Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Growing up with 21 siblings in rural Minnesota, a memoir June 10, 2025

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This book is also packed with candid and posed photos of the Miller family, adding to the text. (Book cover sourced online)

THIS COULD BE MY STORY or that of any other Baby Boomer who grew up in rural southern Minnesota. With one primary exception. None of us had 21 siblings. Yes, twenty-one. I had only five—three brothers and two sisters.

But Helen Miller had seven brothers and 14 sisters, all single births, all born to the same parents, Lucille and Alvin Miller of rural Waseca, over a span on 26 years. She’s chronicled the family’s life in a self-published memoir, 21 Siblings—Cheaper by the Two Dozen.

I happened upon this book, printed in 2018, after visiting the Waseca County History Center and seeing an exhibit about this unusually large family. I knew then that I needed to read this story by Helen, 13th in line. She’s just a bit older than me. I expected my farm upbringing during the late 50s through the 60s and into the early 70s would be similar in many ways. I was right.

WHITE RICE & PANCAKES

This book proved a stroll down memory lane. I remember meals of mostly meat and potatoes with a side vegetable given that was the preferred meal of my farmer father. He, like Alvin Miller, was quite content to eat those basics and didn’t care for any deviations. Large gardens were the norm, no matter family size. Lucille Miller canned fruits and vegetables, just like my mom, except a whole lot more. And, when food supplies ran low, both our mothers cooked a meal of white rice and cinnamon. I detested that and to this day still don’t like plain white rice.

I also do not much like pancakes, although I have no particular reason to explain that dislike. Helen Miller should. She writes of the family receiving boxes and boxes of pancake mix following a railroad accident. Except they didn’t get the pancake mix until months later…when weevils had infested the food. The Millers simply sifted out the bugs, prepared and ate the pancakes. They weren’t about to turn down free food.

Specific stories like these point to the challenges of feeding a mega family, even with their own garden produce, chicken, pork and eggs. With that many people to feed and to shelter, you can only imagine the logistics of running the household. Older siblings were responsible for younger siblings. Everyone pitched in with chores. They shared a lot—clothes, shoes, a singular cup for drinking water (same as my family), rooms, a love of music and a strong faith.

This shows part of the Miller family exhibit at the Waseca County History Center. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo May 2025)

THE IMPORTANCE OF FAITH

The Millers’ Catholic faith centered their lives. Lutheranism centered mine. Faith carried the Millers through an especially tragic event—the deaths of their aunt, Irene Miller Zimmerman, and her six young children in 1959. An unseen train broadsided their station wagon just blocks from Sacred Heart School, the same school Helen and her siblings attended. She writes: It was under this veil of grief that I grew up a rather serious child. She was only four years old.

Amid the difficult moments, Helen documents light-hearted moments, too. One in particular caused me to burst into laughter. As a seven-year-old, Helen went to Confession for the first time, thinking she had not broken any of the Ten Commandments. But she had to confess something to the priest. Helen admitted to disobeying her parents twice, having false gods twice and then, and here’s the kicker, committing adultery three or four times. Now there’s nothing funny about that sin. But when an elementary-aged girl confesses to something she clearly doesn’t understand, well, I wonder how that priest kept from laughing aloud. He didn’t laugh, or correct her, according to Helen, who twice confessed to breaking the Sixth Commandment.

SEWING, FISHING & A WHOLE LOT OF PATIENCE

Story after story reveals a childhood upbringing that many times mimicked my own. Like Helen, I learned to sew because, if I wanted new clothes as a teen, I needed to stitch them. I babysat children for fifty cents an hour, just like Helen. I fished, occasionally, with my family. But the Millers fished often, usually at their rustic cabin along Reeds Lake a short drive from their farm. Vacations and dining out were not part of our youthful experiences. The list of similarities goes on and on among the many differences.

I can never fully relate to having 21 siblings. But this rural Waseca family managed and, by all accounts, well. With a whole lot of organization, love, strength and patience. And, Helen notes, with an eternally optimistic and patient mother. Just like my mom.

© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Hats off to a history of hats June 3, 2025

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Photos of fashionable hats shown in the HATS exhibit in Waseca, Minnesota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

WE’VE ALL WORN different hats. Personally. Socially. Professionally.

Panels of hat photos and information. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

I’ve worn the hats of daughter, wife, mother, grandma, friend, sister, aunt, student, intern, newspaper reporter, writer, editor, photographer, poet, volunteer and much more. Collectively, these multiple hats, or roles, helped shape me into the person I am today.

This shows a portion of the many hats in the exhibit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

But what about actual hats, you know, the ones you place on your head? A fascinating exhibit at the Waseca County History Center, simply titled “HATS,” offers an historic glimpse of late 1800s to more current-day hats from the museum and personal collections. The display will be up until the end of June.

This display features classy men’s hats of yesteryear plus hatboxes. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

This ranks not only as an informative exhibit of hats, a few caps and related items, but also as a fun visual of fashion. From fancy hats with feathers and florals to all-business derbys and boaters to big floppy hats of the 1970s, the range of head-toppers evolves as time and styles change.

An entire glass case showcases vintage hatpins like this jeweled one. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

And then there are the lovely vintage hatpins, elegant yet practical. A woman of yesteryear could pull a hatpin to defend herself if necessary.

Vintage hatboxes are artfully displayed throughout the exhibit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

Vintage hatboxes, too, are part of the display, adding an artful element. As someone who appreciates type and fonts, and art, I found myself drawn to the mostly-round hatboxes. They truly are works of art as well as containers to store and protect hats.

A reply to a writing prompt posted in the HATBOX. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

I especially liked the interactive HATBOX corner, a hidden space to sit, pull a writing prompt from a hatbox, think and reply to the prompt before anonymously posting it on a wall. That got me thinking about the many hats I’ve worn and still wear. Hats down, my most cherished hats are those of daughter, wife, mother and grandma. The others matter, too, but not as deeply, not as personally, as donning the hats of loving, caring for and supporting my closest family.

A fun cap in the exhibit. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

Actual, physical hats I’ve worn call for a bit more thought because I didn’t wear all that many. I had, still have, two childhood Easter bonnets. And then there’s the floppy lime green with white polka dots cotton hat I donned while detasseling corn. Perhaps I remember it best because I remember so well the experience of yanking tassels from cornstalks in the sweltering heat and humidity of July in southwestern Minnesota. Worst job ever, hats down, paying only $1.25/hour. Imagine dew rolling down your arms, corn leaves slicing your skin, the hot sun baking your body, no place to pee except between corn rows. A grimy band of sweat ringed that polka dot hat by day’s exhausting end.

The Waseca County History Center museum, 315 Second Ave. N.E., is open from 9 a.m. – 5 p.m. Tuesday through Friday. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

While I didn’t see any hats quite like mine in the Waseca exhibit, I saw some that were similar. But mostly I saw how the hats we wear, literally or metaphorically, identify and shape us. Hats change with time, as we grow, progress, move through life. This display documents that, causing me to pause, to reflect, to consider all the hats I’ve worn through the years.

TELL ME: What hats have you worn? Which matter to you most and why? Or which proved a defining moment in your life?

© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

In honor of Mother’s Day: Stories of 3 strong mothers May 9, 2025

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This page from an altered book crafted by my friend Kathleen shows my mom holding me. Mom died in January 2022. I love the quote. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

THREE MOTHERS. Three strong women. Three remarkable experiences. This Mother’s Day I feel compelled to share the stories of a trio of moms. Their stories are decidedly different, yet similar in the common denominators of strength and love.

Photographed in a small southern Minnesota town, a box containing Naloxone used as an emergency treatment for an opioid overdose or suspected overdose. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

MOTHER OF A RECOVERING ADDICT

Let’s start with the woman checking out my clutch of greeting cards recently at a local chain discount store. As I stepped up to the counter, a young man bade her goodbye. “I love you, Mom,” he said while walking toward the exit.

It was one of those moments when I simply had to say something. “That’s so sweet,” I said, looking directly at the clerk.

I don’t remember our entire conversation. But I do recall the highlights. Her son is a recovering addict two years sober. “I almost buried him,” she told me.

“You must be so proud of him,” I replied. And she was and is and I wanted to reach across that check out counter and hug her. But I didn’t. My encouraging words would have to suffice. I walked out of that store feeling grateful for this mom who never gave up on her son and for the son who recognizes the value of her ongoing love and support.

This shows two of the 22 Miller siblings featured in an exhibit at the Waseca County History Center. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2025)

MOTHER OF TWENTY-TWO

Then there’s Lucille Miller of rural Waseca, married to Alvin and mother of their 22 children. Yes, twenty-two, all single births. I learned about the Miller family recently while touring the Waseca County History Center. An entire display focuses on them.

Lucille gave birth to her first child in December 1940 at age 17 and her last in January 1966 at age 43. Fifteen girls and seven boys (oldest to youngest): Ramona, Alvin Jr., Rose, Kathleen, Robert, Patricia, Marylu, Diane, John, Janet, Linda, Virginia, Helen, Art, Dolores, Martin, Pauline, Alice, Angela, Marcia, Gregory and Damien.

I can’t even fathom being pregnant that often, birthing that many children, or coming up with that many names. But Lucille Miller did just that and raised her children on the family’s Blooming Grove Township farm. She died in August 2006, her husband not even a year later. Lucille and Alvin never intended to have 22 kids. But these deeply spiritual parents considered each and every one a blessing.

Information I found online backs that up. This mother of many also “took in” several kids, led two women’s organizations and worked to establish local group homes for the disabled. Three of the Miller children had disabilities.

Helen Miller’s book about growing up in a Minnesota farm family of 22 children.

Helen Miller, 13th in line, calls her mom “a saint.” (I certainly don’t question that assessment.) She’s written a book, 21 Siblings: Cheaper by the Two Dozen, about growing up in this mega family where the Catholic church and school centered life and organization was key in keeping everyday life running smoothly. Chores were listed, then assigned, and siblings used the buddy system. I have not yet read the book, but intend to do so.

I expect the obituary of Lucille’s daughter, Virginia Miller Pelto, 60, who died on May 8, 2014, just days before Mother’s Day, reflects the way in which her mother lived: Of the many things Virginia loved, above all she loved people. As a very spiritual person, she put the world on her shoulders and in her prayers. She donated time to her church, her community and anyone who needed to just talk. Any mother would be proud to have a daughter with such a giving and compassionate spirit.

My daughter Miranda and grandson Everett, 3 months old when this photo was taken. (Photo courtesy of Miranda, April 2025)

MOTHER OF EVERETT

Finally, there’s the story of my second daughter. Miranda became a first-time mom in mid-January. Considered a “geriatric mom” given her closing-in-on-forty age, she was closely-monitored throughout her pregnancy. Miranda was in excellent physical condition—she’s a letter carrier. Her pregnancy proved uneventful with labor commencing the day before her due date. But then everything changed. For the worse. Labor was long, delivery difficult with baby’s head and shoulder getting stuck. Once Everett—all 10 pounds of him—was born, Miranda experienced extensive postpartum hemorrhaging requiring the transfusion of three units of blood. A team of doctors and other medical personnel at a Madison, Wisconsin, hospital worked to save her life.

A week later, after Miranda and John were semi-settled at home with Everett, Randy and I traveled to Madison to see all of them. When the new parents recounted harrowing details of that difficult birth, my strong strong daughter said she feared she might die. Before she saw her son.

As Miranda and I stood in the nursery, arms wrapped around each other gazing down at newborn sleeping Everett, I felt overwhelmed with emotion. I still get emotional thinking about how I nearly lost my daughter on the day my second grandson was born. I’ve written about that experience in a short story, “Birthing Everett,” which will publish in late August in The Talking Stick anthology.

We all have mothers. We all have stories, whether we are sons or daughters or mothers ourselves. Today I honor all mothers, especially Miranda, Lucille Miller and the store clerk who nearly buried her son. They are three strong women.

© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling