Priests, Poets and Bakers

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Last night I had a tough choice to consider, go to the University Club for the season ending reading, or watch the NBA finals.

With confronted with such choice, typically I will opt for the one that gets me out of the house, therefore preventing me from becoming a total Plop A**.

But Lebron is "My Guy" and I was wanting to will him across the finish line.

So I go the artsy route anyway, and it was OK, except the Celtic guy who insisted on playing those God Awful high pitched pipes.

Afterwards, I headed into the bar, grabbed a Carona, and the bartender (who was a guy) asks....

"Ya want a lime with that?"

Well of course I do, its a Carona, but dude should know that no "Real Guy" wants to ask  for a lime....

Just shut up and shove it down the bottle neck brah.

So now the Poet Laureate grabs the chair across from me, others join her, and then finally a priest is the last slides into our group as well.

My stars...if it isn't Father Gillespie.

Father Gillespie was one of the readers on this evenings ticket, and w/o a doubt gets my vote for one of the cities Top 10 most interesting orators.

Dude must of flourished in Homiletics 101, because he had the lot of us eating out of his hand.

He starts his set mentioning that his poetic reading will be like a perfect Mass, you know...the kind where the ending is close to the begining.

But then he talked about the Poet Billy Collins.

So at our table people are sqwauwking...."Blah-blah, Saint Paul Stuff, more Saint Paul Stuff, Irish this and Irish that."

Eventually the priest looks at me and says.....

"Baker, you are kinda quiet tonight."

"Father' I said "I was trained as a youth to never discuss the Irish."

The Poet Laureate rolls her eyes and reminds me....

"C'mon Klecko, after all 1/2 your blood is Irish."

So I turn to the table, smile, nod.... and then report the following.

"In 1965, when I was 2, my father the Mick deserted my mother, and from that time on, she always got annoyed when we embraced shamrocks or leprechauns. Ever since then we just set our eyes on the red and white, and all the angels of Warsaw."

The table sits silent.....

One - One thousand, Two - One thousand, then the priest interjects.

"Well your mom was a Pollack, no wonder why he left her, I'm surprised he stayed as long as he did!"

O-M-G.....I so LMAO.

Now that's my kind of priest, keeping it real, sipping a high ball and have a little fun with his flock.

Now the Padre asks me if I knew Bruno, the guy who baked at Kramarczuk's Deli?

"Yeah, I knew him. That's a Pollack joint over Northeast, I was raised over there, and btw....at Holy Cross, they said the Mass in Polish. How old was Bruno when he passed Father?

"Funny you should ask, I don't remember the age of everyone whose funeral I officiate, but Bruno was 83."

I smile and toss a little theory onto the table.

"Don't quote me on this, but I think Bruno baked all the way, up until his death."

Father Gillespie takes a belt off his cocktail and verifed my thought....

"Yeah, he did bake till the end. about a year before his passing, I asked him when he was thinking about retiring, and he just said WHEN I NO LONGER REMEMBER THE RECIPES. Yes, Bruno was loved. In fact, when the hearse carrying his remains was headed to the cemetery, they made certain to pass Kramarczuk's. when it did, the entire staff stood outside on the curb and they all removed their hats and had a moment of silence as Bruno passed by."

Ya think?

I so hope somebody misses me when my final ride passes, don't you?