November 11th, 2026

 

   Today is a day that was given its importance to me by a generation of my family known as the Greatest Generation.

    It was that generation that taught me the importance of remembering.

Remembering those who came before us. Remembering those who served their country. Most importantly, remembering those who made the ultimate sacrifice and never had the opportunity to come home.

    What began as Armistice Day, marking the end of the Great War on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918, eventually became Veterans Day in America and Remembrance Day in other parts of the world.

      The names may have changed, but the responsibility to remember has not.

   My morning started out doing something I try hard not to do. I reached for my phone and began catching up on social media before the day had even gotten started.

   The first post I saw was from a kid who worked on the trading floor. His wife lost her seven-year battle with cancer this week. Two young daughters are now without their mother. A grieving husband is facing a future without his wife. A family has been forever changed by the loss of someone they loved.

    I sat there looking at the post, thinking about those two little girls and the memories they will carry for the rest of their lives.

     On a morning dedicated to remembrance, I found myself thinking about just how many different forms remembrance takes.

    We remember the soldiers who never returned from the battlefields of Europe. We remember the men and women who served in wars that followed. We remember the sacrifices made by families who waited at home, sometimes for someone who would never walk through the front door again, but we also remember the people whose battles were fought far from any battlefield.

    The mothers, fathers, grandparents, husbands, wives, and friends whose absence leaves an empty chair at the table.

       November 11th carries another meaning for the Shepley family. Three years ago today, the Shepkids lost their PopPop.

     For George, Fritz, and Hazel, this date marks the passing of someone who was part of their childhood, their family, and their lives.

    I have come to understand that children don't always remember people through dates or anniversaries. They remember the little things. A familiar voice, a particular laugh, a family Sunday dinner.

  Something someone said or did that seemed insignificant at the time but becomes precious years later.

   Those are the memories that keep people with us long after they are gone.

My own grandparents belonged to a generation that understood sacrifice in ways I probably never will. They lived through the Depression, two world wars, and years when families were expected to make do with what they had.

    They didn't spend time explaining the importance of duty, gratitude, or remembrance.

   They lived those values, and somewhere along the way, they passed them down to me.

      That is what I hear in John McCrae's words from In Flanders Fields.

   The torch isn't just a symbol of war or military service. It represents a responsibility handed from one generation to the next.

     A responsibility to remember. To tell the stories. To speak the names. To make certain that those who came before us are not forgotten simply because the years continue passing.

    We cannot bring back the soldiers buried beneath foreign soil. We cannot return a mother to her daughters or a PopPop to his grandchildren, but we can honor the lives they lived by remembering them and passing their stories along. That is what the Greatest Generation was trying to teach me all those years ago.

    That remembrance is not something we observe once a year. It is something we owe to those who are no longer here.

The torch has been passed.

It is ours to hold high.

Lest we forget.

November 10th, 2026

 

          “We are holding our own.”

  Captain Ernest M. McSorley, SS Edmund Fitzgerald, November 10, 1975.

     I lived five blocks from Lake Michigan when the Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior. Four hundred miles separated where twenty-nine men lost their lives and where I stood throwing rocks into the waves.

     The following year, Gordon Lightfoot released a classic song about the maritime tragedy. We hear it every year when the skies of November turn gloomy.

    I am not sure why I have always felt such a connection to this historical moment, but it was an event that stayed with me. One of the first model ships I glued together was the Edmund Fitzgerald. It was proudly displayed on my bedroom dresser throughout the 1970’s.

    Today's quote comes from the last radio transmission of Captain McSorley, a seasoned sailor nearing retirement after a remarkable career.

     What makes those five words so powerful is their simplicity. No grand speech, no surrender, just a captain reassuring another ship that he and his men were still fighting.

   Sometimes courage isn't about winning the battle. Sometimes it is simply about holding your own when everything around you is falling apart.

      Last words have a way of staying with us.

  The countdown to the holidays is in today's grabber. Tomorrow is Remembrance Day and the beginning of my fifteen days of thankfulness, leading into my favorite holiday.

     Our weatherman here at the Morning Chalkboard tells me today is the last sunny day with a sixty handle for the next few days. Maybe for longer than that…

    Go out and get some sun on your face, some gusto in your heart, and astonishment in your soul today Chalkheads!

November 9th, 2026

 
     "I am out with lanterns looking for myself..."
                      Emily Dickinson
   I started the week with an unexpected jolt this morning. It had nothing to do with the grain markets, the Chicago Bears, or the price of gasoline. I didn’t have a Sunday night sleepover guest either.
     It involved Vicks VapoRub, Little Willie, and a lapse in judgment.
    After my morning shower, I rubbed a dab of Vicks across my chest. Something to open the pipes and get the old engine running.
     As I walked out of the bathroom, I gave Little Willie his customary morning adjustment. A little tug on the knob and foreskin to make sure everything was situated comfortably.
    Unfortunately, I used the same hand that had just been spreading menthol across my sternum.
       Houston, we have a problem.
   There are certain sensations a man experiences in his lifetime that require no explanation. Getting smashed in the nuts with a baseball is one. Discovering the toilet seat is up in the middle of the night is another.
    Then there is introducing Vicks VapoRub to a part of the anatomy that was never intended to experience the refreshing sensation of eucalyptus.
    Little Willie was wide awake and so was his commanding officer.
 I briefly considered calling the fire department, but I figured explaining the circumstances to the Riverside boys would only make matters worse.
       I had to get dressed and drive to work. This is a Don Shepley example of lowering your shoulders, bowing your neck and pushing through.
          Which brings me to Emily Dickinson.
   Today's chalkboard quote reads, "I am out with lanterns looking for myself..."
      Here we have a woman searching for herself with a lantern, as though the answers to life's mysteries might be hiding somewhere in the darkness.
    At my age, I am starting to understand it a little better.
 We spend our youth looking for success, approval, love, money, and some reasonable explanation for why life never quite follows the directions.
    Eventually, the search becomes something different.
     We start looking for ourselves. Not the person we were supposed to become. Not the guy everyone else expected us to be. Just the person who remains after years of mistakes, victories, disappointments, and lessons learned.
       The Grabber section today brings us a New Moon.
   The moon has disappeared from our evening sky, beginning another journey toward fullness.
   There is something refreshing about that. Even the heavens go dark before starting over.
     Perhaps Dickinson's lantern wasn't meant to illuminate the entire road. Perhaps it was meant to show her the next few steps.
               That's enough for me. Show me the next few steps. Just make sure those next few steps don’t have a eucalyptus burn to me my Schwantz.
     At this stage of life, I don't need that kind of wake up call. I just need enough light to keep moving, enough faith to trust the road, and enough humor to survive the occasional indignity of growing older.
     And a little more common sense in the bathroom.
    The New Moon offers us another beginning. Little Willie would probably prefer a fresh start himself.
    Have a wonderful Monday, everybody.
     Keep your lantern burning, your sense of humor intact, and for fuck’s sake, wash your hands after applying Vicks.

November 8th, 2026

 
       “Our job is to be memories for our kids and ghosts for their future.”  

        Emmett J. Scanlan
        Yesterday, I deleted something from my Google Calendar.

          Four words, “Dad has the Shepkids.”
    Those four words have occupied every other weekend on my calendar since the third weekend of July in 2017.
      Nine years, four months, and a lifetime ago.
  Hazel was about to turn four. George was approaching his eleventh birthday, and Fritz was getting ready to turn eight.
     I was a father of three young children trying to navigate the unfamiliar waters of a divided household.
    There were lawyers, schedules, arrangements, adjustments, and all the other unpleasant bullshit that comes with taking one family and turning it into two households.
     Somewhere in the middle of those new arrangements, I put four words on my calendar.
      Dad has the Shepkids.
     They were not a suggestion. They were not a reminder to pick up groceries or change the oil in the car.
      They were a declaration. Those weekends belonged to my children.
  I couldn't make other plans. I wouldn't make other plans. Whatever else was happening in the world could wait until Monday.
   For those Friday afternoons through Sunday evenings, I belonged to George, Fritz, and Hazel….. and they belonged with me.
     We went to the zoo, the swimming pool, the forest preserves, and the museums. We rode the CTA Christmas Train every December.
   There were breakfasts, lunches, dinners, bedtime routines, arguments over television, disagreements about who sat where, and the occasional domestic disturbance that only three siblings can manufacture.
     There were dirty clothes, wet towels, missing socks, forgotten homework, and enough dishes to suggest I was operating a small restaurant.
   There was laughter. There were tears. There was life, and there was a father who understood that those weekends were about more than entertaining three children. They were about raising them.
    I heard Irish actor Emmett J. Scanlan speaking with former English rugby player Joe Marler about fatherhood.
   Scanlan offered a line that stopped me in my tracks.
  “Our job is to be memories for our kids and ghosts for their future.”
I have been chewing on those words since I listened to that podcast. Because that is precisely what those weekends were about, even if I didn't fully understand it at the time.
 I wasn't just taking my children places, I was giving them a place. A place where they belonged. A place where they knew the rules. A place where they could count on breakfast being made, dinner being served, and their father being present. A place where they could be children while I handled the business of being an adult.
Structure.
Consistency.
Nurturing.
    Those aren't particularly glamorous words. They don't make for exciting photographs or memorable Facebook posts, but they are the bricks and mortar of raising the Shepkids.
    Children need to know where they stand. They need to know somebody is in charge. They need to know that the person in charge loves them enough to establish boundaries and occasionally enforce them.
   Especially when their world has been turned upside down through no decision of their own. I couldn't give my children the household I had once imagined, but I could give them my time and my attention. I could give them the best version of their father that I was capable of producing.
Some weekends, that version was better than others.
    The Shepkids never saw my Google Calendar. My children watched me walk the earth. They watched me work hard on the earth. They watched me pray for the earth, and they watched me yell at the earth.
   They saw their father get up early, go to work, pay the bills, make mistakes, apologize when needed, and lose his patience when the world refused to operate according to his schedule.
   They watched me laugh. They watched me worry, and they caught a glimpse of something fathers aren't always comfortable revealing…. Vulnerability.
     There is a peculiar kind of vulnerability that comes with fatherhood.
Before children, a man believes he has control over his life. Then a child arrives and suddenly your heart is walking around outside your body, wearing sneakers, asking for money, and making decisions you have absolutely no authority to prevent.
    You worry about things you never considered before. You worry about their health, their friendships, their education, their happiness, and whether the world will treat them with the kindness you want them to receive.
  You worry about the mistakes they will make. You worry about the mistakes you have already made.
    The hardest part of fatherhood isn't changing diapers, making lunches, or driving children from one activity to another. It is accepting that you cannot live their lives for them. You can provide the foundation. You can offer the lessons. You can demonstrate integrity, faith, kindness, and perseverance.
      But eventually, they have to take those lessons into a world that doesn't always reward good behavior, and you have to trust that something you said or did along the way managed to stick.
    Today, George lives with me. Fritz comes over almost every weekend, and Hazel never makes it over to the Divorced Dad District.
    I no longer need Google Calendar to tell me when I am supposed to be a dad.
   The Shepkids aren't four, eight, and eleven anymore. They have their own lives, their own routines, their own struggles, and their own ideas about how the world ought to operate.
  The funny thing about Google Calendar is that it has no interest in mortality. When I originally created “Dad has the Shepkids,” I scheduled it every other weekend without an ending date.
    Google Calendar carried those four words forward into eternity. I could open the calendar for August of 2051 and check whether I have the Shepkids from the fourth through the sixth or the eleventh through the thirteenth.
     I will be eighty-five years old. Hazel will have just turned thirty-eight. Fritz will be preparing for his forty-second birthday, and George will be getting ready to celebrate his forty-fifth.
    As though three middle-aged adults will still be waiting for their father to decide whether they were going to Brookfield Zoo or the Forest Park swimming pool.
   As though I might still be packing sandwiches, laying out snow boots, and reminding somebody to put on a clean pair of socks.
        Somewhere between 2017 and 2051, a father becomes an old man and his children become the adults who will carry his memory into a future he will never see.
That is the part that got me. We fill our calendars with appointments, obligations, birthdays, anniversaries, and reminders about where we need to be. We mark the important days and still forget the important moments.         

         Calendars also have ghosts.
   They hold the names of people who are no longer with us. They remind us of birthdays we can no longer celebrate together. They carry anniversaries of marriages that ended, houses we no longer live in, jobs we no longer hold, and children who no longer need a hand to hold.
   My calendar still knows the father I was in July of 2017. A man trying to hold three little lives together for forty-eight hours at a time.
   A man who believed that if he could provide enough structure, enough consistency, enough laughter, and enough love, perhaps the children would come through those difficult years with a strong foundation.
    I pray I did it right. I pray George remembers the lessons. I pray Fritz remembers the laughter, and I fucking pray Hazel remembers that there was never a weekend when her Oldman didn't want her around.
    I pray all three remember that their father worked hard, believed in God, tried to tell the truth, and occasionally failed.
    I pray they remember a man who loved them more than he knew how to explain, and I pray they forgive me for the times when my best wasn't good enough.
   Because someday, if God grants me the years, I will be the old man my father once became, and someday after that, I will be a memory.
A voice.
A story.
A ghost.
     Perhaps George will hear me telling him to keep working at something when it becomes difficult. Perhaps Fritz will catch himself saying something that sounds just like his father. Perhaps Hazel will remember a Christmas train, a trip to the zoo, or an ordinary Sunday afternoon when the world seemed safe because Dad was there.
     That is how we remain. Not through calendars. Not through possessions. Not even through the photographs that slowly fade in their frames. We remain through the lives we touched and the lessons we left behind.
     Yesterday, I removed four words from my calendar. I didn't remove a single memory. I simply closed a recurring appointment that had served its purpose.
    The children who once needed a designated weekend with Dad have grown into people who need their father in different ways. Some days, that means advice. Some days, it means patience. Some days, it means showing up, and some days, it means loving them from a distance and trusting that the door you have always kept open will someday be walked through again.
    Emmett Scanlan was right.
    Our job is to be memories for our children and ghosts for their future. Maybe the greatest accomplishment of fatherhood is to become a voice they can still hear when there is nobody left to speak.
    Dad has the Shepkids. He always did and he always will.
AOMH.
All of my heart.

November 7th, 2026

 

      I found a new home for Hazel's kitty cats.

  When I went to pick them up, Hazel's mom asked if I could help her hang her chalkboard. She had painted the wall earlier in the week, and now it was time to put the old board back where it belonged.

    We worked together, finding the screws in the wall and matching them up with the grooves on the back of the board.

        Funny how life has a way of reminding us of things through the smallest gestures. Sometimes the message is so subtle you nearly miss it.

             This too shall pass.

  There we were, two parents who have weathered their share of storms, working together to hang a chalkboard, and I couldn't help thinking about what it has evolved into..

    What began as a simple tool to make parenting a little easier eventually became something I never imagined. That chalkboard turned into a form of therapy for me, a place to collect my thoughts, make sense of the world, and occasionally laugh at the bullshit of it all.

      Somewhere along the way, it also created a community I affectionately call Chalkhead Nation. The blog has been averaging 2500 to 3000 hits a day. From the Shepkids preschool schedule to all corners of the earth.

    Something designed to keep a family organized became a daily reminder that none of us travels through this world entirely alone.

        Not bad for a piece of chalk and a wooden frame.

    In the old-school tradition, the way chalkboards were originally intended to be used, I have returned to the basics this morning.

     My Saturday schedule is right there in the grabber section.

   Haircuts with Fritz. Rugby on the television. Rugby out at the pitch, and tonight, a trip to Fitzgerald's for a little gusto and some good rock and roll.

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

   The wall gets painted, the chalkboard gets rehung, the children grow older, the kitties find a new home and life keeps moving.

         Every once in a while, if we are paying attention, we discover that something we thought was just another chore was actually a reminder of how far we have come.

          Happy Saturday, Chalkheads.

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.