February 25th, 2026

 The first thing I thought about when I chalked this quote was sports radio. I can’t listen to sports radio.

The only show I can stomach is during football season when Dan Hampton and Ed O'Bradovich do their pre- and post-game Bears show on WGN.

Two former Bears who failed before they ever succeeded.

Mr. OB was a defensive end on the 1963 World Champion team and Hampton was on the Super Bowl XX team. They played in seasons were losing outnumbered winning. They took their lumps and got up to give lumps back. One got chewed out by George Halas while the other got screamed at by Mike Ditka. That is why they know what the hell they are talking about. They paid rent in sweat and bruises and have every right to talk about the future team from Hammond Indiana.

I can’t stand these whiny little pukes who never played the game. Mealy-mouthed critics dissecting the “kingdom of sports” like they built it. High-pitched bitching and moaning devoted to criticizing, nitpicking and second-guess...

...rarely congratulating the teams they cover.

Sure, they are successful and popular with the fanbase and advertisers. Just not for me.

If you never lined up across from a man trying to take your head off, maybe ease up on the sermon.

Failure earns a voice, effort earns an opinion.

And as for the grabber section this morning. It is National Clam Chowder Day. I’ll take mine red over white. Manhattan over New England any chance I can. Problem is, around here, red chowder is harder to find than a winning football season.

February 24th, 2026

 I woke up this morning and realized I don’t have plenty of time, but I have enough time if I use it deliberately.

The numbers in the grabber aren’t random. 2,245 is how many days we’ve spent in the 2020s. 1,407 is how many remain until 2030. It isn't morbid, It’s just math.

At 30, I thought faith meant optimism. Filled with big prayers, big dreams and believing everything would somehow work out.

Faith at 30 is hopeful. Faith at 60 should be grounded.

Grounded faith isn’t supposed to be loud. It is showing up for your family and friends even when you are tired. It is choosing restraint over reaction. It is believing in God not because life is easy, but because you have buried parents, weathered storms, made mistakes, and still stand.

Grounded faith says that we know who we are. I know who I am and I’m going to use the time I’ve been given on purpose.

I need enough time to nurture, enough to grow stronger and enough to leave people better than I found them.

Enough, if I’m deliberate.

Enough to find gusto and astonishment.

February 23rd, 2026

 I woke up early Sunday and heard the lions roaring across the river. My balcony sits about a quarter of a mile from the lion grotto at Brookfield Zoo.

The sound is pure power. It reminds you that there are teeth in the world that can rip your head off. I’m safe because they are zoo lions. If they were wild along the banks of the DesPlaines, I would be dead before sunrise.

The irony here is the lions aren’t the ones caged, I am.

Caged by routine.

Caged by comfort.

Caged by the steady hum of a predictable life.

I have never lived in a jungle. Standing in a trading pit during a fast market is insanity, but it isn’t a jungle. Taking the Lake Street home at three o’clock in the morning is a risky move. Still not the jungle.

Today is Tootsie Roll Day. I never have been a big fan of candy that hurts your jaw when eating.

Let’s get this last week of February safely in the books. It has a forecast with a winter bite to it. Still not the jungle.

Especially when you have a remote start on your car.

February 22nd, 2026

 The proud oak looks powerful with its thick trunk and deep roots, but when the storm hits hard enough, that same pride snaps it in half. The bamboo bows to the storm and takes the wind. It gives a little so it doesn’t lose everything.

In life, you don’t resist reality. You adjust to it and you keep moving.

Yesterday was rugby day and today is all about Olympic hockey. Two teams stacked with professional players meet for the gold early this morning.

This is the last week of February. Weather is not expected to be brutal as we slide into March.

Bend but don’t break this week.

February 21st, 2026

 Every morning I try to knock out a hundred smile-ups. Smile-ups are push-ups for your face.

I am working on earning those crinkled crow’s feet near my eyes. The kind that old, happy men wear like medals. I am also trying to undo the Shepley frown I inherited from my grumpy Oldman. Some things get passed down whether you ask for them or not. My dad handed down a big can and a pissed off smirk.

One of my new disciplines for 2026 is to have a smile when I pull up to a red light.

It keeps me from cursing the fact that I’m stuck at this F’ing intersection. It also throws the other drivers off if they glance over at the handsome prick in the Ford Flex. Maybe the smile spreads, maybe it doesn’t, but it is better than scowling at brake lights.

It is a cold and cloudy Saturday. The Six Nations are on the television and the Olympics are wrapping up.

England versus Ireland is the early match followed by Wales versus Scotland.

Saturday is rugby day, so find someone to ruck and scrum with today… at the pub, on the pitch, or under the sheets. Keep your face loose enough to smile while you do it.

February 20th, 2026

   Finishing the week with the same theme I’ve been working lately. Life isn’t meant to be hoarded. Love isn’t meant to be stored. Life and love are both meant to be spent.

Perfect quote for the nod in the grabber section this morning. The USA women’s hockey team gave their life away. In training, in sacrifice, in playing for the USA on the front of their sweater instead of the name on the back.

Happy Friday Chalkheads, give it away, give it away, give it away now…

February 19th, 2026

  I had a dream twenty minutes before I started chalking. Let me make this very clear, I was sound asleep.

In the dream, my mom caught me rubbing one off.

“John Stephen Shepley! What is going on in here?”

I wasn’t worried about getting caught nearly as much as I was upset that I was a kid again, living in my mom’s house. I was worried about not making it to work today. I was worried about all the things I own as an adult, where everything was and who was taking care of my stuff. Most of all, I was concerned that the ShepKids didn’t have an Oldman because he was back in high school, in trouble with their Gramma.

I sure was relieved when I woke up and realized my ma didn’t bust me sleeping with Farrah Fawcett.

I started chalking the quote and thinking about that dream. It made me think about my age and the milestone I’m lifting this summer, especially one that starts with a six handle. I have been auditing my life more. Reflecting on how I got here.

At 30, you think you have time.

At 40, you think you are building.

At 50, you realize the clock is real.

At 60, you start asking: Did I waste spins on a merry-go-round?

I don’t fear the big 6-0. I fear unfinished business.

I am stepping off the ride and looking at the park map. I don’t have to impress anyone anymore. I just need to be honest with myself.

My mom busting me with my schwantz in my hand made me realize something simple: I’m not late for the show. I’m wide awake and everything I want is all around me.

Today is Chocolate Mint Ice Cream Day. It is going to be a good day... unless that is what you gave up for Lent.

This last week of warm temperatures was just what we needed to get over the hump and into spring...

...And that, right there, is astonishing.

February 18th, 2026

 I looked at this quote and I first thought it meant how we exhaust ourselves, but realized it means how we invest in ourselves. Life isn't a savings account, but more a checking account.

Most people spare themselves. They spare the effort, the risk, the vulnerability, the hard conversations and the sacrifice.

Life isn't meant to be hoarded... You can't feel alive by protecting your comfort. You feel alive by exploring yourself.

You feel alive by spending your time on something meaningful. Being alive is spending your talent on what matters. It is spending your love even when love isn't returned immediately. Courage gets your blood moving when it would be easier to stay quiet.

Today is the day to truly come alive. We have a new moon that symbolizes a fresh start. Feria quarta cinerum is that reminder that we are dust and our time here is limited. Comfort isn't the goal, legacy is.

The question I asked myself this morning: Where am I still sparing myself?

That will be the place that I need to start spending myself....

February 17th, 2026

       Can you guess what movie we watched last night?

February 16th, 2026

 What you don’t see still shapes you. Habits, character, faith, resentment, love and fear. You can’t hold them in your hand or measure them with a yardstick, but you can see where they have walked.

Habits determine outcomes and character determines direction. Faith steadies a man when the wind picks up. Resentment poisons swiftly while love builds quietly. Fear shrinks a person before he ever takes that first step. These forces are invisible, but the tracks they leave are unmistakable.

Here is the hard truth: it cuts both ways. Unspoken bitterness leaves footprints. Neglect and excuses also leave footprints. Even silence can leave a mark. You don’t get to opt out of the impact left behind. Whether you intend to or not, you are pressing something into the ground behind you.

I chalked a bright sun on the board this morning. Sunlight creates shadows, but shadows disappear when the light moves. The shade from the sun shifts by the minute, footprints don’t. The impressions you leave through your habits, your character, your love, your faith... those can last decades.

That is the difference between a moment and a legacy.

Today is Presidents Day. My favorites are Andrew Jackson, Teddy Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan. Different eras with different styles and different controversies.

Not one of them was invisible. They believed in something, acted on it, and left trails the country still walk on today... for better or worse.

The sun will move.

The shadows will fade, but what you press into the earth will remain after you are done breathing.

Enjoy this gorgeous gift of Monday February 16th, 2026.

Today is Lundi Gras, tomorrow is Mardi Gras and for the Catlicks, Ash Wednesday follows on Humpday.

Laissez les bons temps rouler...

February 15th, 2026

 I usually do laundry on Saturday morning. Sometimes Sunday if I push it, but this week, for reasons I can’t explain, I did it on Tuesday afternoon.

Two big loads with a mix of my clothes and Fritz’s. George handles his own laundry. Hazel hasn’t been around much, so there wasn’t anything of hers in the basket. Just mine and Fritz’s. Washed, dried, folded, put away before dinnertime.

The next day was when I had to take Fritz to the hospital.

Now who gives a crap about Jumbo doing laundry outside of his routine!?!?

That is when it hit me.

They say pregnant women start nesting before they give birth. Getting the house ready. Preparing without fully knowing why.

I’m thinking by divine intervention, that is why I got the laundry done before my whole schedule shifted. Before the hospital visit and before bringing a patient home for the long weekend.

Another small mystery in the long story of my faith.

Yesterday was Saint Valentine’s Day. I saw a shit ton of boys at the grocery store grabbing flowers like they were buying insurance. I had a romantic evening of my own with a cigar and a glass of bourbon. Smoke rising slowly and elegantly under the brim of my cap. Bourbon stinging the back of my throat like a French kiss with a rough tongue. I climbed into bed with my book and just as I settled under the clean sheets, I farted without apology.

That was when I appreciated being alone. No “pardon me.” No performance of being the first man to ever fart in bed. Just the peace of a novel, Downey fresh bedding and WDCB playing blues on my nightstand radio.

Today is Sunday Funday. The sun is smiling and we are flirting with sixty degrees in February. What is the over-under on middle-aged white men wearing shorts today? They will be on the walking path, in the beer aisle, maybe even holding court at the tavern.

Go find some astonishment today.

Chase it with a little gusto.

Three more weeks and we move the clocks forward.

February 14th, 2026

 It is already Saint Valentine’s Day and Fat Tuesday waits just around the bend. Winter is loosening its grip, even if it refuses to admit it. The light lingers a little longer. The cold still bites, but it doesn’t own the day the way it did in January. We are in that in-between season, not quite thawed, not quite frozen.

And here comes Shakespeare.

“Speak low, if you speak love,” from Much Ado About Nothing. Fitting, isn’t it? Because that play isn’t about starry-eyed romance. It is about guarded people with sharp tongues and wounded pride. Benedick and Beatrice don’t trust love. They mock it. They circle it like two fighters who have been hit before. And yet, somehow, they walk toward it anyway.

Here is the truth: I’m not against love. I’m against illusion.

I am weary of the version of romance that gets packaged and sold like it is a guarantee. Life taught me better than that. Love isn’t violins and restaurant reservations.

It is complicated.

It is sacrifice.

It is disappointment.

It is timing that doesn’t line up. It is people doing their best and still coming up short.

But I do love.

I love my family and my friends. The surprise phone calls and shared meals and showing up. I love my work and the career I have had. Decades of mornings, markets, mistakes, wins, and lessons. I love where I live. The streets I know by heart, the seasons that mark time whether I ask them to or not.

I love sitting at the counter in a good diner. Coffee poured without asking. Strong and black like George McGinnis. I love the radio humming in the kitchen before the sun is fully up.

Maybe I don’t believe in fireworks anymore, but I believe in loyalty. I believe in routine. I believe in praying. I believe in the kind of affection that grows roots instead of wings.

Winter makes a man reflective. Saint Valentine’s Day can make him defensive. Maybe the point isn’t to shout love from rooftops. Maybe it’s to speak it low. To recognize it in the ordinary. To honor it in the steady things that haven’t left.

Spring will come the way it always does...

...not dramatically, but gradually.

...And maybe love does the same.

February 13th, 2026

 

There wasn’t a Morning Chalkboard Thursday and there won’t be one today.

     Wednesday, I gave my son Fritz a shout out and he decided to pay me back with an emergency appendectomy later that night. It all happened quickly before it suddenly slowed down and scrambled things enough to make me ask that famous Talking Heads question, “How did I get here?”

   I went from thinking my son was jerking off from school with a headache and a tummy ache to hearing in the ER, “We can’t wait until Thursday morning, this vile flap needs to be taken out immediately.”

  We went from the immediate care office to the emergency room, to the operating room in six hours. I wore the same clothes from early Wednesday morning to late Thursday afternoon. I needed a pitchfork to finally dig my underwear out of my booty.

   Fritz never complained and he never gave the pain more than a five. The next morning his pain was a one and we left the hospital after lunch.

   I wasn’t comfortable with my child having surgery in the same hospital that botched his brother’s birth, almost killing George and his mommy. The same hospital that couldn’t put Fritz’s PopPop back together and keep him from going to heaven a couple years ago.

  We had a doctor named after a tragic Old Testament fable, and to top it off, Fritz might be the size of a middle linebacker, but he is still the age of a child. We were placed in a room in the pediatric unit with those yellow cartoon characters with goggles and one eye plastered on the walls. They look like lipstick vibrators. I think Fritz called them Mini-Ones.

    Surgery went well and Fritz now has three little scars on and around his bellybutton. I couldn’t tell my sixteen-year-old they looked like hickeys and someday a jealous girlfriend is going to question him.

     I can only picture that conversation….

           “What do you mean, Dad?” Confused look on his face.

                                    “Girls can really do that?”

                      “They can, son… and it is a delightful situation.”

    I sat up all night listening to my kid sleep off anesthesia, getting stared down by Mini-Ones in the shadows of the IV machine while a baby cried all night across the hall.

       Here is where my faith humbled me and kept me from feeling sorry for my fat ass.

  My son will be home with me eating hot dogs at Parky’s next week. Who knows what will happen with the painful cries down the hall? What are those parents going through?

    My son is sleeping peacefully with three hickeys around his bellybutton. Their child is screaming in pain, and they are desperately struggling to know why.

    I will be able to change out of these crusty clothes, have a couple slices of pizza, and tuck my son into his own bed later.

       Who knows what the parents down the hall have stored for them?

    Everybody around us is going through a shitshow, and many would trade places with you in a heartbeat.

     I didn’t expect a five-day weekend. I never miss work, and I was floored when Fritz’s mom thanked me. I couldn’t tell her that I cried for her at three in the morning as I thought about the last time I slept in that hospital. Kate Bush’s A Woman’s Work echoing through my head as George was wrapped in an umbilical cord and his mom bled profusely in the delivery room. That was the most vulnerable day of my life.

 

  Fritz is home safe in Riverside with a grumpy dad keeping him warm. I can’t wait to see what damages Blue Cross/Blue Shield has in store for me. Just another crying baby down the hall reminding me how lucky I am to have insurance and a great job.

     Listen to your instincts and love your babies. Things can flip in a heartbeat, so stay agile.

    The Morning Chalkboard will be back Saturday morning.

                Astonishment and Gusto for you Chalkheads.

February 11th, 2026

 “The only thing more powerful than hate is love.”

That one came from Fritz. He texted me Tuesday night:

“Hey dad, I got a chalkboard quote idea.”

He saw it flash across the screen after the Super Bowl halftime show. Bad Bunny, he said. A newer artist. “Ask Hazel who he is.”

Then he followed it with Dr. King: “Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.”

I asked him if he thought it was true. “Most definitely,” he said.

Me too.

We sealed the text the way we always do with an aohm from Fritz followed by an AOMH from me. It means "All of my heart," and we have been using that since day one.

Pizza confirmed for Wednesday night dinner at the end of the text.

Fritz is my middle child. He was given that role in life when his sister showed up and made him both a little brother and a big brother. He became The Glue, a tricky assignment for anyone. He handles it without complaint and performs it flawlessly.

Fritz keeps things together between George and Hazel. He keeps the temperature down. He keeps the rhythm steady.

Frederick Edward Shepley.

Named for his great uncle Frederick Bergmann and Joseph for his Grampa Donald Joseph. We call him Fritz and "The Glue."

He is a witty little jagoff with strong math skills and two roads in front of him, engineering school or the union hall. Either way, he will wire something important. Buildings or bridges or systems or maybe even people.

But before all that, he still is finding his voice and balance. Figuring out who he is separate from the role life handed him at a young age.

I quoted Bad Bunny...

... Because I do not care where the words come from, halftime stage or a pulpit. As long as they point Fritz toward more love than hate. Less grief and aggravation and more astonishment and gusto.

If that’s the path he walks, I will take it.

All of my heart Freddie...

February 10th, 2026

 I chalked something on the board this morning that won’t leave me alone: It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation. Oscar Wilde wrote it

That line isn’t supposed to be advice, but more of an accusation.

We all started out copying someone else when we were young. You watch who survives and cling to it. You borrow the voice that gets listened to the most. You learn which corners not to cut. That isn't cowardice, but more apprenticeship.

But apprenticeship is supposed to end.

Somewhere along the line, copying turns into cover and before you know it you have Milli-Vanillied your life... You search for your own tone. You try desperately to find your posture and your own balance in life. You end up keeping the version of yourself that doesn’t cause trouble. Not because it’s true, but because it works.

Here is the question I don’t like asking, which usually means it is the right one: Who have I been playing all these years?

Not who I was at work.

Not who I was supposed to be at home.

Not who kept things moving and didn’t complain.

Who am I when I stop selling the facade of someone else?

Originality isn’t about being different. That is a cheap flashbang. Originality is about being accurate to yourself

Accurate to what you have carried on your back.

Accurate to what you have lost down the line.

Accurate to the way you see people when no one is grading you.

Failing as yourself hurts. There is never a cushion when that happens, but living as a copycat... That is a long, quiet rot.

Pitchers and catchers are starting to report to camp. I'm not really excited about the prospects that my ball club possesses.

I long for the day I had to wrap foil on the rabbit-ear just to get a signal for channel 44. Today you gotta shell out thirty bucks a month to listen to horseshit announcers candy-coat a crappy baseball team.

Not for me......

February 9th, 2026

 Thorns don’t mourn, they just stay as a reminder of beauty lost.

You bump into them when you are not paying attention. When you think you are past it or when you reach for something that used to be easy.

They don’t care what day it is or what is on the calendar. The rose is gone, that must be settled. What is left is a reminder that is sharp and honest. So you keep moving. Life doesn’t slow down because something beautiful didn’t make it. You just learn to carry the weight and get on with it.

Today is National Pizza Day. That makes your Monday night dinner plans much easier.

February 8th, 2026

    My Oldman used to say that opinions are a lot like assholes. Everybody has one, and they most often stink.

Social media handed all of us a microphone and told us we mattered. I’ve grabbed it plenty of times and I am guilty as charged. But I am starting to realize that nobody gives two shits what my stand is on religion, politics, sports, music, movies, or Thai food.

Movie stars should stick to making movies. Rock stars should play their songs in packed arenas. Athletes should compete hard and finish strong.

Being number one at the box office, winning a Grammy, or standing on a podium with a gold medal doesn’t make you an expert on climate change, human rights, or political correctness. It just makes you good at the thing you’re paid to do.

All we do now is argue until everybody gets mad. Nobody debates anymore; nobody talks things out. Every conversation turns into a performance filled with grandstanding, gloating and keeping score. That is why I rarely do social gatherings much anymore. They have become pageants where everyone is a contestant with two minutes to impress the judges.

Remember Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel's, At the Movies? They couldn’t stand each other, but they talked about the movie... deeply, passionately with either Thumbs up or Thumbs down. They disagreed, filmed the show, probably told each other to fuck off afterward, then showed up the next week and did it all over again.

That is an opinion done right. It left room for you to decide.

We built a government to represent neighborhoods and towns and send statesmen to Washington. Instead, we’ve got snake oil salesmen pretending to be politicians.

I watched a political ad the other night for a senator. I like the guy. He seems smart and sincere most of the time. But the whole commercial was him screaming about fighting some politician from the other party who isn’t even in his race and won’t be around in two years. That is all fine and dandy, but what does he stand for?

Is he going to fight for better education?

Will he care for veterans who are physically and mentally broken?

Will he make sure someone competent is wiping Grandpa’s rear end in a clean nursing home?

Just shut up and represent the people who elected you and not the special interest groups.

Most opinions aren’t even original anymore. Most people haven’t had an original thought since Google showed up. We have fewer well-read people and more full-time viewers of CNN and Fox News surrounding us. Turn on a camera and everyone turns into a mealy mouth. Turn on a computer and everyone becomes a keyboard bully.

Somewhere while chalking this morning, I got opinionated. It is hard not to. Which brings me back to my Oldman. We are all just assholes with big mouths.

One hundred forty-six days until the 250th birthday of the United States of America. We are going to hear people trash it, and people praise it. Which brings me to another quote from the Oldman.

"You talk like a man with a paper asshole.”

I never quite figured that one out. I just knew I heard it whenever I said something stupid. That is how I learned to say less stupid shit around my dad.

Maybe we should all stop listening and saying stupid shit and bring more astonishment, love and gusto into the world?

There is a smile on the sun and a decent temp up in the corner. Supposedly there is a football game tonight, but I will be watching the final episode of "All Creatures Great and Small" on Masterpiece Theater instead.

Be kind, rewind..........