My Tribute to Steve Bigolin

DeKalb County lost one of its best yesterday.

Stephen J. Bigolin passed away after a long period of health issues. Steve was larger than life — a booming voice, a big smile, and always a gleam in his eye, especially when he was telling local history stories.

And what an impact he had on the local history community. He did it all: bus tours, walking tours, newspaper columns, books, radio interviews, guided museum tours. He was all in on local history, all of the time.

And he paved the way for others — myself included — which is why my heart is aching tonight.

The first time I met Steve has been etched in my mind since that November day in 2014. It was also the first time I met Jeff Marshall — two people who have had a tremendous positive impact on my life. The unbelievable part? I met them that day in the basement at the Glidden Homestead, my first visit.

We were embarking on a Haish bus tour led by Jeff and Steve. I already had a growing interest in the story but wanted to learn more. When I introduced myself, Steve practically bounced off the walls.

“I didn’t know the Haish name was still local!”

We clicked immediately.

Early on, he wanted to go to Rockton, IL together so he could show me the remnants of the Haish mansion scattered there. I remember feeling a little anxious — I knew him, but not that well. What on earth would we talk about for the entire drive?

I had no reason to worry. We never stopped talking.

We took our first selfie at one of the “Haish lions.” After that, he announced he wanted to go to the Chinese restaurant in town. I had no idea what I’d order, but I went along with it.

When the waitress tried to seat us, Steve insisted on a spot across the restaurant.

“Over there, under the chandelier,” he said with conviction.

It wasn’t until we sat down that he looked at me with that familiar gleam in his eye, pointed up, and said: “This chandelier was in the Haish mansion.”

I had goosebumps.

When I started my Haish blog, Steve was on speed dial. I could ask him any question — big or small, interesting or not — and he would answer each one with more enthusiasm than the last.

He told me he had 40 years of Haish research under his belt — far more impressive than my single year — but he never made me feel small because of it. Instead, he empowered me. He was one of the few people who matched my overpowering eagerness and enthusiasm. We were a good match.

Our paths continued to weave together over the next 12 years. In the early days, I would receive large envelope mailers at my house, stuffed with Haish information he thought I’d find interesting. I never knew they were coming, but a phone call always accompanied each one: “OK, now look at this article. This was from when…”

I’d visit his apartment and pick his brain about timelines and architecture. He would fire up his old slide projector at the kitchen table and we’d watch images appear on the wall.

We stood together, proud as could be, at the Jacob Haish historical marker unveiling in 2017.

We both wrote for Barry Schrader’s blog — though in truth, I followed Steve and Barry around like a fan club. I had no idea what I was doing alongside them. I just wanted so badly to learn from them and emulate them.

Every year I would call him on his birthday — September 22 — and he would brush it aside to remind me that it was also the final day of the demolition of the Haish mansion.

“One of the darkest days in DeKalb history,” he always said.

I once gave a Haish presentation at the Glidden Homestead, a year before I started working there. The turnout was incredibly small: my dad, Rob, Marty, and Steve.

They insisted I proceed anyway, and Steve peppered me with questions. Honestly, I was quite happy with my small group. That remains one of my favorite memories.

Steve helped plan Barbed Wire Weekend, though that was also when his health really began to decline. Just last November, he asked me to accept an award on his behalf. It remains one of the greatest honors of my life.

Barbed wire was his great love. After all, it was a tour of the Ellwood House in the 1970s that ignited the spark — a love for this place that kept him here all these years.

Steve always greeted me with a hug, and he always felt like family. After all, he considered himself an honorary Haish family member.

He ended every voicemail the same way: “Hope you’re having a good day. Bye bye.” He always asked about my family members by name. He genuinely cared.

Even on difficult days recently, when I asked how he was feeling, he would quickly change the subject to tell me a story.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Bea Gurler said…?”

His mind never stopped.

I recently thanked him for always being so generous with his stories and knowledge. He looked at me like I was crazy.

“What’s the point of having all this stuff in my head if I can’t share it with everyone else?!”

Steve made enormous contributions to this county because he made history accessible. He did it through his tours, his writings, and even in unexpected ways — like encouraging a young person like me. Much of who I am today is because of Steve.

Thank you, Steve, for everything.