By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Sometimes you just have to wonder.

Construction crews are demolishing (with the exception of historic spans) and rebuilding the viaduct that crosses the Straight River and railroad tracks in Faribault.

But if you were to drive from the east toward this bridge, which really isn’t a bridge any more because most of it’s gone, you might be a bit confused by the signage.

To your right, next to the driveway into Kwik Trip, you would see this sign: “END ROAD WORK.”

But, if you glanced to your left, just on the other side of this Minnesota Highway 60 river crossing, you would read: “ROAD CLOSED.”

Polar opposites.

Open or closed?

I’m no lawyer.

But I can almost hear the argument: “Your honor, my client was simply driving along, obeying all traffic laws, when this happened. Any reasonable person would rightfully expect that ‘END ROAD WORK’ means the roadway is open to traffic and that it is safe to proceed.”

Yup, if I was the Minnesota Department of Transportation, I might consider removing that “END ROAD WORK” sign. At least until the bridge is rebuilt.

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

I don’t especially like birds. Yeah, yeah, I probably shouldn’t admit that.

So I surprised even myself when I actually photographed a bird.

It’s not like I was seeking out this mourning dove.

But there she was, sitting calmly among the dried branches of a trumpet vine in my Mom’s backyard.

I would have bypassed this camouflaged creature had I not looked at this mess of seemingly dead sticks and wondered why my Mom would want this pile of twigs. But then I remembered that the trumpet vine is like the proverbial ugly duckling that eventually transforms into a beautiful swan.

There the mourning dove sat, motionless as a statue, which is exactly what I thought I was seeing. Earlier my Mom and I had been searching for a missing plastic owl to strategically place in her yard as a blackbird deterrent. So a fake mourning dove did not seem at all out of the realm of possibilities.

Then I saw the slightest flicker of the bird’s eye. This dove was real, very real, and she was nesting.

Not one to pass up an opportunity for a nature close-up, even if the subject is a bird, I grabbed my camera and started snapping pictures. I was fully expecting a flurry of feathers to come flying at me. It never happened. The mourning dove sat perfectly still throughout the photo shoot.

Now this is a bird I could actually, maybe, like.

You see, I have not-so-fond childhood memories of barn swallows dive-bombing me as I walked down the barn aisle with a wheelbarrow full of ground feed.

And then there was that rooster, that mean, mean rooster, chasing me down, pecking fiercely at the backs of my legs. Until one day, Dad walked to the shed and grabbed the ax.

So there, you have my explanation for keeping my distance from anything with feathers. From afar, I’m fine. Put me any closer, and guaranteed, I can fly faster than a bird.

# 

When I talked to my Mom recently and asked about the mourning dove, she told me the bird, nest and all, had simply vanished.

“A cat?” I asked.

“No,” replied my Mom. “I think it was the wind.”

On Monday, I attended the 140^th annual Memorial Day parade in Faribault, as I have for years.

As parades go, most wouldn’t consider it much. Two bands, a contingent of old cars, the military Crack Squad from Shattuck-St. Mary’s School, guys on motorcycles, local politicians, fire trucks, cop cars, marching Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts, horses and, most importantly, veterans, comprise the units.

The entire event lasts about 20 minutes.

But for those of us gathered along Central Avenue, the parade is perfect for Memorial Day.

There’s a subdued, respectful reverence among the crowd.

Even the kids, who scramble in the street for tossed tootsie rolls, seem less competitive.

A sense of camaraderie, neighborliness and kindness prevails.

Friends and neighbors gather along the curb in their lawn chairs. Grandparents hold grandchildren close. Kids tightly clutch American flags handed out by the Boy Scouts and their dads. 

In all of the parade moments—the honored soldiers waving from convertibles, the flags flying in the strong steady wind, the old cars beeping their short, shrill horns — it is the kids that bring this day full circle. They have no idea, as they wave their tiny American flags, what the men marching just feet away have done for them.

But I am hopeful, that because their families have brought them to the parade, that some day they will understand the true significance of Memorial Day. They too will carry on the tradition of honoring those who gave their lives for freedom.

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

“There along the creek rushes were growing, and blue flags. Every morning the blue flags were new. They stood up dark blue and purple among the green rushes.

I always wondered about the “blue flags” author Laura Ingalls Wilder described in her children’s book On the Banks of Plum Creek.

“Each blue flag had three velvet petals that curved down like a lady’s dress over hoops. From its waist three ruffled silky petals stood up and curved together. When Laura looked down inside them, she saw three narrow pale tongues, and each tongue had a strip of golden fur on it.”

By that description, I should have known Laura was writing about irises.

It was my Mom, though, who enlightened me. While visiting her recently in southwestern Minnesota, only 25 miles from Plum Creek, I admired the lovely bluish purple irises blooming on the west side of her garage.

“Those are blue flags,” said my Mom, whose favorite of all flowers are irises.

Blue flags, the same flowers that grew wild among the prairie grasses along Plum Creek in the 1870s. Laura described in detail the blue flags, black-eyed Susans, violets, buttercups, morning glories and other flowers that surrounded the Ingalls’ dug-out home. She would gather bouquets of flowers for her Ma.

I can only imagine how much Caroline Ingalls appreciated the delicate beauty of these flowers in a place that could sometimes seem so lonely, so vast, so harsh.

I may not understand Norwegian. But when I attended a Syttende Mai celebration on Sunday, I understood the depth to which those gathered value their heritage, and historic Trondhjem church.

Had I not known we were in Minnesota, I would have thought we were in Trondhjem, Norway. Set atop a steep wind-swept hill overlooking the picturesque rolling countryside near Lonsdale, this church could have been in the Old Country.

Inside the sanctuary, I closed my eyes and listened. “Ja, vi elsker dette landet…” worshippers sang. I could almost hear the voices of Norwegian immigrants uniting in the Norwegian national anthem on May 17, Norway’s Constitution Day. Norwegians settled this area in the 1860s, formed Trondhjem Lutheran congregation in 1876, built this second of their churches in 1899.

The church closed in 1988 when a new sanctuary was built. That same year, Trondhjem Community Preservation Society formed to save the building, which is on the National Register of Historic Places.

This is a church beautiful in its simplicity.

I walked through double front doors, green on one side, red on the other, that open into an angled entry. Inside the wood-planked, cream-colored entrance, two bell ropes dangle. Plain, arched windows are edged with wood frames painted in brick red. Old wooden pews, 15 total, rest upon the hand-hewed wooden floor. Copies of The Concordia Hymnal, copyright 1965, await worshippers. Inside the cover of one, I found a squished box elder bug.

Then I looked toward the ceiling. There lies a “rare treasure,” according to Joyce Fossum Pflaum of Rosemount, who grew up here. While restoring the church, volunteers uncovered a hand-stenciled ceiling, hidden under a layer of embossed tin and a layer of suspended acoustical tile.

Preserved for more than a century, the ceiling plaster and painting have since been restored, with patches of the original artwork left untouched. The detailed, repetitive stenciling extends to an alcove that shelters a spired altar, hand-painted with a scene of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane.

You really need to visit this church to appreciate the beauty and craftsmanship imprinted by the hands of Norwegian immigrants. Volunteers have worked hard to preserve its history and are currently partnering with the Minnesota Historical Society on displays.

Preservation President Merle Fossum asked for donations of old farm tools and kitchen objects, including an old lefse rolling pin, at Sunday’s Syttende Mai celebration.

Later, after a musical performance by The Lost Norwegians, we retreated to the fellowship hall for lefse and other ethnic treats. As I sampled creamy, cinnamon-laced Rommegrote (pudding) I thought about the Norwegian immigrants who so many years ago walked this land. Their rugged determination, devotion to God and to their homeland shaped this place, this Trondjhem in Minnesota. 

For more information about old Trondjhem Church and events held there, log on to www.trondhjempreservation.org.