July 30th, 2026

            "They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm."
     That it is a powerful line. The idea is that people who have lived through hardship, danger, or a constant shitshow often become restless when life finally becomes peaceful. The calm feels unfamiliar because they have grown accustomed to operating in crisis mode.
   The quote is by Dorothy Parker. She was writing about the addiction to emotional turbulence that comes with love. Ms. Parker missed the storm because calm felt empty.
        What I feel is completely different. I don't think the storm ever really ends.
  People tell me life will finally slow down as I get older. The children will become adults and find their voices. Retirement will arrive, and there will come a day when I no longer listen for the bids and offers.
      No more, "Dad, can you make me something to eat?"
      No more early morning fast markets or late nights at the computer working option orders.
       Truth be told, I kind of like making a sandwich for George, a pizza for Fritz, or Mickey Mouse pancakes for Hazel. I find joy in hearing loud chewing over sibling bickering.
     I enjoy buying low and selling high. I like having an opening bell that brings havoc. I get a strong sense of fulfilment when I get my customers the best fills.
          I guess what I am saying is that I enjoy the storm.
         Maybe that is because I don't see it as a storm anymore.
    Almost forty years on the trading floor or a trading desk has taught me that markets eventually settle. Sixty years of living has taught me that good days outnumber bad ones. Wounds heal, even if they leave scars.
     I have also learned that grief is a lot like laundry. It piles up in the hamper until it feels like a burden you will never get through. Then one day, the last pair of socks is folded and put away, and the basket is empty again. Not forever, just for a little while.
    Maybe that is the mistake we make. We think peace means the absence of storms, but it doesn't.
     Peace is knowing which storms no longer frighten you…
              ….and maybe that is what growing older really is. Not waiting for the weather to change but becoming a better sailor.
 
     August is almost here and today is National Chili Dog Day. My go to chili dog these days is Bishop’s Chili out in Westmont. I used to go to the original one at 18^th and Damen with my Oldman. They are both gone now. The location out on Cass Avenue and the Shepkids are a great replacement.
             Gusto, astonishment and extra onion on top.

This is no sea of mine, that humbly laves

Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.

I have a need of wilder, crueler waves;

They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.

So let a love beat over me again...

       Dorothy Parker, from her poem "Fair Weather," published in the New York World on January 20, 1928, and later included in her poetry collection Sunset Gun.

July 29th, 2026

 

     “Reconciliation does not erase what happened. It simply refuses to let what happened have the final word.”

     The word reconciliation came to me yesterday while I was on my morning conference call to heaven. I was halfway through a Hail Mary when that word started bouncing around my noggin like a loose hubcap rolling across Cermak Road.

          Reconciliation. Reconciliation. Reconciliation. Reconciliation.

    I told the Virgin Mary, “Reconciliation is tomorrow’s Chalkboard.” She did not object, so here we are.

   We Catholics are lucky that we have the confession booth in the back of the church. We can drag our sorry asses into a confessional carrying enough guilt to make Saint Basil shake his head.    

    We tell the priest what we did, express our sorrow, accept our penance and receive absolution. Then we walk out feeling as if we just enjoyed a spiritual spa day. Only without the cucumber water and some stranger rubbing seaweed on our backside. Just some Holy water and a couple decades on our rosary beads.

   God gives us a road back to a guilt free life. Though it isn’t a free pass for every jagoff with a clever excuse. You can't take the liberty of bullshitting Papa God. 

   We must examine our conscience, confess honestly and own what we did. Mercy does not pretend that the sin never happened. Mercy tells us that our worst moment does not have to become our permanent identity.

         Once we get done with that, we are square with God.

  It gets tougher when the person we hurt has died. We can’t just call them on the telephone or sit with them at the kitchen table or buy them a beer at the tavern. We cannot look them in the eye and say, “I was wrong, I am sorry” and expect to hear them answer back, “I forgive you.”

    The dead leave us with silence, and silence can be a lousy conversationalist.

We can always bring our regret to God. We can also try and speak to the person through prayer. We can honor them by living differently, and then the reconciliation is no longer with the person who died. It is now between who we are today and the version of ourselves that hurt them when they were still kicking.

     Then there are the living who we must reconcile with. Reconciling with them takes balls and isn't easy.

   You must approach the person you jagged over and admit what you did. A sincere apology cannot contain the word “but.” The minute “but” shows up, the apology puts on a cheap suit and starts selling used cars in Melrose Park.

   You also can’t apologize simply because you got caught. That is not integrity, that is damage control. That is what famous people, the rich and the Smiths out in California can get away with....

           Grabowskis stuck in Cook County don’t have that luxury. A middle class guy has to strap it on and face the problem.

   The person you wronged may forgive you, but they could also tell you to go pound sand. Forgiveness is theirs to give, not ours to demand. Once we have spoken honestly, asked to be forgiven and stopped kicking the can down the road…  

          ...that is when we can wash our hands of the matter.

       Now we have come to the hardest reconciliation of them all, the one with ourselves.

  A priest can tell us God has forgiven us. Another person can tell us they forgive us. Yet we continue punishing ourselves and don't take time to reconcile our own guilt.

    Remorse should teach us. It should humble us, it should change us and make us less likely to repeat our stupid mistakes. Guilt was never meant to move into the spare bedroom in our heads and spend the next thirty years eating our groceries and drinking our Old Styles.

   At some point, we must accept the mercy we keep asking God to provide.

Reconciliation does not change what happened yesterday. It simply prevents yesterday from stealing tomorrow.

    Forgive yourselves Chalkheads, you are too magnificent to muck up your journey with guilt and pain.

    Consider today’s Morning Chalkboard your confessional. For your penance, I want you to look at the Buck full moon tonight and know someone who loves you is looking at the same damn thing…..

July 28th, 2026

 

   I started traveling more in the early 1990s. For my twenty-fifth birthday, my dad bought me a set of heavy canvas Land's End luggage in manly hunter green. My initials, JSS, were embroidered on both pieces. He gave me a tri-fold garment bag and a matching weekender duffel.

        Those bags saw a shit ton of miles.

  They made countless trips to New Orleans. They went to New York, Boston, San Francisco, Miami, Vegas and even London. They were thrown into the trunk for quick weekend trips across the Midwest. They saw overhead bins, baggage compartments, tailgates and hotel closets all over the country.

      A few weeks ago, I dropped them off at Goodwill. I took one last look as they sat in the collection bin. They screamed 1991 as I left them there all alone.

      I hope another JSS stumbles upon them someday. Maybe they will finally make it to Glasgow, Paris, Rome or Jerusalem. They still have a few good trips left in them, but I don't need them anymore.

      I have been well grounded for the last twenty years or so, and the truth is, I like being grounded. I don't need another passport stamp or a new set of luggage these days.

       In today’s quote, Hemingway wasn't really talking about travel anyway.

   He was saying that a change of scenery doesn't create a change of character. You can move to another city, take a different job, start a new relationship or buy a different house…

     … but wherever you go, your habits, fears, regrets and strengths come along for the ride.

    Life changes us whether we want it to or not. We adapt, we mature, we gain wisdom, but I have never believed the answer was somewhere else.

   My mom moved us across Chicagoland and then down to Indianapolis in the span of five years. It didn't improve her life, and it made mine complicated. Watching that taught me you can't outrun your troubles. I have spent my entire adult life within a ten-mile radius in Chicago's western suburbs.

   Once I found the trading floor at the Chicago Board of Trade, I never had to search for another career to make my life better. I was fortunate enough to work in one of those magical, romantic places that novels are written about. Every morning I walked into a world most people only knew from Rolling Stone magazine, newspaper stories or the movie Wall Street.

    It was loud, chaotic, competitive and unlike anything else. I never felt the need to chase a different career hoping life would improve.

   I remember an old girlfriend telling me when we broke up that people don't change and that I never would. Looking back, she was partly right. I didn't change, but I grew.

        And there is a difference.

   The beliefs my parents gave me are still my beliefs. My faith is still my faith. My sense of right and wrong hasn't changed. What has changed is the depth behind them. Experience, mistakes, good days, heartbreak, raising children, losing people along the way and simply getting older have sharpened those convictions into something much stronger than they were when I was twenty-five.

   You can't get away from who you are, but if you are paying attention, you can spend a lifetime becoming a better version of the person you have always been.

  Oh, shit Chalkheads! Tonight’s sunset is closer to eight o’clock than it is to eight thirty. Get ready to start tripping over a longer shadow.

    … and when it comes to adventure. Who needs to run with the bulls when you can simply drive Lower Wacker Drive. 

July 27th, 2026

 

The older I get, the more I think Thoreau was right.

    He wrote today's quote after spending two years living in a one-room cabin beside Walden Pond in Massachusetts. He was not trying to escape the world. He was trying to figure out how little a man really needs to live a rich life.

    His wealth wasn't measured in dollars. It was measured in mornings with the sunrise over the pond. Reading a good book with the sound of birds in the trees, and a walk through the woods on a quiet afternoon with nothing to prove.

  Those pleasures don't cost much.

  As I approach ten years of writing these Morning Chalkboards, I have started thinking about doing something similar someday. I would love to spend a little time alone in a cabin with a stack of books, a notebook, a pot of coffee, and no schedule except sunrise and sunset. Not to hide from life, but to remember what life is.

   Funny thing is, when I look back on my happiest moments, very few required money.

  Listening to WGN with my dad on a Saturday morning. Naps with George asleep on my belly. Watching Fritz chase another impossible idea and playing Barbies for hours with Hazel. Driving Betty, the Green Blazer with the windows down over to Parky’s for a hotdog. Sitting on the balcony with a cup of coffee or a cocktail waving to the neighbors.
        … and a morning conversation with all of you Chalkheads. The piece of chalk has become our therapist.

   Maybe Thoreau wasn't talking about being cheap. Maybe he was reminding us that the richest lives are often built from the simplest moments.

  We are coming to the end of July into the beginning of August this week. Let’s not start kissing each other on the mouth just yet over both of these winning baseball teams. They have shown us plenty of times that being in first on August first doesn’t guarantee they will be there in October.

    Let’s finish the month strong Chalkheads. I see plenty of gusto and astonishment in the dog days of summer.

July 26th, 2026

 

       "Our pain shapes us; erase it, and we erase part of ourselves."

       I read that quote this morning and, if I am being honest, I felt pretty lucky.

    I have walked this earth for sixty years and, compared to many people, I have never had to weather a truly devastating storm. Now, saying that out loud probably guarantees a shit show is heading my way, but it is still the truth.

    My parents divorced when I was a kid. It hurt, but life kept moving. Years later they both died, which is what parents are supposed to do. As much as I miss them, I was fortunate. They passed away in beds and not in a tragic accident or in a lonely house.

    There was a stretch when I was unemployed between the bond room and moving into the grain room. At the time it felt like a disaster. Looking back, it reinvented my career. I found a place in the grain business and somehow outlasted the trading floor itself.

    My marriage ended in divorce. That hurt too, but just like my parents unknowingly taught me, life keeps going. Eventually the divorce papers end up in a paper shredder, and what is left are the lessons.

   My children give me something to worry about every day. That is part of being a parent. As they grow older, more of life's weight shifts onto their shoulders and a little less stay on mine. My job now is to trust that I prepared them well enough to carry whatever comes next.

  When I look back over these first sixty years, I know I've been spared many of the tragedies that visit other families. I haven't watched a hurricane, wildfire or flood take away everything I owned. I haven't endured many tragedies that millions of people quietly live through every day.

   The truth is, most of the pain I have carried came from the assclown who stares back at me in the bathroom mirror. Bad decisions, poor judgment and a hard head. Most of my scars were self-inflicted, and they taught me lessons no one else could have.

   Maybe that is why this morning's quote struck a chord. I don't want to erase those scars. They remind me who I was and what I have become.

My goal for these last twenty years or so isn't to avoid pain. Life doesn't make that bargain with anyone. My goal is to stop manufacturing pain.

   I can't control illness, loss or bad luck, but I can control the decisions I make. I can be a better father, a better friend and a better man than I was yesterday.

   I don't want to spend the rest of my life earning new scars that don't need to be there

       Instead…  I want to hold the door open for a stranger. I want to hand an Old Style to a dear friend. I want to tell someone Casablanca is my favorite movie and watch them discover it for the first time. I want someone to tell me my prayers helped. I want to have jumper cables in my trunk just in case someone needs a jump.

    Those aren't remarkable accomplishments. They are just small ways to leave people with a little less pain than they had before we crossed paths.

      And I want to make sure you Chalkheads always know where the sun is...

              ...and that gusto and astonishment are always there for the taking.

July 25th, 2026

 

       Yesterday was my daughter’s thirteenth birthday.

        George and I drove over to her mother's house with presents and homemade cookies. Hazel locked herself in the bathroom before we got there and stayed there the entire time.

    The tension inside that dark little house was thick enough to taste. The curtains were drawn shut and the windows were closed tight on one of the prettiest July afternoons of the summer. It felt like the sunshine wasn't allowed inside.

    We waited around, hoping she would come out. Maybe we could watch her open her presents and sing Happy Birthday.

    George spent most of the visit bird-dogging the birthday cake. He really wanted a piece. We left without seeing Hazel. No hugs, no presents opened and no cake.

    The drive back across Mannheim Road has become one of the saddest drives of my life. This one wasn’t any different.

          I thought about the two gifts I picked out.

   One was The War That Saved My Life, a novel about a young girl in wartime England trapped inside a house by a troubled, controlling mother. I have no idea if Hazel will ever read it. Maybe she will never crack the cover. Maybe she will read it soon. I just hoped she would find a character who reminded her that life can become much bigger than the walls around you.

       The other gift was Abbey Road. Well...it's the Beatles.

  Those four Liverpool lads helped raise me. They carried me from nursery rhymes to the Rolling Stones. Hazel has heard those songs her whole life. More than once she fell asleep while I sang Golden Slumbers to her.

           Later Friday night my phone buzzed.

      "The Beatles? I don't even listen to the Beatles. And a book...geez, thanks a lot."

   I smiled a little. Not because it felt good, but because she is thirteen. I'm betting that book gathers dust for quite a while. The record, though...

   At some point she will put it on a turntable, and in a long time from now, Here Comes the Sun, Mean Mr. Mustard and Come Together may remind her of her grumpy Oldman the same way Gershwin, Bix Beiderbecke and Dvořák remind me of mine.

     Music has a funny way of carrying people long after words stop working.

  Many of you Chalkheads have walked beside me these last few months. You have sent prayers, stories and encouragement that have meant more than you will ever know. You have also reminded me that difficult seasons between fathers and daughters happen more often than fathers want to admit.

     I wasn't prepared for this chapter. Truthfully, I don't like it much, but I also know that thirteen isn't forever.

    Neither is adolescence. Neither is resentment. Neither is pain. Children grow up and parents keep loving them anyway.

    This morning I'm going to wash Felix the Ford Flex. I am going to fill him up with gas. Then I'm heading up to Oak Park Bakery for a chocolate éclair.

     Yesterday wasn't only Hazel's birthday. It also marked five years until my last payment to the mean lady west of Mannheim Road.

         Time keeps moving. Sometimes that is the best friend we've got.

   Go enjoy this last Saturday of July, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

         Gusto, astonishment...and custard filling.

July 24th, 2026

 

Hazelnut,

Happy thirteenth birthday Daughter,

    There is something I hope you learn much earlier than I did. Life moves in seasons. The things you believe at thirteen won’t all be the things you believe at twenty-three, or thirty-three or forty-three, and probably nowhere close when you are fifty-three.

    Your favorite songs will change. Your favorite books will change. The clothes you love, the people you admire, the dreams you chase and even the way you see the world will keep changing. That isn’t confusion, that is growth.

 I have spent my life falling in love with different writers. For a while I wanted to  write like each of them because I thought they understood something important about being human and about being me. Maybe they were simply standing on different mountains, looking at the same world from another direction.

 

   If I had written to you as William Shakespeare, I would tell you that the world is overflowing with wonder if you keep your eyes open long enough to see it. I would remind you that love, laughter, heartbreak and forgiveness are all part of the same grand play, and every soul has a part worth performing. I would hope you never lose your delight in flowers blooming after winter, sunsets over the river and the strange miracle that ordinary people can become extraordinary simply by loving well.

 

   Then there was the season when I wanted to sound like Ernest Hemingway. I would tell you that courage is usually quiet, that character is built one hard decision at a time, and that strength means doing the right thing long after applause has disappeared. Stand up for yourself, stand beside those who need someone beside them, and remember that dignity is something no one can take from you unless you hand it away.

 

   Scott Fitzgerald reminded me that life should never become so practical that it forgets how to dream. I would tell you to dance when music finds you, to chase sunsets, to fall in love with books, operas, conversations and adventures, and to believe there is still magic hiding in ordinary spaces. Keep your imagination alive, because faith and dreams have carried more people through dark times than certainty ever has.

 

  Then I discovered Mike Royko, and he stripped away every excuse. Work your ass off, tell the truth, don’t let anybody bullshit you, and don’t mistake loud people for important people. Treat everyone fairly, from the CEO to the janitor and never settle for mediocrity. Never let life hustle you into becoming someone you were never meant to be. Never mealy mouth the world and never be a faker.

 

       As I have grown older, I have realized I don’t really want to write like any of them anymore. I just want to sound like your Oldman.

   If I have learned anything worth passing on after all these years, it is this… stay curious enough to keep changing, stay humble enough to keep learning, and stay true enough that no matter how many seasons your life goes through, you never lose the best parts of who you are.

   I hope one day you find your own voice. Borrow from the people you admire, learn from everyone you meet, but don't spend your life trying to sound like somebody else. The world already has Shakespeare, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Royko and Jumbo. It only gets one Hazel Marie Shepley

    Happy birthday Daughter.

          Love, The Big Ogre who will always smell old and will never stop saying how much he loves you……   

                   Your Da,

              John S. Shepley

July 23rd, 2026

   Anytime I turn on the television and one of those cartoon movies from the Shepkids' toddler days is playing, I stop and watch. There I am, sitting in my living room all by myself, no little kids running around anymore, just an old guy watching Lightning McQueen race around Radiator Springs, Buzz Lightyear trying to get back to Andy, Remy the French rat making soup in Paris, or WALL•E rolling around cleaning up Earth.
   Last night it was Finding Nemo. Bruce the shark was on, trying his best to convince everyone that "fish are friends, not food." I probably should have changed the channel and gotten something productive done, but I didn't. I sat there and watched the entire movie.
   Those movies are more than cartoons to me now. They are time machines that take me back to a happy memory.
   The first movie I ever took George to see in a theater was The Princess and the Frog. He absolutely loved the music. For years afterward he would dance around the house whenever one of those songs came on. Fritz was a WALL•E kid. He could sit quietly and watch that little rusty robot over and over again without getting bored. Hazel's heart belonged to Frozen. She wanted to be Elsa, and I learned every word to "Let It Go," whether I wanted to or not.
   Back then I wasn't really watching the movies. I was watching my kids watch the movies.
   I would glance over during the funny parts just to see them laugh. During the scary scenes I would watch them pull the blanket a little tighter or scoot a little closer to me. Looking back, I realize those were the moments that mattered most. The movies were just the backdrop. The real show was watching three little people discover wonder.
   This morning I chalked a quote from Finding Nemo. "Just keep swimming."
For a line spoken by a forgetful blue fish, it is good advice to follow.
   Life has a funny way of convincing us to stop. We get tired, we lose people we love, we make mistakes, and we worry about tomorrow. Most days we wonder if we are doing enough or if we are heading in the right direction.
   Maybe the answer isn't nearly as difficult as we make it. Take another stroke and another, then another and just keep moving forward. Trust that eventually you will find calmer water…
     … and if an old Pixar movie can remind us of that, maybe it is worth stopping for a couple of hours once in a while.  
       Just keep swimming, Chalkheads and enjoy this gorgeous Thursday.

July 22nd, 2026

 

   You can put a woman in an elegant gown on New Year's Eve, but she's just as beautiful pulling weeds in a summer dress.

   You can have a wonderful dinner at a fancy French restaurant or sit on a bench outside a hot dog stand with mustard running down your shirt.

   You can board a jet and fly to the Orient or hop on the CTA and spend the afternoon wandering through Chinatown.

   You can live in a penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan or on the third floor of a three-flat overlooking the Divorced Dad District.

       The older I get, the more I realize that comfort usually beats elegance.

  Flowers are beautiful and they can brighten a room. They tell someone you are thinking about them, but flowers fade after a few days.

       A bowl of dumplings feeds you and gives instant comfort.

  Today's chalkboard says, "Life isn't always flowers. Sometimes it's a bowl of dumplings."

    To me, that isn't settling for less. It is learning to appreciate what is practical.

      Today happens to be National Hammock Day.

  When Terese and I got married, someone gave us a hammock. Looking back, it may have been the best wedding gift we received. It certainly got more use than the Waterford crystal candle holders or the fancy wine decanter.

          That hammock became part of our family.

   We spent quiet evenings cuddling in it. We took Sunday afternoon naps in it. Then George showed up and took naps with us. Before long Fritz was climbing aboard, and eventually Hazel made it her spot too.

   Every once in a while, PopPop would wander out, ease himself into that hammock, and close his eyes for a bit. I can still picture his shoes sitting neatly side by side underneath the nylon webbing while he relaxed in the shade.

     That hammock wasn't expensive. It wasn't elegant, but it was practical. More importantly, it was comforting.

    I have brought flowers to hospitals, funerals and birthdays more times than I can count. They are always appreciated, but if I showed up carrying a pizza or an ice-cold six pack of beer, I would usually get a bigger smile.

  People remember the things that make them feel cared for. Maybe that is another one of the little secrets to getting older.

   You begin choosing substance over appearance, comfort over ceremony and dumplings over flowers.

   Because in the end, very few of us remember the crystal decanter.

   We remember the hammock.

   We remember the pizza.

   We remember the people who sat beside us while we ate dumplings and somehow, those simple things become the finest things we ever owned.

July 21st, 2026

       I chalked this quote this morning and all I could think about was discipline.

  I went to a Catholic school from kindergarten through high school. Thirteen years of uniforms, nuns, priests, homework, deadlines and consequences. Discipline was everywhere. It was part of the air we breathed.

   The funny thing is, when I look back on my life, I don't think I was a particularly disciplined person.

  I was a troublemaker through the first twenty years. I simply did enough to get by. I studied enough to pass. I worked enough to stay employed. I planned just enough to make it to tomorrow. I rarely looked much farther ahead than the next test, the next paycheck or the next weekend.

   There is a big difference between living in a disciplined environment and actually becoming a disciplined person. For me, that didn't happen until I became a father.

   Something changed when three little people began depending on me. Suddenly, getting up for work isn't optional. Paying bills isn't optional. Showing up isn't optional. You stop asking yourself what you feel like doing and start asking what needs to be done. Necessity became my teacher.

    Looking back now, I realize some of the things weighing me down in my later years weren't caused by one bad decision. They were caused by thousands of little necessary things that I put off because someone else wasn't depending on me yet.

  It is amazing how much interest life charges on procrastination. The workout you skipped. The money you didn't save. The book you meant to read. The phone call you kept putting off. The apology you never made. Those small decisions don't disappear. They quietly wait for you decades later.

  The good news is that discipline works the same way in reverse. One walk, one workout, one chapter, one honest conversation and one dollar saved. It is the one sunrise when you simply decide to do the necessary thing instead of the easy things.

   Those choices compound too. The necessary thing usually isn't glamorous and doesn't get any applause. Most days nobody notices, but the necessary things become the foundation of a good life.

  Maybe discipline isn't about being tough. Maybe discipline is simply making peace with the fact that some things have to be done whether we feel like doing them or not, and if we can learn that lesson today instead of ten years from now, our future selves just might thank us.

    These days are starting to get noticeably shorter. Sunrises are after five-thirty in Chicagoland and the sunset is creeping closer to eight o’clock. The turkey bowl and our New Year’s resolutions are closer than we think..

     But it is Tuesday morning and like Freddy Jones said years ago……. In a daydream!

July 20th, 2026

   "He that can have patience can have what he will." - Benjamin Franklin

      Let’s chalk about playing the long game, I did some math over the weekend. 2001 was twenty-five years ago and 2051 is twenty-five years away.

   The strange thing is that 2001 feels like yesterday, while 2051 feels like it will never get here. Hell, even 2031 seems like an eternity away, but 2021 was only a week ago.

               How can that be?

   Time doesn't change its speed. Sixty seconds is still a minute. Three hundred sixty-five days are still a year. Yet somehow the years behind us seem to collapse while the years ahead stretch out like rush hour on the Eisenhower.

    I think time plays tricks on us. Our memory compresses the past but stretches the future. The older I get, the more I realize we don't remember life one ordinary Monday at a time. We remember it by landmarks.

Graduating from school.

The first kiss.

The birth of a child.

The death of a parent.

Landing that job.

Losing that job.

Getting married.

Getting divorced.

Watching your son take his first steps.

Watching your daughter become too old to hold your hand.

       Those are the mile markers. Everything in between gets folded together until twenty-five years can fit inside what feels like a handful of memories. The future doesn't have those landmarks yet. It is just open space.

      Our minds see that empty horizon and imagine it is much farther away than it really is. The past is measured in memories. The future is measured in anticipation. That is why yesterday seems so close while tomorrow seems so far away.

    If someone had told me back in 2001 that one day I'd be sixty years old, chalking a little blog before sunrise every morning, I would have thought they were talking about another old boy.

   Yet here I am.

Which makes me wonder if 2051 will arrive the same way.

Another ordinary Monday at a time.

Another baseball season.

Another birthday.

Another sunrise.

Another Chalkboard.

     Before I know it, my last few weeks sometime in the 2050s will probably be standing on my front porch asking where all the years went.

     I don't know what the long game brings. None of us ever do.

     Ben Franklin was right. Patience has a funny way of rewarding those willing to play it.

So, I'm going to keep showing up every morning, enjoy the landmarks as they come, and be patient between now and the day I see my parents again. The long game has treated me pretty well so far.

   Monday Morning Chalkheads, the smoke still lingers. Have a week full of gusto and astonishment.  

July 18th, 2026

    Between March 6th and May 6^th in 2016, I must have driven up and down Interstate 65 between Chicago and Indianapolis a dozen times.

     Over my lifetime, I have probably made that trip a couple hundred times.

   Those two particular months, though, were the last two months of my Ma's life.

 When I make that drive, the radio is part of the routine. The Chicago stations last about sixty miles before they dissolve into static. Ten minutes later, the Indiana stations take over. Before long you will definitely hear John Mellencamp. By the time I get to Lafayette, I have usually landed on WTTS, 92.3 out of Bloomington and Indianapolis.

    They play their share of "Pink Houses" and "Jack & Diane,” but during those two months, there was one song they played over and over again. Coldplay's "Adventure of a Lifetime."

  At the time, I couldn't have told you Coldplay from Oasis. It was just another song. Except it wasn't. Every trip to see my mother slipping a little farther away seemed to have that song playing through the speakers of my Chevy Suburban.

        Now, you Chalkheads already know about Cecilia Marie.

  You know how she still wakes me up at 2:22 in the morning with an "I love you." You know how she leaves dimes in the strangest places for me to find. On a train platform when I'm having a rough morning, beneath a barstool when loneliness sneaks in, or lying in the middle of the street while I'm jaywalking.

          I suppose "auspicious" is the right word.

   Well...add this song to the list of mysteries from heaven.

     It has been eleven years now, yet somehow this Coldplay song still seems to find me. It comes on the radio while I'm driving to work. It shows up on the kitchen radio while I'm making breakfast. It plays when I'm driving west of Mannheim Road to pick up or drop off the Shepkids.

            Why this song?

      My ma should be Ave Maria. She should be Gloria of The Bells or Rainbow Connection.

      Not a funky dance song from some British guys, but I'm not complaining. She can keep dropping dimes in my path. She can keep waking me up at 2:22 and if she wants to request the DJ to play "Adventure of a Lifetime" for her son living in the Divorced Dad District...

                        ...I'm all for it.

 Because that is the funny thing about faith. Sometimes it arrives through Scripture. Sometimes through a prayer and sometimes it comes through an old song on the radio at exactly the moment you needed to hear it.

        Go out there today, you gorgeous Cheeseheads.

             Pay attention.

          Look for the signs and know we are all living the adventure of a lifetime.

  

https://youtu.be/QtXby3twMmI?si=D7XoLPq6BpsqiztC

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.