Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Crocheting calms, connects community via “Friendship Trees” project September 24, 2026

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Colorful squares of crocheted art hug a tree near the Cannon River in Bridge Square, Northfield. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

AS SUMMER COZIES INTO AUTUMN and temps drop, I pull out the fleece, flannel and sweaters, wrapping myself in warmth. And in the evening, when I settle in to read a book, I snuggle under a throw or an afghan.

This happy face makes me smile. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

Those images came to me as I meandered recently around Bridge Square in Northfield where crocheted art wraps the rough bark of tree trunks.

A bear hug on a tree felt like a bear hug for me. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

This is the “Friendship Trees” project, an effort of the local Hispanic community to share beauty and friendship, according to Mar Valdecantos, director of Rice County Neighbors United, the lead on this artistic endeavor. Grants from the Southern Minnesota Initiative Foundation and the Southeastern Minnesota Arts Council funded the project.

A project summary hangs on a tree of flags. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

But these crocheted pieces created by 39 individuals rooted in nine countries is about much more than beauty and friendship. This is also about healing, specifically recovering from the trauma of federal immigration enforcement in Minnesota last winter. Although dubbed Operation Metro Surge, the lengthy, targeted Immigration and Customs Enforcement operations in my state impacted communities far beyond the metro area, including Northfield.

Merchandise for sale at Mercado Local, a shop where local immigrants sell their creative works and goods. An arts space is also housed in the nonprofit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2024)

If you’ve ever crocheted, you understand that rhythmically working a crochet hook through yarn calms and soothes. Gathering to crochet in the arts space at Northfield’s Mercado Local helped ease the anxiety many in the Hispanic community were feeling, and continue to feel, over immigration enforcement, Valdecantos noted in an email.

The florals in this piece include sunflowers, a global symbol of solidarity and resistance. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)
Even the skinniest of trees, this one across the street from Bridge Square, got a crochet wrap. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)
This cute bunny reminds me of the blue bunny hat worn by 5-year-old Liam Ramos, detained by ICE in Minnesota along with his father. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

As I wandered among the many artsy trees, I thought of all those fingers manipulating yarn to create something beautiful and meaningful from emotional trauma. I expect every artist intentionally crocheted art with meaning.

Division Street backdrops a tree upon which crocheted flags hang. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

Some intent seems obvious to me. Flags hugging a highly-visible tree along Division Street show pride in country of origin and in America.

Monarchs are incorporated into this art piece in the heart of Bridge Square. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

Monarch butterflies on another tree are symbolic of migration, solidarity, hope and resilience. Monarchs became a national symbol of resistance against ICE.

The frog as a form of resistance began with a frog costume in Portland, Oregon. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

Likewise, I spotted a frog, that, too, a form of resistance with a humorous take.

I interpret the lion to stand for fierce strength. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

A lion, I expect, is meant to stand for bravery, fierceness, the power of standing strong.

The Cannon River at sunset as photographed from Bridge Square. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

All around Bridge Square, which centers Northfield’s downtown along the Cannon River, these crochet-wrapped trees represent the strength, courage and resilience of the local Hispanic community. I saw that in the designs, in the bold and bright colors, and felt it simply by seeing.

I expect there’s some symbolism in this mass of spiders. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

Art is powerful.

Bridge Square is centrally-located in the heart of downtown Northfield across from these Division Street businesses. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

These inter-generational crocheters continue to meet at Mercado Local, pulling crochet hooks through yarn, crafting not only for themselves, but also for the greater Northfield community. Connecting. Creating. Calming anxieties, building and strengthening community through art.

In the glow of early evening, sunflowers wrap a tree in solidarity. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo September 2026)

FYI: “Friendship Trees” is a temporary two-month art installation. I photographed the art in early September, shortly after it was installed.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Trauma on Willow Street August 28, 2026

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A Harley Davidson motorcycle driven by Scott Hoffbeck lies in Willow Street following an August 26 crash. This edited photo was taken after a critically-injured Hoffbeck was rushed from the scene. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo August 2026 by Randy Helbling)

TWO DAYS AFTER A SERIOUS car-motorcycle crash by our house, I’m ready to write about this traumatizing event.

First and foremost, I am thankful that the motorcyclist, Scott Hoffbeck, 61, of Farmington survived. He was critically injured and listed in stable condition Thursday morning at St. Mary’s Hospital in Rochester, according to Faribault police. Hoffbeck was taken directly to the Faribault airport and airlifted out within an hour of the 9:06 p.m. Wednesday crash.

Those are the basic facts. The cause of the crash, which happened at the intersection of Willow Street and Tower Place, remains under investigation. The driver of the car, identified as Abdirahman Harun, 20, of Faribault, was not injured.

GRATEFUL

The story I want to share today is one of gratitude and recognition of two individuals who rendered aid to the motorcyclist before emergency personnel arrived. They are my husband, Randy, and a passing motorist whom I flagged down to help. I firmly believe that, if not for Randy and Rosa (not her real name, because I did not ask permission to use it), Scott may not have survived or could have experienced additional injuries.

Shortly after hearing the crash, Randy and I looked out the front living room window to see a motorcycle lying in the street, the motionless driver beside it. We raced out of our house to help, me barefoot and Randy in his socks. We feared initially that the motorcyclist was dead. But as I neared the biker, I could hear his ragged breathing. It’s a sound unlike any I’ve ever heard and my fear of his imminent death grew.

While Randy was on the phone with 911, the driver of the car was also, asking me for our address to summon help. I prayed aloud for the motorcyclist, whose name I did not yet know.

In a situation like this, time stands still and moments fly and everything seems surreal and unreal and overwhelming. All I wanted was for EMTs or paramedics to arrive, care for this man and get him on his way to a trauma center.

HELPING HOWEVER WE COULD

But while we waited for first responders, we did what we could. I knew I couldn’t handle being next to Scott, seeing his severe head injury up close. Observing his head trauma from a short distance was too graphic for me, causing me to turn away.

I did what I could. And that was to stand in the middle of the street, waving my arms over my head in the hopes that oncoming traffic would see me, slow down and avoid hitting Scott and Randy. I feared in the dark of evening, on our busy street, that they would be run over.

I asked stopped motorists if anyone had medical training. None did. But Rosa responded anyway, exiting her car to go to Scott’s side. I shall be forever grateful for her calm, loving and supportive response. Returning from an out-of-town meeting, Rosa followed a different route home than usual, taking her right to the scene of the crash. Later she would use her brand-new blazer, a gift from her father, to cradle Scott’s head and prevent additional debris from entering his head wound.

Randy remained with Scott the entire time, kneeling in the street beside him, holding his hand, keeping him still, comforting and assuring him that an ambulance was coming. Only after Scott was loaded onto a stretcher did Randy step away. He stayed calm throughout.

I, in the meantime, comforted the young driver of the car, wrapping my arms around him, holding him, gripping his shaking arms. He was clearly traumatized.

WILLOW STREET HISTORY

We’ve responded to past vehicle crashes on Willow Street, once taking in two young women on a cold November night after their car plowed into the back of a parked vehicle. Not even a year ago, a two-vehicle chase resulted in a Suburban going out of control, knocking down the power pole by our house, crossing our yard (barely missing our house) and taking out a newly-stained fence panel. Drivers of both vehicles fled the scene. Twenty years ago, our son was struck by a hit-and-run driver while crossing Willow Street on the way to his bus stop. He was not seriously injured. There have been other crashes along this arterial street within eyesight of our home. Too many to list.

But the car-motorcycle crash on Wednesday ranks as the worst. Words do not adequately convey the extent of trauma we saw, heard, felt and experienced. I am grateful for Scott’s survival and pray he makes a full recovery. I also hope the young man driving the car will be alright. It’s been a lot to process. For all of us.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The aftermath of a hit-and-run from a mother’s perspective May 15, 2026

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Twenty years ago an ambulance took my son to the Faribault hospital after he was struck by a car while crossing the street. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

SHE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND, the mother said, how anyone could drive away, leaving her son lying in the road. I don’t understand either.

Tuesday morning the Fridley woman’s 17-year-old son was struck by a vehicle while riding his bike to Spring Lake Park High School. The driver left the scene.

Twenty years ago to the date, May 12, 2006, my then 12-year-old son was also struck by a vehicle while walking to his school bus stop along Willow Street less than a block from our Faribault home. That driver, too, left the scene.

Neither of the boys was seriously injured. My son suffered a broken bone in his hand, bump on his head, possible rib fracture and scrapes. The teen from Fridley suffered scratches and skid marks across his body, according to a media report.

But we all experienced trauma, compounded by the drivers of the vehicles who drove away. Drivers who left our sons lying in the street. Drivers who failed to show the decency and compassion to stop. Drivers who, for whatever reason, decided to continue on their way while our boys, our families, dealt with the fall-out of their actions and decisions.

I understand the anger of the Fridley mom. I felt the same 20 years ago. While time has mostly erased that anger, the questions remain. Who? Why? I would like to ask the driver, “How could you simply drive away, go about your morning, your day, your life as if nothing had happened, as if you had not just hit a child and left him lying on the side of the street?”

Despite a description of the vehicle as a blue 4-door, possibly a Chevy Cavalier or Corsica; a $1,000 reward (which is no longer valid); and investigative efforts by Faribault police, the driver was never found. Twenty years after this crime, I wonder if that driver carries any guilt.

I carry the memory of that day, fully aware that the results could have been much worse. Likewise, the mom in Fridley realizes the same. She is only in the early stages of dealing with her anger, her trauma, her questions. Twenty years removed from the hit-and-run involving my son, all three of those issues remain, although lessened by the passage of time, by the gratitude I feel of still having my son.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Reflecting from Minnesota on the killing of Renee Good, wife, mom, writer & poet January 8, 2026

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This photo reflects how I am feeling today. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

ALL OF THIS is beyond belief, yet it isn’t.

I texted that to a friend today. “This” refers to the fatal shooting of Renee Good by an ICE agent in south Minneapolis on Wednesday morning. The governor of Minnesota, the mayor of Minneapolis, the police chief of Minneapolis all publicly predicted several weeks ago that something like “this” could happen during ICE’s ramped up immigration enforcement here.

I’m not surprised either. Tensions have been building, not only in Minnesota but across the country, as ICE swarms cities and communities. ICE tactics seem unnecessarily aggressive and sometimes violent. I see zero humanity. Zero compassion. Zero care. I wonder about the vetting, the training, the actions, the accountability of these ICE agents.

Now in the aftermath of Renee’s killing, the FBI, which originally agreed to work with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension on investigating the fatal shooting, has backtracked. The FBI will be the sole investigator and will not provide any investigative information to the BCA. It is impossible for me to trust the process since, shortly after the shooting, Renee Good was tagged “a domestic terrorist” by the feds. Judgment was already made.

(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Nothing I’ve read or heard indicates to me that Renee was anything but a wife, mom, writer and poet. Recently-moved to Minneapolis, the 37-year-old was young enough to be my daughter. She had a full life ahead of her.

Because I am also a wife, mom, writer and poet, I relate personally and professionally to Renee. I am grieving the senseless loss of not only a human being, but of another creative. In 2020, Renee won an Academy of American Poets Prize for her poem, “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs.” That’s quite an accomplishment for a then-undergrad at Old Dominion University. She graduated with an English degree in 2020. Today I think of all the poems this poet will never write, all the hugs and kisses this mom will never give to her three children.

A partial quote by Georgia Congressman and civil rights activist John Lewis, photographed several years ago in Dundas, Minnesota, and fitting for today. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I appreciate a three-paragraph statement released by Old Dominion President Brian O. Hemphill. It reads in part:

“…May Renee’s life be a reminder of what unites us: freedom, love, and peace. My hope is for compassion, healing, and reflection at a time that is becoming one of the darkest and most uncertain periods in our nation’s history.”

I think, as a creative, that Renee would have appreciated those well-crafted words. I do. In continuing to process this tragedy, I feel uplifted by those of you who have encouraged not only me, but Minnesotans as a whole. Your solidarity, your supportive actions, your caring words all matter while we work through this collective trauma. Thank you.

© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

House of Kahmanns: A story of trauma, family love & resilience May 1, 2024

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IT WAS A TUESDAY in January 1964. Wash day in the Kahmann household. Outside, a ground blizzard raged, reducing visibility on the southwestern Minnesota prairie. The events of that morning, of that day, would forever change the lives of siblings Karl, Patsy, Eric, Andy, John, Paul, Kevin, Katy, Karen, Phillip, Jim and Beth, and their parents, Jack and Della.

That sets the scene for House of Kahmanns, a memoir by P.G. (Patsy) Kahmann, oldest daughter, second oldest among 12 children. Sixteen months earlier, the family moved from Kansas City, Missouri, to Minnesota when Jack, a traveling salesman in a farm business, was relocated. They settled near their maternal grandparents, into a rental home by Granite Falls.

I expect Jack Kahmann was driving in weather and road conditions similar to this. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo, January 2020, used for illustration only)

This is familiar land to me in a familiar time. I was not quite eight years old in January 1964, living on a farm some 30 minutes away in neighboring Redwood County. I understand full well the fierce prairie wind that whips snow into white-out conditions. On that blustery morning, as Jack and Della and Della’s parents set out for medical and business appointments in Minneapolis, leaving the oldest, Karl, to care for the youngest children, Patsy and her school-age siblings boarded the school bus.

Rosary beads. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)

Patsy was in English class when she got the devastating news. There had been a crash. A bread truck driven by an unlicensed 14-year-old ran a stop sign and then a yield sign before slamming into the 1957 Chevy driven by Jack. Della, mother of a dozen, was the most seriously injured. “How many Hail Marys will it take to save my mother’s life?” Patsy asks herself.

An altar in a southern Minnesota Catholic church. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)

Faith, a strong Catholic faith, threads through this story. The Kahmanns were devout, prayerful, always in church. The church, or rather the local parish priest, would play the primary role in turning the initial tragedy into even more intense pain, suffering, separation and trauma for the family. Father Buckley demanded that the 12 children be placed with Catholic families while their parents recovered at a hospital 70 miles away. That, even though a Lutheran couple offered to move into the Kahmanns’ farm home and care for the children. Together.

At this point in the book, I felt my anger flashing. Anger over the inhumanity of a man of the cloth who is supposed to exude compassion, care and love. More atrocities by the priest followed. By the time I read the epilogue, I was irate, forgiveness far from my mind.

Love and forgiveness were taught in the Kahmann home. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)

But the Kahmanns were a loving and forgiving family. (Not necessarily of that priest.) One evening after they are all reunited, Jack asks his family to pray blessings upon the driver of the bread truck. Three-year-old Phillip mishears. “God bless the red truck!” he shouts. Laughter erupts. I needed that humor in a story weighing heavy upon my soul.

I wanted to step into the pages of the book and hug those kids and make everything better. Just as Millie Bea did when the Kahmanns lived in Kansas City and Jack was traveling around the country and Della needed extra help with the kids. The book flips back and forth in time and place between Missouri and Minnesota, before and after the crash.

The Kahmanns were not unfamiliar with trauma. In June 1955, Andy’s hand was nearly severed in a hand cement mixer. A Kansas City surgeon successfully reattached his limb, even though a priest told Jack that his son’s hand had been amputated. That was untrue.

Family love is such a strong theme in this book. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo used for illustration only)

Through all of this, themes of love, strength and resilience thread. The Kahmann siblings clearly looked out for and loved one another and got through some pretty awful stuff. Their motto, Patsy writes, was “No one died. We all survived.” They never talked about the accident. I’m not surprised. Who did back then? Eventually the family would relocate to Bird Island, 32 miles directly east of Granite Falls. It was a new start in a new place following their 75 days apart, “75 days of confusion, anxiety and foreboding.”

And now, with publication of House of Kahmanns—A Memoir, A story about family love and shattered bonds, about finding each other in the aftermath, perhaps these siblings are talking about all they endured. For Patsy, it is also about keeping a promise. In the book dedication she writes: To Mom and Dad/I promised you I would write this story. And she did, with honesty, pain and a great deal of strength.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

No ordinary walk to the store, a book review January 17, 2023

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Book cover credit: Beaver’s Pond Press

SHE WAS ONLY NINE YEARS OLD, too young to walk alone to the store to buy candy with the $3 clutched in her hand. Eventually, her 17-year-old cousin, Darnella Frazier, agreed to accompany Judeah Reynolds to Cup Foods. That decision on May 25, 2020, would forever change their lives. And the world.

What happened in Minneapolis that evening—the murder of George Floyd at the hands of four Minneapolis police officers—is the subject of a powerful new children’s picture book, A Walk to the Store by Judeah Reynolds as told to Sheletta Brundidge and Lily Coyle.

When I learned of the book’s September 2022 release by St. Paul-based Beaver’s Pond Press, I knew immediately that I needed to read this recounting of Judeah’s witness to Floyd’s death. The cousins arrived on an unfolding scene outside Cup Foods where Floyd lay on the ground next to a squad car, a police officer pressing his knee into the 46-year-old’s neck. Judeah, Darnella and other bystanders pleaded with the police to stop while Darnella recorded the scene on her cellphone and then shared that video online. She won a 2021 Pulitzer Prize for that documentation.

While this book recounts the death of George Floyd from a child’s perspective, it is much more than a basic retelling. The story also reveals the trauma Judeah experienced. The sadness. The difficulty sleeping. The bad dreams. The replaying of Floyd’s killing in her mind.

But this is also a story of strength and hope and about being brave enough to speak up. To say something. To let your voice be heard. To effect change.

Messages like this are included in the book. I photographed this two years ago in small town Kenyon, MN. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2020)

I heard Judeah’s determined voice in her words. I saw it, too, in Darcy Bell-Myers’ art, which reinforces the story with strong, message-filled illustrations. This book is empowering for children who read or hear this story. And it’s equally as impactful for adults.

At the end of the book is a list—How to Help Children Process a Traumatic Event. I appreciate the inclusion of those 10 suggestions given Judeah did, indeed, experience trauma. Her family even moved out of Minnesota.

This LOVE mural by Minneapolis artist Jordyn Brennan graces a building in the heart of historic downtown Faribault. The hands are signing LOVE. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo June 2021)

As I finished reading A Walk to the Store, I considered how ironic that young Judeah wore a colorful shirt emblazoned with the word LOVE as she stood on the sidewalk outside Cup Foods, witness to George Floyd’s murder.

© Copyright 2023 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Learning about my Somali neighbors via a new children’s book December 7, 2022

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LIVING IN A MINNESOTA community with a sizable Somali population, I was excited to read the recently-published children’s picture book Fire and Ashes—A Boy and an African Proverb co-authored by Minnesotans Ahmed Hassan and Wes Erwin. Why? It’s important for me to learn about my new neighbors, their homeland, their culture, their experiences before resettling in Faribault. Reading books is one way to gain insights.

Fire and Ashes, even though a book geared toward children, is an enlightening read for adults, too. I found myself fully-engaged in the story of young Warfa, a refugee from Somalia who experienced unimaginable trauma. His trauma flares when he works on a school assignment—creating a poster about himself. I can almost feel my tummy hurting, my head spinning, my heart racing right along with Warfa as he relives terrifying moments in Africa. That includes witnessing the violent death of a neighbor. (Because of that, children should read this story with an adult.)

Award-winning children’s book illustrator Meryl Treatner reinforces the story line with art so realistic that I felt like I stepped into Africa and then into Warfa’s American classroom. I could almost smell the flowery scent of the acacia tree, feel the threat in a shadowy figure, hear Warfa’s uneven breathing.

It is Warfa’s grandma who helps her “little lion” deal with his anxiety via an African proverb and practical visualization and breathing techniques. Proverbs are used in many cultures to effectively teach, to pass along wisdom. The co-authors of Fire and Ashes, both licensed counselors, wrote this book not only to share a proverb, to tell Warfa’s story, but also to shine a light on mental health and self-care. The book includes authors’ notes and a link to additional supportive resources.

There are so many reasons to appreciate Fire and Ashes. The book gives readers like me a glimpse into atrocities experienced by my new neighbors. This book gives insights into culture. And for those who have endured any type of trauma, whether young like Warfa or two generations older, this book opens the door to discussion and then to healing, to an understanding that memories are ashes, not fire.

FYI: Fire and Ashes—A Boy and an African Proverb is available for check-out at Buckham Memorial Library in Faribault and the Lanesboro Public Library, local requests only. I hope other libraries in the 11-county Southeastern Libraries Cooperating system add this book to their collections. This book, published by The Little Fig, is the first in a series focusing on African proverbs. I’d recommend purchasing Fire and Ashes for your personal library or as a gift.

© Copyright 2022 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Watching the 2018 Winter Olympics from the perspective of a Minnesota soldier’s daughter February 13, 2018

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My dad, Elvern Kletscher, at Camp McNair in Korea, photo dated February 14 (1953).

 

WATCHING THE WINTER OLYMPICS the past several days, I’ve felt a closeness to my deceased father. He walked this soil, this mountainous land so different from the flat, open farm land of his southwestern Minnesota home.

 

This photo from my dad’s collection is tagged as “Kim, Rowe, Allen & me, May 1953 Machine Gun Crew.” That’s my father on the right.

 

He landed here in 1952 with a ship full of other U.S. Army soldiers, gun in hand. A young man sent here by his government to fight on foreign land in a region that still is without solid peace. He fought on the front lines. Kill or be killed. Buddies dying. Explosions and hungry Korean orphans begging for food across barbed wire and him eating bark from trees and cold that felt even colder than the coldest of Minnesota winters.

 

This photo, pulled from the shoebox which holds my dad’s military photos, is simply labeled “front line.” That would be “front line” as in Korea, where my soldier father fought.

 

When I see the blowing snow and rugged mountain ranges during Olympics coverage, I think of my foot solider infantryman father, ranging through and over those Korean mountains. Scared. Yet doing what he must to survive. Kill or be killed.

 

My father, Elvern Kletscher, on the left with two of his soldier buddies in Korea.

 

I think of him on Heartbreak Ridge, picking off a sniper who had taken many of his buddies. And I think of the fiery shrapnel piercing his skin and the Purple Heart he would claim decades later, when he was an old man. Because a fire had destroyed his military records. Because he had tucked most of his war memories away. Because no one cared about what happened on a Korean mountaintop in 1953.

 

On the back of this photo, my dad simply wrote “a letter from home.” I appreciate this photo of my dad taken by an unknown buddy in Korea.

 

I regret that I didn’t understand him and the inner turmoil he carried with him from Korea back home to Minnesota. I regret that I didn’t ask more about his war experiences, that I didn’t recognize the trauma he suffered as a result. I regret that healing never fully came, although he found understanding and solace in the company of other veterans with similar shared experiences late in life.

All of this I consider when I view the Olympic athletes in their designer clothing, medals around their necks, applause of crowds, praise of many.

All of this I consider when I see the sister of the North Korean dictator seated behind our Vice President.

All of this I consider when I view those Korean mountains flashing across my TV screen.

 

Dad penciled on the back of this 1953 photo from Korea: “Sgt Smith & me from the States to Korea.”

 

I think of my dad as I retrieve a shoebox full of his black-and-white Korean War era photos. I sit on the sofa filing through those curled images while Olympic athletes ski and skate and propel themselves down an icy tunnel. On the back of one photo, I read my dad’s cursive notation: me in Korea May, 53.

Sixty-five years have passed since he left Korea. I wish I could sit with him now, ask him about his time in Korea, about the stories behind those photos. Perhaps he would talk, perhaps not.

 

U.S. Army Cpl. Elvern Kletscher, my father, in the trenches in Korea.

 

I wonder, would he turn off the television or would he watch the Olympians perform? Could he handle seeing the backdrop of those rugged mountains where too many of his buddies died? Would he flash back to the horrors of war?

 

My dad carried home a July 31, 1953, memorial service bulletin from Sucham-dong, Korea. In the right column is listed the name of his fallen buddy, Raymond W. Scheibe.

 

The reality is that I can’t ask him. He died in 2003. But I can write. I can use my words to tell his story, to apologize for my lack of understanding, to honor him. And this I do as Olympians cross country ski, stop, sprawl stomach down, then fire their rifles in this land, this Korea. This land where my soldier father from Minnesota shot his weapon, too. Kill or be killed.

© Copyright 2018 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

When yet another vehicle strikes another child heading to school October 18, 2017

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A teen was struck on busy Second Avenue (pictured here intersecting with Minnesota State Highway 60), several blocks north of this Faribault intersection. Minnesota Prairie Roots file photo October 2015.

 

IF YOU’VE EVER EXPERIENCED trauma, you understand how a news story can trigger difficult memories.

Tuesday morning a vehicle struck a 13-year-old girl as she crossed a busy Faribault street on the way to her bus stop. Conscious, but incoherent, she was airlifted to a Twin Cities trauma center with unknown injuries.

Now the 54-year-old male driver of the 1998 Lincoln Navigator that hit the girl faces possible charges. According to news reports, he drove his vehicle around the right side of vehicles stopped for the teen at the Second Avenue crosswalk.

When I heard the news, my mind flashed back to May 12, 2006, the date a car hit my then 12-year-old son as he crossed a busy Faribault street on the way to his bus stop.

The similarities end in the commonality of Faribault Middle School students struck on busy streets around 7:30 a.m. while going to bus stops.

My son suffered only minor injuries of a broken bone in his hand, a possible rib fracture and a bump on his head after bouncing off the windshield of a blue 4-door car, possibly a Chevy Cavalier or Corsica. That driver left the scene and has never been found despite police follow-ups on many leads and a $1,000 reward offer (now expired).

In the years since that May morning when fear gripped my heart, I’ve sometimes wondered about that motorist. How could he/she drive away from my boy, just leave him lying on the side of the road? Police suspect, and I agree, that the driver had something to hide, a reason to continue on.

 

 

I still keep a file of email exchanges with police, newspaper clippings, medical bills, insurance documents, the accident report, the reward flier and even handwritten get well cards crafted by children to my son. This incident is part of my family’s history now, part of our story.

I changed on that May morning 11 years ago. I lost some faith in the goodness of people. For awhile I was angry, driven to find the man or woman who failed to stop. I couldn’t understand the lack of compassion and still can’t. But my resolve to find the individual lessened as the years passed, replaced by an acknowledgment that I likely will never have answers.

Still, on days like Tuesday when I hear of another child struck on her way to school, the memories rise, strong and painful.

 

FYI: Click here to read an award-winning poem I wrote about the hit-and-run involving my son.

© Copyright 2017 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Don’t tell me you’re “fine” when you’re not & other insights March 5, 2017

Filed under: Uncategorized — Audrey Kletscher Helbling @ 5:00 AM
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HOW ARE YOU? I’ve never liked that question, even realizing the underlying kindness that laces those three trite words.

The standard answer of “I’m fine” is expected. The truth most often is not.

 

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Now Minneapolis writer Nora McInerny Purmort—who has faced her share of “I’m not fine” days—tackles the “How are you?” question in a podcast series from American Public Media. Terrible, (Thanks for Asking) is a must-listen series in which Nora seeks only honest responses to “How are you?”

I’ve listened to one podcast thus far. “Unbroken” features an interview with sexual assault survivor Sarah Super. It’s an incredible, horrible, powerful and, yes, sometimes graphic, story. But so worth your time for the insights revealed. Sarah is one strong woman. And we can learn so much from her about the importance of speaking up, of being heard and more.

Both she and Nora address the issue of silence. And, yes, I picked that from the interview because silence is all too pervasive. I’m talking the hard, uncomfortable silence that those who have suffered trauma, those who are dealing with health issues, those who are facing unimaginable difficulties and challenges hear. Yes, hear. Silence truly can be deafening.

Sarah cites the reason many friends and loved ones remained silent following her assault: “I didn’t know what to say or do.”

Puh-lease.

“Your silence,” Sarah says, “feels like apathy.” The definition of apathy is lack of interest, enthusiasm or concern. Lack of. Imagine how that feels to your loved one who is hurting. Lack of.

Nora reiterates Sarah’s thoughts: “Silence hurts when you are on the other end of something awful.”

In an interview with National Public Radio about her podcast series, Nora repeats, “The worst thing—and it doesn’t matter if you’re dealing with death, or if you’re dealing with all of these other things that we’ve talked to people about—silence is the worst thing you can hear from people.”

She gets it. Within six weeks, this young woman lost her father to cancer, miscarried and then lost her husband to brain cancer. Since then, Nora has authored the book It’s Okay to Laugh (Crying Is Cool, Too). And now the enlightening podcasts have followed.

What can we learn from all of this? My take-away is this: First, we need to speak up, to end the silence, to really care when we ask someone, “How are you?” And then we need to listen, really listen. That means setting aside our stories, our comments, our whatever, and truly focusing on what the other person is telling us. It’s about them. Not us.

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CHECK BACK TOMORROW for a way that Minnesota is breaking the silence on an issue that affects all of us, directly or indirectly.

© Copyright 2017 Audrey Kletscher Helbling