Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by 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

 

Home from Boston for the holidays December 20, 2014

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Paperwork

 

FOR ONE MONTH and nine days, the Ticketless Travel Passenger Itinerary has hung on the side of my refrigerator.

His flight departs Boston Logan Airport in Massachusetts at 5:15 p.m. He’s taking the scenic route, flying first to Atlanta before connecting on a flight to Minnesota. He always does the connecting flight thing to save money.

I have not seen him in nearly six months, not since July 7, and I am beyond ecstatic that my son will be home for Christmas.

I miss my boy, although he is not truly a boy, but a towering near 21-year-old in his junior year at Tufts University in Medford, MA. Too far from Minnesota for my liking. But he is happy there, at a college that suits his talents and academic needs, and that is what’s most important.

You get used to it after awhile—their absence. Or at least I tell myself that. I will always miss my children. Always.

At 3:44 p.m. (Minnesota time) on December 18, he texts me:  About to board

Those are the sweetest three words I’ve read in six months.

File photo, Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo, Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

Thursday, 10:41 p.m.:  Just landed

Those are the sweetest two words I’ve read in six months.

Friday, 12:08 a.m.: Home.

One. Sweet. Word.

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Happy to ring Salvation Army bells on a balmy Minnesota morning December 6, 2014

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Gary and Barb work the 10 a.m. to noon bell-ringing shift at Walmart south.

Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo of 2013 Salvation Army bell ringing.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE 25 degrees can make.

The temp felt downright balmy ringing bells for the Salvation Army outside the north entrance of the Faribault Walmart this morning.

A year ago, at the south entrance, my husband and I rang bells in temps that hovered around a bone-chilling zero degrees Fahrenheit. Numerous times we stepped inside to warm up.

But this morning the sun shone bright upon us during our 10 a.m. to noon shift. It was lovely. No need to head to the bathroom to thaw hands under the heat of a hand dryer. This was an orange shorts topped by a Green Bay Packers jacket kind of morning, per the attire of one Walmart customer.

In true typical Minnesota talk, numerous folks commented on the beautiful weather. We couldn’t have agreed more. Standing in the outdoors for two hours in 25 degree weather felt almost tropical compared to the bundled up with minimal skin exposed temps of a year ago.

We were happy to be there, no matter the weather.

This marks my second year of bell ringing. And, like last year, I used eye contact and a friendly greeting to welcome folks, whether they gave or not.

And so many gave—from the smallest tyke hoisted to the kettle by a parent to the elderly man shuffling across the parking lot to the woman waiting for a taxi to the family with five children who gave on their way in, and then out of, the store.

I appreciated the kind words of several who thanked us and held dear an elderly woman’s words, “God bless you.”

It touches me deeply when parents pause so their children can drop coins and bills into the kettle. We thanked those children by handing out kisses—chocolate candy kisses. And I thanked the parents, too, for teaching their children to give.

In this season of spending, I hope you will donate to a charity to help those in need. Who knows, some day that person in need may be you, or me.

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling