October 17th, 2025

 “In the garden, I see, west purple shower bells and tea orange birds and river cousins dressed in green.”

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Read it again slowly.

It sounds like a poem pulled from some dusty anthology or maybe something you’d find in the margins of an old college notebook, but it’s not.

It is a lyric from a soulful 1970's song that most of us have heard a hundred times. The funny part is, we have sung along to it for years, never realizing how poetic it really is.

Life is like that.

We hear things all the time, but we don’t always listen. We hear our friends’ words, our children’s laughter, our parents’ advice, our partner’s sighs. Yet half the time, we let them roll off like background music. We hum along without catching the lyrics.

Friendship, marriage, parenthood, they all have a soundtrack. Some songs are loud and joyful. Others are soft and a little broken. And sometimes, like this one, they are so layered that you don’t understand them until you finally stop and listen. That is when you realize the message was there all along, waiting for you to pay attention to it.

We live in a noisy world.

There is always another notification, another headline, another reason to rush past what matters. The older that I get, the more I believe that the good stuff; the truth, the heart, the meaning always hides in the quiet parts of the song.

We are seventy-six days away from a new year. Seventy-six days to start listening instead of just hearing. To pick up the phone when someone crosses your mind. To notice the color of the sky instead of complaining about the weather. To listen when your kids talk, even if it’s about nothing.

Because one day, you will wish you could hear that voice again...

...that laugh, that tone, that melody that once filled your kitchen, your car, your life. Today we are doing something that we will cherish tomorrow.

So today, slow down and listen.

Really listen.

The garden, the birds, the traffic jams, the B-side, the friends, the neighbors, the colleagues, the family.

They have been singing to you all along. Time to listen to the lyrics because life doesn't have the words inside the album cover.

It is Friday... I don't know about you, but I would like a steak, medium rare, a bourbon that coats the back of my throat peacefully and a kiss that doesn't bite back...

Gusto and astonishment this weekend!

October 16th, 2025

 It was on this day five years ago that my trading firm packed up our office in the Loop and moved out to Oak Brook. Six months before that, the trading floor itself shut down because of Covid.

Those final months downtown, the summer of 2020, were silent. The sidewalks were barren, the beer gardens empty, restaurants shuttered, and both ballparks played to empty seats. I left a city that didn’t look at all like the one I walked into back in the 1980s.

I will never work on a trading floor again. I will never walk over to the Berghoff for a beer and a carved sandwich. I will never wander through Marshall Field’s to look at the Christmas windows.

But luckily, those memories are still in my heart, and that is where they will stay.

Today is National Liqueur Day. Pour yourself a Frangelico after dinner and think about what you carry inside your heart. The things that truly belong to you; your people, your places, your moments will never fade. They will always come back to life, one memory at a time.

October 15th, 2025

 There isn’t a magic trick to getting better. It is repetition, grit, and a little bit of grace. Life doesn’t suddenly turn itself around on a Tuesday morning because you wish it so. It turns around because you keep showing up and putting your ass on the line. You keep doing the small things that add up to something big. You keep pushing the broom, paying the bill, saying “thank you,” and trying again tomorrow and the next day.

Maybe better doesn’t necessarily mean richer, thinner, or younger. Maybe it just means calmer, kinder and wiser. Maybe “better” means learning how to not let the world piss you off so easily.

I have slowly learned that progress is sneaky, it doesn’t always announce itself with grandeur. Sometimes it just shows up quietly in how you handle the same old problem without losing your cool. That is better in my book.

So keep at it.

Whatever your “it” is…

…keep moving it, keep working it, keep loving it.

Because it really is getting better all the time.

Enjoy the Beatles earworm

October 14th, 2025

   There comes a time when you realize your striking-iron days are numbered. The hammer is getting heavier; the sparks don’t fly as quickly and what used to be muscle memory now feels like effort. I’m running out of time to pound the iron into shape, but I still show up to the forge.

My Old Man used to quote Yeats, the Irish Shakespeare and he would remind me that life doesn’t wait for the iron to get hot. You make it hot by striking the crap out of it. You make the first move. You fight, even when your hands are tired and your back aches.

Last night I tried to watch the Bears game, but between the lousy officiating and the bubble-wrapped generation playing, I couldn’t keep my patience. The game used to be raw, caked with mud, blood, and cold breath in the air. Now it feels like a video game with shoulder pads.

I wish real life had intentional grounding! A rule to let you toss the mess away when there is no play to make, no open receiver, no chance to win the down.

But there isn’t.

You stand there, take the hit, and hope to live for the next snap.

I scribbled Fried Saltines in the grabber section this morning. The latest Grabowski is an addition to what they call these fancy character boards with the meat, vegetables and cheese. The snack that fits Chicago guys, a fried saltine with a squirt of CheezWhiz. Nothing fancy, just something simple, salty, and honest.

Each day is one more strike of the hammer, one more spark, one more swing before the final bell rings. I may not have the strength I used to, but I’ve still got the will. As Yeats would tell you, it is the fire that makes the iron hot.

Make the world hot Chalkheads!

October 13th, 2025

 There are mornings when the chalk feels heavier than my coffee cup. When the words don’t chalk up and my head is foggy. The world feels like it is still stretching before the opening bell. I’ve had plenty of these kind of mornings, especially on Mondays. I stare at the chalkboard, waiting for something divine to land and all I get is silence.

Maybe that is the whole point of endurance. It isn’t about brilliance, but about showing up when the spirit is still asleep. Endurance is what keeps the farmer climbing into his combine before dawn. It is what makes the trader open his quotes even when the market has zero volatility. It is what gets a father out of bed when his kids still need breakfast, even though his own soul is running on fumes.

Dreams are nice.

Reality is hard.

The bridge between the two is built out of mornings like today. When there is nothing to say, nothing to prove, and nothing left but the choice to show up.

Just show up.

Maybe that is what the American story really is? Not the glory shots or the speeches, but the quiet mornings of endurance.

The grind.

The long haul.

The unromantic reality of men and women who just keep going, one more step, one more sunrise.

So today, even if the chalk doesn’t want to move, let’s write something anyway. Because standing still is part of moving forward…

…and sometimes, just holding your ground is the real work.

Keep crossing the bridge you Chalkheads.

October 12th, 2025

 There is no better embodiment of persistence than the American farmer. The quote on today’s Chalkboard isn’t just a motivational line; it is a truth that I see every day from my side of the trading desk. The American farmer has been the most consistent piece of Americana, longer than baseball...

...though baseball gets all the nostalgia credit thanks to James Earl Jones and his “Field of Dreams” speech.

People drive out to Iowa to watch ghosts play ball among the corn, but it is that same farmer who planted the corn in the first place, the one who puts food on our tables, pumpkins on our porches, and milk in our glasses.

There isn’t anything romantic about farming. It’s not a Norman Rockwell painting that has come to life. It is early mornings, late nights, weather forecasts, and bank notes. People think a farmer drops seeds in the ground in the spring and rolls a combine through in the fall. That is the storybook version. The real story is sweat, debt, and risk management. It is calculating hedges, fuel costs, and interest rates while praying for just enough rain, but not too much. It is a business and the American farmer is every bit the businessman as he is the producer of grain.

As a grain broker at the Chicago Board of Trade, I have seen it firsthand. Those market quotes flickering on my screen represent the lifeblood of America’s heartland. Behind every bushel traded is a man or woman who got up before dawn, checked the markets, checked the sky, and got to work. They don’t complain much, because they don’t have time to. The volatility we curse in the office is the same volatility they live under every single day.

And they keep showing up.

Year after year.

Cycle after cycle.

Jesus Christ and the American soldier might be willing to die for me, but the American farmer has kept me well fed and that is no small task to do. In a world obsessed with digital convenience, the farmer still works by the seasons. A rhythm older than our country itself and definitely older than a pitch count. That kind of consistency deserves reverence.

So when I think about persistence turning stumbling blocks into stepping stones, I think about a man in muddy boots walking his field at dawn, wondering if the rain will hold, if the market will rally, if his kids will want to take over the farm. He will keep going anyway. Because persistence isn’t a quote to him, it’s a way of life.

Have a glorious Sunday you Chalkheads. Go find astonishment and have time for some gusto.

The Next Shift

   

    I haven’t felt sorry for myself in a long time. That doesn’t mean the mystery of my faith won’t send a lesson in humility.

Many weekend mornings I see a man and his son walk past my balcony. The father’s gait has softened… knees bending, shoulders slumping just a touch more with every season.

His son, handicapped and dependent, walks beside him, always just a half-step behind.

It’s clear this father has built his life around the care of that boy. His devotion has been his calling, maybe even his purpose, long before he ever understood it.

One day, sooner than later, his shift will end. When it does, I pray someone just as devoted will take the next shift.

Because that’s the quiet truth of life. We are all just taking turns keeping each other upright.

October 11th, 2025

   At this age, I have figured out that the most important thing left for me to do is leave a wake of kindness behind me.

Not fake Hallmark kindness. I am talking about the kind that’s real. The kind that rolls up its sleeves and says, “Hey pal, get your shit together. You deserve to feel whole again.”

I have seen enough of the world to know it is a mess. There is too much anger, too many people walking around wounded, pretending they are fine. I can’t fix the whole damn planet, but I can fix what is within reach. If I can see it, touch it, hear it, or smell it… I’m going to do what I can to make it mo’ betta. Not “more better,” just plain old mo’ betta.

Kindness doesn’t mean soft. It means strong enough to care. It is holding the door, saying you are sorry first, forgiving faster, and checking in on the people who have been silent too long. It is using your scars to help someone else stop bleeding.

The world can stay a shitshow if it wants to. I’m not giving it permission to dull my shine. Like Sister Balthazar taught me in kindergarten — “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”

So root hard for your team today. Take a deep breath of that crisp fall air…

… And remember, if we all toss a little kindness in our wake, this world just might get a little mo’ betta.

October 10th, 2025

 The weather finally kicked into autumn this week. The Farmers’ Market had their last gathering in Riverside and George and I had our last Thursday ice cream together last night.

The last thing the Shepley guys need is a soft serve dipped cone or a chocolate malted. It became our thing to do after George’s hour-long therapy session this summer.

Between seeing a therapist and stopping at The Polar Bear, I have seen tremendous growth in my neurodivergent baby boy.

Our ice cream shop is closing for the winter this weekend. George and I are going to need to find a new post appointment activity.

George is wired to see things more clearly than I do. He pointed out as we sat at the bench slurping down ice cream, that he noticed the Chalkboard hasn’t changed since the beginning of the week.

He suggested I come back strong with a quote from someone that I admire. He picked Churchill, so that’s today’s quote. A quote by a strong leader suggested by my eldest son.

My favorite holiday is less than fifty days away and 24 hours of Christmas songs should be right around the corner.

I should also mention that the clock change is that first Saturday night in November….

Mother F…. F…..!

Let’s go out there and establish some astonishment and find glory in our routine.

October 7th, 2025

 Two years ago today, the world was reminded how quickly hatred can spill across borders and into our lives.

On October 7, 2023, Israel was attacked by Hamas in an act of pure terror. Innocent people were slaughtered, babies mutilated, families shattered, and the Jewish community around the world felt the chilling echo of antisemitism that has plagued them for centuries.

Today’s Chalkboard carries two anchors. The first comes from the New Testament: “Put on the full armor of God.” The second is the Latin phrase Nil desperandum... never despair.

Together they form a shield, not only for Christians but also for our Jewish brothers and sisters who continue to face threats simply because of their faith and identity.

I once thought I had a dear friend, someone who held me up when life weighed heavy. She hugged me the day my dad died. She baked cookies for Hazel during that summer of 2022 when Hazel's mom left her adrift. She reintroduced me to Khalil Gibran, whose words gave me comfort at a time when I needed it.

That friendship ended soon after October 7, 2023. It ended because I stood with Israel. It ended because I refused to accept antisemitism dressed up as politics.

That loss hurt, but two years later, I have come to see it clearly. A friend who abandons you because you reject hatred is not a friend at all. A friend worth keeping does not walk away when standing shoulder to shoulder with the Jewish people becomes inconvenient.

The bible verse tells us to put on God’s armor. Not halfway, not just the helmet or the shield, but the full armor.

Why?

Because the attacks that come against people of faith, whether Jewish or Christian, are relentless. Hatred does not rest. It finds new disguises, new justifications, new excuses. And yet, it is the same ancient evil that has haunted humanity since 600 A.D..

That is where Nil desperandum comes in.

Never despair.

The attacks are real, the losses cut deep, but despair is exactly what the enemy wants. The way to fight back is not with surrender, not with silence, and not with bitterness, but with faith, courage, and solidarity.

Today, we say to our Jewish friends, You are not alone.

The Christian community stands with you. Together, we will not bow to those who thrive on division and bloodshed. We will not let hatred dictate who is worthy of compassion.

The armor of God is not just for defense; it is for holding firm in the face of darkness and “never despair” is not blind optimism. It is the steady heartbeat of people who know that faith, memory, and love are stronger than any ideology of hate.

So, on this anniversary, let us remember.

Let us honor the lives lost.

Let us stand together, armored and unbroken, never despairing, never silent.

Because the world may tremble, but the light of God’s people, Jew and Christian alike, will not be extinguished.