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.

July 11th, 2026

 
      The women in the AARP commercials have recently become attractive to me. I want to retire and plant gardens with them.
   The other night I was watching an episode of Gilligan's Island and, after all these years, realized just how hot Mrs. Howell was.
   When I was a boy, I had a crush on Mary Ann. Then puberty arrived, Ginger Grant took over, and suddenly my heart, and a few other body parts belonged to her.
   Now that I have reached this stage of life, I find myself wanting to chase "Lovey" Howell to the other side of the island.
       Unfortunately for me, she is happily married to Thurston Howell III.
   The other day I read that the youngest member of The Wonder Years cast recently turned fifty.
Kevin Arnold has now joined Winnie Cooper and Paul Pfeiffer as fifty-somethings.
Kids born in the 1970’s are in their fifties. Kids born in the 1960’s are in their sixties. Those smart-ass toddlers born in the 1980’s are pushing forty-five, and those cute babies born during the Clinton administration are now in their thirties.
       I think you Chalkheads have realized that my recent theme has been about getting older.
   The sand running through the hourglass has made me think a lot more about time…
          ...and how not to waste it.
    A few weeks ago, I looked at the app on my phone that tracks screen time. It showed me exactly where I was throwing away precious hours… social media.
          So, I deleted every social media app from my phone.
   I was still sneaking onto Facebook from my desktop though. After an eighteen-year relationship, I finally ended it for good.
     No more counting likes. No more mindlessly watching Facebook videos. No more getting disgusted with political opinions.
     The next step was deleting all the game shortcuts from my web browser. Solitaire, chess, Sudoku and checkers...gone.
      It has even come to the point when I wake up with morning wood, I don't spend time admiring it. I watch it go away as I quickly run to the coffee pot.
           Next on the chopping block will probably be YouTube TV and Netflix.
               I am not giving up the things that actually feed my soul.

     I will still spend time reading a chapter every morning before I chalk. I will still watch the sunrise and sunset. I will still sit with a cigar and a bourbon. I will still listen to the Sox on my radio. I will still make pizza and pancakes for the Shepkids. 

    Though I should probably spend a little more time on conference calls to Heaven.
     Maybe I will finally learn to play that blues harmonica or the ukulele I bought myself after the divorce.
    I guess I have finally accepted that Winnie Cooper has kids in college now. Mrs. Howell is never going to let me massage her bunions.
          And somewhere along the way...
                          …I have finally become my Oldman.
        Tonight I am heading over to Fitzgerald's to see Los Lobos.
     It will be my first visit to that legendary little club on 12^th street as a sixty-something.
When I was twenty-something, I would look across the room at the old guy listening to The Iguanas and wonder, "What is the old timer doing here?"
      Now I know. He is there because the music never got old and neither did he. He knew what was worth spending his time on.
       Astonishment and gusto, you gorgeous Chalkheads. Don't waste time today.

 

July 10th, 2026

 

      It depends on the laugh.

  A laugh can tell you a lot about a person. From giggles and snorts to cackles and full-bellied laughter. The way someone laughs offers a little glimpse into their soul. Genuine laughter is hard to fake.

  As for me, there is another test I have trusted for years. Never trust someone that dogs don't like. Dogs have a way of reading people long before we do. If a good dog wants nothing to do with someone, I usually pay attention.

      Today happens to be National Piña Colada Day.

 Most people immediately think of that Rupert Holmes song from 1979. It is actually a strange little story about a bored husband and wife, each secretly trying to meet someone else through the newspaper personals. They unknowingly answer each other's ads, show up for the same date, and discover they already possessed the very qualities they had been searching for in someone else. They had it all along, but I was always curious… did they ever question each other for attempting an extramarital affair?

   We have come a long way from the personal ads in the Sun-Times. Today there are dating apps with endless profiles, algorithms, and swipes. Different technology, same search. I like my gramma’s advice. If you want to meet a good person, go to mass!

    For me, though, piña coladas mean something else. They remind me of my honeymoon in Aruba.

   Funny how one song from the seventies, a honeymoon and one tropical drink can carry an entire chapter of your life. For some people, they represent romance. For me, it is a reminder that not every story ends the way you imagined it would.

      These days, I think I will stick with bourbon.

           Bourbon has never promised me forever.

      Here is today's Chalkboard advice: Drink bourbon. Pet dogs and pay attention to how people laugh.

             Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 9th, 2026

 
      Yesterday was my Felix Unger Day.
   If you remember The Odd Couple, November 13th was the day Felix Unger was asked to leave his home.
         For me, that day is July 8th.
  Nine years ago, I packed up my Chevy Suburban, left behind three beautiful children, Molly the Black Lab, and the Weber grill that was hooked up to the gas line and drove to a third-floor apartment in what I affectionately call the Divorced Dad District.
       Yesterday afternoon I dropped Fritz back off at his mom's house and it still hurts. Nine years later, it hurts just as much as that first drive home after the Shepkids first weekend visit.
      July 8th was the last morning I woke up under the same roof with the mother of my children. None of us knew it at the time, but it was one of life's many last times.
    Robert Frost wrote: "Nature's first green is gold... So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay."
    That little poem isn't depressing. It is honest. Children don't stay little. Families don't stay under one roof. Parents don't stay alive forever and neither do we.
   When I first moved into this three flat, George, Fritz and Hazel still needed their dad for everything. We built forts in the living room. We made up ridiculous games that only kids understood. The zoo was our adventure, and the swimming pool was an all-day event.
    At bedtime Fritz and Hazel crawled into my bed, and they wouldn't fall asleep until they heard Sunrise/Sunset, MoonRiver, and The Rainbow Connection.
     Today George lives with me full-time. Fritz comes over about half the time and Hazel wants very little to do with Dad these days. That is what growing up looks like.
       The forts disappeared. The bedtime songs fade away. The zoo trips become less frequent. Deeper voices show up replacing cute squeaky ones. Less cuddles, more worries and independence.
       Somewhere along the way there was a last bedtime story. A last piggyback ride. A last trip to the playground. None of us knew those were the last and that is the cruel part about life's last times. They rarely announce themselves.
      Here is what I have learned. Every ending quietly introduces a beginning.
July 8th ended a marriage. July 9th began a father learning how to build a home instead of simply living in a house.
   It began the chalking of over three thousand Chalkboards. It began traditions that belong only to me and the Shepkids. It began discovering that consistency is stronger than circumstance. Nurturing and structure build a stronger bond. It forced me to become the man I needed to be and the father that George, Fritz and Hazel would know.
       Today is National Sugar Cookie Day. 

 PopPop and JoJo never let the Shepkids leave their home without a sugar cookie. The Shepkids didn’t know it at the time, but PopPop handed out sugar cookies for the last time. Someday will come when JoJo doesn’t pick up a box of sugar cookies at the bakery. Out of that will bring some sort of first….
    Maybe that is how life stays gold. Not by holding on to what was, but by passing it on.
   Nothing gold can stay. That is true, but if we live well, every last time makes room for a first time.
      …And perhaps the greatest first time of all comes on the last day we breathe, when we finally discover that every goodbye here was only preparing us for the first hello somewhere else.
              Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 6th, 2026

 

   My sixtieth birthday and the country's 250th have come and gone… Two measuring sticks, two milestones. America celebrated with grandeur, and I celebrated quietly.

    With optimism, I plan on making it to an eighty handle, but I don't expect to climb over eighty-five. That might sound morbid, but it is actually realistic.

   Hell, I could have a grabber this week or get hit by lightning in 2029 and never even see sixty-five. Like I chalked a couple weeks ago, if you want to make God laugh, come up with a plan.

    I would like to think I will finish my career on top. Watch the Shepkids become good adults. Retire with enough health to enjoy the freedom I have spent forty years working toward.

       …And if I never have to eat gruel in a nursing home, I will consider that another blessing.

   The last quarter of life is a time to dare and endure. Not because the road gets easier, but because you finally understand which roads are worth walking.

At twenty, I chased excitement.

At forty, I chased responsibility.

At sixty, I will start chasing ordinary days.

      A strong black cup of coffee before sunrise. Nipping at the Shepkids for doing stupid crap. Listening to all my weekly shows on the radio. A cigar and a glass of bourbon. A mind that can still read a book. A healthy body and a clear conscience. Having enough money to sleep well at night.

    I have spent enough years worrying about becoming somebody. These next years are about simply becoming the best version of that man.

     So today isn't about turning sixty last week. It is about waking up on July 6th and going back to work.

    There are still bids and offers to hit and lift, kids to encourage, prayers to say, books to write, cigars to smoke, ballgames to listen to, and chalkboards to fill.

       The milestone is behind me now.

                The road is still in front of me.

      So, let's keep moving.

    Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads. Gusto and astonishment.

July 5th, 2026

     I was able to grill some chicken, vegetables, hot dogs and burgers between the raindrops for the Fourth. The typical staples that seem to find their way onto America's birthday menu every year.

   Throw in some ribs, bratwursts, corn on the cob, ice cream, watermelon and apple pie, and you have the Top Ten of Americana backyard parties.

   In Chicagoland, the celebration usually spills through the garage and into the alley, where kids wave sparklers, dads light M-80s and roman candles, and the smell of charcoal hangs down the block.

  I went with a Shakespeare quote this morning because sometimes tragedy can become comedy.

My biggest Fourth of July food memory doesn't include any of those traditional foods.

      Sometime in the late 1970s, we had spaghetti for America's birthday. We didn't have spaghetti because our family was Italian American. We had spaghetti because of an accident.

   My Oldman and Uncle Charlie went shopping together on July 3rd. They bought everything you would expect for a Fourth of July cookout and packed it neatly into our big Coleman cooler on the back porch.

       There was just one problem. Neither one of them put any ice in it.

  The cooler sat in the summer sun the rest of the afternoon and all night long. On the morning of the Fourth, my Oldman walked outside expecting to drain melted ice water and see if he needed to add more ice.

       There wasn't any water shooting out of the spout on the bottom of the cooler. When he opened the lid, he was hit with the smell of spoiled meat.

   Every burger, every hot dog, every brat and every package of chicken had gone bad.

Embarrassed, he walked back into the house and called Uncle Charlie. Each brother thought the other one had taken care of the ice. Now they had a backyard party to save.

   The first order of business was figuring out what could be salvaged and what had to be thrown away. The whole time my dad was cleaning out the cooler, his wife was giving him the full "money doesn't grow on trees" speech. It was a speech I heard dozens of times growing up. Only this time, it wasn't coming from my Oldman.

    He was getting it from my Step Monster. She threatened to take her kids and head to a friend's cookout instead. The pressure was on.

   My dad wasn't just expecting Uncle Charlie and my cousins. Two of his railroad buddies were bringing their families over that afternoon.

   When my Oldman was frustrated, he usually disappeared to the basement to cool off and that was exactly what he did.

    I could hear him on the phone in the laundry room, working on Plan B with Uncle Charlie. Somehow these two German, English/Irish guys decided that the answer to their Fourth of July disaster was an Italian dinner. They each headed to different grocery stores on a national holiday and somehow pieced together enough ingredients for a spaghetti feast.

   The other two families coming to Oak Park that afternoon were Jewish and Irish. I guarantee they weren't expecting pasta on the Fourth of July.

   When my dad explained how he forgot to ice the cooler, his railroad buddies busted his balls all afternoon. Honestly, they busted his balls for serving spaghetti on the Fourth for the rest of his life.

     Looking back, I don't remember missing the burgers or the ribs. I remember the laughter.

I remember everyone giving my Oldman grief. I remember Uncle Charlie walking through the door carrying another armful of groceries.

  Funny how the mistakes become the memories that last the longest. That celebration in 1978 became one of the greatest Fourth of July memories my cousins, my stepbrothers and I ever shared.

   Two of my mentors made a mistake and instead of wallowing in it, they didn't panic. They adapted, they laughed, and they created the best Fourth of July party of my childhood.

    Maybe that is America in a nutshell. Things don't always go according to plan. Sometimes they fall apart completely, but you gather the people you love, figure out Plan B, laugh it off, and somehow the story turns out even better than the one you planned.

    That pasta supper is another reason this has always been one of my favorite holidays.

        Parades, fireworks, Uncle Sam, patriotic music...

                             ...and spaghetti.

      It is Sunday Funday, you Chalkheads. Finish this rainy Fourth of July weekend with gusto and astonishment.  

 

July 4th, 2026

 

   Today's Morning Chalkboard has all three of my favorite holidays written on it. The Fourth of July, Thanksgiving and Mardi Gras.

      Those might seem like an odd combination when you think about it. One celebrates the birth of a nation, one celebrates gratitude and one celebrates joy before sacrifice.

       If I had to pick three holidays that best describe how I try to live my life, those would probably be them.

    The Fourth reminds me that freedom is never free. It belongs to people willing to be bold enough to defend it.

   Thanksgiving reminds me that no matter how much life has given and taken away, it has always left me with something worth giving thanks for.

   Mardi Gras reminds me that laughter, good food, good music, cigars, and one more round of Sazeracs are not distractions from life. They are part of the reason we are here.

         Maybe that is why today's quote spoke to me… "Freedom lies in being bold..."

Not just politically, but personally.

Have the courage to say what you believe.
Have the courage to forgive.
Have the courage to love.
Have the courage to push through.
Have the courage to laugh hysterically and cry when your heart is full.

       Freedom, Gratitude and Celebration are a pretty good recipe for a life well lived.

   So today, you Chalkheads, celebrate the positives that these past 250 years have accomplished. Never forget that our country has always been, and always will be, a work in progress. Built on liberty, justice, and the pursuit of happiness.

                And remember... all Sox and Cub fans are created equal.

Bonus feature: Color Strong

 
    One of the strangest lessons my Oldman ever taught me involved a Polish sausage from Jim's Original.
    I was about twenty-five years old, and we were driving to Maxwell Street for lunch. He decided it was time for another one of his fatherly tests. My Oldman was always testing me. Sometimes I would pass the exam, but most of the time I would get his ‘You gotta be shitting me?” smirk.
    He looked over and said, "You've got one extra Polish sausage. If you want to get into heaven, you've got to give it away."
              "Okay. That’s easy enough…."
     "You have two choices. A black man wearing a White Sox hat or a white man wearing a Cubs hat."
       I didn't hesitate.
                 "The Sox fan."
      He looked at me for a second.
              "Why didn't you pick the white guy, son?"
    "Because he's a  f’ing Cubs fan dad!"
     The Oldman started laughing.
               "You passed."
     It had nothing to do with baseball. It had everything to do with what he wanted to know about the son he had raised. He wanted to know if I saw race before I saw a person.
       My father had a phrase he used that I have never forgotten. He didn't like the expression color blind. He would say, "That's nonsense. Everybody can see color."
      His point wasn't that race didn't exist. His point was that it shouldn't be the thing that decides how you treat someone. He called it being color strong.
        "Sure, that man's Black," he'd say. " It is pretty obvious, So what?"
   That was his entire philosophy. Recognize the differences, respect the differences and move on. Judge people by the things that actually matter.
        Their character, their honesty and whether they would help you change a flat tire in February on the side of Roosevelt Road. Whether they would buy the next round at Comiskey.
        Or, in Chicago...
                    …Whether they rooted for the White Sox or the Cubs.
   If I walked up to that Sox fan outside Jim's Original, I wouldn't have given two shits about the color of his skin. I would have handed him the Polish sausage and before long we would be arguing about whether the Sox needed another left-handed bat or if the bullpen was going to blow another ninth inning lead.
    That was the way my dad looked at the world. He had a gruff way about him, and Lord knows he wasn't politically correct, but underneath all of that bluntness was a simple belief…
          …every person deserved to be judged by who they were, not what they looked like.
    I think that is a lesson worth remembering. Forget being color blind and be Color Strong.
         If you are a Cubs fan, we may have to have a different conversation. We may call Chicago home and eat our hotdogs with mustard, but we will never agree when it comes to baseball…
       Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

July 3rd, 2026

 

    Over the last couple days, more than fifty thousand Americans became casualties in a field in Pennsylvania.

   Beginning on July 1st and ending on July 3rd, 1863, the Battle of Gettysburg became the turning point of the Civil War.

   Roughly 23,000 Union soldiers and 28,000 Confederate soldiers were killed, wounded, captured or missing during just three days of fighting. More than fifty thousand casualties in one place, all in the name of what America would become.

        Could you imagine the media coverage if something like that happened in 2026?

    Growing up during the tail end of Vietnam, we played war almost as often as we played baseball and smear the queer.

             Every kid seemed to have a favorite war.

   We had older cousins, brothers, young uncles and neighborhood kids who fought in Vietnam. We had older uncles and men down the block who served in Korea. We had grandfathers and church ushers who fought in the Second World War.

    I even knew a great-uncle who fought in what he called the Great War. I knew it as World War I and could never understand why he refused to call it that.

     He died when I was in fourth grade, and somehow, I ended up with his mess kit and his helmet.

     I still have the utensils he carried while fighting in Europe. The helmet, with its unmistakable shape from a war fought fifty years before I was born, eventually became a prop for the Cathedral High School drama department.

      If I had to pick my favorite war to study, it has always been the Civil War.

   The Battle of Gettysburg sparked a lifelong fascination with the period when our country was most deeply divided. It made me want to understand how a nation could become so divided and somehow find its way back together.

    That fascination was fueled even more by a history teacher at Dear Old Cathedral named Daniel "Doc" Wellman.

Doc stood about five feet tall and nearly five feet wide. He had a thick beard, a receding hairline with long hair hanging over his collar and looked like he could have stepped out of the 1860s himself.

    He loved two things with all his heart, American history and Indiana Hoosier basketball. By the time I left his classroom, I loved Abe Lincoln and Robert Knight.

      The ShepKids, on the other hand, don't know many details about the wars America has fought. Their knowledge of wars mostly begins and ends with George Lucas and Luke Skywalker... maybe followed by the time Martians attacked Earth in the 1990s.

  "Dad... were you ever in danger when the extraterrestrials invaded the world?"

              "Are you serious, son?"

 "Yeah. I think it was 1996."

            "You've got to be shitting me."

I saw an opening and couldn't resist.

         "Yes, son. Terrifying time. I fought off three of those slimy bastards downtown between State and Wabash. I was walking to catch the CTA when they tried to suck my heart right out of my body."

There sat my sixteen-year-old, completely mesmerized.

           "Really, Dad?"

    "No, son. I just took the liberty of bullshitting you. Get your alien invasions straight. The war between Earth and Mars happened about five hundred years before I was born."

        Sometimes I feel sorry for this generation. Not because they are bad kids.

    Because they don't know what a nazi or an Imperial Japanese soldier was. They don't know a Yankee from a Johnny Reb, or a Redcoat from a Founding Father.

       But they do know the Force is with them and that the Men in Black are protecting Earth from monsters from another galaxy.

     Over the next couple of days, we will wave flags, sing patriotic songs and celebrate the birth of a nation that turns 250 years old this weekend.

     It truly is an honor to live in a country where so many men and women have sacrificed to preserve this republic.

      I don't want the ShepKids to grow up with a favorite war the way many of us did, pretending to defend the neighborhood White Hen Pantry and the parish rectory from Germans and the 1^st Alabama infantry regiment.

      I just want them to have a better appreciation for the history that made this country possible. I have a feeling Doc Wellman would remind me that if we don't pass that history along, somebody else will replace it with something less important and incorrect.

    So put on that Spirit of '76, you gorgeous Chalkheads, and celebrate the red, white and blue.

 Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet.

      Valley Forge. Antietam. Gettysburg. Iwo Jima.

           Gusto, astonishment... and a sun with a smile.

July 2nd, 2026

 

      There comes a point in a man's life when he stops asking himself, "How do I get ahead?" and starts asking, "How do I finish my way?"

               I think that is where I am now.

  Not because I suddenly became the valedictorian. Lord knows I have spent almost sixty years making enough mistakes to fill a library of books. I have trusted the wrong people, argued when silence would have been stronger, chased things that didn't matter, and held on to things I should have let go of years earlier.

     Maybe that is what sixty is supposed to be. Not the decade when you finally know everything, but the decade where you finally know what isn't worth knowing.

     When I was younger, I wanted people to notice me. I wanted to win the argument, get the attention, make the money, have the bigger house, tell the better story.

   Now I would rather have a strong cup of coffee before sunrise, listen to the Sox game on the radio, have a healthy conversation with one of the ShepKids, and find peace in my daydream on an ordinary Tuesday.

      That sounds boring to some people, but to me, it sounds like wealth.

  I have learned that the strongest people I know don't announce what they are building. They simply keep showing up. They don't post every workout, every accomplishment, every sacrifice. They don't need applause to keep moving forward. The work is enough.

         I want to be that kind of man.

   I want to spend less time explaining my plans and more time living them. Less time reacting to every foolish comment and more time protecting my peace. Not because I don't care, but because my energy has become too valuable to waste on things that don't deserve it.

       I have noticed something else.

  The older that I get, the smaller my circle has become, but the richer my life feels. I don't need to know everybody. I just want to know the people who make me better and the people I can make better in return.

   I still want to learn something new every day. I still want to read books that smell used. I still want to discover a new piece of jazz, a Shakespeare quote I somehow missed or another lesson hidden inside an old baseball box score.

       Growth doesn't stop because your hair turns gray or falls out. If anything, it becomes more intentional. The competition has changed, as well. I don't measure myself against my colleagues, other classmates, other altar boys or other fathers anymore. I measure myself against the man I was yesterday.

Was I more patient?

Did I listen better?

Did I forgive a little quicker?

Did I make a stranger's day brighter?

        Those are the scoreboards that matter after sixty. I have also learned that peace isn't something you stumble upon. It is something you stop giving away. You stop giving it away to anger, to regret and to the people who only bring chaos. It is time to stop proving yourself to people who were never going to understand you anyway.

      Life has a funny way of finally sanding off the rough pieces. It might take decades, a few broken hearts, some funerals, a divorce, children, disappointments, laughter, and a thousand ordinary wake ups before you finally understand what is happening here.

        The truth is... I don't want the rest of my life to be louder. I want it to have a better sense of caring for the peace of mind that has always been a day away.

If these next couple decades teach me anything, I pray they teach me to become less interested in being impressive and more interested in being dependable.

To my children.

To my faith.

To my friends.

To my colleagues.

To my neighbors.

To myself.

      When my time finally comes, I hope nobody remembers me because I had all the answers.

I hope they remember that I showed up on time. That I worked my fat ass off. That I found joy in simple things. That I loved deeply, laughed often, forgave eventually, and never stopped believing tomorrow was worth getting up early to see.

Gusto and astonishment, Chalkheads.

Gusto and astonishment.

July 1st, 2026

 

    My twenty-year-old self would have never imagined this. He was busy doing the Super Bowl Shuffle and watching MTV.

    1986 John Shepley would have never believed that becoming a father mattered more than becoming successful. He would have never realized that losing love was a bigger lesson in life than finding it.

   Twenty-year-old me would have never comprehended how a ballgame on the radio or a sunrise over the lake would someday mean more than a kegger with a bunch of horny Catholic girls. The extraordinary has a funny way of giving way to the ordinary, and somewhere along the line I learned that the ordinary was what mattered the most.

    I think that is why Robert Frost's words hit home today, "The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected." 

   When we were young, we thought we were writing the story. As we got older, we realize life has been writing us all along. Every joy, every mistake, every heartbreak, every sunrise, every goodbye, every child, every friend, every loss has quietly introduced us to the person we were becoming.

    I put the number of days in the Grabber section because that is how many days it has been since I met my parents up in Edgewater on the north side of Chicago.

    All I know is this…

             … life keeps revealing who we are with every passing day.

   Gusto and astonishment, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

   Gusto and astonishment.

June 30th, 2026

 
       For the past week or so, I have been writing the same sunset on the chalkboard every morning, 8:30 p.m.
      That is today’s sunset again here in Chicagoland. Around the middle of June, into the beginning of July, the sun hangs on longer than any other time of the year. It almost feels like summer slows everything down for a second, but it doesn't hold.
      Six months from now, I'll be chalking 4:20 p.m. for ten or twelve sunsets in December. The sun slips away before most of us even get home.
              How do you like that contrast?
     The longest evenings, the shortest afternoons, both predictable, both temporary…
                    ... And that's the point, right?
       The calendar is always moving, and the 4th of July is upon us. One of my favorite holidays, and a proper summertime marker with that flag snapping in the heat.
       Thanksgiving, well, that is my favorite holiday. Bigger than Christmas, bigger than Mardi Gras. I used it as a marker in the grabber section this morning to show you Chalkheads how quickly the turkey will roast.
       But those sunrise and sunset times, those numbers I chalk without thinking, are telling a quieter truth. Whether the day stretches late or cuts off early, don't wish them away. Don't curse the heat. Because someday you will miss it. Don't resent the cold because it has its place too.
        The hard part, the honest part is this…
                …we don't get one more day, we get one less, and that is not meant to be gloomy. It is meant to sharpen our gratitude and help us appreciate what we have today.
      So, enjoy the late light now, welcome the early dark later, give thanks in both seasons. The clock keeps moving, but that's not a threat, it's a gift.

June 29th, 2026

        It is the last Monday in June of 2026.

    This week, the United States of America prepares to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the beginning of our independence.

    I am running a little late this morning because I have been watching Wimbledon. I am pulling for Serena Williams to do well as she begins her remarkable comeback at the young age of forty-four. Chris Evert is on my prayer list. She won’t be in the booth during this year's fortnight as she continues her battle with ovarian cancer.

    You might ask yourself, "Why is Jumbo so interested in a tennis tournament?"

    Well, back in the late 1970s and early 1980s, we got this brand-new cable station called HBO. Every summer they televised Wimbledon, and I was hooked. I had managed to pirate HBO through my old Pong game, which somehow made it even more exciting.

    Wimbledon became part of my summers. It was the era of Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, and later Boris Becker battling on Centre Court. Those were great summers.

    The Cubs and the White Sox both head into July above .500. Around Chicago, that's enough to put a little extra bounce in your step.

          Finally, this week is officially a Gold Bond Action Alert.

   Powder up those nooks and crannies, stay hydrated, and don't let this heat get the best of you Chalkheads.

    Happy Monday.

June 28th, 2026

 

   There were only two times I ever went to dinner alone with my dad and the Step Monster, his wife after my ma.

 The first time was my twenty-first birthday at La Majada in Oak Park. It turned out to be pretty anticlimactic after spending years waiting to drink legally.

  The whole meal I was anxious because my softball buddies were waiting for me at the tavern that sponsored our team. I wolfed down my enchiladas and slammed the first two legal drinks of my life. A couple of La Majada margaritas and then I got the hell out of there.

    The second time was a few years later. Same restaurant, same enchiladas and the same margaritas.

     This time there wasn't a birthday or a celebration. My Oldman and the Step Monster wanted to talk to me about something serious. The way they looked, I thought they were going to tell me the dog died or they were selling the house in Oak Park.

     Instead, they told me the Step Monster's oldest son officially came out of the closet. They were worried because I was the conservative Catholic in the family and they thought I would become unglued over the news.

         I honestly couldn't have given two shits.

             Hell, I knew my stepbrother was gay when we were kids.

  Both of them were floored by how little I cared. Ironically, as the years passed, it turned out the Step Monster had a much harder time accepting her son's sexuality than anyone else and she considered herself a big liberal.

         That memory brings me to this weekend.

  Pride Month reaches its grand finale with the parade through Boystown. The music, the flamboyance, the politicians and the pageantry.

                              ...and I still don't give two shits.

   If you are attracted to the same sex, have at it. Fall in love. Get your heart broken. Fight over money. Argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes. Experience all the same joys and misery that us breeders have.

   As long as you are happy and love is involved, good for you. Be gay and be proud.

       It doesn't bother me one bit that June is your month.

  To me, June is the beginning of summer. It is when baseball settles into the meat of the season. It is Ella and Louis singing Porgy and Bess. It is my grandma's rose garden blooming. It is the one month of the year when my shadow falls directly beneath my big booty.

     What I don't need is the loudest, most extreme part of the gay community shoved in my face.

             Then again...

      I don't need the loudest extreme conservatives shoving their bullshit in my face either or the loudest far left liberals shoving theirs.

    When you see me, you don't see my Catholicism or my Republican politics hanging off my sleeve. Because I don't wear them that way.

      Sure, I have a Reagan/Bush '84 t-shirt. I have an "eracism" shirt. I even have a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert shirt with the Confederate flag.

I have another one that says:

Race: Human
Birthplace: Earth
Politics: Freedom
Religion: Love.

       Hell, I still own the Confederate flag that hung in my bedroom when I was a teenager. I also have the Pride flag that I flew from my balcony overlooking the Divorced Dad District a couple years ago.

      In other words...

       You probably wouldn't have a clue what I'm all about. I am a gumbo pot of JumboLove. I don't care if you are Black or Puerto Rican. Jewish or Lutheran. Straight or gay. Republican or Democrat. Trump or Obama. Bush or Clinton.

         I don't hate you more because you are different than me and I don't love you any less either.

   I have another twenty to twenty-five years left on this planet, I would like to go out believing the Beatles had it right.

                  "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

 So, enjoy your Pride weekend, my gay and lesbian friends.

      … And if your community ever decides to add a couple more letters to the acronym...

                      Make it JBL.

                       Because JumboLove is for everyone.