I grew up in Danville, Illinois, a place that measures fame by the names on the welcome sign.
Gene Hackman, Donald O’Connor and Bobby Short all grew up here. Then there are Jerry and Dick Van Dyke.
Dick Van Dyke, the happiest export Danville ever had, turns 100 on Saturday. That number looks almost impossible.
In a world full of cynicism, he’s still the guy who whistles his way through life, with a grin that makes you think the good guys might have a shot.
Around Danville, his name slips into conversations the way old stories do, casually, without fanfare, but with a dose of hometown pride you can’t miss.
“You know, Dick Van Dyke grew up here,” someone will say out of nowhere, as if the thought just popped into their head. You nod politely, pretending you hadn’t heard it a dozen times already. But everyone knows because it’s Danville.
The truth is the town has seen better days. Storefronts remain vacant across the main drag of town, and most factory jobs have left, the latest being Quaker Oats.
Still, the idea that one of our own made it all the way to Hollywood, and stayed kind, means something. It’s a reminder that decency travels further than ambition ever could. That’s what Van Dyke stands for to those still in Danville.
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It’s the best of the Midwest, really, sent out into to the world: humility, good humor and that stubborn kind of optimism that doesn’t quit, no matter how rough things get.
He’s proof that nice guys don’t always finish last. Sometimes they make it to 100, still dancing, still laughing, still giving the rest of us a reason to be proud we come from the same little corner of Illinois.
Watching Danville decline hasn’t been easy. The numbers tell the story: a per-capita income stuck at around $27,000, with 25% of the city living below the poverty line. Then came 2020, when a national study crowned Danville the most dangerous city in Illinois and the second-most dangerous in the entire Midwest.
That’s why people in Danville cling to Van Dyke the way they do. He’s proof that Danville wasn’t always a cautionary tale. It once made things other than bad headlines. And he never forgot it.
In 1988, he came home for a fundraiser to help save the Fischer Theatre, the same place that first lit a spark in him. They were trying to raise $3 million to restore the theater to its former glory. He didn’t just lend his name to a flyer. He showed up; joked with old friends, including his brother, Jerry, and childhood friend Hackman; told stories; and put his star power behind the building that first put stars in his eyes. Today, the restored Fischer screens his movies a few times a year.
Families settle into their seats, kids seeing “Mary Poppins” for the first time, parents rewatching “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
Sitting in the theater, you can almost picture a young Van Dyke in the same seats, watching the screen light up and thinking that maybe he could end up there someday. The magic is that the wonder never left him.
Not at 30. Not at 60. Not at 90. And not at 100.
Most men his age are choosing between walkers and wheelchairs; Van Dyke is choosing which shoes won’t slip on the hardwood. Watching him dance at 90 was impressive. Watching him dance at 100 is like watching someone get away with something nature didn’t plan for.
He still moves the same way, light, cheerful, a little bit ornery.
Every town needs a person like that. Someone who reminds you the whole story isn’t doom and gloom.
Maybe that’s why Van Dyke’s 100th birthday hits so hard here.
It feels like the town gets a breather, a reminder that joy actually matters and laughter hangs on longer than hard times. That you can come from a place that’s been knocked down more times than you can count and still carry the good parts into the wider world.
When the Fischer Theatre dimmed the lights earlier this month for FischerFest and those first notes of “Chim Chim Cher-ee” drifted through the rafters, the whole town felt it. For a few hours, Danville wasn’t a statistic or a punchline or a case study in what went wrong.
It was the hometown of Dick Van Dyke. The man who danced through a century, who stayed kind when the world got mean, who kept smiling long after most of us forgot how.
Reminding us that if a kid from Danville can dance his way through 100 years, the rest of us, wherever we started and whatever we’re up against, can at least try to keep up.
Jacob Lane was born and raised in Danville, Illinois. His work has appeared in The Wall Street Journal, the American Spectator and The Hill.
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