By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

I never knew Bill Holm. Never even read one of his books, I’m embarrassed to admit, although I’ve read a sampling of his essays.

But I feel a connectedness to this author who died on Wednesday at age 65 due to complications from pneumonia.

He was a man of the prairie. I too have prairie roots, deep in the soil of southwestern Minnesota.

Bill grew up in Minneota, a little town even further west, closer to South Dakota, than my hometown of Vesta. He moved away, later returning to a community that celebrates the boxelder bug. He wrote nearly a dozen books, including Boxelder Bug Variations: A Meditation on an Idea in Language and Music. He taught at Southwest Minnesota State University in Marshall, spent summers in Iceland.

I’ve often thought that people of the prairie, like Bill and me, offer a unique insight into life. Perhaps it is our closeness to the land that edges into our writing.

In a place like this, where the land and the sky are vast and unconfining, you feel your smallness. You notice the details — the bent of grasses swaying in the road ditch, the blackness of newly-plowed earth, the sweet scent of flowers on a gnarled lilac bush, the desolation in the windows of an abandoned farmhouse, the strong sweep of the wind racing across this land.

The prairie edges into your very soul.

So I think it was with Bill, who left this place of his birth, this prairie, this place he returned to, this prairie he loved.

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Care for a salmon fish head? How about a cow tongue?

Yuck, you say.

When I found the misplaced fresh salmon head mingled with other food in a refrigerated cooler at a local grocery store, I honestly thought employees were pranking customers. So I walked over to a teen who was shelving dairy products. “Excuse me,” I said. “But I was wondering. I saw a packaged fish head over there in the cooler. Is that some kind of joke?”

“No,” he answered. “I’ve worked here for awhile and I’ve seen lots of weird stuff.”

OK.

Then my husband, who was standing nearby listening, suddenly picked up a thick package of something and thrust it toward me. I jumped back. “What’s that?” I nearly screeched, my face scrunching in disgust.

I looked closer. Beef tongue.

Now, I grew up on a southwestern Minnesota dairy farm. I know cattle tongues. They are long and rough like sandpaper. Good for chewing hay and silage and ground feed, and for licking salt blocks, or people. Not something I would want to eat. Ever.

Yeah, yeah, I eat hamburger. Please don’t tell me what’s in ground beef. Ever.

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

OK, class, today we’re going to have a one-question pop quiz.

Identify two of the vegetables in the soup pictured here.

Easy, right?

Carrots and broccoli, you say.

Wrong.

The correct answer: carrots and green cauliflower. And if you have really good eyes and can see through the cheesy broth, you would add mushrooms and onions for extra credit.

Not to worry, I would have failed too if I hadn’t purchased the green cauliflower and made the soup.

Now, I didn’t just flippantly walk into the produce section of a local grocery store and snatch up a head of green cauliflower. I inquired first, after seeing a special display of green and orange cauliflower priced at $1.88. I had never seen cauliflower in those colors, and, being Minnesotan and a Lutheran, I was a bit leery of trying something new.

So I asked five grocery store staffers whether the tastes of the green and orange varieties differ from the white. I am persistent. After four “I don’t know” replies, I finally got a “no” response. That was only after the fifth employee called his wife to ask.

Satisfied, I plopped a head of the green stuff into my shopping cart. The orange cauliflower simply didn’t appeal to me. Think Cheetos.

Well, I should have done my homework. I read online that the orange cauliflower is pretty healthy stuff — higher in vitamin A and oxidants than the white or green varieties. And, sorry, produce people, but some sources say the orange type tastes sweeter and milder and a bit like corn on the cob.

As for the green cauliflower, I found no difference in taste, or smell, from white cauliflower. Cooking cauliflower still stinks up the house. But, I learned that this broccoflower, as it is also called, has a texture more like broccoli, meaning I should have shortened the cooking time. The chunks of green cauliflower you see in the bowl of soup are way too mushy for my liking.

Now, for all of you students who are way smarter than me, the teacher, and knew about broccoflower and orange cauliflower years ago, oh, and purple cauliflower too, give yourselves an “A.” And then, go ahead, sign up for an advanced foods class.

Marv Kaisersatt epitomizes contentment.

I met this retired math teacher and woodcarver more than a month ago after snagging a coveted invitation to his second floor apartment studio in downtown Faribault. Or rather, I should say, I invited myself over for a photo shoot.

Marv greeted me as I opened the door, walked around a stack of newspapers, climbed a steep, dimly-lit, narrow stairway and skirted a pile of wood pieces into his world.

Marv’s world is nearly indescribable. Everywhere I looked, and I mean everywhere, I saw Marv’s people. Pirates, fisherman, carpenters, painters, pool sharks, old geezers, you name it, he has created these characters from blocks of woods.

While I got my photos and my story, I got much more. I delighted in meeting a man who has the right perspective on life. Marv carves not for the money—because he doesn’t sell his pieces — but rather for the joy of carving. This bachelor artist contentedly leads a simple life.

You can read more about this internationally-acclaimed carver in the March/April issue of Minnesota Moments, in a new feature, “You asked for it!”

You can also see Marv’s caricature carvings from now through March 28 at the Paradise Center for the Arts, 321 Central Avenue, Faribault. His show, “More of My Good Stuff,” opened Friday night.  I was there for the reception and the gallery was crowded. An elderly couple in their 80s even drove all the way from St. Cloud. (Marv told me they were woodcarvers too.) I perused his pieces, noticing details I had missed earlier. There’s so much to see in Marv’s carvings.

Then I chatted with this engaging artist. And in typical Marv fashion, he had a few humorous stories to share, stories that might some day become immortalized in blocks of wood.

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Log onto http://www.paradisecenterforthearts.org/ for more information about the Paradise Center for the Arts and Marv’s show.

By Audrey Kletscher Helbling

They were just riding the bus. Kids returning home from school. But Jesse, Hunter, Emilee and Reed never arrived home.

On Feb. 19, 2008, the four Lakeview School students died when their bus was struck by a mini-van on a highway south of Cottonwood on the cold, wind-swept prairie of southwestern Minnesota. Many others were seriously injured.

Today, on the one-year anniversary, the Cottonwood community comes together, once again, to reflect in an event called “Our Journey of Hope.” As students, families and others gather, tears will flow. Grieving and healing will continue.

Tears come easily for me as I recall that tragic day, which hit much too close to home for me. I grew up about 20 miles from Cottonwood.

And Bryce, one of the young students on that bus, was an extended family member. He received only bumps and bruises. Today life goes on for this 8-year-old, as it should. He recently won a piano contest and will advance to state competition in March. He plays with his two brothers and brings much joy to his grandma Joyce, my cousin.

I didn’t know any of the others on that bus. But I’ve read about Derek, a wrestler who suffered severe injuries, including a broken back, in the crash. He’s back on the wrestling mat.

Stories of survival and a return to normal, everyday activities bring hope.

But underlying all of this is the loss, the deep, deep loss of a child. Four children — Emilee, Reed and brothers Jesse and Hunter — who never made it home from school.

Grief runs deep on this journey of hope.