A quote and story in “Transfer of Memory.” (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2014)
Without hope you didn’t survive…
I photographed that quote in the summer of 2014 while viewing a traveling exhibit on the Holocaust, “Transfer of Memory,” at the Steele County History Center in Owatonna. The singular summary word hope themes portraits and accompanying stories of Minnesota Holocaust survivors.
Panels showcase portraits and stories in “Transfer of Memory.” (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2014)
“Transfer of Memory” was, and remains, one of the most powerful exhibits I’ve ever viewed. It is the personal stories, paired with portraits, which imprinted upon my heart and spirit the utter brutality, the unfathomable cruelty of the Nazis against Jewish people.
Today, just days after International Holocaust Remembrance Day on January 27, the date in 1945 marking the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, the Nazi’s largest killing center and concentration camp, I am reminded of the survivors featured in that traveling exhibit.
I am reminded, too, of the 6 million Jewish victims of the Holocaust. Six. Million.
Cover image from Goodreads
Recently, I read three books of historical fiction about young men and women imprisoned in concentration camps. These books by Heather Morris—The Tatooist of Auschwitz, Cilka’s Journey and Three Sisters—are difficult to read. Heart-rending. Awful. Yet, with that underlying theme of hope accompanied by incredible strength. Like the “Transfer of Memory” exhibit, they imprinted upon my heart and spirit the utter brutality and unfathomable cruelty of humankind.
When I read of current day antisemitism and hatred directed towards other individuals because of their skin color, ethnicity, religion, etc., I find myself wondering, “Why?”
The Rice County Historical Society, host of the POW presentation. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2022)
JUST BLOCKS FROM THE VACATED SITE of the former Faribault Canning Company, a group packed a Rice County Historical Society Museum meeting room Thursday evening for a lesson in World War II-related regional history. Specifically, we learned about German Prisoner of War camps in Minnesota and Wisconsin from Matt Carter, executive director of the Dakota County Historical Society. He offered an overview of those camps, which included 15 in Minnesota, one at the canning company in Faribault. Carter is a native of Reedsburg, Wisconsin, home to a POW camp. Growing up, he never learned about the camp in school. That prompted him to later research, write about and present on POW camps in the US.
Former Faribault Daily News reporter Pauline Schreiber photographed the Faribault POW Camp barracks shortly before they were torn down in 1990. (Photo courtesy of the Rice County Historical Society)
WORKING AG-RELATED JOBS
I’ve always held an awareness of Camp Faribault and the prisoners who worked at the canning factory and on area farms. I also knew of the low-slung buildings housing the POWs who arrived here in June 1944. Those barracks were torn down in 1990 during an expansion of Faribault Foods, as the canning company came to be called. The business still exists today, in a sprawling manufacturing and distribution complex opened in 2017 in northwest Faribault’s industrial park.
Back during WWII, with millions of Americans off to serve in the military, POWs like those in Faribault offset the local labor shortage. Faribault Canning requested 200 prisoners to assist during the summer months with pea and sweet corn processing. The company paid the government 55 cents an hour for each POW laborer. That covered food and other living expenses. Prisoners received 80 cents a day for their work. Carter noted that the Faribault-based POWs worked within a 25-mile radius, some also laboring on farms, others installing power poles for Dakota Electric Association and 60 contracted to work for the local Andrews Nursery Company.
Some of the buildings remaining at the former Faribault Canning Co (Faribault Foods) site. I know nothing about the use or ages of the buildings. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2022)
SETTLING IN AT CAMP FARIBAULT& BEYOND
POW camps were scattered throughout Minnesota with other nearby branch camps, as they were termed, in Owatonna, Montgomery and St. Charles. Camps farther north focused mostly on logging. All were offshoots of barbed wire-secured base camps (where prisoners initially arrived and were processed) in Algona and Clarinda, Iowa. Once prisoners settled in community camps like Faribault, they still remained under guard, although much more loosely watched. An estimated 450,000 – 600,000* prisoners arrived in the US on Liberty Ships during WWII to live in repurposed Civilian Conservation Corps camps, on fairgrounds, even in tents, Carter said. In Faribault, the POWS moved into barracks built by the canning company.
WEDDINGS, PROPAGANDA & “CODDLING”
Within the confines of his just-over-an-hour-long presentation, Carter presented an excellent overview of POW camps, adding some details that I found notably interesting. For example, proxy weddings were performed by local clergy. Under Geneva Convention rules, German prisoners could legally marry women back in Germany. Prisoners would gather flowers for the missing-brides prison camp weddings. Across the ocean their brides perhaps did the same while marrying absent grooms not seen in years.
Carter also shared that prisoners watched newsreels of German war atrocities as part of a reorientation program in the camps. Viewed as propaganda by some POWs, they responded by distributing handwritten propaganda while traveling on secured trains. Baffled by how these leaflets were dropped, officials determined that the papers were dropped down toilets and then onto the rails.
The third bit of shared information that struck me involves food. Newspapers reported how well prisoners ate, how they were being “coddled,” Carter noted. He showed a list of menus, which confirms the generous meals. The reaction was an outcry from an American public living on rationed foods and upset about the treatment of German-held US soldiers. In 1945, POWs were no longer allowed to buy beer, soda or cigarettes. And some of their food choices became less desirable (like hearts and liver).
Once the war ended, prisoners were repatriated, a process that took time. Many later returned to the US because of how well they were treated here, according to Carter. That was encouraging to hear. Even in war-time, kindness existed.
Matt Carter referenced this book during his talk, citing it as a good source of information about POW camps in Minnesota.
DIGGING DEEPER
Today all that remains of the Faribault POW Camp is a marker by the former canning company. If there are stories and photos, I am unaware. But I’m inspired now to dig deeper. I’ve already checked out Prudence by David Treuer from my local library. The novel focuses on a German soldier who escaped from a Minnesota POW camp. I also intend to read Anita Albrecht Buck’s Behind Barbed Wire: German Prisoners of War in Minnesota during World War II.
And maybe some day I’ll travel to Algona, Iowa, to visit the Camp Algona POW Museum and learn more about this place which housed prisoners sent to Minnesota, including to Faribault.
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*Because of differences and discrepancies in record-keeping, the number of prisoners housed in US POW camps is uncertain. Some sources claim 600,000-plus, while Carter estimates closer to 500,000 prisoners based on his research.
NEWS THAT VOTING has opened for the Minnesota Department of Transportation’s “Name a Snowplow” contest came at just the right time—as two clipper systems bring more snow into a state already overwhelmed by snowfall this winter. Voting comes also as the coldest air since mid-December is about to descend, dropping temps to below zero this weekend in most parts of Minnesota.
It’s been quite the winter. So this MnDOT contest is providing a humorous mental respite from the cold and snowy reality of January in Minnesota, with three months of winter to go.
Three years ago MnDOT launched its first snowplow naming competition, inviting the public to submit names for the big orange trucks that clear our state highways of snow and ice. This year 10,000 names were submitted, which have been narrowed down to 60 choices. Online voting is open until midnight, Friday, February 3. The winning names will grace eight snowplows in MnDOT’s eight districts.
I breezed through the names, quickly choosing my top three. Participants can vote for up to eight. I chose Blader Tot Hotdish (a reference to Minnesota’s culinary delight, Tator Tot Hotdish), Orange You Glad to See Me (picked for obvious reasons) and Spirit of ‘91 (a reference to the Halloween Blizzard of 1991, a multi-day blizzard which dumped single storm record snowfalls throughout the state; three feet in Duluth).
I love this diversion from talking solely about the weather, as we Minnesotans are inclined to do, especially in winter.
This contest also puts a positive spotlight on MnDOT, which too often delivers the bad news of road closures, crashes, road construction, impossible driving conditions and more. “Name a Snowplow” is, simply put, genius creative marketing.
When my grandchildren say the darndest things, I think of Art Linkletter’s “House Party” and his “Kids Say the Darndest Things” segment. Their answers to his questions proved honest, humorous and entertaining.
KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS. I can vouch for that. I raised three kids, cared for many others and am now the grandmother of two, one going on seven, the other just turned four.
Recently the grandkids, Isabelle and her little brother, Isaac, stayed overnight. During that short stay, Izzy elicited laughter with her honest observations and her leadership skills.
An outhouse repurposed as a garden shed at my brother and sister-in-law’s rural southwestern Minnesota acreage. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
First the honesty. I don’t recall how we got on the topic, but at some point I shared that I grew up in a house without a bathroom. Taking a bath meant my dad hauling a tin tub from the porch into the kitchen every Saturday evening and then Mom filling it with water. Our bathroom, I explained to Izzy, was a little building outside with two holes cut in a bench. And in the winter, we used a covered pot set inside the unheated porch.
I don’t know that Izzy understood all of this. But, as she sat there listening to Grandma spin tales of the olden days, she assessed. “It sounds like a different world to me!” I laughed at her observation. She was right. Growing up in rural Minnesota in the 1950s and 1960s was, most assuredly, a different world from hers. My granddaughter lives in a sprawling suburban house with four bathrooms. In 1967, my family of birth moved into a new farmhouse with a single bathroom. And a bathtub. Today I feel thankful to live in a house with one bathroom. I wouldn’t want to clean four.
I took this award-winning photo of BINGO callers at the North Morristown July Fourth celebration in 2013. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)
Then there’s BINGO, which we play nearly every time we’re together with Isabelle and Isaac. They were introduced to the game at the Helbling Family Reunion and have loved it since. The kids take turns not only playing, but also calling numbers.
Isabelle has advanced greatly in her BINGO-calling skills. This time, in addressing us, she called us “folks.” I don’t know where Izzy heard that term, but it’s certainly more rural than suburban lingo. I suggested she might be ready to call BINGO next summer at North Morristown’s annual Fourth of July celebration. Unincorporated North Morristown is a Lutheran church and school and a few farm places clustered in the middle of nowhere west of Faribault. Izzy seems well-prepared to call BINGO numbers to the folks there.
I should have shared with my granddaughter that, when I was growing up, we covered our BINGO cards with corn kernels during Vesta’s (my hometown) annual BINGO Night. I expect she would have responded as a child 60 years younger than me: “It sounds like a different world to me!” And I would have agreed.
Randy starts down the driveway with the snowblower following a past snow event. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo February 2020)
WAY TO GO, MINNESOTA! We are living up to our reputation as a snowy state. With more than three months of winter remaining, we’ve already surpassed our seasonal annual average snowfall of 51.2 inches by an inch.
Our 2022-2023 seasonal to-date total of 52.1 inches (recorded in the Twin Cities) likely comes as no surprise to anyone who lives in the North Star State. Winter storm after winter storm after winter storm has left us, or at least me, feeling winter-weary. Once again Thursday evening I donned my winter wear, pulled on my practical winter boots and headed outdoors to assist Randy with snow removal. This time some seven inches of new-fallen snow.
The tree shovels we use to removal snow. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo December 2021)
I work the three shovels while Randy guides our massive hefty ancient snowblower down the sidewalk and driveway. There are places a snowblower can’t go and those spots—the front sidewalk and steps and along the side of the garage by the garbage cans and recycling bin—are my responsibility. I’m happy to help. Well, maybe not exactly happy, but rather willing.
Randy advised me to be careful around the garage due to ice. I appreciated his warning as the last thing I need is to slip, fall and break a bone or suffer a concussion. That’s a concern for both of us as we age. I read a recent report that, if you’re over the age of 45, you should leave the snow shoveling to someone else. I just laughed. While reasonable health advice, it’s not exactly practical for most Minnesotans.
I take baby steps while traversing snow and ice, the penguin shuffle I believe is the proper term. Yet, I realize that’s no guarantee of safety. I also pace myself while shoveling. Thankfully our Wednesday into Thursday snow was low in moisture content, thus light and easy to shovel and blow. It’s the heavy snow that makes for challenging and health-risky snow removal.
It could always be worse… A huge, hard-as-rock snowdrift blocked our driveway in this March 1965 photo taken on my childhood farm, rural Vesta, Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 1965)
But I encountered a new problem on Thursday. On several occasions, the snow I tossed with a scoop shovel tumbled right back onto the surface from which I’d just removed it. The problem: The snow is now banking so high along sidewalk and driveway edges that it needs to be strategically thrown. High enough and far enough.
Once we’d finished our snow removal assignments, Randy and I worked on clearing the driveway of snow down to the concrete. Part of the front metal scraper is broken off our aged snowblower, meaning a layer of snow now remains. Thursday evening I used the wide metal shovel and Randy the plastic one as we attempted to get under the snow and peel it away. Sometimes that approach worked well, sometimes not.
This image expresses how I feel about the ongoing snowfall in Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
We remained cognizant of ice underneath. Randy advised caution near the down spout and I pointed out a patch of black ice where the concrete dips. In the end, we did the best we could and called it done…until the next winter storm rolls into southern Minnesota.
A year ago, the grandkids were into “PJ Masks.” This is Owlette. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo February 2022)
KEEPING UP WITH THE GRANDKIDS’ evolving interests can prove challenging. I’m not up on the newest kids’ shows and trends. And just when I think I’ve learned all the latest from first grader Isabelle, especially, and 4-year-old Isaac, they are on to something new. But right now they are focused on dinosaurs and the solar system, both timeless topics.
The pair stayed overnight with us recently as much for Grandma and Grandpa solo time as for their parents having time together without kids. It’s a win-win all around.
At least I know something about space. Here the moon rises. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2020)
The sleep-over was a last-minute decision, meaning we mostly winged it for the weekend. I did, however, stop at the library for a pile of dinosaur and solar system books and a few videos for those moments when the exhausted grandparents needed to rest.
Grandpa and Isaac inside their backyard snow fort. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2023)
When the kids asked to play outside in the snow, we obliged. I forgot, though, how much work it is to get a 4-year-old into winter gear for outdoor play. Grandma and Grandpa bundled up, too, for the backyard adventure. When Randy pulled the scoop shovel and two 5-gallon buckets from the garage and started building a snow fort, I was surprised. Hadn’t he already scooped enough snow this winter? What grandpas won’t do for their grandchildren.
Occasionally we helpers helped the master mason by locating chunks of frozen snow to layer onto the fort walls. It was a process, impeded once by Isaac who scrambled over the wall, partially deconstructing it in the process.
At one point, Isabelle decided we should play snow tag. That would be regular tag played in the snow, doncha know, Grandma? Ah, of course. Easy for the little ones who don’t break through the snow. Not so easy for the heavier elders whose boots plunge through the snow surface.
Grandpa and grandkids climb the hill in our backyard. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo January 2023)
Thankfully I managed to avoid the mountain-climbing aspect of our time in the backyard. But Grandpa, Isabelle and Isaac headed up the hill behind our house with Izzy intending to hike all the way to the park at the very top. Grandpa put a halt to that, recognizing that thorns, branches and assorted dangers threatened as the wooded hill steepened. We did not want to risk an emergency room visit.
Fortunately, distraction still works with our grandkids. Oversized rabbits loping across the snowy hillside proved entertaining. A hole in the snow near the fort invited guesses as to what animal dug into the snow. A squirrel was suspect and I noted the following day that was a correct assumption upon watching a squirrel dive head first into the snow and emerge a bit later with a walnut. When I shared my observation in a text to my eldest daughter, Izzy expressed her concern that the bushy tail rodent might destroy the fort. “Grandpa worked hard on that!” she told her mom. She’s right. He did.
Time with my grandkids invigorates me. I view the world from their perspective. They are inquisitive, adventuresome, approaching life with wonderment. They teach me to pause, to be in the moment. When Isaac drew a spaceship on his sort of modern day version of the Etch-a-Sketch (except with a “pen” and button to erase his art), I learned that the two of us were blasting off into space. His sister? Nope. She was staying behind because she is a paleontologist. Ah, yes, that’s right. Across the room Isabelle played with a herd of dinosaurs, or whatever a mixed group of dinosaurs is termed.
Isaac chose oranges over ice cream. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2011)
I don’t pretend to know everything. I didn’t know Isabelle attends first grade in a building built for 600 students, not the 900 it houses. I didn’t know Isaac would choose an orange over ice cream for a bedtime snack and then three days later ask to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for ice cream. But I do know these things: I love these two little people beyond measure. I love any time with them. Simply put, I love being a grandma.
This is a partial photo of Mark DeWitte’s obit published in The Gaylord Hub. I intentionally focused on the information in column two, middle paragraph. (Minnesota Prairie Roots edited photo January 2023)
HE LIVED THE BESTLIFE POSSIBLE.
That statement in the obituary of a 52-year-old Gaylord man may not seem extraordinary. He died on December 21, 2022, of cancer. But nowhere in Mark DeWitte’s obit does it state that hedied after a courageous battle with cancer as is commonly seen in death notices. The only references are to a recent diagnosis and a move home to be with his family while in hospice.
Rather, the health diagnosis which led to that living the best life possible assessment is schizophrenia. Mark was diagnosed at the age of 16, which means he lived with this awful, debilitating brain disorder for 36 years.
DISPELLING THE MYTHS
That Mark’s loving family chose to publicly reveal his schizophrenia in print speaks to the depth of their love, their support and their courage. The misunderstandings attached to this disease all too often create fear and stigma, adding to the challenges of what is already an overwhelming health condition. Visions of violence, split personalities and other negative behaviors too often color schizophrenia with untruths. The National Alliance on Mental Illness defines schizophrenia as “a serious mental illness that interferes with a person’s ability to think clearly, manage emotions, make decisions and relate to others. It is a complex and long-term medical illness.” (I encourage you to read more details about schizophrenia on the NAMI website by clicking here.)
It should be noted that schizophrenia manifests differently in individuals and, although incurable, can often be managed with medication, therapy and more. Managed. Not cured. It’s not easy, but it’s possible to live the best life possible. Mark clearly did that within the confines of his symptoms. But he didn’t do it alone. He had a family who loved him, a community that cared and professionals who supported him. For the past eight years, Mark lived at Aveyron Homes.
Mark’s obituary offers glimpses of what brought him joy: Music. Going out with his brother Mike for beer twice a week. But, most of all, his family brought him joy.
RIPPLING INTOTHE FAMILY
Schizophrenia, like any other long-term health issue, affects the entire family. The DeWitte family acknowledges that, not in any specific statement but rather in their willingness to write about their loved one’s life-long disease. Too often, we fail to recognize or even acknowledge the challenges of a serious mental illness and how it affects those dealing with and touched by it. Generally, there are no meals delivered during a mental health crisis. No “how are you doing?” questions or offers of help. Minimal, if any, compassion. Rather, the reaction is often one of silence, as if not speaking about “it” negates the need to show care or attempt to understand. There are exceptions, of course, and we as a society are slowly shifting towards understanding and acknowledgment and reducing stigmas about mental illness. Still, mental illness remains mostly hidden.
BREAKING THE SILENCE
Mark’s family is breaking the silence via their openness about his schizophrenia. It’s clear from a follow-up public thank you published in their weekly newspaper, The Gaylord Hub, that the community supported them. Linda DeWitte (Mark’s mom) and Michael DeWitte thanked the community for food, cards, flowers, memorials and even for snow removal. I can only assume the community also supported them when Mark was alive.
That Mark lived the best life possible while living with a horrible horrible disease comforts me. His family may not have stated that he died after a courageous battle with schizophrenia. But in my eyes he did.
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FYI: I encourage you to visit the National Alliance on Mental Illness website (click here) to learn more about mental health issues like schizophrenia, bipolar, depression, anxiety, post traumatic stress disorder and more. NAMI offers information, support and help, including online and in-person support groups. Check your state’s NAMI organization for specifics. NAMI is a valuable resource that can grow knowledge, compassion and understanding.
SHE WAS ONLY NINE YEARS OLD, too young to walk alone to the store to buy candy with the $3 clutched in her hand. Eventually, her 17-year-old cousin, Darnella Frazier, agreed to accompany Judeah Reynolds to Cup Foods. That decision on May 25, 2020, would forever change their lives. And the world.
When I learned of the book’s September 2022 release by St. Paul-based Beaver’s Pond Press, I knew immediately that I needed to read this recounting of Judeah’s witness to Floyd’s death. The cousins arrived on an unfolding scene outside Cup Foods where Floyd lay on the ground next to a squad car, a police officer pressing his knee into the 46-year-old’s neck. Judeah, Darnella and other bystanders pleaded with the police to stop while Darnella recorded the scene on her cellphone and then shared that video online. She won a 2021 Pulitzer Prize for that documentation.
While this book recounts the death of George Floyd from a child’s perspective, it is much more than a basic retelling. The story also reveals the trauma Judeah experienced. The sadness. The difficulty sleeping. The bad dreams. The replaying of Floyd’s killing in her mind.
But this is also a story of strength and hope and about being brave enough to speak up. To say something. To let your voice be heard. To effect change.
Messages like this are included in the book. I photographed this two years ago in small town Kenyon, MN. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2020)
I heard Judeah’s determined voice in her words. I saw it, too, in Darcy Bell-Myers’ art, which reinforces the story with strong, message-filled illustrations. This book is empowering for children who read or hear this story. And it’s equally as impactful for adults.
At the end of the book is a list—How to Help Children Process a Traumatic Event. I appreciate the inclusion of those 10 suggestions given Judeah did, indeed, experience trauma. Her family even moved out of Minnesota.
This LOVE mural by Minneapolis artist Jordyn Brennan graces a building in the heart of historic downtown Faribault. The hands are signing LOVE. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2021)
As I finished reading A Walk to the Store, I considered how ironic that young Judeah wore a colorful shirt emblazoned with the word LOVE as she stood on the sidewalk outside Cup Foods, witness to George Floyd’s murder.
The cover of an altered book my friend Kathleen created for me following the death of my mom. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
THE CALL CAME SHORTLY after 6 pm on a Thursday evening one year ago. In that moment, when my youngest brother’s name flashed on my cellphone screen, I knew. Mom died. Not passed. Not was gone. She was dead.
The news was not unexpected. Yet it was. As much as we think we are prepared for a parent’s death in the light of long-time failing health, we are not. I was not.
One of my treasured last photos of my mom and me, taken on January 11, 2020. Because of COVID restrictions, I was unable to see Mom much during the final years of her life.(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2020 by Randy Helbling)
A year after that January 13 call, I still have not fully-grieved. Part of that I attribute to the timing of Mom’s death during the height of omicron. For me, there was nothing normal about Mom’s big public funeral (which I did not support) during COVID. No standing in a receiving line beside my siblings. No hand shaking. No hugging. No crying beneath my N95 mask. Just tears locked inside. Feelings held inside. Emotions of feeling disappointed and disrespected in a church packed with unmasked mourners checked.
It is a struggle to let go of such hurt, such pain. But I’m trying. Mom would want me to focus not on her death, funeral and burial, but rather on her earthly life and now her glorious new life in heaven. She taught me well, leaving a strong legacy of faith.
A portion of a family-themed photo board I created for my mom’s January 22, 2022 funeral. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
That legacy is not one simply of beliefs and words, but also one of attitudes and action. My mom was one of the kindest, humblest, gentlest souls I’ve ever known. My five siblings and I would occasionally test her spirit, her patience, her fortitude. But seldom did she express her exasperation. Sometimes I think Mom just had too much to do in the day-to-day running of a household and mothering of six kids to get upset. Wash clothes with the Maytag wringer washer. Can a crate of peaches. Weed the garden. Bake bread. Make supper. Scrub the floor. Iron clothes. On and on and on the list of endless chores went inside and outside our rural southwestern Minnesota farmhouse. She never complained, simply pressed on in her own quiet, mothering way.
Another page of the altered book features a photo of my mom holding me. I love the quote. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo 2022)
Even with all that family-centered work, Mom found time for outside activities. She was active in St. John’s Lutheran Church, the Legion Auxiliary, Extension Club, Craft Club, Senior Citizens and helped at Red Cross blood drives. Some of this came many years into motherhood, when her responsibilities lessened. I was already gone from home. I once asked Mom if she missed me when I left for college in the fall of 1974. No, she replied. She was, she said, too busy with the other four kids still at home. While I didn’t necessarily appreciate her answer, I understood, and I knew she loved me. Mom was undeniably honest, a trait I hold dear also.
I am forever grateful for the loving sympathy cards, memorials and other gifts I received. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2022)
Honesty. Integrity. Service to others. All were part of Mom’s life story. She lived her faith. These words from the hymn “Beautiful Savior,” sung at her funeral service, fit Arlene Anna Alma Kletscher: Truly I’d love thee, Truly I’d serve thee, Light of my soul, my joy, my crown. The hymn has always been my favorite for its message and its beautiful, poetic imagery.
On the Sunday before the one-year anniversary of my mother’s death, “Beautiful Savior” and “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” were sung during the worship service at my church, Trinity Lutheran in Faribault, some 120 miles from St. John’s in Vesta. The congregation also sang “Precious Lord” at Mom’s funeral. Because of illness, I missed Trinity’s worship service last Sunday. But I listened on the radio, thankful in many ways that I was not in the church pews. Trying to sing the hymns from Mom’s funeral may have proven a breaking point for me, unleashing a year’s worth of grief. Oh, how I miss my mom.
I miss her smile. I miss hugging her. I miss talking to her and remembering with her. I miss calling her every Sunday evening at the same time. I miss sharing photos of my grown children and her great grandchildren. I. Miss. Her. In the hard moments of life—and I’ve had plenty in recent years—I’ve turned to Randy and said, “I just want to be the kid again, to have my mom take care of me.” It is an impossible wish, a longing, a yearning, yet a verbal acknowledgment of my mother’s love.
I printed this message inside a handmade Mother’s Day card back in elementary school. Mom saved the card and I am grateful. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)
Now, in my year-old grief, I still feel Mom’s love. I see her love, too, in the memory of her lips curving into a slight smile when I saw her for the last time, when I said goodbye and I love you and exited her room at Parkview. That smile proved her final, loving gift to me, her oldest daughter. I’ve locked that moment in my heart to unlock when grief sneaks in, when the pain of missing my mom rises within my spirit.
I unlock, too, the comforting lyrics of “Beautiful Savior”: He makes our sorr’wing spirit sing.
Not a moose head, but an antelope head photographed at a flea market. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo September 2010)
THE THREE-FOURTHS INCH by three and three-quarters inch boxed display ad topping a For Sale column in the December 19, 2022, edition of The Galaxy grabbed my attention:
Awesome Alaskan Moose Head Mount
Asking $4,500
Call BJ or Troy at 507-248-xxxx* for details
My jaw dropped as my mind flashed back 40-plus years ago to a gathering I attended in The Galaxy readership area of south central Minnesota. I was young and single then and joined other young people at a house party hosted by roommates who were not named BJ or Troy. But the housemates did have a moose head mount, which I discovered upon a trip to the bathroom. It loomed large and menacing in a cramped room that barely fit a sink, toilet and old-fashioned bath tub. Towels hung from the moose’s antlers. I hurried to exit the bathroom and the watchful moose that was freaking me out.
Whether the house party moose hailed from the wilds of Alaska, I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. Where can you legally shoot a moose? And is a moose head mount really worth $4,500? Surely that must be a misprint. I wouldn’t pay $4.50 for it.
Animal mounts, including this deer head, are displayed in a Pequot Lakes hardware store. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo August 2018)
I’ve never liked seeing the heads of dead animals displayed anywhere. Not in a bathroom or a rec room. Not in a cabin or a restaurant, especially not in a restaurant. Not in a hardware store or grocery store or at a flea market. Not in a bank either. In the lobby of my banking institution, mounts ring the room. Once while waiting in line, I counted them (20-plus) and then told the teller how much I dislike dead deer heads.
A deer head mount on a garage, next to an antique shop, in Poy Sippi, Wisconsin. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2013)
I realize this is a personal grievance, that there are hunters among you and readers who view taxidermy as art perhaps or as trophy evidence of a successful hunt. I am simply not one of those people. And that’s OK. We all have different tastes, interests, preferences.
A deer head mount was among the merchandise vended at a rural Medford barn sale in 2015. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo July 2015)
I won’t be calling BJ or Troy about that Alaskan moose head mount, which, in my opinion, will never fit the overused and meaningless word awesome. But perhaps someone will see the small display ad and think, “That’s exactly the statement towel rack I need for my bathroom. And it’s only $4,500.”
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