WHENEVER SOMEONE ASKS if I’m from Faribault, I respond, “Well, I’ve lived here for 44 years, but I’m new.” I say that half-jokingly, half-truthfully. I’ll never be “from” here. And I am “new” because I haven’t lived here my entire life, like many have. And I’m not related to half the town (semi-exaggerating), like many are.
Then I attempt to explain from whence I came. I start with Mankato, the nearest large city to the west, then work my way westward to New Ulm and Redwood Falls, eventually landing on my hometown of Vesta in northwestern Redwood County. Most have never heard of this southwestern Minnesota small town, but a few have.
Recently I returned to this farming community of some 300 for an aunt’s funeral. After the church service, burial service and a luncheon at St. John’s Lutheran Church, and before the 120-mile return trip to Faribault, I stopped downtown. By downtown, I mean a single block, today defined primarily by vacant lots and abandoned buildings.
Vesta, like so many small towns, once had a thriving core business community. That declined as society became more mobile, as young people graduated and left the area, as shopping habits changed. I could see that already when I left my hometown in 1974. My mom shopped for groceries once a month or so in neighboring Redwood Falls. That city and Marshall, 20 miles to the west, centered regional shopping then.
Back to Vesta today. The former municipal liquor store, now privately-owned, and the bank anchor the south corners of the downtown block, with the post office and grain elevator complex just across the street. Long gone is the towering grain elevator where farmers, including my dad, once delivered corn and soybeans. Clusters of grain bins now hold harvested crops.
Also long gone is the feed mill and the lumberyard across the street. I remember going to the dusty feed mill with my dad. And I remember my mom gathering booklets of house floor plans from the lumberyard. After years of hoping and planning, my parents built a new house on our farm just south of town in 1967 to accommodate their growing family. We were all happy to move from our aged, cramped farmhouse into a spacious home with more bedrooms and a bathroom.
Downtown Vesta today bears little resemblance to the teeming town of my youth—the place where I was baptized, married, attended elementary school (long closed), ice skated in the shadow of the grain elevator, visited my grandparents… The place where I bought caps for my cap gun at Joe Engel’s Hardware Store, Bazooka bubblegum at Rasmussen’s grocery, a set of amber drinking glasses at Marquardt’s Hardware for my mom on Mother’s Day. The place where Dad occasionally treated me to a candy bar at Wiegers’ or the muni or to a bottle of pop at my Uncle Harold’s service station.
This is the place where I sold poppies on Poppy Day and read “In Flanders Fields” during the annual Memorial Day program. The place where I boarded a Greyhound bus as a kid and rode alone all the way to Minneapolis to visit an aunt and uncle. The memories go on and on.
I knew I would eventually leave Vesta for good with no opportunities to keep me in my hometown. But that doesn’t diminish how much I still appreciate this prairie place which shaped me. I need to revisit Vesta occasionally to remind me of its importance in my life. I will be forever connected to this small town and its people.
Toward the north end of the downtown block stands the Vesta Cafe, new since I left, although Don’s Cafe was open when I was a kid. Locals gather here for morning coffee and cards, catching up on the latest. And when the town whistle blows at noon, as I heard it recently while standing at my aunt’s graveside, customers arrive at the cafe for dinner. And, yes, the noon meal is “dinner,” the evening meal, “supper,” in this rural area. Menu items and specials like hamburger corn hotdish, liver and onions, and a beef commercial draw diners. My Dad, on the rare occasion he dined out, would always order a beef commercial—roast beef piled onto white bread, topped with gravy, then a scoop of mashed potatoes smothered with more gravy. That’s the ultimate in old school rural dining.
Rural rooted and grew me. From the once-flourishing community of Vesta to the crop and dairy farm across the Redwood River a mile south of town on the county road to Lucan, this prairie place shaped me as a person, a writer and a photographer. I am still “from” here, even though gone for more than 50 years now.
© Copyright 2026 Audrey Kletscher Helbling
Minnesota Prairie Roots 
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