Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Too much pink? October 27, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 9:49 AM
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ENOUGH PINK ALREADY.

Northeastern Minnesota writer Ada Igoe, who blogs at “Of Woods and Words,” writes this week about all the pink out there during this, Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

While I don’t agree with everything she says in her “Rage Against the Pink” post, I agree that this whole “pink” thing is being overdone and has become too commercialized. Just like the right amount of salt can flavor a dish, too much salt can ruin it.

In a row of green and yellow Olivers, I spotted this pink one at the Rice County Steam & Gas Engines Show earlier this fall. I have no reason to doubt the genuineness of this tractor owner in calling attention to the fight against breast cancer.

How do we separate those who truly are genuine in their pinkness as opposed to those simply out to perhaps earn a buck or get some media attention for whatever they are selling or promoting?

Ada raises issues like that in her thoughtful piece. I’m not going to steal and repeat all this blogger wrote. Rather, I will point you directly to the source, so click here.

And just for the record:

  • My mother is a breast cancer survivor.
  • My uncle, Dr. Robert M. Bowman, created Femara, a hormone therapy drug used to treat breast cancer in post-menopausal women.
  • A dear friend is currently being treated for breast cancer.
  • Last evening I waited in line for one hour and 15 minutes to comfort friends and their daughter who lost their youngest daughter/sister to colon cancer after two courageous years of battling the disease. Stacey was only 39.

  • Sometimes it’s genuinely easy to separate those who mean well by emphasizing pink from those who have other than the best intentions. Absolutely, this pink tractor showcases one family’s personal story and does not seek to commercialize or gain anything financially from using the color pink.

    WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS on the use of pink to promote breast cancer awareness? Overkill? Just right? Let’s hear.

 

Missing the farm during a Minnesota harvest September 30, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 11:09 AM
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An elevator just outside of Vermillion, MN., near Hastings on Saturday morning.

DECADES HAVE PASSED since I’ve been home on the farm for harvest. My middle brother quit farming years ago and the home place is now rented out.

A harvested cornfield between Hastings and Cannon Falls.

I miss being on the farm, anticipating the bringing in of the crop, then watching the combines chomp through rows of brittle cornstalks and brown fields of ripened soybeans.

Between Hastings and Cannon Falls.

I miss the undeniable scent of earth and plant residue.

Harvesting corn just south of Hastings on Saturday afternoon.

I miss the grain wagons brimming with golden kernels.

The Vermillion Elevator, in the small town of Vermillion.

I miss living in a rural community where tractors and aged grain trucks line up at the local co-op elevator.

I miss the hum of grain dryers drying corn.

A grain truck waits on a gravel road near Cannon City, east of Faribault.

Now I view the harvest from a distance, as an observer passing by.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A painting from my dear friend Rhody September 28, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:16 AM
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IN LIFE, RHODY YULE, impressed me with his humble spirit, deep faith and artistic talent. He thought the best of everyone. He appreciated life so much that, even up until days before his June 2011 death when he was but a shell of his former physical self, he desired to live beyond his 92 years.

Celebrity portraits Rhody Yule painted and hung on his garage, where I first discovered his work in the fall of 2009 while driving past his rural Rice County residence.

Losing my friend of only a few years—the man I met because I photographed the portraits he had painted and hung on the side of his garage in rural Rice County—was difficult for me. Yet, I knew Rhody’s legacy would live on in the hundreds of paintings he created through the decades.

Rhody, minutes before his gallery show opened in January 2011 at the Paradise Center for the Arts, Faribault.

It was my absolute honor, after discovering Rhody’s work, to bring his paintings to the public via a mini art show at Christdala Evangelical Swedish Lutheran Church, rural Millersburg, and then during a much larger gallery exhibit at the Paradise Center for the Arts in Faribault.

And now Rhody, in death, has blessed me with the gift of one of his paintings, the painting he knew I most favored.

A sampling of the religious paintings Rhody exhibited at a mini show at Christdala on September 26, 2010. The painting on the right is the one Rhody gifted to me.

On Tuesday evening, the day before my 56th birthday and just a day shy of the two-year anniversary of that mini exhibit at Christdala—yes, I spent my 54th birthday setting up that art show for Rhody—I picked up the painting Rhody wanted me to have.

I’d known for a few weeks that I was to receive the painting I’ve come to call “Woman in Reverent Prayer.” Tuesday I phoned Rhody’s stepson, Bob, asking if my husband, Randy, and I could come over and pick up the piece of art in a half hour. That would work, Bob said.

“Woman in Reverent Prayer” by Rhody Yule

Over at Bob and his wife Kathy’s condo, Rhody’s prayerful woman painting leaned against the living room wall as we reminisced about the man we had each loved.

And as I remembered Rhody, I felt myself slipping into sadness. I missed him and wished I had known him longer.

Then, when Bob told me how Rhody wanted me to have that particular painting and how Rhody’s gallery show at the Paradise was the highlight of the last year of his life, the tears seeped from my eyes. To be able to give someone like Rhody such a gift, to realize how much this meant to him, prompts the most humbling and joyful of emotions.

Shortly thereafter as I caressed the painting, Bob suggested that I might want to replace the dinged frame. No, I would keep the frame Rhody crafted, I said, running my fingers along the wood.

Bob lifted the four-foot by 2 1/2-foot painting onto the dining room table then so we could examine the date under Rhody’s signature. We could barely decipher the faint curve of double sixes, meaning Rhody painted “Woman in Reverent Prayer” in 1966 when I was just 10 years old.

I know nothing, really, about the oil painting except Rhody once sharing that it was based on another painting or photo, minus the rosary beads clasped in the kneeling woman’s prayerful hands.

Now, each time I view Rhody’s painting, which will soon grace a wall in my living room, I am reminded of my friend’s deep faith. And I am reminded of how very much his friendship meant to me and likewise my friendship to him.

To realize that Rhody wanted me to have this painting simply touches my heart with gratitude and love.

Rhody and me at his opening night gallery reception in January 2011 at the Paradise Center for the Arts, Faribault.

FYI: To read about Rhody’s mini art show at Christdala Evangelical Swedish Lutheran Church, click here.

To read about Rhody’s January 2011 gallery exhibit at the Paradise Center for the Arts, Faribault, click here.

To read my tribute to Rhody upon his death, click here.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A sweet homecoming September 25, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 6:57 AM
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ABSENCE REALLY DOES make the heart grow fonder.

And for this mom, five weeks proved that.

My 18-year-old son arrived home from North Dakota State University in Fargo on Friday around 11:15 p.m., four hours later than I expected him.

But it was worth the wait. Well worth the wait.

I hadn’t seen Caleb since my husband and I left him standing, rather forlorn looking, in his dorm room on a Saturday morning in mid-August.

Communication since then has been intermittent and mostly one-sided, the one side being my side. Send an email. No response. Text the son. No response. Such lack of communication was typical even when my teen was still living at home. I expected that to change once Caleb started college 285 miles/five hours away. I was wrong.

I also was wrong in thinking that meant he didn’t care, didn’t miss us.

Friday evening when I saw headlights flash into the driveway, I couldn’t slip on my shoes fast enough to race outside and see my boy for the first time in five weeks.

He didn’t quite run from his stash of stuff near the end of the driveway to me. But almost. And when my son, my boy, reached me, he grabbed me in a vise grip hug and didn’t let go. For a long time.

I cannot even begin to tell you how that hug melted my heart, reassured me as a mother that my boy, despite his lack of communication, missed me.

There’s my son, piling food onto his plate at a small family dinner we hosted on Sunday in celebration of Caleb’s homecoming; my eldest daughter’s boyfriend landing a job and moving from LA to Minnesota; and my September 26 birthday. Once he finished his Sunday dinner, my boy was on his way back to Fargo at 1 p.m. Sorry there’s no full view image of my boy as he certainly would have dodged any camera pointed toward his face. He knows me well enough to realize the photo would likely end up on this blog. I saw Caleb for maybe four hours total this weekend. When he wasn’t sleeping in, he was out with friends (including the three with whom he rode home from Fargo) or his dad and I were gone to a wedding and a barn dance. But that’s OK. At least he came home and that makes me a happy, happy mom. He is, by the way, quite well-adjusted, happy and enjoying his new life as a college student at NDSU.

And since I can’t show you pix of the son, here’s my sister, Lanae, and her son-in-law, Andy, dishing up Sunday dinner while my husband, Randy, prepares to slice chicken breasts in half. Randy grilled chicken and fresh baby potatoes.

My sister brought the Caesar salad and tossed in a few flowers for color. (She’s a florist.) And, yes, the flowers are edible, although I didn’t taste them.

Three left-over pieces of the delicious peanut butter and chocolate cheesecake baked by my oldest daughter, Amber, and her boyfriend, Marc. Cheesecake is my absolute favorite dessert.

Beautiful birthday flowers from my sister, the floral designer at Waseca Floral.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Photo pops of pink & orange September 21, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:22 AM
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Zinnias

PINK AND ORANGE. Not until recent years would I have mixed those colors or considered them an appropriate combination.

Cosmos

Are you kidding? Pink and orange. Together.

Zinnia

But now I revel in the unleashing of creativity in color pairings, a loosening of the choking tie of conservatism and matchy-match this and that.

Zinnia

It’s freeing, isn’t it, to realize everything—from our homes to our gardens, from our paintings to our photos—doesn’t need to be Martha Stewart-like perfect.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

One person’s junk…Hot Sam’s Antiques, Part III September 19, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:08 AM
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Truck door signage, a nod perhaps to Jake Hood, owner of Hot Sam’s Antiques, Lakeville, Minnesota.

ONE MAN’S (or woman’s) junk is another man’s (or woman’s) treasure.

That adage could aptly be applied to Hot Sam’s Antiques, rural Lakeville, Minnesota.

I’ve posted about this antique theme park twice already. Click here and here to read those stories. But Hot Sam’s deserves a third post. Why? Think upcycling and recycling.

Barry, artist and upcycler of stuff at Hot Sam’s Antiques.

I appreciate businesses like Hot Sam’s Antiques which sell or re-purpose used stuff. We are too much a throw-away society although, in recent years, it’s become suddenly chic to upcycle or purchase vintage/used. I hope the trend lasts beyond the current economic depression.

Inside the log cabin at Hot Sam’s is a bounty of antiques, collectibles and other used merchandise. The door leads to the wrap around porch, where you’ll find more goods.

For decades I’ve shopped at rummage sales and thrift stores. The bottom line is that I am careful with my money, a trait instilled in me while growing up in a farm family with little money. Think eating white rice with cinnamon and sugar for a meal. Think no birthday presents. Think shopping only for clothes hung on the sales rack.

My parents worked hard to provide for our family of eight, but it was not easy for them. I never realized, though, that we were poor until I grew into adulthood. That’s a credit to my parents’ love and care.

Because of my upbringing, I tend to bargain shop and put less value on material possessions than many in today’s society. For example, of all the furniture in the house my husband and I own, only five—the sofa, recliner, twin bed frame, entertainment center and my office desk—are pieces we bought new.

Likewise, nearly all of the art I own originates from rummage sales, thrift or antique stores, or recycled art sales.

There. That should explain why I appreciate places like Hot Sam’s Antiques.

And I also like Hot Sam’s because of the creative art pieces such as Popeye and Olive Oil and Sweet Pea riding in the family car. I watched “Popeye” cartoons while growing up.

Somewhere in my memory bank I possess a memory of my dad telling us to watch for the flying red horse en route to visit relatives in the Cities. I couldn’t tell you now where that red horse was located, but I’m fond of this icon. In the background you”re correctly seeing a Statue of Liberty jutting from the front end of a partial vintage car.

I rode in a taxi once in Chicago. It didn’t look anything like this one at Hot Sam’s. But that’s my single taxi experience.

I’d like to attend a circus once… See why I love this place?

Ten years or more before I experience the validity of this statement.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Adjusting to college (mom & son) & reacting to a bomb threat on the NDSU campus September 15, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 8:11 AM
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EDITOR’S NOTE (that would be me): I was writing this post on Friday when my son called at 10:04 a.m. to tell me the campus of North Dakota State University had been evacuated due to a bomb threat. I was into the fifth paragraph of this post at the time. It is now 3:01 p.m. on Friday and I will attempt to pick up where I left off, although the content, I expect, will differ from what I’d originally intended.

My 18-year-old son, shortly before my husband and I left him in his dorm room on the campus of North Dakota State University four weeks ago. On Friday morning the entire campus was evacuated due to a bomb threat.

TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS/four weeks/one month have passed since my husband and I left our youngest at North Dakota State University, one state/285 miles/five hours away in Fargo.

Since then family and friends have asked how I’m doing. They never ask Randy, I suppose because dads typically don’t admit they miss their children so who would think of asking.

I was poised to tell you that I’m mostly fine, but then, snap, just like that I miss my boy so much I want to cry. I long for the unexpected moments when he would walk into my office and ask, “Mom, can I have a hug?” And then I would wrap my arms around him and savor the tender moment, knowing he still needed me.

I’m not so certain about that need part anymore.

But then the focus of this post changed, snap, just like that, when I thought about Jared, a 19-year-old who lost his life Tuesday afternoon in a farm accident near Janesville. He was trapped inside a grain bin and died before rescuers could release him from the suffocating corn.

I knew Jared because he and his twin brother, Jordan, once attended the same Christian day school as my children and the same church I attend. I don’t know when the family moved away, but that matters not.

I can still picture those two (then) little boys and their mother, Julie, worshiping at Trinity. And now Julie has lost Jared and Jordan has lost his twin brother and a family, and friends, grieve.

And I wonder how a mother can bear such grief.

And I wonder how I can be so selfish and think about myself and how I’m feeling.

Honestly, it’s not like I’m not going to see my 18-year-old. He’s tentatively planning a trip back to Faribault next weekend. I’m happy and elated and so excited.

Then I pause and consider my sister-in-law and brother-in-law and how their 19-year-old son died the summer before he was to start his freshman year of college. And I wonder how a mother and father, even 11 years later, can bear the grief of losing their boy, my nephew, too soon to cancer.

You never know what life will bring. I never expected yesterday morning to answer my cell phone and learn from my son that his college campus—in Fargo, North Dakota, of all places—had been evacuated due to a bomb threat. I felt helpless and desperate for information and wishing I could snatch him away into the safety of my arms and protect him from the evil that exists in this world.

Perhaps this is the dilemma of mothers everywhere, always and forever. We strive to push our children toward independence. And then, when they leave, we long to have them back, safe in our arms, close in the circle of our love.

File photo of the main entrance to North Dakota State University in Fargo.

AND NOW, YOU ASK, how is my college freshman son doing?

Initial responses to that question were limited to two words: “Fine, Mom.” And what, exactly, did that mean? I worried because my son is more reserved, most definitely not a social butterfly.

My husband and eldest urged me to give him time and stop worrying. They were right.

He’s now joined a board game club and a computer club (and will be competing soon in some competition in Illinois and he’s taking his resume because big companies like Twitter and Facebook will be there and it’s a great opportunity to network). He’s met other unicyclers and is trying to start a unicycle club. On Tuesday he starts working and volunteering for Chicago-based Bolder Thinking at the NDSU Technology Incubator as part of his Entrepreneurial Scholarship. He’s formed a limited liability company and will be doing some consulting work (sorry, can’t give you details on that).

And in between all that, he’s carrying 17 college credits.

Yes, the college freshman son is, by all reports (as of Friday), doing well.

His only real complaint thus far: living in the dorm. The reason: the noise.

File photo of a dorm at North Dakota State University.

ABOUT THAT BOMB THREAT: A reporter for the Associated Press, who follows my blog (who knew?), contacted me Friday morning to ask about interviewing my son regarding the evacuation at NDSU. You can read the AP story by clicking here.

Thank you to everyone who offered their support to me via emails, comments and phone calls as this event unfolded Friday at NDSU. I am humbled by your concern and support. Such care reinforces my belief that the goodness in this world far outshines that which is bad.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Reflecting on 9/11, eleven years later September 11, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 6:52 AM
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My then 8-year-old son drew this picture of a plane aimed for the twin towers a year after 9/11 for a school religion assignment. He was a third grader in a Christian school at the time and needed to think of a time when it was hard to trust God by drawing a photo illustrating that time. To this day, this drawing by my boy illustrates to me how deeply 9/11 impacted even the youngest among us.

IF I WAS IN MY HOMETOWN today I would visit the cemetery just outside of Vesta, to the north along the gravel road and atop the lone hill which rises ever so slightly in a sea of ripening corn and soybean fields.

I’d walk the rows until I found the gravestones of the Kletschers, mostly clumped together, close still even in death.

I’d pause at the tombstones of my paternal great grandparents and grandparents, my father and then, finally, my Uncle Mike, the bachelor uncle who was like a second father to me and my five siblings. He lived the next farm over, farmed with our father and joined us for everyday meals and holidays. His inherent curiosity is a trait I possess.

Uncle Mike died on September 5, 2011, and was buried just days before 9/11.

Today thousands will visit graves of those who lost their lives on that horrific day 11 years ago when our nation was attacked by terrorists.

My uncle had never, as far as I know, been to New York or Washington D.C. or Pennsylvania, never traveled much. He stuck close to the prairie, close to the farm, close to the land he cherished with the depth of love only a farmer can possess.

I miss him and grieve his death with a depth of grief that comes only from loving someone deeply.

Today, on this the 11th anniversary of 9/11, countless family and friends and co-workers and others will grieve with a depth that comes from loving deeply. They may grieve privately or at public ceremonies marking the date nearly 3,000 innocent individuals lost their lives.

Some will travel to that field in Stonycreek Township in Somerset County, Pennsylvania, where the passengers of Flight 93 fought back against those who would terrorize this nation.

It is the one place I can most relate to in the whole horribleness of this American tragedy because my roots reach deep into the land. Flight 93 crashed in a field near Shanksville, a rural community of 250 in the Laurel Mountains of western Pennsylvania with a population 100 less than my Minnesota hometown.

None of this diminishes the significant impact made upon me by the terrorist-directed planes slamming into the twin towers or the destruction wreaked upon the Pentagon in urban settings.

But big cities—even though I’ve been to New York once in my life many decades ago while in college—are unfamiliar terrain, skyscrapers as foreign to me as a silo to a city-dweller.

A lone plane crashing into a field, plowing into the earth, that I understand.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Flat Fargo August 24, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 6:47 AM
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This water tower is located in West Fargo, an area of shopping malls, restaurants, Big Box stores, hotels, etc. The tower is a rare vertical structure, breaking the flat, horizontal landscape of the Fargo area.

I THOUGHT I KNEW FLAT having grown up on the southwestern Minnesota prairie where the land seems to stretch far and unbroken into flat infinity.

But not until this year, when my family traveled thrice nearly 300 miles north and west to Fargo, North Dakota, and back did I truly understand the definition of flat.

A train rumbles through the northwest side of Fargo near the airport and the campus of North Dakota State University. No, this is not a hill. I simply did not have my horizon straight as I photographed this train while traveling along a city street.

I doubt I have ever seen a city as flat as Fargo. You know, when you spill a glass of milk on the table how the liquid flows fast and free over the edge of the table. Well, that table would be Fargo. The milk would be the Red River of the North. I totally understand now why this city is so prone to flooding each spring.

A herd of buffalo photographed along Interstate 94 east of Fargo, which places them in Minnesota.

I swear, if I had driven to the western edge of Fargo, I would see the world’s largest buffalo—26-foot tall, 60-ton concrete Dakota Thunder sculpted in 1959 by Elmer Petersen—90 miles away atop a hill in Jamestown’s Frontier Village. I saw the buffalo about 20 years ago while en route to a Helbling family reunion in Mandan/Bismarck, cities which actually do have hills. I think.

Inside the NDSU Memorial Union, I photographed this sculpture of a bison, the university’s mascot, in June.

About those buffalo… The flat and forever Dakota plains provide ideal grazing grounds for these massive creatures, or at least once did. Dakotans are proud of their native bison as evidenced in business names; art like “Herd About the Prairie” in Fargo; and even a bison mascot for North Dakota State University where my son is now a student.

A bus bench and sidewalk in West Fargo draw the eye west toward the horizon and the setting sun.

My apologies for momentarily edging away from that flat land issue. Even I, a girl of the prairie, find the Fargo flatness somewhat unsettling. I’d like a few more mature trees, especially on the sprawling growth west side of the city, upon which to rest my eyes. I’d like a few rises in the land, other than the rare man-made ones, to break the monotony of a straight horizontal line.

I expect that if I lived in Fargo, I’d adjust and think nothing of the flat landscape. But when you’re a visitor, you notice things like the lay of the land and the wind, oh, the winds of Fargo.

Just off Interstate 29 a flock of sheep graze pastureland as part of North Dakota State University’s Sheep Experiment Station.

Throughout West Fargo you’ll see open patches of land like this clover field next to the Fairfield Inn, where we’ve stayed twice. The hotel has strong horizontal lines like most structures in Fargo.

A fenceline and cornfield in Fargo, near (or part of, I’m not sure) the NDSU campus. More horizontal lines…

Paradise in Fargo, the Paradiso Mexican Restaurant, that is.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Faribault Festival offers opportunity to bridge differences & connect August 23, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 7:15 AM
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TODAY I’D LIKE TO EXTEND an invitation to you. Pull out your calendars right now and add this event to your schedule: International Festival Faribault, 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. on Saturday, August 25, Central Park.

Several Latinos lead in singing of Mexico’s national anthem last September during the International Festival Faribault at Faribault’s Central Park. The flags strung across the band shell represent the countries featured at the fest. This weekend’s celebration marks the seventh such international fest in Faribault.

There. Done. Right?

The scramble for candy after the pinata is broken at last year’s festival. Kids of all races participated with no concern for skin color or cultural differences. So refreshing to see.

Served at the 2011 fest: Guatemalan chuchitos– chicken, corn and salsa wrapped in a corn husk. You’ll find vendors offering a variety of authentic international foods.

OK, why do I think it’s important for you to attend this festival which features multicultural entertainment, arts and crafts vendors, authentic international cuisine, kids’ activities, a silent auction and more?

Simple. We as a community need to meet each other, to connect on a personal level, to understand each other if we are ever to overcome the very obvious cultural differences which divide us.

I met then 16-year-old Riyaam, an Owatonna High School student, at last year’s festival. She spoke openly about the prejudice at OHS and a white student’s single comment, “Somalis don’t belong here,” which led to racial clashes and tension. OHS has since instituted a policy of “you fight, you’re out.” It broke my heart to listen to Riyaam.

You know what I’m talking about, the differences in skin color and language, in culture and in dress.

There’s way too much suspicion and mistrust, cautiousness and prejudice toward the minorities living and working in Faribault. I’ve heard the derogatory comments about the Somali men who hang out on downtown street corners, the Hispanics who commit all the crimes, the immigrants who take away our jobs, the people who don’t speak English.

Seriously, these Somali men live downtown and the sidewalk is their yard.

“Mexicans,” and I’ve heard that word spit out of too many mean mouths, do not commit all the crimes in our community. Do you know any Hispanics personally? I do. They are probably the most family-oriented individuals I’ve ever met and we could learn a lot from them about the importance they place on loving and caring for one another.

And about those Somalis and/or Sudanese who supposedly steal our jobs—I expect most of us would not want to work the factory jobs they work. I mean no offense to the places which employ them, like the local turkey plant. But if we are honest with ourselves, we’ll admit that we likely never would work at these physically-demanding and not always pleasant jobs.

As for speaking English, have you, as an adult, tried learning a new language? Now attempt learning a new language in a foreign country. Not so easy. Think back to a few generations before you. I bet your great grandparents didn’t speak English. Even my own mother’s first language was German, not English.

The other evening while shopping at a local Big Box retailer, I witnessed how difficult it was for a Hispanic woman to communicate due to her limited English. I almost got on my cell phone to call my second daughter who works as a Spanish medical interpreter in eastern Wisconsin to ask her to interpret.

Did you know that, according to the 2010 U.S. Census, 17.4 percent of Faribault’s 23,352 residents have a language other than English spoken at home? Stats show 9.4 percent of our city’s residents are foreign-born.

Vendors, like Riyaam, peddled their wares at the 2011 festival.

Instead of criticizing those who speak and dress and live differently than the majority of us, let’s begin to understand them. Mostly, I think, our misconceptions, our prejudices, are based on fear. We fear what we don’t understand.

A young girl’s henna stained foot, photographed at the 2011 fest.

International Festival Faribault offers a common, public ground—a city park—on which to meet the minority individuals who call our community home. They are here to stay. Let’s get to know them. Engage in conversation. Show them you care, that you’re genuinely interested in learning more about them and their cultures. Once you’ve connected on a personal level, you will begin to view them as individuals and not by the color of their skin, the clothing they wear, the language they speak…

Xafsa, age 5, photographed at the 2011 festival.

FYI: Click here to link to the International Festival Faribault website.

While this post is directed specifically at the residents of my community, its content can apply to many communities. You’re all invited to Faribault for International Festival Faribault, no matter your community or country of origin. And just to be clear, many Faribault residents and organizations embrace the minorities who call our southeastern Minnesota city home. I in no way intend to mislead you into thinking we are all a bunch of bigots living here. However, neither am I going to hide the fact that obvious prejudices exist and are very much a concern in Faribault.

Click here to link to the post I wrote about last year’s International Festival Faribault.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling