'Ravaging and unsurvivable' fire kills beloved St. Paul butcher

Stu Gerr often began work at Stasny's Food Market in St. Paul by 5 a.m. and would still be tending the meat counter at 9 p.m. Many nights, rather than make the three-hour drive home to Deer River, Minn., the 77-year-old butcher slept on a cot in the store's basement.

About 1:30 a.m. Thursday, firefighters arrived to find flames sweeping through the beloved neighborhood store. The fire destroyed the building at 1053 Western Av. N., killing Gerr and leaving his family and a community grieving.

"It was ravaging and unsurvivable," St. Paul Fire Marshal Steve Zaccard said of the fire, which caused the first floor to collapse and spread to the basement where Gerr's body later would be found.

The fire's cause is not yet known. St. Paul Fire Department, state fire marshal and arson investigators are working on the case.

The family-owned market, now being run by the third generation — Jim Stasny, 59 — was a staple in the neighborhood for generations. Jim's son Jason, 34, has been in line to take over some day.

For those who frequented the store, Gerr was a major character.

"I loved this guy," said longtime customer Deb Shambo. "He was old school."

Gerr worked hard, took pride in cutting the meat just right and cared deeply for his customers. He was the guy who helped customers in need, put candy hearts into customers' bags on Valentine's Day and often gave a hug and a kiss to the older women.

"If you're older and your spouse has passed, it made them feel special. And it kept them coming back," said Gerr's wife of 27 years, Cyndi. "He was my soulmate."

Stu Gerr, who loved being a butcher, retired about 12 years ago from Capitol City Meats in St. Paul to move Up North and raise a granddaughter. But after a winter far from the Twin Cities, he decided life was too quiet and he needed something more to do, Cyndi Gerr said. He went back to work at Capitol City, and when it closed soon after, he got behind the meat counter at Stasny's.

Shambo, who had been going to the market for more than a decade, remembers walking in and not seeing the usual butcher there. Instead, there was Gerr.

"He looked like this old, crabby, grouchy guy," she said. "He had this stern look on his face. But I got into a conversation with him, and he was hysterical."

Shambo remembers coming into the market wearing an old frayed hat to mask her "bad hair day." As she ordered steaks, Gerr was quiet.

"I said, 'Why are you so grumpy?' " she said. Gerr looked at her with her steaks in his hand. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather spend your money on a new hat?" he asked.

Gerr was a handsome man with a head of curly white hair who dressed impeccably. "He always had a starched white shirt with a tie and a bloody apron," Shambo said.

And underneath was a man who cared about everyone who walked through the door, Shambo said.

Around the winter holidays, Shambo couldn't help but eavesdrop as Gerr spoke with a woman who wanted to provide a nice dinner for her family but needed to stay within a tight budget. "She had fallen on hard times," Shambo said.

As Shambo waited in line to be checked out, she saw Gerr buy a gift certificate. "He winked at me and whispered, 'She'll have a nice holiday dinner,' " Shambo said.

Gerr always wanted to help people, his wife said. "He would say: 'You need food, … I'll give you money or you come in and I'll give you credit. You get what you need to feed your family.' That's the kind of guy he was."

Butchering is an ancient and storied trade, Shambo said. "Not too many people know how to do it anymore," she said. "And he did."

He liked that it was a physical job and that he was engaged in a community of people. "He was the real deal," Shambo said.

Gerr's death came as a shock to those who shared the building with him. Tim Schmugge, who lived on the second floor with his fiancée, Eva Tietz, and two children, said they didn't realize anyone was in the basement when the fire broke out.

Other than Tietz's purse and the keys to their car, the family lost everything, said Schmugge, 39, a Red Cross blanket draped over his shoulders.

"It's all gone. … It's rough. The whole thing is rough."

Ben Farniok is a student at the University of Minnesota on assignment for the Star Tribune. marylynn.smith@startribune.com • 612-673-4788 tim.harlow@startribune.com • 612-673-7768