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11/26/02
Robert R. Casali
The funeral of Robert R. Casali, 56, of 1213 S. Koch St., Bloomington, will be 11 a.m. Wednesday at St. Patrick’s Church, Bloomington. The Rev. Jeffrey Stirniman will officiate. Private entombment will be at Park Hill Mausoleum. Visitation will be from 5 to 8 p.m. today at Carmody-Flynn Williamsburg Funeral Home, Bloomington.
He died at 2”20 a.m. Sunday (Nov. 24, 2002) at his home.
In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to St. Patrick’s Church or BroMenn Hospice.
He was born May 17, 1946, in El Paso, Texas, a son of Orville and Gloria Bates Casali. He married Victoria Hopkins on Dec. 19, 1964, at Bloomington. She survives.
Other survivors include his mother of Bloomington; a daughter, Kimberly (John) Dean, Bloomington; three sons, Kelly (Becky) Casali, Carlock; and Matthew Casali and Andrew Casali, both of Bloomington; two sisters, Julie (Chuck0 Manley, Downs; and Patricia (Jim) Brown, Erie, Pa.; and a brother, Michael (Kim) Casali, Normal.
Also surviving are three grandchildren, Robby and David Casali and Tyler John Dean.
He was preceded in death by his father and a son, Tony.
He was a member of St. Patrick’s Church, Bloomington. He owned and operated Casali and Sons Refuse Service for 25 years. He was a heavy equipment operator for the City of Bloomington for 37 years before retiring on June 1, 2001.
Mr. Casali was an antique car lover and was a member of the McLean County Antique Club. Robert was a loving husband, father, grandfather, and son, and will be deeply missed.
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Jack Habich
Bob and I go back to 1955, the 4th grade at Edwards School.In back of Bob’s house on Hinshaw Street (I believe) stood what Steve Norton and I thought was the most exciting piece of real estate on Earth; a shed called The Clubhouse. That place was transformational. Bob had authentic army helmets, bayonets, swords, whips, cowboy paraphernalia, you name it. We couldn’t wait for the next time Bob would invite us to his shed. We'd sit and listen as Bob explained and demonstrated every item in his inventory. One night near dusk, I wasn’t home yet, and my hysterical mother, who couldn’t speak English, beckoned a neighbor to call the police. They caught me about 6:15 p.m., walking down Market Street. I had lost time and space in The Clubhouse.
In the early stages of the 4th grade, I didn’t yet have 100% command of English. I knew the word “fire” but not “fired”. Bob explained to me that somebody had done something wrong, went to City Hall, and got “fired”. I envisioned Joan of Arc type torture.
At some point in grade school, Bob and I joined the band. When they passed out instruments, Bob was more assertive. He got the Trumpet, I got the French Horn. This tore me apart for years.
Bob was a busybody. He knew an awful lot about these noisy characters who walked down the street with leather jackets and metal plates on their heels called “taps”. They had their collars up, spit a lot, and were known as Hoods. I was awestruck as Bob explained how tough these guys were, and which ones had gone to reform school.
After the 7th grade, Bob and I lost track of each other, and I don’t remember having too much contact with him until the 1999 reunion. He didn’t recognize me at first, but then we talked old times.
When I helped with the first of the so called “mini-reunions” in 2000, I insisted that Bob be invited, and he came. We had a good time. Last time I saw him.