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PLATFORM Mayor 4 Life Klecko 2017 by Danny Klecko & Big Vanilla
Kraken Press, St. Paul Š 2015; all rights reserved ISBN 978-1-944169-41-1
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“Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.”
PABLO NERUDA
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Planks In The Platform O Pioneers! ................................................................................ 8 This Is Danny Klecko's Platform ................................................. 9 I Am Klecko .............................................................................. 10 My Ronald Reagan Tattoo ....................................................... 12 So What Is Mayor 4 Life? ......................................................... 14 13 Years Old ............................................................................. 15 The Night I Baked a Bundt Cake on PBS ................................. 16 Epic Origin Story in Six Movements......................................... 17 Less Epic Origin Story............................................................... 20 Two Days With Danny Klecko, by Big Vanilla .......................... 22 What Need Have We of Paris? ................................................ 24 The Failed Settlement.............................................................. 25 We Could Be Happy ................................................................. 26 A Flag ....................................................................................... 27 The Streets Have Eyes ............................................................. 28 Once Upon a Time in the (651)................................................ 29 Irish Town ................................................................................ 30 At The St. Paul Hotel ................................................................ 31 The Day After Mike Hatch Lost the Gubernatorial Race ......... 33 Statement On The Use Of Nuclear Weapons .......................... 34 Homes for Cash ....................................................................... 35 A Challenge To Doctor Palmer ................................................. 36 Call To Action ........................................................................... 37 Dayton’s Bluff .......................................................................... 38 45 Minutes In Como Park ........................................................ 40 Carol Connolly.......................................................................... 41 If We Were a Norman Rockwell Painting ................................ 42 Sister Rosalind ......................................................................... 43 Trophies of Conquest .............................................................. 44 Bread 4 St. Paul........................................................................ 45 The Plaque at Meeker Island ................................................... 48 Parking Lot ............................................................................... 49 6`
To The Police ........................................................................... 50 The Clan MacGregor ................................................................ 51 Taste Testers I Have Known..................................................... 52 Republican National Convention ............................................. 53 The Transfiguration of Danny Klecko ...................................... 54 Bread 4 Peace .......................................................................... 55 124 Degrees ............................................................................. 59 Breakfast With Barack ............................................................. 60 Big Vanilla’s Vision ................................................................... 61
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O Pioneers! Friends, you have been upgraded to first class. There is a movement building behind closed doors, A conspiracy of decency to overturn our civic life. Men and women are standing in rows, Pioneer voices rise like shoots of corn. Let the rain come, they say, let the sun shine. Here is the wealth that is seeded in the earth, Here are our children reaching toward light. Even the frogs in the mud by the river, Cry one word to the stupefied moon:
KLECKO!
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This Is Danny Klecko's Platform If you ask us, during the hurly-burly of the campaign, “So what do you stand for?� the answers are right here, in this document. It may sound annoying, or cloying, but our vision is for a city that believes in itself, and people who endure and value one another. This is the only home we have, and we forget how much it has given to us. These pages are to remind us who we are and where we came from. We commend it to you with love in our hearts. Danny Klecko & Big Vanilla
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I Am Klecko During the 80’s, most of the old time wholesale bakers learned their trade in one of two places, the military or prison. Most of these crews were split into ethnic camps. The French had their own thing going, the Germans did what they wanted to do, and the Scandinavians were so numerous that oftentimes their place in this hierarchy was determined by which Lutheran church they attended. The name on my birth certificate reads Daniel McGleno. My father was 100% Irish, but he abandoned our family early and I was raised by my mother, a full-fledged Pole. Surprisingly enough, even though St. Paul was filled with Irish in the hospitality scene, the Irish were almost nonexistent in the baking community. Poles didn’t have a strong presence in the Capital City either. However, at my first commercial gig there were Poles, Czechs and Russians, and together they constituted an Eastern Euro Alliance that carried on the baking traditions of their homelands. When I asked if I could join them and learn their systems, they looked at the nametag on my uniform and laughed, informing me: “No Micks allowed.” Several weeks passed with me feeling awkward and alienated. One night I went to my locker and found that my McGleno shirts had been replaced with ones that said Klecko. The name was new to me.
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I proceeded to the production area to get answers. “Somebody gave me the wrong shirts,” I told Richard, a squatty RussianJew baker. “No, you got the right shirts,” Richard told me. All the European bakers clustered around and told me I was an official Polack from now on. No more Irish McGleno -- from that moment on I was Klecko. Then they welcomed me with guy hugs. And that’s how it’s been ever since. I’ve had opportunities to return to my given name, but something holds me back. I owe my career, my life, really, to those guys in the oven room who looked out for me when I was nobody, even to the point of altering my identity. To be anything less than Klecko would be disrespectful.
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My Ronald Reagan Tattoo Like many hospitality workers, I have spent my career not only feeding a city, but also squirreling away spare change to cover my body with over 80 tattoos. Oftentimes when asked which one is my favorite, I encourage whoever is asking to throw a dart and let fate decide. Picking a favorite tattoo is like asking your mom which one of her kids she loves the most. Over the years I’ve been covered with a three-foot King Kong, Polish Saints, Chihuahuas and the ISBN from a cookbook I wrote. But without a doubt, the tattoo that generated the most interest is my portrait of Ronald Reagan. I realize he’s not everyone’s favorite president, and my reasons for admiring him had nothing to do with policy. I just liked him. So I thought it would be fun to have an etching of Dutch on my left bicep. Some years later a national hospitality publication interviewed me to determine if tattoos hindered a food service worker’s career. The photographer for the story snapped a shot of me flexing the 40th president’s profile. Later on I was fortunate to work several government scopes across Russia.
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Let me tell you, the young commuters on the Moscow subways went ape for my Reagan tattoo. Whereas, my associates in the Siberian Arctic were less amused. People worldwide have strong feelings about Reagan. When I returned home, I learned that the Huffington Post had held a contest titled THE WORST POLITICAL TATTOOS EVER. There were images of stick people diving from the burning Twin Towers and George W biting into the neck of the Statue of Liberty with vampire fangs. In my own opinion, the creepiest was a picture of Abraham Lincoln with a bullet hole in his forehead. Someone sent in a photo from that hospitality interview from years earlier. You can imagine how shocked I was – and how proud -- when I discovered that readers all over the planet voted my Ronald Reagan tattoo the worst … political tattoo….EVER.
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So What Is Mayor 4 Life? A common misunderstanding is that Danny Klecko seeks to be named mayor of St. Paul for the rest of his days. Like a Supreme Court Justice. That would be presumptuous. To be Mayor 4 Life is to be mayor of the city's soul. To be for the happiness and success of every St. Paulitan. We are not naive. Good things don't happen just because you have good intentions. Politics is brutal, rooted in compromise, often disappointing. But what if you had a mayor who was genuinely on your side? Who wanted the best for every person in this city? We're talking about a new kind of politics. No other candidate has a track record of service like Danny Klecko. He has been helping to feed St. Paul for 30 years Our candidate is for neighborhoods that are safe. Where parents don't have to be afraid for their kids. For young people having decent opportunities. For the rich and the poor to keep from sliding further apart. Where citizens do not feel like the cops are the enemy. The life in Mayor 4 Life is your life. Think about it!
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13 Years Old Tom Thumb closes at 11 pm At 11:06 a Bonneville pulls up And two nuns pop out and bum-rush the door They are in need of cigarettes But the cashier must be a Lutheran Because she refuses to answer the ladies’ prayers So the brides of Christ are in a black mood And brush past me and a friend Who have spent most of July in this parking lot “Excuse me sister” I call out “Would you like a Marlboro red?” I lit it for her as she pulled back her wimple Exposing her hair, and closing her eyes And when that smoke shot down the pipe The Holy Spirit gave me reason to know that -For the first time -- I was absolved
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The Night I Baked a Bundt Cake on PBS Swear to God They picked me up in a minivan Painted in the likeness of Big Bird In haste, we headed back to the studio Prior to our arrival The producer urged me to be concise On script, Economic in language Finally… the camera guy counted down Three-Two-One As the light flashed, and before the host spoke It just kind of slipped out “Grandpa loves you Madison Rose More than anybody else” My comment surprised the crew I wondered if it annoyed them After brief reflection I realized it didn’t matter These people would forget me within the hour But my granddaughter... She would remember that moment The rest of her life
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Epic Origin Story in Six Movements 1. Mississippi, Monster of the Continent The Father of Waters was not always mild. The River Warren was a River of God, It drained gigantic Lake Agassiz, four Texases across, Swelled by the melting of mile-high glaciers. This river in its day was too far across to see the other side. It tore from north to south like a ripping backhoe installing cliffs along its shoulders. 2. People Appear Ten thousand years ago, the land still damp, human beings set first foot in this place, drawing life from the roaring water, as the land consolidated. Home to the Ojibwe and Lakota, later an invasion of pirates and thieves, then a flotilla of miscellaneous white settlers drawn here by oxen, drawn to a better life, now freezing in the Minnesota cold. The wilderness took everybody, no questions asked. 3. Naming The Names Ancient Brawler Cliff Maker Land Swarmer Moraine Drowner Cascade Cannon Bullwhip Of Rainstorms Flusher Of Glaciers Grandfather Of All Fathers Of All Waters Anywhere A Thousand Feet Deep And Five Miles Across 17`
Wild At All Moments And Bringer Of Life all honor and propitiation be to you. 4. Six-Six-Six Some great cities are set high on a hill. Ours kneels by the water coursing by. The lowest elevation of the River of God in the city of St. Paul is six hundred sixty-six feet. That’s one hell of a number when you think about it. Uphill the river is steep, one thousand seven hundred feet to Lake Itasca. Downriver, the slow slide to the Gulf. There are no twin cities, only a single city set by the slapping wake, a swirl of peoples getting along for the most part Alongside the shadow of the River of God. 5. The Worshipful Do you know what radio preachers down in Texas and Louisiana call St. Paul? Paganistan, the pagan land. But what do those tiny-eyed people know? They are confused by the faces of our reverence, They are jealous we live by the rushing waters of the River of God that slaloms through the land like a zigzag serpent, swallowing everything wild and beautiful.
6. The River Warren We take it for granted, Throwing bridges across wherever it suits us, We lock it and dam it and bend it to our will. We clog it with barges and fisher folk and sightseeing boats. 18`
Our sewers pipe runoff into its body. The shrunken river meanders through our midst Like a lost child through the mall. But when the snows begin to melt in spring it triggers memories of the Ancient River, the monster of the continent, the gullet of the hemisphere, leaning its brawny back against the banks, feeling the rushing power return to it. This is our river, bearing down on our city, Thrusting us and our plans aside, Crazy grandfather home from a bender -experience has taught us to step back and respect its staggering path.
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Less Epic Origin Story Klecko and Big Vanilla were huddling in the bar of the Glockenspiel on West Seventh. They were on their third pints of Hacker-Pshorr Hefe Weis. They were in an ebullient mood, consciously selecting a brew high in gluten content. All St. Paul calls Klecko its son. But West Seventh holds a special place in his heart. For years he toiled in the tiny St. Agnes Bakery at Bay Street. Every day he walked to work and greeted the friends and neighbors he passed. Plus the Glock is a long-time client, which means something to a small business man. “Danny,” Big Vanilla said. “People like you. You’re down to earth, you’re fun, you have a big heart. These are solid assets. There must be some way we can make something with that.” “I always wanted to have my own reality TV show,” Klecko said. “I learned a lot of secrets at the ovens. People are interested in food. And I like people. I like making them feel good.” “I don’t know,” Vanilla interrupted him. “Reality shows are about people behaving badly. That’s not for you.” “True that,” the baker said, finishing his pint. “I would be the opposite of that. I would be interested in people, and show them some love. My vision is completely different.” “TV doesn’t want that,” Vanilla said. “You wanna show love, go into politics!”
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Klecko laughed. Big Vanilla laughed. Politics. Him, with his tattoos and no college. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. But he held up his glass as if he as seeing something in it. “You could run for president,” Vanilla suggested, still making a joke. “No, I can’t,” Klecko said. “I can’t run for president. They make you move.” Rosanna, the barmaid, came over to take our glasses and swab the tabletop. “What do you think, Rosanna,” Big Vanilla said. “Would you vote for Danny?” Rosie looked at Klecko with a look of love and devotion. “I would vote for you for anything in the whole world,” she said fervently. “OK, Mister Mayor, that’s your first vote. Let’s get out of here.” An hour later, the phone rang on Big Vanilla’s kitchen counter. It was Klecko. “Ya got a minute?” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”
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Two Days With Danny Klecko, by Big Vanilla I have known Danny Klecko for twenty-plus years, long before we began working together. He was a family friend, devoted to Rachel and me and our kids. We discovered, early in our friendship, that both of us had been raised fatherless, him from birth and me from age 11. We knew what that did to a boy. When my daughter Daniele was 16, he gave her a job at St. Agnes answering phones and putting out customer fires. The guys loved her, and teased her a bit, which they figured she would enjoy. Actually, she hated it. After she left the bakery Danny kept up with her, taking her out to lunch, looking in on her. When Daniele died, alone in her room, I was no good. It was Danny who helped with the funeral reception. He brought bread from the bakery, cheeses and cold cuts and bottled waters. Enough to get us through that day. The following day he helped me clean out Daniele’s apartment. We walked past the chair she died in, and got to work emptying the place. We hauled everything out to the trash or stashed it in the bread truck. We locked the door and drove away. Back home, on the sidewalk, I looked at Danny. His eyes were red. He was a man who had just done the last thing he ever wanted to do.
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I thanked him for helping me. Awkwardly, like men, we hugged on the sidewalk. I told him if he could still use one, I could be his dad, and maybe he could be mine. And that's the true story of Klecko and Big Vanilla, and how they came to be, long before there was a Tag Team Productions. And I ask the people of our city: Who would not want a friend like that?
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What Need Have We of Paris? Oh it is undoubtedly great, what with its tin rooftops and horse-chestnut trees, but how can it compare to St. Paul's seven hills whatever their names are, and its multiple mini-malls or the birds singing sweetly in spring or the pointy steeple of St. Agnes standing guard like a nun over all?
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The Failed Settlement Communities, like all living things, eventually die. This story, based on the Roanoke Colony in Virginia, is about what happens when people give up on one another.
All we wanted was to set up shop, sell what we found, then have our sons and daughters take our places later on. After the first year we piled everything up on the beach and waited for the ships, but the ships didn't come. We had to eat our own food. We didn't make a cent. The next year was the same, and the year after that. The piles got smaller, and after a time only the young went on about sailboats and flags. The torches we lit with the remaining oil laughed through the night and went out. We started to keep to ourselves in the fields. The work week grew shorter. We didn't talk over meals as much. We stopped showing up at the market, at supper. On the night of the last meeting we cast our final ballots. Breaking camp, we buried the pitchforks and rifles. We burned our houses and put out the fires. We tore up the book of debts and allowances, one page at a time. Dividing into groups of two and three, we headed inland, leaving not so much behind as a single naked footprint in the sand.
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We Could Be Happy Even if Just for a moment Everyone could be happy I’d play my part And construct a belfry Tall and clean Unattached to any cathedral Unoccupied by hunchbacks So in our brave new world If you lose your way As pioneers do I will ring the bell For those lead off course By deception and false accounts And when the chord’s pulled taut Your direction will be restored Not with promises But tone and echo
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A Flag is what we should be like -a flag in a stiff cold wind, every fiber stretched taut, buffeted until we come apart, every moment ripping at our seams.
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The Streets Have Eyes Here are the caves where Dillinger hid. The bungalow where Al Capone ate steak. Here are the upstairs rooms where Kid Cann plotted The greatest rip-off of them all, Ripping up the streetcar tracks So everyone drove to work in cars. Don’t kid yourself, it goes on like this still. The cops arrest the low-hanging fruit, But deals keep being made to sell you your own life. Not everything is done on the up and up. A mayor who acts like everything is sweet Is probably in on the honey. Mister T was being interviewed by Barbara Walters. Her staff had her ask about his mother’s mugging. “How did you know about that?” he asked. “Did the cops catch the guys who did it? Was justice done?” Mister T nods. He knows what happened. “The streets have eyes,” he says. “We see.”
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Once Upon a Time in the (651) On the first day I was able to roll down my bread truck’s window Roll it down all the way Enough to feel sunshine on my face without experiencing frosty repercussions I was alone and feeling alone, though accompanied by a Pavarotti soundtrack When a red light stopped me At the intersection of West 7th and Jackson Where I heard a conversation so sweet I turned down the volume on my favorite tenor To listen to words I couldn’t understand A dialect that was foreign The participants were Asian in appearance She, dressed casually, sitting behind the steering wheel He, riding shotgun, wearing an MTC bus driver’s uniform I supposed this was just an insignificant moment In their relationship Maybe she was dropping him off, or picking him up from work For all I know he was on a lunch break After all only 20 minutes had passed since the noon hour But as this couple stared ahead at a personal joy That appeared to be designed specifically for them I smiled with a hint of jealousy At how effortlessly their conversation seemed Tied together by threads of laughter And when the green light finally flashed And they sped away I realized how many times we’ve had that exact conversation And I thought of you and smiled As the loneliness increased 29`
Irish Town It is said we hate the body and ‘tis true. It is said we punish with silence and we do. Slow to anger, slower to judge. Good thing we never hold a grudge.
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At The St. Paul Hotel For more than a century, whenever gangsters, movie stars or presidents spent the night in the Twin Cities, more often than not they’d book a room at The St. Paul Hotel. The place offers unparalleled swag, and I think former Capital City mayor George Latimer described its existence best when he said, "It's more than a hotel." OK, here’s a homework assignment. I challenge you to go to the University Club on Summit Avenue and sidle up to the bar. I’m willing to bet that if you order a Manhattan and tell the bartender that you’re from out of town and you're wondering if The Saint Paul Hotel is a nice place to stay, by the time you take your last sip and begin to chew on the cherry, the bartender will have rattled off the visits of Theodore Roosevelt, George W., Bill Clinton and JFK. They all stayed there. Who wouldn't? Years ago I began to service the hotel when I designed a Hungarian raisin rye table bread for the visiting Archduke of Austria. One of the chefs I dealt with was a guy named Jeremy. Jeremy and I were not quite friends, but strong acquaintances for sure. One Sunday morning, as I was dropping off product for the hotel kitchen, I saw Jeremy and a bunch of guys clad in checkered pants with dirty aprons crouching over a busboy's tub, with contents piled up above the tub's brim. Jeremy told me that the great tenor Luciano Pavarotti came to town the day before, and every time Pavarotti visited, he’d drive the engineers crazy with a long list of intense requests. The last time he came to town they had to adjust the height of
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his couch because the tenor was such a big man he had difficulty rising from a seated position. But on this most recent trip the great man demanded that a better-than-makeshift kitchen be installed in his suite, because after his performance he was going to cook for colleagues and friends. I asked Jeremy whether Pavarotti had any chops as a cook. Jeremy stared down at the contents of the bus tub and explained: “At this point, last night’s dinner has aged a bit," he said, "but overall I’d say, Hell yeah, that boy knows what he’s doing.” So now I reexamine the contents of the tub and I wonder how Jeremy formed this hypothesis. After all, the tub was filled with a muddy ooze of what looked like spaghetti sauce, wine, espresso and cake. “Jeremy” I asked, “you didn’t actually taste that, did you?” He just laughed and stared at the blushing kid beside him, the sleeves of his chef coat rolled up. Jeremy explained: “That’s what sous chefs are for.”
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The Day After Mike Hatch Lost the Gubernatorial Race I sat next to Walter Mondale At a breakfast fundraiser in St Paul When you're sitting next to the former Vice President Protocol can become confusing First off, do you address a former vice president As Mr. Vice President Or does that automatically Make one look like a suck-up? When Mike Hatch stopped complaining Fritz began chewing I took this opportunity To contribute to the conversation "Mr. Vice President, When your family flew to Japan My mother was your dog sitter" And when I mentioned my mom’s name His reply said he remembered her But his eyes told a different story "You have a big old Doberman, huh -How's the old boy doing?" The former Vice President stood Informing me she had been dead for several years Then wished me a good morning Exiting in haste
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Statement On The Use Of Nuclear Weapons The greatest responsibility of any mayor is to use the city’s stockpile of nuclear weapons responsibly and with a commitment to transparency. Therefore, as your mayor I promise to abstain from the use of weapons of mass destruction in the city’s arsenal without a clear consent of the majority of City Council members. It is my intention to adhere to a policy by which I am never left alone with controls to these weapons, especially on weekends or after I have been drinking, despite any feelings of fascination I may have with their awesome power.
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Homes for Cash Mounted above a TV repair shop along Dale Street is a billboard with the immense face of a man on it, tall as a movie screen. His tie is askew, his collar is wild, like a man who has been running in his suit. His coloring is orange and blotchy red, as if he spent hours in a tanning booth, drinking cheap gin. He is holding an old-time phone to his ear and grinning, Though the receiver isn't connected to anything. “I’m Steve Larson of Sunset Realty,” the guy says, “and I buy homes for cash!” He seems both innocent and crude, as if believing that just seeing his huge face, faking a phone call, and grinning high above the traffic, will convince us to hand over the keys to our houses. I suspect his pals clap him on the back for pulling off this stunt but that even he knows, when he drives this way late at night, when the traffic dies down, that his ass could not be redder to the world, promising cash in hand if people will only turn over their homes to him, the roofs they live under, the memories that are the source of most meaning, the being-with-one-another that makes our lives sacred.
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A Challenge To Doctor Palmer I used to be a fighter, literally. But when I turned 50, I proclaimed to my legion of Pioneers that I was hanging up the gloves, that I would fight no more forever. For months, I was true to my word. After witnessing the photos of Eden Prairie dentist Walter Palmer murdering Cecil the lion, however, I have reconsidered. I issued this proposal to the Pioneers: If you could put together a pay-per-view package, I would fistfight Doctor Palmer in the parking lot of his dental facility, and give my HBO cut to the nature preserve Cecil lived so majestically on. Walter and I were close to the same age and size. He was clearly a motivated man. But I was motivated, too. The deal did not go through. Doctor Palmer continues to drill suburban teeth and prosper. But my challenge remains in effect to any who insult beauty and life. Klecko will defend all our rights to draw breath and be happy.
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Call To Action Politicians lie. They say, I’m going to fix everything. I can do it without causing you pain. And then they are elected, and they don’t do much, Because they’re just the mayor, they say. They don’t rule by decree. People don’t get that the only real power is theirs. If they demand a thing, linking arms with one another, Even a lousy mayor will get behind them. Elections are always about you. Don’t blame the politician. If things aren’t happening, blame yourself. Organize. Vote. Apply pressure. Care. The rule of living as a viable community: “Fly or die.”
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Dayton’s Bluff There's a place I go to in Saint Paul. Dayton's Bluff sits atop a stubby cliff formed a million years ago by the Mississippi River, when it was the River Warren, a giant river miles across and ocean-deep. These bluffs are all eaten out at the base by caves and caverns, some of them honeycombing the entire city. I sit there and eat my lunch, under the little radio tower that stands on the peak, red light blinking night and day as a warning to low-flying aircraft. I feel like a little kid looking down on this part of the city, like a page from a Richard Scarry picture book. You look down and think of all the buttons you could push, all the switches you could flip. First, there’s the river, taking a big bend to the left as it snakes through town. Though rivers flow downhill, this one seems to tilt up, because everything seems to be heading up from this spot. I see barges tied up, or a lone tugboat pushing upriver, parting the silky water with its prow. Beside the river are several lanes of train tracks, and the banging of empty boxcars connecting. You can hear the scream of the pneumatic whistle. Next to the train tracks is Highway 61, sweeping all the way from up from New Orleans, headed further north to Bob Dylan's birthplace in Duluth. Beside the river is the newspaper printing plant, with delivery trucks coming and going. And next to that is little Holman Field. All day long you can watch one- and two-engine planes touching down and taking off on the tiny runway, and people
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climbing down little stairways on runners and crossing the tarmac, bags in hand. Beyond that are the mighty bridges -- the Lafayette Bridge, a brute of a bridge, the Wabasha Bridge, the picture of Art Deco splendor, and the refitted Robert Street bridge, with its fancy light posts and grillwork. Saint Paul is a sleepy downtown, with only two buildings that pass for skyscrapers. But we still have vacant department stores, a hockey arena, scores of brick warehouses and office buildings, an amazing city library and city hall, and then, skipping across the Interstate, the greenway leading up to the capitol -- a passable replica of the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C., not so big, but adorned with an impressive team of gold-plated horses. If you have not gotten high on St. Paul lately, I invite you to take a bag lunch to Dayton’s Bluff, and see the place we call home with kid eyes.
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45 Minutes In Como Park Between the hours of 3 and 4 On the bench adjacent to ours Sat a man who was not put together A man in the grip of some battle Big drops of rain began to fall Rain drops by the tablespoon The man refused to move A woman with a terrier Stopped as if she knew him Offering dry escort Underneath her umbrella The man began to cry "What determines luck? Who makes up the rules? Why is value attached To everything but me?" The woman sat by his side Put her arm around his shoulder In silence the umbrella twirled Until she offered explanation "Everything will be fine,� she said “Just not today"
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Carol Connolly Rumor had it Her convalescence would be lengthy So the baker stopped by the recovery room With a package and an announcement "Hospital food will kill you So I baked these myself" Then he displayed butter croissants Blueberry scones And an enormous slice of banana bread The baker continued "You can hoard these for yourself Or share them with the staff" To which the Poet Laureate responded "OR NOT" It was at this point Everyone in the room Knew Carol Connolly would be fine
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If We Were a Norman Rockwell Painting I imagine our likeness would be captured Outside an ice cream shop In ideal weather Where I would find comfort In the predictability of ordering a vanilla cone You on the other hand Would place your faith in flavors never sampled Knowing that after one lick If your eyes announced disappointment I would swap you my vanilla, for the thousandth time
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Sister Rosalind The Archdiocese rewarded her with a house Best described as a brick cottage And every night for many years A baker passed by with his four dogs On one particular evening For no particular reason The nun poked her head out the window and asked Do you know why you spend so much time with those hounds? Not knowing if this was some kind of trick nun question The baker stood still and remained silent Sister Rosalind smiled, eventually answering her own question We are all the same But we are also very different I believe this is your natural way of praying Then she came out of her house and hugged the baker Who returned home with gratitude in his heart
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Trophies of Conquest Knowing how I disliked Garrison Keillor Without provocation The pastry chef entered my office Smirking -- because she received A secondhand invite to a gala Taking place at his home Taking place that very night "Steal his salt and pepper shakers" I demanded "We'll put them in the break room" My request offered no purpose But the pastry chef called it genius Promising to fulfill my bidding The following morning During a postmortem of the party The pastry chef rolled blood shot eyes While handing me a package With contents I'm not at liberty to disclose
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Bread 4 St. Paul As a young baker I learned from a bread master who understood how markets worked. His name was Dick Kiwis and he was in charge of opening the SuperMom’s bakery in St. Paul Park. Each day this plant kicked out enough bread, donuts and pastry to fill over 300 convenience stores. During the interview, he asked what I wanted to do with my baking talents. I told him I wanted to create artisan sourdough lines. The bread master leaned back in his chair. I sensed a tirade in the making. “Listen to me, kid, do you wanna be an artist, do you wanna die poor? We don’t do things around here to please you, we bake things that our customers will buy. Not once a week, or on special occasions. Every day! Specialty items are fine, but first you have to design products that will sell out every goddamn day! “So thank Christ you were placed in my path because I’m going to teach you a universal secret. The bakery that owns the best hamburger bun runs the city. And if that person isn’t going to be you, get out of my office and take up a career in real estate.” At the time I was terrified, but in hindsight I realize the old man liked me and wanted me to carry on with tools that would benefit my career so much so, that frequently he’d come in at 3 a.m. to watch my progress.
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Those moments were often accompanied with his countless observations and opinions. “Hey kid, ya ever heard of a guy named Marcus Aurelius? He was named Caesar and even though he lived in a world where everybody wanted to shank him, he still had the good sense to use his best guards to protect the grain silos instead of himself because nothing can topple an empire quicker than messing with its food source. “Back then people loved bakers because they hated millers. Millers were assholes, kinda like the IRS, and they were run by the government and after you and your family spent a season of harvesting you’d have to cart your wheat to their mills, but those bastards wouldn’t let you in. "They’d take your wheat, close the doors and lock you out and you’d get back whatever they wanted to give you and there wasn’t a thing you could do about it. “But the bakers, they opened their doors to the community and encouraged families to enter their hearth room and watch the fruits of their labor transform into magical loaves of bread. “Rome loved their bakers, to the point that Caesar cut a backhanded deal with our guild. We were the only artisan group that had slave status removed. Bakers became free men, because they were honest -- and people like honest, kid. “I’m pretty sure it was Aurelius that formed the Collegium Pistorum, the first baker’s guild on record. Bakers rose in status like no other group of people. In fact, bakers were held in such high regard that it became mandatory that at least one seat in the senate had to be occupied by a baker.”
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Baking late at night, thirty years later, I can still hear the monologue Dick laid on me that first day. Bakers keep the people alive, Dick Kiwi told me. They were the first Romans set loose because the city depended on them to eat, to survive. That’s the role I intend to play in the political ring as well. Forget partisanship. Forget the special interests. Forget everything everyone hates about public life. The numbers. The dollars. What really matters is the people who make up the city. Rich or poor, we all need bread, but we also need hope, and a reason to look at one another with love and acceptance, not annoyance. I hope you will join me in celebrating the life we live together here, the city St. Paul was when I first set eyes on it, and the city we were meant to be.
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The Plaque at Meeker Island There is a plaque at the old Ford Dam, beside a 15-ton turbine that spun in the rushing Mississippi for 70 years, stealing power from the comb of water that falls thirty eight feet like an unrolling carpet at the slaggy foot of Meeker Island. The turbine is rusted now, and you can see the places where the water wore the metal down, like bite-marks sunk in Mesabi steel. The plaque says the turbine in its working lifetime produced 1.3 billion kilowatt hours of electricity for the families of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Think of the turbine squatting in the roar, taking everything the river gave, melting snow from high up in the state, gargling the impossibly pounding water, molecules exploding in the crashing white, negative ions flooding the atmosphere, these whirling blades turning falling into work. Think of the prosperity it means for the cities, the jobs and the money and the confidence it creates. Think of the lights that dazzle every room, of the families sitting down to dinner, think of the hot meals that we prepare, and the noise of happy forks and knives. Think of the conversations that happen, and the jokes that we tell, and the love that we feel for one another, alive and living alongside this river.
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Parking Lot The attendant at the parking lot Was angry this morning. His shovel was missing, And in a crack in the blacktop Near the corner of Eighth and Wabasha, Five weeds were sticking their heads up, Looking for trouble.
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To The Police Everyone you pull over is already having a bad day. You know this, you can see it in their eyes. People are out of work, out of money, their spouses have had it with them, they're breaking up inside. St. Paul cops get it. They ask you to roll down the window in the gentlest way. They write out the ticket in sorrow, and hand it over to you apologetically. As if to say, We know you're doing your best, and we’re sorry it has to be this way, but this is the system we're stuck with. A small number of cops, maybe their spouses have had it with them, too, they did a make on your car at the last intersection and they know the car's not stolen, and they can see that you're insured and no priors come up in the database, and you're doubtless just a guy who is having a bad day -but still they're going to do their job.
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The Clan MacGregor It was one of the last years Scottish Fair took place at Macalester It was one of the last times the Clan MacGregor assembled Most of them were large in stature All of them had ruddy complexions As the campus geared up for the parade An ocean of plaid provided comfort to all As the MacGregors formed their line numbering over a hundred A woman surfaced to join them Her skin, black as coal For the briefest of moments The marchers became swept up by a spirit of confusion Until the clan’s matriarch, stepped forward smiling My dear woman, would you be so kind to do us the honor Of taking the front of the line, and leading us as we march The offer was accepted And I have it on good authority You could hear the MacGregors chanting ROYAL IS OUR RACE As far away as University Avenue
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Taste Testers I Have Known The Arch Duke from Austria Sent 15 Austrians And 15 Hungarians To sample the event’s wares Gorby's people Wanted something Indigenous to America The CIA checked for crushed glass The President Of South Africa Demanded black Pullman loafs Much to our surprise George and his son W Usually sent security who Complained about the menu The Governor’s wife Issued warnings that she'd send it back If it didn't taste Christmassy But Clinton, He didn't send a soul He simply ate what was served And usually had seconds
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Republican National Convention When the RNC came to the Capital City Municipal workers constructed a holding pen A huge cage attached to the police station Just outside the window of our bakery Over the course of a week Lunchtime was met with anticipation The bakers born in Saint Paul constructed crude banners Offering encouragement to howling protesters pent up While the Mexican-born bakers asked amongst themselves What is there to protest, when you live in America?
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The Transfiguration of Danny Klecko We climbed the highest mountain in Minnesota, the sun streaking across the Gitche Gumee. We had come to meditate on our service to the people and to prepare ourselves psychically for the long campaign ahead. When we reached the summit we were amazed to see three spirits waiting for us -- the giant Paul Bunyan, the brave Hiawatha, and Grand Rapids' Judy Garland. Klecko called to them: "What is the meaning of this meeting?" "You are the chosen one, the elect," said Hiawatha. "We come to share good medicine with you." Hiawatha offered a calumet stuffed with kinnikinnick. The four heroes puffed ceremoniously. Klecko asked them: "What advice can you offer for the task before me? "Watch your step," the giant said. "There are people down below." "Honor the people," Hiawatha said. "Suffer on their behalf." "Put on a show," said the girl in red shoes. "And don't let 'em see you sweat." The mist then enveloped them and Klecko stood alone, his countenance blazing with wisdom. "I thank you for this blessing," he whispered. "I will not forsake this trust."
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Bread 4 Peace While my esteemed opponents spent their political energies balancing budgets or filling potholes, your friend Klecko was focused on ending The Cold War. Fact: On June 3rd 1990, Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev touched down in the Twin Cities in a red, white and blue Aeroflot jet. For the first time in a long time, Minnesota was back in the international spotlight. Everybody was curious why Gorbachev agreed to a six-hour layover here before hooking up with President Reagan in California. As usual, answers were not given. Nor did it matter as Gorby Mania was out of control and sweeping across America. Everybody wanted a piece of Gorbachev’s layover. Hundreds of VIPs ranging from Fritz Mondale to preapproved CEOs waited to pimp their wares while standing in uncharacteristic weather that resembled a Siberian cold front. The temp was 49 degrees. The skies were gray and drizzling as this beautiful mob stood huddling close for warmth on the tarmac next to a bunch of Marines, all of them packing major heat. All of us sensed this had to be the event of the season. Even Cher offered to fly in from Chicago after her concert. Nobody likes a good time like Cher -- but her request was denied. A local farmer, remembering that Gorbachev was once Soviet agriculture secretary, offered to bring an 850-pound boar to any spot along the motorcade to be admired. That idea was also shot down.
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I even heard a woman who became a bride that day offer to save Gorby a dance -- but our diplomatic guest just didn’t have enough hours to partake of all the hospitality that was offered. I was the sole exception to this rule. I first found out about Gorbachev’s visit when I was working at Custom Bakery on West 7th, in the Capital City. The Governor’s mansion was one of our accounts. I was told that Governor Rudy Perpich (a Croatian-American) wanted to have a special loaf designed for a ceremony where he and Gorby would break bread together as a symbol of peace. That’s where I came in. The symbol of peace – the special bread -- couldn’t come off a grocery store shelf. That would be savage. These world leaders were in the milling capital of the free world. This event demanded a loaf -- a perfect loaf -- that would transcend all expectations. When you design culinary dishes for visiting dignitaries you have two options. You can try to replicate something from their homeland, or you can create something indigenous to us. I opted for the latter, after hearing that Gorby was excited to visit Reagan’s ranch. It was reported that he was enthralled with Native Americans and wanted to learn more about their history and ways from one of America’s favorite cowboy actors. Like a symphony conductor I orchestrated securing the finest ingredients our state had to offer. Projects like this are a blast because you have no budget. Everybody just wants you to get the best ingredients money can buy. 56`
First I tracked down the wild rice that had the best reputation. I got it from a Native American reservation in the northernmost part of the state. My recipe used honey and molasses for a sweetening agent, and back in those days you couldn’t find good blackstrap in the north, but I got turned on to a woman in the western part of the state who kept hives. Her honey was fantastic. I collected my grains from as many different Minnesota flour mills as possible. I knew these people would get a charge out of being in on this project. And after everything was secured, I decided to use sourdough as my medium. I used a potato brick starter much like the ones Old World Russian bakers used. Gorbachev didn’t know that, but I did, and I wanted everything to be perfect. During the week leading up to the arrival, we had visits from intimidating looking thugs who might have been FBI or KGB. These people don’t hand out business cards. I was a young man at the time and took no offense while these inspectors grilled me with questions while sifting through my ingredient bins. I was not there at the event, of course -- I was, after all, just the baker -- but imagine in your mind's eye the president of all the Russias biting into a slice of my bread, with just a dab of good Minnesota butter on it. The eyes close, and he nods in the affirmative. The two leaders nod their approval, and seal their friendship. I had done my job.
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For 35 years I’ve had the honor of developing breadlines that feed an entire city on a daily basis and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that gives me great pride. But knowing that our Governor and the Soviet President used my creation to symbolize ending the Cold War blows me away. So, Pioneers, when you head out to the polls to vote for mayor of your Capital City, do you want to support the candidate whose greatest accomplishment has been getting a crosswalk put in next to a coffee shop? Or do you want to cast your vote for the man who can tell you with full confidence that if his expertise hadn’t been deployed, there still might be Soviet missiles pointed at your home.
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124 Degrees With two hours before sunrise The last baker enters the break room Joining a crew, soaked and faded Their shift hasn’t started Condensation on windows And Gatorade puddles Serve as warnings That this won’t be a day for talking In silence they wait Listening to the compressors Wheezing for air, on the other side Of the oven rooms door Each considers leaving But fears being the first To turn tail While their brothers face the dragon Only years later will they realize Why they had to carry on It wasn’t for themselves But each other
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Breakfast With Barack During his first presidential campaign Barack stopped by my neighborhood for breakfast He chose the Copper Dome, in many people’s opinion Because it came across as middle class While he fidgeted in the dining room His handlers stood near the pantry Discussing what America Wanted their President to eat "Maybe the hash brown platter?" "Nah, that could come across as gluttonous" "How about an omelet?� "Nope, that would denote boring" "Has anyone considered waffles?" This just made the entourage laugh It was finally decided pancakes Would get high ratings, from every demographic As long as the portion size Was smaller than a tractor tire So while Barack collected his half stack Packed neatly in a Styrofoam clamshell All the customers slumped in their booths And curbed their opinions with a sigh Knowing that if an outsider wanted to secure The trust of the neighborhood All you had to do was order bacon
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Big Vanilla’s Vision We are drifting down the river with a friend who cannot save us, cannot stop the war, cannot set us free. All we have is one another, heads in our hands staring up at the stars.
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About Danny Klecko Danny Klecko (McGleno) has been baking bread for St. Paul for three decades. The CEO of St. Agnes Bakery, he is the father of two children, Tydus and Nichole and grandchildren Madison Rose and Benny. Danny lives with Russian supermodel Sue McGleno in stately Klecko Manor on Summit Avenue. He has over 80 tattoos, and loves St. Paul’s people with all his heart and soul.
About Big Vanilla Big Vanilla is St. Paul writer Mike Finley, author of numerous books and articles about people with different backgrounds achieving great things together. He lives in Merriam Park with his wife, globe-hopping primary care provider Rachel Frazin, and their son, guitar composer Jon Finley.
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