Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

And he thought Minnesota was snowy February 11, 2015

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REPEATEDLY, I’VE REQUESTED snow images from my son who attends Tufts University in Medford, MA. That’s about five miles from Boston.

He repeatedly has failed to send me photos. So I rely on numerous online sources to show me scenes of all that snow piling up in this major East Coast metro area.

I converted this image to black-and-white and upped the brightness. This was shot on the Minnesota Highway 19 curve just north of Vesta, my southwestern Minnesota hometown.

A winter storm in southwestern Minnesota reduced visibility along State Highway 19 north of Vesta in March 2012. Photo used here for illustration purposes only since I don’t have any images from Boston and always like to include art in my blog posts. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.

Even by Minnesota standards, six feet (72.6 inches to be exact) of snow in 30 days in Boston is staggering. That broke a 30-day record of 58.8 inches set in 1978.

Can you imagine the narrowed streets, mountains of snow to see around and move, the shutting down of mass transit? On Monday in Medford, a grocery store employee was struck by a snow removal truck while crossing the store parking lot after work. He later died. The Governor of Massachusetts has declared a State of Emergency. More snow is predicted on Thursday.

The son told me on Monday, his fourth day off from classes in two weeks due to winter storms, that he’d rather be in class. (Or maybe his native Minnesota.) Classes were canceled again on Tuesday, bringing the snow day total to five. I’m wondering whether colleges make up missed days considering the tuition paid.

Since my son isn’t the communicative-informing-mom type, I’ve relied on Tufts social media. Moms like me who are more than 1,000 miles away need reassurance. Tuesday morning I got a mass email from Tufts updating me on the situation there. I appreciated that.

Despite the overwhelming amount of snow, my son has managed to make the 20-minute walk from his apartment to campus and back numerous times during these winter storms. He’s rather regretting, I think, his decision to live off campus this year.

But, he’s young and he’s a native Minnesotan. He built a snow fort on campus last weekend. He’ll survive.

DO YOU HAVE FAMILY or friends in Massachusetts? If so, what are you hearing from them?

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Happy birthdays February 9, 2015

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Amber and Caleb.

Amber and Caleb. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo, July 2014.

BACK-TO-BACK BIRTHDAYS. Eldest and youngest with middle in between. What are the odds that two of my three children would be born one day after the other with eight years in between? I did have some choice in the son’s birth date as his was a scheduled C-section. Still…

Today my only son celebrates his birthday. In Medford, about five miles from Boston. He’s enjoying his fourth snow day (no classes again at Tufts University) in the past two weeks as Winter Storm Marcus drops a foot or more of snow. That’s on top of the 48.7 inches which fell in Boston in a recent 14-day stretch.

Tomorrow my eldest daughter celebrates her birthday. In Minnesota, where we don’t have nearly as much snow.

One thousand plus miles distant and an hour away. I won’t celebrate with either. I can’t recall the last time I was with any of my three on their birthdays. Cards have been mailed and phone calls will be made. Perhaps not answered, but attempted.

They’re grown. Gone. But always in my heart. Always.

To have a son or a daughter, or both as I do, is to love like I’ve never loved. Love deeper than the ocean, farther than the moon, wider than the distance that separates. Time and miles never diminish that love.

Sometimes I long for those days when the kids were still home, gathered around the dining room table, posing with cake (or dessert of choice), candles blazing, smiling for the camera. Gifts ripped open, often before cards. All of us settled after a rare meal out at the birthday celebrant’s restaurant of choice.

Those birthdays are memories away now. But love isn’t. It’s always there. In a thought. In a moment. In a photo. In a date.

February 9.

February 10.

Happy birthdays—to my beloved son, Caleb, and my precious daughter, Amber.

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Oh, the joy of building a snowman February 4, 2015

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RECENTLY, I HELPED my great niece build a mini snowman barely higher than my knees.

I taught 5-year-old Meghan how to roll balls, then how to pack snow so the head wouldn’t topple from the body. She was a quick learner.

Next, I sent her in search of twigs for arms. She roamed a snow-covered hillside, flash of purple against brilliant white.

Then we scavenged for stones for eyes.

Beneath the sprawling bare branches of an aged oak, I plucked fallen acorns for a nose and buttons.

Not the snowman my niece and I built, but rather a gigantic snowman built by the Hoisington family, 18 Third Ave. NW in Faribault.

Not the snowman my niece and I built, but rather a gigantic snowman at 18 Third Ave. NW in Faribault.

Together, with the aid of my eldest daughter, we hodge-podged a face that smiled back at us.

I’d forgotten what simple joy lies in creating a snowman.

In the Hoisington family's Faribault yard, this snowman is sure to make you smile.

In the Hoisington family’s Faribault yard, this snowman is sure to make you smile.

Sometimes that’s all it takes to lift yourself out of the winter blues, to chase away the worries of life, to ease the stress.

To view the world through the eyes of Meghan, who found nothing more delightful than building a snowman on a Saturday afternoon was a gift.

FYI: If the gigantic snowman featured here looks familiar, it’s because last year I photographed an over-sized snowman in this same Faribault yard. Click here to view last winter’s snowman.

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Nice to see this public respect January 29, 2015

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DO YOU LIVE in a community where motorists still pull to the side of the road out of respect for the dead and those in mourning?

I do.

Late this afternoon, as the Parker-Kohl Funeral Home hearse passed my house followed by a trail of vehicles with lights flashing, motorists driving along Willow Street, an arterial road through Faribault, pulled to the curb.

That would be drivers traveling in both directions.

In that moment, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for these folks who could have hurried along their way, but stopped instead.

Thank you. Today you make me especially proud of this community I call home.

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

My son would probably rather be in Minnesota right now than Boston January 27, 2015

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Monday afternoon the temperature in my southeastern Minnesota backyard ranged in the mid to high 40 degrees Fahrenheit.

Monday afternoon the temperature in my southeastern Minnesota backyard ranged in the mid to high 40 degrees Fahrenheit.

 

THE TEMPERATURE MONITOR atop the refrigerator reads 48 degrees outside. It’s likely off a few degrees. But still…

 

A view from and in my backyard.

A view from and in my backyard.

 

I swing the kitchen door open to sunshine squinting my eyes and flooding the backyard on a late January afternoon in Minnesota about as glorious as they come.

 

Fence shadows on the snow.

Fence shadows on the snow.

 

Bare-branched trees brace a blue sky. Birds chirp. Water clinks through the down spout in a gentle and methodical rhythm. The basket weave of the fence slants shadows across the melting snow.

I stand there, just stand there in my backyard, absorbing the warmth and sunshine my soul and body crave.

More than 1,000 miles away, my son is among Boston area residents enveloped in a major winter storm. Areas of the city are expected to get as much as 30 inches of snow accompanied by 50 mph winds. The Governor has declared a State of Emergency and issued a state-wide travel ban. Public transportation via the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority has been suspended for Tuesday. Same goes for Logan International Airport.

Tufts University, the college my son attends, is closed today. This mom, who understands winter from a howling wind raging snow across the Minnesota prairie perspective, is grateful.

I can only hope that today my 20-year-old sleeps in, stays put in his apartment, realizes the dangers of an historic storm like this, even within the confines of a big city.

Be safe, Boston.

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Back to Boston January 12, 2015

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FRIDAY, 10:30 p.m.

I switch off the lamp. Two clicks. Pull the plug on the Christmas tree lights. Fold the fleece throw.

Then I step toward the couch, wait there until he looks up. He removes headphones, clamps his laptop closed. His arms reach up. Mine extend down. We pull each other close. Linger.

Tears edge my eyes. I cannot bear this moment, this final goodnight hug. He leaves tomorrow. After 23 days at home in Minnesota for holiday break.

I did a photo shoot of the son when he was back home in Minnesota. This was shot at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf in Faribault.

I did a photo shoot of my 20-year-old son when he was back home. This was shot at the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf in Faribault.

I want to snapshot this moment, hold it forever in the memory of my soul. The scent of him. The brush of his curls against my face. The love between a mother and son.

Already I miss him.

 

SATURDAY, 3:05 p.m.

The son in the front passenger seat, his suitcase and other baggage rests next to me.

The son in the front passenger seat, his suitcase and other baggage next to me as we head to Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

I am seated behind my husband, our son to his, to my, right in the front passenger seat. Beside me rests his backpack. His suitcase leans against the door, butting a cardboard box crammed with board games and other stuff he’s taking back to Boston.

A side mirror on our van reflects traffic along Interstate 35.

A side mirror on our van reflects traffic along Interstate 35.

The Interstate miles roll by. We are mostly silent. Until my thoughts tumble into words. “It’s OK to call me sometimes.”

He turns toward me. “I know.”

In the rearview mirror, I glimpse my husband’s smile. He and the son exchange a look.

Crossing the Minnesota River Valley on Cedar Avenue.

Crossing the Minnesota River Valley on Cedar Avenue.

Soon we are bridging the Minnesota River, skirting the Mall of America, nearing the airport. Airliners roar a reminder of departure.

Fort Snelling Cemetery lies to the right as we near Terminal Two.

Fort Snelling Cemetery lies to the right as we near Terminal Two.

Signage points us toward Terminal Two. We pass by Fort Snelling National Cemetery, seemingly infinite rows of white tombstones unfolding before me. Sorrow. Tears. Sadness. Mothers missing sons.

The road curves. We are there, pulled to the curb. Door slid open. Suitcase out. Box out. We’re all out and then the son reaches inside for his backpack, hoists it onto his narrow shoulders.

Then he is between us, stretching his arms around us. Three into one.

Tears slide down my cheeks as he turns away, pulling his box-topped suitcase into the terminal.

Already I miss him.

A plane flies out of the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

A plane flies out of the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport late Saturday afternoon.

 

SATURDAY, 8:40 p.m.

Credits roll across the television screen. I turn my face into the corner of the sofa. Crying at the movie. Crying because I want my son home. Crying because I wonder where time goes and why our children must leave.

I turn toward the Christmas tree, lights blurring through the tears. Scent of honeysuckle from a burning candle perfumes the room. The furnace kicks in. I dry my eyes on the cuffs of my sweatshirt.

I pick up my cell phone, reread his messages.

5:35 p.m.: I’m on the plane.

6:52 p.m.: I arrived in Chicago.

He’s not even to Boston yet.

Already I miss him.

 

SATURDAY, 10:21 p.m.

My cell phone buzzes.

I click on the text message: Just landed in Boston.

 

© Copyright 2015 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The yellow barn January 7, 2015

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INITIALLY, THE HUE caused me consternation. Who paints a barn yellow? Red, or perhaps grey or white, should define agrarian buildings.

Near Nerstrand, Minnesota.

Near Nerstrand, Minnesota. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.

But the more I study this photo, the more the color appeals to me. Creamy pale yellow, the shade of butter, seems fitting for a building which sheltered, maybe still does, cows and perhaps a myriad of other farm animals.

The hue, too, accents the foundation of locally-quarried limestone. There’s something about a stone barn foundation that portrays strength and history and hard work. Just imagine the time and effort invested and muscles used.

Duo silos flank the barn like soldiers in steely grey uniforms, always at the ready.

This scene pleases me. Every barn, no matter its color, deserves to stand, guarded against the assaults of time and weather and so-called progress.

Of that I am certain.

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

He grew taller & fashion conscious December 31, 2014

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FROM SEVERAL TRAFFIC LANES over, in the dimness of street lights and headlights, I could not spot him.

“There he is,” my husband said.

I craned my neck, peering through the windshield, trying to glimpse our son whom I had not seen since July 7.

“Where? I don’t see him.”

Try as I might, I could not locate my 20-year-old in the throng of passengers awaiting curbside pick-up at Terminal 2 of St. Paul-Minneapolis International Airport a week before Christmas. I’d never seen the terminal so busy with vehicles stacked across all lanes in near gridlock. At 11 p.m. on a Thursday.

I willed the monstrous white pick-up just ahead of us to the right to move. Move, will you, so I can see my boy.

The truck inched forward, finally clearing a view of a lean young man towering even taller than I remembered. No wonder I barely recognized him.

Chippewa boots have replaced athletic shoes.

Chippewa boots have replaced athletic shoes.

In six months, he’d grown. And his look, his clothes, had changed. He sported leg-hugging pants in rust-orange. Boots, not neon tennis shoes. A navy blue and white pom-pom stocking cap emblazoned with “Boston” topped his head. He’d ditched the ear muffs. His classic button down black wool coat had been replaced by a more trendy parka style jacket. And later, when he shed that outerwear, I noticed he was dressed in fashion conscious layers.

I’d been searching for a young man dressed like I remembered.

Eighteen months away from the Midwest, my son’s finally found his fashion niche. And I must say the new look suits this Tufts University computer science major-math minor student. He seems comfortable and confident sporting pants that aren’t jeans, in hues of rust, green and grey. I have yet to see him wear jeans since his arrival home on December 18.

Layers and "dinosaur footprints."

Layers and “dinosaur footprints.”

When I asked the other night about the design on his navy blue and white shirt, he said, “I just tell everyone they are dinosaur footprints.” They aren’t.

It doesn’t matter. He is simply happy to have found trendy and comfortable clothing that fits his six-foot-three (or some such height) slender frame. He sourced his colorful pants at Japanese retailer UNIQLO. Yes, I had to Google the name; I’m not fashion aware. He shops online, too.

This sudden awareness of fashion comes as a surprise to me. Only a year ago I waited outside a dressing room at Kohl’s as the son tried on a pile of sweaters and pants, rejecting most. Even getting him there had been a challenge. Clothes shopping has always been a challenge for him, mostly because he’s tall and slender and he’d rather do anything than shop.

In the year between then and now, he’s managed to find clothing that not only fits, but that he likes. He’s figured it all out on his own.

And bonus for me: Because he’s grown, I’ve now confiscated his flannel shirts, not that he would wear flannel anymore anyway. Flannel might be just a tad too Paul Bunyan Minnesotan for a college student in Boston.

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

No more December 30, 2014

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YOU KNOW HOW IT IS when a conversation starts and then rolls seamlessly from one topic into another and soon you have these thoughts spinning through your brain.

Here’s how it started: Sunday morning a friend told me that her husband and youngest daughter rode along with their police officer son/brother during a Christmas night shift in another city in another state. That shadowing proved uneventful. I’m sure that was just fine with my friend. No mother likes to see her son placed in a dangerous situation.

I shared that ride-along tidbit with my husband and son during Sunday dinner and then we were talking about my Uncle Bob, a retired Minneapolis police officer, and how he always said domestics were the most dangerous calls. Makes sense given the emotions involved.

The holidays often see an increase in the number of domestics. Daily we hear and read reports of (mostly) women assaulted and sometimes murdered in cases of domestic violence. Saturday evening a woman was fatally stabbed in St. Paul, allegedly by her ex-boyfriend.

Last week the Faribault Daily News, the newspaper in my community, published this headline: Faribault man charged with assaulting girlfriend, two police officers. The story included a photo of the 28-year-old repeat domestic abuse offender. I think I recognize the man.

In late October, I phoned local law enforcement when I witnessed a young man verbally attacking, grabbing and shoving a young woman. I believe it is the same man now charged with fourth-degree assault on a peace officer and domestic assault. My stomach churned. A year ago, this man was convicted of felony domestic assault and violation of an order for protection. Now this.

When will this ever end, this psychological control and manipulation, the physical and/or verbal assaults, the lies and deception that define domestic abuse? When?

I’m not privy to details about the Faribault man’s past. But any felony charge and conviction is serious. And now to read in a newspaper story of his live-in girlfriend found crying and huddling in the corner of the living room holding their two-year-old…after she was allegedly attacked.

I just want to take that young mother in my arms, embrace her, rescue her, and tell her everything will be OK.

But I can’t save her; only she can decide to leave her abuser. I can’t promise her everything will be alright, that the judicial system will work, that this man will never harm her, or any other woman, ever again.

It would be all too easy to give up. Yet, we cannot. Ever. As a society, as human beings, as parents who love our daughters, as sisters who love our sisters, as friends who love friends, we cannot simply walk away.

Like the Hope Center in Faribault, recently awarded a $135,000 federal grant to fight domestic violence through The Blueprint for Safety Project, we must continue to do all we can to educate ourselves about domestic violence and to say, “No more.”

 

NO MORE logo

The signature blue “vanishing point” in the NO MORE campaign logo evolved from the concept of zero, as in zero incidences of domestic violence and sexual assault.

 

Like NO MORE, a national public awareness and engagement campaign focused on ending domestic violence and sexual assault, we must do all we can to end domestic violence. NO MORE ran a spot during Sunday afternoon’s Minnesota Vikings-Chicago Bears football game. That outreach to football fans was good to see.

 

NO MORE logo

 

 

No more. Strong words. Let’s speak them, believe them, practice them.

If you witness a case of domestic abuse, whether verbal or physical or both, call the cops. In the case of the 28-year-old Faribault man, officers were responding “to a report of a woman being grabbed by a man outside a home,” according to the newspaper article.

 

NO MORE logo

 

Someone saw. Someone called. Someone decided, no more.

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The ban on Christmas gifts December 26, 2014

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WHEN MY ELDEST DAUGHTER first suggested it, I questioned how we could have Christmas without gifts.

Turns out we can. Sort of.

After a family vote, in which we all agreed to not exchange gifts, we didn’t.

Note the word, “exchange.”

I used festive holiday trim and a card from Christmases past to decorate this gift.

A gift from a previous Christmas. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.

About a week before Christmas, I considered that I am the mom and thus have the right to break the new rule. And I did.

But I didn’t rush out to buy gifts for my husband, all three of my adult children and son-in-law. Rather, I looked first at what I already had in my home.

Each daughter received a handmade apron belonging to her maternal grandma.

I also gave the eldest a puzzle map of the U.S. Turns out, though, that when she opened the gift, Amber thought she was getting her own puzzle back. Nope, I clarified. That puzzle you played with during your youth was a childhood Christmas present to me. Best cherish this vintage puzzle, even if Kentucky is missing.

The second daughter also got a vintage print I picked up this summer. It’s a print of a girl and a bird which nearly all of the women in my family own—one of those family things.

Miranda’s favorite present, though, seems to be the poem I wrote about her.

That left the men. The son-in-law was easy. He loves blue cheeses made and cave-aged in Faribault. A block of cheese it was for him.

But the 20-year-old son proved more challenging. In principle, he’s opposed to gift cards. Scratch that off the list of easiest possibilities. So I just asked him what he wanted and he ordered it online with delivery promised in two days. Problem solved. The package arrived when he was sleeping. I wrapped the watch and tossed it under the tree.

The husband will get his present, homemade Date Pinwheel Cookies (like his mother used to make, except better, he says) once the surplus supply of sweets in the house diminishes.

As for me, I, too, found a gift—a box of chocolates—under the tree with my name printed on the wrapping. Sweetness from my husband.

My desk caddy Christmas gift.

My desk caddy Christmas gift.

And then there was the surprise, a small square package which, had I not known its source, I might have thought contained jewelry. When I ripped off the paper on Christmas Eve, I found a desk accessory painted in vivid hues of orange, blue and my favorite lime green. Perfect for pens, pencils and paper clips. Darling little Nevaeh, elementary-aged daughter of friends, painted the organizer and delivered it days earlier along with a jar of homemade sweet treats.

Aren’t those the best gifts, the ones crafted with love or the ones that hold personal significance?

Today, when many of you are standing in line to return items like the zebra-print sweater from Aunt Edna or the bulky loon slippers or the set of screwdrivers you don’t want because they are cheap, I won’t be returning anything. It’s not like I would ever return a box of chocolates.

As for the no Christmas gifts rule, I have mixed feelings. Drawing names so each person receives one present would suit me better. But then again, I didn’t miss the shopping, trying to find the perfect gift. Not one bit. No presents eased a lot of holiday stress.

The original proposal, to do something together as a family (like attend a holiday play at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis) instead of exchanging gifts, was a great idea in theory. But with the son living in Boston and one of the daughters living 300 miles away in eastern Wisconsin, it didn’t work. You have to all be together.

My three, plus the eldest daughter's boyfriend, Marc, opened gifts Christmas Eve afternoon. Caleb is juggling on the left with his new juggling balls.

Christmas two years ago, when we were all together and there were lots of gifts given. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.

Maybe some year. But next Christmas the eldest and her husband will spend Christmas in California with his family and the other daughter may be on-call and…

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling