July 17th, 2026

 

   Life is a consistent second chance. In fact, I have been given 21,931 of them since I showed up in Edgewater back in ’66.

       Every sunrise is another chance to get it right.

   Maybe what we call a "second chance" is really just someone giving us a break.

Our parents gave us breaks. So did our coaches, teachers, friends, bosses, supervisors, spouses, the parish priest and the rabbi. Somewhere along the line, somebody looked at us, saw our flaws, and decided we deserved another shot.

    Now let's talk about defeat. What makes us feel defeated? That list changes as we get older.

    As a kid, striking out in the bottom of the ninth felt like the end of the world. Later it became losing a job, getting divorced, watching a dream slip away, or lying awake at three in the morning wondering how you are going to put shit back together.

    Looking back, you would think my biggest defeats would have been my divorce or that stretch of unemployment just after Fritz was born. They weren't, those were setbacks.

   Was I defeated when we learned George had special needs? Am I defeated today because Hazel is at that age where Dad is suddenly the biggest jagoff on earth?

             No.

   Because defeat isn't something that happens to you. It is something you accept. I have never been very good at accepting defeat.

    I lower my shoulders, bow my neck, shorten my stride, and keep chopping forward. Some days you don't charge. Some days you simply refuse to stop moving.

       So don't feel defeated today, you gorgeous Cheeseheads.

   Take your lumps if they come. Dust yourself off and catch your breath. Then keep muddling through.

   Remember what F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote… "Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat."

     Every sunrise is a second chance. Before this one sets tonight, hang a victory flag on the front stoop. It doesn't have to be a big one. Make that phone call. Finish the day strong. Forgive somebody, walk another mile and say your prayers.

             Just win today.

       Speaking of victories... Today is National Dive Bar Day.

   Being a Grabowski at heart, I appreciate a good neighborhood tavern. Three beers on tap. No blender behind the bar. No smoky watermelon margaritas or buttery nipple shots.

   Just an Old Style, a shot of Jack, a bartender who personally says hello before your ass hits the stool…

    … and if you are lucky, a frozen pizza that somehow tastes like a five-star meal after four beers.

The beauty of a dive bar isn't the décor. It is the people who bring different characters to the bar. It is your favorite stool that you always sit in. It is the old Blackhawks pennant over the cash register and the poster of Dick Butkus by the crapper.

   Sit there long enough with an open mind, and you will meet someone with an astonishing story. A retired steelworker, a Vietnam veteran, a divorced mother of three, a truck driver, a young couple just starting out or one that has been together through good times and bad times. Ordinary people carrying extraordinary lives.

      Have a wonderful Friday, my friends.

         And if today knocks you down...

                           …Get back up.

  Tomorrow's sunrise is already making plans for you.

July 16th, 2026

 

   My old man always told me it was important to learn how to make friends. Know the difference between an acquaintance and a friend, he said, and you can get through life with a handful of dear friends.

   I have never had a problem meeting people, but through the years many of those friends have quietly become acquaintances.

    My circle has changed with every stage of life. Different schools, different neighborhoods, different jobs. Then marriage, kids and divorce came into play. Time has a way of rearranging the chairs around the table.

   I have been fortunate to have some wonderful friends through the years, but somewhere along the road I lost that one person I talk to every day. That friend I call after hitting a home run or after striking out.

           Maybe friendships are like beer. Quality over quantity.

  It might be nice to know somebody everywhere you go, but when life knocks you flat on your ass, it is the one or two people who run to your side that matter.

   The Oldman also liked to remind me that every stranger is a potential friend. I have always believed that. You never know who is about to walk into your life or how long they will stay.

    Today marks sixty years since I was dunked into the baptismal font at Saint Ita's in Edgewater. Most of the people who stood around the altar that day have gone on to Heaven, but I'm grateful they welcomed me into the Catholic clubhouse before I was old enough to know what was happening.

    If there is a lesson in all of this, it's probably that friendships don't have to last forever to matter. Some walk beside you for miles and others only accompany you for a few steps. Each leaves something behind that makes us who we are.

    Powder the nooks and crannies and be careful today. Our Canadian neighbors are sending smoke signals across another hot, hazy Chicago morning.

July 15th, 2026

          Somewhere along the line, I turned into Don Shepley.
   My Oldman got up early, got his work done and went to bed soon after Barney Miller or The McLaughlin Group.
   When I was younger, I could not understand it. Eight o’clock was when the night began. It wasn’t when a man started looking for his pajamas. We would go out for dinner after eight, find a tavern after dinner and stay awake until the crack of dawn.
   Now I am usually in bed shortly after eight and up before the crack of dawn. The party has changed times and locations. Instead of closing down a bar, I am chalking the Morning Chalkboard.
       Ben Franklin supposedly said, “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” I have managed the early-to-bed and early-to-rise part. The healthy, wealthy and wise departments remain a work in progress.
    That brings me to Washington D.C. and its latest attempt to improve something that does not need improvement.
    The House voted yesterday to make daylight saving time permanent. The Senate still has to act, but President Trump supports the idea. I support ending the ridiculous ritual of changing the clocks twice a year. I simply believe they are choosing the wrong clock to follow.
          Make standard time permanent instead.
    We tried permanent daylight savings time during the energy crisis in 1974, President Nixon signed it. Americans quickly discovered that an extra hour of evening light came with children waiting for school buses in the dark and working people jumping on the Ike or the L before sunrise.
    The experiment became so unpopular that President Ford signed legislation returning the country to standard time before the planned trial was finished.
          Washington already ran this rodeo. The country gave its answer.
    Here in Chicago, permanent daylight savings time would push some winter sunrises past eight o’clock in the morning. That is not a minor inconvenience. That is children walking to school, commuters driving to work and laborers beginning their day in darkness.
    The politicians sell us the idea of “more daylight.” They are not creating daylight. They are moving a number on a clock. The sun is not taking orders from Congress.
   For a man who shows you Chalkheads the sunrise and sunset every morning, I have a pretty good idea where the sun should be. I also know where Donald Trump should not be repositioning it.
   The president has more important matters in front of him. He should worry about finishing off Iran, protecting the country and keeping America great. He does not need to create another health and safety problem by pretending the federal government can negotiate with the solar system.
    Today we are in a new moon, halfway between full moons. The sky has gone dark for a moment before beginning again.
    The new moon is a chance for us to reset our clocks and evaluate the state of our being. I am no tree-hugging Deadhead dancing barefoot around a drum circle, but I do believe we are balanced by the moon, the sun and the stars. Human beings lived according to those rhythms long before senators discovered television cameras.
    We do not need a congressman, senator or president handling our realignments. The heavens can manage themselves. Our job is to pay attention.
    Maybe becoming Donald Joseph Aloysius Shepley is not the worst thing that could happen to me. There is something honest about rising with the morning, doing your work while the world is humming along and turning in before the nine o’clock news.
     The government can change the clock, but it cannot change the sun. Whatever time Washington prints on the wall, the morning will still arrive when it is damn ready. So will the sunset and so will the next full moon.
       …. and wherever the hands land, gusto and astonishment will always be there.

July 14th, 2026

     "Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."
  This morning's quote got me thinking about random moments. 

      Like putting on a Little League uniform that you laid out the night before the big game. Serving eight o’clock mass as an altar boy and seeing your proud parents in the first pew.
     Eating lunch at Gramma's dining room table with WIBC carrying the mid-day farm report.
     Watching Bears games with Bobby Grilliot or Indianapolis Indians games with Bob McCutcheon.
    Sitting in my dad's car, listening to WGN while eating White Castles. Putting on a trading jacket for the first time and hearing that opening bell.
    Falling asleep on my dad's family room couch while war documentaries played on PBS.
     French kissing for the first time at Broad Ripple Park in the Nickel Plate steam locomotive.
     Taking naps with George asleep on my belly. Sitting with Fritz next to a sewer cap, waiting for an alligator to crawl out or playing Barbies with Hazel for hours.
     Worrying about the Cartersburg Fog Monster at my aunt and uncle's house. Eating ice cream cones with my mom during a summer rainstorm.
    None of those felt like history while they were happening. They were just another Tuesday.
    The same is true of so many things that disappeared before we knew they were disappearing. The last ten times you hugged your parents. The last closing bell, walking off the trading floor, never to hear open outcry again. The final dinner at a favorite neighborhood restaurant before the lights went out for good.
   The old Chicago Stadium with cigar smoke hanging in the rafters and Keith Magnuson patrolling the blue line. Friday nights at Comiskey watching the South Side Hitmen bang dingers. Soldier Field beneath the colonnades while Walter Payton picked up another first down. Sitting in the Wrigley Field bleachers the summer I turned twenty-one, drinking Old Style with friends who seemed like they'd be around forever.
     At the time, they were ordinary days. Looking back, they were some of the biggest moments of my life.
    Maybe George will someday remember our trips to the Polar Bear for an ice cream. Maybe Fritz will remember grabbing a hot dog at Parky's with his Oldman. Maybe Hazel will remember lying on a blanket with her head nestled in DaDa's hug, watching clouds drift across the April sky.
         I hope so.
   Because I have learned that extraordinary lives are rarely built from extraordinary days. They are built from thousands of ordinary moments that reveal their true value only after they have become memories.
       To all of my French Chalkheads...
                   Happy Bastille Day. Vive la France!

July 13th, 2026

     The Monday Morning Chalkboard has a Truman Capote metaphor to start the week.

    Maybe an easier way to say it would be this: the softer he spoke, the more obvious the venom became.

    Let's pray that if anyone fits that description, they are well out of sight in the rearview mirror. A quiet voice often carries kindness, but beware, it can carry contempt as well.

    The baseball season has reached the All-Star break. Summer is quietly beginning its second half, and daylight is slowly beginning to retreat.

    The days don't suddenly get shorter. They surrender their light one quiet minute at a time. Not with a bang, but with the quiet lengthening of a shadow that will become noticeable in August.

     Today is a Gold Bond Day. Powder your nooks and crannies.

                  Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 12th, 2026

 

Yesterday I chalked about going to Fitzgerald's for the first time with a sixty handle.

  It turned out not to be much of a problem because the median age at the Los Lobos show had to be about sixty-seven. Last night felt more like a class reunion for the Class of '77 than a rock concert.

    I got to the club early and found the perfect spot to stand. Right next to one of the support poles holding the roof up. It blocked the traffic and gave my big ass something to lean on.

    The usual concert T-shirt crowd was in attendance. There was a healthy number of patchouli oil Deadhead types wandering around. You had the rockabilly swing-dance greasers and greaser chicks. The tough-looking East L.A. Latino crowd was represented as well.

      The largest demographic at the famous west side roadhouse was the worn-down white guy in the cheap Hawaiian shirt, Skechers with the cushioned soles and arch support, and compression socks.

    My left cankle, complete with the discoloration and scar from where the metal plate was inserted, paled in comparison to the battle wounds carried by the Los Lobos crowd. Canes, knee braces, wrist casts, and limps were everywhere.

   The one thing I noticed more than anything else though, was the smiles. I watched Latinos and Caucasians sharing their passion for a band that has been making music since just about everyone in attendance was a kid.

   I saw buddies who have probably been busting each other's balls for fifty years. Parents standing beside their grown children. Couples who survived the hard years and now get to enjoy the golden ones together.

       Then there was me. The guy who came alone but was never really lonely. I ran into a dozen people I knew and even caught a ride home from a dear friend.

    It was just a happy crowd listening to an old East L.A. garage band. People smiled and they danced as best they could. Nobody was fighting and nobody was yelling about politics.

    Sure, there were a couple of white liberals wearing "Abolish ICE" T-shirts. I'm betting most of the Latinos in the room couldn't have given two shits about their political statement. They were there for Los Lobos, not looking for support from the dear old Oak Parker.

    I don't know why I expected a shit ton of millennials to be hanging around a ragged old nightclub listening to a band that peaked forty years ago. Maybe I need to stop worrying about getting older and start hanging around people who don't give a damn about being senior citizens.

         That reminds me...

       I need to check AARP and see what discounts turning sixty finally gets me.

  I'm not even sure what the median age of a Chalkhead is anymore. There is one Chalkhead on here who changed my diaper. There are others I coached over at Saint Cletus. Somehow, we have all ended up in the same place, sharing another morning together.

    This is our time. I am going to keep chalking about it and try to commit as many acts of kindness as possible along the way.

    Sunday Funday...

           ...the shadows are slowly growing longer, football season is less than two months away, and life is still pretty damn good.

         Gusto, astonishment, and acts of kindness, you beautiful Chalkheads.

July 11th, 2026

 
      The women in the AARP commercials have recently become attractive to me. I want to retire and plant gardens with them.
   The other night I was watching an episode of Gilligan's Island and, after all these years, realized just how hot Mrs. Howell was.
   When I was a boy, I had a crush on Mary Ann. Then puberty arrived, Ginger Grant took over, and suddenly my heart, and a few other body parts belonged to her.
   Now that I have reached this stage of life, I find myself wanting to chase "Lovey" Howell to the other side of the island.
       Unfortunately for me, she is happily married to Thurston Howell III.
   The other day I read that the youngest member of The Wonder Years cast recently turned fifty.
Kevin Arnold has now joined Winnie Cooper and Paul Pfeiffer as fifty-somethings.
Kids born in the 1970’s are in their fifties. Kids born in the 1960’s are in their sixties. Those smart-ass toddlers born in the 1980’s are pushing forty-five, and those cute babies born during the Clinton administration are now in their thirties.
       I think you Chalkheads have realized that my recent theme has been about getting older.
   The sand running through the hourglass has made me think a lot more about time…
          ...and how not to waste it.
    A few weeks ago, I looked at the app on my phone that tracks screen time. It showed me exactly where I was throwing away precious hours… social media.
          So, I deleted every social media app from my phone.
   I was still sneaking onto Facebook from my desktop though. After an eighteen-year relationship, I finally ended it for good.
     No more counting likes. No more mindlessly watching Facebook videos. No more getting disgusted with political opinions.
     The next step was deleting all the game shortcuts from my web browser. Solitaire, chess, Sudoku and checkers...gone.
      It has even come to the point when I wake up with morning wood, I don't spend time admiring it. I watch it go away as I quickly run to the coffee pot.
           Next on the chopping block will probably be YouTube TV and Netflix.
               I am not giving up the things that actually feed my soul.

     I will still spend time reading a chapter every morning before I chalk. I will still watch the sunrise and sunset. I will still sit with a cigar and a bourbon. I will still listen to the Sox on my radio. I will still make pizza and pancakes for the Shepkids. 

    Though I should probably spend a little more time on conference calls to Heaven.
     Maybe I will finally learn to play that blues harmonica or the ukulele I bought myself after the divorce.
    I guess I have finally accepted that Winnie Cooper has kids in college now. Mrs. Howell is never going to let me massage her bunions.
          And somewhere along the way...
                          …I have finally become my Oldman.
        Tonight I am heading over to Fitzgerald's to see Los Lobos.
     It will be my first visit to that legendary little club on 12^th street as a sixty-something.
When I was twenty-something, I would look across the room at the old guy listening to The Iguanas and wonder, "What is the old timer doing here?"
      Now I know. He is there because the music never got old and neither did he. He knew what was worth spending his time on.
       Astonishment and gusto, you gorgeous Chalkheads. Don't waste time today.

 

July 10th, 2026

 

      It depends on the laugh.

  A laugh can tell you a lot about a person. From giggles and snorts to cackles and full-bellied laughter. The way someone laughs offers a little glimpse into their soul. Genuine laughter is hard to fake.

  As for me, there is another test I have trusted for years. Never trust someone that dogs don't like. Dogs have a way of reading people long before we do. If a good dog wants nothing to do with someone, I usually pay attention.

      Today happens to be National Piña Colada Day.

 Most people immediately think of that Rupert Holmes song from 1979. It is actually a strange little story about a bored husband and wife, each secretly trying to meet someone else through the newspaper personals. They unknowingly answer each other's ads, show up for the same date, and discover they already possessed the very qualities they had been searching for in someone else. They had it all along, but I was always curious… did they ever question each other for attempting an extramarital affair?

   We have come a long way from the personal ads in the Sun-Times. Today there are dating apps with endless profiles, algorithms, and swipes. Different technology, same search. I like my gramma’s advice. If you want to meet a good person, go to mass!

    For me, though, piña coladas mean something else. They remind me of my honeymoon in Aruba.

   Funny how one song from the seventies, a honeymoon and one tropical drink can carry an entire chapter of your life. For some people, they represent romance. For me, it is a reminder that not every story ends the way you imagined it would.

      These days, I think I will stick with bourbon.

           Bourbon has never promised me forever.

      Here is today's Chalkboard advice: Drink bourbon. Pet dogs and pay attention to how people laugh.

             Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 9th, 2026

 
      Yesterday was my Felix Unger Day.
   If you remember The Odd Couple, November 13th was the day Felix Unger was asked to leave his home.
         For me, that day is July 8th.
  Nine years ago, I packed up my Chevy Suburban, left behind three beautiful children, Molly the Black Lab, and the Weber grill that was hooked up to the gas line and drove to a third-floor apartment in what I affectionately call the Divorced Dad District.
       Yesterday afternoon I dropped Fritz back off at his mom's house and it still hurts. Nine years later, it hurts just as much as that first drive home after the Shepkids first weekend visit.
      July 8th was the last morning I woke up under the same roof with the mother of my children. None of us knew it at the time, but it was one of life's many last times.
    Robert Frost wrote: "Nature's first green is gold... So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay."
    That little poem isn't depressing. It is honest. Children don't stay little. Families don't stay under one roof. Parents don't stay alive forever and neither do we.
   When I first moved into this three flat, George, Fritz and Hazel still needed their dad for everything. We built forts in the living room. We made up ridiculous games that only kids understood. The zoo was our adventure, and the swimming pool was an all-day event.
    At bedtime Fritz and Hazel crawled into my bed, and they wouldn't fall asleep until they heard Sunrise/Sunset, MoonRiver, and The Rainbow Connection.
     Today George lives with me full-time. Fritz comes over about half the time and Hazel wants very little to do with Dad these days. That is what growing up looks like.
       The forts disappeared. The bedtime songs fade away. The zoo trips become less frequent. Deeper voices show up replacing cute squeaky ones. Less cuddles, more worries and independence.
       Somewhere along the way there was a last bedtime story. A last piggyback ride. A last trip to the playground. None of us knew those were the last and that is the cruel part about life's last times. They rarely announce themselves.
      Here is what I have learned. Every ending quietly introduces a beginning.
July 8th ended a marriage. July 9th began a father learning how to build a home instead of simply living in a house.
   It began the chalking of over three thousand Chalkboards. It began traditions that belong only to me and the Shepkids. It began discovering that consistency is stronger than circumstance. Nurturing and structure build a stronger bond. It forced me to become the man I needed to be and the father that George, Fritz and Hazel would know.
       Today is National Sugar Cookie Day. 

 PopPop and JoJo never let the Shepkids leave their home without a sugar cookie. The Shepkids didn’t know it at the time, but PopPop handed out sugar cookies for the last time. Someday will come when JoJo doesn’t pick up a box of sugar cookies at the bakery. Out of that will bring some sort of first….
    Maybe that is how life stays gold. Not by holding on to what was, but by passing it on.
   Nothing gold can stay. That is true, but if we live well, every last time makes room for a first time.
      …And perhaps the greatest first time of all comes on the last day we breathe, when we finally discover that every goodbye here was only preparing us for the first hello somewhere else.
              Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 6th, 2026

 

   My sixtieth birthday and the country's 250th have come and gone… Two measuring sticks, two milestones. America celebrated with grandeur, and I celebrated quietly.

    With optimism, I plan on making it to an eighty handle, but I don't expect to climb over eighty-five. That might sound morbid, but it is actually realistic.

   Hell, I could have a grabber this week or get hit by lightning in 2029 and never even see sixty-five. Like I chalked a couple weeks ago, if you want to make God laugh, come up with a plan.

    I would like to think I will finish my career on top. Watch the Shepkids become good adults. Retire with enough health to enjoy the freedom I have spent forty years working toward.

       …And if I never have to eat gruel in a nursing home, I will consider that another blessing.

   The last quarter of life is a time to dare and endure. Not because the road gets easier, but because you finally understand which roads are worth walking.

At twenty, I chased excitement.

At forty, I chased responsibility.

At sixty, I will start chasing ordinary days.

      A strong black cup of coffee before sunrise. Nipping at the Shepkids for doing stupid crap. Listening to all my weekly shows on the radio. A cigar and a glass of bourbon. A mind that can still read a book. A healthy body and a clear conscience. Having enough money to sleep well at night.

    I have spent enough years worrying about becoming somebody. These next years are about simply becoming the best version of that man.

     So today isn't about turning sixty last week. It is about waking up on July 6th and going back to work.

    There are still bids and offers to hit and lift, kids to encourage, prayers to say, books to write, cigars to smoke, ballgames to listen to, and chalkboards to fill.

       The milestone is behind me now.

                The road is still in front of me.

      So, let's keep moving.

    Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads. Gusto and astonishment.

July 5th, 2026

     I was able to grill some chicken, vegetables, hot dogs and burgers between the raindrops for the Fourth. The typical staples that seem to find their way onto America's birthday menu every year.

   Throw in some ribs, bratwursts, corn on the cob, ice cream, watermelon and apple pie, and you have the Top Ten of Americana backyard parties.

   In Chicagoland, the celebration usually spills through the garage and into the alley, where kids wave sparklers, dads light M-80s and roman candles, and the smell of charcoal hangs down the block.

  I went with a Shakespeare quote this morning because sometimes tragedy can become comedy.

My biggest Fourth of July food memory doesn't include any of those traditional foods.

      Sometime in the late 1970s, we had spaghetti for America's birthday. We didn't have spaghetti because our family was Italian American. We had spaghetti because of an accident.

   My Oldman and Uncle Charlie went shopping together on July 3rd. They bought everything you would expect for a Fourth of July cookout and packed it neatly into our big Coleman cooler on the back porch.

       There was just one problem. Neither one of them put any ice in it.

  The cooler sat in the summer sun the rest of the afternoon and all night long. On the morning of the Fourth, my Oldman walked outside expecting to drain melted ice water and see if he needed to add more ice.

       There wasn't any water shooting out of the spout on the bottom of the cooler. When he opened the lid, he was hit with the smell of spoiled meat.

   Every burger, every hot dog, every brat and every package of chicken had gone bad.

Embarrassed, he walked back into the house and called Uncle Charlie. Each brother thought the other one had taken care of the ice. Now they had a backyard party to save.

   The first order of business was figuring out what could be salvaged and what had to be thrown away. The whole time my dad was cleaning out the cooler, his wife was giving him the full "money doesn't grow on trees" speech. It was a speech I heard dozens of times growing up. Only this time, it wasn't coming from my Oldman.

    He was getting it from my Step Monster. She threatened to take her kids and head to a friend's cookout instead. The pressure was on.

   My dad wasn't just expecting Uncle Charlie and my cousins. Two of his railroad buddies were bringing their families over that afternoon.

   When my Oldman was frustrated, he usually disappeared to the basement to cool off and that was exactly what he did.

    I could hear him on the phone in the laundry room, working on Plan B with Uncle Charlie. Somehow these two German, English/Irish guys decided that the answer to their Fourth of July disaster was an Italian dinner. They each headed to different grocery stores on a national holiday and somehow pieced together enough ingredients for a spaghetti feast.

   The other two families coming to Oak Park that afternoon were Jewish and Irish. I guarantee they weren't expecting pasta on the Fourth of July.

   When my dad explained how he forgot to ice the cooler, his railroad buddies busted his balls all afternoon. Honestly, they busted his balls for serving spaghetti on the Fourth for the rest of his life.

     Looking back, I don't remember missing the burgers or the ribs. I remember the laughter.

I remember everyone giving my Oldman grief. I remember Uncle Charlie walking through the door carrying another armful of groceries.

  Funny how the mistakes become the memories that last the longest. That celebration in 1978 became one of the greatest Fourth of July memories my cousins, my stepbrothers and I ever shared.

   Two of my mentors made a mistake and instead of wallowing in it, they didn't panic. They adapted, they laughed, and they created the best Fourth of July party of my childhood.

    Maybe that is America in a nutshell. Things don't always go according to plan. Sometimes they fall apart completely, but you gather the people you love, figure out Plan B, laugh it off, and somehow the story turns out even better than the one you planned.

    That pasta supper is another reason this has always been one of my favorite holidays.

        Parades, fireworks, Uncle Sam, patriotic music...

                             ...and spaghetti.

      It is Sunday Funday, you Chalkheads. Finish this rainy Fourth of July weekend with gusto and astonishment.  

 

July 4th, 2026

 

   Today's Morning Chalkboard has all three of my favorite holidays written on it. The Fourth of July, Thanksgiving and Mardi Gras.

      Those might seem like an odd combination when you think about it. One celebrates the birth of a nation, one celebrates gratitude and one celebrates joy before sacrifice.

       If I had to pick three holidays that best describe how I try to live my life, those would probably be them.

    The Fourth reminds me that freedom is never free. It belongs to people willing to be bold enough to defend it.

   Thanksgiving reminds me that no matter how much life has given and taken away, it has always left me with something worth giving thanks for.

   Mardi Gras reminds me that laughter, good food, good music, cigars, and one more round of Sazeracs are not distractions from life. They are part of the reason we are here.

         Maybe that is why today's quote spoke to me… "Freedom lies in being bold..."

Not just politically, but personally.

Have the courage to say what you believe.
Have the courage to forgive.
Have the courage to love.
Have the courage to push through.
Have the courage to laugh hysterically and cry when your heart is full.

       Freedom, Gratitude and Celebration are a pretty good recipe for a life well lived.

   So today, you Chalkheads, celebrate the positives that these past 250 years have accomplished. Never forget that our country has always been, and always will be, a work in progress. Built on liberty, justice, and the pursuit of happiness.

                And remember... all Sox and Cub fans are created equal.

Bonus feature: Color Strong

 
    One of the strangest lessons my Oldman ever taught me involved a Polish sausage from Jim's Original.
    I was about twenty-five years old, and we were driving to Maxwell Street for lunch. He decided it was time for another one of his fatherly tests. My Oldman was always testing me. Sometimes I would pass the exam, but most of the time I would get his ‘You gotta be shitting me?” smirk.
    He looked over and said, "You've got one extra Polish sausage. If you want to get into heaven, you've got to give it away."
              "Okay. That’s easy enough…."
     "You have two choices. A black man wearing a White Sox hat or a white man wearing a Cubs hat."
       I didn't hesitate.
                 "The Sox fan."
      He looked at me for a second.
              "Why didn't you pick the white guy, son?"
    "Because he's a  f’ing Cubs fan dad!"
     The Oldman started laughing.
               "You passed."
     It had nothing to do with baseball. It had everything to do with what he wanted to know about the son he had raised. He wanted to know if I saw race before I saw a person.
       My father had a phrase he used that I have never forgotten. He didn't like the expression color blind. He would say, "That's nonsense. Everybody can see color."
      His point wasn't that race didn't exist. His point was that it shouldn't be the thing that decides how you treat someone. He called it being color strong.
        "Sure, that man's Black," he'd say. " It is pretty obvious, So what?"
   That was his entire philosophy. Recognize the differences, respect the differences and move on. Judge people by the things that actually matter.
        Their character, their honesty and whether they would help you change a flat tire in February on the side of Roosevelt Road. Whether they would buy the next round at Comiskey.
        Or, in Chicago...
                    …Whether they rooted for the White Sox or the Cubs.
   If I walked up to that Sox fan outside Jim's Original, I wouldn't have given two shits about the color of his skin. I would have handed him the Polish sausage and before long we would be arguing about whether the Sox needed another left-handed bat or if the bullpen was going to blow another ninth inning lead.
    That was the way my dad looked at the world. He had a gruff way about him, and Lord knows he wasn't politically correct, but underneath all of that bluntness was a simple belief…
          …every person deserved to be judged by who they were, not what they looked like.
    I think that is a lesson worth remembering. Forget being color blind and be Color Strong.
         If you are a Cubs fan, we may have to have a different conversation. We may call Chicago home and eat our hotdogs with mustard, but we will never agree when it comes to baseball…
       Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 3rd, 2026

 

    Over the last couple days, more than fifty thousand Americans became casualties in a field in Pennsylvania.

   Beginning on July 1st and ending on July 3rd, 1863, the Battle of Gettysburg became the turning point of the Civil War.

   Roughly 23,000 Union soldiers and 28,000 Confederate soldiers were killed, wounded, captured or missing during just three days of fighting. More than fifty thousand casualties in one place, all in the name of what America would become.

        Could you imagine the media coverage if something like that happened in 2026?

    Growing up during the tail end of Vietnam, we played war almost as often as we played baseball and smear the queer.

             Every kid seemed to have a favorite war.

   We had older cousins, brothers, young uncles and neighborhood kids who fought in Vietnam. We had older uncles and men down the block who served in Korea. We had grandfathers and church ushers who fought in the Second World War.

    I even knew a great-uncle who fought in what he called the Great War. I knew it as World War I and could never understand why he refused to call it that.

     He died when I was in fourth grade, and somehow, I ended up with his mess kit and his helmet.

     I still have the utensils he carried while fighting in Europe. The helmet, with its unmistakable shape from a war fought fifty years before I was born, eventually became a prop for the Cathedral High School drama department.

      If I had to pick my favorite war to study, it has always been the Civil War.

   The Battle of Gettysburg sparked a lifelong fascination with the period when our country was most deeply divided. It made me want to understand how a nation could become so divided and somehow find its way back together.

    That fascination was fueled even more by a history teacher at Dear Old Cathedral named Daniel "Doc" Wellman.

Doc stood about five feet tall and nearly five feet wide. He had a thick beard, a receding hairline with long hair hanging over his collar and looked like he could have stepped out of the 1860s himself.

    He loved two things with all his heart, American history and Indiana Hoosier basketball. By the time I left his classroom, I loved Abe Lincoln and Robert Knight.

      The ShepKids, on the other hand, don't know many details about the wars America has fought. Their knowledge of wars mostly begins and ends with George Lucas and Luke Skywalker... maybe followed by the time Martians attacked Earth in the 1990s.

  "Dad... were you ever in danger when the extraterrestrials invaded the world?"

              "Are you serious, son?"

 "Yeah. I think it was 1996."

            "You've got to be shitting me."

I saw an opening and couldn't resist.

         "Yes, son. Terrifying time. I fought off three of those slimy bastards downtown between State and Wabash. I was walking to catch the CTA when they tried to suck my heart right out of my body."

There sat my sixteen-year-old, completely mesmerized.

           "Really, Dad?"

    "No, son. I just took the liberty of bullshitting you. Get your alien invasions straight. The war between Earth and Mars happened about five hundred years before I was born."

        Sometimes I feel sorry for this generation. Not because they are bad kids.

    Because they don't know what a nazi or an Imperial Japanese soldier was. They don't know a Yankee from a Johnny Reb, or a Redcoat from a Founding Father.

       But they do know the Force is with them and that the Men in Black are protecting Earth from monsters from another galaxy.

     Over the next couple of days, we will wave flags, sing patriotic songs and celebrate the birth of a nation that turns 250 years old this weekend.

     It truly is an honor to live in a country where so many men and women have sacrificed to preserve this republic.

      I don't want the ShepKids to grow up with a favorite war the way many of us did, pretending to defend the neighborhood White Hen Pantry and the parish rectory from Germans and the 1^st Alabama infantry regiment.

      I just want them to have a better appreciation for the history that made this country possible. I have a feeling Doc Wellman would remind me that if we don't pass that history along, somebody else will replace it with something less important and incorrect.

    So put on that Spirit of '76, you gorgeous Chalkheads, and celebrate the red, white and blue.

 Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet.

      Valley Forge. Antietam. Gettysburg. Iwo Jima.

           Gusto, astonishment... and a sun with a smile.