Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Cornfields into forever in the southern Minnesota countryside July 29, 2026

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Acres and acres of corn grow in fields along this county road near Delhi in southwestern Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

SEEMINGLY ENDLESS FIELDS of tasseling corn stretched before us. Row upon row upon row of corn flanking the roadways along with soybeans and the occasional sugar beets. All three crops define the southern Minnesota landscape in July. But corn is decidedly king.

A farm site along U.S. Highway 14 near Janesville. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

As Randy and I traveled from Faribault to the Kletscher family reunion in Echo in Yellow Medicine County on the last Sunday of July, we observed the crops. Most looked good. But the farther west we went, we began to notice signs of stress in the corn.

Driving along State Highway 68 by Morgan in eastern Redwood County. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

A July 21 drought monitoring report from the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources confirmed our observations with conditions listed as abnormally dry in my home county of Redwood and neighboring counties. Randy and I, even decades removed from the farm, can still accurately assess crops.

Spraying a cornfield just west of Redwood Falls. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

To the west of Redwood Falls along Minnesota State Highway 19, we watched a bright yellow crop duster swoop low over the road in front of us, barely clearing the power lines to drop chemicals onto a cornfield. It was thrilling to watch the pilot’s daring descent while simultaneously wondering what the plane was unleashing upon the land.

Earlier, outside New Ulm, I saw a woman walking beans, meaning she was walking through a soybean field eradicating weeds by hand, a memory-familiar task. I walked a lot of beans during my youth. No chemicals used, only my hands and/or a hoe.

Corn surrounds this barn along State Highway 19 west of Redwood Falls. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

From inside the cool, air conditioned van, Randy and I pressed onward, sheltered from the sweltering heat and humidity of the July day. We passed massive barns swallowed by cornfields. So much corn. Shortly before noon we reached our destination, the Echo Community Center.

This 1936 photo displayed at the reunion shows my grandparents, Henry and Ida Kletscher, with six of their children. My dad, Elvern, is smack dab in the middle, second row. Others include the oldest, Elaine, then Elvira, Mike, Harold and baby Clarence. (Photo studio unknown)

After several hours of food, conversation and sharing memories with extended family, we were on the road again heading the 130 miles back home to Faribault.

This farm site sits near Delhi. Those are sugar beets growing in the foreground. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

The temperature had only risen, grown more stifling, more oppressive. Temp rising. Corn rising. Farm sites rising like islands in an ocean of crops.

Grain bins west of New Ulm will soon hold the harvest. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

This is rural southern Minnesota, in the thick of the growing season. The promise of a bountiful harvest measured in growth, rainfall, and hail and windstorms avoided.

Transporting Allis Chalmers tractors from a tractor show. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

Just north of Sleepy Eye along State Highway 4, a semi truck hauled three Allis Chalmers tractors returning, said Randy, from the Orange Spectacular (Allis Chalmers Tractor Show) in Hutchinson. I picked up my camera, zoomed in and snapped two images, the second with the tractors appearing to drive atop a cornfield.

From this camera perspective, the tractors appear to be driving on the corn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

It was only an illusion, similar to the mirage of water slicing across the roadway on this hot summer day.

That’s not water on the road, only a mirage. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

Had we stuck around into the evening and paused beside a cornfield, we likely would have heard the corn growing. There’s scientific truth underlying that statement.

A tractor and baler wait along U.S. Highway 14 between Nicollet and Mankato. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo July 2026)

The adage of “make hay while the sun shines” also rings true. I noticed several farmers baling hay on this hot and humid July afternoon. Farming doesn’t wait for cooler weather. Just like corn continues to grow, stretching across the rural southern Minnesota landscape seemingly into forever.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Vesta, the prairie place from whence I came July 14, 2026

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Once the Vesta Municipal Liquor Store, the business is now privately-owned. This has always been my favorite building downtown because of the unique tile front. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

WHENEVER SOMEONE ASKS if I’m from Faribault, I respond, “Well, I’ve lived here for 44 years, but I’m new.” I say that half-jokingly, half-truthfully. I’ll never be “from” here. And I am “new” because I haven’t lived here my entire life, like many have. And I’m not related to half the town (semi-exaggerating), like many are.

The City of Vesta maintenance building. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Then I attempt to explain from whence I came. I start with Mankato, the nearest large city to the west, then work my way westward to New Ulm and Redwood Falls, eventually landing on my hometown of Vesta in northwestern Redwood County. Most have never heard of this southwestern Minnesota small town, but a few have.

The old St. John’s Lutheran Church, where I was baptized and confirmed before a new church was built and the building sold and converted into apartments. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
Looking north on Vesta’s main street, once filled with buildings and businesses. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
A building seemingly no longer in use, left, the now painted brick bank with a drive-up, right, and a complex of grain bins in the background. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Recently I returned to this farming community of some 300 for an aunt’s funeral. After the church service, burial service and a luncheon at St. John’s Lutheran Church, and before the 120-mile return trip to Faribault, I stopped downtown. By downtown, I mean a single block, today defined primarily by vacant lots and abandoned buildings.

A former gas station and garage at the north end of Vesta’s main street. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Vesta, like so many small towns, once had a thriving core business community. That declined as society became more mobile, as young people graduated and left the area, as shopping habits changed. I could see that already when I left my hometown in 1974. My mom shopped for groceries once a month or so in neighboring Redwood Falls. That city and Marshall, 20 miles to the west, centered regional shopping then.

Looking south along Vesta’s main street, only a few businesses remain. The Vesta Cafe sits on the right. And in the distance, the liquor store and bank are at the end of the block. Parking is diagonal on the sides and parallel in the middle. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
A Grain Belt beer sign hangs from the liquor store, which once also had a vintage Schells sign. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
This is a farming community as seen in these grain bins and the enclosed space where corn is often heaped after fall harvest. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Back to Vesta today. The former municipal liquor store, now privately-owned, and the bank anchor the south corners of the downtown block, with the post office and grain elevator complex just across the street. Long gone is the towering grain elevator where farmers, including my dad, once delivered corn and soybeans. Clusters of grain bins now hold harvested crops.

The old Kletscher family farmhouse, left, with the “new house” in the background. I grew up in these two houses. (Minnesota Prairie Roots Kletscher family photo)

Also long gone is the feed mill and the lumberyard across the street. I remember going to the dusty feed mill with my dad. And I remember my mom gathering booklets of house floor plans from the lumberyard. After years of hoping and planning, my parents built a new house on our farm just south of town in 1967 to accommodate their growing family. We were all happy to move from our aged, cramped farmhouse into a spacious home with more bedrooms and a bathroom.

The city ice skating pond is apparently downtown now on this vacant lot as noted by the sign. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Downtown Vesta today bears little resemblance to the teeming town of my youth—the place where I was baptized, married, attended elementary school (long closed), ice skated in the shadow of the grain elevator, visited my grandparents… The place where I bought caps for my cap gun at Joe Engel’s Hardware Store, Bazooka bubblegum at Rasmussen’s grocery, a set of amber drinking glasses at Marquardt’s Hardware for my mom on Mother’s Day. The place where Dad occasionally treated me to a candy bar at Wiegers’ or the muni or to a bottle of pop at my Uncle Harold’s service station.

Grain bins dwarf the former Vesta Community Center, which centered community life. There we gathered for Memorial Day and Santa Day. There I celebrated my 1982 wedding with a reception and dance. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

This is the place where I sold poppies on Poppy Day and read “In Flanders Fields” during the annual Memorial Day program. The place where I boarded a Greyhound bus as a kid and rode alone all the way to Minneapolis to visit an aunt and uncle. The memories go on and on.

This building may have been Don’s Cafe at one time, but I’m not sure. It’s changed too much for me to know that for certain. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

I knew I would eventually leave Vesta for good with no opportunities to keep me in my hometown. But that doesn’t diminish how much I still appreciate this prairie place which shaped me. I need to revisit Vesta occasionally to remind me of its importance in my life. I will be forever connected to this small town and its people.

The Vesta Cafe, built by the community. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
This bread truck had just left the cafe and was driving by the post office when I photographed it. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
The Vesta Post Office on the south end of the main street replaced an older one. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Toward the north end of the downtown block stands the Vesta Cafe, new since I left, although Don’s Cafe was open when I was a kid. Locals gather here for morning coffee and cards, catching up on the latest. And when the town whistle blows at noon, as I heard it recently while standing at my aunt’s graveside, customers arrive at the cafe for dinner. And, yes, the noon meal is “dinner,” the evening meal, “supper,” in this rural area. Menu items and specials like hamburger corn hotdish, liver and onions, and a beef commercial draw diners. My Dad, on the rare occasion he dined out, would always order a beef commercial—roast beef piled onto white bread, topped with gravy, then a scoop of mashed potatoes smothered with more gravy. That’s the ultimate in old school rural dining.

Vesta is decidedly rural as shown in this truck parked along the main street. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
The liquor store and a former leather works business. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)
A snippet of the land my father farmed, my middle brother after him. The farm has since been sold. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Rural rooted and grew me. From the once-flourishing community of Vesta to the crop and dairy farm across the Redwood River a mile south of town on the county road to Lucan, this prairie place shaped me as a person, a writer and a photographer. I am still “from” here, even though gone for more than 50 years now.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

An unexpected prairie place: “Little Yellowstone of Minnesota” June 4, 2026

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Ramsey Falls in Redwood Falls. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

WATER RUSHES OVER the aged granite rock, roaring into the gorge below. It is a scene so beautiful, so unexpected, that this 256-acre city park has been dubbed the “Little Yellowstone of Minnesota.”

Park signage along the river in the zoo area. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Recently I revisited Ramsey Park, also known as Cansa’yapi, translated to “where they paint the trees red” from the Dakota language. A Mdewakanton Band of the Dakota live near neighboring Morton and refer to their traditional Minnesota River Valley homeland as Cansa’yapi.

On this day, I come to see Ramsey Falls along Ramsey Creek, which feeds into the Redwood River inside the park. The Redwood then flows into the Minnesota River.

If the creek level is high, water spills over two areas of the rock. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Ramsey Falls, with its 30-foot drop, is the star attraction in this park founded in 1911 as a state park with ownership transferred to the city of Redwood Falls in 1957. This is a gem in a county marked by farm fields, farm sites, small towns and mostly flat topography.

A side view of the swayback bridge from a previous park visit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Here, within this park, narrow roads twist and turn through woods, descending to the river bottom. Creek and river waters flow. Three and a half miles of cemented hiking trails (new since I left the area 50 years ago), run throughout the park. A swayback bridge built in 1938 by workers with the Works Progress Administration Project along the Redwood River adds an historic architectural element to the park.

Zooming in on a buffalo through a fence. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

For anyone who loves the outdoors—fishing, hiking, camping, picnicking—this park offers it all. The park is also of interest to geologists and history buffs. A small zoo with its resident buffalo and other animals has always been an attraction, too.

The Redwood River photographed from the swayback bridge. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

But it is really the land and the water that brings visitors like me here. Hills and gorges. Waterways. Trees thickening into dense woods, vastly different than the shelterbelts protecting farm sites from prairie winds.

Crossing the WPA swayback bridge over the Redwood River. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

I remember coming here as a child and feeling like I’d entered a different world. Yet, I was still in Redwood County, only 20 miles from the flat farm fields of home to the west. I recall the terror I felt when Dad maneuvered the Chevy around a tight hairpin curve in the park, the steep hillside falling below us. I remember standing in awe of Ramsey Falls, and being more than a little afraid of stepping too close to the fence at the falls overlook. I remember the car dipping across the swayback bridge.

Teenage years took me along a steep, narrow dirt path down to the massive rocks beside the falls for a picnic lunch with friends.

A bird sings in a riverside tree. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

On this afternoon, I lean into the sturdy overlook fence, focus my camera on the rushing waterfalls, notice the surrounding greenery, appreciate this Little Yellowstone of Minnesota. I’ve never been to the Wyoming national park, thus have no comparison to make. That really doesn’t matter; this place holds its own Yellowstone beauty.

The small zoo is home to several playful goats, other animals and birds. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

At the Ramsey Park Zoo, I focus on the buffalo, who seem considerably more docile than I remember. Still, I respect them and understand their importance to the Dakota, original inhabitants of this land. Long gone are the caged monkeys that once entertained me with their antics.

Close up with a buffalo in the Ramsey Park Zoo. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2026)

Ramsey/Cansa’yapi Park lies 110 miles to the north and west of my current home in Faribault. Decades removed from Redwood County, I still feel connected to this oasis in the prairie where the water falls and they paint the trees red.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Honoring mothers, including mine, on Mother’s Day May 7, 2026

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A photo of me with my mom taken several years before her death in 2022. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo by Randy Helbling)

AS MY FIFTH MOTHER’S DAY without my mom approaches, I’m thinking of her, missing her, remembering her.

She lived a long life, living until nearly ninety, something none of us expected given her heart issues. Several times we were called to her hospital bedside to say goodbye. I remember one instance when Mom was not expected to make it through the night. The next morning she woke up much-improved and told us, “I guess God wasn’t ready for this stubborn old lady.”

I’ll never forget that. But I would argue that Mom was not stubborn. She was kind, caring, compassionate, loving and patient. With six children, she had to be patient. I raised three children and understand the patience required of mothers.

We all hold memories of our moms—positive, negative and otherwise. Moms, like all of us, are imperfect. But they try. They do their best.

Mom’s journals. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

And sometimes they leave us a gift that offers glimpses into their lives. My mom left a stack of notebooks journaling her life from 1947-2014 with a few years missing. These are not diaries with personal feelings and thoughts expressed, but rather a documentation of daily life.

I treasure these notebooks filled with her handwritten observations and notes about life in rural southwestern Minnesota. Hard work filled her days. I pulled out her stenographer’s notebook dated 70 years ago to learn what she was doing in the 10 days before my birth.

Even into her senior years, Mom was still working, supervising a family horseradish-making event and then counting jars of the condiment. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2012)

There was the usual washing clothes in the Maytag wringer washer, mending, housecleaning, baking and preparing meals. But Mom also picked grapes with my dad, made grape juice the next day and the following day made 32 jars of grape jelly and 18½ quarts of tomato juice. And she was only days away from delivering me.

The day before I was born, Mom dusted floors, baked bread and cherry nut cake, took 13 dozen eggs into town and then celebrated her wedding anniversary with her in-laws. I’m tired simply reading that list of work she accomplished while nine months pregnant.

At 3 a.m. the next morning, Mom awoke in labor and arrived at the Redwood Falls hospital at 4:20 a.m., giving birth to 8 lb 12 oz. me 36 minutes later. That’s cutting it close, in my opinion. But when you go into labor in the early morning, need to get your one-year-old son to his grandparents’ house, and then travel 20 miles to the hospital, well, the time lapse seems reasonable.

The only photo I have of my parents, Elvern and Arlene, with me as a baby. My dad is holding my oldest brother, Doug. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo)

Six days after my birth, Mom returned home. I should note here that on her fifth day in the hospital, Mom wrote, “Days are plenty long.” I suppose for a woman used to being busy all the time, lying around proved difficult. But she should have enjoyed the respite from work while she could.

Shortly, Mom was back in full work mode, not only caring for a newborn and a one-year-old and doing other routine household chores, but also feeding a crew of men picking corn on the farm for several days running.

Oh, how I admire this generation of Minnesota farm women who fed and cared for their families and others without the modern conveniences of today. No automatic washer, dryer, dishwasher, microwave. No bathroom or phone in our old farmhouse. Food came mostly from the farm, not the grocery store. And that meant gardening and putting up produce.

A sample entry from Mom’s journals. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I’m thankful my mom found time to journal daily. Even if her entries were only several lines long, she apparently thought this documentation important. And I suppose in farming it was, allowing her and my dad to look back on the previous year’s weather, planting and harvesting progress, and such. But I think, too, writing in those spiral bound notebooks gave her a creative outlet and time for herself.

My mom saved everything, including this Mother’s Day card I made for her in elementary school. I cut a flower from a seed catalog to create the front of this card. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted image)

Mother’s Day offers a time to reflect on motherhood. Most give selflessly, love unconditionally, do the best they can. Mine did. And she left, too, her words chronicling everyday life as a mother and as a farm wife. As a writer I cherish this gift, not only on Mother’s Day, but always.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

About that chocolate bunny & other Easter stories April 1, 2026

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An inflatable Easter bunny photographed in Courtland (west of Mankato) many Easters ago. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

LAST EASTER I FAILED as a mom. I failed to mail a chocolate bunny to my adult son who lives in Boston. It wasn’t that I forgot, but rather that I didn’t want to spend the money for a chunk of chocolate which seemed overpriced at the time. I also really didn’t think my son cared all that much about getting a bunny from me. He did.

So this year, more than a week before Easter, I picked up a 3-ounce solid chocolate bunny for $2.97 and mailed it for $8.10. Not exactly fiscally smart. But sometimes you can’t put a price on tradition, love and expectations of a loved one.

A stained glass window inside Holden Lutheran Church, rural Kenyon, depicts the crucifixion of Jesus. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

That got me thinking about Easter traditions, both secular and faith-based. Easter, for me, has always been a mix of each with the primary focus on celebrating Christ’s resurrection.

Eggs dyed with my mom several years before her death. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

As a child, I dyed eggs with my five siblings and parents, something I continued with my three children. As a child, I set my repurposed yellow plastic cottage cheese container, filled with plastic grass, on the kitchen table. The next morning my siblings and I awakened way too early to search for our Easter “baskets” hidden somewhere inside our farmhouse.

I’m sure Mom would have preferred we slept in. But you can’t curtail a child’s excitement over getting candy, a rare treat back in the day. The goal was always to find our baskets before heading to worship services at St. John’s Lutheran Church in Vesta.

If we could get away with it, we inked our arms with temporary tattoos from the Easter egg dyeing kit. Mom preferred we wait until after church to stamp our skin. But we kids didn’t always listen.

We did, however, listen when Mom told us to get ready for church, the boys in their suits or other dress clothes and us girls in our Easter dresses and bonnets. Or as my sister still reminds me, in the ugly yellow daisy dress handed down from me to her.

My vintage 1960s purse, which I still have. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I still remember with great fondness the ensemble—a lime green skirt and jacket with a sleeveless floral top—stitched by my godmother one Easter. I carried a lime green purse, completing the fashionable look. Oh, how I wish I still had that 1960s outfit. Perhaps my granddaughter could wear it. Or maybe not. She might just tell me, “To be honest with you, Grandma…,” as she did recently about a frozen cheese pizza she didn’t like.

My favorite Easter hymn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Once my siblings and I arrived at St. John’s in our Easter finery, we scampered up the steep steps to the balcony. There we joyously sang “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” with other Sunday School students. That remains my favorite Easter hymn.

While decades have passed since those childhood Easters back on the southwestern Minnesota prairie, the lessons I learned and the faith that grew inside me remain strong.

The risen Lord centers a trio of stained glass windows above the altar inside Trinity Lutheran Church, Wanamingo. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Now, as the aging matriarch of the family, I find our Easter celebration evolving. My eldest daughter and her husband often host Easter dinner. And if I don’t worship at my own church, Trinity Lutheran, I join her family for worship in their Lakeville church, ironically named St. John’s.

Halfway across the country, my son will likely be alone on Easter. But he will at least have the chocolate bunny I mailed to him from Minnesota, without fail this year.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

In praise of monarchs, milkweeds & fireflies July 16, 2025

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A monarch butterfly feeds on a milkweed flower. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

ON A RECENT AFTERNOON, I looked up from washing dishes and out the kitchen window to see a solitary monarch butterfly flitting among milkweeds. Something as common as a butterfly remains, for me, one of summer’s simplest delights. Along with milkweeds and fireflies.

A monarch caterpillar on milkweed. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

This year I have a bumper crop of milkweed plants growing in and along flowerbeds and retaining walls. I stopped counting at 24 plants. I have no idea why the surge in milkweeds. But I am happy about their abundance given monarchs need milkweed. It is the only plant upon which the monarch lays eggs and the sole source of food for monarch caterpillars.

A crop of milkweeds in a public garden. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

My farmer dad, if he was still alive, would likely offer a different opinion about milkweeds. As children, my siblings and I walked rows of soybean fields eradicating milkweeds, thistles and the notorious cocklebur. This was called “walking beans,” a job that we hated, but was necessary to keep fields mostly weed-free without the use of chemicals.

I never considered then that I might some day appreciate milkweeds, the “weed” I pulled from the rich dark soil of southwestern Minnesota. On many a hot and humid afternoon, sweat rolled off my forehead and dirt filtered through the holes of my canvas tennis shoes while hoeing and yanking unwanted plants from Dad’s soybean fields and on my cousin John’s farm.

Today I instruct my husband not to pull or mow any milkweed plants in our Faribault yard. Randy understands their value, even if he didn’t walk beans on his childhood farm. He more than made up for that lack of field work by picking way more rocks than I ever did. Morrison County in central Minnesota sprouts a bumper crop of rocks compared to my native Redwood County, where I also picked rocks.

A milkweed about to open. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

But back to milkweeds. I love the scent of the dusty rose-colored common milkweed. So if you drive by my Faribault home or walk through River Bend Nature Center or Central Park or past Buckham Memorial Library and see me dipping my nose into a cluster of milkweed flowers, that’s why.

As summer progresses, I’m curious to see how many monarchs soar among the milkweeds in the tangled messes of plants that define my untamed flowerbeds. Thankfully our next door neighbor appreciates milkweeds also and is OK if the wind carries seeds onto his property.

Fireflies glow in the garden art honoring my nephew Justin. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I’ve already seen fireflies aplenty in our backyard, which abuts a wooded hillside. And recently, while driving home in the early dark of a summer evening, Randy and I saw hundreds of fireflies lighting up grassy road ditches. It was truly magical, reminding me of childhood sightings and of Eric Carle’s children’s picture book, The Very Lonely Firefly. I had a copy for my kids, battery included to light up firefly illustrations. And, until it stopped working, I had a solar-powered firefly garden sculpture honoring my nephew Justin, who loved light and fireflies and died at age 19 in 2001 of Hodgkins disease.

Often what we love is about much more than simply whatever we love. I see, in writing this story, that my love of milkweeds, monarchs and fireflies connects to memories. Summer memories. Farm memories. Family memories. These are the stories we carry within us, that help define who we are, whether we consider a milkweed to be a weed, or a flower.

TELL ME: What simple summer things delight you and why?

© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A tribute to internationally-known Minnesota wildlife photographer Jim Brandenburg April 8, 2025

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A bison photo by Jim Brandenburg hangs to the left and the photographer talks about his work in a video, right, inside the Brandenburg Gallery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)

IN MY EYES, he was Minnesota’s best-known photographer. Exceptionally talented. No one even comes close to matching the wildlife and nature photography of Jim Brandenburg. He died April 4 at the age of 79. Not only has Minnesota lost a creative icon, but so has the world. Brandenburg’s prolific work was featured in National Geographic Magazine, earning him the publication’s coveted Lifetime Achievement Award in 2023. His award-winning photos were widely-published internationally. He also published numerous books featuring collections of his photos.

The entry to the Brandenburg Gallery, located in the Rock County Courthouse square. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)

But there is perhaps one lesser-known place where Brandenburg’s images can be found. And that’s in the Brandenburg Gallery inside the historic Rock County Courthouse in his hometown of Luverne. That’s in the extreme southwestern corner of Minnesota. The prairie. My prairie.

Light plays upon walls, floors and Brandenburg photos in a stairway display. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)

Eleven years ago I toured that gallery, studying and enjoying a sampling of Brandenburg’s images. Many in this collection are prairie-themed. Because I’m a photographer, I viewed his photos with a more focused perspective, noticing angles, light, background and all the components which come together in creating an outstanding image.

Some of Brandenburg’s photo books. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)

Every photographer understands that light is the very basic element to consider in shooting photos. Brandenburg challenged himself to take a single picture per day between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. The result is his collection of photos, Chased by the Light: A 90-Day Journey, a favorite of mine among his books.

Beautiful natural scenery on the prairie near Blue Mounds State Park. The part of the prairie where I grew up is not rocky like this and is a bit further north. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)

When I traveled to Luverne in 2013 to visit the Brandenburg Gallery and other attractions, including Blue Mounds State Park, I was returning to the wide open land and big skies of the prairie, the place that shaped me as a person, photographer and writer. The same can be said for Brandenburg. He loved the prairie and, in fact, established the Brandenburg Prairie Foundation aimed at southwest Minnesota native prairie education, preservation and expansion. His organization partnered with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to purchase nearly 1,000 acres of untilled Rock County prairie, creating Touch the Sky Northern Tallgrass Prairie National Wildlife Refuge.

Those environmental efforts are revealing. Brandenburg cared deeply about the land, especially the prairie. After college, he returned to the prairie and worked as a picture editor at The Worthington Daily Globe. While there, he freelanced for National Geographic Magazine. And so his career developed until he became that homegrown photographer whose work so many worldwide grew to appreciate and love.

Wolf photos displayed in the Brandenberg Gallery. Brandenburg’s published books include Brother Wolf–A Forgotten Promise. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)

I admire photographers who excel in the craft. And Brandenburg certainly excels in wildlife photography, a specialized field that requires much more than understanding photo basics. Photographing wildlife requires incredible patience and knowledge of animals. I have neither. But when you look at a Brandenburg photo, it’s like you are right there up close with the subject. Perhaps a wolf—one of his favorite subjects. Or bison. You can see the deep respect Brandenburg holds for these creatures of the wild.

A familiar scene to me, autumn leaves photographed in the Big Woods of Minnesota, within 20 miles of my home and showcased in the Brandenburg Gallery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2013)

And then there’s landscape photography which, when done well, draws you into a scene and evokes an emotional response. Again, Brandenburg has this seemingly effortless ability to capture the essence of a place and connect it to his audience.

Minnesota has lost an incredibly gifted photographer. But Brandenburg’s legacy lives on in his work, a gift to all of us. And one place to find that is in the Brandenburg Gallery in Luverne. On my beloved prairie. On Brandenburg’s beloved prairie.

FYI: The Brandenburg Gallery, 213 E. Luverne St., is owned and operated by the Luverne Area Chamber of Commerce. It’s open from 8 a.m.-5 p.m. Monday-Friday and from 10 a.m.-5 p.m. Saturday. Admission is free. All photos featured in this post were taken with permission of the Brandenburg Gallery in 2013.

© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Connecting past to present via my “Charlie Brown” Christmas tree December 16, 2024

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Me, in the red jumper, with my siblings Doug (back) and front, left to right, Monica, Brian and Lanae on Christmas Eve 1964 in our childhood home. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

NOSTALGIA SHAPES my Christmas tree choice, as I expect it may yours. I want a tree that is short-needled, imperfect, leaning toward Charlie Brownish. That type of unshaped tree is the tree of my childhood Christmases on a southwestern Minnesota dairy and crop farm.

UPDATE: Ken’s Christmas Trees, 1407 Fourth St. NW., Faribault, has closed for the season. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2024)

In the old 1 ½-story wood-frame farmhouse where I lived the first 11 years of my life with my parents and four of my five siblings (Brad wasn’t yet born, the new house not yet built), our Christmas tree sat on the end of the Formica kitchen table. The house was too small to put the tree elsewhere. An oil-burning stove occupied much of the tiny living room, which would be the usual spot to place a tree.

A touch of red at Ken’s Christmas Trees, which also sells wreaths and evergreen garland. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2024)

I loved that the tree sat on the table, which was draped with a red-and-white checked oilcloth tablecloth matching the red-and-white checkered linoleum tile floors. Kitchen walls were painted yellow on top with some type of red-bordered gray wall covering below. A maroon Naugahyde rocker sat in front of the trap door leading to the dirt-floored cellar.

An overview of Ken’s Christmas Trees, located in a lot next to Jersey Mike’s. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2024)

In that setting, Dad placed our grocery store Christmas tree. On the kitchen table, on the end next to the window facing west. Imagine gathering there in the dark of December, Dad in from doing chores, Mom dishing up meat, boiled potatoes, gravy and a side vegetable to pass around. Homemade bread piled on a plate. Milk from our cows poured into cups. Meals during the holiday season held a bit of magic because of that tiny Christmas tree.

Tinsel sparkled in the glow of holiday lights. To this day, I drape tinsel on my tree even if it’s a bit of a hassle. I love the old-fashioned look, the memories connected to tinsel.

This paper Baby Jesus goes on my Christmas tree every year. It’s from the 1960s, from my Sunday School Christmas lesson. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I remember favorite ornaments, too. The wax lamb, which Mom cautioned not to hang too close to the heat of a bulb. The glittery gray dove. The mini white church with a red window, hung near a red bulb so the window glowed. The colorful vintage round ornaments that we handled with care lest they break, and some did. I have a few of those. And then the paper baby Jesus, nestled in a manger, and an angel robed in white. I have both, cut from Sunday School lessons and looped with yarn to hang from evergreen boughs.

My husband, Randy, accompanied by Ken’s son, carries our $37 tree to the van. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2024)

When I shop for my Christmas tree each December, usually at Ken’s Christmas Trees in Faribault, these visuals guide me. I am, I suppose, attempting to recapture those Christmases of yesteryear. A time when, unencumbered by the responsibilities of adulthood, I experienced the absolute joy of the season. There were no worries—only that of remembering my line for the Sunday School Christmas service.

This cut-out of Ken Mueller stood at the tree lot in 2023. Mueller faced a major health crisis this past year, but has since recovered. His kids are now running the tree lot. It’s all about family with the Muellers, too. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo December 2023)

Today I experience Christmas through my grandchildren, Isabelle, 8, and Isaac, almost six. Next Christmas another little one—my second daughter is due to deliver a boy in January—will add to the magic of the season. Kids have a way of infusing anticipation and unbridled joy into Christmas.

Shoppers search for the “perfect” tree, for them, at Ken’s lot. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo December 2024)

When my core family (minus the pregnant daughter and her husband, who live 260 miles away) gather around my Charlie Brownish tree in the living room (not the kitchen) on Christmas Eve, I hope they feel the magic. The magic and joy that come in being together, especially with the son in Minnesota from Boston. Celebrating the birth of Christ. Celebrating family. Understanding that, no matter what tree decorates a home, it is the homecomings, the conversation and laughter that matter most. The love we feel for one another centers our family celebrations.

Our 2023 Christmas tree purchased at Ken’s tree lot and placed in a corner of our living room. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo December 2023)

The tree is simply a decoration, a memory, a focal point. In the living room. Not atop the kitchen table.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Reminiscing about, & with, Rabbits at 50th class reunion September 11, 2024

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First up upon arriving in Wabasso for my 50th class reunion, a photo with the roadside white rabbit sculpture. (Photo credit: Randy Helbling)

WE MAY NEVER PASS this way again. Ah, but we have. On a recent Saturday, I gathered with some 30 of my Wabasso High School classmates to celebrate our 50th class reunion. In Wabasso, a small farming community 45 miles west of New Ulm on the southwestern Minnesota prairie.

The front entrance to Wabasso Public Schools. The overhang with pillars was added after my days there. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
The cover of my WHS yearbook. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
Signage at the front of the school blends the old and the new. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)

I’ve attended many reunions through the decades since 89 of us graduated in May of 1974. I’ve enjoyed every gathering, especially those in latter years when no one cared any more about who was a jock or an academic achiever or a wild one or any label we may have carried through our high school days. Today we are simply individuals who share a history of attending school together. Learning. Having fun. Making memories.

The 1973 – 1974 Wabasso High School FFA chapter consisted of mostly male students. I am among the few females featured in this photo. I’m seated in the second row, third girl on the right. (Photo credit: WHS yearbook)

Coming of age in the 1970s during the Vietnam War, we were a bit of a rebellious bunch testing our teachers’ patience. I was among those who wore a prisoner of war bracelet, embraced the peace symbol, wrote anti-war poetry. Mostly, though, I was quiet, studious, a rule follower. But I did blaze the way for young women at my high school by becoming the first girl to join the WHS Future Farmers of America Chapter. Decades later, a niece would become the state FFA president.

We were given a lengthy tour of the school. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)

No one cared about any of that when we got together 50 years later, first touring the halls of our former school. Home of the Rabbits. Yes, Rabbits. Wabasso, meaning “white rabbit,” comes from the Dakota language. I’m proud of our school mascot, which is unique and connects to the history of the region. It honors the town name and the Dakota people who were the original inhabitants of this land and still live in the nearby Upper and Lower Sioux Indian communities.

This Rabbit mosaic once hung on the side of the front office counter. It now hangs in a school hallway. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
The original Rabbit mascot on a gym wall. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
Rabbit pride showcased in the gym. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)

As the superintendent of schools led us through the school, I found myself drawn to the many artistic renditions of Thumper, our rabbit mascot. I don’t care for the updated, fierce version that now graces a wall in the new gymnasium. It’s not that I oppose change. I just don’t like the mean look on the rabbit’s face, his appearance of being on steroids. No thank you. I much prefer the old rabbit, the one that appears gentle and friendly. Thankfully, plenty of the original Thumpers remain in a school building I barely recognize.

Oversized photos, including this one of the 1973 homecoming court, are displayed in a hallway of images. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)

Building additions, removal of the storied stack, shuffling and changing of classrooms altered the school significantly. The home economics room is now the art room. The shop a classroom. The cafeteria is new, spacious, bright and beautiful. And the new library, although much brighter and modern in appearance, holds far fewer books than the library of my high school years, something several of us noticed and mentioned to the superintendent.

The Roadhouse Bar & Grill sits on a corner along Wabasso’s main street. It’s an especially popular summertime spot with weekly roll-ins. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
The reunion committee set up this mannequin wearing a Class of 1974 graduation gown. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)
This shows just a part of Meadowland Farmers Cooperative, which anchors the business community. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)

What I did notice, too, was a closeness I felt among classmates as we walked hallways and classrooms and even the old locker rooms. That feeling remained after the tour, down at the Roadhouse Bar & Grill. There we perused photos and memorabilia. Hugged. Laughed. Mourned the loss of 15 classmates. Built burgers at the burger bar. Gathered outside for a group photo. Clustered around patio tables for conversation as the sun set, brushing the sky in a subtle pink hue. All the while the ventilation fans from the grain bins across the street roared in a steady din.

Wabasso’s school song, printed on a gym wall. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2024)

“We May Never Pass This Way Again.” That titled the Seals & Croft tune we chose as our class song. It was our second choice. The administration nixed “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road.” There was no mention of skunks—at least that I heard—at our 50th reunion. But Rabbits, oh, yes, Rabbits. We are forever and always Rabbit proud.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Peaches, beyond simply a fruit to eat August 15, 2024

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Peaches fill a box and now my fridge. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)

PEACHES PACK my refrigerator. Several ripen in a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter. Big, beautiful Colorado peaches.

Signs directed people into the peach pick up spot in the basement. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)

Earlier this week, Randy and I picked up a 20-pound case of peaches in the basement of First English Lutheran Church. That’s a lot of peaches—around 40—for two people to eat. But I love peaches. And we’ll share some with our eldest daughter and her family.

People wait in line for their peaches at First English Lutheran Church. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)

A steady stream of people flowed into the cold church basement late Tuesday afternoon for their pre-ordered peaches, sold as a fundraiser by the youth group. We paid $37 for our full box. That’s $1.85/pound. I have no idea if that’s a “good” price. It doesn’t matter. I prefer peaches shipped directly from the grower. I also like supporting local church youth, because I was once that mom of kids raising monies for mission trips and youth gatherings.

Peaches no longer come in wooden crates, but in cardboard boxes. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)

Peaches, though, mean more to me than simply supporting a good cause and eating one of my favorite fruits. Peaches take me back to summer on the farm, into the kitchen. There my mom pried open a wooden crate of peaches wrapped in pinkish tissue paper (saved for later use in the outhouse). Then she dropped the peaches into a large kettle of boiling water to remove the skins. Next, she halved or sliced the peaches into Mason and Ball quart jars. Topped with lids and ringed, the jars went into the pressure cooker. Once removed, the jars cooled and sealed. Then we carried the jars to the cellar.

Beautiful (and delicious) Colorado peaches sold at First English. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)

I admire farm women like my mom who labored to preserve fruits and vegetables to feed their families during the winter months ahead. And winters on the prairie were long and harsh. Many a cold, snowy evening, Mom would pull open the kitchen floor trap door and send me down the open wooden steps into the depths of the dank, dark, dirt-floored cellar lit by a single light bulb. There I selected a quart jar from the wooden shelves. Whatever fruit Mom wanted. Pears, cherries, plums, apples, peaches. The preserved fruit would complete our meal of meat, boiled potatoes with gravy, a side vegetable (pulled from the freezer) and homemade bread.

We ate well. Good food without preservatives. Beef from our cattle. Vegetables from our garden. Apples from local trees. And then all those fruits, purchased in crates and preserved. No additives. Just simple, good food.

Fruit-themed banners add a festive flair to peach pick up. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)

I always thought I would follow my mom’s example of planting a big garden and preserving food. But I never did. I live on a mostly shady lot in town. I raised only three children, not six like her. I have easy access to multiple grocery stores, unlike her. Fresh fruit is readily available. I prefer fresh. And, if I’m really honest with myself, I never wanted to labor in the kitchen for hours during the hot summer putting up fruits and vegetables.

Carts were ready for volunteers to wheel peach cases to vehicles. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2024)

Still, I buy that case of peaches from First English. All those peaches, minus the tissue paper wrappings reused in the outhouse. In many ways, I am honoring my mom, hardworking farm woman of the Minnesota prairie. As I pull ripened peaches from a brown paper bag to slice into my morning oatmeal, to eat with a meal or to incorporate into a crisp, pie or galette, I think of Mom. She, who showed her love for family not in words or hugs, but rather in rows and rows of quart jars filled with fruit. Jars shelved on planks in the dank, dark depths of the dirt-floored cellar.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling