Minnesota Prairie Roots

Writing and photography by Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Mother’s Day reflections of love & gratitude May 10, 2024

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The only photo I have of my mom holding me. My dad is holding my brother Doug. (Minnesota Prairie Roots)

MOTHER’S DAY. It’s a day that can feel both sad and joyful. Sad if your mom is no longer living. Mine isn’t. Joyful if you have children, no matter their age.

It is a Sunday of gathering, of remembering, of honoring, of celebrating motherhood. Perhaps with a meal together. Perhaps with flowers delivered or received. Whatever, however, the focus should be one of love and gratitude.

I feel grateful for my lovely mom, who taught me kindness, compassion and care. Sure, she had her moments. Who wouldn’t with six kids spanning 12 years? We tested her patience more than once. But that didn’t diminish her love for us. Her own mother died at age 48, when I was only two months old, and I cannot imagine how difficult that was for my mom and her three younger siblings. So treasure your mom. Time together is precious.

The card I made for my mom as a child. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo)

So are words shared. As a writer, I value greeting cards as a way of expressing love and other emotions. My mom did, too. She saved cards, including a simple card I created for her in elementary school for Mother’s Day. I cut a flower photo from a seed catalog and pasted it to the front of a folded piece of paper, then printed I love you Mother. Audrey inside. The editor in me wants to add a comma and change the formal Mother to Mom. But I doubt Mom much cared. She was just happy to get a handcrafted card from her eldest daughter.

Likewise, I love getting greeting cards from my now-grown children. One arrived in the mail today from my second daughter, who lives 260 miles away in Madison, Wisconsin. I last saw her at Christmas. Her job as a letter carrier for the US Postal Service keeps her working 10-12 hours daily, usually six days a week. So seldom does Miranda have adequate time off to travel to Minnesota. I couldn’t help but think, as I opened her Mother’s Day card, that Miranda was likely dropping similar cards into mailboxes along her route.

Mothers always appreciate flowers. These were a gift from my daughter Amber and her family in 2021. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo 2021)

She chose a lovely floral design card that is certainly “me.” And then my sweet daughter penned the most loving message. One that left me in tears. Hope you have a nice, relaxing day surrounded by the people you love. We love & miss you. Love, John & Miranda.

A plane leaves Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I will be surrounded by people I love—my eldest daughter, Amber, son-in-law and two grandchildren—on Saturday. But “the people I love” also includes the rest of my family. And in that moment tears fell at the missing of Miranda and her brother, Caleb, both of whom I haven’t seen in more than four months. Caleb lives in Boston.

This photo of me with my mom was taken two years before her death. Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo January 2020 by Randy Helbling)

To be a mom is to understand that separation is inevitable. Our kids grow up, move away, sometimes farther than we’d like. Things keep us apart. Death also separates. Daughters and sons have lost mothers. Mothers have lost children. But in the end, love remains. As does gratitude. I am grateful for my mom. Grateful for my three children. I am grateful to be a mother.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there! You are loved. And appreciated.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The power of faith & friendship when facing loss May 9, 2024

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I laid this memorial service folder for my friend Barb upon one of my vintage tablecloths. (Minnesota Prairie Roots May 2024)

WE STOOD SIDE-BY-SIDE, arms stretched around one another, watching as our husbands carried the gray casket and slid it into the waiting hearse. Six friends grieving the death of a seventh.

The day before her 73rd birthday, my friend Barb died from cancer. And here I was a week later, standing outside Trinity Lutheran Church, linked to the women beside me in grief and in love.

My emotions ran high on this beautiful May morning of sunshine and greening spring, of new life rising from the earth on the Monday Barb was laid to rest beneath the earth. I understood she was at peace, in her heavenly home, and that consoled me as tears fell.

Family and friends of Barb were gifted with these nail crosses after her funeral. The cross reinforced the sermon, titled “Nailed It.” (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

Her service was signature Barb, one she planned. One that proclaimed her strong faith in words and in music. Oh, so much music, because Barb loved music. Our friend Steve sang “Who Am I?” Friend Char slid her bow across her violin, accompanying children as they sang “Jesus Loves Me” and later as mourners sang one of my favorite contemporary Christian songs, “10,000 Reasons.” Galen played “Beautiful Savior” on his harmonica, another favorite of mine and of my dear friend Barb. There was more music, so much that Barb wanted, some of which had to be trimmed lest the service got overly long.

Sitting in the front pew, just steps from Barb’s casket, I immersed myself in the service. I laughed when her brother-in-law Dave, the presiding pastor, shared that Barb instructed him to “shake them up” with his sermon. He did. When he spoke of hell and then abruptly stopped and sat down, I wondered if he was so overcome with emotion that he needed to pause. Not so. It was that “shake them up” moment Barb requested. He returned to the pulpit to finish his sermon with loving words of grace.

Our bible study group gifted this garden stone and pansy bowl in Barb’s favorite purple to her family. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

Barb loved her Lord, her family, her friends, old-time TV shows (particularly “Andy Griffith” and “The Beverly Hillbillies”) and the color purple. There was purple everywhere—flowers, ties, dress shirts, table coverings. Purple overflowed alongside love. Love in so many hugs. Love in words spoken by Barb’s eldest son. Love from God. Love surrounding us.

During the final weeks of her life, Barb continued to love on all of us, even as she lay bed-ridden. I would drop off a meal for her family, hoping to uplift my friend. And she uplifted me. She, who was dying. She never let me leave without kissing my cheek. I hold that precious memory now, the warmth of her lips pressed against my skin. To have that time with her to say goodbye eased me into her death. This time was a gift, as Barb’s husband, my friend Mike, reminded me, reminded all of us.

A loving message from Barb, printed in her memorial folder.

Barb gave so much, even in choosing the men who would carry her casket—Randy, John, Steve, Noel, Mark and Jeff. All of us friends, together in a long-time Bible study group. Twenty years of reading and studying God’s Word, of praying for one another, of growing in our faith and friendship. We have been through a lot together. Uplifted one another.

And here we were on this lovely spring morning, walking into church together behind the casket, behind the cross. Filling two pews at the front of the church. Listening and singing and crying and laughing. And then later filing out, waiting silently in the narthex, then outside. Reverently.

As the six guys moved toward the casket, we wives gathered on the side and I instinctively motioned for Debbie, Jackie, Mari, Mandy and Sonja to come closer. I needed to feel their closeness, the strength that comes from love and friendship in shared grief. It was a powerful and emotional moment standing together in a row, arms wrapped around one another. I felt Barb’s love embracing us. I heard her words, too: I thank Him for each of you. Our family and friends, I love you!

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NOTE: I will miss my friend Barb and other loved ones I’ve lost in 2024: Uncle Robin; my brother-in-law Dale; and Aunt Jeanette. This has been a season of grief.

 

Cultural events connect, build community May 8, 2024

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A pinata sways from a tree against the backdrop of the Central Park Bandshell. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

WHENEVER I ATTEND a culturally-focused community event, like the recent Cinco de Mayo celebration in Faribault, I feel joy. Joy because I’m learning, meeting my neighbors, growing my appreciation for the cultural diversity which defines Faribault and neighboring communities.

Nasra Noor, an author and teacher from Minneapolis, participated in a recent event at the Paradise Center for the Arts. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

The week prior, I attended an event celebrating our Somali population. There, too, I engaged with my new neighbors and learned more about them. I’ve always found gatherings that involve food and music to be a good way to connect. Both are universal, even if different.

While I arrived too late for the dancers, I heard Latino music at Faribault’s Cinco de Mayo celebration in Central Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

Even when I don’t understand lyrics, I understand the rhythm of music.

Somali food was served at a past International Festival Faribault, where this sign was photographed, and at a recent event. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Even when I haven’t tasted an ethnic food, I’m willing to try. And let me tell you, Somali tea tastes of ginger and cinnamon and other spices that appeal both to my sense of taste and of smell. Likewise, sambusa, which I was introduced to many years back, are delicious. I love the savory, spicy flavor of these meat-filled triangular pastries.

Among the Latino food vendors in the park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

Latino food is a bit more familiar. But, because I don’t speak or read Spanish, I struggle with choices. I asked for help interpreting and translating, choosing a dish that featured shrimp. I love shrimp. Still, I didn’t realize I had just ordered soup laced with shrimp and corn. It was not my favorite. But, hey, at least I tried something new.

Sign on a food truck. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

That’s the thing. We have to be willing to step outside our familiar foods, music, language and more. Then, and only then, do we begin to feel connected in our community. We are no longer “them” and “us.” Rather, we are all one, living together in this place. It takes effort. It takes a willingness to stretch ourselves, to strike up conversations, to appreciate both differences and similarities.

Together in the bounce house at Cinco de Mayo. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

It is the kids who give me the most hope. Kids are kids. When I see kids running, playing, dancing, singing, I see any kid. Not white, black, brown… Simply a kid.

Gathering around the pinata. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Taking aim at the pinata while others await their turn. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)
Scrambling for candy after a pinata breaks. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

Watching a cluster of kids gathered on Cinco de Mayo to strike a pinata, I saw smiles, focus, determination, joy. They each had a singular goal: to get to the candy. They worked together. One kid took a swing, then another and another and another until it was time to pass the stick to the next kid. It took teamwork—a community of kids—to achieve the end goal. And when they scrambled for the falling candy, it was happy chaos. They’d done it. Together.

Children are our future, including this sweet little one photographed at the Cinco de Mayo celebration. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

We adults can learn a lot from the little ones. We are all in this world together. We live. We love. We struggle. We celebrate. We have hopes and dreams. More connects, than divides, us. That is what we need to remember no matter our backgrounds, our language, our food, our music…

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

The eyes have it until they don’t May 7, 2024

My old glasses atop info about bilateral strabismus eye surgery. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo November 2023)

SIGNIFICANT REGRESSION OF SURGICAL EFFECT. Those are words you don’t want to read/hear following any surgery. But, three months out from surgery to realign my eyes, that’s where I’m at with my vision.

During my second post-op check last week with my neuro ophthalmologist, Dr. Collin McClleland, I learned that my eyes apparently have a mind of their own. They are back to not working together. This came as no surprise. I’ve been experiencing ongoing double vision, although less than before my January 22 surgery.

What I didn’t expect was the word “significant.” I knew the possibility existed that my eyes would return to misalignment; I did my homework in advance of bilateral strabismus eye surgery. But who thinks they are going to be in the minority of that final surgical outcome? Not me.

Several days after my January surgery, I was smiling, happy to have surgery behind me, happy with flowers from my family. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo by Randy Helbling, January 2024)

Immediately after surgery, my eyes were in near perfect alignment. I was happy. My surgeon was happy. But then, as my eye muscles healed and my brain and eyes adjusted, the shift began.

Extensive testing during my recent appointment showed “significant regression.” I won’t confuse you with numbers and medical terminology. Suffice to say I’m frustrated and disappointed as is my surgeon. But, Dr. McClelland said, he wouldn’t have done anything differently during surgery. I needed it, and the surgery did improve alignment. I agree. Why my eyes reverted mostly back to their misaligned positions is unknown. I asked. There’s no answer.

I explained to my doctor that it takes effort sometimes to see just one, and not two. That exhausts me. And if I’m doing anything that requires a lot of visual back-and-forth, like shopping, my eyes feel like they’ve done calisthenics. They hurt. Whenever I have lots of sensory input or am doing multiple things, my double vision worsens. I was experiencing all of this before surgery, too.

In the recovery room after surgery on both eyes in January. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo by Randy Helbling, January 2024)

What to do next was the question of the morning. My surgeon offered two choices: One, add more prisms to my glasses and hope that alleviates some of my double vision. Or try surgery again. I was mentally unprepared for this. But I quickly opted for more prisms. I am in no hurry to rush back into an operating room, even if the 1 ½-hour surgery was not horrible and I have full confidence in Dr. McClelland. Surgery is surgery.

So here I am, no line bifocal prism glasses ordered. The lenses will take about two weeks to make given the extensive work required. Then I’ll be without glasses while the lenses are placed in my frames. Then the test begins. Will the added prisms, divided between both lenses, help with my double vision? Time will tell. Prisms bend light before it travels to your eyes and the brain has to sort it all out and create a singular image, or something like that.

The issue, my ophthalmologist explained, is whether I can tolerate more prisms added to my prescription lenses. I could experience distortion, what he calls “the fish bowl effect.” The goal is “comfortable singular binocular vision.” If I can’t handle the added prisms (which are actually less than they should be, but within the hopefully tolerable range), then I will need to revisit surgery.

That’s where I’m at today. Waiting for those prism-heavy lenses. I’m trying to prepare myself for what I know will be several weeks of adjusting to my new prescription. And hoping this non-surgical approach works.

These buildings house outpatient clinics, including the M Health Fairview Eye Clinic, on the campus of the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo May 2024)

As disappointed and frustrated as I feel about the final surgical outcome, I remain grateful for the vision I do have, even if far from perfect. Sitting in the waiting room at M Health Fairview Eye Clinic in Minneapolis puts my situation in perspective. I have watched little kids there navigating with the aid of a white cane…

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Poetry that sings from Minnesota’s poet laureate May 2, 2024

Book cover sourced online. Cover watercolor painting, “The Musician,” is by Cherokee artist Roy Boney, Jr.

HER POEMS SING with the rhythm of a writer closely connected to land, heritage and history. She is Gwen Nell Westerman of Mankato, Minnesota poet laureate and author of Songs, Blood Deep, published by Duluth-based Holy Cow! Press.

Of Dakota and Cherokee heritage, Westerman honors her roots with poems that reflect a deep cultural appreciation for the natural world. The water. The sky. The seasons. The earth. The birds and animals. They are all there in her writing, in language that is down-to-earth descriptive. Readers can hear the birdsong, feel the breeze, see the morning light… That she pens nature poems mostly about the land of my heart—fields and prairie—endears me even more to her poetry.

This slim volume of collected poems is divided into seasons of the year, each chapter title written in the Dakota language. The book features multiple languages—Dakota, Cherokee, Spanish and English. That adds to its depth, showing that, no matter the language we speak, write or read, we are valued.

This silo mural in downtown Mankato celebrates the cultural diversity of the region, including the Dakota. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

Westerman clearly values her Native heritage, how lessons and stories have been passed to her through generations of women, especially. Songs, blood deep. In her poem “First Song,” she shares a lesson her grandmother taught her about the importance of sharing. After reading that thought-provoking poem, I considered how much better this world would be if we all focused on the singular act of sharing.

The Dakota 38 Memorial at Reconciliation Park in downtown Mankato lists the names of the 38 Dakota men hung at this site on December 26, 1862. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo November 2023)

This poet, who is also a gifted textile artist (creator of quilts), wraps us in her words. In the season of waniyetu, her poetry turns more reflective and introspective, as one would expect in winter. She writes of family, injustices and more. “Song for the Generations: December 26” is particularly moving as that date in history references the mass execution of 38 Dakota sentenced to death in 1862 and hung in Mankato. Westerman writes of rising and remembering, of singing and prayer. It’s a truly honorable poem that sings of sorrow and strength.

Her poems remind us that this land of which she writes was home first to Indigenous Peoples. Westerman writes of a state park in New Ulm, the sacred Jeffers Petroglyphs and Fort Snelling, where Dakota were imprisoned after the U.S.-Dakota War of 1862 and before their exile from Minnesota. The name of our state traces to Mni Sota Makoce, Dakota for “the land where the water reflects the sky.” It’s included in Westerman’s poetry.

I appreciate poems that counter the one-sided history I was taught. I appreciate Westerman’s style of writing that is gentle, yet strong, in spirit. Truthful in a way that feels forgiving and healing.

In the all of these poems, I read refrains of gratitude for the natural world, gratitude for heritage and gratitude for this place we share. We sang. We sing. Songs, blood deep.

FYI: Songs, Blood Deep, is a nominee for the 2024 Minnesota Book Award in poetry. The winner will be announced May 7. This is Westerman’s second poetry book. Her first: Follow the Blackbirds. In addition to writing poetry and creating quilts, Westerman teaches English, Humanities and Creative Writing at Minnesota State University, Mankato.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

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

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

 

-30- April 30, 2024

(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

THE LOSS IS IMMENSE, TRAGIC—the deaths of eight prominent community members in southern Minnesota last week. I knew none of them personally. Yet I did. We all did.

If you have ever read a community newspaper, then you knew the deceased. For it is eight Minnesota newspapers, not individuals, that died. Ceased publication, only weeks after an announcement of their forthcoming funerals.

Death notices and church services, printed in The Gaylord Hub.

I am mourning the deaths of the Hutchinson Leader, Litchfield Independent Review, Chaska Herald, Chanhassen Villager, Jordan Independent, Shakopee Valley News, Prior Lake American and Savage Pacer, plus Crow River Press Printing Plant. All are owned by Denver-based MediaNews Group, part of hedge fund Alden Global Capital.

They ranged in age from 30 (Savage Pacer) to 162 (the Chaska and Shakopee papers). Five of the eight began publication between 1862-1880. That’s quite a legacy.

I am undeniably biased in reporting this news. I hold a journalism degree, have worked for community newspapers and write for publications owned by Adams Publishing Group. I believe in community journalism with the fierceness of recognizing its importance, its value, to the people who live and work in the places these papers cover. No one covers local like local.

My local paper, owned by Adams Publishing Group, still prints a special graduation section each spring.

And now that print coverage is lost in all these southern Minnesota towns, cities and rural areas: The watchdog coverage of school board, city council, county board, planning and zoning, and other government bodies. The stories about crime and tragedies. The stories about community events and celebrations. The interesting features that focus on people. Local sports and arts and entertainment stories. Community calendars, school honor rolls and lunch menus. Graduation. Obituaries and much more.

In my first journalism class at Minnesota State University, Mankato, I learned how to craft an obituary. It was our initial writing assignment, I think to impress upon all of us post-Watergate would-be reporters the importance of getting every detail correct in a story. That lesson stuck with me. Get it right.

I took that knowledge with me to The Gaylord Hub, a small town community newspaper printed at Crow River Press in Hutchinson. Each week a co-worker and I aimed north in a vintage Dodge van to deliver the newspaper lay-out sheets to the printing plant. The process of creating a newspaper in 1978 was decidedly different than today. Consider that I typed all my stories on a manual typewriter. A typesetter then typed my work into a typesetting machine. Stories were printed out in columns, then laid out and pasted onto lay-out sheets. No designing by computer. Then it was off to Crow River Press, where a co-worker and I watched the Hub roll off the press, bagged the freshly-inked papers and delivered them to the Gaylord Post Office, where subscribers eagerly waited to get their papers.

A front page story in the April 11 issue of The Gaylord Hub.

Yes, I’m feeling a tad nostalgic and sad thinking of the closure of Crow River Press. The recent shut-down left the publisher of The Gaylord Hub, and other small town newspaper owners, scrambling for a place to print their papers. Many printing plants, like community papers, have met their demise in Minnesota as large media groups acquired papers and plants.

This thank you published in the April 21 final edition of The Galaxy, a supplement to eight community newspapers printed by Crow River Press.

Times change. I understand that. The economy, technology, COVID, acquisitions and much more have factored into the deaths of community newspapers. Readers find their “news” elsewhere. Businesses spend their advertising dollars elsewhere. Far-removed executives make questionable business decisions. The list of reasons and excuses and explanations is extensive.

Community members, too, hold some responsibility in the deaths of newspapers. I can’t speak to the specific papers that closed last week in Minnesota, but I can tell you what I hear locally. And that is criticism, some deserved, much not. People have always criticized the media, failing to remember that reporters are reporting, not creating, the news. But the comments have become more intense, more rabid, more frequent. Freedom of the press feels threatened in our democracy.

The community journalists I know are honest, hardworking, (probably) underpaid and devoted to the craft. Just as I was when I worked as a full-time newspaper reporter.

This full page notice/thank you, an obituary of sorts, published in the April 21 final edition of The Galaxy.

Community newspapers are no longer valued like they once were, resulting in fewer subscribers. When I hear people say they no longer subscribe to the local paper, I suggest they reconsider. Community newspapers are vital to our cities, towns and rural areas. And sometimes we don’t understand that, until it’s too late, until we’re reading their obituaries.

-30-

NOTE: Print journalists have used -30- to signify the end of a story submitted for editing. I use # to indicate the ends of my stories, except today, when the old school -30- seems more appropriate.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

They’re selling what? April 26, 2024

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(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

I HAVE SHOPPED many local flea markets and countless garage sales. And I’ve seen a lot of quirky, odd, unusual, unique, weird merchandise. Like doll heads in a colander.

(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Assorted tools that appeared more art than tool collection.

(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

A doll in a coffin.

(Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted file photo)

Buttons galore.

A typo, “kids” instead of “kinds,” had me laughing aloud. (From the Faribault Daily News Community Calendar)

And then there is this: Sellers of all kids will be at the annual “anything goes garage sale and flea market.” Now that’s different, I thought in decidedly Minnesota terms.

Clearly, kids will not be sold at the flea market from 10 am – 4 pm this Saturday, April 27, at the Faribo West Mall in Faribault. But the typo in the community calendar listings in the Faribault Daily News made me laugh. And, goodness, how we can all use a bit of laughter in our lives.

Happy shopping at the anything goes, sans kids, garage sale and flea market.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

You know you live in rural Minnesota when… April 25, 2024

A tractor pulling a manure spreader fuels up at the local co-op. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

LIVING IN FARIBAULT, a city of some 24,000 surrounded by farm fields, I sometimes see ag machinery pass through town. I live along an arterial route. Tractors pulling implements or solo tractors and combines occasionally roar by my house, especially during spring planting and fall harvest.

But the sighting of a tractor with attached manure spreader spotted several blocks from my house at the local Faribault Community Co-op Oil Association on a recent afternoon proved a first. I’d never seen a manure spreader, marketed as a box spreader, within city limits. But there the New Holland brand spreader sat, linked to a Case International tractor. Right there aside the co-op fuel pumps along Division Street in the heart of downtown.

Leaving the co-op. The historic Alexander Faribault house can be seen on the other side of the hedge. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

My mind asked, “Why? Why wouldn’t you unhook a manure spreader before driving a tractor into town to fuel up?” I’ll never know.

Whatever, the scene drew my eyes and reminded me of the importance of agriculture in this region. Although farming has changed from mostly small family farms with livestock to much larger acreages minus the animals, the importance of agriculture to the local economy remains. All I need do is drive into the country to observe farmers busy in the fields, planting corn and soybeans.

Back in the 1860s and 1870s, wheat was the primary crop in this area. Flour mills populated the region. None remain here today.

But what remains are memories and history, including the Alexander Faribault house, which sits next to the co-op, on the other side of a hedge row. The house, built in 1853 and thought to be the oldest woodframe house in southern Minnesota, served as a fur trading post for the town founder. He also farmed, on land that is today within the city limits, and sheltered Indigenous Peoples on his farm.

After waiting at the Division Street/Minnesota State Highway 60 stoplight, the tractor continued east across the historic viaduct, presumably heading back to the farm. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

Community Co-op has been in Faribault since 1925, closing in on 100 years in business. That’s remarkable really. Good customer service and loyalty withstand the tests of time. And no one seems to mind a tractor with attached honey wagon pulling up to the pumps on a Sunday afternoon in April.

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

 

Nature makes us kin as spring emerges in Minnesota April 24, 2024

Green is slowly tipping trees, coloring the ground as we bridge into spring. This hillside scene was photographed in Falls Creek County Park, rural Faribault. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

THIS TIME OF YEAR in Minnesota—this early spring—everything appears more vibrant. At least to my winter weary eyes. My eyes, which have viewed mostly muted shades of brown and gray for too many months, can’t get enough of this landscape edging with color.

Bold blue skies blanket River Bend’s prairie, which will soon be lush with new growth. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

Intense green in buds and lush lawns, thriving with recent rains and then sunshine and warming day-time temps, layer the landscape. Sometimes the sky is such a bold blue that my eyes ache with the beauty of it all. Green against blue, the natural world a poem, a painting, a creative story.

Buds emerge against the backdrop of the creek at Falls Creek County Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

Like most Minnesotans, I find myself emerging, getting outdoors more, immersing myself in nature. Not that I don’t spend time outside in winter. But now, in late April, I’m out more often.

The Straight River twists through River Bend Nature Center, winding through Faribault to connect with the Cannon River. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

Parks and trails and the local nature center draw me into woods, along prairie, aside replenished wetlands and ponds, by rivers and creeks. Even a walk through a neighborhood to observe tulips flashing vivid red and yellow pleases me. There’s so much to take in, to delight in as this season unfolds.

Inspirational signs are scattered throughout River Bend. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” reads a quote from William Shakespeare printed on a memorial plaque placed on a bench at River Bend Nature Center in Faribault. I’m no Shakespearean scholar, but I interpret that to mean nature connects us.

Turtles galore lined logs at River Bend’s Turtle Pond on a recent sunny afternoon. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

That happened recently at the Turtle Pond. I paused to photograph three turtles lining a log, still as statues in the afternoon sunshine. Then a passing friend noticed and asked what I saw. And then he pulled out his cellphone to photograph. And then the photographer who was shooting senior photos on the boardwalk bridge over the pond, noticed the turtles, too. We were, in that moment, kin in nature, touched by the countless turtles perched on logs in the water.

This bridge spans a creek in Falls Creek County Park, leading to hiking trails in the woods on one end and an open grassy area on the other. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

Nature also connected me with others at Falls Creek County Park, rural Faribault. A family picnicking by the park shelter prompted memories of long ago picnics there with my growing family. I walked over to tell the young parents how happy I was to see them outdoors, grilling, enjoying the beautiful spring day with Ezra in his Spider-Man costume and Millie in her stroller. Nature makes us kin.

Wildflowers are blooming, including these at Falls Creek County Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

People simply seem nicer, kinder, more open to conversation when they’re outdoors. It’s as if the wind whispers only good words into our thoughts. It’s as if clouds disperse to reveal only sunny skies. It’s as if sounds are only those of silence or of birds, not of anger and hostility. Nature calms with her voice, her presence.

Water mesmerizes as it flows over stones in a clear-running creek at Falls Creek County Park. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

I love to stand aside a burbling creek, to hear water rushing over rocks. In that moment, I hear only the soothing, steady rhythm of music and none of the noise of life. Peace, sweet peace, consumes me.

Trails at Falls Creek County Park are packed dirt, narrow, rugged, uneven and sometimes blocked by fallen trees. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

The same goes for walking within nature. Trees embrace me. Wildflowers show me beauty. Dirt beneath my soles connects me to the earth, filling my soul.

On a recent afternoon at River Bend, geese searched the prairie for food. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

And then there are the creatures. The Canadian geese wandering the prairie, searching for food, their long necks bending, pilfering the dried grass while I dodge the droppings they’ve left along the pathway. They are fearless, a lesson for me in standing strong.

Deer at River Bend. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

Deer gather, then high-tail away when they grow weary of me watching them. They’ve had enough, even if I haven’t.

A nesting mallard hen and drake, nearly camouflaged on a wetland pond at River Bend. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

And at the pond, mallards nest. Unmoving. Determined. Heads folded into feathers. Settled there among dried stalks, water bold blue, reflecting the sky. Spring peepers sing a symphony of spring. It is a scene, a performance that holds me.

Rustic signage, which I love, marks landmarks and trails inside River Bend. (Minnesota Prairie Roots copyrighted photo April 2024)

Shakespeare was right. “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”

© Copyright 2024 Audrey Kletscher Helbling