November 6th, 2026

 
       I have been thinking about daughters this morning.
    Not just my daughter, Hazel, but the daughters of my friends. The little girls who grew into young women, the young women who became brides and mothers, the daughters preparing to make their mark on the world, and, sadly, the daughters who left this earth long before their fathers were ready to say goodbye.
       Yesterday was a shitshow day in the Shepley household.
  My daughter Hazel has been struggling for a couple of years now. School has become an enormous obstacle, and happiness has been hard for her to find.
    She is thirteen years old, navigating those difficult middle-school years when growing up is complicated enough without the additional bullshit life throws her way.
    Divorced parents, the insecurities of adolescence, the occasional cruelty of classmates and the possibility of unkind words. The quiet sadness that sometimes settles into a young girl's heart without anyone understanding exactly how it got there.
     Yesterday, I left the trading floor for a couple of hours to help her. It did not go well.
      In fact, it was one of the hardest days I have experienced as her father.
  There was anger, frustration, resistance, and a confrontation that neither of us will forget.
    I came away saddened, exhausted, and wondering what the fuck can I do for my little girl.
       I spent much of yesterday afternoon and evening thinking and praying. Not just for Hazel, but for daughters everywhere.
     I wondered whether yesterday will be remembered as a turning point. Perhaps the day Hazel began to understand that her father wasn't going anywhere. That I would stand beside her through whatever difficulties she faced, even when she wants nothing to do with her Oldman.
     Maybe it was rock bottom, maybe it wasn't, only time will tell.
    One difficult day does not define a child, and it certainly doesn't determine the rest of her life.
     Somewhere in those thoughts, I began thinking about my friends with daughters.
One of my oldest and dearest friends, the best man at my wedding, recently watched his third daughter walk down the aisle.
    Three daughters, three weddings, three beautiful young women who have grown into adulthood and begun families of their own. His first two daughters have already blessed him with grandchildren.
         Imagine that.
     A father who once held three little girls in his arms now watches those same girls build homes, marriages, and families. The years have a funky way of passing while we are busy living them. I can only imagine the pride he felt watching that third wedding last month.
     Another old friend recently became a grandfather when his daughter welcomed a baby. He is Jewish, and along with the enormous happiness that comes with welcoming a grandchild, he carries a burden that no grandfather should have to deal with.
              Antisemitism remains an ugly reality in this world.
   He is worried about what kind of world this next generation of his family will inherit. Whether this innocent child will someday encounter hatred because of their Jewish heritage.
     Imagine welcoming a beautiful new life while knowing that an ancient hatred could someday touch that child's world.
        What a terrible burden for my Jewish brother, but there is love in that family. There is faith, tradition, courage, and the determination to raise another generation proud of who they are.
       Hatred may exist, but it doesn't get to define that kid's future.
   Another friend is traveling this weekend with his daughter as she interviews for graduate programs in medicine. She graduated from college in May, and now she is preparing for the next chapter of her life. Determined to enter a profession dedicated to helping others. What a wonderful thing for a father to witness.
     Think about that for a moment.
   A little girl who once needed help tying her shoes is now preparing for a life in medicine, planing to make the world a healthier and better place.
    Her father's years of love, encouragement, sacrifice, and guidance have helped bring her to this moment.
     Then there are my friends whose daughters are buried in cemeteries. Those are the fathers I cannot stop thinking about. Men who have endured something no parent should ever have to go through. Men who have stood beside graves and said goodbye to their little girls.
       I cannot begin to understand the depth of that sorrow.
   There are empty chairs at their dinner tables. Birthdays that arrive without celebrations. Weddings that will never happen, and grandchildren who will never be born.
        And memories.
                So many lost memories.
     I prayed for those fathers yesterday. I prayed for their daughters, too.
I prayed for the fathers’ celebrating weddings, the grandfathers welcoming babies, and the proud dad traveling with his daughter toward a promising future.
          And I prayed for Hazel.
    Because somewhere in the middle of all that thinking, I realized something important. My daughter is young and still has a bright day ahead.
     She is struggling, she is hurting, she is angry and there are days when I don't know how to reach her.
    I can tell her I love her. I can help her find the right people to guide her. I can pray for her, encourage her, and remind her that the world has a place for her.
    The most important deal is I am her daddy and that isn’t something I intend to take for granted.
     Fatherhood is a difficult fucking occupation. There are no instruction manuals, no guaranteed outcomes, and no shortage of mistakes.
    We spend years teaching our children how to walk, only to spend the rest of our lives praying they find the right direction.
    Some daughters become brides, some become mothers, some become doctors, some struggle to get out of bed in the morning, and some leave us far too soon.
    Every one of them is somebody's little girl. Every one of them is loved.
I'm not looking for sympathy today. There are fathers carrying burdens far heavier than mine. I just had a difficult day with my daughter, and it reminded me how fortunate I am to have another day to make things mo’ betta.
       Maybe that is what my quote means today.
                   Leave it better than you found it.
    Perhaps our greatest contribution to this world won't be measured by the money we have earned, the houses we have owned, or the accomplishments we have collected.
     Perhaps it will be measured by the children we have loved, the people we have helped, and the kindness we have managed to leave behind.
      My friends are doing that through their daughters, and God willing, someday Hazel will do the same.
      I believe in that strong redhead. Even on the hard days, especially on the hard days.
      Now, before this Chalkboard becomes any more philosophical, let's discuss something considerably less complicated.
    Today is National Nachos Day, and I have a firm opinion on this subject.
The greatest nachos in the history of civilization are served at baseball games. Not restaurants, not sports bars, not expensive joints where an ambitious chef decides that nachos require seventeen ingredients and a drizzle of something nobody can pronounce.
         I am talking about ballpark nachos.
    My first encounter with this magnificent culinary delight came at an Indianapolis Indians baseball game with my big brother Bob McCutchen.
        I can still remember those ballpark nachos.
   A cardboard tray filled with tortilla chips, a generous helping of warm artificial yellow cheese, and a pile of jalapeños that remind you that life occasionally requires courage.

       Plain and simple…..
    I have enjoyed nachos at Comiskey Park, Wrigley Field, and Bush Stadium in Indianapolis. I have never found a better version than the ones served while watching nine innings of baseball.
    Nowadays you can order pot roast nachos, chicken nachos, brisket nachos, and nachos supreme piled so high you need a building permit.
   Fuck all that noise….
        Give me a summer afternoon, a baseball game at the old ballpark, a cold Old Style, and a tray of chips, cheese, and jalapeños.
  No additional bullshit is necessary.
     Which brings me back to today's quote.
                       Leave it better than you found it.
That is a fine philosophy for raising children and living a decent life, but when it comes to ballpark nachos, they are good just the way you found them.
    Have a fantastic Friday Chalkheads.
      And if you have a daughter, give her a little extra love today, make her a plate of nachos and remind her this grouchy old fucker loves her dearly.

November 5th, 2026

 
Some days I come across a quote like the one I chalked this morning and find myself nodding in agreement.
       "The beginning is always today."
      Other days, I think that is a bunch of bullshit.
   We have become dependent on new beginnings. Fresh starts, clean slates, turning the page and trying to reinvent who the fuck we are.
    It all sounds wonderful until you find out that turning the page doesn't mean you have finished writing the current chapter.
   Sometimes you do not get a new beginning. Sometimes you are stuck right in the miserable middle of something, and the only way out is straight through it.
   That is where Don Shepley comes into this morning's Chalkboard. My Oldman came from a generation that didn't spend time discussing personal journeys, emotional awakenings, or finding themselves.
   He was English and German by heritage, Catholic by upbringing, and stubborn by disposition.
     His philosophy wasn't complicated with over thinking.
  Lower your shoulders, bow your neck, chop your feet, and keep moving that big ass forward.
     You didn't need to enjoy the circumstances. You didn't even need to like the people involved. You just had to do what needed to be done, and when you were finished, there was usually something else waiting.
    I grew up in the Catholic League, where nobody handed out trophies for surviving a difficult Tuesday.
    You showed up, you did your job, you took your lumps, you prayed, you went home and you came back the next morning.
    We have somehow convinced ourselves that every uncomfortable situation requires a new beginning.
Bad job? Reinvent yourself.
Difficult relationship? Start another chapter.
Life isn't going according to plan? Find a new path.
     Sometimes those decisions are necessary. There are circumstances that genuinely demand a change in direction, but sometimes the problem isn't the road.
   Sometimes the problem is that we haven't finished walking through the bad neighborhood.
     Here is another uncomfortable truth. Only a handful of people in this world believe that you are special. Your children, your parents, a couple good friends, and your aunt in Greensburg.
   The overwhelming majority of humanity doesn't give two shits about you. They are busy fighting their own battles.
   The world doesn't owe us an audience, an explanation, or a standing ovation for doing what we are supposed to do in the first place.
     Do you want a new fucking beginning? Finish what you started, then move on.
  Because dragging yesterday's unfinished business into tomorrow does not create a new beginning. It merely changes the scenery around the same old problems.
        Which brings me to National Donut Day.
   Oak Park Bakery doesn't make the world's greatest donut. There are a dozen better bakeries in Chicagoland.
     BUTT, I have been eating those donuts through different chapters of my life. As a boy, as a young man, as a bachelor, as a husband, as a father and now as a sixty-year-old who has collected a few scrapes along the way.
   The donut hasn't changed much. The Big Kid eating it sure as hell has and that is my point this morning.
     Not every new chapter requires abandoning everything that came before it. Most things are worth carrying forward.
Traditions.
Responsibilities.
Lessons.
Integrity.
The people who helped make us who we are.
      At 6:28 this morning, the sun will rise over Riverside. It won't know whether I have settled yesterday's bullshit, paid my debts, kept my promises, or finished what I started.
         It will rise anyway.
   A sunrise guarantees another day. It doesn't guarantee another beginning.
That part is up to us and some mornings, before we start dreaming about tomorrow, we need to lower our shoulders, bow our necks, and finish what is in sitting front of us.

November 4th, 2026

 

The Phoenix and the Elephant

A Time for Rebirth, Renewal, and the Return of the Grand Old Party

November 4, 2026

    Sometimes the greatest opportunity comes not from winning, but from losing.
   There will be a great many Americans waking up happy this morning. There will be many waking up disappointed, angry, and perhaps wondering what happened to the country they thought they knew.
      Such is the nature of elections.
    Somebody wins, somebody loses, and somewhere between the celebration and the disappointment, democracy continues its long, imperfect march forward.
   I cast my first presidential vote in 1984. I was eighteen years old, and I voted for Ronald Reagan.
      I have been a Republican ever since.
    Not necessarily the kind of Republican you see shouting on television these days. I consider myself fiscally conservative and socially moderate. I believe in personal responsibility, limited government, fiscal discipline, individual liberty, and the importance of strong families and communities.
    As a Catholic, my faith helps shape my conscience, but I have always believed that religion and politics must maintain their proper boundaries.
     Faith should guide how we treat our fellow man, not become a weapon with which to beat him. There is room for that philosophy within the Grand Old Party.
    Over the past decade, I have increasingly wondered where that room went.
   This morning, following the elections of November 3, 2026, I find myself thinking something that might surprise my fellow Republicans.
        Perhaps losing was exactly what we needed.
   Early election reporting indicates that Democrats have captured control of both the House of Representatives and the United States Senate. Republicans have suffered significant defeats, including Senate losses in states long considered reliably conservative. The final accounting is still underway, but the message from voters is unmistakable.
    The American electorate has delivered a rebuke, but a rebuke need not be a death sentence. Sometimes it is an invitation. Sometimes it is an opportunity to begin again, and sometimes, before something can be rebuilt, something else must finally be allowed to fall.
   For more than a decade, the Republican Party has been tied to Donald Trump.
   His arrival in presidential politics in 2015 changed the party in ways few could have imagined. He energized millions of voters who felt forgotten by Washington. He challenged political conventions, questioned longstanding institutions, and gave voice to frustrations that traditional Republican leaders had failed to address.
    Those accomplishments and their consequences deserve acknowledgment, whether one admires the man or not. However, somewhere along the way, the Republican Party became less a party of principles and more a party organized around one personality.
     Loyalty to a man increasingly replaced loyalty to an idea. Disagreement became betrayal and compromise became weakness. Political opponents became enemies rather than fellow Americans with different opinions.
    The party of Reagan had become the party of Trump. There is a difference.
    Reagan was certainly partisan. He fought for his beliefs and challenged his opponents, but he also understood that governing required relationships, negotiation, and occasionally accepting something less than everything one wanted.
   He worked with Democratic Speaker Tip O'Neill despite their considerable philosophical differences. They could disagree fiercely during the day and still recognize each other's humanity when the work was finished.
      That seems almost quaint today.
  Our politics have become an endless contest of insults, accusations, grievances, and personal destruction.
     Before Democrats begin congratulating themselves too enthusiastically, they ought to examine their own house. Their party has its own ideological divisions, its own extremes, and its own troubling tendency to confuse disagreement with moral failure.
    Neither party holds a monopoly on virtue. Neither holds a monopoly on foolishness, and neither has demonstrated much recent enthusiasm for working with the other.
              But I am a Republican.
   The Democratic Party can conduct its own examination of conscience.
Mine belongs to the Grand Old Party, and I believe the next two years offer Republicans an extraordinary opportunity.
     Donald Trump is constitutionally barred from seeking another elected presidential term. His presidency has entered its closing chapter, and with Democrats preparing to control Congress, his legislative ambitions face substantial obstacles.
   There will undoubtedly be investigations, accusations, vetoes, political theater, and endless television appearances. The shouting will continue.
The finger-pointing will continue. Washington will probably spend more time assigning blame than solving problems.
     Republicans do not have to spend the next two years participating in every argument. We can choose to rebuild instead. We can begin asking what it means to be a Republican without Donald Trump standing at the center of every conversation.
     We can rediscover fiscal responsibility without abandoning compassion. We can defend individual liberty without treating those who disagree with us as enemies. We can embrace traditional values without insisting that every American live precisely as we do. Perhaps most importantly, we can learn to disagree among ourselves without trying to destroy one another.
    A political party cannot govern a divided nation if it cannot tolerate disagreement within its own ranks.
         There is a lesson here from an unlikely place.
       Last month, Indiana University's football team lost to Ohio State.
The Hoosiers entered that October 17 game carrying a remarkable twenty-two-game winning streak. They had become accustomed to winning, and with every victory came the growing burden of protecting that streak.
     Ohio State defeated Indiana, 19–15, ending the longest active winning streak in college football.
      The loss was painful, but I wondered whether it might also prove liberating.
     No longer would Indiana have to defend twenty-two consecutive victories.
There would be no twenty-third game to protect the streak, no twenty-fourth, no twenty-fifth.
       The burden was gone.
   The team could return to the simpler business of playing football. Preparing, competing, and improving one game at a time. Sometimes a winning streak becomes a weight. Sometimes success creates expectations that prevent honest self-examination. Sometimes losing removes the very thing that has been holding you back.
      Last night, Republicans lost more than congressional seats.
   They may have been handed an opportunity to put down a burden they have carried for more than a decade. The burden of defending every statement, every controversy, every personal grievance, and every political battle surrounding Donald Trump.
       That does not mean abandoning conservative principles.
     It means remembering that those principles existed long before Donald Trump entered politics and should survive long after he leaves Washington. The Republican Party belongs to no single man. It belongs to generations of Americans who believed that government should serve its citizens rather than command them. It belongs to those who value hard work, responsibility, opportunity, and freedom. It belongs to people who understand that strength and decency are not mutually exclusive, and it ought to have room for moderates like me.
     I do not know who will emerge as the Republican presidential nominee in 2028. Perhaps that person is already serving in Congress or governing a state.
Perhaps it is someone whose name is barely known outside a small political circle, but whoever emerges should understand something fundamental.
    America does not need another political savior. It needs leadership. Leadership that listens. Leadership that understands compromise is not surrender. Leadership that recognizes Democrats are not the enemy, and Republicans are not automatically the answer.
      We are Americans first and if we cannot remember that no election victory will ever repair what has been broken.
    The next two years should not be spent waiting for Donald Trump to fail or hoping Democrats stumble. That would merely continue the politics of resentment.
     Instead, Republicans should use this time to examine their mistakes, welcome new voices, restore civility, and develop serious solutions to the problems facing ordinary Americans.
     Let the president govern as best he can. Let the Democrats govern as best they can and let Republicans decide what kind of party they intend to become.
    There is an ancient image of the phoenix, a magnificent bird consumed by flames only to rise again from its own ashes.
     Rebirth requires destruction of what came before, but the ashes are not the end of the story. They can be the beginning.
    The Grand Old Party has endured civil war, economic depression, political scandal, ideological conflict, and extraordinary changes in American society.
     It has survived before and it can survive again, but survival alone is not enough.
    It must become worthy of the American people's trust. Last night was a defeat for the GOP, but it cannot be looked as a defeat to America.
     This morning can be the beginning. The elephant has stumbled. The phoenix has an opportunity to rise, and perhaps the greatest victory the Republican Party can achieve in 2028 will begin with what it learns from losing in 2026.

November 3rd, 2026

 
“The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.”
         William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
    When I turned eighteen, my mother took me to vote in my first presidential election. It was 1984. My ma voted for Walter Mondale, and I voted for Ronald Reagan.
     My Oldman had a different lesson about elections. He told me it was important to vote for your president, your senators, and your congressman. He believed the elections closest to your front door deserved just as much attention, if not more.
    The mayor, the village board, the school board, the county officials, the tax collector, the dog catcher, and especially the judges.
        Dad was relentless about judges.
   Do your homework, he said. Find out who is qualified, who understands the law, and who has earned the privilege of sitting on the bench. A black robe is not a lifetime achievement award, and the taxpayers are not running a retirement home for political hacks that can’t hold a real job.
     He also wanted me to keep an eye on the assclowns who have their hands in my knickers every time I turn around. The greedy pricks reaching for my wallet.
    Property taxes, water bills, gas taxes, electric bills, and infrastructure. Roads that look like they survived the Battle of the Bulge. Schools that need to educate children instead of merely spending money on union strikes.
   Who is minding the store? Who is spending the money? Who is getting rich while telling the rest of us to tighten our belts?
     Shakespeare understood the danger long before anybody invented a political action committee.
      “The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins remorse from power.”
 That is the trouble with power. Too many people want the authority, but too few want the accountability.
    My political philosophy has never been particularly complicated. Give me a job. Don't take too much of my paycheck. Protect me from assholes, and let me move around freely, provided I am not being an asshole myself.
    Take care of the young. Take care of the old. Take care of the American soldier. Stand by our allies and scare the living shit out of our enemies.
              …And for God's sake, fix the potholes.
   We have spent 250 years arguing about whether this country is swinging too far left or too far right. We have survived wars, depressions, scandals, crooks, fools, and more than a few elected officials who couldn't see the difference between their rearends and a hole in the ground.
   Royko called them mealy mouths, Mayor Daley called them fakers, and my Oldman said they talked like men with paper assholes.
    We have had our difficulties, but the Republic is still standing.
 Not because politicians are particularly brilliant, but because generations of ordinary Americans have gone to work, raised families, paid taxes, served their communities, and kept this country of ours moving along.
      Because enough people have cared to hold their government accountable and today we get another chance.
    I don't particularly give two shits who you vote for. That is between you, your conscience, and the little curtain at the polling place.
       But vote.
 Read about the judges. Know who is spending your money and where it is going. Understand who is making decisions about your neighborhood, your schools, and the streets you drive every morning.
    Because the people who make those decisions will still be there tomorrow, long after the campaign signs have disappeared.
       And one last thing.
  If you are going to spend the next few years bitching and moaning about the government, the taxes, the politicians, and the general state of the American experiment, you'd better have an “I Voted” sticker on your lapel today.
     Otherwise, save the sermon.
You have no business complaining about who is running the store if you couldn't be bothered to walk through the front door.
     Today is going to make Thanksgiving a little more colorful.

November 2nd, 2026

 
“Be like a clock, keep ticking…”
       All right, here we go. The first weekday with sunsets before dinnertime.
    I am a little sad that my 2026 balcony cocktail season has officially ended.
I will miss saying hello to the half-dozen regular dog walkers who make their daily rounds along Lincoln Avenue. I won’t see the tattooed runner making his late-afternoon jog. I will miss the bearded dad strolling along with a toddler at his feet and a baby strapped to his belly.
    I will miss the elderly couples getting their steps in, still holding hands after all those years of walking through life together.
   There is something particularly touching about those couples. Over the years, I have watched a few return the following spring walking alone. Somewhere between balcony seasons, a husband or wife became a widow or widower.
   That is a sobering reminder of just how life can change while we are waiting for the weather to warm up.
     Perhaps the regular who stays with me most is the elderly father who slowly walks Lincoln Avenue alongside his middle-aged son with special needs.
    I wonder about them often. About the years they have shared, the responsibilities of fatherhood that never really end, and the quiet devotion found in something as ordinary as an afternoon walk. There is a shit ton of life passing beneath my balcony, and plenty of love too.
    Between today and next March, when the 2027 balcony cocktail season begins, any number of things could change. Familiar faces might not return, and new ones might appear. Children will be a little bigger, parents a little older, and the rest of us will have another winter under our belts.
       Life is fragile that way.
   I did manage to close out the season on a happy note. Along with tossing out candy bars from the third floor balcony to the Halloween trick-or-treaters, I made sure to take care of a few of my regular neighbors who passed by.
   A small thank-you for making my ordinary afternoons something I look forward to.
    Come next spring, I will be back on that balcony, cocktail in hand, ready to say hello to strangers and neighbors.
  Hopefully, all those familiar faces will be there to say hello back.
       Until then, I will just keep ticking.
   There is a Bears game tonight. I figure I’ll be sound asleep sometime after the first quarter.

November 1st, 2026

 
   It is All Saints' Day for us Catholic League kids. It is also Autistics Speaking Day.
  That second one hits particularly close to home for a father raising an adult son with autism.
   I could have taken the easy way out this morning. I could have chalked something about National Calzone Day, National Cinnamon Day, or even World Vegan Day.
   I decided to tackle the Almighty, autism, fatherhood, and the American family. All before my proper Sunday breakfast.
  Today's quote tells us that the task ahead of us is never greater than the strength within us. I have spent a good part of my sixty years trying to understand that.
       For me, it comes down to four words.
              His will be done.
  My Catholic faith has always taught me that the Heavenly Father doesn't abandon us when life gets difficult. He gives us the strength to face what is put before us, even when we aren't particularly convinced we have that strength.
      Sometimes, I think He has a peculiar sense of humor.
    Consider the American family portrait. We have all seen those pictures on Facebook.
    There is the perfect family. Everyone wearing matching sweaters, flashing big smiles on a ski trip somewhere or they are standing on the sidelines, huddled around Jimmy after his last football game at Saint Basil's.
    Mom and Dad are holding hands. The kids are smiling. Even the dog is looking at the camera. Everything is wonderful.
     Then there is the other family portrait.
 The husband is standing on one side of the picture, and the wife is as far away as humanly possible on the other. Both are wearing tired smiles.
     One kid is looking off to the side, refusing to make eye contact with the camera. Another is slumped over in an anarchy T-shirt, with sadness in his eyes. The youngest is standing off to the side with a shit-eating grin and a nonchalant middle finger.
    There is an ashtray on the table, a couple of empty beer cans, and a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes in the background. Nobody thought to straighten up before taking the picture.
    We have all seen those plastic, I mean, perfect family portraits, and we have seen the messy, upside-down ones.
   The trouble is that we have a habit of assuming the first family has everything figured out.
No drama, no police reports, no bad grades, no affairs, and no financial problems. Just matching sweaters and happy endings.
     Photographs don't tell us much about what happens after the camera is put away.
    That second family might have a child with autism who doesn't particularly care to look into a camera. Another child might be struggling with sadness or feeling overlooked because so much attention goes toward a sibling who needs extra help.
      And the third kid?
        Well, maybe he is just struggling to get through the shitshow.
  Meanwhile, Mom and Dad have drifted so far apart that the distance between them in the photograph is the least of their problems.
   Look back a few years ago, and you might find pictures of those same two people standing together, young and in love, convinced they had the whole world figured out.
     Life has a way of rearranging the furniture, and sometimes it knocks the dysfunctional house upside down.
   My family looks a lot more like the second picture. The parents are rarely photographed together. One of my children has struggled with sadness. Another is trying to find his way through life. And the oldest talks loudly, talks constantly, and notices things the rest of us never seem to see.
     His name is George and he has autism.
 Five years ago, that kid climbed onto his bike in the middle of the night and rode six miles through some sketchy neighborhoods to come live with me in Riverside.
   He hasn't left my side since and there is a decent chance he will be with me until the day I rejoin my parents.
   I am not chalking this to brag about my fatherhood or bitch about the hand I was dealt. I am chalking it because the Heavenly Father knew George and I needed each other.
    George talks loudly, often nonstop, and rarely seems to listen to a fucking word I say, but he notices the little things.
    Things I walk past every day without giving them a second thought.
He sees details I miss. He understands things that leave me scratching my head.
     When my home computer starts flickering while I am trying to buy a thousand put spreads, George gets it working for me.
      Here is the part of George that means the most to me.
  Almost every night, he comes into my bedroom, tucks me in, and tells me he loves me.
    …And that is something.
Because when I tell George I love him, he generally responds with one of two things.
    "Okay."
       Or...
        "I know."
     That is George.
  Love expressed on his terms, in his own way, and on his own schedule. I would not trade those moments for any matching sweater photographs.
    I don't know why some families seem to sail through life while others spend their days bailing water out of the boat. I don't pretend to understand all of God's intentions. There is a reason George and I are together.
   Maybe I am supposed to teach him how to navigate this world, and maybe he is supposed to teach me how to see it.
     Perhaps we are both works in progress.
  That is where today's All Saints' Day comes into the picture.
For us Catholic League kids, the saints remind us that holiness is not reserved for people who lived perfect lives. It is found in sacrifice, patience, forgiveness, perseverance, and love.
     Sometimes those things are practiced in a messy kitchen, with a sink full of dishes, by people who are simply doing their best to get through another day.
    I have come to appreciate those imperfect family pictures. What you see is what you get, and I have learned not to assume the perfect family photographs are telling the whole story, either.
   Every family has its own bullshit and shenanigans. Some just have better lighting. The real difference isn't between families who have problems and families who do not.
     It is what we do with the problems we have. Whether we show up. Whether we forgive. Whether we love each other when loving each other is not particularly easy. Whether we remember that the person standing next to us might be fighting a battle we know absolutely nothing about.
        So, Chalkheads, remember this.
   Every one of us has something stressful jagging up our lives. That is why Chalkhead Nation needs to support one another.
     Straight on, without judgment, and without the bullshit.
    His will be done.
     Go get some gusto and know that November brings astonishment.