August 19th, 2026

 

    Just after Thanksgiving in 2021, a little tabletop Christmas tree appeared in a window across the street.

   We were still feeling the effects of the Covid pandemic. The world had reopened, but things hadn't quite been put back where they belonged.

    The tree sat in a first floor window directly across from my balcony. The apartment is in one of those big courtyard buildings built just after the First World War. They are all over Chicagoland… brick walls, rows of windows, tiled foyers and generations of people who called them home for a short time.

     I never knew who lived there, but through Christmas and well into the winter of 2022, that little tree stayed lit.

        … and for reasons I didn't completely understand at the time, I began looking for it every day.

    It became a tiny beacon of reassurance from across the street. We were all trying to climb out of those strange pandemic years, but I was also trying to climb out of something of my own. Divorce had rearranged my life, and there were mornings when I was still trying to figure out exactly what the new arrangement was supposed to look like.

    Then I would look across the street and see that little tree glowing in the darkness.

    The tree returned after Thanksgiving in 2022 and then again the next year and the next. It greeted me on dark December afternoons when the sun disappeared before dinner and on bitter January mornings when Riverside was frozen solid.

          It became part of my winter.

   When I look back someday at the 2020s and remember how unsettling the beginning of this decade was, I suspect I will remember that little tabletop Christmas tree in the apartment window across the street.

     Yesterday, when I got home from work, I noticed something was different.

The curtains were gone and the windows were bare.

     Whoever had lived in that apartment for the last five years had moved away from the Divorced Dad District and I knew at once what that meant.

       The tree won't be coming back for Christmas this year.

   I thought about The Great Gatsby and that green light at the end of Daisy's dock. Gatsby could see it across the water, small and distant, and he filled that light with everything he hoped his life might someday become.

    My light across the way wasn't green. It was a little Christmas tree glowing through an apartment window.

    Unlike Gatsby, I was simply reassured by knowing it was there.

 Maybe that is the difference. Gatsby's green light pulled him toward a future he desperately wanted. My Christmas tree helped me through a present I was learning to accept.

    Still, there was something similar about them. A light in the distance can become much more than a light.

   We give ordinary things meaning because sometimes we need them to carry us through certain periods in our lives.

  It could be a song on the radio. A familiar conductor on the morning train into the city. The smell of rain on an August afternoon. A coffee cup that your mom used when you were a kid.

                  A tree in a stranger's window.

   They become landmarks in our lives without anybody ever deciding they should be. What bothers me most isn't that the tree is gone. It is that I never got to thank the person who put it there.

     I never figured out who lived in that apartment. They had no idea that someone across the street noticed their little tree year after year.

    They had no idea that on those cold mornings, somebody looked through the darkness and was glad to see it.

       That is the funny thing about our lives. We know the stories we carry inside ourselves, but we rarely know the part we are playing in somebody else's.

     You might be somebody's Christmas tree in the window and never know it. Someone new will move into that apartment before the end of the month. New curtains will go up and new furniture will appear. Maybe there will even be another Christmas tree someday, but it won't be the tree that carried me through the first half of the 2020s.

   That light belonged to a particular stretch of my life, and now both the person who put it there and the man who first needed to see it have moved on.

    Maybe that is what you are supposed to do with a beacon eventually. You stop needing it and you keep walking.

          Today is National Soft Serve Ice Cream Day.

   The Hole in the Wall in Oak Park brings back memories for me that stretch nearly forty years. Polar Bear here in the neighborhood is our go to joint, and Highland Queen always hits the spot when we are on the other side of Mannheim Road.

         Go get yourself a cone today.

           … And while you are enjoying it, remember that there are people walking around carrying stories you know absolutely nothing about.

      Maybe you are even part of one. There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

              Tell your story, Chalkheads.

August 18th, 2026

 

     I often chalk about my Exile in Indy, and though I speak fondly of it many years later, the truth is, I never wanted to be there.

    Because of that, I probably kept myself from getting everything I could have out of my years in the Hoosier State.

             Time has a way of changing the view.

   The older I get, the less I remember how badly I wanted to leave and the more I remember the many dear people I met while I was there. People I still think about. People who helped shape me and guide me.

     The mentors, the neighbors, the coaches, the teachers... My friends.

  There is one of those people who, without either of us ever realizing it at the time, has been with me almost every day of my career.

  Especially after the trading pits closed and the shouting and hand signals of the trading floor were replaced by computer monitors and keyboards.

       Coach Tom O'Brien.

   Coach built athletes who went on to great heights. He mentored young men who became clergymen, service members, politicians, businessmen, coaches, fathers, and leaders. His legacy reached into all walks of life.

      For me, his legacy can be heard in the pounding of a keyboard at my trading desk.

          … And I mean pounding.

 The cacophony of my fingers beating on those poor keys has driven coworkers crazy for years.

    Once, a Millennial kid in the office asked me to take it easy.

       "You don't have to take out your aggression on the keyboard dude."

 Then he asked if I knew what the home row was and informed me that a person could actually type using more than four fingers.

   I explained that I learned how to type on a typewriter from the basketball coach at Dear Old Cathedral High School and I will continue doing it exactly the way I like.

     Then, loudly under my breath:

         "Mind your own business, you little jagoff."

    Of all the things I learned in Catholic school, two of the most useful things I carried into adulthood were my rosary and my typewriter skills.

      Prayer and work.

More than forty years ago, I never imagined Coach O'Brien's typing class would help carry me through the rest of my life, but it did.

     Every morning, I sit down and type this Chalkboard. Every workday, I sit at a trading desk and pound bids and offers into the market.

     I can do both because a basketball coach at Cathedral took the time to teach and mentor a sad kid with a Chicago accent.

     Coach O'Brien will rightfully be remembered for the great basketball players he coached and sent on to bigger stages. Names like Kenny Barlow and Scotty Hicks are part of his legacy.

     … But for every star athlete whose name people remember, there are thousands of guys like me.

    Kids who were not going to play college basketball. Kids who were not going to have their names in the newspaper. Kids sitting in a classroom who didn't yet have the slightest idea what direction life was going to take them.

      Coach taught us, pushed us, and expected something from us. Practice, practice, practice.

      We thought he was teaching us how to type. He was teaching us how to work.

      Coach O'Brien took his whistle up to heaven yesterday.

 The width of his legacy is wider than most because it cannot be measured simply in victories, championships or the athletes who went on to play college basketball.

   It is measured in lives, in families, in careers, in classrooms, capitol buildings, battleships, churches, homes and offices.

     And, apparently, on one loud keyboard at a commodity trading desk in Chicagoland.

       So one more time for Coach...

            Here come the Irish, the mighty, mighty Irish...

           Wherever we go, people want to know who we are, so we tell them...

  WE ARE THE IRISH! THE MIGHTY, MIGHTY IRISH!

  May your memory always be a blessing, Coach O'Brien.

          Thank you for pushing me during my Exile in Indy. I didn't appreciate everything about those years when I was living them. It took me a long time to understand how many good people were quietly pointing me in the right direction.

         Coach was one of them.

  Maybe that is why this morning's Chalkboard quote feels especially appropriate…

   The compass came before the clock because direction matters more than time.

    Chalkheads, most of us were fortunate enough to have somebody come into our lives who made our foundation a little stronger and pointed our compass in a better direction.

   Sometimes we do not recognize what they gave us until years later.

         We were all blessed that Coach Tom O'Brien came in our direction.

       Go Irish.

August 17th, 2026

    I have decided that I should be more curious about the future. Most of the time I only worry about it.

   I worry about the Shepkids becoming healthy and happy adults. I worry about the end of my career and what retirement will look like. I worry about my health and how comfortable the next twenty years will be.

     I need to replace some of that worrying with curiosity.

  Instead of worrying about how everything is going to turn out, maybe I should be curious to see how it does.

       Yesterday, I celebrated twenty years of being a parent.

  It was twenty years ago that the entire maternity ward heard me yell…

          “Terese, the baby has a penis! A penis! We have a baby boy!”

   A voice built for booming bids across a trading floor wasn't exactly what the nursing station found helpful.

   Though they did compliment me on the way I announced the arrival of George Edward Shepley into the world. Apparently, through all their years of delivering babies, nobody had ever quite phrased it that way.

    Twenty years later, I am curious to see how that baby boy will continue to grow and where his life takes him.

         I will tell you what I am not curious about.

       Everything Fox News, CNN and the BBC are talking about. I am not curious about any of that bullshit that I cannot control.

     Politics will continue to swing back and forth. Taxes will continue to eat at my wallet. Hatred will somehow continue to get top billing over love.

     The world will keep doing what the world does.

  Maybe I should spend less time worrying about all of that and more time being curious about the things happening right in front of me.

          Well… it is another Monday and I won’t mind if it is ordinary.

   The Sox have already won more games this year than they did in each of the last three seasons. I am curious to see how this ends up.

     School starts this week for my two redheads. Senior year and eighth grade. Two milestones that once seemed impossibly far away are suddenly here. I am curious to see how this year works out for them.

    Last week, I chalked about our last eight o'clock sunset. This week, I'm a tad sad that I have to chalk sunrises after six o'clock in the morning.

     For a morning person, that one stings a little more, but I suppose that is part of being curious. Getting another chance at seeing how the day plays out.

   The days get shorter, the kids get older, careers eventually wind down, and bodies change. Seasons turn whether we are ready for them or not.

    We can worry about what is waiting around the corner, or we can walk around the corner and see. Only the curious have something to find.

     Avoid the raindrops of mid-August and shake that tail.

          Be curious, Chalkheads. You might be astonished by what you find...

August 16th, 2026

        
      The middle of August was always a transitional period in the neighborhoods of my youth.
      This was the weekend our baseball gloves and bats stopped going with us to the park where we picked up ballgames all summer. School was about to start, and for my classmates and me, that meant getting our Catholic school uniforms together and discovering that last year's pants had somehow shrunk two inches.
     It was also the week we started bringing a football to the park. That patch of grass that had been our baseball diamond since May suddenly became a gridiron.
    The “Duke” football we got for Christmas had spent most of the last eight months waiting patiently in the closet for its chance to turn a bunch of neighborhood boys into future Hall of Famers.
    Thinking about those August transitions made me realize something else this morning.
        We really weren't kids for very long.
  My estimate puts the actual window somewhere between our sixth and thirteenth birthdays. Before six, we were still little kids, depending on our parents for just about everything. Somewhere around thirteen, the machinery of growing up begins to turn. The opposite sex became more interesting and our parents became more embarrassing.
   Organized sports replaced neighborhood games. We began worrying about clothes, popularity and everything else that eventually chases away the beautiful ignorance of childhood.
      When we look back on our youth, childhood seemed like the longest chapter of our lives and when we were living it, and it was. Looking back after a dozen chapters have been written, our golden era of bubblegum and cartoons lasted about seven years.
     Seven years of sleepovers and building forts. Seven years of getting eighteen kids together for a baseball game without sending a single text message. Seven years of playing smear the queer and ding-dong ditch. Seven years of worshipping the guys pictured on our baseball cards and believing there was a slim chance that we would grow up to become one of them.
       My seven years ran roughly from 1972 through 1979.
  When we played neighborhood football, I went from pretending to be Dick Butkus to pretending to be Earl Campbell.
   At the baseball field down the block, I went from hitting like Dick Allen and throwing like Wilbur Wood to batting like Willie Stargell and pitching like Vida Blue.
      The names changed because the world around me was changing.
   I went from a coaster-brake bicycle to a ten-speed. I went from one-scoop ice cream cones to Good Humor bars. I went from wondering what a boner was to occasionally waking up with a sticky belly.
       That is a hell of a lot of ground to cover in seven years, but the biggest change wasn't bicycles, baseball players or puberty.
   I went from holding my mom's hand to trying to get as far away from her as possible. I went from not being able to see over the dashboard of my dad's Cadillac to being sent outside on cold winter mornings to start it for him. I was his automatic car starter before there were automatic car starters.
   I was also his remote control. We had an old Zenith television in the family room, and my father would occasionally yell from downstairs,
         "Hey Moose, turn to channel nine!"
   I would be upstairs in my bedroom. He would be sitting ten feet from the damn television, and I would come downstairs and change the channel.
            That was childhood.
    You did not question why the man sitting ten feet from the television couldn't get up and turn the knob himself. You just did it.
   Maybe that is why those seven years seem so enormous in our memories. At thirteen years old, seven years was more than half the life we had lived. No shit it felt like forever.
    At sixty, seven years doesn't feel like forever. Seven years feels like Tuesday two weeks ago, and maybe that is why these middle days of August still stir something in me.
   There was a rhythm to childhood that we didn't understand while we were living it. Memorial Day meant summer was beginning. June meant baseball. July meant swimming pools, bicycles, lightning bugs and staying outside until somebody's ma started yelling names from the front porch.
        Then came August.
  The evenings started getting a little shorter. School supplies appeared in stores. Catholic school uniforms came out of closets. Baseball season wasn't technically over, but somehow we knew that it was time.
   The mitt that had rarely left our hand all summer was rubbed with a little oil, folded around a baseball and shoved under the mattress. The football came out of the closet. The baseball diamond at the park became Soldier Field and another summer disappeared.
   We didn't know there weren't many summers like that left to live. That is the part that gets me now.
    A kid thinks childhood is permanent. There is always going to be another Saturday morning cartoon, another pickup game, another bike ride, another sleepover and another August when the baseball glove gets put away and the football comes out. Another August with mom and dad.
   Until one year, without anybody noticing it, you don't put the glove under the mattress. You just stop playing and doing kid stuff.
         Here we are in the middle of another August. Time to put the mitt under the mattress and grab the pigskin out of the closet.
    While you are running errands and doing chores this morning, think about your own seven years.
     Think about the kids who filled your neighborhood, the games you played, the athletes you pretended to be, the bicycle you rode and the voice from the house telling you it was time to come home.
    We thought we were kids forever. Turns out, it was only about seven years.
  

    What are your memories from your golden era of bubblegum and cartoons?

       Gusto, Chalkheads, sprinkled with astonishment and sunshine.

 

 

  

 

August 15th, 2026

 Today is the Feast of the Assumption and I put Bear Down in the Grabber Section. Shows how great of a Catholic that I really am.  

August 14th, 2026

My Gramma went to mass every day and until the day she died, she called the Japanese, Japs. Today she would have made a point of pointing out that today was the victory over the Japs. She was also German and her family took a ton of crap during both World Wars. That would make her a Kraut that celebrated beating the Japs in the Pacific Theater. 

 

August 13th, 2026

 

         The Chicago White Sox gave out Pope hats at the game Tuesday night.

    Nearly 40,000 people packed Sox Park wearing papal hats, watching the White Sox play the team they should have beaten in the 1919 World Series, the Cincinnati Reds.

   Nancy Faust came back to play the organ. There were nuns and priests at the ballpark. There were enough Catholics wandering around 35th and Shields that you half expected somebody to start selling raffle tickets for a new parish roof.

     The best part of Pope Night came when Father Tom Hurley led 40,000 baseball fans in something that doesn’t normally happen between a pitching change and a beer commercial.

          The “Peace be with you.”

     Something us Catholics say to each other after the Our Father and before Communion.

    Most Sox fans come from neighborhoods filled with Catholic parishes and have heard those words thousands of times. Some people at the game grew up saying Shabbat Shalom.

    This happened at a place where there is usually a couple of drunks getting into a fistfight, but Tuesday night everybody was Catholic for about thirty seconds.

                   Peace be with you.

     There is another Chicago connection that makes the whole thing even better for me. Father Hurley’s brother is a good buddy of mine. That is Chicago Catholic geography for you.

    I know Father Hurley’s brother Dan. Father Hurley leads the Sign of Peace at Pope Night. Pope Leo XIV is Bobby Prevost from Dolton.

    By my calculations, that puts me about three handshakes from Saint Peter and Saint Peter is really where this story begins.

    I still get a giddy feeling whenever I think that the Pope is a guy from Chicago who grew up a White Sox fan.

    My usual reaction is a hearty laugh with tears welling in my eyes as I shout:

       “I can’t believe the Pope is from the F’ing South Side!”

  Then sixty years of Catholic guilt immediately takes over.

       “I’m sorry, Virgin Mary. I meant the South Side.”

     But seriously, think about it.

           This guy has the same job Saint Peter had.

    Robert Francis Prevost was born in Chicago and raised in Dolton, belonging to St. Mary of the Assumption. Bobby served Mass as an altar boy, and he went to White Sox games with his brothers.

      Long before anybody called him His Holiness Pope Leo XIV, he was Bobby Prevost.

    And every one of us who grew up Catholic in the Archdiocese of Chicago knew a guy just like Father Bob. We served Mass for a Father Bob. We went to confession with a Father Bob. A Father Bob gave us our First Communion. A Father Bob baptized our kids. A Father Bob buried our parents and Father Bob stood at the altar when we got married.

    There are Father Bobs all over Chicagoland. From Bridgeport and Beverly, Oak Lawn and Evergreen Park, Cicero and Berwyn, and from Pilsen and Old Town.

   They coached basketball. They ran parish carnivals. They drank coffee in the rectory kitchen, and they knew whose mother was sick and whose father had lost his job.

   They showed up at the hospital. They showed up at the wake. They showed up when we needed them.

     Some could deliver a homily that stayed with us for days. Others put us to sleep before they finished the Gospel.

     Father Bob Prevost was one of those Chicago priests. Then one afternoon white smoke poured out of a chimney in Rome and Father Bob from the South Side walked onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica.

   That is when this becomes almost impossible for a Chicago Catholic to comprehend. Because the story started two thousand years ago with another regular guy.

     Simon Peter wasn’t born a prince. He wasn’t a Roman aristocrat. He wasn’t a polished theologian.

     He was a fisherman, a struggling working man. He was stubborn, impulsive and he often let his mouth overload his rearend.

     And when shit hit the fan, he panicked and denied he even knew Jesus. In other words, Peter would have fit in just fine at a Southside parish.

  Christ picked him anyway.

           “You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church.”

    Catholics believe that moment began the chain. Peter to Linus to Cletus to Clement and on and on.

    Empires rose and fell, Rome collapsed, Columbus crossed the Atlantic and America was born.

    Chicago rose out of a swamp, burned down, rebuilt itself, reversed a river, invented the skyscraper, and gave us mustard on our hotdog.

   Eventually the keys handed to Peter ended up in the hands of an altar boy who grew up cheering for the White Sox.

     That is why this Pope feels a little different to us Chicagoans.

   To more than a billion Catholics around the world, he is the Holy Father. The Bishop of Rome. The successor to Saint Peter, but around Chicago, we get to claim him as ours.

     …And on a Tuesday night in August, 40,000 people gathered at Comiskey Park to celebrate him. Then a Chicago priest stood in the middle of a baseball stadium and said four words Catholics have been saying to one another for generations.

         Peace be with you.

       … And for that one night, it certainly was.

                Peace be with you Chalkheads.

August 12th, 2026

 
    I have been getting stuck in this groove lately of picking quotes that make me examine myself.
     This one is a complete hand job.
           “It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”
   Might have been? What the hell is that?
      Is that like a has-been who never actually has been?
 About a year before my dad went up to heaven, we had a long phone conversation on a cold Sunday morning. Somewhere along the way, my Oldman asked me a simple question.
          “Do you have any regrets Moose?”
     It was a fair question at the time.
   I was about a year removed from my divorce. My career was running into a dead end on a trading floor that was itself becoming a relic. Money was tight. I didn’t see my kids as much as I wanted to.
    All the crap that can pile up on a guy in his early fifties had piled up.
     …And underneath all of it was that quiet realization that the life I had at fifty did not look much like the life the twenty-year-old version of me figured I would have.
      I sat there for a second.
   I was on my couch, looking out the window at the snow falling on a Sunday morning in the Divorced Dads District, talking to my dad on the telephone.
      “Nope,” I finally told him. “No regrets, Dad. I might have taken a couple wrong turns and missed a few exits along the way, but no regrets.”
               …And I meant it.
   I have never spent much time worrying about what I might have been. Sure, I could have done some things differently. Hell, I could have done a lot of things differently.
    There were jobs I could have taken. People I could have treated better. Money I could have saved. Chances I could have taken and chances I shouldn’t have taken.
    Change any one of those decisions and the whole course of my life changes, but that is the problem with might have been.
         You only get to see the curtain you picked.
   It is like being on Let’s Make a Deal and choosing Curtain Number Two. Maybe there was a trip to Hawaii behind Number One, and you end up with an inflatable swimming pool.
    For the next forty years, you can sit around bitching about Hawaii. Except nobody ever opens Curtain Number One. Maybe Hawaii was back there, maybe it was a goat.
   You never know. All I know is what was behind the curtain I picked. There were some lousy years behind it. There were mistakes, heartbreaks, bounced checks, divorces, dead ends and more than a few mornings when I wondered what the hell I was doing.
    I do know what was behind the curtain I picked… my three kids, one or two dear friends and a shit ton of good people along the way.
    There was a trading floor, road trips, rugby pitches, baseball games, Christmas mornings, concerts, Mardi Gras, laughter, and ordinary Sunday mornings that I would give anything to have one more time.
     So, I never became what I might have been.
           Good. I became what I am and at sixty years old, I am far more interested in what I can still become than some imaginary guy I was supposed to be.
    My Oldman has been gone almost six years now, but I still think about that snowy Sunday and the question he asked me.
       Do I have regrets?
                 Sure, Dad, a few, but I wouldn't trade curtains. Not even for Hawaii.
       There is a New Moon tonight. You won’t see it and that is the point.
  The old moon disappears into the darkness before beginning another trip around the sky. Another cycle ending and another one quietly beginning.
   That is a better way to think about our own lives. We spend too much time staring backward at what might have been when there is still something ahead waiting to become.
      The moon does not regret its last trip around the Earth. It just starts another one and so can we.
                Notice shit. Do stuff.

August 11th, 2026

          My loudest voice is the inner one.

   It has been chirping my whole life, but only recently has it climbed up on the stage with me and stepped into the spotlight.

   My inner voice takes on a shit ton of roles. Sometimes it is the disciplinarian telling me to get my big ass out of bed and get it done. Sometimes it is the wise man, although I am still not entirely convinced he knows what the hell he is talking about. More and more, it has become the voice of experience. A voice that has made enough mistakes to recognize them before making them again.

    Sometimes that voice comes from heaven. I hear my parents in it. Words and lessons I ignored when they were standing in front of me have somehow become louder after they left the building.

   More often than not, though, the inner voice is my conscience. It steers me toward integrity and honesty. It reminds me that doing the right thing and doing the easy thing don't always share the same road.

           But then there is the other voice.

   When my inner voice gets pissed off and starts flirting with mischievous ideas, the battle begins. I picture that scene in Animal House when Larry “Pinto” Kroger has the little angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other, each giving him advice on what he should do next. My version has been playing for sixty years. The costumes have changed and the arguments have gotten a little more sophisticated, but those two bastards are still sitting on my shoulders.

         …And I'm not sure I want either one to disappear.

   The disciplinarian has value. So does the wise man. Experience certainly does. My conscience keeps me pointed toward the man I need to be. The voices from heaven remind me where I came from and even that mischievous son of a bitch serves a purpose. He keeps me from becoming too careful, too predictable and too old before my time.

   Maybe wisdom isn't finally discovering which voice is right. Maybe wisdom is realizing that I get to decide which voice gets the microphone.

    That is the challenge going forward. Listen to all of them. Learn from all of them and argue with a couple of them. Laugh with them, but understand that when the argument is over, I choose the louder voice.

       I wrote these numbers on the bottom of today's Chalkboard:

   143 days until 2027.

   508 days until 2028.

   874 days until 2029.
   1,239 days until 2030.

    I have spent my life thinking of those years as somewhere far in the distant future. Put them into days and suddenly they don't look very far away.

     There will come a day when forward isn't forward anymore, and when that day comes, all those voices that have followed me through life…

      …the disciplinarian, the wise man, experience, conscience, heaven, and that mischievous bastard sitting on my shoulder will finally go quiet.

     What will remain is the life I lived after listening to them and the final impression will be decided by which voice I chose to make the loudest.

   Choose your louder voice you Chalkheads. Don’t listen to the mealy mouth and make sure the voice of gusto and astonishment get a word in today. The clock is running and that is the reason to live louder, not quieter.

August 10th, 2026

 

    Why would I chalk “The sun is new each day” when I am predicting a cloudy Monday with a chance of thunderstorms?

    Because the sun might be behind the clouds, but it doesn’t give a shit what happened yesterday.

    It doesn’t give a shit what happened last week or last month, and it sure as shit doesn’t care what happened anytime in the past.

   The sun came up on August 10th, 1977, when the Cubs and Sox were both having surprisingly good summers. It came up later that fall when both teams finished well out of first place.

        Guess what…

               …the sun didn’t give a flying F.

    Hey, both sides now Chalkheads.

The sun shines on some days. On other days, clouds get in the way. Either way, it is still up there.

           And Mondays?!?!

   I do not let Mondays bother me. I haven’t since waking up one Monday morning on a balcony in the French Quarter, hungover from a rocking Sunday night. Mardi Gras beads for a pillow. A Mardi Gras flag for a blanket. Honky Tonk Woman blasting out of a bar on Toulouse Street at seven in the morning.

      Now that was one helluva Monday morning.

   Life is a dramatic comedy filled with experiences that should teach us something and lift us up at the same time. Some days we get sunshine. Some days thunderstorms. Sometimes we wake up on a balcony wondering exactly how the hell we got there.

      “Out, out, brief candle!”

           Not on my watch.

 I am a player strutting my big ass across the stage, and sometimes Mondays fall in my path. Actually, they fall in my path every damn week. As long as I take care of business, every Monday can be Lundi Gras.

    The Sox and Cubs are both playing above .500 baseball right now. That is not a bad way to look at life. You do not have to go undefeated. Only the Dolphins and the Hoosiers can pull that off.

   Just play above .500 and get a few more wins than losses. When you strike out, grab the bat again. When you make an error, get ready for the next ground ball. String together enough good innings and see where you are when the season winds down.

      The sun is new each day. So are we if we choose to be.

   Let’s get it on, Chalkheads. We are rolling into the middle of August.

Get some hits. Score some runs. And make your world astonished.

August 9th, 2026

 

   I turned eight in the summer of 1974.

    That summer, I climbed trees at the park and finally conquered my fear of catching a baseball. Before then, I mostly played catch with a rubber ball or a tennis ball. A hardball coming at my face scared the living shit out of me.

     I had a transistor radio with a strap on it. At night, I hung it from my bedpost. During the day, it was the perfect size to fit in the satchel on my bike.

    My bike was a red Schwinn. I considered it a little boy’s bike and desperately wanted something bigger and cooler. It had no speeds and no hand brakes. It was an old-fashioned coaster-brake bike my parents gave me for my sixth birthday.

   I dreamed of a Schwinn with five speeds and a banana seat. I finally got one for my tenth birthday.

     Six weeks later, somebody stole it while I was inside Kresge buying baseball cards. My dad made damn sure I understood that the thief may have stolen the bike, but it was my fault for not double locking it.

            That lesson of the stolen bike stuck with me for the rest of my youth, but that was the summer of 1976.

      The summer I want to chalk about today is 1974, the summer I turned eight. Of all the memories from that year, the one that sticks with me more than climbing trees, baseball games and bikes was a major change in my life…

         My bedtime moved from 7:30 to 8:00.

   Turning eight bought me another half hour of daylight. That was a big damn deal for an eight-year-old.

    From kindergarten through second grade, 7:30 was bedtime. It didn't matter that other kids were still outside. It didn't matter that there was daylight coming through the windows. When 7:30 arrived, I was done for the day. Finally that summer I got to stay up until eight.

     Last night, I took a shower and climbed into bed. It was eight o'clock, and it was the last night of the summer with an eight o'clock sunset.

     Fifty-two summers ago, eight o'clock meant I had finally been granted another half hour of childhood. Last night, eight o'clock meant this old bastard was ready for bed.

        Somehow, without noticing that it happened, life had come full circle.

   In the summer of '74, my dad hounded me to brush my teeth and wash my face. My mom would come into my room, tuck me under my NFL blanket, kiss me on the forehead and say, “Good night Pumpkinhead.” Then she would remind me to say my prayers.

   The moment the door closed, I would shorten the Hail Mary’s and reach for my transistor radio and turn on WLS.

   Under my nightlight, in the fading dusk of a Chicago summer, I would listen to Elton John, Roberta Flack and Paul McCartney until I fell asleep. Later, my mom would quietly sneak back into my room and turn off the radio so I wouldn't kill the batteries.

   Last night, an hour or so after I fell asleep, George quietly came into my room. He turned off my light. Then he turned off my radio and pulled the blanket over me.

       … And there it was. The whole damn thing. A lifetime contained in the click of a switch.

    One day my mommy was standing beside my bed, turning off my radio and making sure her Pumpkinhead was tucked in for the night...

   Then came school and jobs and girlfriends and marriage and babies and taxes and ballgames and heartbreaks and birthdays and funerals and all those ordinary Tuesdays that we foolishly assume will keep coming forever.

         …And now my oldest son is standing beside my bed, turning off the light and radio that his Oldman forgot to turn off.

         It happens that quickly.

  We spend most of our lives in the enormous space between being tucked in and someday needing someone to tuck us in again.

    When we were young, we couldn’t wait to stay up later. Another half hour felt like freedom.

     Then somewhere along the way, after all of those summers disappeared, eight o'clock is time for night-night all over again.

The streetlights still come on at dusk. The sun still goes down. The radio still plays, but the person reaching for the switch has changed.

   There are a lot of moments between childhood and the autumn years. Most of them pass without ceremony. Most of the time we don't realize the important ones when they are happening.

   Maybe that is what makes getting older both painful and beautiful. If you are lucky, there is someone there at both ends.

   Someone who loves you enough to come back into the room after you have fallen asleep. Someone who turns off the lights. Someone who turns off the radio.

Someone who makes sure you are tucked in for the night.

       In 1974, it was my mommy and last night, it was Georgie.

    Sunday Funday you Chalkheads….

     Go play catch, climb a tree and reach for the gusto that today brings and ignore the sunset time that I chalked today…