March 21st, 2026

 There are some stories that stay around longer than others. Not because they are loud or dramatic, but because they need to be told. This story is unfortunately one of those.

Kevin Goodman was a farmer. That should tell you almost everything you need to know right there. Early mornings, long days and quiet pride. The kind of man who doesn’t complain much because there is always something that needs to get done. The kind of man who carries more than anyone can see.

At his burial, his son Christian did something only a farm boy would think to do. He brought a cup of dirt from the pitcher’s mound at Iowa State, where his dad once threw baseballs as a young man. When they placed Kevin’s urn in the ground, the dirt from Ames went in first.

“From now on,” Christian said, “my dad will always be on the mound.”

It is a beautiful image. A man set back where he once stood tall, ready to throw one more pitch. It fits another story about a field of dreams out in Iowa. It sounds like a peaceful story about an Iowa farmer who played baseball in college, but the truth behind that moment is harder.

Kevin took his own life.

And like a lot of things in agriculture, it didn’t happen all at once. It built slowly, over time, under pressure that most people never saw.

The Goodman family farm was a fourth-generation operation. That word, generation carries weight in the farming world. It isn't just land. It is identity, it is legacy and it is responsibility handed down from one set of hands to the next.

When Kevin’s parents passed away, the farm was divided equally among their children. On paper, that sounds like a fair deal. In practice, it brought conflict to Kevin and his siblings. Kevin was the one farming the family land. The others were not. Yet every decision required agreement, and before long, agreement turned into a battle.

Plans were made to eventually sell the farm. Restrictions were put in place that made operating harder. Buyouts added debt as lawyers took over the conversations. Suddenly something that had been built over generations started to come apart.

Here is the part that hits close to home. Farmers and commodity brokers aren’t all that different. We get up early. We live by numbers and outcomes we don’t fully control. Weather for them, markets for us. Both turn out to be issues for both of us.

You can do everything right and still get blindsided. When that happens, there’s an instinct that kicks in... lower your shoulders, bow your neck, and push through it.

That instinct builds resilience, but it also builds silence.

Kevin kept working the farm and paying the bills. He took care of all the obligations. From the outside, everything looked like it was being handled. That is the dangerous part. Because the people who are the best at carrying the load are often the last ones to say it’s too heavy.

He had a warning moment with an attempt in December. His family urged him to get help, but the cost of treatment wasn’t covered. For a man already worried about finances, adding another bill felt impossible. So he did what he knew how to do. He went back to work.

That isn't weakness. That is old school conditioning built on faith and hard work. That is how a lot of people in the farming community are wired.

Christian now wonders if things could have been different. If stepping away might have changed the outcome. That is a heavy question for a son to carry, but this shouldn't have been his to solve alone.

There are lessons here, they aren’t complicated and they are hard. Equal shares isn’t always fair when it comes to a working farm. Silence is not strength when it replaces honest conversation. Legacy isn’t preserved by avoiding difficult decisions. It is protected by facing them head-on, early, and together. Not with lawyers, but as a family.

There is another lesson too, one that doesn’t get talked about enough.

It’s okay to say it’s too much.

In agriculture, in the markets, in the barn, on a trading desk and in life, there is a line where toughness stops being strength and starts becoming isolation. Knowing where that line is and having the courage to step across it and ask for help might be the most important skill of them all.

Kevin Goodman’s story doesn’t end with how he died. It lives in how he worked, how he showed up, and how deeply he cared about keeping something meaningful alive.

That is the final image worth holding onto.

A man on the pitcher's mound.

Not because the game was easy, but because he kept pitching the ball with everything he had.

Many of us have bills adding up on the kitchen table and less money in our pockets. Ask for help and remember the foundation is built on faith, family and friends.

...and Chalkheads too!

WITH YOU!

March 20th, 2026

 Last night, I stood in the hallway between the boys’ rooms and called out, “I love you, boys.”

From each room came an answer, same words, different voices.

Each one carrying the personality of the son who said it.

And just like that… everything that had me pissed off earlier disappeared.

The dishes left in the sink.

The laundry piled outside of the basket.

The clogged toilet.

The endless grab ass between two brothers.

All of the bullcrap was gone for a quick moment and I went to bed feeling blessed.

Spring starts today and with it comes gusto and astonishment. We made it through another winter.

March 19th, 2026

 We have just come out of the dark.

The new moon passed quietly without fanfare or bright lights and attention like a full moon gets. Just a dark sky that asked you to sit alone a little longer and rejuvenate.

We have entered the waxing crescent and the sliver will start to return.

After a cold start to the week, there is a little warmth returning into the weekend. A reminder that things do change, even when it feels like they won’t.

Langston Hughes said it better than most:

“My soul has grown deep like the rivers.”

That kind of depth doesn’t happen fast and that is where the tension lives.

We are used to time moving quickly.

Days turn into weeks before you even get your footing. You look up and wonder where the hell it went. Time doesn’t slow down for you, and it never waits for you to catch up.

But growth doesn’t move like time.

Growth is stubborn and takes its time. Growth asks you to show up repeatedly, long before there is anything to show for it.

That is the dealio Chalkheads.

You don’t speed up growth to match time. You steady yourself inside it. You stop chasing the full moon and start respecting the sliver.

Because while time may rush past you, your work is still the same today as it was yesterday. Show up and grow a little more.

That is how something small becomes something deep. Not all at once, but slowly…

... like a river.

So if today doesn’t feel like a breakthrough, don’t get discouraged. It isn't supposed to be. If you stay with it, if you keep putting one honest day on top of another, you won’t need to chase fullness. You will grow into it.

One day, without even realizing when it happened, you won’t be chasing time anymore…

...you’ll be carrying something that time can’t take from you. The legacy that you cut like a river underneath the light and darkness of the moon.

March 18th, 2026

 A Wednesday morning with a simple question on the board: What can I do for you?

It is a plain sentence that has zero poetry to it. It has no flash, but there is weight behind it if you mean it.

That question carried Lou Holtz through his life as a coach, a teacher, and a man. Not because it sounded good, but because he lived it. He understood something most people didn’t understand. If you focus on helping others, you don’t have to chase meaning. Meaning will find you.

I have written that question before. Not perfectly, but enough to know it changes how you walk through the world. Lately, I have been thinking, I want this to be part of how I go out.

I don’t want to copy another man or borrow his voice. I want to build my own version of that question. Something that fits my hands, my life, my story. Because the truth is, life has a way of narrowing things down.

My parents have gone to heaven. I’m an only child, so I have no brothers or sisters beside me. I’m no longer married or in a relationship. Those parts of my life don’t exist. There is no circling back to them, no revisiting what was. Those chapters are closed, and are not coming back.

What Is left isn’t nothing. What’s left is everything that still matters.

I’m a father.

I’m a friend…

… and if I’m being honest, that is where the real work is anyway.

There is no hiding in those roles. No titles to lean on. No shortcuts. Either you show up, or you don’t. Either people can count on you, or they can’t.

So this isn’t about writing a quote on a chalkboard. It’ i about becoming the kind of man who can stand behind it.

“What can I do for you?” only means something if you’re willing to follow through. It means listening when it’s inconvenient. It means showing up when you are tired. It means putting someone else’s need ahead of your own comfort.

It doesn’t mean being everything to everyone. That is a mistake, it means being reliable to the people God has put in your life. The ones who look to you, whether they say it out loud or not.

Your children.

Your friends.

The ones who trust you enough to lean, even just a little.

Faith plays a role here too. Not the kind you talk about to sound good, but the kind that steadies your feet when things feel thin. The kind that reminds you that service isn’t weakness. It has alignment and purpose.

If you want peace, you prepare yourself to serve.

Si vis pacem, para bellum.

If you want peace, prepare for war. But maybe the war isn’t always out there. Maybe it is the daily fight against selfishness, against drifting, against becoming someone people can’t rely on.

That is the real battleground.

Winning that fight doesn’t look dramatic. It looks like consistency.

So maybe my version isn’t going to sound exactly like Coach Holtz. Maybe it is quieter. Maybe it is rough around the edges, but if I can walk into a room, whether it’s with my kids, my friends, or anyone who crosses my path and carry that same intention…

What can I do for you?

Because at the end of it all, people don’t remember what you said nearly as much as they remember whether they could count on you. And if I can become a man people can lean on....

.....through faith, through trust, through showing up, that will be enough.

March 17th, 2026

 Early on, there was Wally Phillips on WGN. Both my parents listened to him, and my dad would often call in when there was a railroad question that needed answering. Wally had the Ellery Queen Minute Mystery, and as a kid I loved trying to solve it before school.

Even then, the radio was always on.

When I was a young boy, I remember hearing Orion Samuelson talk about agriculture and small-town living. He would quote the grain and meat markets from the Chicago Board of Trade and the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. I had no idea then that his voice and those numbers would foreshadow my own career in the markets.

His passing on March 16th is the reason I am chalking about radio.

My dad gave me a love for jazz, and a big part of that was Dick Buckley. He had a Sunday jazz show that my dad listened to religiously. Either on his transistor radio on the front porch or on the one in the laundry room in the basement.

I met Buckley by accident in the mid-1990s at a CD shop in Oak Park. I heard his voice talking to the salesperson and recognized it immediately. I introduced myself and he took the time to talk with me about the history of jazz. For forty-five minutes we talked about everything from swing to Dixieland to bop. That is the kind of generosity radio people seem to have.

Then there was Al “Mr. A” Hudgins on WNIB during the 80s and 90s with his late-night blues program. After midnight until four in the morning, he was my guide through the Chicago blues.

Paul Harvey was another voice that seemed to be everywhere the radio was on around my dad. With that unmistakable delivery and his signature sign-off, “And now you know… the rest of the story.” He became one of the most trusted and recognizable voices on radio and another one of my Oldman’s favorites.

There was Dick Biondi, the King of the Oldies, spinning early rock and roll through my younger years. We had Bob Collins, who became my dad’s best friend on the radio after Wally Phillips. My dad was devastated when Collins died tragically in an airplane crash.

My dad had Wally Phillips and Bob Collins. My generation had Lin Brehmer on WXRT.

Lin used to say he was “your best friend in the whole world,” and the truth is he made everyone feel fabulous to be alive. When cancer took him, it hit Chicago hard. When Lin died, I finally understood how my dad must have felt when Bob Collins left the airwaves.

Radio voices do that. They comfort us. They give us a sense of security. Over time they become family, the big brother, the uncle, the grandpa, the music teacher.

All those memories came rushing back with the recent loss of Orion Samuelson, the Big O. With him gone, it feels like one of the last living pieces of my dad disappeared too.

I can still hear that deep voice telling stories and quoting the markets. It seemed like Orion was always on in our house. On the kitchen counter, in the basement laundry room, on the front porch, the back porch, the garage, and in the car. Wherever my dad went, the radio was playing.

Now I realize I do the same thing.

There is a radio in my kitchen that plays twenty-four hours a day. My kids hear jazz and blues from WDCB, my old-time radio show on Saturday afternoons, and classical music overnight on WFMT.

Orion hasn’t been giving the daily market reports for a few years, but he was still the American farmer’s best friend. He used to say: “If you eat, you are involved in agriculture.” He had a way of saying things that stuck with you. I remember him telling a clueless morning host not too long ago that almond milk has nothing to do with milk.

“You can milk a cow,” he said, “but you can’t milk a nut.”

He defended dairy farmers, and really all farmers, and he defended small-town America, from right here in Chicago.

Every Christmas I still listen to his voice on WGN reading “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” A tradition that is as important as George Bailey and Rudolph.

Back in the late 1970s, Orion brought a young broadcaster into the mix, Max Armstrong. Together they became two of agriculture’s strongest voices, telling the stories of farming to people who might otherwise never hear them.

Now Orion joins a remarkable lineup of Chicago voices who have skipped the ionosphere and moved on to the heavenly atmosphere to broadcast their shows.

…and if I’m being honest, I’d just like to hear him one more time. Just once more I would like to hear that deep voice say:

“May soybeans are trading eleven dollars and fifty-three cents… and in the corn pit, the May contract is four dollars and fifty-six.”

Because for a lot of us, that wasn’t just a market report. It was the sound of home.

March 16th, 2026

 I chalked this board at 2:30 Monday morning after being rudely awoken at 2:22am by my mom. Three hard knocks on the bedroom door startled me out of a dream that had me drooling on my pillow.

Thanks Ma…

I’ve had this song running through my head since seeing a video yesterday of Ike Reilly singing it. The lyrics landed and wouldn’t leave.

I rarely listen to this band much anymore. Usually around Saint Patrick’s Day and their one song at Christmas. That song is one of my favorite Christmas songs. The band was a solid foundation in my musical taste since the 1980’s. We are cut from the same cloth if you like The Pogues.

I don’t have much more to say since I’m up an hour earlier than normal. 3:33 is the angel number that my alarm is set at.

Today I start donating money to lucky winners of square pools and bracket pots. I always root for Maguire University, Indiana, Butler, Loyola, DePaul and Iowa. I don’t think any of my teams are in. So I’ll root for Illinois and Purdue.

The weather is going to suck this week. Let’s flip into the second half of March and hope for the best.

Gusto and astonishment for all Chalkheads.

Go Team….

March 15th, 2026

 We go from pies to Caesar overnight.

From Pi Day to the Ides of March while we splash green on everything and celebrate the Irish American culture that helped build what we know as modern-day Chicagoland.

That’s the rhythm of March around here.

Yesterday was packed the way real life is packed…

…wakes, rugby matches, birthday parties.

The full human ledger. Grief in one room, laughter in another, muddy cleats on the sideline and candles on a cake by nightfall. Life rarely organizes itself neatly as It keeps us moving.

The sun showed itself for a short stretch after sunrise yesterday, just enough to remind us it still lives above the gray. By noon the snow came drifting down again, reminding everyone who’s really in charge of the weather.

That’s March too.

Today is the Ides of March, a date that history remembers for betrayal and ambition. Most of us will spend it in more ordinary ways…

…coffee cups in our hands, laundry tumbling in dryers, butts in church pews while we think quietly about the week ahead.

There is something honest about an early Sunday morning laundromat. The machines hum like a low choir, people mind their business, and the world slows down just enough to gather your thoughts.

The Irish who helped build this city understood something about endurance. They dug canals, laid brick, poured concrete, and built neighborhoods that still stand. Chicago wasn’t polished into existence. It was fought into shape by people who worked, prayed, argued, laughed, and showed up again the next morning.

That is the lesson for today.

History moves through emperors and assassinations, but real life moves through ordinary mornings.

A cup of coffee, a quiet thought and clean towels in a warm dryer.

Sometimes that is more than enough to begin again.

Six Years Since the Bell Went Silent

Six Years Since the Bell Went Silent

Last Friday marked six years since the closing of the trading floor at the Chicago Board of Trade, March 13th, 2020.

   That was the day they announced the floor would be shut down for an undetermined amount of time because of the China flu. I remember saying goodbye to a few guys on the way out that afternoon. I told them I would see them in a few weeks. Three weeks maybe. Maybe a month if things drag on. I haven’t seen many of them since.

   That building had been my workplace for nearly five decades. From the late 1980s until the first strange months of the 2020s. I count that as five decades, close enough for me. The trading floor was my home in a way that few places ever are for a man.

   I walked into that building for the first time as an oversized boy who didn’t have much direction in life. I didn’t know what I was doing or where it would take me. I just knew there was noise and energy and a place for a kid willing to fight to make a living. 

    The first time I heard the opening bell down there, the room exploded. Hundreds of men screaming bids and offers, arms flailing, jackets waving, paper flying. It sounded like a riot and an orchestra at the same time, and somehow, that chaos made sense. Over time the noise became a language, and the pit became a neighborhood. The men around me became something like brothers, even if half the time we were trying to take money out of each other’s pockets.

Those pits were blue-collar arenas disguised as financial markets. My dad told me something important the first day I started.

      He said, “Remember something Moose. You are a blue-collar worker. Don’t start thinking you are some financial wizard or commodity guru.”

    Forty years later I can admit he was right. We were laborers of volatility. We just happened to wear colorful jackets while doing it.

   The last time I heard the closing bell in March of 2020 I was no longer that oversized boy looking for direction. I was divorced, bruised up by life, and well into middle age. The world was about to shut down in a quarantine that made no sense to me then and still doesn’t make much sense today.

  We all walked out thinking we’d be back soon. Instead, the doors closed and never really reopened. Six years have passed since then.

  The quarantine ended eventually. Life staggered forward into something they called the “new normal.” The truth is that something deeper changed in the rhythm of the world.

      My kids lost something during that time. They lost years of school hallways, lunchroom laughter, stupid jokes between classes, and the normal friction that makes childhood what it is supposed to be. You can’t replace those moments on a laptop screen. Those were stolen seasons.

     My father died during that stretch as well. He passed away in a cold nursing home in Pittsburgh while the world was locked inside the Covid bubble. The last time I spoke to him was on an iPad. A lifetime of conversations reduced to a glowing rectangle held up by a nurse wearing a mask. That memory still sits heavy on my chest.

   Six years have moved fast. Faster than I ever expected. I’ve gone from my mid-fifties to standing just about at the sixty-year handle. Time moves differently once you cross that line. Back in March of 2020 I had no idea what the next few years were going to look like. The truth is I’m even more clueless about what the next six years might bring.

   My career will likely end somewhere in that stretch. What began in a colorful trading pit filled with screaming bids and offers at the foot of LaSalle Street will probably end at a quiet trading desk in a suburban office building overlooking the western suburbs of Chicago. Not quite the same soundtrack.

  George will be a neurodivergent man in his mid-twenties by then. Fritz will be stepping out into the world after college trying to find his balance and build a life. Hazel, my dear baby daughter, will be graduating from high school. She will probably have the oldest dad in her class. That’s the truth.

   And if I am honest with myself, I sometimes worry about whether I will be scraping things together just to keep a roof over whichever Shepkid happens to be living down the hall at the time.

   Life doesn’t hand out pension plans to guys who spent their lives yelling in trading pits. That’s another thing those kids never quite understood during the glory days. The pit felt like the center of the financial universe, but there were no union cards and no guaranteed retirement waiting at the end of the road.

  Just dust. Six years after they shut that building down, that is all that remains. Dust and broken hearts.

  The men who once stood shoulder to shoulder down there are scattered now. Some are still grinding away behind computer screens. Some disappeared into other careers. A few have already left this world altogether. Some by their own hands and some because of a pill and a bottle.

   The next six years ahead feel like an uphill climb, and if I’m going to be honest, I’m getting a little tired.

    I think about the movie Wall Street sometimes. It came out right at the beginning of my career. Back then I was the same age as Bud Fox, the young guy chasing the dream, hungry for a shot at the big leagues. Now I’m closer to the age of Harry Lynch, the old veteran sitting quietly in the corner office at Jackson-Steinem.

  The senior citizen of the room. That is how the wheel turns. The hardest truth about this stage of life is that death starts showing up more often. You notice it slowly at first. Then one day you realize you are attending more funerals than weddings and baptisms.

  The guest list changes. So, when I look ahead at the next six years, optimism doesn’t come easily. I don’t have a fucking clue what is ahead.

    More loss will probably knock on the door. Time will keep moving forward whether I’m ready or not. My children will step further into their own lives while I move further into the later chapters of mine.

        That’s just the way the story goes, but one thing I do know is this: I was there.

   I stood in those pits when the bell rang, and the room exploded into life. I heard the roar of a thousand voices chasing opportunity and survival in the same breath. When the final bell rang in March of 2020, I walked out with almost forty years of noise still ringing in my ears.

   That kind of life leaves a mark. The trading pits at the Chicago Board of Trade may be quiet now, but the echoes are still there.

March 14th, 2026

 I’m not much of a mathematician.

Now, I can respect the folks who can sit down and explain why 3.14159265359 goes on forever. That is impressive work, but if you want to get my attention, you put an “e” on the end of Pi. Because I am less of a numbers guy and more of a connoisseur of a good pie.

A savory chicken pot pie or a shepherd’s pie can warm up a Midwestern dinner table on a bitter January night. Something about steam rising from the crust and the smell of gravy and vegetables says you are exactly where you need to be.

The Fourth of July doesn’t really begin until someone cuts into a warm apple pie and drops a scoop of cold vanilla ice cream on the side. The ice cream melts into the crust just enough to make a beautiful mess.

Then Thanksgiving rolls around, and the annual debate begins between pecan pie or pumpkin pie. Families have quietly divided into camps over that argument for generations. A pie disagreement is much better than a political one on that Thursday in late November.

Some of my best memories sit at an old kitchen table with my gramma and great aunts. They would pull fresh strawberry-rhubarb or blueberry pies out of the oven. The crusts perfectly browned and resting in pie tins so sturdy they could double as a bulletproof vest.

And then there are the diners in small Indiana towns. Breakfast or lunch finished, coffee cup half empty, and the waitress casually asks if you saved room for pie. That is when the Hoosier sugar cream pie enters the picture.

It is a beautiful thing. Smooth and creamy, almost like a crème brûlée in pie form, with a cinnamon-dusted top and a buttery crust that holds everything together.

Sugar cream pie traces its roots back to the Amish kitchens of Indiana. During the Depression it became a staple because it was simple, inexpensive, and made from ingredients most families already had on hand.

Now I am a Chicago guy through and through. I love my hot dogs and Maxwell Street Polish. Italian beef dripping through the wrapper. Thin crust pizza, tom-toms, gyros and pizza puffs.

But take me down to Greensburg, Shipshewana, or Kokomo. Sit me down with a pork tenderloin sandwich and a slice of sugar cream pie for dessert, and you might hear my Chicagonese soften just enough to pick up a little Hoosier twang.

So happy Pi — or Pie — Day, Chalkheads.

Head over to your local bakery and treat yourself to your favorite slice.

Cold and cloudy in Chicagoland today. Which, if you ask me, is the perfect kind of day to spend with someone you love and share a piece of pie.

Just try not to get crumbs in the bed.

March 13th, 2026

Time is limited and that is the plain truth. The older I get, the more I realize that the clock never slows down for anyone...

... and yet somewhere inside me there is still a kid who hasn’t quite grown up.

I can still hear my mom’s voice in the kitchen telling me to grow up. I can hear my grandma saying that I need to become a man real fast. I can see my old man throwing his arms up in the air asking if I’m ever going to get my shit together.

I’m not sure I ever gave them the answer they were looking for.

There have been moments in my life where that question hung in the air longer than it should have. Hard lessons that come when I realize that I might be the problem in my own story.

Sometimes the safest way to look grown up is simply to be alone. I was a latchkey kid. I learned independence early, but independence isn’t the same thing as maturity. These days I’m not sure I’m growing up as much as I’m just growing older. The people who used to yell at me for doing stupid things aren’t here anymore.

That silence can be a strange teacher.

Today's quote talks about chasing a runaway bus, always running, always trying to catch something that’s already leaving the station. Maybe that has been my problem. Running instead of standing still and facing life.

Routine can make it look like I have my act together. Some days I still feel like the kid outside the school auditorium after play rehearsal, waiting for my mom to pull up and take me home.

I still worry about getting carded. I still think I'm the new clerk in the ten-year pit. I’m still looking for a new hobby. I'm still wondering if I'm dreaming and when I wake up it is 1978.

Maybe growing up isn’t a destination. Maybe it’s just the willingness to stop running.

Either way, today is another Friday the 13th, and it’s Saint Patrick’s Day weekend.

Avoid Jason tonight.

Enjoy the Irish rovers tomorrow.

March 12th, 2026

 I chalked a quote from Alex Dumbass this morning. Some problems in life can’t be fixed with noise.

You can’t argue problems away.

You can’t negotiate with them.

You can’t shout them into submission.

You just have to wait it out. It takes time and silence to navigate the problems in the world.

Time lets the truth surface and silence lets the dust settle.

Farmers understand this better than most people. A farmer can’t rush rain, he can’t hurry a seed and he can’t bargain with the wind.

He plants.

He waits.

He watches the sky.

…And sometimes the sky answers in ways nobody expected.

This morning the weather folks are talking again about the possible return of El Niño later this year. The Pacific Ocean warming that can shift the rainfall and put major moves in the growing season.

Weather predictions are a lot like life predictions, but a little more forgiving. They look smart on paper until the clouds move the other way.

The truth is markets move, weather shifts and every year changes. Most of the time the best move isn’t panic, but patience and silence. Because the loudest voices are rarely the wisest ones.

Sometimes the smartest man in the room is the one leaning against the wall, saying nothing, waiting for the picture to become clear.

Farmers know that and traders should too…

…. time and silence.

Two remedies the world doesn’t use nearly enough.

March 11th, 2026

 Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.

Some call it gabagool, nobody calls it capicola. Some put mutzadel on their gabagool sangweech.

Me?

I’m in the school of walking in the rain and prefer roast beef with provolone, a pickle and a slice of tomato.

I have lost a couple umbrellas to the wind whipping across a bridge along the Chicago River. The kind of wind that turns an umbrella inside out and sends it tumbling down Wacker Drive like a wounded bird.

Clothes dry off eventually and a good raincoat doesnt turn into tinsel like an umbrella will.

The banker never wears a Mack in the pouring rain, very strange.