July 26th, 2026

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 25th, 2026

 

       Yesterday was my daughter’s thirteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

          I thought about the two gifts I picked out.

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

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

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

           Later Friday night my phone buzzed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         Gusto, astonishment...and custard filling.

July 24th, 2026

 

Hazelnut,

Happy thirteenth birthday Daughter,

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

    Happy birthday Daughter.

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

                   Your Da,

              John S. Shepley

July 23rd, 2026

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

July 22nd, 2026

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

       A bowl of dumplings feeds you and gives instant comfort.

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

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

      Today happens to be National Hammock Day.

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

          That hammock became part of our family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   We remember the hammock.

   We remember the pizza.

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

July 21st, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 20th, 2026

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

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

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

               How can that be?

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

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

Graduating from school.

The first kiss.

The birth of a child.

The death of a parent.

Landing that job.

Losing that job.

Getting married.

Getting divorced.

Watching your son take his first steps.

Watching your daughter become too old to hold your hand.

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

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

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

   Yet here I am.

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

Another ordinary Monday at a time.

Another baseball season.

Another birthday.

Another sunrise.

Another Chalkboard.

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

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

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

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

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

July 18th, 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Now, you Chalkheads already know about Cecilia Marie.

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

          I suppose "auspicious" is the right word.

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

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

            Why this song?

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

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

                        ...I'm all for it.

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

        Go out there today, you gorgeous Cheeseheads.

             Pay attention.

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

  

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

July 17th, 2026

 

   Life is a consistent second chance. In fact, I have been given 21,931 of them since I showed up in Edgewater back in ’66.

       Every sunrise is another chance to get it right.

   Maybe what we call a "second chance" is really just someone giving us a break.

Our parents gave us breaks. So did our coaches, teachers, friends, bosses, supervisors, spouses, the parish priest and the rabbi. Somewhere along the line, somebody looked at us, saw our flaws, and decided we deserved another shot.

    Now let's talk about defeat. What makes us feel defeated? That list changes as we get older.

    As a kid, striking out in the bottom of the ninth felt like the end of the world. Later it became losing a job, getting divorced, watching a dream slip away, or lying awake at three in the morning wondering how you are going to put shit back together.

    Looking back, you would think my biggest defeats would have been my divorce or that stretch of unemployment just after Fritz was born. They weren't, those were setbacks.

   Was I defeated when we learned George had special needs? Am I defeated today because Hazel is at that age where Dad is suddenly the biggest jagoff on earth?

             No.

   Because defeat isn't something that happens to you. It is something you accept. I have never been very good at accepting defeat.

    I lower my shoulders, bow my neck, shorten my stride, and keep chopping forward. Some days you don't charge. Some days you simply refuse to stop moving.

       So don't feel defeated today, you gorgeous Cheeseheads.

   Take your lumps if they come. Dust yourself off and catch your breath. Then keep muddling through.

   Remember what F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote… "Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat."

     Every sunrise is a second chance. Before this one sets tonight, hang a victory flag on the front stoop. It doesn't have to be a big one. Make that phone call. Finish the day strong. Forgive somebody, walk another mile and say your prayers.

             Just win today.

       Speaking of victories... Today is National Dive Bar Day.

   Being a Grabowski at heart, I appreciate a good neighborhood tavern. Three beers on tap. No blender behind the bar. No smoky watermelon margaritas or buttery nipple shots.

   Just an Old Style, a shot of Jack, a bartender who personally says hello before your ass hits the stool…

    … and if you are lucky, a frozen pizza that somehow tastes like a five-star meal after four beers.

The beauty of a dive bar isn't the décor. It is the people who bring different characters to the bar. It is your favorite stool that you always sit in. It is the old Blackhawks pennant over the cash register and the poster of Dick Butkus by the crapper.

   Sit there long enough with an open mind, and you will meet someone with an astonishing story. A retired steelworker, a Vietnam veteran, a divorced mother of three, a truck driver, a young couple just starting out or one that has been together through good times and bad times. Ordinary people carrying extraordinary lives.

      Have a wonderful Friday, my friends.

         And if today knocks you down...

                           …Get back up.

  Tomorrow's sunrise is already making plans for you.

July 16th, 2026

 

   My old man always told me it was important to learn how to make friends. Know the difference between an acquaintance and a friend, he said, and you can get through life with a handful of dear friends.

   I have never had a problem meeting people, but through the years many of those friends have quietly become acquaintances.

    My circle has changed with every stage of life. Different schools, different neighborhoods, different jobs. Then marriage, kids and divorce came into play. Time has a way of rearranging the chairs around the table.

   I have been fortunate to have some wonderful friends through the years, but somewhere along the road I lost that one person I talk to every day. That friend I call after hitting a home run or after striking out.

           Maybe friendships are like beer. Quality over quantity.

  It might be nice to know somebody everywhere you go, but when life knocks you flat on your ass, it is the one or two people who run to your side that matter.

   The Oldman also liked to remind me that every stranger is a potential friend. I have always believed that. You never know who is about to walk into your life or how long they will stay.

    Today marks sixty years since I was dunked into the baptismal font at Saint Ita's in Edgewater. Most of the people who stood around the altar that day have gone on to Heaven, but I'm grateful they welcomed me into the Catholic clubhouse before I was old enough to know what was happening.

    If there is a lesson in all of this, it's probably that friendships don't have to last forever to matter. Some walk beside you for miles and others only accompany you for a few steps. Each leaves something behind that makes us who we are.

    Powder the nooks and crannies and be careful today. Our Canadian neighbors are sending smoke signals across another hot, hazy Chicago morning.

July 15th, 2026

          Somewhere along the line, I turned into Don Shepley.
   My Oldman got up early, got his work done and went to bed soon after Barney Miller or The McLaughlin Group.
   When I was younger, I could not understand it. Eight o’clock was when the night began. It wasn’t when a man started looking for his pajamas. We would go out for dinner after eight, find a tavern after dinner and stay awake until the crack of dawn.
   Now I am usually in bed shortly after eight and up before the crack of dawn. The party has changed times and locations. Instead of closing down a bar, I am chalking the Morning Chalkboard.
       Ben Franklin supposedly said, “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” I have managed the early-to-bed and early-to-rise part. The healthy, wealthy and wise departments remain a work in progress.
    That brings me to Washington D.C. and its latest attempt to improve something that does not need improvement.
    The House voted yesterday to make daylight saving time permanent. The Senate still has to act, but President Trump supports the idea. I support ending the ridiculous ritual of changing the clocks twice a year. I simply believe they are choosing the wrong clock to follow.
          Make standard time permanent instead.
    We tried permanent daylight savings time during the energy crisis in 1974, President Nixon signed it. Americans quickly discovered that an extra hour of evening light came with children waiting for school buses in the dark and working people jumping on the Ike or the L before sunrise.
    The experiment became so unpopular that President Ford signed legislation returning the country to standard time before the planned trial was finished.
          Washington already ran this rodeo. The country gave its answer.
    Here in Chicago, permanent daylight savings time would push some winter sunrises past eight o’clock in the morning. That is not a minor inconvenience. That is children walking to school, commuters driving to work and laborers beginning their day in darkness.
    The politicians sell us the idea of “more daylight.” They are not creating daylight. They are moving a number on a clock. The sun is not taking orders from Congress.
   For a man who shows you Chalkheads the sunrise and sunset every morning, I have a pretty good idea where the sun should be. I also know where Donald Trump should not be repositioning it.
   The president has more important matters in front of him. He should worry about finishing off Iran, protecting the country and keeping America great. He does not need to create another health and safety problem by pretending the federal government can negotiate with the solar system.
    Today we are in a new moon, halfway between full moons. The sky has gone dark for a moment before beginning again.
    The new moon is a chance for us to reset our clocks and evaluate the state of our being. I am no tree-hugging Deadhead dancing barefoot around a drum circle, but I do believe we are balanced by the moon, the sun and the stars. Human beings lived according to those rhythms long before senators discovered television cameras.
    We do not need a congressman, senator or president handling our realignments. The heavens can manage themselves. Our job is to pay attention.
    Maybe becoming Donald Joseph Aloysius Shepley is not the worst thing that could happen to me. There is something honest about rising with the morning, doing your work while the world is humming along and turning in before the nine o’clock news.
     The government can change the clock, but it cannot change the sun. Whatever time Washington prints on the wall, the morning will still arrive when it is damn ready. So will the sunset and so will the next full moon.
       …. and wherever the hands land, gusto and astonishment will always be there.

July 14th, 2026

     "Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."
  This morning's quote got me thinking about random moments. 

      Like putting on a Little League uniform that you laid out the night before the big game. Serving eight o’clock mass as an altar boy and seeing your proud parents in the first pew.
     Eating lunch at Gramma's dining room table with WIBC carrying the mid-day farm report.
     Watching Bears games with Bobby Grilliot or Indianapolis Indians games with Bob McCutcheon.
    Sitting in my dad's car, listening to WGN while eating White Castles. Putting on a trading jacket for the first time and hearing that opening bell.
    Falling asleep on my dad's family room couch while war documentaries played on PBS.
     French kissing for the first time at Broad Ripple Park in the Nickel Plate steam locomotive.
     Taking naps with George asleep on my belly. Sitting with Fritz next to a sewer cap, waiting for an alligator to crawl out or playing Barbies with Hazel for hours.
     Worrying about the Cartersburg Fog Monster at my aunt and uncle's house. Eating ice cream cones with my mom during a summer rainstorm.
    None of those felt like history while they were happening. They were just another Tuesday.
    The same is true of so many things that disappeared before we knew they were disappearing. The last ten times you hugged your parents. The last closing bell, walking off the trading floor, never to hear open outcry again. The final dinner at a favorite neighborhood restaurant before the lights went out for good.
   The old Chicago Stadium with cigar smoke hanging in the rafters and Keith Magnuson patrolling the blue line. Friday nights at Comiskey watching the South Side Hitmen bang dingers. Soldier Field beneath the colonnades while Walter Payton picked up another first down. Sitting in the Wrigley Field bleachers the summer I turned twenty-one, drinking Old Style with friends who seemed like they'd be around forever.
     At the time, they were ordinary days. Looking back, they were some of the biggest moments of my life.
    Maybe George will someday remember our trips to the Polar Bear for an ice cream. Maybe Fritz will remember grabbing a hot dog at Parky's with his Oldman. Maybe Hazel will remember lying on a blanket with her head nestled in DaDa's hug, watching clouds drift across the April sky.
         I hope so.
   Because I have learned that extraordinary lives are rarely built from extraordinary days. They are built from thousands of ordinary moments that reveal their true value only after they have become memories.
       To all of my French Chalkheads...
                   Happy Bastille Day. Vive la France!

July 13th, 2026

     The Monday Morning Chalkboard has a Truman Capote metaphor to start the week.

    Maybe an easier way to say it would be this: the softer he spoke, the more obvious the venom became.

    Let's pray that if anyone fits that description, they are well out of sight in the rearview mirror. A quiet voice often carries kindness, but beware, it can carry contempt as well.

    The baseball season has reached the All-Star break. Summer is quietly beginning its second half, and daylight is slowly beginning to retreat.

    The days don't suddenly get shorter. They surrender their light one quiet minute at a time. Not with a bang, but with the quiet lengthening of a shadow that will become noticeable in August.

     Today is a Gold Bond Day. Powder your nooks and crannies.

                  Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 12th, 2026

 

Yesterday I chalked about going to Fitzgerald's for the first time with a sixty handle.

  It turned out not to be much of a problem because the median age at the Los Lobos show had to be about sixty-seven. Last night felt more like a class reunion for the Class of '77 than a rock concert.

    I got to the club early and found the perfect spot to stand. Right next to one of the support poles holding the roof up. It blocked the traffic and gave my big ass something to lean on.

    The usual concert T-shirt crowd was in attendance. There was a healthy number of patchouli oil Deadhead types wandering around. You had the rockabilly swing-dance greasers and greaser chicks. The tough-looking East L.A. Latino crowd was represented as well.

      The largest demographic at the famous west side roadhouse was the worn-down white guy in the cheap Hawaiian shirt, Skechers with the cushioned soles and arch support, and compression socks.

    My left cankle, complete with the discoloration and scar from where the metal plate was inserted, paled in comparison to the battle wounds carried by the Los Lobos crowd. Canes, knee braces, wrist casts, and limps were everywhere.

   The one thing I noticed more than anything else though, was the smiles. I watched Latinos and Caucasians sharing their passion for a band that has been making music since just about everyone in attendance was a kid.

   I saw buddies who have probably been busting each other's balls for fifty years. Parents standing beside their grown children. Couples who survived the hard years and now get to enjoy the golden ones together.

       Then there was me. The guy who came alone but was never really lonely. I ran into a dozen people I knew and even caught a ride home from a dear friend.

    It was just a happy crowd listening to an old East L.A. garage band. People smiled and they danced as best they could. Nobody was fighting and nobody was yelling about politics.

    Sure, there were a couple of white liberals wearing "Abolish ICE" T-shirts. I'm betting most of the Latinos in the room couldn't have given two shits about their political statement. They were there for Los Lobos, not looking for support from the dear old Oak Parker.

    I don't know why I expected a shit ton of millennials to be hanging around a ragged old nightclub listening to a band that peaked forty years ago. Maybe I need to stop worrying about getting older and start hanging around people who don't give a damn about being senior citizens.

         That reminds me...

       I need to check AARP and see what discounts turning sixty finally gets me.

  I'm not even sure what the median age of a Chalkhead is anymore. There is one Chalkhead on here who changed my diaper. There are others I coached over at Saint Cletus. Somehow, we have all ended up in the same place, sharing another morning together.

    This is our time. I am going to keep chalking about it and try to commit as many acts of kindness as possible along the way.

    Sunday Funday...

           ...the shadows are slowly growing longer, football season is less than two months away, and life is still pretty damn good.

         Gusto, astonishment, and acts of kindness, you beautiful Chalkheads.