Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

See, Hank, Santa is a pretty nice guy December 23, 2014

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YES, THERE WERE TEARS and clinging to Mom and Dad.

But eventually 2 1/2-year-old Hank came around.

He cautiously inched his way down the basement steps, where Santa waited at the bottom.

My great nephew, Hank, age 2 1/2, picks candy from Santa's bag at the Kletscher family Christmas.

My great nephew, Hank, age 2 1/2, picks candy from Santa’s bag at the Kletscher family Christmas gathering.

Santa’s bag of candy proved too much to resist.

Last year Hank wouldn't have anything to do with Santa, who had to turn his back so Hank could

Last year Hank was afraid of Santa. So Santa, being the nice guy that he is, stepped aside and turned his back. Then Hank, sheltered in his mom’s arms, and with the help of Grandpa, got his candy.

What a difference a year makes.

Hank, the first baby in the family in 11 years, was the center of much attention.

In 2012, when he was six months old, Hank was all smiles sitting on Santa’s lap.

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Annie Mary still remembers me on Halloween October 31, 2014

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THAT ANNIE MARY TWENTE is getting a tad forgetful is to be expected. She would, after all, be 134 years old if she had lived past age six.

The little girl from Hanska was buried alive in October 1886 after presumably falling into a coma and thought dead by her parents. But she wasn’t. Dead, that is.

Stories featured in Ghostly Tales of Southwest Minnesota.

Stories featured in Ghostly Tales of Southwest Minnesota include “Annie Mary’s Restless Spirit.” Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.

As this southwestern Minnesota ghost story goes, Annie’s father went a bit mad after exhuming his daughter’s body and finding scratch marks inside her coffin and locks of hair pulled from Annie’s head.

I can only imagine. The very thought of burying one’s child alive would make anyone crazy.

I first learned of Annie Mary more than 30 years ago, when I lived in a community near Hanska. My Aunt Marilyn grew up hearing the story from her mother, Stella, who grew up just across the lake from the Richard Twente farm.

So when I moved to St. James, near Hanska, my aunt reminded me that I now lived in Annie Mary’s backyard. She told me about the fenced cemetery with the lone gravestone and somewhere in her storytelling Marilyn mentioned Annie swinging in a swing knotted to a tree branch. Legends seem to take on a life of their own, meaning it’s often difficult to separate fact from fiction.

A card I received from Annie Mary on a past Halloween.

A card I received from Annie Mary on a past Halloween. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo.

But one fact remains constant. Every year for about the past thirty, I’ve received a Halloween card from the little girl who was buried alive. It’s always signed ANNIE MARY in an awkward childish print of block letters.

Up until this year, Annie also wrote, “I MISS YOU!” That always sent shivers up my spine, even though I don’t believe in ghosts and knew my Aunt Marilyn had penned the message. This year she forgot the “I MISS YOU!” part.

But she made up for the omission by finding a card with a bare branched tree shadowed in the background inside a fence. And when I look closely, I swear I see the face of a little girl and a swing dangling from a branch.

© Copyright 2014 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A Minnesota family tradition: Honoring Dad by making horseradish October 7, 2013

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Horseradish planted last year in my brother's garden and ready to harvest in a few years. This year's horseradish came from a patch near Sanborn.

Horseradish planted last year in my brother and sister-in-law’s garden and ready to harvest in a few years. This year’s horseradish came from a patch near Sanborn.

FOR MY EXTENDED FAMILY, making horseradish marks a time-honored tradition started by my father and my Uncle Mike decades ago.

Dad died 10 years ago, Uncle Mike before him, and, for awhile, so did the annual ritual of making horseradish. In his last years, Dad made horseradish with my sister Lanae and her husband, Dale.

Washing mud and dirt from the horseradish roots with the garden hose is the first step after digging.

Washing mud and dirt from the horseradish roots with the garden hose is the first step after digging.

Then, in recent years, Lanae and my brother Brian restarted this family tradition. The past two autumns, my husband and I have traveled the 120 miles to Brian’s rural Lamberton home to peel and slice, process and bottle horseradish. Mostly, I’ve documented the process with my camera although I’ve also assisted (some) with the actual making of this condiment.

To be honest, the horseradish isn’t the reason I’m there. It’s the cherished time with my mom (also known as “The Supervisor”) and extended family that draws me back to my native southwestern Minnesota prairie. We are building memories and honoring the memory of my farmer father.

Dad would delight in our gathering—in hearing the laughter and bullshit (sorry, I can’t think of a better word choice) and seeing us together. Dad was all about family.

Like our father before us, we give away our horseradish. My husband and I gathered a baker’s dozen jars to take back to Faribault for Mick and Mooch, Howard and Neal, and Dan, Steve and John, and a few others who appreciate a good taste of potent, eye-stinging, nostril-clearing horseradish.

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THE STEP-BY-STEP PROCESS:

After the initial washing of the roots, the stems are trimmed away and the horseradish goes into a laundry bag for washing in the washing machine.

After the initial washing of the roots with a garden hose, the stems are trimmed away and the horseradish goes into a laundry bag for washing in the washing machine. Do NOT add laundry detergent.

The crew (not all shown) prepares to peel the brown outer layer from the roots. Remove all of the brown so the end product is a creamy white.

Part of the crew, left to right around the tables, Julie (a friend of my brother and his wife, and a newcomer) and family members Adrienne, Adam, Andy, Lanae and Tara, prepare to peel the brown outer layer from the roots. All of the brown is removed so the finished horseradish is a creamy and unblemished white.

Once peeled, the horseradish is dumped back into a laundry bag for a second wash in the washing machine. Do NOT add detergent.

Once peeled, the horseradish is dumped back into a laundry bag for a second wash in the washing machine. Do NOT add detergent.

Once out of the washing machine, the process of chopping the horseradish begins.

Once out of the washer, the horseradish is chopped.

Lots of horseradish to cut in to small pieces.

Lots of horseradish to cut in to small pieces.

Next, the horseradish pieces go into the food processor, operated here by my husband, Randy.

Next, the horseradish pieces go into the food processor, operated here by my husband, Randy.

Brian, left, and Lanae blend the horseradish with vinegar in blenders while Randy uses the food processor.

Brian, left, and Lanae blend the horseradish with vinegar in blenders while Randy uses the food processor.

Sometimes the powerful pungent fumes overpower the workers.

Sometimes the powerful pungent fumes overpower the workers.

Adrienne buried her nose in her sleeve and stepped out of the garage a few times when she couldn't handle the overwhelming sting of the horseradish.

Adrienne buries her nose in her sleeve and stepped out of the garage a few times when she couldn’t handle the overwhelming sting of the horseradish.

Once blended to just the right consistency with the correct amount of vinegar, the horseradish is poured into jars.

Once blended to just the right consistency with the correct amount of vinegar, the horseradish is poured into jars.

Lots and lots of jars of all sizes will hold the horseradish.

Lots and lots of jars of all sizes will hold the horseradish.

The Supervisor, aka my mom, Arlene, shows up to inspect.

“The Supervisor, ” aka my mom, Arlene, shows up to inspect.

After hours of labor, the beautiful results. Creamy white horseradish.

After hours of labor, the beautiful results. Creamy white horseradish.

As the final step, The Supervisor steps in to count the jars. My sister-in-law, Vicki, watches my mom at work.

The Supervisor counts the jars., 70 total ranging in size from baby food jars to around 12-ounce size. My sister-in-law, Vicki, watches my mom at work. At one point, when my brother suggested an easier method of counting, The Supervisor told him to “shut up.” We all cracked up. We know who’s boss, and it isn’t Brian.

The last step is to take the peelings and horseradish tops to the garden for planting. We want to assure that we will have horseradish for years to come, holding on to traditon, building memories.

The last step is to take the peelings and horseradish tops to the garden for planting. We want to assure that we have horseradish for years to come, holding on to tradition, building memories and honoring our dad.

CLICK HERE TO READ last year’s post about making horseradish.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Celebrating family & the Fourth in rural Minnesota July 7, 2013

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I LOVE MY EXTENDED family and our annual tradition of gathering around the Fourth of July.

The men gathered to grill burgers and brats and...

How many men does it take to grill burgers and brats? These three plus two more.

There’s plenty of food and drink, laughter, smart talk, and displays of patriotism. We end the evening with most of us bunking out on the basement floor or in spare bedrooms, arising the next morning for egg bake and accompanying breakfast foods, and coffee, before heading back to our homes.

A view of Lamberton, Minnesota, just to the south of my brother's rural acreage.

A view of Lamberton, Minnesota, just to the south of my brother’s rural acreage.

This year all of my adult children joined my husband and me for the trek to Lamberton in southwestern Minnesota. That, in itself, is cause enough to celebrate as seldom are my three all together. With one daughter five hours away in northeastern Wisconsin and the son soon moving to Boston, I treasure these family times.

My mom, Arlene, made this flag cake. Impressive, huh?

My mom, Arlene, made this flag cake. Impressive, huh?

I expect my 82-year-old mom felt the same—happy that five of her six kids and their families could attend.

The youngest attendee, my great nephew Hank, who recently turned one.

The youngest attendee, my great nephew Hank, who recently turned one.

Nothing compares to the embracing love of family with whom you share a common bond of memories.

I love this photo of my 19-year-old son, Caleb, picking berries with Ari.

I love this photo of my 19-year-old son, Caleb, picking mullberries with Ari, my great niece.

Sparklers are part of our annual tradition.

When the sun disappears from the prairie sky, the sparklers come out, part of the tradition.

© Copyright 2013 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Loving Christmas with family December 26, 2012

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My husband Randy and me with our three adult children, from left to right, Miranda, Caleb and Amber.

My husband Randy and me with our three adult children, from left to right, Miranda, Caleb and Amber.

IF YOU WANT to make a mom happy, return home for Christmas.

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.

My three, plus the eldest daughter’s boyfriend, Marc, opened a few gifts Christmas Eve afternoon before Miranda had to leave. Caleb is juggling on the left with his new juggling balls.

All three of my children were able to get back to Faribault for the holidays, although my second daughter had to leave early Christmas Eve afternoon. She was on-call Christmas Day with her job as a Spanish medical interpreter in northeastern Wisconsin. But I had her here for awhile and that made me one joyful mother.

Ditto for my mom.

After taking numerous "good photos," we decided to imitate six-month-old Hank (the first great grandchild for my mother) by closing our eyes. Missing from the photo is Alex, the photographer.

After taking numerous “good photos,” we decided to imitate six-month-old Hank (the first great grandchild for my mother) by closing our eyes and pretending to sleep. Missing from the photo is Alex, the photographer.

For the first time in many years, all six of her children and their spouses and their children, plus the first great grandchild and significant others, gathered for a pre-Christmas family celebration at my middle brother’s rural Lamberton home.

One of my favorite candid shots, my son embracing his grandma, whom he had not seen since July Fourth.

One of my favorite candid shots, my son embracing his grandma, whom he had not seen since July Fourth.

My mom repeated many times, before and after the get together, how very happy she was that everyone could make it. All but four could stay for the entire day and into the evening.

Santa shows up every year at the family Christmas. Here he hugs my second daughter. He handed out cans of SPAM to me and my siblings apparently to celebrate all the SPAM we consumed as children.

Santa shows up every year at the family Christmas. Here he hugs my second daughter. He handed out cans of SPAM to me and my siblings apparently to celebrate all the SPAM we consumed as children.

We took lots and lots and lots of pictures, as my eldest daughter’s boyfriend noted. I believe, I mean I know, he was slightly overwhelmed by the entire event. Who wouldn’t you be when you’re not used to my loud and fun-loving family, most of whom bunk out on the basement floor after the day’s festivities end?

Last year my sister Lanae brought vintage hats for all the women to wear. Here most of the granddaughters pose with grandma.

Last year my sister Lanae brought vintage hats for the women. Here most of the granddaughters model their hats with grandma.

I love my family. And I love that my 80-year-old mom experienced the joy of having her closest loved ones with her for a single day to celebrate Christmas.

I decided the men needed hats, too, so I brought Santa hats for them to model in a serious pose.

I decided the boys needed hats, too, so I brought Santa hats for them to wear, here in a serious pose.

HOW ABOUT YOU? Are you able to gather with extended family to celebrate Christmas and what are some of your traditions?

Santa always poses for a photo with my mom.

Santa always poses for a photo with my mom.

Hank, the first baby in the family in 11 years, was the center of much attention.

Hank, the first baby in the family in 11 years, was the center of much attention.

My sister Lanae gifted our brothers, Brian and Brad, with Kitty Piddle and Dog Drool.

My sister Lanae gifted our brothers, Brian and Brad, with Kitty Piddle and Dog Drool. I also received red hot sauce from her and one fabulous gift I will tell you about in another post.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Rejoicing in the Sunday School Christmas Program December 16, 2012

Sunday School students at Trinity Lutheran Church, Faribault, present the Christmas story Saturday evening.

Sunday School students at Trinity Lutheran Church, Faribault, present the Christmas story Saturday evening.

EMBEDDED DEEP in the memories of, I expect, many Midwestern Baby Boomers like me is the rich tradition of the Sunday School Christmas program.

There is simply nothing sweeter, nothing more meaningful to me, than viewing the Christmas story from the perspective of a child. Such telling, such re-enacting of the biblical account of Christ’s birth exorcises the frills, the stress, the hustle and bustle, the worldliness from my holiday experience. And that is a good thing.

Every little girl wants to portray an angel...

Every little girl wants to portray an angel…

For one evening, for one hour, I take it all in—this most basic sharing of the gospel by darling angels in glittery halos and restless wings, by usually rambunctious boys cinched in bath robes, by the honored two portraying Mary and Joseph, by the other children who sing and tell of Jesus’ birth.

Dressed in holiday finery, the little ones wait in the fellowship hall before the start of the worship service.

Dressed in holiday finery, the little ones wait in the fellowship hall before the start of the worship service.

It is a magical time, a butterflies-in-your-stomach worship service for the children, giddy with joy yet nervous about stepping before the congregation,.

I grew up with the Sunday School Christmas Program, lined up on the basement steps of the old wood-frame church in Vesta packed shoulder to shoulder with my classmates, awaiting that moment when the organist would begin playing “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and we would enter, pair-by-pair, into the sanctuary.

An angel proclaims the news of Christ's birth.

An angel proclaims the news of Christ’s birth.

Although costumed pageantry was not allowed in the conservative Lutheran church of my youth, I remember with fondness those traditional Christmas hymns—“Away in a Manger,” “Joy to the World,” “Behold, A Branch is Growing,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem”—which told of Christ’s birth as did the memorized sharing of the gospel when we each “spoke our piece.”

I always prayed I would never be assigned to recite the confusing verse: So Joseph went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David…

And so the years passed until I outgrew the Sunday School Christmas program.

The cast from the biblical account of the Savior's birth.

The cast from the biblical account of the Savior’s birth.

Decades later I would pass the tradition along to my own three children, this time in a Lutheran church which allowed the costumed pageantry of sharing the biblical account of the Savior’s birth. The halos and bathrobes, the reading of the gospel, the singing of Christmas hymns all wove into their memories.

Now I am at that place in my life when I sit side-by-side with my husband in a pew, our children grown and gone, not yet married, awaiting those Christmases when the tradition of the Sunday School Christmas Program will pass along to the next generation.

After the service, my friends' children, Nevaeh (Mary) and Braxton, pose for photos in the fellowship hall.

After the service, my friends’ children, Nevaeh (Mary) and Braxton, pose for photos in the fellowship hall.

TELL ME, is a Sunday School Christmas Program (or something similar) part of your Christmas experience? Do you have such fond memories from your youth?

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Making horseradish, a family tradition October 24, 2012

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MY DAD WOULD HAVE loved it.

On Saturday, my husband and I gathered with extended family in a garage just north of Lamberton in rural southwestern Minnesota for the annual making of horseradish, a tradition started by my horseradish loving father many years ago.

Freshly dug horseradish, soaking in water and ready to be washed.

Back in the day, my dad and bachelor uncle, Mike, would occasionally make horseradish. Eventually my sister Lanae (and later her husband, Dale, too) began assisting Dad with the digging and washing and peeling and slicing and processing of this pungent root. And then, when the creamy white sauce was bottled, Dad would haul it down to the Vesta Community Hall for the annual Senior Citizens’ craft/bake/produce sale. Folks would wait in line to snap up Vern’s homemade horseradish.

The 2012 horseradish making crew, front row, left to right, Randy, Tara, Lanae and Arlene. Back row: Andy, Brian and Vicki. I’m obviously missing from the photo as are Al and Alyssa, who arrived later.

Dad has been gone for nearly 10 years now, his annual root rite resurrected in recent years by Lanae and my middle brother, Brian. For the first time I joined them and other family in making horseradish, and, although I will eat horseradish, I am not a fanatical fan like my siblings and our father before us.

Peeling the horseradish, the third step after digging and washing.

But it wasn’t the horseradish which drew Randy and me to drive more than two hours to Brian and Vicki’s rural acreage to stand at tables in a garage on a chilly Saturday to process horseradish that would soon overwhelm us with eye-stinging fumes.

It was family and tradition and memory-building and time together which brought us to this peaceful place, to this land where I grew up some 25 miles to the north and west. Any reason to return to my beloved prairie.

My mother, the main supervisor, watches from her chair. Vicki, who is recovering from surgery, also supervised.

And so Randy and I were instructed in the art of horseradish making while my 80-year-old mother supervised from a comfy chair, occasionally rising to skirt the tables, to check the progress.

We listened to the tales of horseradish making past, when metal shavings from the old meat grinder flaked into the horseradish. We heard of Dad’s old drill shorting and shocking whoever was using the drill (which he had rigged to drive the meat grinder) to pulverize the roots.

First the food grinder was used…

And when the food grinder continually plugged, the food processor was put into action and this worked.

The old meat grinder and drill have been stashed away now, replaced first by a modern electric grinder (which failed to work as planned) and then by a food processor before the pulverized roots were mixed with vinegar in a blender.

Proof that honeymooners Al and Alyssa helped make horseradish.

As words and horseradish peelings flew and laughter bounced around the garage, it was sometimes difficult to separate fact from fiction, especially when the beer was cracked open upon the arrival of honeymooners Al and Alyssa. Al and his bride of one week, on their way home from Duluth to Tyler, pitched in. And I photographed them so some day their children will believe their parents made horseradish on their honeymoon.

My mom, the supervisor, counts jars. We filled 66, a smaller yield than normal. Horseradish not kept by family is given away (never sold) as our Dad, except for those he sold at the fundraiser, gave his away. We honor him by gifting horseradish lovers with a jar.

The supervisor counts the jars of horseradish.

These are the moments that matter most in life, the sweet times with family. And nothing touched my heart more than watching my aging mom, the supervisor, rise from her chair to meticulously count and record the yield.

AND FOR THOSE OF YOU unfamiliar with the entire process, here are additional photos to show you the steps needed to grow and make horseradish:

STEP 1:

Plant the horseradish, which grows from the left-over scraps of roots, etc.

STEP 2:

The plants will need to grow for about three years before you can reap the first harvest. We will be looking for additional horseradish to harvest in 2013. If you live anywhere near Lamberton, Vesta,  Faribault or Waseca, and have extra horseradish, let me know.

STEP 3: Dig up the roots; I missed photographing this given I arrived after the digging.

STEP 4:

Wash the dirt from the roots using a hose.

STEP 5:

Peel the roots, remaining aware that your work is being closely monitored by the supervisor, right.

STEP 6:

Dump the horseradish into a laundry bag and wash in the washing machine, without detergent, of course, and I think on a gentle cycle. About this time, your crew can take a break and eat lunch which may or may not include red Jell-O with bananas.

STEP 7:

Chop the machine-washed horseradish.

STEP 8:

While one crew chops ,left, the other grinds the horseradish, step 8, with a grinder (fail) or food processor. The supervisor keeps a watchful eye over operations.

STEP 9:

Dump the pulverized roots into the blender, add vinegar and blend until creamy. You may want to cover your face, or make a face, to deal with the eye-stinging fumes.

STEP 10:

Pour into jars and cap.

STEP 11:

Label the jars. Stash jars in refrigerator. Give away or eat.

BONUS PHOTO:

Al and Alyssa’s dog, Lily, whom we had to keep from eating errant chunks of horseradish that fell onto the floor.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

In southern Minnesota: “An old-time mission festival out in the woods” August 7, 2012

A sign marks the mission festival site at Marquardt’s Grove where cattle gates to the pasture are opened to allow entry. That’s the dry bed of Bull Run Creek on the left.

AT 8 A.M. SUNDAY, Harold Krienke swung his truck into Marquardt’s Grove some 10 miles south of Janesville to help set up for the annual mission festival in the woods near his country church, Immanuel Lutheran.

It was then he spotted the large black cat with the long tail edging dried up Bull Run Creek some 100 feet from the site where worshipers would gather 2 ½ hours later. “It wasn’t a house cat,” Krienke laughs. The cat—perhaps a panther, some speculate—didn’t scare him; it had been seen previously in the area.

Krienke’s animal encounter certainly wasn’t the first, and won’t be the last, at this mission festival held for the past 75 years in a five-acre wooded section of a 70-acre pasture where cattle still graze days before the event. Last year several head of cattle busted through an electric fence and charged across the creek toward the worship site. Another time horses caused a bit of trouble. No harm done, though, as the wayward animals were chased away.

Len Marquardt, who owns the woodlot and pasture, previously owned by his father, Alfred, and Alfred’s father, Gustav, before him, takes it all in stride. A few wandering animals won’t stop him from continuing the tradition of three generations of his family hosting the long-time festival of Freedom Church, as it is commonly known (referencing its location in Freedom Township), and the past two years in conjunction with Trinity Lutheran Church, Wilton Township, also known as the Wilton Church.

An overview of the worship site with the Freedom Band seated on the stage and the audience seated on plank benches and lawn chairs on the hillside. Freedom and Trinity Pastor Glenn Korb is standing at the makeshift altar.

Len’s heart and soul are committed to what he defines as “an old-time mission festival out in the woods.”

That definition seems apt for this event which, many Freedom members estimate, has been ongoing for a century. In the early days, area farmers took turns hosting the annual summer mission festival. The outdoor worship service has always been held around the same time of year, initially chosen, Len says, because the wheat harvest would have just been completed and farmers would have had more money to donate to the church.

Offerings are collected in ice cream buckets at the mission festival.

Money, though, has never been the focus of the festival although a collection is taken. Rather, the purpose is to “help people to focus on missions,” says Len, who several years ago accompanied his daughter, Julie, and others on a mission trip to Nicaragua. It changed him and he now takes personally the words “Here am I, send me” from the hymn “Hark! the Voice of Jesus Crying.” Julie, now a third-year student at Concordia University in Seward, Nebraska, followed up with a mission trip to Hong Kong and is now considering a career as a missionary.

“I think we need to be a church in mission,” Len says as he explains the purpose of the mission fest on his family’s property. The natural setting of farm fields, open pasture and woods, with a cool breeze stirring oak leaves and raising goosebumps on Sunday morning, connected worshipers to the message delivered by the Rev. Dr. Robert Holst, retired president of Concordia University, St. Paul, and a former missionary to Papua, New Guinea.

The Rev. Dr. Robert Holst delivered a message on missions and afterward answered questions about his missionary service in New Guinea. Len Marquardt says the congregation has never had trouble finding a guest pastor as they savor participating in an “old-time mission festival out in the woods.”

As Rev. Holst spoke of his experiences in his sermon, “Global Missions: International Love,” worshipers, sitting among the trees, could easily imagine the primitive ways of the New Guinea people, their belief in spirits, their sacrifice of pigs, their mistrust and misunderstandings and lack of knowledge about God and the challenges the pastor faced in telling them about Christ.

Foreign missions seemed as close as a thought away for attendees like Jeanette Schoenfeld of Wilton Church who enjoys the mission fest because, she says, “It’s like they do in Africa,” worshiping outdoors.

Baby Jaci sits with her dad, Mike, and brother, Bales, during the worship service.

Len Marquardt and others, including his sister, Sally Hodge, appreciate, too, the traditions they are passing from family to family through generations of mission festivals. As Sally samples a vinegary, potato-green bean dish prepared for the mission fest potluck, she glances back to kids racing up the wooded hillside. “I remember tromping up the hills, tromping up the trails, building wood forts…talk about history and family and pleasure in knowing each other…” Sally says as she glances across the table at friend and fellow parishioner Davin Quiram.

All ages, and several generations of families, attended the mission fest on Sunday.

Sally Hodge sings in the choir and usually plays in the band. But this year she didn’t make the practices so was unable to join the Freedom Band. She lives just up the hill from Marquardt’s Grove and grew up on the other side of “just up the hill.”

Davin, like Sally a life-long member of Freedom, concurs as the two reminisce and remember the rare treat of soda pop from the mission fest pop and candy stand, which Davin will later man. The friends don’t recall specific mission speakers or messages from their childhood days, only those racing through the woods and gulping pop memories.

Davin, though, is quick to rattle off the areas of ministry covered by mission speakers in the past 10 years: American Indians, Hispanic, college, Japanese and such.

An elderly man turns to a hymn in the old pocket-size songbook that’s been used for decades.

While guest speakers change from year to year, the music remains constant with worshipers singing hymns from the pocket-size Mission Hymns Suitable for Mission Festivals and Similar Gatherings (out of print for 80 years).

Likewise, the Freedom Band, the church band comprised of Freedom members and others from the area and in existence for an estimated 80 years, uses the same familiar music books such as The Church Band Book—Choral Melodies of the Lutheran church for Military Band by A. Grimm, published in 1919 by Antigo Publishing Co., and a handwritten book of music transposed from a hymnal for the band.

The Freedom Band and some of its handwritten music.

The Freedom Band has always played at the mission fest and other area mission events in years gone by. At any time, 5 – 7 members of Sally’s family, the Marquardts, may be playing in the band—all on the trumpet but for one on the sax.

Gemma Lin returned to the mission fest, one year after her baptism there in 2011.

Part of mission fest also includes the occasional outdoor baptism. Sally’s father, Alfred, born in 1911, was baptized at the Freedom Mission Festival. Last year, a century later, two-month-old Gemma Lin of Mankato was baptized in Marquardt’s Grove and her great uncle was baptized the night before at Freedom Church. Aleta Lin, Gemma’s mom, treasures her daughter’s unique baptism and the story of that baptism which will always be a part of family history. She hopes Gemma will, through the years, continue to attend mission fest, a life-long tradition for Aleta, a life-long member of Freedom Church.

A bible lies on the floor of the stage where the band played and the preachers preached.

For those outside of Freedom, memories of past mission fests also come quickly. Such festivals were once a staple among rural congregations as a time to worship God in the outdoors, to socialize afterward at a potluck dinner and even meet future spouses.

Worshipers line up for a potluck dinner after the worship service.

Guest pastor Holst opened his message by reminiscing about the mission fests of his youth, recalling the washtubs full of soda pop—root beer, 7-UP and Orange Crush—set out by the youth group. He also remembered the ball games between fathers and children.

On Sunday there were no ball games or kids racing for a rare treat of pop. But plenty of kids—from babies to teens—settled onto temporary wood plank benches and lawn chairs or upon blankets or in car seats on the same ground in Marquardt’s Grove that has, for generations, served as an outdoor house of worship on one Sunday in August.

The vintage mini songbook lying on planks and the mission site in the background.

FYI: Check back for an additional post featuring mission fest photos and for a separate photo essay of Freedom Church.

© Copyright 2012 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

My family still believes in Santa December 26, 2011

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Santa poses with my mom and the younger generation at a family holiday gathering on Friday evening.

AGE MATTERS NOT. Not one bit. Not when it comes to Santa.

He’s still magical, whether you’re 12 or 79 ½ or any age in between.

Friday evening, 24 hours before his busiest night of the year, Santa blew into a rural Redwood County residence on the southwestern Minnesota prairie, arriving so unexpectedly that he nearly rocketed a sister-in-law of mine straight out of her chair to the North Pole.

With a rapid drumming on the dining room window, he startled more than a few family members before slipping through a patio door into our holiday gathering.

The oldest family member surprised by Santa's visit, my 79-year-old mom. I should mention that my mom typically does not wear a fancy hat. But my middle sister started a tradition this year of all the women wearing fancy vintage hats. She brought enough for all of us to wear and it was great fun.

The youngest family member in attendance, my 12-year-old nephew, clearly enjoyed Santa's visit, too.

Hugs and handshakes and laughter and good-natured ribbing and even a kiss, followed by countless photos with Santa, defined the surprise visit now imprinted upon our memories.

I love this about my extended family. We don’t allow age to define our fun.

We still believe in Santa.

Santa made the rounds, greeting each family member, except my middle brother who had vanished.

My son and eldest daughter had their picture taken with Santa. My other daughter was unable to make it back to Minnesota for Christmas because she was working at her job as a Spanish medical interpreter in eastern Wisconsin.

Then Santa waved goodbye...

...and magically disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

HOW ABOUT YOU? What crazy things does your family do at Christmas time to build memories? Does your family still believe in Santa?

© Copyright 2011 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

A chocolate cake tradition of love June 22, 2011

Homemade chocolate Crazy Cake frosted with Chocolate Buttercream Frosting.

THEY RAVED ABOUT the moistness of the cake. And three of them—all guys—forked up a second slice of the chocolate cake I’d made from scratch.

I almost said, “Ummm, guys, it’s the women who should have a second piece.” But I let them be, passing the cake pan around the table, plating more cake.

This is one moist, delicious chocolate cake.

Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I shared the story about this cake. They needed to hear it, to understand that they weren’t eating just any old cake but cake made from a special recipe.

This Crazy Cake, aka Wacky Cake, is the chocolate cake of my youth, the one my mom made every time she baked a birthday cake, I told my friends.

“We didn’t have much money, didn’t get birthday presents,” I explained as my friends savored each bite of chocolate cake. “So our birthday present was the cake, an animal cake my mom made.

She would pull out her cake book and let us pick the animal shape we wanted for our birthday cake—a lion, a horse, a duck, an elephant…”

“My mom had a book like that too,” my friend Jackie chimed in.

Mari, on the other end of the table, nodded her head. Likewise, her mother had a booklet that provided instructions for transforming round cakes and square cakes and oblong cakes into animal shapes.

By cutting the cake and decorating it with various candies and frosting, my mom transformed a plain chocolate cake in to a special animal-shaped birthday cake.

Those birthday cakes were magical. I never missed the birthday presents, never even knew I should receive gifts, because I had that cake, that special, special chocolate animal-shaped cake.

When I became a mother, I continued the tradition with my children. While I didn’t have an animal cake book, I had my imagination. I made a snowman, Garfield, Piglet, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, a horse (that looked more like a cow than an equine)…

Unlike me, my children got birthday presents, plenty of them. But I would like to think that the one they will remember is the annual gift of an animal-shaped birthday cake, a gift, really, passed down from their grandmother.

For in the passing down of that tradition, I’m honoring their grandma, my mom, who taught me that birthdays are not about prettily wrapped presents, but about love. And that love, for me, will always be symbolized by homemade chocolate Crazy Cake.

Chocolate Crazy Cake

3 cups flour

2 cups white sugar

½ cup cocoa

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking soda

Mix the dry ingredients together and then stir in:

¾ cup salad (vegetable) oil

2 cups cold water

2 Tablespoons vinegar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Pour into a 9 x 13-inch cake pan and bake at 350 degrees for 35 – 40 minutes.

When the cake is cool, whip up a bowl of this creamy Chocolate Buttercream Frosting.

When cool, frost with:

Chocolate Buttercream Frosting

6 Tablespoons butter, softened

½ cup cocoa

2 2/3 cups powdered sugar

1/3 cup milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

Cream butter in a small mixing bowl. Then add the cocoa and powdered sugar alternately with the milk, beating to a spreading consistency. You may need to add an additional tablespoon of milk. Blend in vanilla. Spread on cake. Makes about two cups of frosting.

The recipe yields two cups of heavenly, finger-licking-good frosting.

© Copyright 2011 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Recipes from The Cook’s Special, 1973, St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church, Vesta, Minnesota, and Hershey’s Easy-Does-It Recipe #10