.”
Minneota sits on the prairie northwest of Marshall in Lyon County. This small town is perhaps best-known as the home of the late Bill Holm, noted writer and English professor at Southwest Minnesota State University. Among his work, Boxelder Bug Variations, a collection of poetry and essays about, yes, boxelder bugs. Minneota celebrates Boxelder Bug Days annually.
But it doesn’t celebrate chicks, as far as I know, or the hatchery with the unusual name of “Dr. Kerr’s Hatchery.” There’s a story behind that moniker. I just don’t know what that may be.
Signage is a reminder that this building once housed a hatchery in Morgan. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
I do know, though, that Morgan, 60 miles to the east of Minneota, also had a hatchery, aptly named Morgan Hatchery. I photographed the exterior of the former hatchery and feed store in 2013 while en route to my hometown of Vesta.
Chickens are fenced next to the red chicken coop on Joy’s rural acreage. Sometimes they also roam free aroundthe yard. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Thoughts of home take me back to those chicks delivered by the mailman, as we called letter carriers back in the day. After retrieving the box (es) of chicks from aside the roadside mailbox, Mom released them into the chicken coop. There they clustered around shallow water dishes under the warmth of heat lamps. I don’t recall many details other than the fluffy fowl feathering all too soon. For me, the chicks’ transition toward adulthood quickly ended my adoration.
A fenced rooster at my nephew and niece’s rural acreage. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
There’s a reason I dislike being in close proximity to chickens: pecking hens and a vicious rooster. Gathering eggs from angry hens as a young girl proved an unpleasant chore. And avoiding a mean rooster proved impossible. One day Dad had enough of the rooster attacking his children. He grabbed an ax and that quickly ended the hostile encounters. I still hold trauma from that rooster. But I’ve gotten better about being around chickens. However, if I even pick up on a hint of meanness, I flee.
Farm fresh eggs from Nancy and Loren’s chickens. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)
The difference in eggs, with the yolk from a store-bought mass-produced egg on the left and a farm fresh egg on the right. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)
Given my history, I’ll never own chickens. But I eat chicken. And I eat eggs. I especially like farm fresh eggs from free-range chickens. The dark orangish-yellow yolk hue, the taste, are superior to mass-produced eggs.
A maturing chick. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
And I still think chicks are cute, even if they quickly morph into feathered birds I’d rather not be around.
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