Huskie Nation

 

There may be some things you don’t know about me. What you probably do know by now is that I am a proud and passionate Huskie.  I am a fan of a school that some people have never heard of, but it’s my school. The unexpected transformation to loyal Huskie needed just a few minutes in 2003. This is how it went down.

 

Just so you know

We simply say Northern. Officially, it’s Northern Illinois University. NIU for short. Years ago, they said NI.  

DeKalb is where Northern is located. Big D, Big K. All of the letters are pronounced.

It’s Huskie, not Husky. Of all the schools with the canine mascot, we may be the only singular spelling of Huskie.

 http://www.niuhuskies.com/trads/niu-trads.html

Northern sucks

The weekend before Labor Day, 2003. My dad was with some of his friends at the tavern they hung out at back in the day. I was in town that weekend, and stopped in just as a pool for the Top 25 was being passed around the bar. Maryland was ranked, and was opening the season at Huskie Stadium. A chorus of “Northern sucks” circled the room when the game in DeKalb was mentioned. Something deep inside of me suddenly snapped. Without saying anything, I knew that each of these guys had a connection to Northern. Everyone in Chicagoland has family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers who went to Northern.  Everyone. That moment changed me, and my life has since become much more meaningful.  Within a few short minutes, my loyalty suddenly began. Each of those guys lost money on that game. The Huskies went on to finish the 2003 season with 10 wins and only two losses. The two losses were to division opponents, and prevented a bowl game appearance when the MAC had only two guaranteed bowl games. Maybe we’ll talk about that some other time.

espn.go.com/ncf/recap?gameId=232402459

 

How did this happen?

On the weekend of my graduation, Bill Mallory took the team to the California Bowl. After winning the MAC and California Bowl in 1983, a few bad coaching decisions and doomed conference affiliations distanced me from Northern. A move to Minnesota further removed me from DeKalb. By the time Coach Novak took over a failing football program in late 1995, I had only minimally kept abreast of the team and school. I had always donated to the school, but barely followed the football program.  Coach Novak  started winning games in 2000, and by 2002 I began to pay attention. We had a program we could be proud of, because of Joe Novak. That August Saturday in 2003 lead me to where I am today. There are days I wonder what my life would be like if I did not become involved.  The friends, the trips, and the games might never have happened for me.

www.niuhuskies.com/sports/m-footbl/mtt/joe_novak_242655.html

 

Game day

It’s not just the game. It’s agonized over the tailgate menu. It’s hanging out with Diesel, our mascot. It’s planning trips to towns you probably would never visit.  We have been to Shreveport, Annapolis, Boise, and San Jose. Our trips have taken us on board the USS Midway, to the Crypt of John Paul Jones, and through the Palouse. It’s meeting the football parents, and keeping in touch with former parents. It’s friendships with alums who would otherwise never cross paths. My Huskie friends include teachers, police officers, entrepreneurs, guitar collectors, and pinball enthusiasts. We range in age from 30s to 60s. It’s watching players develop, and following the recruiting process.  It’s bringing friends to DeKalb and Huskie Stadium.  It’s watching the children of tailgate friends grow up. It’s learning Northern history.  It’s following former players after they leave DeKalb. We’re watching you, Chandler Harnish.

 

What it means

Being a Huskie means having to explain our loyalty to people who didn’t go to the school they are currently fans of.  We educate about the MAC to guys who think they are sports fans. We don’t have the drama of a prima donna mentality. If a kid gets into trouble, he is off the team. For a modest donation, we can park in the shadow of Huskie Stadium, and know our contributions are appreciated. Instead of mindlessly flipping to an SEC or Big 12 game, maybe you should tune in a MAC game.  Join us.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Genealogy Manifesto

Fifteen years ago, I suddenly became involved in a new hobby. While visiting with cousins over pizza and beer, an envelope with a few death certificates, birth certificates, and obituaries was passed around. My mom had started to gather some vital records a few years before she died, and the contents of the envelope looked to be copies my uncle had made of what my mom had found.                                                                                                                                                                            My cousins and I knew who Pa (our grandpa) and Dede (our great-grandpa) were, but who were these other people in this envelope? The morning after pizza, a realtor's ad in the Suburban Life had a listing for the duplex my grandparents had owned in Riverside. Was it coincidence, irony, or random events? Something was telling me to start researching my family.                                                                                                                                                             Back in Minnesota, I spent those first few evenings with my mom’s paperwork arranged on the floor in an attempt to figure out who fit where. Death certificates for my grandpa and great-grandpa were in the native tongue. Two birth certificates for sisters with a last name I did not recognize. A car accident in Florida in 1960 claimed the life of one relative when he was only 42 years old. I am connected to all of these different people, but I didn't know anything about them. Progress has been sporadic during these 15 years, but I have learned a bit of local and national history along with the genealogy. I also learned there can be errors in obituaries, census records, birth certificates, and death certificates.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
 I have since been to my great-grandma's grave in South Dakota, on a scorching hot summer weekend. One Thanksgiving Friday was spent walking two of the ethnic Chicagoland cemeteries. A trip through Wisconsin was detoured in order to visit two cemeteries in a little town. One of the buildings my grandpa first lived at was near Morton East and Central Federal. J. Sterling Morton was the founder of Arbor Day, and J. Sterling Morton High School was named for him. J. Sterling’s son Joy created the salt empire. Central Federal Savings and Loan is part of the Bohemian Wall Street on Cermak Avenue. Anton Cermak was the only foreign born mayor of Chicago. After he was assassinated in 1933, 22nd Street in Chicago and the western suburbs was renamed in his honor.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     
Shortly after posting the few clues I had accumulated into a genealogy message board, a guy in California with the same last name as my great-grandma's maiden name contacted me. He relayed me to another relative in Chicagoland with the same last name as my great-grandma's. They pronounce their name differently from the way my grandma did, but we're related. Your Bohemian grandma is your Babi, which is pronounced like bubby. Remember Bubby Brister of the Steelers? Before I knew anything about genealogy, I wondered why he was named after his grandma. Your Bohemian grandpa is Dede, pronounced like Du-yed-uh. One of the first characters mentioned in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle is a Dede.                                                                                                                                                               My mom and uncle had a grandma who was called Babi by everyone in the family. The title was not passed down to my grandma for our generation. Babi died when I was three years old, so I have very few memories of her. She never learned to speak English, maybe that is why I could not understand who she was when we went to visit. Babi was one of the younger of 12 kids, and my two new genealogy cousins were never able to find anything on her in their research until they found me. I knew very little of Babi’s older siblings until I found my genealogy cousins. Now there were three of us from the family doing the searching.                                                                                                                                                                My grandma's sister died from pertussis (whooping cough) when she was two. One relative died in the Philippines in WWII. The influenza pandemic of 1918 claimed the life of one family member. The brother of my mom and uncle died of diphtheria. Another relative lost his life at two years old to cholera, in 1906. As far as we can tell, no one in our family died in the Eastland disaster.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        My great grandpa was a stone mason, my grandpa was a butcher. My mom mentioned more than once that my grandpa came home beat up and bloody when organizing the butchers into a union. There was a time when unions were needed to protect the workers. A few relatives worked in the breweries and at Western Electric. The vacuum tube and loudspeaker were developed by Western Electric, and the Hawthorne Effect was researched at the Hawthorne Works of Western Electric in Cicero. One couple in the family worked at Electro-Motive. EMD was a GM division that was the largest builder of diesel locomotives.                                                                                                                                                                                                    After a few more successes, another relative contacted me. Her maiden name was the same as my grandpa's last name, and she was a few years younger than my mom. Her dad lived at the same address my grandpa lived at in the 1920 census. We knew we were related, but it was not until a relative in the old country we found through facebook proved where we had a common ancestor. We recently found a woman in the Cities who is connect through my great-grandpa's little sister. There is a woman in Arizona who came from that small town in Wisconsin where some of our family is buried. Now there are seven of us searching.

Honza turns 52

You don't make it this far in life without wonderful family and friends. I am pretty lucky to have friends from LT, Northern, and Rochester. Along the way, I have realized how very random and fragile our lives are. Some things are pretty obvious, other stuff takes time to figure out.

You can't make a girl love you.
She'll move to Texas after graduation

Life is too short to drink cheap beer.
It's a big world out there

There is no substitute for horsepower.
No, you can't borrow my truck

Cheer for your own school.
Your alma matters

It's not easy being the baby cousin.
They never take you seriously

Gather the news from multiple sources.
Beware the gullible liberals, and the stubborn conservatives

A pretty face does not mean a pretty heart.
She will order the most expensive item on the menu

Be vary of anyone who mistreats animals.
If they don't respect life, they won't care about you

It's not what you spend, it's what you get.
You get what you pay for

Drive right, pass left.
We all have somewhere to go, get the hell out of my way

If it's too good to be true, it probably is.
You really didn't need that

You will never find a friend or lover identical to you.
Don't hit on the drummer

They don't say Cali here

The lingering need for a vacation coincided with the upcoming Barrett-Jackson collector car auction in Scottsdale, Arizona. This guy made the decision to get out of 507 for some sunshine and octane. No friends, no date, just me for six days.

http://www.barrett-jackson.com/scottsdale/

Hertz failed to send an email alert upon touching down at LAX, so a trip to the counter upsold me to a 37,000 mile Camaro convertible. Arizona plates, Toledo Rocket yellow, but not an SS. Judging from the amount of paint scratches, she had been ridden hard and put away wet. Learned long ago to bring the Garmin when on the road, and the necessary addresses were already dialed in.

First stop was to meet my friend Brian at Randy's Donuts. The recognizable Randy's with the donut on the roof. Three different homeless people approached me for money during our short visit. Brian was smart to ignore them. I must have looked like a tourist.

http://randys-donuts.com/frame.html

Brian jumped on his Victory, and I followed to the shop where his '69 Mustang is being restored. Tom runs the shop, and he came very close to talking me into taking back to Minnesota a '65 Impala they had recently brought in. She was a Mary Ann, not a Ginger. Two-door hardtop, but only a 283. Ermine White with a black interior. Original California black plates, and low miles. As my fingers worked their way up her tapered C-pillar, Brian reminded me there would be plenty of time to shop during the coming days.

"You're in California. Where do you want to go?" My sheepish reply sent us to Santa Monica Pier, to see the revised ending point of Route 66. Growing up, our stretch of Route 66 was Joliet Road. On a clear day in our part of Chicagoland, 66 appears to end at Sears Tower.

http://www.santamonica.com/visitors/what-to-do/arts-and-culture/historical-landmarks/

Dinner was at a beach bar, then a walk around Manhattan Beach. The lifeguard shacks reminded me of that infamous LT alum, David Hasslehoff. Brian stressed in no uncertain terms that no one in California says Cali.

http://www.suntimes.com/entertainment/movies/12878040-421/hasselhoff-nears-60-and-i-still-look-good.html

Tuesday morning sent me to downtown Los Angeles, for a visit to the Petersen Automotive Museum. The website gave the impression of more extensive exhibits, but still an educational visit. Two groups of unbehaved grade school field trips ruined the experience, so the trip was cut short.

http://petersen.org/

Passed by the La Brea tar pits on the way out of town, but did not think to hit Sunset Strip before heading to Arizona for my intended destination.

Suburban sprawl on eastbound I-10 gave way to an uphill desert landscape. Three lanes dropped to two, and the semi traffic increased. After crossing into Arizona, palm trees were replaced by cactus. With the sun setting behind me and no traffic visible, I felt like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western.

Remember when Don Draper went to Los Angeles? The Eisenhower Interstate System may not have been complete in 1964, but there is now an exit to get to Anna Draper’s house in San Pedro. Farther along I-10 we passed by the edge of Palm Springs, where Don met up with that group of international travelers.

http://www.imcdb.org/vehicle_387339-Imperial-Crown-Convertible-VY1-M-1964.html

Dropped the luggage in Tempe, then made my way to Scottsdale for the final Monday hours of Barrett-Jackson. Watching the annual auction on SPEED does not compare with the overall sensory overload. Clark Gable's Mercedes, Fatty Arbuckle's 1919 Pierce Arrow, the first 1967 Shelby Mustang, President Bush's King Ranch F-150, the Packard Panther, and Virgil Exner's Chrysler Diablo. Amazing stuff.

The left turn signals around Scottsdale are activated after the through traffic has passed, not before.

Westworld in the Wednesday morning sunshine revealed a huge complex, perfectly suited for televised events. Barrett-Jackson has proposed building a permanent structure, so the massive tents do not have to be assembled every year. Even with priority parking, I spent time wandering the lots at the end of the night looking for the Camaro. At least it was yellow, but so was the ZL1 convertible that was also in Lot 6. Food vendors ranging from turkey legs to gyros. Outdoor displays by Airstream and Cessna. Indoor vendors with artwork, garage supplies, and shiny things for the ladies. The Ride and Drive exhibit was punctuated with the smells and sounds of hot laps by Bondurant Corvettes.

http://www.bondurant.com/

An unusual cold spell dropped the temperatures early in the week into the 50s. I made sure to pack cool weather gear along with shorts and T-shirts. All of my sweatshirts are from Northern, and I never got to wear shorts. Must have been oozing Huskie early in the week, because my attire started a few conversations. Met a woman from downstate who does automotive paintings. Bought a tailgate flagpole from a guy who lives in Somonauk, his daughter goes to Northern. Met a couple from Minnesota at the open bar for bidders. Bumped into a guy with a Central Michigan shirt.

Automotive events will always draw the grizzled hot rodders and Harley guys, but Barrett-Jackson brought out the younger girlfriends and trophy wives. There was also an absence of age appropriate attire for both men and women. At least there was no male shirtlessness.

Auction bidding increased each day, with the lowest prices on Tuesday starting between $20,000 and $30,000. Even as a little kid I have appreciated the showroom fresh examples, and never understood the wild customs. Strange how an untouched original may bring less money than something with crazy paint, a crate motor, and 20" wheels. The ’72 GMC Sierra I had been watching would have blown my budget, and I probably do not need two Sierras.

Some of the auction cars have poster boards explaining their pedigree and restoration. There should be a drinking game every time a misspelled Camaro, Bel Air, or Galaxie is spotted. Don't get me started on the it's, their, and were. The common automotive phrase "______ needs replaced" still baffles me.

Knowing the crowds would get to me, I planned a trip to Winslow. Amazing how one line from a song can capture the imagination of a generation.

http://standinonthecorner.com/

Passing through Payson on northbound 87 brought the first glimpse of snow cover. By the time we hit 7,400 feet, several of inches were on the ground. The pavement was clear and dry.

Coming down into the next valley, cactus sprouted up again. Winslow was on the original Route 66, but I-40 took all of the traffic and business from the town. Small houses and some old buildings are all that are left. An older woman from Park Ridge asked me to take her picture in front of the mural at the park. I was wearing another Northern sweatshirt, and the temperature had not gone up. The faded mural on the side of a brick building depicts a window reflection of a glancing girl in the flatbed Ford. There is even an appropriate Ford parked on the street in front of the park. The second floor windows of the mural feature an eagle on a windowsill and a glimpse of an embracing couple in another window.

Friday morning sent me to Desert Valley Auto Parts, north of Phoenix. Two dollars gained me access to 50 acres of parted out relics. One section of Mustangs, and another grouping of Camaros, but no Corvettes or first generation T-birds. Some people see junk, but I see sad stories of the remains of cool vehicles that never got a chance.

http://www.dvap.com/

Eventually found a Jimmy John's in Tempe, but the In-and-Out Burger was always busy. The Chipolte was closed on Saturday afternoon, but Old Town Scottsdale was jumping. I could see Northern in the Fiesta Bowl sometime soon. Too much Subway and Jack in the Box. Did not get to investigate the new Portillo's on Shea. Scottsdale seemed a little affluent, but there were still stretches of strip malls featuring title loans and adult videos. Drove around the neighborhoods of Scottsdale on Saturday afternoon, but I couldn’t see myself living there. Scattered trees, but no water or wildlife. If it’s a desert, why are the lots so small? Not like it's real land or anything.

Friday afternoon at Barrett-Jackson brought the hammer prices to over $100,000. Entertaining and educational, but a little depressing. Needed to remind myself these are all museum and collection vehicles, not top down rides for ice cream or morning coffee.

The top on the Camaro didn't come down until Friday afternoon. By Saturday afternoon, mental exhaustion and a sore throat had set in. Turned in my bidder paddle at the office, and picked up my deposit check. No far flung bidding for this guy. Maybe having a friend with would have pushed me to stick around for the Batmobile and Green Hornet Shelby on Saturday primetime, but the TV in the hotel room did nicely.

Rochester was eight degrees when I left, and eight degrees when I returned. The cold that started on Saturday has lingered for two more weeks. Some people can blow a vacation at the pool or at a casino, I prefer to learn.