MINNESOTA Moments

Dancing my way to Henderson

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Yesterday I received an invitation to go dancing. The invite came from Jeff Hayden, co-owner of the Henderson House Bed and Breakfast in tiny Henderson, a quaint town along the Minnesota River south of the metro.

Unfortunately, I had to decline Jeff’s offer, but not before I added, "If only I could, Jeff." He knew, of course, that I had undergone recent hip replacement surgery and that he would be turned down. But I appreciated his humor.

Folks like Jeff are among the reasons why I love writing so much. I am always meeting and talking to interesting people, who often become friends. Such is the case with Jeff. My husband, Randy, and I first met Jeff a year ago, when we stopped in Henderson on our way back from a trip to visit my family in Redwood County. As we approached Henderson, we decided to tour the town rather than simply continue through on Minnesota Highway 19. We stopped at Jeff’s B & B on top of the hill overlooking this beautiful hamlet. I promised Jeff that Randy and I would return.

Several months later, Randy and I were back in Henderson for a little get-away. I would combine a writing assignment with some time alone with my husband. I fell in love with this scenic, historic town of 900. (Watch for a feature story and photos of Henderson in the September/October issue of Minnesota Moments.)

As a child, I had been to Henderson several times for the community’s annual Sauerkraut Days celebrations. Henderson was also on the route to visit relatives in the Cities. And my paternal great grandfather, Rudolph Kletscher, who immigrated to the U.S., arrived by train in Henderson with 50 cents in his pocket in 1890. So, deep down, a part of me already belonged to Henderson.

But back to Jeff. He made Randy and me feel right at home in his charming B & B. After a long day of interviewing locals and shooting pictures, I needed the quiet and comfort offered by his old brick home. Jeff and his friend Jackie, who joined us for the evening, were great conversationalists. I felt as if I had known both of them forever. That is part of Jeff’s gift as a host — the ability to make his guests feel welcome and right at home.

The next morning, Jeff had a surprise waiting for me in the dining room. He had asked the night before whether pancakes for breakfast would be OK. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I really don’t like pancakes (now you know, Jeff). But these were not the plain Jane pancakes that I dislike. These were ginger pancakes smothered with lemon sauce. They were delectable.

Jeff’s surprise came in chicken-shaped pancakes piled on my plate. I am not fond of chickens. I revealed that tidbit to Jeff while checking out the poultry he keeps in a backyard coop and pen. That Jeff would turn my revelation into a memorable moment of laughter at the breakfast table speaks volumes to his listening and hosting abilities.

Yesterday I promised Jeff that Randy and I would stop at his B & B the next time we drive through Henderson. I want to show off my new hip and maybe dance across the wooden floors of Jeff’s lovely old home.

One step at a time

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Never again will I take walking, bending over or picking something up off the floor for granted. Each time I do those three now, I must think.

When you have hip replacement surgery like I did nearly two weeks ago, you must contemplate every move. When walking, it’s move my walker forward, then step forward with the operated leg, then bring the other leg forward. One, two, three. One, two, three. Shuffle, shuffle shuffle.

As for bending over, I must be ever vigilant. I can’t bend more than 90 degrees or I risk dislocating my hip. The thought of that is enough to strike fear in my heart. So I have adjusted and have learned to dress with the aid of a handy long-armed tool. It has a pincher claw on the end that I can use to grab whatever needs grabbing. It’s like my third arm.

Yesterday morning I also used the grabber to pick up scissors I had dropped on the floor. This afternoon I struggled for several minutes to pick up four business cards that had fallen off the counter. Snagging those pieces of floor-hugging paper was difficult. I could have asked my son to do the task, but I was up to a challenge. Eventually, I managed to get all four cards off the floor. I felt triumphant. I take pride these days in the smallest of accomplishments.

Later I latched the pincher onto a laundry basket. Then, with my walker leading the way like a tug boat, I towed the basket across the living room floor and into my bedroom. There I, once again, used the grabber device to pluck clothes from the basket so I could fold them.

Each day of recovery brings new challenges and progress. On occasion now, I am walking from place to place without my walker. Confidence is building. Yet, in the back of my mind, the fear of falling lurks. I am anxious for the day when I will walk, pain-free, without any assistive aid. Walking independently has taken on a new meaning for me. I realize that the ability to walk is a gift and should not be taken for granted —ever.

Trapped

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Yesterday, I finished reading the book, The Elevator, by Angela Hunt. That fictional story may not have been the smartest choice on my part given my present circumstances. Hunt's tale focuses on three women trapped in a Tampa Bay office elevator during a raging hurricane.

The very thought of being trapped inside an elevator is enough to make me sweat. I've never liked the closed-in feeling. I usually avoid elevators and opt for the stairs whenever possible.

But now that I am in the initial stages of recovering from hip replacement surgery, I must use elevators. I, oh, so wish that my ortho doctor and medical labs were on the first floors of their respective clinics.

Trapped doesn't apply only to elevators for me these days. It also applies to my feelings every night as I prepare for bed. My legs must be firmly secured to a large foam wedge by Velcro straps. This keeps my hips in alignment and my legs from crossing (which could cause hip dislocation, and I certainly don't want that). But I feel trapped, lying there flat on my back, legs fixed in place. I've come to calling the foam wedge my "bear trap." I am already plotting a dramatic way to destroy the "bear trap" once I am forever freed from its clutches.

Trapped also describes my feelings about being stuck in the confines of my house. My husband returned to work today. So even going outdoors is not an option without him around to assure that I navigate the back steps without falling.

I know my feelings are normal. My brother-in-law, Roger, who recently underwent ankle surgery, said he too felt claustrophobic and like a prisoner during his less immobile days.

Eventually I know this will all pass and that my life will return to normal. In the meantime, I am going to choose my reading materials more carefully. Not that The Elevator wasn't a good book; I enjoyed this work of Christian fiction. But perhaps this was not the best time to read anything on the subject of being trapped.

One week into recovery

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

One week down! A week ago Thursday, I was rolled out of the operating room with a new right hip.

On Sunday afternoon, I came home from the hospital. Since then, I have been working toward recovery. I cannot lie. It has not been easy. I was totally clueless as to how challenging this process would be because I was so focused on the actual surgery.

Not that my recovery has been slow or any different than that of anyone who has gotten a new joint. I just didn't expect to feel so helpless and dependent. But these feelings are not necessarily bad because they have given me an even greater appreciation for my dear husband, Randy. He has been my primary caregiver and has had incredible patience with me.

My oldest daughter, Amber, showed me such compassion and care while I was in the hospital. My 14-year-old son Caleb has also pitched in on the homefront. Only my daughter, Miranda, who is working at a camp near Bemidji, has missed out on the "fun" back home.

There have been several humorous moments during the past week. When some family members visited me in the hospital, my sister Monica added "wine and Bloody Marys" to my prescribed diet listed on a white board in my room. That made more than a few nurses smile.

On my first outing this week to the clinic, I sat with my hands covering my ears because a little boy was running around the waiting room and screaming. I couldn't tolerate the noise and even stuffed tissue into my ears. I'm sure I looked pretty pathetic sitting there in a wheelchair, my face pale as a ghost, my hands slapped firmly to the sides of my head.

On Tuesday night, my sister Lanae and my mom came over to babysit. For me. My husband, who was supposedly on vacation this week, was called into work. I couldn't be home alone with just my son. Knowing my sister, I expect her babysitting of her older sister will go down in family lore, with plenty of embellishments.

I hope that in the days to come, I can continue to see the humor in this whole situation.

One final humorous moment came in a revelation from Randy. "Did you take your rat poison?" he asked.

"Rat poison?" I laughed.

"Yeah, your warfarin. It's rat poison," he repeated. He was referring to the blood thinner I take to prevent blood clots.

I did not believe my husband, who has an interesting sense of humor not always appreciated by me. He brought the dictionary. Under warfarin, I read the following definition: "an anticoagulant compound used as a rodent poison and in medicine."

I hope that in the days to come, I can continue to see the humor in this whole situation.

Autumn on my mind

By Mike Nistler

Strangely enough, I've been thinking of fall lately. Not that I want the temps to cool and the leaves to start changing color. Quite the contrary. It seems as though summer has hardly begun. Actually, officially summer doesn't begin until tomorrow, but I digress.

The reason that I'm thinking of autumn is that our July/August issue of Minnesota Moments is due to roll off the presses in Long Prairie on Tuesday. That means, I've got to not only be thinking about, but writing stories for, our September/October issue.

Being an editor and a publisher of a magazine like Minnesota Moment's is great. But the most difficult aspect of the job is looking ahead several months, and sometimes as much as a  year, to make sure that the proper stories are planned, written and photographed.

I'm not complaining, just explaining. I think I'll go out and play in the sunny backyard with my Golden Retrievers.

Pond project

By Mike Nistler

Well, the do-it-myself pond project in my backyard has just gotten a bit more complicated. I had my brother-in-law come over yesterday with his Bobcat and dig the hole deeper and wider and longer. Now, I have quite a hole in my backyard.

I visited the pond store today for some advice. They told me I have to take a shovel and work some of the dirt around before I lay down the liner.

So, that's what I'll be doing this afternoon. Oddly, I'm looking forward to digging in the dirt in the near 80 degree temps. Now, if I had a chain around my ankle and was in Alabama, for instance, that would be another story.

Stay tuned.

Cool to be hip

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Never have I been so hip. Seriously! On Thursday morning, I underwent total hip replacement surgery. (My new ceramic hip replaces an arthritic joint.) Today I came home.

The surgery went well. Recovery is measured in steps taken with my walker.

I have already learned empathy and humility. I have also learned how invaluable are the support, prayers and encouragement of family and friends.

I am working on the patience part as I slowly regain my health.

Wisconsin quirks

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

A week ago, we were in Lake Delton, Wisconsin, when the town of 1,500 still had a lake. Recent flooding caused the lake to drain. I'm thankful we got out of there a day before the storms unleashed.

While in this Wisconsin community, we spent most of our time at a waterpark resort. But we also checked out a local antique and craft complex. It was housed appropriately enough in several buildings that resembled red barns.

I've frequented antique stores in Minnesota, but found this one a bit different from any I have shopped in the Gopher State. My husband and I were barely inside the door when we encountered a sizable display of Green Bay Packer memorabilia. I am not a big sports fan, so I only glanced at the merchandise. But I recognized that this sports tribute honed in on the loyalty of Wisconsinites to their Packers.

One other item stood out among the thousands of collectibles and antiques. Milk bottles. Collections of old-fashioned glass milk bottles were scattered in displays throughout the store. Several innovative merchandisers even stuffed the bottles with small, white Styrofoam beads to give the appearance of milk. I can only surmise that the abundance of milk bottles directly relates to Wisconsin's notoriety as a dairy state.

I purchased neither a Packer item nor a milk bottle. Instead, I bought a beautiful floral vintage tablecloth to add to my growing collection.

But back to the whole Wisconsin dairy connection. The next day, my husband, son and I toured the Ripley's Believe It or Not! Museum in nearby Wisconsin Dells. I wondered why this type of museum would be located in the middle of Wisconsin. I soon knew the answer.

After examining a suit and tie made from recycled pop bottles, carefully studying an artistic picture created from 60 pieces of toasted bread and another made from lint, and craning my neck to view a dangling B-17 bomber constructed from 15,000 matchsticks, I rounded the corner to one big surprise.

The surprise: a rotund stuffed, once-living cow with extra legs. And the Holstein's extra legs weren't on the ground. This cow, I figured, explained how a museum filled with the gross and the unusual could possibly fit into a small town in the land of cheeseheads.

An alarming experience

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

I’m considering a switch from spray to stick deodorant, and for good reason. I had an interesting experience with my deodorant the other day. I know, how interesting can antiperspirant spray be, you ask? In my case, it can be rather alarming.

You see, we were at a fancy waterpark resort in the Wisconsin Dells at the invitation of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, who have a time share. I am not a fan of waterparks. But it seemed like a good idea simply to get away for several days.

We would laze around, float the lazy rivers, soak in the whirlpools, eat too much and maybe sleep in. I usually am not one to sleep late. But on Thursday morning, I managed to stay in bed until 9 a.m., when I got up and showered. My son and his 6-year-old cousin were asleep in the next room. The in-laws were sleeping at the other end of our unit. My husband was awake in bed, watching TV.

Then I entered our bedroom, sprayed my underarms and set off the smoke alarm. Yes, you read that correctly. Ascending fumes from the deodorant set off the alarm, which was directly above me. And we’re not talking your relatively "quiet" house smoke detector shriek. We’re talking your eardrum busting, industrial strength, enough to wake the dead, shrill warning alarm. The blare woke everyone in our three-bedroom place, and maybe in nearby units too.

A call to the front desk silenced the alarms and brought a maintenance man to our door. He was not surprised that the antiperspirant fumes had triggered the alarm. "That would do it," he said.

My sister-in-law claimed this was the stuff of family memories. (At least she didn’t kick me out.)

I could have done without the memory. Given my experience, I was then paranoid about every ceiling fixture. My husband assured me that the two in the bathroom were a sprinkler and an exhaust fan. I could, he said, safely use my deodorant there. But just to be double sure, I closed all doors to the bathroom lest any residue should drift out the door, down the hall to our bedroom and upward to the smoke alarm

A natural pond

By Mike Nistler

I thought it would be fun to build a backyard pond. I had a giant bare spot in my backyard that used to be home to a swing set. Grass wasn't growing there, only weeds, so I started to dig down. I heard that you need to be at least 3-feet deep in order for fish to be able to live in the pond during the winter months. That didn't sound so deep.

Let me tell you, digging 3-feet deep in dirt that is filled with rocks is a long, long way. I got about 2 feet down and I quit. Now I've got a big hole in my backyard. And that hole is filled with water after last night's deluge. It's not pretty. And the rain isn't finished. The forecast calls for several more days of rains.

I figure by the time the rain stops and the water in the pond disappears, the soil should be easier to dig. Even so, I called my brother-in-law who owns his own excavating company. He's going to come sometime next week and help me finish the job.

At least I tried.

Driving Minnesota Highway 30

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

I got my "prairie fix" this past weekend on a road trip to southwestern Minnesota. On the way to Westbrook from Faribault, we drove State Highway 30. Other than a slight curve near Storden, the road is a straight arrow shot from its intersection with State Highway 4 north of St. James in Watonwan County all the way through Cottonwood County.

The drive is a long one unless you appreciate the beauty defining the prairie. For me, that beauty reveals itself in the acres and acres of fields that stretch as far as the eye can see. In most places, newly-planted crops poked through the earth. In a few spots, though, before we reached Highway 30, rainwater drowned out low-lying cropland. That was around Madelia to the east.

It’s not surprising that my husband and I notice the crops. We both grew up on farms (him in Morrison County, me in Redwood County). Crops and rain were always the topics of conversation during the growing season. We notice activities like farmers picking rocks as we drive through farm country. That’s because we each picked more rocks than we care to count during our years on the farm.

In addition to the vastness of the land, the endless skies of southwestern Minnesota appeal to me. Here everything seems small in comparison to the big sky. On our afternoon drive, lofty white clouds loomed above the earth.

As we drove west, a cluster of nearly two dozen enormous windmills rose along both sides of the highway between Jeffers and Storden. While I understand the value of harnessing wind power for energy, I struggle with the visual impact of the towering giants upon the naturalness of the land. But then I am a person who doesn’t like the look of skyscrapers either. It’s an odd quirk of mine, perhaps one influenced by growing up on the flat prairie.

On our drive, I soaked in the countryside beauty — old red barns, rows of lilac bushes in full bloom, grain elevators marking small towns, a neatly-tended country cemetery on a grassy hillside, cattle grazing, beautiful ring-necked pheasant roosters walking the land and more. For me, the drive on State Highway 30 might be lengthy in miles, but it is never boring.

Remembering Spencer at Dari King

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

When my family and I pulled into the Dari King in Redwood Falls Sunday afternoon, I expected to enjoy one of the drive-in’s tasty rhubarb shakes, maybe chat with the owners a bit and then continue on our way home to Faribault. Instead, we pulled into the parking lot and were shocked to see a large poster board hung in a side window announcing a June 11 memorial service for Spencer.

Spencer was Spencer Braken, co-owner of the Dari King with his brother Dan. I sat for a minute in the car, stunned. I knew Spencer, 53, had been ill this past winter, but not that ill. He died on Saturday, May 24.

Just last summer I met the Braken brothers while working on a feature package about small town, family-owned drive-ins for the May/June 2008 issue of Minnesota Moments. I found them to be warm, friendly guys, who loved what they were doing

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running the drive-in which had been in their family since 1965.

While working on my story, I talked to customers and past employees. All spoke highly of the Brakens and of their old-fashioned drive-in. I remember especially Ashley Rood of Glenwood, who stopped at the Dari King while in Redwood Falls for a class reunion. She brought her then 7-month-old son, Hunter, to show off to the Brakens. Ashley had worked at the drive-in while in high school and had nothing but good to say about her former employers.

The feeling I got from everyone connected to the Dari King was that the Braken "family" extended well beyond blood relatives. The brothers embraced their employees and their customers as "family."

I was not surprised to find Dan working on Sunday. He waved me around the back of the building and into the tiny kitchen, where he was preparing fries and other food. I offered my sympathies, hugged Dan. I can only imagine the grief Dan is feeling at the loss of his only brother, his business partner, his roommate.

I witnessed a special bond between the two. That revealed itself in their comments about the unique rhubarb ice cream treats served at the drive-in. Here’s the exchange that occurred between the brothers on the subject of rhubarb:

"It’s a natural thing for Minnesota, rhubarb," Spencer said.

"It’s a weed," Dan added.

"The state flower," Spencer quipped.

I quickly appreciated their sense of humor and their closeness. Though I didn’t know the Brakens well, I feel blessed that I got to know them even a little bit. And I am thankful that I was able to share the story of their drive-in with the readers of Minnesota Moments.

Condolences may be sent to: Dari King, P.O. Box 344, Redwood Falls, MN. 56283.

Don't call me

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

When it comes to technology, I consistently lag behind. Many times I figure I simply don’t need whatever is new on the market. The old will do just fine, thank you. Or I don’t want to spend the money for the latest whatever, because I expect the price to drop once the newness wears off. Usually I’m right.

But now a cell phone has been thrust upon me. My daughter is off to a summer camp job in Bemidji for six weeks. Then she heads to Argentina for six months. She has left her cell phone behind in my truly incapable hands.

I know. I know. The fact that I don’t have a cell phone seems unbelievable. Not that I haven’t wished on occasion for a mobile phone. But the "wish" has never been strong enough to become a "need."

Now I don’t have a choice in the matter. I will be paying half of a contracted monthly cell phone bill for the next seven months. I may as well get my money’s worth by learning to use a cell phone.

The other day I requested a lesson in cell phone usage. My husband, son and I gathered around the dining room table as Miranda showed us how to make a phone call, how to check voice mail, how to scroll through her address book, how to recharge the phone. Miranda’s frustration mounted as she attempted to explain the intricacies of cell phone usage to her technologically-challenged mother. By the time she was done, my head was swimming. The minuscule size of the buttons on the phone also did nothing to raise my confidence level.

As a back-up to this information overload, I asked for the user manual. One look at that half-inch-thick document (even though half was written in Spanish) told me I was in trouble. I don’t learn well from manuals.

My one hope is that my technologically-savvy teenage son can figure it all out and somehow teach me. In the meantime, please don’t call or text message "my" cell phone.

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