I purchased this retro peace tray at an antique shop in St. Charles, MN., in 2015. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2015)
PEACE. Sometimes it feels especially elusive. And today, the day before the election (because I am writing this Monday afternoon), peace eludes me. I am so unsettled that I am binge-eating potato chips. I can’t recall the last time I had a bag of potato chips in the house or engaged in this type of eating behavior. This just is not me, someone who tries to eat healthy. But I am stressed.
I hope I feel differently in a few days. Feelings about my personal peace aside, I hope peace washes over the entire nation. We need it.
We need a calming, a break from all the negativity and barrage of craziness (a word I don’t often use and don’t particularly like, but it fits here). We need a return to normalcy and decency and respect.
We need to start caring about one another again, to stop the attacks and finger pointing and all the behavior that spirals us into discord. There’s been way too much bullying, too much name-calling, too many lies, too much degrading and hateful rhetoric. Too much. I want it to end. And I imagine I am not alone in feeling that way.
Peace. I’m talking inner peace. I’m talking peace within families and neighborhoods and schools and communities, where, even if we disagree, we can get along, set aside our differences, listen, compromise, work together.
When I was coming of age in the tumultuous early 1970s, peace was a buzzword. It was everywhere. On protest signs, in fingers flashed, in words spoken, on clothing, in pleas made… Looking back to that time period, I recognize that peace felt elusive then, too. But somehow we found our way back, until we didn’t.
NOTE: As the creator of this blog, I moderate all comments. This post is not meant to spark political sparring, but rather reflects my thoughts and feelings.
This shows a portion of a photo by Steve Somerstein featured in a 2015 exhibit, “Selma to Montgomery, Marching Along the Voting Rights Trail,” at St. Olaf College in Northfield, MN. (Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo)
FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER, I voted early, in person. I waited in line for 30 minutes to cast my ballot. I didn’t mind. And I’m not a patient person. But this, this election, especially, I wanted to ensure that nothing would stop me from voting. Because we never know what life will throw at us at the last minute, I decided voting early was the right choice for me.
Genola City Hall, where I found a sample primary ballot posted on the door in September. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
A woman staffing my polling place shared that “busy” and “a steady stream” have been the norm at this location since absentee/early voting opened in Minnesota. It’s clear that people are invested in this election, more so than any I can ever recall. There’s a lot at stake. And we have a voice in the outcome.
A close-up of the sample primary ballot on the door of the Genola City Hall. Genola is a small town in Morrison County in central Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
My ballot included not only the all important Presidential race, but also voting for those who will represent me in Washington DC, St. Paul and locally (school board, city council, mayor, etc.). There were additional questions on the ballot about a local sales tax and about continuing to fund environmental programs with state lottery monies.
I attended local candidate forums sponsored by the American Association of University Women, read newspaper Q & A’s and more to learn about people and issues on the ballot. The forums proved especially eye-opening. Audience members were able to anonymously submit written questions to the moderator and you can bet I did. People don’t always come across the same in person as they do in print or other media. The value of forums/debates/whatever you want to term them is in the unexpected. Being put on the spot. Hearing questions that may otherwise not have been asked. Listening not only to how a candidate responds, but also observing their body language and interaction with other candidates.
I photographed these ballot instructions inside an historic building at the fall 2024 Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show, rural Dundas, MN. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
When I went to my polling place, I knew exactly who would get my vote. I felt fully-informed. There was never a question about what’s important to me. I value honesty, integrity, compassion, a candidate who cares and truly represents the people he/she serves. An individual who works for the common good, not for himself/herself and his/her personal agenda and power. An individual who listens, to everyone. An individual who does not degrade others. At the local level, I want someone who keeps politics out of places they don’t belong. I value that. I value truth.
The American and Minnesota state flags fly on the campus of the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf, Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo October 2024)
I value freedom, democracy, the right to vote my conscience.
Please exercise your right to vote if you haven’t already done so. It’s your responsibility as an American.
NOTE: This post is not meant to spark political debate or discord, but rather to share the importance of voting and what centers my vote. As the creator of this blog, I moderate all comments. The decision whether to publish a comment or not is my choice.
I am a down-to-earth writer who focuses on writing about people, places and events primarily in Minnesota. Here I’m pictured outside Jack Pines Resort, rural Osage. I was there attending a book launch party for an anthology in which my writing published. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo by Randy Helbling, September 2024)
I’VE ALWAYS LOVED WRITING. From early on, my love of language, of words, of grammar, of, yes, even spelling, defined me. Give me a book to read. Give me a spelling test. Give me a pen and a notebook. And then a computer. Words, words and more words. I will find them, use them, create stories with them.
At one time, I wanted to pursue a degree in German. But, after a year in college, I changed direction because I didn’t want to teach. I decided to study journalism. It was absolutely the right decision for me, my interests and my skills.
With that intro, I join the many writers who are celebrating National Newspaper Week October 6-12. That includes journalists from my local paper, The Faribault Daily News, in which my writing publishes each weekend and sometimes more. I no longer consider myself a full-fledged journalist as much as a writer. These days I write from a personal perspective, more as a columnist, rather than as an objective reporter. I write fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry, too.
MY JOURNALISM EXPERIENCE
But I did work as a full-time newspaper reporter and photographer after graduating with a mass communications degree (news/editorial emphasis) in 1978 from Minnesota State University, Mankato. I worked for newspapers in Gaylord, Sleepy Eye, Mankato, Owatonna and Northfield. Eventually I gave up journalism when I started a family. The long and odd hours are not conducive to family life.
Today my three kids are long grown and gone, and I’ve found my way back to writing with an added focus on photography. What makes a good writer, a good newspaper reporter? Topping my list are the abilities to listen and focus on detail. I’ve always considered myself a good listener, a necessity for any newspaper reporter. I developed the skill of taking notes while actively listening. Organization also factors in. There’s always a bit of homework involved in prepping for an interview. Research the subject. Prepare questions, but be open to asking more as the interview progresses. Focus on details. Tell a story.
I worked in journalism before the days of cellphones, so I filled notebooks with pages of notes. I also studied and worked in the profession before computers and digital cameras. My first job out of college, I typed all of my stories on a manual typewriter, shot all my photos on film. I would never want to go back to either. Give me a computer and a digital camera. It’s much easier to create with those.
FOCUS ON LOCAL STORIES
I love sharing stories and photos of people, places and events that weave into my life, that I discover. I find joy in following a gravel road, in discovering interesting signage, in exploring small towns, in meeting ordinary people following their passions… People often tell me I find the most interesting things. I agree. And then I tell them it’s right here in their own backyard if only they pause to look, and see.
Therein lies the value of community journalism, which I want to highlight and honor during National Newspaper Week. Our local newspapers are all about local. Local reporters cover and write about the people, places and events that are happening locally. They write stories ranging from features to hard news. I covered all of those, too, while working as a full-time reporter. It’s not an easy job. People are quick to criticize, slow to praise. So I want to state right now that I appreciate our local news team. They work long, odd hours, just as I did, to gather and write the news. They care.
Everyone ought to care that freedom of the press thrives, that these journalists are covering our government meetings, writing about our neighbors, highlighting ordinary people who do extraordinary things and much more. We need newspapers as much today as ever before, perhaps even more.
Please, support your local newspaper by subscribing. And thank a newspaper reporter for their dedication to the profession. They deserve to be recognized, especially during National Newspaper Week.
This is a photo of an x-ray of my broken right shoulder in 2017. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2017)
IF MY MOM WAS STILL LIVING, I’d apologize. I’d apologize for dismissing her connections between weather and an aching body. I laughed off that cause-and-effect as one of those ideas passed from generation to generation. More myth than truth. But I’m not laughing any more.
As I’ve aged, I’ve noticed an interplay between changes in weather and how I feel physically. Right now my body is hurting. A lot. I attribute that partially (mostly) to the winter storm. Anytime a storm is approaching, upon us and/or the weather turns bitterly cold, I experience more pain.
I’ve read that fluctuations in barometric pressure (lower in the winter) specifically affect joint pain, stiffness and swelling. Without completely going down the rabbit hole of self-diagnosis, that generality seems to apply to me.
I should provide some backstory here. I have an artificial right hip, implanted in 2008 after I developed osteoarthritis so severe I could barely walk or tolerate the pain. Because I was youngish, I was advised to hold off on surgery as long as possible. Much of the pain I experience now centers on the right implant side of my body and in my lower back. My back is plagued by osteoarthritis and scoliosis. As Randy has noted, my body is crooked and I can visually see and feel that.
Look on the right side of my wrist to see the plate, shaped like an ice scraper. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2018)
Bear with me. I also have an implant in my left wrist, the result of a 2018 fall which shattered my wrist. Ten screws hold that wrist plate in place. When the weather changes, I notice discomfort in my wrist. Likewise in my right shoulder. I broke that in 2017 after missing the last step on a hospital stairway while on my way to donate blood.
This is a photo snapped with a cellphone of the implant in my wrist, held in place by 10 screws. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2018)
What is my point in sharing all of this? Not to garner sympathy or give the impression of woe-is-Audrey. Rather, I’m interested in learning whether you notice, like me, a connection between weather and body. I recognize this question may be more applicable to those of you who are aging Baby Boomers.
So let’s hear. Share your personal stories and your insights and perhaps we can reach an unscientific conclusion. Was my mom right? Is there a connection between weather and an aching body?
In journalism school and early in my journalism career, I typed stories on a manual typewriter similar to this. MN Prairie Roots file photo.
IN A WINDOWLESS ROOM of Armstrong Hall on the campus of Mankato State University, I pounded out a fictional obituary on a manual typewriter.
The year was 1976. And I was learning the basics of newspaper reporting. Lesson number one: Always spell a person’s name correctly. Never assume. Ask for the spelling. There is no reporting sin worse than misspelling a name. I remembered that during my first reporting job out of college when I interviewed Dayle. Not Dale.
I learned from two of the best—Robert O. Shipman and Gladys B. Olson. They were old school journalists, determined to teach Woodward and Bernstein-hyped students how to gather facts and report with truth, accuracy and integrity. They taught the basics—how to write a strong lede, how to infuse interest into feature stories, how to get the story right…
But beyond that, they cared. Deeply. They cared about the roles newspapers play in communities. To report hard news. To share human interest stories. To inform. To keep tabs on government and schools and other groups entrusted with public monies and policies. To share and express opinions on the editorial page, considered the heart of a community newspaper. To publish obituaries. And much more.
A section of a feature I wrote about Mike Max, now a sports anchor at WCCO TV. MN Prairie Roots file photo.
All these decades later, I remember those lessons learned from Shipman, Olson and others who taught mass communication classes at what is today known as Minnesota State University, Mankato. I graduated in March 1978 and shortly thereafter started working as a newspaper reporter at a small town weekly, The Gaylord Hub. My career would also take me to full-time reporting jobs in Sleepy Eye, Mankato and Owatonna, and to a short-term assignment in Northfield with freelance work also tossed in the mix.
Through the years, I’ve maintained my passion for writing and grown my passion for photography. Even while raising three children, with minimal time to write. Yet, I’ve had no desire to return to the long and odd hours of working for a newspaper at low pay with the stress and pressure of deadlines and a public that criticizes more than values the free press.
Much has changed since I typed a fictional obit in Armstrong Hall on a manual typewriter. For one, technology. Two: Newspapers charge to publish obits. I still struggle with that change. But I understand given the declines in ad revenue. Three: Attitudes. The easily flung accusation of “fake news” simply angers me as does constant criticism of responsible media. “Don’t kill the messenger,” I advise those who target the media for reporting “only bad news.”
A feature I wrote in 1979 republished in the June 4, 2020, issue of The Gaylord Hub. MN Prairie Roots file photo.
I wonder what Professors Shipman and Olson would teach students today. I expect they’d still focus on the basics. On accuracy and integrity and spelling names correctly.
While writing this post, I wanted to assure I spelled their names right, which led me to search online. It was then that I discovered some interesting facts about Olson, a petite spitfire of a woman. Shortly before she turned four, Gladys and her infant brother were orphaned as a result of the 1918-1919 flu pandemic. Their parents died within 24 hours of each other, among more than 8,000 North Dakotans who died of influenza in 1919. The siblings were raised by their paternal grandparents. I wish I’d known this when Olson taught me how to become a good, decent and fair newspaper reporter.
From the front page of the Faribault Daily News. MN Prairie Roots file photo 2020.
Today, as I read Olson’s 2016 obit, I understand her backstory, what shaped her strength and resilience and kindness. The list of her accomplishments beyond journalism professor emphasizes service to others. She lived to age 101. That she died only four years before the COVID-19 pandemic is not lost on me. I’m thankful she didn’t have to endure another pandemic. I’m also thankful that she, and Robert Shipman, taught me old school journalism style. To write with fairness, integrity and accuracy. And to value the role of newspapers in a democracy.
ELEVEN MONTHS CANNOT pass quickly enough for me. And, no, this has nothing to do with COVID-19 although I certainly wish for an end to that, too.
What I most anticipate, what I’m most excited about and looking forward to from a financial perspective in 2021 is turning 65. And getting on Medicare. Why? Because of the cost of my health insurance.
Recently, Randy brought home the new premium numbers for 2021. Since I’m self-employed, I get my coverage through his work plan. Based on media reports and based on the across-the-board decline in medical services provided this year (due to hospitals canceling elective surgeries early in the pandemic and fewer people seeking medical care, etc.), I expected our premiums would remain the same or even decline. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
We are facing another increase, of nearly $200 a month, to monthly premiums of $1,245 each. Times two, that’s $2,490 a month (up from $2,297/month) for policies with $4,250/each deductibles. That’s an 8.4 percent increase.
This is a photo of an x-ray showing the implant I have in my left wrist. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo 2018.
Let’s break that down. Randy’s employer pays half of his premium. None of mine. Therefore our portion of the premiums will be $1,868 a month,$144 more than the $1,724/month we currently pay.
This is unsustainable. And ridiculous. This is not affordable health insurance, to all you politicians out there who claim you’ve made healthcare affordable. Talk to me. I’ve remarked to Randy that soon he will need to pay his employer to work for him, just to cover our health insurance premiums. While I may be stretching that a bit, I see the numbers on his paychecks. When I do the math, I see that nearly three weeks of his base gross wage each month goes toward health insurance premiums.
I also recognize that employers, especially small businesses, feel the financial impact of such high health insurance premiums. If you are fortunate enough to work for an employer who covers your full premium and maybe even contributes to family coverage, consider yourself “lucky.” I have no doubt Randy’s employer is looking forward to his getting off the company plan in 11 months as that will save the business money.
An incorrect medical bill I received in 2018 after surgery to place a plate into my broken left wrist. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo 2018.
I’ve always been a financially responsible person, someone who spends her money wisely, who doesn’t need the newest/biggest/best. Live within your means, don’t accrue unnecessary debt. That will never change about me. Or Randy. But, still, I yearn for an updated kitchen to replace the 1970s yellowing cupboards, the brown sink with the leaky faucet, the Formica countertops, the worn vinyl flooring…, well, you get the picture. I could have had that lovely new kitchen years ago if not for the exorbitant cost of health insurance.
But, more than that, I dislike that my hardworking husband is giving up a sizable chunk of his paychecks to pay for health insurance that is basically only a catastrophic plan. Any suggestion that we simply go without insurance is not a financial risk we wish to take. Not at our age. So we wait. Eleven more months…
A clown mask for sale at a Minnesota antique shop. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo
REMEMBER THOSE MOLDED plastic masks, popular Halloween costumes back in the 1960s? OK, if you, then you are younger than me. But I loved those masks because I could transform into someone other than the skinny farm girl I was in real life.
A Halloween mask for sale at Antiques of the Midwest. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.
I still remember the year I pressed a gypsy woman mask to my face, pulled on my mom’s colorful, full skirt and a blouse, and slipped bangles onto my arms. I was not elementary-aged Audrey ready to race about town gathering Hershey candy bars, Tootsie Pop suckers and the occasional rock-hard colored homemade popcorn ball that threatened to break teeth. Rather I was this free spirit of a gypsy seeking new adventure.
An Archie mask for sale at an antique shop. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.
Yet, I wasn’t quite free. I felt trapped inside that hot Halloween mask. It was uncomfortable. It limited my vision as did my missing prescription eyeglasses. In between candy stops, I sometimes pulled the mask up, freeing my face. But I put up with all this uncomfortableness for the fun of Halloween.
Now fast forward to today. Each time I leave the house to go to a public place, I grab a cloth face mask. And hand sanitizer. It’s become as routine as grabbing my handbag, as slipping on my shoes. Like Gypsy Audrey of decades ago, I feel conflicted, though, about that face mask. I absolutely, 100 percent, support the wearing of face masks to prevent the spread of COVID-19 and am thankful for the mask mandate in Minnesota. But I don’t like wearing a mask. Just like back in my gypsy days, I find face masks hot, uncomfortable and limiting my vision whenever my glasses fog. But I put up with all the uncomfortableness because I care about protecting others from a disease that has sickened and killed people in my circle or connected to my circle.
A sign posted at the Steele County History Center in Owatonna. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo June 2020.
So, when I head into public and see people without masks (still) or wearing them incorrectly (not covering their noses), my irritation rises. I don’t buy into the “you’re taking away my personal freedom” argument. If I enter a business, I need to wear a shirt and shoes or I won’t be served. If I get in a vehicle, the law requires I belt myself in. And, in Minnesota we also have a hands-off when driving cellphone law.
“Protect the herd” plays off Northfield, Minnesota’s “Cows, Colleges and Contentment” slogan. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo 2020.
While I’m limiting my public circulation, I’m still out and about. And I’ve seen, in Faribault, way too many people who are either not wearing masks or are “half-maskers,” a new term I just heard a few days ago in a media report. The report focused on the importance of covering the nose, where the virus thrives and can be spewed by simply breathing. You don’t need to be an infectious disease doctor to grasp that basic health concept.
Wearing a face mask the right way, covering your nose and mouth. I photographed this toy monkey in the window of an historic home in Dundas, Minnesota.
About two weeks ago when I went to the local dollar store to pick up greeting cards, I encountered a customer without a mask and saw both cashiers and the customer in front of me wearing their masks below their noses. That same day, I spotted two grocery store employees at two different stores with masks below their noses. And my last visit to the dollar store, I once again saw an unmasked customer and a different cashier with her mask not covering her nose. I’d had enough. I politely asked the cashier to pull her mask over her nose and advised her that the mask was doing no good if she left her nose exposed. She reluctantly pulled the cloth face covering up and then, even before I was completely turned away, pulled it back down, her eyes glaring dislike toward me. I reached for the hand sanitizer in my pocket and squeezed a generous amount onto my palm.
I don’t get it. I just do not get it. Businesses want our business. Yet I see employees wearing masks incorrectly. People want this pandemic to end. Yet, some are half-maskers or no maskers (and that includes customers who come into my husband’s workplace) and/or believe this pandemic is all a hoax. It’s not. It’s as real as the two sympathy cards I’ve sent to friends who have lost loved ones to COVID-19.
Artwork created by Gracie for a student art show at the Paradise Center for the Arts, Faribault. Minnesota Prairie Roots edited file photo March 2018.
LIFE CAN BE TOUGH sometimes, really tough.
Five dead in a Minneapolis high-rise fire last week.
Four dead, including two young brothers and their mother, in an act of domestic violence in south Minneapolis just days ago.
Nine killed in an airplane crash in South Dakota.
The headlines and media reports can overwhelm.
Yesterday, a 16-year-old boy was taken into custody in my community after reportedly sending threatening texts to two students that he was “thinking about shooting up the school.” Faribault High School. A similar, but worse, scenario played out in violence in two eastern Wisconsin schools in recent days.
I wish the world was free of meanness, violence, hatred and tragedies. But it isn’t and never will be. Yet we have the power within our homes, our neighborhoods, our communities, our circle of family and friends, yes, within our hearts to individually treat others with kindness, compassion, empathy and respect. And that is a start.
Just a few miles south of Belview, a John Deere tractor travels along a county road.
SOUTHWESTERN MINNESOTA. It is the place of my roots. The fields. The small towns. The people. The land. The sky. Even the wind.
A real estate and farm loan office in downtown Belview.
When I return here, I return with a sense of nostalgia. With memories. With a fondness for all this wide and spacious place represents to me. Yes, I admit to looking through a rose-colored lens, too often forgetting the challenges of living in rural Minnesota.
I love the colorful art on this antique shop in Belview, Minnesota.
But I prefer to focus on the comfort that going back home brings to me. A sense of calm. A sense of peace. A sense of quiet in a sometimes too chaotic life.
The local gas station/convenience store in Belview, next to the grain elevator. An important place since there’s no grocery store in town.
Small towns have their issues. Just like anywhere. But they also have the positives of a strong sense of community, of loyalty, of grit and determination. Agriculture weaves into every aspect of these small towns. Like Belview, rooted in agriculture. You see that influence in the businesses along Main Street.
Another Belview business.
There is comfort in seeing that, despite e-commerce and regional shopping centers, rural communities manage to hold onto local businesses. I often wonder how long. And that is a question only those who live in these communities can answer.
A graphic illustrating options I considered several years ago when I thought our premiums were high. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.
The answer is NO. No, you don’t qualify for any government assistance to help pay down your health insurance premiums. There’s nothing/na-da/zero/big fat goose egg we can do for you.
I’m not surprised.
Randy met with a MNsure navigator on Monday to see if we could get a subsidy, tax credit, anything to help reduce the absurd health insurance premiums we will pay in 2020. Here’s the definition of absurd: Premiums of $1,149/month. Each. Randy’s employer pays half of his premium so our cost will be $1,723/month. That’s up $120/month from this year. Our deductibles will be $4,250. Each. That’s also up from $4,000/each this year.
I won’t apologize for my anger as I wonder who gets subsidies anyway. I won’t apologize for my anger when I wonder how insurance companies can, in all good conscience, charge this much in premiums. I won’t apologize for my anger toward politicians who constantly talk about making healthcare affordable, yet it never becomes affordable. There’s nothing affordable about our monthly premiums of $1,723.
When a sizable chunk of your income goes toward health insurance premiums for healthcare you can no longer afford because you’re paying too much in premiums and too much in deductibles, something is terribly wrong and broken. Fix it. Somebody. Please.
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