Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Beyond simply playing BINGO March 26, 2024

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An old school BINGO card. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

ISAAC’S EXCITEMENT was palpable. He flew into Grandpa’s arms for a hug. They share a special bond; they are buddies. I love witnessing the love between them.

“Aren’t you going to give Grandma a hug?” my daughter asked Isaac. He wasn’t. Not initially. But then Isaac did. After his sister, Izzy, hugged me. There were more embraces for their parents. We were ready to go.

The six of us entered a spacious gathering room accented by a stained glass cross and other faith-based art. The buttery scent of popcorn permeated the space. Prizes covered tables. BINGO cards, some white, some green, layered more tables.

This was Family BINGO Night at Isaac’s preschool at a Lutheran church in the south metro. Randy and I were there to play the game, but mostly to spend time with our grandkids, eldest daughter and son-in-law. Making memories. Building bonds. Sharing moments.

Isaac and Izzy were there for one thing—to win at BINGO and claim a prize. They scoped out the goods, Isaac eyeing an alien painting kit and Izzy a Paw Patrol puzzle.

As we grabbed BINGO cards and settled onto chairs ringing a large round table, Izzy next to me and Isaac next to Randy, I could see the kids’ anticipation. Izzy fidgeted. Isaac’s cheeks were flushed. While we waited for the game to start, we picked up frosted cookies to go with popcorn scooped into paper boats. Sweet and salty. Yum.

Soon enough the BINGO calling began. Loud. But I managed, even with sensory issues caused by long haul COVID.

Playing BINGO at a church festival. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

We slid red plastic tabs across BINGO numbers. The adults played two cards each, doubling our chances of winning a coveted prize. Soon Marc was calling “BINGO!” and Isaac had his alien art. Good, one happy kid.

The BINGO rounds continued with no winners at our table. By then I was struggling visually, seeing double sometimes. My eyes are still healing from bilateral strabismus eye surgery and they were getting a work out playing BINGO. Not only were my eyes darting between two cards, but they were also occasionally focusing on the overhead screen to read numbers, when I was unsure I heard correctly. I felt my right eye muscles stretching, hurting. I needed Izzy’s help. She took one of my cards. I noted Izzy was becoming increasingly antsy about winning a prize. And then Grandpa came through and, boom, she had her puppy puzzle.

My siblings and I have a saying, “Life isn’t fair and the fair is in August.” I wanted to say that to Izzy, but I didn’t think she would understand. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2019)

All was good and fine…until Grandpa won a second time and it wasn’t fair, proclaimed Izzy, that Isaac got two prizes and she only had one. Try and reason with an almost eight-year-old. It went something like this, “Well, Grandma won and she could have picked a prize for herself, but she let you pick one.”

“I thought Grandpa won,” Izzy replied, emphasis on Grandpa.

My granddaughter was right. I didn’t win. Randy did. Not only were my eyes tired. But apparently so was my brain. BINGO!

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Defining time in the everyday moments of life March 7, 2024

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The restored Security State Bank Building clock in historic downtown Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

TIME, WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG, seems to pass slowly. You’re waiting, always waiting. To turn another year older. To master a skill. To gain independence. To do whatever seems so important you wonder how you can possibly wait for another day or week or month to pass.

Now I wish time would slow down. But it can’t and it won’t and so I accept the reality of time passing, of aging, of days disappearing too quickly. Of celebrating my 50-year high school class reunion this year. Of my youngest turning thirty. Of me nudging seventy.

A street clock in historic downtown Wabasha. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

In a recent conversation with a beloved aunt, she shared that she can’t believe how old her nieces and nephews are, considering she’s only twenty-nine. I love that about Aunt Dorothy, who has always and forever declared herself on the cusp of thirty while in reality she’s closing in on ninety. I like her thinking.

(Book cover sourced online)

By happenstance, I picked up a children’s picture book at my local library a few weeks ago that focuses on time. I’m not trying to go back in time to my childhood. Rather, I enjoy books written for kids. Many hold important messages and beautiful art that resonate with me. I highly-recommend you check out recently-published children’s picture books to see how they’ve evolved over the decades into some timely masterpieces of words and art.

Among the books I selected was Time Is a Flower, written and illustrated by Julie Morstad of Vancouver, British Columbia. In her opening page, Morstad writes of time as a clock, as a calendar, in the traditional ways we consider time.

A prairie sunset in southwestern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

But then the book unfolds, page by page, into time comparisons that are simplistic, everyday, ordinary, unremarkable. Yet remarkable in the way Morstad presents them with sparse words and bold art. If I could rip the pages from her book, I would frame her illustrations of a sunset reflected in sunglasses; a child’s long wavy locks woven with bird, butterfly and flower; and a wiggly tooth in a gaping mouth.

A swallowtail butterfly feeds on a zinnia. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Time is the moments, the memories. The details. Not necessarily the extraordinary. That is the message I take from Morstad’s book. Appreciate the caterpillar, not just the butterfly. Appreciate the seed, not just the flower. Value the slant of sunlight across the floor, and the shadows, too.

A princess by Roosevelt Elementary School kindergartner Ruweyda, exhibited in March 2023 at the Student Art Show, Paradise Center for the Arts, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

As I consider Time Is a Flower, I think of my dear aunt half a country away in New Jersey. Too many years have passed since I’ve seen Aunt Dorothy, so long that I can’t recall the last time we embraced. But I hold memories of her, of our time together. She was the young aunt who arrived from the Twin Cities with discarded jewelry and nail polish for me and my sisters. She was the aunt who called her husband, “My Love,” an endearing name that imprinted upon me her deep love for Uncle Robin (who died in January). She is the aunt who took me into New York City when I was a junior in college visiting her on spring break. She is the aunt who, for my entire life, has called me “My Little Princess.”

A 1950s scene in downtown Faribault honors history and the passage of time in this mural. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Yes, time passes too quickly. The clock ticks. Days on the calendar advance. Years pass.

Each spring the daffodils bloom. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

But within each day, seconds and minutes and hours remain. Time to live. Time to love. And time to remember that time is like a flower. Sprouting. Growing. Blooming. Dying. Time is a moment, until it’s a memory.

Most people no longer wear wrist watches. I still do. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

NOTE: Remember, this Sunday, March 10, time changes as we shift to daylight savings time in the U.S. We lose an hour of time as we spring forward.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Crafting an obituary: Emmett “breathed John Deere” March 5, 2024

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A row of John Deere tractors at the 2022 Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show, rural Dundas. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)

AS A WRITER, a storyteller, I read obituaries. Doesn’t matter if the deceased is known to me or not. I find obits interesting for the stories therein.

Stories weren’t always part of obituary writing. Obit style has evolved since I graduated in 1978 with a journalism degree from Minnesota State University, Mankato. And that is a good thing. Today’s death notices are not just summaries of facts, but rather personalized in a way that helps the reader understand the person as a person. That holds value to those who are grieving and to those of us who hold no connection to the individual.

I need to backtrack for a moment and share that writing an obituary was my first writing assignment in Reporting 101. Although I’ve forgotten details about that long ago college course, I remember the professor stressing the importance of spelling names correctly. That carried through to all types of newspaper reporting. First reporting job out of college, I learned a source was Dayle, not Dale.

Emmett Haala (Photo source: Sturm Funeral Home)

That MSU instructor also imprinted upon me the importance of obituaries. As I age, I find myself drawn more and more to reading obits. Too often now, I know the deceased. Recently, I found a gem in the obituary of Emmett Haala, 87, of Springfield (that would be Springfield, Minnesota), who died on February 28. His funeral is today.

Hanging out by a John Deere tractor at the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)

It wasn’t the basic facts about Emmett that captivated me, but rather his interest in John Deere tractors. He, according to his obit, “lived and breathed John Deere.” Now to anyone with a rural connection, the idea of fierce tractor brand loyalty is familiar. This retired mechanic began his career at age 14 at Runck Hardware and Implement in Springfield, eventually opening Emmett’s Shop in 1970. He was a trusted mechanic who serviced all machinery brands, but favored John Deere.

“Nothing runs like a Deere” is the John Deere slogan. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2017)

That tidbit got me reminiscing and also contemplating the importance of open houses in rural Minnesota. Events that continue today. Emmett, his death notice read, shared many memories of John Deere Days at Runck Hardware and Implement. He “…enjoyed making hot dogs and coffee for the throngs of people attending and showing the newest John Deere movie.”

To this day, I remain a fan of John Deere. Here Randy and I pose aside a vintage John Deere at Bridgewater Farm, rural Northfield in October 2023. (Photo credit: Amber Schmidt)

That was it. I was hooked. I attended John Deere Day at a farm implement dealership while growing up in southwestern Minnesota. While the event was a way for machinery dealers to get farmers inside their shops, the open houses were also a social gathering for rural folks. My siblings and I piled into the Chevy aside Dad and Mom for the 20-mile drive to Redwood Falls and John Deere Day.

Free food—usually BBQs, baked beans, chips and vanilla ice cream packaged in little plastic cups and eaten with a wooden spoon—comprised dinner (not lunch to us farm types). Maybe there were hot dogs, too, like at Emmett’s place of employment. Memories fade over the decades.

A worn vintage John Deere emblem. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2017)

But I do recall the John Deere movies shown post meal at the theater in Redwood Falls. Sure, they were nothing but advertisements for “the long green line” of farm machinery. But to a kid who seldom set foot in a theater, the promotional films held all the appeal of a box office hit. Plus, there were door prizes like bags of seed corn and silver dollars. I never won anything. A cousin did.

At the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2017)

And so all those John Deere memories and more—including the distinct pop of my dad’s 1950s John Deere tractor—rushed back. Putt, putt, putt. Emmett belonged to the Prairieland Two Cylinder Club. Nostalgia is powerful. So is the art of crafting an obituary. Many of today’s obituaries feature detailed personal stories, not simply superlatives. Stories that reveal something about the individual who lived and breathed and loved. Stories well beyond life-line basics. Stories of life. Stories that resonate, that connect us to each other. Stories like those of Emmett, who “lived and breathed John Deere.”

(Book cover image sourced online)

FYI: I recommend reading this guidebook to obituary writing by retired The Wall Street Journal obit writer James R. Hagerty: Yours Truly: An Obituary Writer’s Guide to Telling Your Story. Hagerty is the son of Marilyn Hagerty, columnist for The Grand Forks Herald. In a March 2012 “Eatbeat” column, Marilyn reviewed her local Olive Garden and gained instant internet fame.

 

Collecting rocks in southern Minnesota January 24, 2024

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My eyes have always been drawn to rocks in nature, here in the creek twisting through Falls Creek Park, rural Rice County. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2020)

THEY WERE ROCK HOUNDS, the great uncles who hunted, collected, cut, polished and made rocks in to jewelry. The bachelor brothers were passionate about their hobby, delighted to share their enthusiasm, and their rock collection, with their great nieces and nephews.

I remember the excitement of arriving at Uncle Walter and Uncle Harvey’s Redwood County farm home, where they lived with my great grandma and with their sister Dora. My siblings and I nearly flew out of Dad’s Chevy, through the front door of the farmhouse and down the basement stairs to Rock Station Central.

Agates in water, Faribault Farmers’ Market. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2019)

My great uncles enthusiastically welcomed us, showing us Lake Superior and honey agates, garnets, geodes and all sorts of rocks they’d found on their forays West and to Minnesota’s North Shore. We fingered uncut stones and polished stones as the pair schooled us in identifying rocks. And they always, always, sent us home with handfuls of small polished stones. And occasionally they gifted us with jewelry they’d made.

The Straight River churns over rocks at Morehouse Park in Owatonna. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Although this scene played out decades ago, my fascination with rocks remains. I still find myself looking for agates, admiring unusual stones while out in nature. I’m no rock hound, simply someone who appreciates the beauty of rocks thanks to those two caring great uncles.

My friend Joy paints rocks with inspirational messages and fun art. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
Joy’s original rock art. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
Joy’s whimsical rabbit rock art. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)

But my interest, my search for rocks has taken a modern day twist, one Walter and Harvey likely would approve of even if not a purist form of rock collecting. I collect inspirational and artsy rocks with my camera. These are painted rocks upon which a single word, message or image has been written, painted or adhered. Whenever I find one—and I’ve found them in many public places throughout southern Minnesota—I photograph them. I feel the same giddiness I experienced many years ago in that farmhouse basement.

Found at Mineral Springs Park, Owatonna. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2020)
Colorful stickers on painted rocks found at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
Found in Faribault’s Central Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

My thrill in discovering painted rocks focuses on the positive messages or images thereon. There’s something undeniably beautiful and wonderful and uplifting about these inspirational rocks. I feel such happiness, such gratitude for the individuals who create, then share, these stones. Rather like my great uncles who showed their love for family via sharing of their rock collection.

Single words inspire on a series of painted rocks found at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)

This painting of rocks has spread worldwide as The Kindness Rocks Project with a mission “to cultivate connections within communities and lift others up through simple acts of kindness.” It’s a simple, and much-needed, project in a world filled with discord, division and, yes, even hatred.

Found outside a meat market in Lonsdale. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
A simple message found at Falls Creek Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2022)
A fun find at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)

We need more inspirational, artistic rocks scattered in public spaces. I’ve most often found them in parks, tucked along the edges of flowerbeds, sometimes on ledges and steps and at the bases of trees. I’ve found them along trails, outside a public library. Typically they are hidden in multiples.

An especially inspiring message written on a rock painted by Joy. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
All it takes are stickers and stones to create art, this found at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2023)
This rock painted by a great niece sits on my office desk, a daily inspiration to me. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

My reaction is always the same. Joy. Excitement. I’m suddenly that little girl again standing next to her great uncles at Rock Station Central. I feel loved. I feel, too, as if I’ve uncovered a treasure, a treasure of kindness and positivity and inspiration. And that uplifts me, gives me hope for humanity, that much goodness still remains in this world.

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FYI: For anyone in southern Minnesota interested in rock collecting (like my great uncles did), the Steele County Gem and Mineral Club meets at 6 pm on the second Monday of the month at the Owatonna Public Library.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Seeing one, then two, then one, then two January 17, 2024

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My current eyeglasses atop info about bilateral strabismus eye surgery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo November 2023)

THE EYES HAVE IT. Until they don’t.

Next week I undergo bilateral strabismus eye surgery at M Health Fairview Clinics and Surgery Center in Minneapolis. Basically, I’m having surgery to align my misaligned eyes. The neuro ophthalmologist will cut into the white of my eyes and then the muscles, tightening them into alignment using adjustable sutures. That’s the plan. Randy has advised me not to watch any online videos. I have no intention of doing so. Reading about this surgery is more than enough for me.

If you look closely at this image, you can see the patch covering my left eye. This 1960 photo of my mom, sister Lanae and brother Doug was taken on a rare family vacation to the North Shore near Duluth, Minnesota. (Photo sourced from my personal photo album)

The thing is, I’ve had this surgery before. Sixty-three years ago. I was just four, cross-eyed and needing medical intervention to correct my vision. Patching my lazy eye didn’t work. So my parents took me to a specialist in New Ulm 60 miles away from our southwestern Minnesota farm. Eventually, ophthalmologist Dr. Theodore Fritsche would do corrective eye surgery at Union Hospital. I will always be grateful to this surgeon and to my parents for recognizing I needed help or I likely would have gone blind in one eye.

I remember little about that long ago surgery except drinking tomato juice at the hospital and looking at books. The books I understand. But tomato juice? I like it now, but didn’t as a preschooler. I also remember getting orange circus peanut candy as a treat from the dime-store following my numerous appointments. I’ve blocked any other memories.

Fast forward to today and how I got here, on the brink of another corrective eye surgery.

As my neuro ophthalmologist explains, my eye muscles loosened through the decades, shifting my eyes into misalignment. My brain was compensating for the most part until I experienced neurological issues following a January 2023 viral infection suspected to be COVID. (I self-tested negative twice.) The niggles of double vision which had bothered me for a few years, mostly in the evening when I was tired, worsened. COVID messed up my brain function and communication between the brain and my eyes was misfiring. In the past year, it’s become increasingly difficult to only see one, even with prisms in my prescription lenses. Trying to see only one taxes, exhausts, me. Sometimes I can’t read. Sometimes I close one eye simply to eliminate the double vision. It is getting to be too much.

My green eyes up close pre double vision. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Once I completed 5 ½ months of vestibular rehab therapy to retrain my brain and help me deal with the devastating affects of long haul COVID, I was ready to see a professional about my double vision. I started locally. I went into an August ophthalmology appointment optimistically thinking I could simply get a new pair of prescription eyeglasses with more prisms added. Not so. As the ophthalmologist held up prism after prism to my eyes, it became clear nothing in his trays of prisms would effectively improve my vision. I was, he said, beyond his realm of expertise and would need to see a specialist.

After a several-month wait, I saw the neuro ophthalmologist at M Health Fairview in late October. Following 2 ½ hours of exhaustive testing, of looking through prisms and layers of prisms, I understood that I was well beyond the corrective lenses with prisms option. I would need surgery.

A childhood photo of me taken at an optometrist’s office in Redwood Falls. (Photo sourced from my personal photo album)

So here I am after another long wait—three months this time—on the cusp of bilateral strabismus eye surgery. I just want to be done. I am hopeful this outpatient surgery will fix my eyes and eliminate my double vision. Am I scared? Yes. The idea of undergoing general anesthesia and having a surgeon cut into my eyes and eye muscles is frightening. If only I could zoom back in time to my 4-year-old self who remembers nothing but books, tomato juice and circus peanut candy.

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FYI: If I’m absent from blogging for a while, it’s because I’m resting my eyes, recovering from surgery. I’ll be back, hopefully no longer seeing double.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

In loving memory of Uncle Robin January 14, 2024

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Photo used for illustration only. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

HE LOOKED NOTHING like a leprechaun. No pointy ears. No red hair or freckles. Rather he was a slim man with definitive wavy hair. Not at all what I expected given my Aunt Dorothy’s description of her fiancé. Clearly I misheard and in my 10-year-old self’s excitement missed the word “not.” “Robin does not look like a leprechaun,” Dorothy told me and my sister Lanae. We apparently were hoping for a boisterous leprechaun like that pictured on boxes of Lucky Charms cereal.

Instead, we got a soft-spoken Irishman with an Irish brogue who in no way resembled a leprechaun. Robin, born Robert Mathews Bowman in Bangor, Ireland, married my aunt 56 years ago. He died last Sunday, January 7, following a long battle with Parkinson’s.

ENDEARING NAMES

The morning after my uncle’s death, I called Dorothy at her New Jersey home. I needed to talk to her as much as she needed to talk to me. We share a special bond. She’s always called me, “My Little Princess.” I cannot even begin to tell you how loved I feel when Dorothy calls me by that endearing name. I never grow weary of those loving words.

But it is the loving name she had for her beloved Robin that sticks with me also. She always called him “My love” or simply “Love.” Dorothy and I talked about this in our phone conversation, about how the two met at a party at the University of Minnesota where Robin was doing his post doctorate studies. Within the year, they married. I learned from Dorothy that speaking love aloud to a spouse within a stoic German family is not only OK, but quite lovely. That has stuck with me through the decades. To be witness to the love my aunt and uncle shared was a gift.

CREATING A LIFE-SAVING DRUG

In his professional career, Robin gave another gift, one with a broad, life-saving reach. He was the lead chemist in the development of the compound Letrozole (brand name Femara) used to treat certain types of breast cancer in postmenopausal women. As I spoke with Dorothy, she underscored how grateful Robin felt to accomplish this, to potentially save the lives of women via this hormone therapy drug.

Robin was clearly passionate about research. He was also passionate about golf. But of one thing he wasn’t passionate and that was eating leftovers. He didn’t. I don’t know why I knew this or why it matters, but it was something we all simply understood about Uncle Robin.

AN EMBARRASSING MOMENT

That leads to a food story. Once while visiting my childhood farm, Robin’s dinner plate broke in his hands. He was just sitting there in an easy chair in the living room eating his meal when the vintage plate broke. Someone snapped a photo, thus documenting this as part of family lore. I remember the laughter that erupted and the absolute embarrassment this quiet Irishman felt. Perhaps in this moment he wished he could, like a leprechaun, magically disappear.

BLESSED BE HIS MEMORY

In the funeral flowers my youngest brother ordered from our family for Robin’s funeral, Brad included this fitting Irish blessing:

May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face. Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Loving words for an Irishman who looked nothing like a leprechaun.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Oh, Christmas tree December 12, 2023

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The Kletscher family Christmas tree always sat on the end of the kitchen table, as shown in this December 1964 photo. That’s me in the red jumper with four of my five siblings.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE is not the question. Rather, the question is this: Real or artificial? Do you prefer a real Christmas tree or an artificial one?

There’s no right or wrong answer here. Rather tree choice is a matter of personal preference. But I am unequivocally a real Christmas tree kind of woman.

Given my farm background, my strong connection to the land, my love of simple and natural, I have always selected a real tree. Even when I lived in a college dorm and my own apartment, I had real trees. The dorm tree was a small potted Norfolk Island Pine, gifted to me by my Secret Angel, Elise, during my freshman year at Bethany Lutheran College in Mankato.

Our Christmas tree this year. I always hang tinsel on our tree. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2023)

My preference for real Christmas trees, though, traces back to my childhood. Each December our family trekked to the local grocery store—back in the days when Vesta had a corner store and a whole block of businesses—to peruse the trees leaning against the exterior storefront. I don’t recall details, only that our tree was small, short and short-needled, intentionally so.

I lived in a tiny 1 ½ story farmhouse during the first 11 years of my life. An oil-burning stove and several pieces of furniture filled the living room, leaving no space for a Christmas tree. Our tree sat on the end of the Formica kitchen table, next to the west-facing drafty window. Remembering it from an adult perspective, that tree had to be really small. But I loved the imperfect Charlie Brown tree. Everything from the colorful bulb lights to the ornaments to the tinsel draping the boughs delighted me.

Randy stands outside the garage with our tree, purchased at Ken’s Christmas Trees. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2023)

Today that childhood nostalgia deeply influences my tree choice. I prefer imperfect and smallish to anything sculpted or over-sized. Seven foot ceilings also limit the height of our tree.

When my kids were little, our friends Joy and Steve invited us to their rural property to cut down a pine tree from among those they intentionally planted for Christmas trees. I hold fond memories of our young family weaving among the trees to find just the right one. Eventually that forest was depleted and it was on to other options—like Farmer Seed and Nursery, Faribault Garden Center or Donahue’s Greenhouse. The nursery and garden center are permanently closed now, Donahue’s no longer open at Christmas.

The photo of Ken Mueller is new to the tree lot this season. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2023)

Our go-to tree source now is Ken’s Christmas Trees, a temporary tree lot set up in a parking lot next to the now-closed Taco John’s. Ken Mueller started his holiday side business years ago at a north-side Faribault site along a busy thoroughfare. Eventually, he had to move and we followed him to his new location.

Ken has since retired. Sort of. On the December day Randy and I stopped by to buy our tree, he was vending trees, wreaths and more. His kids have taken over the business, but can’t always be there. So Ken steps in. And when he’s not around, he’s still there. A life-size photo cut-out of the Christmas tree vendor stands next to a row of trees. It was a surprise to Ken, who, even if he may not admit it, appreciates the unexpected, humorous recognition.

Ken’s Christmas Trees seems to have a loyal following of customers who appreciate his fresh trees, trucked in from Up North. Sizes and shapes range from the short and Charlie Brownish to larger, sculpted. Every year I bundle up, head to the west side of town and search for my imperfectly perfect Christmas tree.

TELL ME: Is your Christmas tree real or artificial? Why? I’d love to hear your stories.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The harmony of the holidays December 6, 2023

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The Lakelanders sing at a recent holiday concert. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2023)

THEIR VOICES BLENDED in perfect harmony, their singing so flawless that I felt emotionally moved by the sheer experience of listening.

I was among those packed inside Faribault Evangelical Free Church for a recent free holiday concert performed by three area men’s choruses: The Faribault Lakelanders Barbershop Chorus, The Northfield Troubadors and The Riverblenders Barbershop Chorus from Mankato.

Their holiday selections ranged from faith-based to secular to a humorous take on “Oh, Christmas Tree” featuring a verse about lutefisk. That set the crowd laughing.

A scene from the Nativity set displayed each holiday season in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2016)

But it was the classics, the aged hymns, the time-honored songs, to which I most connected. They hold the memories of many Christmases. Memories of the Christmas story told and retold within the verses of “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem.” Memories of singing “Silent Night” in the still darkness of a sanctuary, peace settling upon me. Childhood memories of belting out the jubilant words of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”

An airliner flies into Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

And then there were the secular selections. The familiar words of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” the dream held by even those who otherwise dislike snow. “Deck the Halls” reminding many, including me, of the decorating yet to be done. And then the song, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” that nearly did me in, that caused me to check tears because I can’t recall the last time all three of my adult children were together, back here in Minnesota for Christmas. I thought then of my son flying in next week from Boston and the daughter in Madison, Wisconsin, who won’t be home for Christmas. Joyous reunion mixed with missing a loved one.

The Lakelanders and the Riverblenders close out the concert together. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo December 2023)

But in the all of the holiday concert, I felt the wonderful spirit of Christmas emanating from the musical selections sung by the likes of Pastor Juan Palm and his young son, my friend Greg, Curt D. and a guy I recognize from a local grocery store. These are gifted musicians from my community and beyond who, for the love of music, the joy of singing, the desire to spread happiness, sing in sweet, blessed harmony.

And they do more than simply sing. This year the Lakelanders raised $4,500 for Ruth’s House, Whispers of Hope and Hope Center at their annual fundraising concert, “Hope in Harmony.” Representatives of those three nonprofits were recognized at the holiday concert. Through the years, the singers have given $39,000 to charities.

A sign inside Vang Lutheran Church advertised its annual Lutefisk & Meatball Supper several years ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

This warms my heart. This generosity of spirit given through music. These singers create harmony in the chaos of life, bring peace and lift spirits with their voices. On this early December afternoon, I was right where I was supposed to be—seated on a comfortable, padded chair behind another Audrey (to whom I’d been introduced by my friend Greg of the Lakelanders). I imagined the warmth of a blazing fire over which chestnuts roasted. I heard bells jingling on a sleigh. And I remembered the long ago taste of lutefisk—cod soaked in lye—cooked and served with warm, melted butter. Memories in music. Sweet harmony in words sung. Emotions rising.

Inside the historic Chapel of the Good Shepherd, the pews face the aisle rather than the altar. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

FYI: Holiday concerts abound this time of year. At 1:30 pm Thursday, December 7, the Faribault High School Choir performs at the Cathedral of Our Merciful Saviour in Faribault. Cathedral organist Andrew DeZiel will also play selections on the aged church pipe organ. At 4 pm on Saturday, December 9, student musicians at Shattuck-St. Mary’s School perform in The Chapel of the Good Shepherd as part of the afternoon Campus Christmas Walk. Also on Saturday, The Riverblenders sing at 7 pm at Central Building Auditorium, 501 East Elm Avenue in Waseca.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

At the Legion on Veterans Day & more November 15, 2023

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I photographed this sticker on a Vietnam War veteran’s car on Saturday before the Veterans Day program at the Rice County Veterans Memorial in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL, I wore a POW bracelet, the thick silver band wrapping my wrist. The name of a prisoner of war was imprinted thereon. If I could find that bracelet, I could give you a name. But I can’t. Rather I hold only the memory of that Vietnam War era bracelet reminding me of those imprisoned and missing during a war that drew protest and anger from many Americans. As a high school student of the early 1970s, I, too, held conflicting opinions about the war. Not about those who served, but about the war itself.

This eagle and dove sculpture centers the Rice County Veterans Memorial in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

All of that aside, today I recognize the personal toll the Vietnam War, any war really, takes on those who are actively involved. You cannot enter the battlefield, kill the enemy, see your fellow soldiers die, without experiencing trauma. It’s a lot. And those who served deserve our thanks and respect.

Area veterans’ memorials, like the one in neighboring Shieldsville, honor our veterans. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

I am thankful for organizations like the American Legion and its auxiliary, which continue to support, honor and recognize those who have served this country. That includes Post 43 in Faribault. In 2024, the local post celebrates its 100th birthday.

Before the meal, which included Trinity Piemakers’ homemade apple pie for dessert (compliments of Bob and Louise Flom), this pair explained the significance of items on the MIA/POW table, right.

On Saturday, following the Veterans Day program at the Rice County Veterans Memorial, Randy and I joined vets and their families and others at a Post 43 luncheon and program. During that event, Legion Commander Mark Quinlan and an auxiliary member stood near a round, cloth-draped MIA/POW table. They explained the symbolic significance of each item on the table.

A symbolic lemon and salt. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

A single red rose in a vase represented bloodshed. A lemon slice on a plate stood for the MIA/POW’s bitter fate. Salt sprinkled on the plate symbolized the many tears shed by loved ones. The lit candle stood for hope… As they spoke, I thought of that POW bracelet I wore 50-plus years ago and wondered if my soldier ever came home.

Resting on a table at the American Legion on Saturday. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

I had the honor on Saturday of dining with two veteran friends—Virgil, who served in the US Marine Corps from 1955-1958, and Roger, who served with the US Army in the Korean War from 1952-1954.

Karen Rasmussen talks about the history of the US flag, displaying the flag at various stages in time. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

Veterans and their families ringed the round tables for conversation and a meal of BBQs, baked beans, chips and homemade apple pie. That meal followed a detailed presentation about the history of the American flag by Legion Auxiliary member Karen Rasmussen. She also presented gift bags to several veterans.

Even the gift bags were patriotically-themed. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

One of the most memorable and touching moments came when Steve Bonde played the songs for each branch of the military on his trumpet. By heart. He asked veterans to stand when they heard their songs. Pride and gratitude rippled through me. There’s something about music that stirs the soul in a way that words cannot.

Placed on a table at the Legion, a US Army cap and money for the free will offering lunch. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

But words, too, hold meaning. Saturday evening my church, Trinity Lutheran, honored veterans in the congregation during the worship service and with a potluck afterwards. Virgil and Roger were among those servicemen attending. This time, though, I sat by Bob, a US Army veteran who served in Iraq and Kuwait, and by Mark, the Legion commander with service in the US Navy and Air Force. It was an honor to share a chicken dinner and assorted potluck sides with my friends and with Raquel, married to Bob.

A wall of photos at the Legion honors past commanders of American Legion Post 43, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

Sunday morning I listened to the Trinity worship service on the radio, this time led by a different pastor. I appreciated the Rev. Bruce Stam’s prayers for veterans. He asked for God’s blessings upon all who’ve served in the Armed Forces and for healing for those vets wounded in body and soul. But it was the final part of his prayer which struck me the most. “We pray especially for the young men and women who are coming home with injured bodies and traumatized spirits.” To hear that acknowledged was necessary, reassuring in many ways and, I hope, a comfort to anyone listening.

A POW MIA flag photographed during the Veterans Day program at the Rice County Veterans Memorial reads, “YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN.” (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

War is hard. War traumatizes. War changes. We need to understand that and to remember. Just as I remembered that POW bracelet I wore honoring a prisoner of war who may, or may not, have returned home from Vietnam.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Veterans Day reflections: “Returned from hell,” my father’s story November 8, 2023

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Among my Dad’s papers, etc.: A letter home to his parents, a page of military instructions he carried into war, a newspaper clipping and his dog tag, circling the words “hell hole” in his letter. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

I RUN MY FINGERS across his dog tag, thumb caressing the raised letters and numbers stamped into metal. His name, KLETSCHER, ELVERN A. B blood type. P for Protestant. His Selective Service number, the same number on his Armed Forces of the United States Geneva Convention Identification Card, the laminated card he carried with him into war. Just like the duplicate dog tags that would identify him if he was injured or killed in action.

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.

Seventy-one years ago, my dad was a fresh-faced young Minnesota farm boy fighting in the Korean War as a combat soldier for the U.S. Army. Each November, around Veterans Day, I pull out two shoeboxes filled with photos, letters, documents and more from Dad’s time in the service. And although I’ve looked through the contents many times in the 20 years since Dad died, I still feel the same overwhelming sense of sadness in all he experienced. The death of combat buddies. His killing of the enemy. Orphan children begging for food across barbed wire fences. The cold and hunger and fear. And then the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder he suffered upon his return home to southwestern Minnesota.

My dad brought this 7 x 9-inch cloth “RETURNED FROM HELL” patch home with him after serving for nearly a year in Korea. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I feel all of that as I touch his dog tag, run my fingers along the short chain like fingers worrying rosary beads in prayer. War is hell.

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.

Hell. Dad used that word in a March 4, 1953, letter to his parents and siblings. He criticized the draft board, his anger fueled by the possibility that a younger brother might also end up in Korea. He wrote, in part: “Do they know what it’s like over here? Hell no. Why the heck don’t some of them come over here and look this over? They’d probably come to there (sic) senses…” Not everything he wrote is printable. But his anger and frustration are palpable. And I don’t blame him.

U.S. Army Cpl. Elvern Kletscher, my father, in the trenches in Korea.

War is hell. I try to imagine my dad penning that letter on his 22nd birthday. Missing his family. No cake, no nothing to celebrate. But rather worry about whether he would live to the next day. He had reason to fear for his life. Only a week prior, he was wounded in action at Heart Break Ridge while engaged in mortar firing with the enemy. Shrapnel struck him in the face and he was hospitalized for several days.

My grandparents, Ida and Henry Kletscher, posing with some of their children, flank my father, Elvern Kletscher, who is about to leave for military service in 1952.

Interestingly enough, Dad mentions none of that in his letter home. Rather, he closes with these sentences: “I’m feeling fine and don’t worry about me. I’ll write again soon.” I don’t believe Dad was “feeling fine,” in a place he called a “hell hole” in his letter.

My father, Elvern Kletscher, on the left with two of his soldier buddies in Korea.

As I filter through the shoeboxes holding his military belongings, I pick up a hardcover 4 x 6-inch black book. It’s tattered, bent, dirty, obviously well-used. When I open the cover to read the words Dad penciled across lined paper, the realities of war strike me full force. Here are details and instructions on weaponry—60 mm mortars, submachine guns, tank mines, smoke screens, chemical warfare… He writes about reconnaissance, combat and security patrols and “avoid contact with enemy—may have to fight in self defense.” There are diagrams and fire commands and details I don’t understand, and don’t necessarily want to understand.

My dad carried home a July 31, 1953, memorial service bulletin from Sucham-dong, Korea. In the right column is listed the name of his fallen buddy, Raymond W. Scheibe.

But “Conduct on lines” and the details that follow need no deciphering: “1) Hold fire until enemy is within 500 yards. 2) Listening post must have cover and concealment, must have good route for withdrawal…” I expect Dad carried this book into war. Just as he carried deep trauma home from “The Forgotten War,” as the Korean War has been dubbed.

Words imprinted on the Veterans’ Memorial in Northfield, Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2023)

War is hell, even if done for the right reasons—to defend democracy and freedom and country. For his time in the Army in 1953, Dad was paid $266.27. It’s documented on his federal income tax return. So little for so much given, not that there’s ever enough payment for a combat soldier.

My dad’s military marker in the Vesta City Cemetery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I wish I could wrap my arms around Dad, hold him, tell him how deeply sorry I am for the horrors he endured while fighting as an infantryman on the front lines during the Korean War. Mostly, I wish I could simply listen, sitting quietly as I finger the chain of his dog tag, the beads providing tactile comfort as he talked (if he would talk) about the personal hell that is war.

The Rice County, Minnesota, Veterans’ Memorial in Faribault. This photo and five others I took now grace public spaces in the newly-opened State Veterans Home in Bemidji. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

NOTE: Please use this Veterans Day as a time to thank those who have served our country. But more than thanking, listen, support and encourage. The voices of our veterans need, and deserve, to be heard.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling