By Jennifer Rice
Managing Editor
Norris “Doc” Erickson, 68, Commander of the Aurora American Legion Post 84 and owner and operator of Erickson Chiropractic Center in Aurora, died Aug. 20 in his home surrounded by family after a courageous battle with lung cancer.
He was so many things to so many different people. He was a leader for veterans. He worked hard in 1989 to bring a half-size replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall to Aurora and was determined to not let Aurora’s Independence Day parade fall by the wayside when the city put it on the chopping block in early 2011 due to economic restraints. As commander of the American Legion, Doc stepped up and took the reigns, making sure the parade festivities went on as expected.
In the beginning, when I first went for treatment from Doc, I never knew his real name. His wife called him Doc, other patients in his chiropractic office called him Doc, so it’s just what I called him. He called me Kid, a name I despise, but one I allowed because Doc was special.
As my role of patient transitioned into friend, I discovered Doc’s real name was Norris – no wonder people called him Doc. As a habitual talker, my 15 minute appointments could easily extend past an hour. Doc was never short on conversation and I enjoyed that. When Doc attended to another patient, I’d strike up a conversation with his wife Sally.
I’d tell him time and time again that when I came to his office, I’d walk away knowing something new. Doc was so knowledgeable. What separated Doc from other knowledgeable people was he never let me feel belittled or ashamed over an issue I wasn’t educated about. He’d simply go back to his office, bring out a book or a Xeroxed article and explain the whole mystery to me.
I also remember his sense of humor, a mixture of dry and mundane. At times his jokes were so bad I intentionally give him the “pity laugh,” which I explained was simply a courtesy laugh for the effort put forth to repeat the bad joke. We had a few inside jokes that made some situations difficult to maintain a straight face when we were together.
Yes, Doc was many things to many people. For me, he was my teacher, my healer and most importantly, my friend. His character was beyond reproach and his dedication to the practice of chiropractic care flowed deep.
Three weeks ago, I had an incident with my lower back, the pain of which confined me to a wheelchair for a weekend. Though I knew he was not active with his chiropractic office due to chemo treatments, I Facebooked Doc for his suggestions and informed him I was awaiting MRI results. Through his own pain and discomfort, he continued to reassured me things would get better, give it time and use ice until I could see another chiropractor.
The last Facebook message I got from him, he was inquiring about my MRI and what the results showed. He never made any mention of his own pain. Until the end, he was still devoted to his patients. I last spoke to Doc Aug. 17, the day I heard he was placed in Hospice care. He was not expected to make it through the weekend. His wife graciously put me on speaker phone and I spoke with Doc one last time. He said he’d been getting calls from all over the world, checking on how he was doing. His concern for me was obvious, as he wanted to know how my back was doing. He cut the call short, saying he was tired, but not before he said, “It’s been a hell of a ride, kid.”

Jennifer Rice’s e-mail address is Jen@foxvalleylabornews.com.

Jennifer Rice photo
Sen. Bob Mitchler walks the yard of his rural Oswego home. For years, his front yard has been home to an enormous American flag strung between two trees.

By Jennifer Rice
Managing Editor
Bob Mitchler was a people person. He loved working with people, veteran organizations and schools. He truly was a Renaissance man.
I first crossed paths with Mitchler in 2010. I was to spend a few hours with the then 89-year-old veteran, summing up his life for a feature story. In the end, I spent two days with him — an excessive amount of time for a story.
On the first day, we talked for so many hours, the sun had disappeared, making the possibility of outdoor pictures impossible. I would have to come back.
“Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” Mitchler asked. “At lunchtime. We’ll have lunch together.” It was more of a statement, than a question.
And that’s what I did. After lunch, we moved outside. A few days prior, a storm had blown through Kendall County, snapping several tree branches and scattering dead twigs and limbs in his yard.
Before I know it, I’m riding shotgun in his John Deere Gator 6×4 vehicle, zipping all over his yard, Mitchler talking my ear off. He suddenly hits the brakes and points to a pile of twigs. “Why don’t you throw them in the back?” I do as he says.
A few feet further, he stops again. “Why don’t you throw them in the back?” Again, I do as he says. Suddenly, I begin to see a pattern. I notice several piles of twigs. I realize I was here to help him pick them up. And I didn’t mind at all.
Listening to Mitchler speak was a reporter’s dream — he never stopped talking. He was so knowledgably, on everything. He had the best stories. He recounted his time running for state senator, how he loved to campaign — “nice, clean campaigning, no mudslinging. We campaigned on issues and platforms,” he remembered. Something they don’t do today, he remarked.
“Never get into a squirting contest with a skunk,” he told me, shaking his finger to the air for emphasis. “If you’re a public figure, you never get into an argument — even if you’re opponent’s wrong. Because the skunk will win, and you’ve got that splattered all over you, and you’ve got to live with it,” he said.
He had a political career he was very proud of. Over the years, he said politics changed. The General Assembly changed. “Today, I couldn’t stand doing what they’re doing down in Springfield.”
He served in both WWII and Korea. He was 21 when he enlisted in the Navy, just before Pearl Harbor. In September 1950, three months after marrying his wife Helen, he was called to active duty when North Korea invaded South Korea.
For Veterans Day, he’d talk to students. He wanted to stress to them to talk to their grandparents; ask them about their role in the war. Just thinking about the question made Mitchler get tears in his eyes. “I’d tell those young students, ‘Around the holidays, take your grandfather aside. Ask him, ‘Will you tell me what you did in the military?’”
He told me several times he’s really had a wonderful life, a good life. That summer and the next, he asked me to canoe alongside him during the Mid-American Canoe Race on the Fox River. That first summer, I tipped my canoe — twice. Before I knew it, Mitchler was long gone.
After the race, he held a 90th birthday party for himself at his house. That’s where I finally met up with him; smelling like river water, dirty with dried mud on my legs and a few bruises to boot.
“Well,” he said. “Maybe when you’re 90, you’ll be able to catch up to me,” which drew laughs from most of the partygoers.
I’m glad I had the honor and experience to know Mitchler. To know him is to love him. I consider him a friend and I’m sad that he’s gone. To the sea his spirit is now.

Jennifer Rice’s e-mail address is Jen@foxvalleylabornews.com.