By Mark Berglund
Northside Resident
The city of brotherly love will be remembered often in 2026. We will look back on the 50th anniversary of the first Creed-Balboa title fight to the 250th anniversary of the country’s founding. It might be a perfect year for reminders of the faith statement in Thomas Jefferson’s word. We are all the same, and we have a right to find our lives, our liberties, and our happiness wherever we can find it.
Brotherly love isn’t always an easy place to find. One only has to look at the historical names on Madison Street signs to know the struggle.
My buddy, Schmitty, and I have had a brotherly love since the many days we spent together as kids. The confirmation came when I was four and having one of those county fair radio tent interviews. The announcer asked if I had any brothers and sisters. My mother already knew about the three older sisters. The addition of three named brothers was a surprise.
As we grew older, many of the small and a few of the big moments are happening in different places. We are close enough to say we need to get together with the dates sometimes slipping away.
The past summer was a countdown search for an affordable home. The months turned into 20 days left in a hurry. I landed on Madison’s Northside, with the slightly smaller task moving ahead. I told Schmitty my car could handle most of that task over the next 20 days. He surprised me when he said, “You don’t want to wait. My son and I will bring the pickup truck down Saturday and we will get it done.”
His offer met both rules of moving. One, never turn down a pickup, and two, never turn down a 20-something when he gets volunteered to help.
We finished the task in three loads and lunchtime had arrived. Schmitty’s memory of a good bacon cheeseburger in the neighborhood sounded like another good plan. We jumped in his truck, and when we got to the highway, I expected a left turn. He drove straight and started us on a tour of the Northside neighborhood he knew.
It’s been three decades since he lived here with a young bride and baby, but in a way, he’d never left this home. “Over by that park is where Scott had his first house,” he said. “Hey, I remember that school,” he said. In a few blocks he pointed out a place where he took some college courses. “There was a little village in the middle of it all,” he said as he introduced me to the beaches and boat landings that were part of 20th century summer days.
The detour to the cheeseburger proved important for me. In a practical sense, his back of the hand driving gave me a quick lesson to how the quirky streets of this area all fit together. On a bigger sense, I was reminded how the spirit of a community never really leaves us. If we call it home, it can be just that.
