Part 4: Accounts of the Life of Edmund Callipeaux

Contributors:
Edmund Callipeaux – artist, college instructor, lives in St. Louis Park.
Chili Pie – taconite plant floor manager, lives in Rochester.
Leadership 5 – woodworker, camping enthusiast, lives in Missoula.
Guy Cheblo – chef, corn expert, adventurer, lives in New York.


Edmund Callipeaux – 26 January 2009, 1:00pm

I worked for a while in the early ‘90s as a prep cook at a small diner in Minneapolis. We used to make the chicken noodle soup from scratch. I hated doing prep work…it’s so monotonous. Therefore, I was always looking for a little mischief to break up the boredom. To make the soup, the restaurant would get whole chickens to boil and make soup stock. Prior to boiling them however, I would have to clean the birds – which was nasty work. One day I looked over several chickens as they were laid out on a table before me. They looked like little headless men, lying on their backs with their arms and feet in the air. I inserted each of my hands into the chest cavities of two birds, and raising my arms to my shoulders, I became Edmund ChickenHands! And then, of course, I proceeded to run around and terrorize everyone in the kitchen. - EC
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Chili Pie – 23 January 2009, 8:00am

For now, I’ll dispense with the story of how I came to know Edmund Callipeaux. As I have been asked to be a contributing writer to the blog that concerns the events of his life, I feel that I must begin with the tale of the first time I visited Edmund and his wife, LeTigre at their apartment in Rochester, Minnesota.

Their apartment was on Seventh Street in the historic “Pill Hill” area of Rochester. They call this part of town Pill Hill because it was filled with fancy houses, built by doctors from the Mayo Clinic. Upon entering the apartment building, my first impression was that the 1920’s era building reminded me of the ski chalet from the movie, The Shining. It had a grand entrance with a long, ornately decorated hallway stretching to the south end of the building. A marble staircase led to the floors above.

Edmund greeted my wife, Lunchikong and I at the entrance to the building. He explained to us that even though his apartment was just above on the second floor, we should take the lift. Halfway down the hall sat the elevator for the building. It was small chamber and looked to be an original part of the building. It had a gold colored gate for a door that slid to the left like a scissors when opened. Its interior was lined with red panels with a mirrored ceiling and a small chandelier for a light fixture. Allusions to the famous Steven King movie raced through my mind as I pictured a tidal wave of blood overtaking us before we reached the second floor. Edmund mused, “You don’t want to be trapped in here at three o’clock in the morning!”

LeTigre greeted us at the doorway to their apartment, whereupon we entered the space. By today’s standards, it was a large, two-bedroom apartment with high ceilings and dark hardwood floors. The space was flooded with natural light from banks of both north and east facing windows. There were French doors separating the dining room from a long, L-shaped living room that had a fireplace at one end. Arched passages led us from room to room as they showed us around. It had two bathrooms, each with ornately tiled floors that you had to step up into. Edmund had hung his paintings throughout rooms. The large living room was broken into three seating areas with vintage couches and chairs, and 1950’s style lamps on end tables. In the dining room they had a large Formica table with chairs, and potted plants lined the walls. Looking out the dining room window, I saw that the building was erected on a steep hill that sloped down to the south. This placed the second floor apartment four stories above the alleyway below, and offered us panoramic views of the neighborhood and the city of Rochester to the south and east.

Looking out these windows, Edmund explained that he and LeTigre had once lived in the small house directly below. It was one of two houses that had been built side by side, facing the adjacent alleyway. They effectively occupied the backyard of a larger house beyond. The house they had previously occupied had a small, detached garage that looked like a broken down shack. Edmund told us that he had converted this garage into the Blacksmith Bar and Grill after the famous Lafitte’s Blacksmith bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Since they had moved across the alley and into their current residence, they had made a hobby out of watching the tenants of their old place. First, a group of three prostitutes had moved into the house. Evidently, the police evicted them after several noise complaints. Currently, a man who they referred to as The Chud had taken up residence in the little house. The Chud was a hulk of a man who looked like a chunky Duane Allman, with long blonde hair and a scraggly beard. He had this huge old, broken-down pickup truck from the ‘70s that he was constantly trying to repair and keep running. It had more rust and primer on it than paint and The Chud’s tools were strewn throughout the trucks open bed. They said that every morning at 7:30, The Chud would fire up the beastly machine to go to work. And because the truck had no muffler, and owing to the acoustics of the alleyway and apartment building, the roaring engine would sound like a 747 jetliner was taking off in their dining room. Ironically, on the weekends, the intense smells of exhaust and sonic booms from The Chud’s truck would be replaced by beautiful electric guitar music. Evidently, The Chud was a virtuoso on the guitar and spent his Saturday afternoons playing classical music, like Bach and Vivaldi.

We all four sat down for drinks at the dining room table. Their kitchen lay adjacent to this dining room, separated by a lattice of shelves that created a doorway. As I looked around I noticed that these shelves were lined with dozens of cans and boxes of non-perishable foods. At first, I assumed that because storage space in apartments is often limited, they might have been using these shelves as a pantry of sorts. I caught sight of a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew and casually verbalized that I hadn’t had Dinty Moore Beef Stew since I was a kid. Edmund glanced at me quickly and got up from his chair. Motioning toward the shelves. He said, “Oh yes! How could we have forgotten the most important part of the apartment tour. This is The Strange Food Collection!”

The Strange Food Collection was just about what the name implies. Edmund and LeTigre had amassed over the years, a collection of non-perishable foods that they thought to be strange or unique. The collection also included examples of packaging, or graphic design, that they thought to be superior to other brands. For example, they had a can of Del Monte peas. When I inquired as to its inclusion, I was told that Grandpa Simpson is seen eating a can of peas in an episode of The Simpson's television show. Edmund went on to add, "...and besides, Del Monte has a classic design." The Strange Food Collection held a myriad of weird and gross stuff. They had a jar of marshmallow Fluff that had sat on the shelf for so long that it had separated into two nasty looking tones that were visible through its glass container. There was a can of potted food meat product, a can of peanuts in fried gluten, and a jar of off-brand, sickly looking white pickled asparagus spears. They had a bottle of Navy Grog, a bottle of Tahiti Joe Skier’s Glogg, and a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth maple syrup. Who doesn’t appreciate food that comes in the shape of somebody’s grandmother? There were cans of…well, some of the strangest, and grossest foods I could imagine. LeTigra explained that the collection was inspired from a large, one-gallon can of cheese sauce that she had stolen when she was a teenager working at Arby's. One of my favorite entries was a postcard they had received in the mail from a local restaurant in Rochester. The card proclaimed: "We've beefed up our lasagna with MEATBALLS!" The company thought this meat addition would be enticing to its customers, whereas the Callipeaux's found it to be bizarre and hilarious…so they hung it on their dining room wall.

They asked us if we knew of a sign on the south end of town that was for French’s Chicken. I was familiar with this sign, as I had passed by it many times on the highway. It was an old fiberglass sign that looked like a roasted chicken on a plate. It was large, perhaps six feet high and twelve feet across and the chicken protruded from the plate in dimensional relief. LeTigre explained that it was their dream to add this sign to The Strange Food Collection and hang it on their dining room wall. Edmund said that if they possessed the chicken sign, he would pray for his body to dissolve into the ether so that he would owe to nothing terrestrial that would detract his gaze from the glorious sign.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the conversation turned to Edmund’s bid for Rochester’s mayoral office during the upcoming election. Edmund was dissatisfied with some of the city’s services and he thought it to be his civic duty to run for mayor. At issue was his growing frustration with the timing of all the traffic lights around town. He had a point; I had noticed myself that I couldn’t drive more than a few blocks without hitting a red light. Edmund argued that the amount of gas wasted by breaking, idling, and accelerating cars within the Rochester city limits was egregious and he had a plan to fix the problem. His campaign was running on the platform that if elected, Edmund would revoke every citizen’s automobile license, save himself. He would then have all the stoplights in town set permanently to green. In one bold move, he would cut vehicle emissions dramatically and make it possible for him to get from point A to point B more quickly.

I told him that I was in favor of his resolutions and that I could guarantee the support of the Taconite Workers union. Many of you may not be aware of this, but Rochester has a small, but thriving iron ore industry. I have been employed by one of its leading mines since dropping out of the fifth grade in 1976. We don’t produce much iron ore these days due to the ore being pretty much played out. But back in the mid-eighties, our strong union flexed its muscles and forced management to grant its full-time employees tenure status (based on the model that university professors enjoy). So now, even though we don’t dig for iron any longer, I can still support my family with full dental and medical, four weeks paid vacation, 401K employer contributions, hazard pay on weekends and holidays…basically, I can still pursue The American Dream. We even get a year’s paid sabbatical every third year that I generally spend on lavish motorcycle tours throughout Europe. We voted recently to sell all the plant’s unused heavy machinery to finance the outfitting of the employee break room with a massive plasma television and plush sofas. And since the iron ore is gone, my fellow works and I basically spend our time surfing the internets and standing around the office complaining to management about how busy we are and how there just doesn’t seem like there’s enough time in the day to get everything done.

Sitting at the Callipeaux’s dining room table we discussed the mayoral campaign at length. Edmund confided in me that Rochester sorely needed a Chancellor of Iron Ore (C.I.O.) and his election victory would be all but guaranteed with my union’s support. Knowing Edmund’s Neo-Nepotistic agenda, I saw myself sitting in a large C.I.O. office with my name on the door. So, that night I pledged to muster our bothers in labor to get him elected! But unfortunately, as many conversations around the dinner table go, Edmund’s campaign never got fully off the ground, and he was never elected to be mayor of Rochester. Which is too bad, because he would have been a great voice within city politics. And as far as I’m aware, Edmund and LeTigre never got their hands on that old chicken sign either, which is too bad because they would have given it a good home. - CP
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Leadership 5 – 31 January 2009, noon

As a member of Team Action Force, I was called to Rochester, Minnesota to help Edmund Callipeaux and his wife, LeTigre, move from their apartment. It was the summer of 2004 and LeTigre had taken a job in the Twin Cities area of the state. After ten years, the two of them were regretfully leaving Rochester. When I arrived in town, Edmund laid out his plan for the move. Luckily, they had been given an allotment to pay for professional packing and shipping expenses from LeTirge’s new job. He explained to me that our main task would be oversight on moving day, and cleaning the apartment to ensure the return of their security deposit. The other members of Team Action Force were due to arrive in Rochester the next day. “But first,” he explained, “we have to see about this chicken sign.”

Team Action Force is comprised of myself, Edmund, and his wife, LeTigre, and their two younger cousins, MC RibEye and Killdozer. It is a radical, ultra-nonviolent arm of Moboxo. Moboxo is a way of life that LeTigre Callipeaux established in 2005 as method that combines all religions and all forms of martial arts and fighting into one state of being. When practicing Moboxo correctly, one looks as if they’re freaking out due to the simultaneous display of a Hindi Whirling Dervish, Korean Taekwondo, a Catholic Rosary, and 19th Century Irish Prize Fighting (in addition to all other known modes of meditation and fighting). Team Action Force has been called upon in the past to solve many a crisis, carry out insurmountable tasks, or cook some of the best Cajun-styled, blackened steaks on Earth. Presently, we were assembling in Rochester to assist the Callipeaux’s on moving day.

Given that MC RibEye and Killdozer were not due to arrive until the following day, Edmund and myself set out to the site of the chicken sign. It was situated on the south side of town across a highway from a Fleet Farm store that Edmund and LeTigra frequented. Our goal was to find out who owns it, and attempt to buy it off them before leaving Rochester. Edmund said that it was suspended at the top of two telephone poles, high above an industrial lot where horse trailers were parked. It was made as an advertisement for a business called French's Produce. However, arriving at the described site, we found that the sign had disappeared!

Standing at the base of the telephone poles that formerly supported the sign, Edmund said, "Man! I've been driving past this thing for years! Drove by it last week, in fact. And now that we're here, it's gone!" He looked around as he tried to imagine his next move. "Let's go back around over there and see if any one's in that building." I nodded and we walked toward a structure that looked like a machine shop.

Walking through a door marked Office, we were greeted by a mechanic dressed in greasy overalls. Edmund explained that we were looking for the chicken sign and inquired if the guy knew anything about it. "Yeah, I know the sign. It's laying on the ground out back." Edmund's heart lifted. "Really, do you know why it was taken down? Who owns it? Is it being thrown away?" The mechanic replied that a guy named French owned the sign. French had run a meat and produce distribution company in another part of the building for years, but he was retiring from the business and they had taken down the sign. Other than that, he had no other details to share regarding the fate of the sign. But he did have French's phone number, which he copied down on a scrap of paper for Edmund.

We walked around to the back of the building and found the fiberglass sign leaning against an old, rusty truck. It was about six feet high and approximately ten feet across at its widest. Standing there, looking at it, I knew instantly why Edmund and LeTigre wanted it so badly. It would have fit perfectly into The Strange Food Collection. Its bulk was in the shape of whole, roasted chicken sitting on a large platter. It wasn't fully three-dimensional but more of a half relief. The volume of the chicken protruded roughly two feet out into space creating the illusion that it was large and plump. The fiberglass chicken and plate had been painted to look like a nicely roasted chicken...perhaps like something you'd find in a Norman Rockwell painting. But owing to the weather conditions that it had withstood for years and years, the paint was faded and worn. This wear and tear gave the sign a patina and added to the overall uniqueness of the object.

Edmund paced back and forth in the mud of the yard that was filled with a mess of broken down machinery. “I can’t believe that we almost missed finding this thing!” Edmund muttered, “What do we do now? What’s my play here?” He produced a cell phone from his pants pocket and proceeded to dial a number. “Hello LeTigre? It’s me. We’ve found the sign, but it’s not hanging on the poles any longer. It’s around the back of the building laying in the mud. What should we do? I’ve got the guys phone number who owns it…what’s the max I can offer him?” He lifted the phone slightly from his ear and said, “What do you think L5, three thousand, thirty-five hundred? I shrugged in approval and Edmund returned to listening at the phone. He clicked the phone off, fished the scrap of paper from his pocket and immediately punched in French’s phone number.

“Hello, Mr. French? My name is Edmund Callipeaux and I’m over at where you had your distribution business. Yes. I’m interested in that old chicken sign you had hanging over Highway 63. I’m standing next to it right now. Would you take two hundred dollars for it?” Edmund’s coveting gaze washed over the chicken sign as he paused while listening to French’s reply. “Alright, thanks. I’ll wait to hear from you.” He hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket. “He said that he’d talk it over with his wife and call me back. Evidently, he was planning to give it to one of his friends.” He looked at me and said, “LeTigre said that we’re broke and that all we could afford was a hundred bucks, but I didn’t want to low-ball the guy too much and scare him off.”

We drove back over to their apartment to attend to other key points in preparation for the move. Later that night, Edmund recounted the entire episode to LeTigre. “I guess we wait then”, was her reply. There was no word from French that night but we distracted ourselves with the business of packing up The Strange Food Collection and cooking dinner. The following day, the remaining members of Team Action Force joined us along with a giant semi-trailer truck and its movers that blocked the street in front of the apartment building. It was the hottest and most humid day of that summer and the move was grueling. Once the contents of the apartment were stowed within the belly of the great truck we set out to clean the empty apartment from top to bottom. This task took us well into the night, whereupon, we drove to the Twin Cities to await the arrival of the movers at the Callipeaux’s new home that following morning.

French never did call Edmund back regarding the chicken sign. The Callipeaux’s were forced to submit themselves to life without the chicken sign. It’s too bad too. Their new home has a massive backyard that would have housed the chicken sign perfectly. The land is located in a partially wooded area of St. Louis Park and all manner of deer and rabbits and woodchucks (and occasionally a coyote) roam about the yard freely. I can just see some deer trying to figure out if that crazy sign was edible or not. But the chicken sign that was once so closely within Edmund’s reach was forever vacant from the view of their kitchen window, and its whereabouts remained a mystery.

That is to say, its location was a mystery until late August, that very year! Once Edmund and LeTigre were settled into their new house, they drove to Northern Wisconsin with their cousins, MC RibEye and Killdozer, to attend an annual family reunion. They traveled up Interstate 35 and cross over into Wisconsin on Highway 77. As they slowed during their approach to the town of Danbury, MC RibEye screamed, “WE JUST PASSED THE CHICKEN SIGN!!!” At once Edmund slammed on the breaks of The General and pulled over to the side of the road. (They call their big red truck The General after a catfish that Homer Simpson tries to catch in an episode of The Simpson’s television show.) “I think I saw it too!” exclaimed LeTigre. In his surprise and excitement, Edmund could only utter various combinations of the words What and Where. “What? What? Where? What? Where? Where?!” Killdozer, the only one of the four who was able to maintain his composure said, “We just passed it. Or at least I think it was the sign. It was hanging in front of diner or something. It kind-a looked like an old, converted Dairy Queen.”

Edmund turned The General around and headed back toward the direction they had come from. The sign and diner came into view and Edmund captained The General into the nearest parking space. They piled out of the truck and looking up one of them exclaimed, “They painted it.” An astute observation that was followed closely by, “They ruined it!” The collective hearts of Team Action Force broke as they stood, shading their eyes from hot August sun to see that someone had indeed slopped cheap paint all over their beloved chicken sign, ruining forever the beautiful patina that nature had taken decades to procure.

They found the owner of the establishment in the diner’s kitchen. They chatted with him a bit and asked him questions regarding the sign. He confirmed that the sign had once hung for many years in Rochester. The sign had been given to him by his friend, French, so that he could use it to entice people to stop at his restaurant. They didn’t feel the need to ask him why he painted the chicken sign. Sometimes, it only leads to increased frustration to question a deed that is abhorrent, yet irreversible. They bought some hamburgers and French fries and ate their lunch within view of their old chicken sign. Edmund reluctantly admitted that the burgers were really good. They bid the owner of the diner farewell and drove in The General to meet their family at a their aunt and uncle’s cabin near Hayward, Wisconsin. The sting of disappointment and jealousy toward the restaurant owner soon wore off as they joined their family. I guess that’s what families are for: to get you through the hard times as well as the good times. Edmund later confided in me that his pain was also eased by playing cards over the weekend with MC RibEye and Killdozer. Evidently, Edmund’s little cousins are terrible poker players and he took delight in relieving them of their money. – L5

Photograph of The Chicken Sign as it hung in Rochester (Highway 63).


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Guy Cheblo – 28 January 2009, 6:00am

During a conversation early in our friendship, Eddie confided in me that he had recently learned that he was going to live forever. He had watched the movie Highlander thinking that it was about a guy who was from Highland Park, which was the area of St. Paul where Eddie had grown up. Seeing that the protagonist was indeed from a different part of the world (albeit with a somewhat shared name), Eddie proceeded to manufacture a belief that they had other things in common that linked their fates inextricably, mainly their mutual love of swords and fighting evil. Eddie postulated that because of these coincidences, he too is more than likely immortal. He extrapolated upon this hypothesis by outlining several near-death experiences he had been a party to and yet had thus far eluded the grasp of the Grim Reaper. Because of this assumed immortally, Eddie was fond of telling people that he had no need for life insurance, seatbelts, sunscreen, antibiotics, or bulletproof vests. - GC