Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Halloween frights or fun, you decide October 25, 2023

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A wax doll for sale at Audre’s Attic, a Lonsdale shop packed with vintage, collectibles, antiques and other interesting finds. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

SHE LOOKED SWEET ENOUGH, the big blue-eyed doll with cascading blonde curls clutching a teddy bear. But something about the wax doll creeped me out. Maybe I’d seen too many media reports about the annual Creepy Dolls contest at the History Center of Olmsted County, this October upped to a “Creepy Dolls: Murder at the Masquerade Event!”. Whatever the reason, I felt unsettled, as if that doll for sale at Audre’s Attic in Lonsdale was watching me. Any other time of year, I likely would have passed her without a wary thought.

A sign posted on property along Wells Lake outside Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

But this close to Halloween, the imagination leans toward the frightful. Scary stuff, depending on your definition of scary, is everywhere. Mostly, it’s all in good fun…unless you decide otherwise.

Displayed at Hy-Vee Grocery in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

It’s interesting how just the sight of something ghoulish can trigger a memory. Like the pirate skeleton curling his bony hands around a photo of grapes in the produce section of a local grocery store. The skeleton didn’t frighten me. Rather, it was the grapes that rattled me. I flashed back to a 1960s Halloween party. I was an impressionable kid then, blindfolded and instructed to stick my hand inside a container holding something decidedly cold, wet and roundish. “Cows’ eyeballs,” enthused the older girls hosting the party. I shrieked. Why wouldn’t I? We were in the basement of the local veterinarian’s house. It made total sense to me that I was touching cows’ eyes. I wasn’t. I was fingering cold, wet grapes.

An edited version of original artwork at Something for All Consignment/Thrift Store in Lonsdale. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

The eyes apparently have it for me in the terror department. I’ve always been vexed by Edgar Alan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” his one short horror story that I remember above all others. An old man’s vulture eye, Evil Eye, led the narrator to commit murder and then confess to the crime after being taunted by an endless ringing in his ears. It’s a macabre story as is Poe’s writing in general.

Photographed in 2015 at an antique shop (now closed) in Oronoco. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo April 2015)

Screenwriter and filmmaker Alfred Hitchcock matches Poe’s talent in the horror genre. I can’t watch “The Birds” (starring Lafayette, Minnesota native Tippi Hedren) without freaking out. To this day when I hear the raucous caw caw caw of crows, I feel unnerved, as if the birds are waiting to descend upon me.

Big Foot crosses grassland on the Spitzack farm in Rice County. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2022)

Black things with wings, including bats and gigantic bugs with pinchers, fit my definition of frightening. Not skeletons. Not spiders. Not Big Foot. Not zombies. But dark winged things, plus mice, centipedes and memories of cold grapes scare me.

“All Dressed up for Halloween,” a quilt pieced and quilted by Marcia Speiker and displayed at the Rice County Piecemakers Fall Splendor Quilt Show in September. Buttermilk Basin is the pattern author. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2023)

Aside from the scary, I appreciate the fun side of Halloween, especially the excitement kids feel in dressing as favorite characters, imagining they are someone they are not. A superhero. A Disney character. An animal. Maybe even Batman, distinctly different than a bat. Wherever their imaginations take them, they race in their costumes—door-to-door and to Halloween events (not held in veterinarians’ basements) to gather bags full of candy.

Something for All Consignment/Thrift Store in Lonsdale offers assorted patterns to stitch Halloween costumes, including the 1995 pattern on the right. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

The little witches, dinosaurs, Spider Men and more skirt doorstep jack-o-lanterns, guts pulled out in strings of seeds and pulp. Unpleasant in an Edgar Alan Poe sort of way. Only painted pumpkins are spared disembowelment.

The underside of a monstrous bug found recently in Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

Halloween mixes fun and fright. Over-sized bugs and skeletons. Candy. Creepy dolls. Cute princesses. Horror stories. Parties. And, if the mind (or the eye) wanders far enough, cold grapes persuasively re-imagined as cows’ eyeballs.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

An afternoon at a southern Minnesota pumpkin patch October 18, 2023

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Minnesota is known for its beautiful fall colors, although 2023 colors were not as brilliant as previous autumns due to drought and temps. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2021)

DURING THESE FINAL DAYS of October, when the sun blazes warmth into crisp days and leaves fall and pumpkins lie exposed in fields, vines withered, there’s a rush to pack in final autumn fun. And I did just that Sunday afternoon at Larson’s Bridgewater Farm on the northwest edge of Northfield.

Pumpkins galore, not at Bridgewater farm, but at a southern Minnesota apple orchard. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2021)

Here, on this working farm turned pumpkin patch destination, Randy and I joined our eldest and her family, among many multi-generational families focused on an experience that certainly beats picking pumpkins from a retail store display. This is all about connecting to each other and to the land. And this is all about building memories that remain long after the last pumpkin has gone into the compost pile.

A barrel train heads toward the pole shed, aside the corn maze at Bridgewater Farm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

I observed so many smiles, so much joy, so much exuberance. I remember thinking, as I cozied next to my daughter Amber at the back of a flatbed wagon pulled by a John Deere tractor, that life doesn’t get much better than this. Here we were, strangers crammed onto wagon benches, bumping around the farm, past the cattle and pole sheds and cornfields under a clear, sunny October sky. It was as if nothing existed beyond this acreage. I felt overwhelming peace, a surge of serenity in the simplicity of the moment.

Randy and I pose next to the old John Deere tractor. (Photo credit: Amber Schmidt)

Perhaps my farm background factored into my personal reaction. The sight of dried cornfields, the scent of manure, the fenced beef cattle and calves (especially the calves), the stacked hay bales, the tread of tractor tires embedded in mud, the old John Deere tractor (a photo op backdrop), all proved nostalgically uplifting.

Among several fun photo cut-outs in Bridgewater Farm’s Photo Alley. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

I doubt my grandchildren noticed any of this, except perhaps the barnyard smell. Izzy, 7, and Isaac, 4, were too busy enjoying the many kid-based activities offered at Bridgewater Farm. Twice they rode the barrel train that looped through a machine shed holding hay, past the livestock and then back. They climbed weathered bales stacked high, slides zooming them back to ground level. They twisted through the kids’ corn maze with us, their parents later following the more challenging adult version, which the grandparents opted out of to oversee the kids as they climbed the haystacks once again and then moved on to the corn box.

Ripened corn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2018)

The kids’ hands-down favorite seemed to be the corn pit, where they shoveled kernels, filled pails, covered themselves in corn. Again, memories rushed back. Not of playing in shelled corn. But of decades ago farm work, of pushing wheelbarrows full of ground corn down the barn aisle to feed the cows. My grandchildren will never know that rural life, only the stories I share with them of yesteryear, of when Grandma was growing up on the farm.

A goat on a family member’s farm, similar to one at Bridgewater Farm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2018)

I enticed them to pet the silky ear of a goat before we headed away from the fenced goats and sheep to take posed photos at the seasonally-themed photo cut-outs. I didn’t take many photos during our afternoon outing, choosing to enjoy being in the moment without the distraction of photography. I left my 35mm camera at home. Intentionally. The daughter snapped plenty of images with her cellphone.

Izzy, especially tall for her age, and her brother check their height at Bridgewater Farm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2023)

When we pedaled kid-sized and adult-sized tricycles (yes, me and the other adults, too, except for the too-tall son-in-law) around the trike race track, I remembered a black-and-white photo taken of me as a teen riding my youngest brother’s trike on my childhood farm, long legs bent awkwardly to the side, broad smile across my face. I smiled just as wide at Bridgewater Farm, my long legs bent awkwardly as I raced after my granddaughter peddling with her long legs bent awkwardly.

A field of pumpkins photographed in southern Minnesota in 2022. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2022)

Soon the grandkids were pulling a wagon to the pumpkin patch. And when they weren’t looking, Grandpa scooted on and the pulling halted and they turned to see us all laughing. Eventually we found just the right pumpkins hefted from the pumpkin patch, weighed and then loaded into the car.

What a fun-filled afternoon on the farm—one of nostalgia for me, but more importantly of experiencing simple joys with my family. And it all started with the kids wanting to go to a pumpkin patch.

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FYI: Pumpkin patch season is winding down in Minnesota. Bridgewater Farm is offering special MEA hours this Thursday and Friday from noon to 5 pm. Otherwise the farm is open only on weekends, October 28-29 being the final weekend with hours from 11 am – 6 pm. Admission to the pumpkin patch is free with a $10/person cost for all activities, excluding apple cannon shooting. That costs an additional fee. Pumpkins are sold both pick-your-own or pre-picked.

TELL ME: Do you have a favorite pumpkin patch in Minnesota or elsewhere. Let’s hear where and why it’s a favorite.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Lutefisk, bars, kolacky, horseradish & more October 3, 2023

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Across the cornfield stands Vang Lutheran Church north of Kenyon and home to an annual lutefisk supper. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2011)

IN THIS SEASON of church dinners, I am reminded of an event I covered decades ago as a young reporter fresh out of Minnesota State University, Mankato, with a journalism degree. My editor assigned me to write about and photograph the annual Lutefisk Dinner (or maybe it was supper) at Bernadotte Lutheran in Bernadotte, an unincorporated community northeast of New Ulm.

Having heard a few things about lutefisk—cod soaked in lye—I was in no hurry to undertake this assignment. But work is work and I eventually headed to this rural church to get the story. I don’t recall all the details from that late 1970s introduction to lutefisk. But I do remember a hardworking crew of volunteers, enthusiastic diners packing the church basement and my first taste of this Scandinavian seafood. A generous dose of melted butter made lutefisk, which reminded me of warm Jell-O, palatable. Sorry, Norwegians.

A sign promoting Vang’s 2014 Lutefisk & Meatball Supper. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2014)

Lutefisk dinners remain popular in Minnesota’s Scandinavian enclaves. Like Vang Lutheran, rural Dennison, hosting a Lutefisk and Meatball Dinner on Wednesday, October 11, starring lutefisk and Norwegian meatballs with gravy plus fruit soup, lefse and Norwegian pastries. On Saturday, October 14, First Lutheran in Blooming Prairie is also serving a Lutefisk and Meatball Dinner. Except their meatballs are Swedish (what’s the difference?). Sorry, folks, all three dine-in seatings at First Lutheran are sold out, proving just how popular lutefisk dinners are in these parts. The Blooming Prairie lutefisk dinners have been around since 1934.

Bars. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

BARS & BARS, NOT TO BE CONFUSED

This got me thinking about ethnic and unusual foods some of us love and others of us don’t. For example, this past July while vacationing in the central Minnesota lakes area, I came across turkey gizzards and pickled eggs prominently displayed on an end cap at a Crosslake grocery store. You couldn’t pay me to try the gizzards, priced at $12.49 for 16 ounces. But I’d give pickled eggs a try. Apparently there’s a market in Paul Bunyan country for these delicacies. And in some Minnesota bars, not to be confused with the bars we Minnesotans eat.

Ah, bars. They hold two definitions. I recall my native-born California son-in-law’s confusion about bars. It took a bit of explaining for him to understand that bars, besides a place to imbibe, are also, in Minnesota, a sweet treat that is not a cookie, cake or brownie. But similar, made in a cake pan and cut into squares.

Prune kolacky ready to bake at Franke’s Bakery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo March 2013)

KOLACKY OR SAUERKRAUT

Then there are kolacky, a Czech pastry unknown to me until I moved to this region. It was at Franke’s Bakery in nearby Montgomery, self-proclaimed “Kolacky Capital of the World,” that I first tasted this dough into which prunes, apples, raspberries, blueberries and other fruit or a poppy seed filling are folded. Kolacky are so popular in this Czech stronghold that Franke’s baked nearly 1,800 dozen of the treats for the annual town celebration, Kolacky Days, in July. That’s a whole lot of kolacky, like nearly 22,000.

Me? I prefer a Bismarck oozing with custard. And, yes, I am German, which might also explain my love of sauerkraut. Henderson, where my paternal great grandparents settled upon arriving in America, celebrates Sauerkraut Days annually. And, yes, there’s a sauerkraut eating contest. I grew up eating homemade sauerkraut fermented from cabbage grown in our large garden. My grandma made kraut and my dad thereafter.

Homemade horseradish in jars. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo October 2012)

HOW ABOUT HORSERADISH OR COTTAGE CHEESE PIE?

Dad also made horseradish, a tradition which continues in my extended family today, 20 years after his death. Horseradish seems an acquired taste. Not everyone likes a condiment that burns nostrils, clears sinuses, waters eyes, nips the tongue. But I do.

And once upon a time I also ate SPAM, a canned meat made in Austin, Minnesota, and wildly popular in Hawaii. I liked it in Pizza Burgers—SPAM, onion and American cheese ground in a hand-cranked meat grinder and then canned chili (without beans) stirred in. I haven’t quite figured out the “without beans” in chili. Mom made and spread the mix on homemade bun halves, broiled until the cheese bubbled. Yum. I no longer eat SPAM. Or Jell-O. Make that red Jell-O with bananas, a staple of extended family gatherings many decades ago.

On the shelves at Reed’s Market in Crosslake. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

Food, in many ways, connects to memories, traditions, heritage. You won’t find me eating peanut butter on pancakes or Cottage Cheese Pie, food oddities my husband brought into our marriage. I don’t much like pancakes and I’ve never made the Helbling signature pie. Nor have I made my mom’s favorite pie, Sour Cream Raisin. But I love cottage cheese and I eat Raisin Bran cereal. Just don’t ask me to eat turkey gizzards. Or lutefisk. Once was enough for this writer.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A look back, a look ahead: How school shapes us, expands our world September 6, 2023

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A bus follows a back country road near Morgan in southwestern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2018)

SHE WANTS TO SAVE the earth. It’s a lofty and noble goal for my granddaughter, who started second grade on Tuesday. Each year, on the first day of school, her mom documents basics about Isabelle on a small chalkboard. That includes a response to “What I want to be when I grow up.” This year Izzy aims to be an environmentalist. As a first grader, her professional goal was becoming a game designer. And on the first day of kindergarten, she wanted to own a toy store and also be a mom.

It’s interesting how Izzy’s interests evolve as she ages, as she grows her world and knowledge and connections with others. The possibilities are endless for her generation. I hold such hope in these young people, just beginning their formal educations.

And I hold hope, too, when I see a photo of Izzy and three neighborhood friends waiting at their urban bus stop. “Smart, Brave, Beautiful” banners Bethel’s tee. What a reaffirming message. For all of them. And how reaffirming that they are of differing ethnicity, their skin tones varied and, indeed, beautiful.

My elementary school, circa 1960s, located in Vesta in Redwood County. The school closed decades ago. (Photographer unknown; photo sourced from my personal photo album)

Sixty years have passed since I was a second grader in a small southwestern Minnesota elementary school, where my paternal grandfather served on the school board. My classmates and I were mostly farm kids, all white. We wrote in “Big Chief” lined tablets which today would not, should not, fly. Attitudes differed in the 1960s. Words like diversity, respect and environmentalist were not part of our everyday vocabulary.

A serene country scene just north of Lamberton in southern Redwood County. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2013)

But words, overall, held my interest all those decades ago. I have Mrs. Kotval to thank for sparking my love of words, of reading, and eventually of writing. Each day after lunch, she read to her third and fourth graders from “The Little House” and other chapter books. Through the writing of Laura Ingalls Wilder, who lived many years earlier in nearby Walnut Grove, I began to appreciate the nuances of the prairie. And I learned the importance of descriptive, detailed writing. Wilder engaged all of her senses to describe the prairie and life thereon in her series of wildly popular books. With her love of the natural world, this writer unknowingly documented the environment for me, my children and for my second grade granddaughter, today an aspiring environmentalist.

Early on, I aspired to be an elementary school teacher. But that changed as I grew my world, my knowledge, my connections. Words focused my passion. Unlike most of my elementary school classmates, I loved penmanship—letters and words flowing in script across the pages of my penmanship book. I loved spelling. I loved reading, even in a school and town without a library and thus with limited access to books. And by high school, that love of words expanded to writing.

Fifth and sixth graders at Vesta Elementary School in the late 1960s. I’m in the back row, far right, next to the windows. (Photographer unknown; photo sourced from my personal photo album)

I want to pause here and stress the importance of passionate teachers in fostering students’ interests. From Mrs. Kotval reading to her students after lunch to junior high English teacher Mrs. Sales teaching me all the parts of grammar to high school teacher Mr. Skogen requiring students to keep journals, their influence on me and my eventual career was profound. I would go on to earn a college degree in mass communications, leading to a career as a journalist, writer, poet and photographer.

That brings me full circle back to Laura Ingalls Wilder, who early on influenced my detail-rich writing and photographic styles. In 2017, I became professionally connected to the author via “The World of Laura Ingalls Wilder—The Frontier Landscapes That Inspired The Little House Books.” Author Marta McDowell chose three of my photos (including one of prairie grasses at sunset) to illustrate her 396-page book documenting Wilder’s life and relationship to her environment. Perhaps some day my granddaughter will open the pages of McDowell’s book and find the photos taken by her grandmother. Whether Isabelle becomes an environmentalist or something vastly different, I expect she will always care about the earth and her role in saving it.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Sharing, making memories & more at Helbling family reunion August 16, 2023

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Tom and Betty Helbling, circa early 1950s.

THE IMPORTANCE OF CONNECTING annually as an extended family remains a high priority for the descendants of Tom and Betty Helbling. This past weekend 52 of us from four states gathered at a central Minnesota lake home. We laughed. We talked. We shared memories and made new ones. We played. We ate together under two screened tents, some people spilling to tables outside. And it was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

I was determined, even with my ongoing health challenges, to make the 3.5-hour trip so I could be with Randy’s family—the sisters, the brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, great nieces and nephews. Some were missing, like the brothers from Michigan, North Dakota and Missouri and their spouses, a niece and nephews, and two of my adult children living in southeastern Wisconsin and Boston. It’s a given that not everyone can make it every year to the mid-August gathering.

It takes a lot of inflatables and other water toys for all the kids at the Helbling family reunion. The loon floatie, purchased as part of a fundraiser for the soon-to-be National Loon Center in Crosslake, was a big hit. The loon is Minnesota’s state bird. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2023)

BEYOND CONVERSATIONS

But for those of us who can attend, it’s always a good time. We do more than simply visit, although that’s certainly important. We also engage in activities that get us up and moving and interacting. There’s the annual corn hole tournament and BINGO for all ages. Even the adults participate, coveting jars of homemade salsa, jams, jellies and honey from the farm. Randy brought home his sister Cheryl’s cherry jelly. Kids delight in winning sidewalk chalk, markers, craft kits and more. No kid leaves without a prize. Most adults don’t either.

The younger kids, nearly 20 strong, packed so much into the reunion days. Swimming. Playing on the beach. Fishing from the dock. Riding bikes around the circle drive. Five-year-old cousins Autumn and Amaris even performed on a pedal-less tricycle of sorts, attempting three spins before a wildly cheering audience.

Horseshoe Lake, beach and dock, pre-reunion. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2023)

WATER-BASED FUN

Boat rides given by my niece Lindsey’s husband, Brent, proved wildly popular with the kids. The young father of three with a fourth due in November was busy, and likely worn out, from all those trips across and around the lake. My granddaughter Isabelle, 7, declared the boat rides “awesome.” Why? “We went really fast,” she explained. Ah, yes, speed. All kids were accounted for when the boat docked.

The water theme continued on land with a water balloon fight in the afternoon. Izzy hesitated, until I suggested she join the younger kids and avoid the older boys who threw with determined force. Eventually adults were caught in the crossfire, even hostess Rosie who had gone to a balcony to photograph the chaos below. And then Katie targeted her cousin Jonathan, who ended up with a bucket of water dumped over his head, just as he handed off his cellphone. What memories…

A section of a tri-fold family photo board. That’s Miranda in the middle photo looking up. Her grandma is right above her in a 1970 photo, which I adore and had never seen. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2023)

PHOTOS AND STORIES

Randy’s oldest sister, Annette, put together a photo board. My great nieces Katherine and Sierra studied the images, trying to determine identities. “I can’t believe that’s my mom,” Katherine said of a baby photo of her mom, Jocelyn. Likewise Sierra struggled to believe a long-haired young woman was her grandma, Cheryl. Even I, and I almost hate to admit this, didn’t recognize my own daughter initially. I looked at a photo of a toddler and thought, “she looks familiar.” Well, of course, my brain reacted in a delayed response, “that’s your daughter Miranda.”

I also learned something about Miranda after paging through journal entries from an annual Helbling aunts and cousins get together that spanned from 1996-2008. Miranda penned a note about alternative casino plans with cousins Lindsey and Katie with one adding a postscript about going clubbing. What fun those teens must have had writing that message. I laughed, then photographed the note to text to Miranda in Wisconsin.

Tom and Betty Helbling in 1988.

HONORING BETTY

This is all the stuff of memories. This journal kept through the years. The treasured family photos. The conversations and family updates shared after lunch. The games and boat rides and water balloon fight and BINGO and free play. And then the jigsaw puzzle exchange, honoring matriarch Betty, lover of jigsaw puzzles and gone nearly 30 years already (way too soon at age 59). I love the Helbling family, which I’ve been part of for 41 years now. I cherish their love and support. And I cherish our time together at the annual family reunion.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Sunflower field offers a quiet place to grieve August 10, 2023

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The sunflowers at their prime on July 31. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

IN THE GOLDEN HOUR before sunset on the last day of July, I grabbed my 35 mm Canon camera and headed with Randy to a field of sunflowers on Faribault’s east side. The 5-acre site, just off Division Street East behind Pleasant View Estates, is not an agri-tourism draw, but rather a place of peace, beauty and solace. A place to remember, to grieve.

Signage at the sunflower field defines its intention. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

The nonprofit Infants Remembered in Silence created this flower-filled field with the help of donated land, volunteer planting, caretaking and more. IRIS, as the local organization is known, aims to support parents, family, friends, and professionals following the loss of a child in early pregnancy, from stillbirth, and other infant and early childhood deaths, no matter the cause.

A path winds through the field of mini sunflowers. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

Walking the mowed paths curving through the hilly land proved emotional and moving for me. While I have not lost an infant or child (I nearly miscarried with my second pregnancy), my husband has lost siblings to stillbirth and miscarriage as have others in my circle. Most recently, my niece delivered her third son way too early in pregnancy for baby Hunter to survive. It was heartbreaking for Lindsey and Brent, their parents and those of us who love them. Likewise, 42 years ago my Uncle John and Aunt Sue grieved the death of their stillborn son, Luke. I thought of Luke and Hunter and baby Cheyenne, born too early to friends Bill and Geri decades ago. There’s much loss represented in the IRIS Sunflower Garden.

Visitors pen messages and names of infants and children on a memorial whiteboard. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

I will share more in a future post. More photos and observations and thoughts. Because I am dealing with sensory overload issues that leave me symptomatic and not feeling at all well if I’m on a screen for too long, I have to wait until I’m having a good day, good enough to visually tolerate additional photo processing and writing a longer post. It is the reason I am blogging only minimally. I am focusing on my health.

Scattered throughout the field are spaces like this to pause, reflect, grieve. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

But today I needed to alert you to the IRIS Sunflower Garden before the blooms are dried, the field only a memory of the beautiful space it was while in full, glorious bloom 11 days ago.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Garden fresh peas from the library July 17, 2023

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(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

I FOLDED THE PILE of pea pods into the front of my Minnesota-themed tee, the one with two grain bin graphics. It seemed appropriate for the vegetable gathered from the Friends of Buckham Memorial Library Organic Learning Garden. Harvest of grain. Harvest of vegetables.

In the library window by the garden. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2020)

I hadn’t expected to pick peas when Randy and I stopped at our local library Saturday afternoon en route to the grocery store for meat to grill. But when we pulled into the parking lot, I decided to check out the garden while Randy looked for videos.

To my surprise, I found pea plants heavy with plump pea pods. I felt giddy. Garden fresh peas have always been a favorite. But it’s been a long time since I’ve had them.

(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2023)

I hold fond memories of picking and shelling peas from my childhood garden. I loved running my thumb down the seam of the pod, opening the shell to reveal a row of tiny green orbs. So perfect. And then I slid my thumb down that tidy row, peas dropping one by one into a metal pan. Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk. There’s a certain satisfaction in the rhythmic process of shelling peas.

Once home, as I shelled those peas carried in my t-shirt to the van, I thought of all those summers back on the farm. I never realized then how lucky I was to eat mostly food grown or raised on our acreage. It was simply what everyone did in rural Minnesota. Planted a garden. Raised beef cattle, pigs and/or chickens.

That evening as we sat down to a grilled pork chop supper (not dinner) with sides of potatoes and peas, I dipped my spoon into those fresh peas covered with butter. I tasted the sun and sky and earth. But mostly, I tasted memories. Garden memories.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Into the country to pick rhubarb, but so much more May 31, 2023

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The gravel road past our friends’ Rice County farm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

EVERYONE OUGHT TO OCCASIONALLY take a drive into the countryside along back county roads and gravel roads trailing dust. It’s good for the soul, spirit and mind to route into a quiet place defined by fields and farm sites. Away from town. Away from houses clumped together in blocks. Into a wide open place where land and sky meet and space seems infinite.

Randy and I found all of that recently as we drove east of Faribault, passing fields sprouting corn, farm sites nudging the highway. We aimed toward our friend Barb and Bob’s farm, invited there to harvest rhubarb. It’s an annual spring rite for us.

Bird folk art. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

But for me, this is about much more than gathering rhubarb. It’s about enveloping myself in the peacefulness of rural Minnesota. When only the trill of birds, the roar of a tractor and conversation with our friends break the silence, I feel utterly, contentedly at home. I feel grounded and rooted and connected and transported back to the farm of my youth, albeit 120 miles to the west.

Formerly a smokehouse, this is now used for storing gardening tools. The rhubarb patch flourishes alongside the aged building. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

I never pull a single stalk of rhubarb from the patch next to the aged clay block smokehouse. While Randy harvests, I roam. With my camera.

Beautiful rural Rice County, east of Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

First, I pause to take in the rural landscape—fields, trees, gravel road below a clear blue sky. Oh, place of my heart.

A familiar rural site, a silo. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

Then I head toward the silo towering over the farm site. Many times I climbed the ladder into the silo back on my childhood farm to fork silage and toss it down the chute to feed the cows. It was hard, smelly work. But when you worked on a dairy, livestock and crop farm 60-plus years ago, chores were labor intensive.

Barb’s “Star Shadow” barn quilt. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

From the silo, I turn my focus to the weathered plywood quilt block square displayed on the side of a tin-covered pole shed. The artwork, “Star Shadow,” honors Barb’s passion for quilting. It’s a nice addition to the building. I like barn quilt art, which surged in popularity perhaps a decade or more ago. There are places in Minnesota, like the Caledonia area in Houston County, where you can take a self-guided tour and view 59 barn quilts. For my generation, especially, quilts are part of our family history. Patchwork quilts layered beds, providing warmth on frigid Minnesota winter nights. I cherish remembrances of my paternal grandmother’s quilt tops, quilting frame and the quilts she gifted to me and all of her 40-plus grandchildren.

Apple blossoms. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

This visit to Barb and Bob’s farm brings back so many memories. I wander among the apple trees, most blossoms spent, and watch an elusive Monarch butterfly flit among the branches. I can almost taste the sweetness of apple jelly spooned onto buttered toast.

The growing pile of rhubarb. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

I check in with Randy, who hasn’t called me to help with the rhubarb harvest. He understands the pull I feel to photograph. Via photography, I notice details and that is such a gift. He’s gathered a growing stash of thick green stalks tipped in pink. Rhubarb seems such a humble fruit. Perfect for crisp, sauce or pie.

A tractor heads to a field with a roller to pack the soil. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

A tractor roars by then, dust rising around and behind as it pulls an unfamiliar farm implement down the gravel road. A roller, Randy notes later when we pass a packed farm field.

Randy carries discarded leaves away from the rhubarb patch. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

Then quiet settles again. Randy gathers the pile of rhubarb leaves, tidying the area around the old smokehouse.

We visited near the lilacs. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

We head back toward the farmhouse, this time rousing Barb and Bob, who earlier did not hear Randy’s knocks. We settle in for a chat which turns into a lengthy conversation in the shade of trees, near the lilac bush, in their front yard garden. Birds sing. Butterflies fly. Words rise. Cold, filtered well water poured from a fancy pitcher into thick, hefty glasses quenches thirst. The four of us simply enjoy each other’s company. No hurry. Nowhere to be.

Birdhouse on an outbuilding. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

I step away to photograph several of Barb’s many birdhouses.

The shy farm cat. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

And then the orange farm cat appears. I excuse myself again, to photograph Fred, who requires significant coaxing to come closer. But he is skittish. My camera lens, followed by the click of the shutter scares him away.

Bird bath art on the farm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2023)

I circle back to the conversation circle, passing a bird bath with a trio of ballet dancers centering that circle. They are graceful and beautiful and seemingly out of place in this rural setting. Yet, they are not. The countryside overflows with grace and beauty. The grace of silence and solitude. And the beauty of the natural world.

On this day, I need this. To be in the serenity of this quiet place. To take in the countryside. To see the sky, the trees, the land. To talk with Barb and Bob. And then to leave with a clutch of rhubarb and the promise of warm rhubarb crisp pulled from the oven.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Mother’s Day: Of love, loss & legacies May 14, 2023

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
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I printed this message inside a handmade Mother’s Day card for my mom back in elementary school. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I’VE WRITTEN OFTEN about my mom, the life she lived, the legacies of kindness, compassion and faith she left. But what about about you and your mom?

On this Mother’s Day, I invite you to share about your mom. What do you hold dear? What was she like? What did she pass along to you? Who was she, in addition to being your mother?

I don’t know what my children would write if asked those questions. But I hope they would describe me as loving, caring, compassionate, kind and supportive. Creative, too. I’ve tried to follow my mom’s example. And, even though my maternal grandmother died shortly after I was born, I’ve heard that Josephine was a kind and gentle soul. Just like my mom.

I recognize that Mother’s Day can be difficult, especially if you’ve recently lost your mom. Like my friend Gretchen. Grief rises anew in a day focused on mothers. To lose a mom is a profound loss, whether that occurred a month ago or 20 years ago. Mother and child share a bond unlike any other, which intensifies the depth of grief.

A page in an altered book my friend Kathleen created for me. That’s my mom on the left counting jars of homemade horseradish. That’s me with my clown birthday cake, which Mom made for my third birthday. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Yet, to grieve is to recognize that we have loved. I consider all the ways my mom loved me. Though she didn’t tell me she loved me or even hug me when I was growing up (that would come later), I felt and saw her love. Her love showed in homemade bread and peanut butter oatmeal bars. Her love showed in the animal-shaped birthday cakes she made for my five siblings and me. Her loved showed in clothes washed in a Maytag wringer washer. Her love showed in quarts of fruits and vegetables lining planks in a dirt-floored cellar. Her love showed in clothing stitched from flour sacks. Her love showed in poring through booklets of house designs from the lumberyard, always believing that some day she would move into a new house. One with a bathroom and a shower to replace a galvanized tub set on the kitchen floor and a makeshift shower of garden hose strung through an open porch window. One with more than three cramped bedrooms. One with a furnace rather than an oil-burning stove. One with windows that didn’t rattle in the winter prairie wind.

The old woodframe farmhouse where I lived the first 11 years of my life with our new house in the background. That’s my sister Lanae posing on the porch steps.

Mom taught me to hold hope. She finally got her new house in 1967, the year my youngest brother, her final child, was born.

On this Mother’s Day, let’s honor our moms—those selfless, wonderful women who raised us as best they could. Those women who carried us, physically and emotionally, who want (ed) the best for us. Being a mother requires strength, energy and so much more, but, most of all, unconditional love.

Happy Mother’s Day, if you’re a mom! And if you are missing your mom, let’s celebrate her, too.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The Weekly Phone Call May 11, 2023

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
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My sweet mom, featured on the Parkview Facebook page, Mother’s Day 2020. (Photo credit: Parkview Senior Living)

IN EVERYTHING I WRITE, truth rests. In creative nonfiction, more than any other genre, truth writes the story. In poetry and fiction, life experiences, observations and emotions weave into poems and stories. Not necessarily the full truth, but based on reality. The adage “write what you know” rings true for me.

In 2017, I wrote a short story, “The Weekly Phone Call,” and entered it in the Jackpine Writers’ Bloc annual competition. That work of creative nonfiction along with two poems, two fictional short stories and another piece of creative nonfiction were chosen for publication in Fine Lines, The Talking Stick Volume 26. It marked my most successful year with TS, an annual anthology featuring work by Minnesota writers or those with a connection to Minnesota.

Five of my works (poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction) published in Fine Lines. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2017)

The book title, Fine Lines fits my selected entry, a story about the Sunday evening phone calls I made to my mom. Every. Week. I looked forward to them, as did Mom. My short story is one of raw emotions, of grief and pain. And today, days before Mother’s Day, seems an appropriate time to share this piece of my writing.

I hope it sparks an understanding that simple connections linking us to those we love are to be valued. When Mom could no longer hold or talk on a phone in the years before her January 2022 death, I felt a deep loss. I missed her voice. I missed her stories. I missed sharing my life with her. And today, I miss her, as I try to recall her voice, the words she spoke, yet always remembering the love we shared.

Parkview Senior Living in Belview, where my mom lived for many years. While 120 miles separated us, Mom and I remained connected via our weekly calls. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

The Weekly Phone Call

It’s 6:30 p.m. on Sunday when I punch the green phone icon.

“Hello, Arlene speaking,” she answers, the indiscernible dialogue of a television blaring in the background.

“Hi, this is Audrey,” I say, then wait while she turns off her TV. “How are you doing?”

Her answer never deviates. She is tired and blames the weather. Already sadness threads through my thoughts. Inside the sheltered walls of a care center, she can’t feel the bite of a winter prairie wind, the drench of rainfall, the smothering humidity of a July afternoon. She feels only artificial heat and cold while sequestered in her over-sized dorm style room.

My mind drifts as Mom laments an in-house obsession with BINGO, recounts an escape attempt by a friend—big and exciting news—and complains of failed jets in the whirlpool tub. I listen, insert appropriate responses, and await the usual repetition of information.

When she repeats herself, I say nothing. There is no point. My love prevails in silence. But inside, my anger rises at her declining memory. I want the mom who never forgot a birthday, who remembered what she ate for lunch, who knew names. I miss her undeniably kind and positive spirit. I am grieving.

But I tell her none of this. Instead, I end our conversation with “I love you” and a promise to call her next Sunday, at 6:30 p.m.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Original 2017 publication credit: Fine Lines, The Talking Stick Volume 26