April 26th, 2026

 Half the country woke up upset this morning. The other half is ecstatic.

Not because the Bears signed undrafted free agent Caden Barnett out of Wyoming Saturday evening.

No… they are fired up over something a whole lot louder.

A California Teacher of the Year, Cole Thomas Allen, tried to shoot the current President of the United States last night. That is the kind of headline that splits a country clean in two before the coffee even hits the cup.

The Morning Chalkboard doesn’t get into politics, unless Father Bobby from the South Side is catching potshots.

What matters here is football. I am more interested in a six-foot-four, versatile lineman out of Laramie who just got his shot to become a Chicago Bear.

They call him the Vanilla Gorilla. He wore 72 for the Pokes. If things break right, he might be the best Bear to wear that number since another lineman with a nickname, William “The Fridge” Perry.

When I got in trouble as a kid, my Oldman used to tell me I got Conrad Doblered. That meant somebody baited me into the penalty and I was the one who got caught.

Conrad Dobler played for the St. Louis Cardinals. Mean, nasty, and proud of it. He was famous for nudging his nemesis into retaliation, just in time for the referee to see. I liked Dobler just to get under my dad’s skin.

Dobler was also a Wyoming offensive lineman. So maybe this Barnett kid means life is coming full circle.

This Bears draft might end up being the best class since 1983. The year they brought in the backbone of a team that went on to win Super Bowl XX.

The other day my brother-in-law out in Laramie called, asking if the Shepkids needed to freshen up their Wyoming gear. I will be calling him back Monday morning to tell him to grab a Barnett jersey for me. Because right now, my new favorite Chicago Bear is the Vanilla Gorilla.

It looks like a dreary Sunday morning and next week looks more like mid March than late April.

But the shadows are getting shorter and the afternoons are getting longer.

Today is a good day to pick up the phone. Call ten people…. friends, colleagues, classmates.

Check in and let them know you were thinking about them.

That is the kind of thing that still matters in the world. Getting an unexpected telephone call from an old voice.

Gusto and astonishment are out there Chalkheads…. Find it!

April 25th, 2026

 I was reading my Facebook memories this morning instead of doing a Morning Chalkboard.

I came across this memory from 10 years ago. I was standing at my trading desk near the grain pits. A commotion was occurring on the financial side of the trading floor. A Merc trader was having a heart attack and they couldn't save him.

At the time, I was going through the last few weeks of my mom's life and my marriage was crumbling quickly when Dave Grant passed away.

I didn't know Dave. He was a Merc guy from another part of Chicagoland. I have been thinking about what has happened after Dave went to heaven. He left his wife Ann and their two sons Ryan and Samuel to go on without him.

Dave loved to golf, loved to cook and was a huge Bear fan. Sounds like a guy many of us hangout with...

Dave was 53 when he died on the trading floor. Just a few years older than me at the time, born in 1962. He missed out on Covid, two Trump Presidency's, the Biden Administration, the destruction of Chicago and several shitty head coaches in Halas Hall.

He also missed out on seeing Ryan and Samuel grow up. He missed out on growing more in love with Ann and he missed out on turning sixty and getting close to retirement.

Our time together isn't that long.

Don't let the Dave Grant in YOUR life go to work and not come home without letting them know that you love them.

Today is Dave Grant Day.....

Call ten Dave Grants and catch up with them. Ask them what they think of the Bears draft picks. Ask them what they are cooking for dinner tonight. Ask them if they got out on the golf course this spring.

Many of Dave's friends didn't get a chance to do that ten years ago and wish they did..........

David Bruce Grant Obituary

David Bruce Grant, 53, of Batavia died April 25, 2016, of an unexpected heart attack. He was born in Danville, IL the son of John and Marie (Theriault) Grant. He was united in marriage to Ann Koebel.
David will be remembered as "A True Warrior"; a thirty-two-year veteran employee of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. He was an avid golfer, chef, and Chicago Bears fan. David enjoyed discussing the greatest mysteries of life with anyone who cared to listen. May David find peace on his new unexpected journey he is about to begin.
He is survived by his wife Ann Grant "H.B.", two sons Ryan and Samuel; and numerous siblings.
He is preceded in death by his parents.
A visitation to celebrate his life will be held 3:00 P.M. until 7:00 P.M. Saturday, April 30, 2016 at Moss Family Funeral Home 209 South Batavia Ave. Batavia, IL.

April 24th, 2026

 Heavy on your mind?

That is not a throwaway question. It is the one question that shows up before the coffee is ready…

…before the phone starts ringing…

…before the world tells you who you are supposed to be today.

What is heavy usually doesn’t make noise during the day. It waits for the quiet and calm.

It’s money.

It’s family.

It’s time.

It’s the things you wish you handled differently.

It is the things you are not sure how to handle.

Most of us try to outrun it or stay busy. We try to keep moving or just flip the channel.

The heavy doesn’t leave just because you ignore it. It just rides along with you, scraping its knuckles on the cement.

So try this instead, just for today….

…Don’t fix everything. Don’t solve your whole life.

Just name it, that one thing. The one thing that is sitting on your chest right now.

Because once you say it out loud or even just admit it to yourself, it loses a little bit of its weight.

Then you can do something about it.

One call.

One decision.

One small step forward.

That is how you move heavy things.

The Chicago Hounds are out in Seattle tonight. A long trip in a tough environment. It isn’t easy winning on the road, but that is the heavy they need to move.

You don’t wait for things to get lighter. You show up and carry it anyway.

April 23rd, 2026

     Most people spend their whole lives chasing something out in front of them… “finding themselves,” reinventing, rebranding, starting over.

Today’s quote flips it the right way. It says the real work isn’t out there, it’s back there like the wizard behind the curtain.

You are not building a new person.

You are peeling off what the world piled on top of the original one.

April 22nd, 2026

 I just erased several paragraphs.

I was going to tell you that my circle is tired. Not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep fixes. I mean worn down, worn thin. The kind of tired that comes from too much noise and not enough meaning.

Cable television, the home computer, the cell phone and streaming everything all the time. Somewhere along the way, convenience turned into clutter, and clutter turned into decay.

We used to have edges to the day.

You got the final edition of the Chicago Tribune. You watched the local news at 7:00 AM. If you missed it, that was on you. The day moved on without you. Soap operas filled the afternoon until the five o’clock news brought you back to center. Followed by network news, game shows and prime time on three networks. You closed it out with the 10 o’clock news and maybe a rerun of The Honeymooners before bed.

There was structure, there was rhythm and there was always a finish line and a closing bell.

Now it’s just… endless.

Harry Truman took a train home after his presidency. Think about that. He didn’t have a motorcade. There wasn’t a book deal waiting or grotesque libraries being built. No empire was built on the back of the office. He came in as a man and left as a man.

We have drifted a long way from that.

Radios should come back, get rid of Spotify, Sirius and iHeart. So should movie theaters where people sit shoulder to shoulder and actually watch the same thing at the same time. Diners that never close should bring a neon glow back. Newspaper stands on the corner. Horse tracks that smell like cigar smoke and bad decisions. Taverns within walking distance where the bartender knows your name and your business, but keeps one to himself.

Streetcars, not buses. Neighborhoods with identity known by names and the local Catholic parish.

Black neighborhoods. Puerto Rican neighborhoods. Irish, Polish, Mexican, German, Jewish, Italian neighborhoods.

Not to divide, but to belong. Keep to yourself if you want. Just be decent and courteous.

And every one of those neighborhoods should have good schools, clean grocery stores, steady jobs, and a place for the old folks to sit and play bingo.

That isn’t nostalgia, that is dignity.

This summer we turn 250 years old. That number doesn’t mean a damn thing unless we act on it. Not as a country pointing fingers, but as individuals deciding to be better where we stand.

Because the truth is, these politicians aren’t going anywhere. Some months the paycheck will be light. Some months the bills will stack higher than you would like.

And still… life moves.

What I learned when my parents went to heaven is this: everything they worried about is gone.

Not solved, not fixed. Just… gone.

Most of it disappeared faster than the grief it created.

What is left of their lives fits into a couple boxes in the back of my bedroom closet.

You want to know what isn’t in those boxes?

The bills.

The overtime.

The missed deadlines.

The broken cars.

The loose toilet handles.

The spilled turkey gravy from Thanksgiving 1975.

None of that crap made the cut.

What made the cut were the things that mattered, and even those are just fragments now.

So no, I’m not worried about the economy or the government. I’m worried about the people I love. The ones grinding every day. The ones trying to get ahead and feeling like they’re falling behind. The ones who are too damn tired to enjoy what they’ve already earned.

Take care of what you can touch. Let go of what you can’t.

Because none of the noise, none of the stress, none of the worry is going to be there when the boxes get packed.

The dance ends quicker than you think. Don’t walk off the floor and go home disappointed. Grab your crush, pull them close and slow dance while the music is still playing.

I ended up erasing and chalking more than I thought this morning. I need to take the erasers out to the playground and beat them on the concrete.

Stress less Chalkheads, stay hydrated and unbothered…

April 21st, 2026

 I’m not singing for the future because I don’t own it.

I’m not dreaming of the past because I already lived it.

These days I don’t count the firsts or the lasts.

I count the little things.

A good cup of coffee.

A quiet room.

A laugh I didn’t expect.

A song on the radio.

Life didn’t shrink… it just got more honest.

Bonus points if you know the two artists represented this morning…

April 20th, 2026

 I was joking with a buddy of mine who also suffers from Sunday night into Monday morning anxiety.

It starts with the stopwatch ticking at the beginning of 60 Minutes and builds into that 2:00 AM walk to take a piss.

On the way back to bed, you make the mistake. You detour over to the computer screen…

… just to take a quick look at the overnight markets.

That is all it takes, you are done. There is no going back to sleep.

We are not the only two Oldboys doing this dance. Most of the guys our age who have been answering opening bells since the Milli Vanilli scandal are up before the Monday dawn, staring into the glow.

Back then there were no bids, no offers and no noise until the bell rang.

We had a 7:20 open and a 2:00 close in the bond room. The grain guys had it even better, 9:30 in the morning to an exhausting 1:15 in the afternoon. Hard work that was measured with time stamps and trading cards.

The pits took a break.

Life took a breath.

Now?

These screens never sleep. They are always hitting bids and always lifting offers… always pulling you back in.

And that’s the thing, Do not trifle in the affairs of dragons.

Because once you step into this world. Once you walk over to that screen at 2:37 in the morning, you are not dabbling anymore.

You are in it, pugna usque ad finem. Fight all the way to the end.

Because this way of life doesn’t allow half measures. It never did. It has structure and it keeps you grounded.

From the trading pits of our youth to the keyboards of our graying days. When we got home from the bars at two in the morning and now we take the geriatric walk to the bathroom to urinate.

The opening bell will always be ingrained into those that heard the call of adrenaline.

Buy low and sell high. Get long in Chicago and sell it in London.

The week has already started in Singapore. Rise and shine and grab the gusto.

Do you know where your brokers are?

April 19th, 2026

 To the left I have my nightstand radio playing blues before sunrise.

To the right I have the morning birds singing through the open window.

In the middle is the tinnitus ringing in my head.

Together, the cacophony has my thoughts wandering, moving too fast to pin down to chalk.

From the Strait of Hormuz, to the Pope stirring up the Gospel, to the water bill due tomorrow, to the 60 Minutes stopwatch marking the end of the weekend.

My mind is anxious. I couldn’t even remember what movie I watched last night when I woke up.

I’m starting to forget stupid things like that more every day.

Today’s Chalkboard is going to be like a Seinfeld episode, a chalk about nothing.

I wake up almost every Sunday morning to a blues program I’ve been listening to for nearly forty years.

That alone is crazy….

…things measured in forty years.

Forty years ago used to mean the Second World War or President Truman. Forty years shouldn’t be Live Aid or Reagan telling Gorbachev to tear down a wall.

There isn’t anyone laying here telling me to turn off the radio or shut the window.

The one thing I do miss is the Sunday paper that was as big as your sister’s ass.

I was listening to Lou Manfredini yesterday on the big GN. He is the handyman guy who gives advice to callers with broken doohickeys and thingamajigs.

The callers always have thick Chicagonese accents, and Mr. Fix-It answers in clean deez and doze sentences.

At one point they ran a station break. The voice was Orion Samuelson, who recently went to heaven.

I started crying. That voice always brings me back to my Oldman.

Now I’m thinking about the guy who does this blues show on WDCB.

Just like Orion, or Dick Buckley, or Lin Brehmer… sooner or later this guy who has been spinning blues records for me on Sunday mornings since the eighties, is going to sign off for the last time.

And when that happens, it won’t matter if there is someone laying here telling me to turn off the radio.

Oh yeah, I woke up with rosary beads under my hip. Like the movie I forgot, I forgot that I meant to bang out a round of Hail Marys before falling asleep. I can’t even remember if I finished a decade.

And no, I wasn’t drinking.

Just an early evening cocktail with my mother-in-law before dinner time.

I gotta shave if I’m going to Mass. I forgot to take my dress shirts to the cleaners yesterday.

The sun should be starting to peek out soon.

I need to stop rambling about nothing and go make a pot of coffee.

The Sox are at their usual horrible pace.

At least the other Chicago team has climbed above .500.

I gotta go pay that water bill.

I put a half-ass grin on the sun today. Go get that gusto and maybe… just do stuff.

Sometimes the most astonishing things come from stupid stuff.

Or maybe from nothing at all.

Happy Sunday, you Chalkheads…

April 18th, 2026

 There was a period from my mid-twenties to my mid-thirties when I went to the shows and grabbed a bite with my Oldman.

It was the late 1980’s towards the new millennium.

We hit several of the theaters near the neighborhood and a few of our top restaurants throughout this period.

The memories are dearest to the movies we saw at the Lake Theater in Oak Park and cheeseburgers at Goldy’s just on the other side of Harlem Avenue in Forest Park.

Last night I watched one of those movies that I saw once with my dad. A movie I haven’t seen in thirty years.

The movie was "Legends of the Fall" with Anthony Hopkins and Brad Pitt.

The Oldman left the theater that night grumbling about how Anthony Hopkins saved this mediocre film. He thought Brad Pitt was recreating his role from another movie we saw together, "A River Runs Through it."

My Oldman saw himself to the father growing older and me to the son still trying to tame his youth.

I was in my twenties at the time and thought I knew everything about everything, and my dad had forgotten everything about everything.

Last night I realized I was wrong and cried every time Sir Hopkins bonded with Brad Pitt.

The lines from the father in the movie echoed the advice given at the table at Goldy Burgers...

...and the same wisdom I find myself leaning on today in the Divorced Dad District.

We grow old quickly in raising our children, protecting them from themselves and the cruel world we bring them into.

The movie and bite to eat period in my life occurred when I was off on my own making mistakes at LaSalle and Jackson over on Oak Park Avenue and everywhere in between.

Sitting over cheeseburgers, French fries and bottles of beer was a father and his son reviewing movies and relating them to life.

I tossed and turned last night thinking about chalking down these memories.

I concluded that the time I had with my father wasn’t long enough and my time as a father won’t be long enough.

And a tear rolled down my face when I think of one of the last things my Oldman muttered on his deathbed, “I’m proud of you, you magnificent son of a bitch….”

I’m not sure why it took me thirty years to see this movie again. Maybe because it stuck with me that Don Shepley gave a thumbs down with his patented fart noise raspberry sound.

It is going to be a gorgeous spring Saturday. Go find some gusto and astonishment.

Maybe find someone you love and go to the show and grab a bite afterwards. The memories in thirty years will outlast the movies box office draws.

The rain and clouds should subside and bring a chilly sunny afternoon. Try and smile back at the sun.

April 17th, 2026

 Time and nuns are the best teachers.

April 16th, 2026

   A fish with a closed mouth never gets caught isn’t just about staying quiet, it’s about knowing when talking costs you. In the old Chicago rooms, whether it was a trading pit or a back table, guys understood that loose words could cost money, reputation, or both. You didn’t need to win every conversation. You needed to stay in the game.

Eggs Benedict Day takes me back to The Old Broker’s Inn, tucked right next to the Board of Trade. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t have to be. Dark stained booths, worn just right. Heavy wood tables that had seen a thousand deals, a thousand stories. The walls were paneled deep and dark, the kind of place where voices stayed low and conversations mattered.

Then you had that counter in the back…. bright cream Formica, wrapping around like a diner trying to hold onto a little light in a room built for shadows.

I would walk in a little worse for wear some mornings, no question about it. Hungover, a little beat up, maybe still a little ripped from unemployment eve. I wouldn’t overthink the order either, eggs Benedict, every time.

Hot coffee, that rich hollandaise, the kind of meal that didn’t just fill you up, it steadied you. Like it was putting you back together before the opening bell.

It wasn’t just breakfast. It was a reset.

April 15th, 2026

   Warren Zevon was terminally ill in 2002 when David Letterman asked him if he had learned anything facing death.

Zevon didn’t give the late night host a philosophical answer.

He just said, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

Don’t rush through life. Take the time to appreciate the ordinary things.

I have always believed the best sandwich is one made for you by someone who loves you.

Now let’s get something straight…

… I don’t think a hot dog is a sandwich.

No reason, it’s just not a sandwich. End of discussion.

I love a good sandwich, and I live in a city that knows how to make one.

I’d drive for a great Reuben, a deli sub, a meatball sub or an Italian beef

A BLT and a grilled cheese? Those are home sandwiches. Same with a PB&J. You don’t order those, you grow up with those.

My deathbed sandwich?

The pork tenderloin sandwich from somewhere in the Midwest, preferably a state that starts with an “I.”

Pounded thin and hanging over the bun like it is too big for the plate.

Crisp lettuce.

Firm onion.

A juicy slice of tomato.

Mayonnaise on both sides of the bun.

Next up is an oyster po’ boy made anywhere in Louisiana.

And rounding out the top three….

The breaded steak sandwich from Ricobene’s. Located just north of Sox Park. A favorite of Anthony Bourdain, which tells you everything you need to know.

So from here on out…

…Enjoy every sandwich.

Slow down.

Pay attention.

Because the moment you take that first bite, that is the whole deal.

That’s when you realize time is limited and that sandwich is one bite closer to heaven.

Chalkhead Nation, talk to me:

What’s your favorite sandwich?

Did someone you love make it for you?

Is it tied to a memory?

Did you eat it in a place that’s long gone?

Because if anything brings gusto and a little astonishment…

…it’s a great sandwich.

Bon appétit.

April 14th, 2026

 What you know is very limited. What you don’t know is limitless.

That line isn’t meant as discouragement. It is meant to ground us and bring us down to earth. Most people walk around thinking they have things figured out. We build opinions, routines, and beliefs based on what we have seen and experienced.

What we know is shaped by where we have been, who we have met, and what we paid attention to.

It is a narrow lane.

The world outside of that lane is wide open, full of perspectives, experiences, and truths we haven’t even brushed up against yet.

There is something humbling about that. It reminds us to listen a little more and assume a little less.

It keeps us curious.

It keeps us from getting too comfortable thinking we have it all nailed down.

It keeps us humble.

At the same time, there is opportunity in it. If what you don’t know is limitless, then so is your ability to grow. There is always something new to learn, someone new to understand, or a different way to look at things.

That isn’t a weakness, it is the whole point of growth.

The people who keep moving forward aren’t the ones who know everything. They are the ones who understand how much they don’t know, and stay open enough to keep learning anyway.

Keep learning Chalkheads and always find new ways for gusto and astonishment.

April 13th, 2026

 I’m coming up with this theory as I get older…

…that I need, we need to take care of our village.

Village?

I’m still working on the definition, but it is basically anyone who has crossed our path and is still around.

It could be your best friend since kindergarten…

…or the girl you had a fling with after your divorce.

Your last great uncle in Midlothian…

the receptionist at your office…

the guy you worked with at the beginning of your career…

or the elderly neighbors down the block who used to drink beers with your parents at the neighborhood tavern.

Anyone you have come across through the years who still lingers. I really think we need to start putting them on the agenda.

Can I drive you to your doctor’s appointment?

Do you want to go to eight o’clock Mass?

I’ll pick you up Tuesday, let’s grab a cup of coffee at the diner.

Meet me at the bar for a pint so we can shoot the shit.

Once a stranger… usually an acquaintance… now a friend.

I’m not saying I need to become Mother Teresa or Oskar Schindler, but I think it is time to be the guy who sweeps the shed.

Time to show up more. Time to stop blowing off chances to make life a little mo betta’.

I floated this idea the other night with a couple of my dearest friends. I ran it by my mother-in-law. Now I’m bringing it to the Chalkheads.

The other day I vented about Hazel… and I got a shit ton of support.

And at the same time, a handful of villagers needed a little JumboLove themselves.

This Chalkboard and my willingness to be transparent hasn’t just helped me. It is helping people inside this village that I didn’t even realize I was building.

708-215-0700.

That is the number for the head villager. The heavyset kid who is just trying to hold this thing together as we all get a little older.

Put it in your Rolodex and use it if you need some JumboLove.

I’m not climbing ladders or cleaning your gutters, but I will do my best to help make the best out of the worst.

Today is Peach Cobbler Day.

I love a warm cobbler with a cold dollop of vanilla ice cream.

And yeah… I really love those two-legged Hoosier peach cobblers smothered in smoochie.

Happy Monday, Chalkhead Nation….

…Gusto and astonishment for everybody.

April 12th, 2026

 I went to a wedding in the early 1990’s that had a disposable box camera on each place setting at the reception. I had never used a box camera before.

These were our generation’s version of today’s cell phone camera.

We didn’t take selfies… we took usies.

I was digging through old photos last night looking for a photograph from one of my Mardi Gras parties in the mid-1990’s. I always had a fresh disposable camera nearby. I took them to parties, tailgates, sporting events, road trips, concerts, and even a bar mitzvah.

They made it easy to capture memories. I could spend a fin at Walgreens, drop it off at the photo shop in the lobby at the Board of Trade…

…and get this, they could get my film back to me the same day. I could drop it off before the market opened and pick it up after the closing bell.

Much more convenient than dropping it off at the Photo Hut and waiting two weeks. Maybe not the immediate gratification the world has today, but we didn’t know any better.

I came across some photos from a trip in the late 1990’s. I remember one of the guys in our group bought one of those new digital cameras.

He bragged about how he spent five hundred bucks and how awesome it was. He scoffed at the Kodachrome box sticking out of the top of my shirt pocket.

He was a jagoff that was never invited to join us again.

The thing is, thirty years later, my photos look just as good. You couldn’t tell if they were taken on a five-dollar camera or a five-hundred-dollar camera.

The memories are worth a million dollars.

I don’t know if there is a lesson here, but I do know this, I’m glad I made it a habit to always have a disposable camera at my disposal.

Misty, water-colored memories of the way we were.

Looks like the Sox are dragging the Cubs into the shitty baseball category. At least this summer we have a 250th birthday to celebrate, because the baseball season is going to suck.

Get your taxes done… and go find the gusto and astonishment that mid-April brings.