October 14th, 2026

 

     I woke up this morning feeling sorry for myself.

    No dramatic event, no fresh catastrophe. I just opened my eyes, felt tired before my feet hit the floor, and realized I couldn’t name one thing coming up in the near future that had me excited. I have nothing to circle on the calendar to count the days until.

     I could tell you everything I have to do, but I can’t tell you what I am looking forward to.

     That is a shitty way to start a Wednesday.

      I get up, I go to work, I finish work and hurry home.

    I love my children, but I also get tired. Those two facts live in the same house.

    Parenting an autistic adult has brought challenges I didn’t understand when George was little. Being his father means I’m still learning, still worrying, and sometimes running short on patience.

    With Fritz, I am trying to help him find his way into college, find his voice, find some confidence in his own footing.

   With Hazel, I worry about how small her world has become and how to help her feel comfortable stepping into a bigger one.

     Three children, three different roads and their Oldman is standing at the intersection, trying to direct traffic.

       Somewhere in all that directing, I have lost track of where I would like to go.

    I went to a wedding this past weekend and saw old friends. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. There was something wonderful about having a date on the calendar that meant laughter, familiar faces, and a few hours when nobody needed me to solve anything.

      Then it was over.

       Now what?

        That question followed me into the kitchen this morning.

   I know people are carrying heavier loads. People are sick. People are out of work. People are grieving someone whose chair will be empty this Thanksgiving.

    But I don’t think we have to hold a pity party before admitting we are worn out. Somebody else’s trouble does not make mine disappear, but it ought to make us a little more patient with each other.

          “Everyone is fighting a battle,” says today’s Chalkboard.

  Some battles are easy to see. Others look like a man going to work, making a joke, answering the phone, and doing what he has always done. You would never know he spent the morning wondering when he gets to have something to look forward to.

    So, pray for each other and check on each other. Call the friend you keep meaning to call. Sometimes an invitation means more than the person extending it realizes.

    I don’t have a grand revelation this morning. My coffee didn’t give me enlightenment.

     I need a date on the calendar to look forward to. I can’t keep waiting for every worry to settle down before I make room for a happy occasion.

   With three kids and a working life, I might be waiting until the priest is telling me that it is last call.

    This morning, I am tired, I am worried and I am feeling fucking sorry for myself, but I will still answer the bell. 

    The Latin in the grabber section means to pray urgently. Pray for the Pope. Pray for each other and remember we all have some sort of shitshow behind the scene.

October 13th, 2026

 

    I took Fritz to a college open house on Monday. We went to learn about his future. There was also room on the schedule for an examination of his Oldman.

    The first thing that hit me was the diversity. What stood out most were the young women wearing islamic headscarves, hanging out together. They looked young and happy.

         Fritz caught me looking.

      “What are you thinking dad?”

 “These girls are here getting an education,” I told him. “They can’t do that in the shitholes they come from.”

     The young Shepley didn’t appreciate his Oldman’s frankness. He told me I was wrong.

    So, I pointed toward the purple-haired girls and the theater boys prancing through the quad.

    “Not only would those girls get stoned for trying to learn in mooslim countries, those wackos over there and that kid heading into the lecture hall could get thrown off a building for being who they are.”

    That earned me the announcement that my generation is closed-minded.

We hadn’t even gotten to financial aid, and Dad was already on academic probation.

     As we headed to the next event, a Jewish man in his mid-thirties came walking toward us. Amid the Free palestine shirts and islamic headscarves, his traditional Jewish clothing caught my eye.

    He looked at me. I smiled.

     “Shalom,” he said.

      “Shalom,” I answered.

   He had gone about three steps past us when he turned back.

        “Are you Jewish?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’m your friend.”

        He thanked me and continued on.

  Fritz looked at me again. His Oldman was turning out to be a more complicated elective than he had anticipated.

            “Why did you tell him we were his friend?”

   “Because that man would give us bread if we were hungry, water if we were thirsty, and protect us if somebody was hurting us,” I told him. “And we ought to be willing to do the same for him.”

     That was what I believed when I looked at him. A stranger, sure, but a brother, too.

   We went into our next presentation and turned our attention to the business of college: computers, engineering, tuition, and how many internal organs Dad might need to sell to pay for it.

    When we came out, our Jewish friend was standing in the hall. It looked like he was there to help prospective students learn about Jewish life at the university.

     He recognized us.

         “Are you interested in Jewish life here?”

  “My son might be if he comes next fall,” I said. “We are Catlicks, but we are with you.”

        He thanked me and gave Fritz and me a blessing.

  When we walked away, I felt that familiar tingling I get after going to confession. That faithful flush that leaves me quieter inside, even when my mouth spent the morning running without supervision.

     I don’t know whether that belongs among the mysteries of my faith. I do know that it stayed with me as we walked away.

    I kept thinking about that man. About the hatred Jewish people face. About what it takes to walk into the world wearing your faith where everybody can see it, knowing somebody might hate you before you have even opened your mouth.

        He opened his with “Shalom.”

                           Peace.

    I have lost acquaintances over my support for Israel and my love for Jews.

I give two shits.

    I am also a friend of the homos and lesbos and my soul brothers and sisters. If you want to hurt any of them, Jumbo will not stand for it.

    My vocabulary might not get me invited to chair the campus sensitivity committee. I can live with that. When somebody needs a friend, I intend to show up.

    Fritz challenged me Monday. Good, I am glad he has the backbone to question his father. We can keep talking. I will keep nurturing and showing my crude look at the world. That is part of his education.

   We learned about financial aid, computers and engineering, and campus security. We talked about who belongs, what freedom means, and what we owe a stranger.

    And a Jewish man blessed a couple of Catlicks in a university hallway.

Today’s chalkboard says, “A small act is worth a million thoughts.”

       I am still thinking about Schlomo and what he took from meeting the Shepleys.

          Go team!

October 12th, 2026

      We get all worked up over the White Sox, and every autumn besides 2005, we end up wondering why the hell we did that to ourselves again.

   Then we get all worked up over Ditka passing away and forget there is still a football game to play. I was guilty, I figured the Coach arriving in heaven might give the Bears a little divine timing against the Packers.

   Apparently, heaven doesn’t take requests from the Bears’ front office.

The Packers beat the living crap out of Iron Mike’s team on Sunday. How are all those assclowns who have spent the last ten months chanting “Green Bay Sucks” feeling this morning? That chant would sound a whole lot better if we occasionally gave them a reason to believe it.

   I’m not sure any of this bullshit matters nearly as much as we let it.

    Over the weekend, I added three more people to my daily conference call to heaven. The list never gets shorter; it only gets longer. Some mornings, I spend more time talking to people up there than I do to people down here.

      Now I have to put Pope Leo on the fucking prayer list.

   I got so carried away with having one of our guys in the Vatican that I figured God might finally look favorably upon his baseball and football teams. Meanwhile, Father Bob has to have some cancer removed this week.

That puts a loss to the Indians and an ass-kicking from the Packers in their proper places.

    Our guy in the Vatican is still a guy. A Southside guy who can get sick, fall down, and needs our prayers like anybody else. We are so busy being proud of him that we can forget to worry about him.

       But the more I think about it…  nine innings of baseball, four quarters of football, and five decades of a rosary have something in common.

    Each gives us a reason to stop for a while and to believe something good might happen. To share a little of our lives with somebody else.

   Sometimes we get a victory. Sometimes we get our hearts broken. Sometimes we finish the prayer and still don’t understand a damn thing.

       Then we get up and keep moving.

There is another game, another season and another morning when somebody needs us.

     …And in my faith, there is a season beyond all of this that never ends, Eternal life. I am counting on a pretty good crowd when I get there.

       So, let’s go, White Sox, let’s go, Bears, and let’s go, Papa God.

   Today is Columbus Day. I’m grateful for the courage of people who took chances, crossed oceans, and risked their lives. The road that brought us here was ugly in places, and we ought to be honest about that.

    When you order a steak, you are mostly thinking about the plate when it lands in front of you, but somebody did the work to get it there.

    America came to us through the work, courage, mistakes, and suffering of generations. Now it is our turn to take care of what we’ve been handed and leave something better for our kids.

     This morning’s chalkboard says, “Keep moving forward, even if you have to crawl.”

     After this weekend, crawling sounds about right, but I’m still moving, still cheering, still praying.

         Gusto, astonishment, and a prayer for Leo. 

October 11th, 2026

    "Being messy just means being alive!"
         Life was a hell of a mixed bag this week.
   It started with the White Sox continuing their march toward baseball immortality. For a brief moment, the Pale Hose had us believing in miracles. Unfortunately, reality caught up with our Southsiders, sending them packing for their annual winter vacation.
     By the end of the week, Chicago legend Mike Ditka had joined Heaven's roster. Somewhere up there, I imagine the Coach is already complaining about the officiating, questioning God's play-calling, and demanding that somebody block that goddamn outside linebacker.
     The week was not finished reminding me about the passage of time.
      Saturday brought me to a wedding.
  The youngest daughter of my old friend Bill Hamilton was getting married. It was a beautiful celebration, filled with family, friends, laughter, and enough generations to make a genealogist reach for a bottle of Jack Daniels.
   Her two older sisters were there with their husbands, toddlers, and babies. The young mothers had important responsibilities as members of the wedding party, leaving their husbands in charge of feeding, entertaining, and preventing the next generation of Hamilton descendants from destroying the reception hall.
    The mothers delivered beautiful speeches and heartfelt toasts to their little sister and newest brother-in-law, while their young husbands performed their own acts of heroism involving juice boxes, and negotiations with small human beings who had zero desire to be at a wedding reception.
    Watching the whole production, I could not help remembering that not terribly long ago, we were the young parents trying to survive a Saturday night.
        And before that, we were the brides and grooms.
   I spent much of the evening hugging and catching up with friends I have known for forty years.
              Forty fucking years.
    That number sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.
  I remember when we were the young people at these weddings. Our parents sat proudly at their tables, watching their children begin new lives. They smiled as we danced, drank, laughed, and carried on like we were going to live forever.
       Now we are the parents.
    We are the generation sitting at the tables, looking at our children and their children, wondering how the hell we got here so quickly.
     Bill gave a fantastic speech and danced with his daughter, looking every bit the dapper daddy of the bride.
         Thirty-one years ago, he was the groom.
  Back then, his parents were watching the same youthful exuberance that I witnessed Saturday night. The faces have changed, the music is different, and the dresses probably cost three times as much, but the celebration remains familiar.
    The only difference is that I now need a scorecard to identify all the Hamilton offspring, their spouses, and their children.
    At my table sat three couples whose weddings I attended decades ago.
 At one of those weddings, my buddy sitting across from me and I were doing chest bumps on the dance floor. That wedding was for the couple sitting to my right Saturday night.
    We were young, strong, stupid, and convinced we were indestructible.
 We played softball at Ridgeland. We played tackle football in Lincoln Park without helmets, insurance, or common sense to know better.
   We made chili in our first apartments and gathered around televisions to watch Mike Ditka’s Bears beat the living hell out of the Packers and Patriots.
          Life was simple.
   Our bodies worked, our hair was plentiful, and nobody gave a shit about the sodium content of the potatoes.
     Saturday night, our conversation had evolved considerably.
  The band was too loud. The spotlights were too bright, and somebody thought the potatoes were too salty.
            Jesus Christ. We have become our parents.
   Toward the end of the evening, I decided to execute the time honored Irish goodbye.
   No speeches or extended farewells. Just quietly slip out the door and disappear into the night.
              I almost made it.
   Standing near the exit was the grandfather of the groom, a ninety-two-year-old gentleman with a cane. He stopped me with a question.
            "Do you know the score of the Sox game?"
   My escape had been foiled by a man who was ninety-two years into his own adventure.
    He and his wife were sitting on a couch in the foyer because they, too, thought the music was too damn loud.
  He introduced me to his second wife and casually mentioned that his first wife was also attending the wedding. They were still friends watching their son’s son get married into the Wild Turkeys.
     Here is a man who understands diplomacy, forgiveness, and the importance of not burning bridges.
      We started talking.
     About Fenwick and Mr. Lattner.
       About Johnny Morris and the Bears.
         About Chicago, old neighborhoods, God, and second chances.
  He asked where I lived. I told him a place where I can sometimes hear the lions roaring from across the river.
     We talked like two old friends who had simply forgotten to meet each other until his grandson’s wedding.
      There was something about that conversation.
    Here was a man approaching a century on this earth, sitting beside his wife, enjoying a wedding, discussing old memories, and still interested in the score of a baseball game.
     He wasn't finished with life, not by a long shot. He was still participating, still curious, still collecting stories, and still following the White Sox.
     Driving home, I thought about the evening and the people who have accompanied me through my life. Friends who have witnessed my finest moments and forgiven some of my stupidest ones. People who have loved me despite knowing exactly who I am. People who show up with a phone call, a visit, a laugh, or a shoulder when life gets difficult.
    Forty years of weddings, funerals, births, opening days, broken hearts, second chances, and memories that grow richer every time we tell them.
   We have buried parents, welcomed grandchildren, celebrated victories, and survived disappointments.
     We have lost some people we never imagined living without, and somehow, here we are, making another memory on a Saturday night in Bensenville.
    I started the week watching a baseball team remind me that hope doesn't always deliver. Then came the passing of a Chicago legend, reminding me that even the toughest eventually leave the field.
     I ended the week watching a beautiful young couple begin their lives together, surrounded by generations of love, and talking about life with a ninety-two-year-old gentleman who still had plenty of living to do.
    That is quite an incredible week.
 Today's Chalkboard reminds us that being messy just means being alive, and life is gloriously messy.
   The weddings, the mysteries of our faith, the funerals, the friendships, the mistakes, the second marriages, the salty potatoes, and the Irish goodbyes that never quite work.
    It is all part of the same beautiful, unpredictable story.
  I used to think growing old meant gradually running out of things to look forward to.
        Saturday night changed my mind.
  If I am lucky, someday I will be the ninety-two-year-old guy with the cane, stopping the guy to ask him the Sox score.
       … And maybe he will take a few minutes and listen to an old man's stories.
    Maybe I will tell him about Mayor Daley, old Sox Park, the trading floor, and all the wonderful people who made my life such an interesting mess.
     Because gusto and astonishment does not belong to the young.
      Gusto and astonishment have a past, a present, and, if we are lucky, one hell of a future.
           And who knows?
    Maybe by the time I am ninety-two, the White Sox will win another World Series, and the Bears will win another Superbowl.
     Now that is something worth living thirty-two more years to see……

October 10th, 2026

 It isn't a coincidence that Mike Ditka died two days before his Chicago Bears take the field against the Green Bay Packers. Somewhere in heaven, George Halas is probably handing him a headset and telling him to get his ass down to Lambeau.

My only Mike Ditka story is a quick one, but it is a good one.

The golf club my in-laws belonged to held an annual golf tournament followed by a big dance party in the parking lot. The evening always ended with a spectacular fireworks show. It was one of those end of summer traditions, filled with cocktails, old friends, and people pretending they had played better golf than they actually did.

Ditka was playing in the tournament the year Terri was pregnant with George. She was about three weeks away from bringing our first child into the world.

She was glowing with life. She wore a colorful summer dress that hugged her round belly, and she was absolutely beautiful. There is something magical about a woman carrying her first child, especially when you are the lucky prick responsible for half of the equation.

We had just arrived at the club and were walking down the hallway toward the bar to meet her parents. At the end of the hall, near the entrance to the pub, was the men's room.

Suddenly, the door swung open and out walked The Coach.

Mike Ditka, Iron Mike. The man who had delivered Chicago its greatest football season and a Super Bowl ass-kicking that Bears fans will still be talking about when the sun burns out.

…And he was walking straight toward us.

Without missing a beat, I stuck out my hand and said, "Hello, Coach. I'd like you to meet my wife, Terri Shepley."

I said it with the confidence of a man who had known Ditka for thirty years. Like we were old drinking buddies. Like he might ask me how my mother was doing or whether I was coming over for Thanksgiving.

Ditka didn't hesitate.

He placed those enormous hands of his right on Terri's pregnant belly.

Then he looked me up and down. Once… Twice…

"Just what the world needs," he growled, "another broken-down noseguard."

He gave me that famous Ditka stare. The kind that made me think he was about to grab my facemask, drag my sorry ass to the bench, and explain exactly why I sucked.

I just stood there grinning like an idiot.

Then something wonderful happened.

Those massive hands slid from Terri's belly to her shoulders. The scowl disappeared. He smiled at her with a gentleness you did not often see on the sidelines at Soldier Field.

"Good luck, dear. God bless your family."

…And just like that, Iron Mike became a sweetheart.

He stepped around Terri, gave me a little shoulder bump on the way past, just to remind me who was in charge, and hobbled toward the foyer. Within seconds, he disappeared into a crowd of people who looked at him the way Catholics look at the Pope.

Only in Chicago could a football coach walk out of a men's room and create a religious experience.

Terri was already the prettiest woman at Butterfield that evening. But now she had a smile that stretched from one ear to the other, and that glow of hers had somehow grown even brighter.

When we reached her parents, she told them what had happened with all the excitement of a little girl who had just met Santa Claus.

I stood there enjoying every second of it.

That is it. That is my Mike Ditka story.

It lasted maybe thirty seconds, but here I am, all these years later, remembering every moment of it.

Funny how life works. A man who gave an entire city one of its greatest sporting memories also gave a broken-down nose guard and his very pregnant wife a little moment they would carry with them for the rest of their lives.

Ditka probably forgot the encounter before he reached the parking lot, but I never did.

I suppose that is what happens when the people who shaped your younger years begin to leave this world. They take a little piece of your history with them. The games, the people, the celebrations, the summers when your children had not been born yet and everything wonderful was still waiting around the corner.

We didn't just lose a football coach this week. We lost another piece of our own lives.

Tomorrow, the Bears will take the field at Lambeau, and I have a feeling Da Coach will be there. Somewhere along that sideline, wearing his trademark sweater vest, jaw clenched, eyes burning, looking for somebody to chew out.

And if heaven has any sense of humor, he is still telling Halas how to run the damn football team.

Rest easy, Coach.

Thanks for the memory. Thanks for making the ShepKids mom smile.

And thanks for 46-10

October 9th, 2026

 

      It is Crop Report Day.

Most of you Chalkheads have seen the movie Trading Places at one point in your life. Remember the scene when the trading pit starts buzzing with anticipation before the crop report is released? The tension builds, the numbers come out, and all hell breaks loose.

   That was Hollywood's version of open outcry trading. Believe me when I tell you, they were not far off.

    The screaming, the pushing, the frantic hand signals, the elbows flying, and the occasional shower of spit from some lunatic trying to make a market. It was organized chaos.

        Looking back, it was the perfect job for a thirty-year-old Jumbo.

 I am not so sure sixty-year-old Jumbo could stand in that same pit today, waiting for an unemployment number, and summon the same energy and enthusiasm. Hell, just watching those old videos on YouTube makes my knees hurt.

      Fortunately, I don't have to find out.

  These days, when an economic report is released, I am standing at my trading desk. The excitement is still there. The adrenaline still flows. The clock ticks down, the numbers hit the screen, and the markets still react, but the battlefield is a whole lot more forgiving.

   I don't have arms waving inches from my face. I don't have spit flying in every direction. Nobody is shoving me out of the way to grab a bid or an offer.

      And I don't have to fight my way through a crowd of screaming grown men just to get a trade done.

    There is still plenty of yelling. There are still multiple orders coming at once, customers wanting fills, markets moving, and the constant juggling act of getting everything executed in a timely and orderly fashion.

     The business hasn't lost its excitement. It has simply changed its surroundings.

    Thirty-year-old Jumbo was right where he belonged, standing in the bond room at the Chicago Board of Trade, surrounded by noise, confusion, and enough testosterone to power a small city.

        And sixty-year-old Jumbo is right where he belongs today.

  I am no longer in that grand old Board of Trade building, looking north at LaSalle Street. Instead, I am fourteen floors above the suburbs, looking out over the western reaches of Chicagoland. The view has changed, the noise has softened and the years have piled up, but the anticipation of the next number hasn't changed a bit.

    I am fortunate to still be in this business. Fortunate to have experienced the trading floor in its glory days, and fortunate that life has allowed me to keep doing something I love long after the pits went quiet.

    Thirty-year-old Jumbo had his time and place, and so does sixty-year-old Jumbo.

   Maybe that is what growing older is all about. Understanding that you do not have to stand in the middle of the madness to appreciate the excitement.

   Sometimes the best seat in the house is the one you have earned along the way. No matter how much the business changes, some things will always remain the same.

    Buy low and sell high.

        Hit bids and lift offers.

           Always listen for the roar of an uptick and the scream of a downtick.

  That will get you through a trading session, and maybe even through the difficulties of life.

       Gusto and astonishment, it is Friday.

October 8th, 2026

      “The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.” — W. B. Yeats

   Time is a miserable son of a bitch. It doesn't give two shits how good-looking you are, how innocent your intentions, or how much money you have tucked away.

    It comes for everybody. No exceptions… No appeals... No senior citizen discounts…

   When we are young, we think time is something we have plenty of. We waste it like a drunken sailor on shore leave. We wish away Mondays, count the days until Friday arrives, and spend our childhood begging to be older. Then one morning we look in the mirror and wonder who the hell that old bastard staring back is.

    Yeats understood the cruel joke. Beauty fades, innocence disappears, and the clock never stops ticking. I wonder if the old Irishman wasn't overlooking something.

     Time might steal our youth, but it leaves a few presents behind.

     Wrinkles come with stories. Gray hair comes with wisdom, or at least enough experience to recognize stupidity when it walks in the room.   

                   Innocence?

     Maybe we lose a little of that every time life knocks us on our ass, but we do gain something in return. Understanding, compassion and the ability to appreciate what we have gathered across the calendar.

    The real tragedy isn't growing old. It is spending so much time mourning yesterday that we forget to enjoy today.

    Time may be undefeated, but that doesn't mean we have to surrender without a fight.

     …And if we are lucky, we will grow old enough to become beautifully guilty of living one hell of a life.

 

October 7th, 2026

      Three years ago today, the world was reminded how quickly hatred can spill across borders and into our lives.

On October 7, 2023, Israel was attacked by Hamas in an act of pure terror. Innocent people were slaughtered, babies mutilated, families shattered, and the Jewish community around the world felt the chilling echo of antisemitism that has plagued them for centuries.

Today’s Chalkboard carries two anchors. The first comes from the New Testament: “Put on the full armor of God.” The second is the Latin phrase Nil desperandum... never despair.

Together they form a shield, not only for Christians but also for our Jewish brothers and sisters who continue to face threats simply because of their faith and identity.

I once thought I had a dear friend, someone who held me up when life weighed heavy. She hugged me the day my dad died. She baked cookies for Hazel during that summer of 2022 when Hazel's mom left her adrift. She reintroduced me to Khalil Gibran, whose words gave me comfort at a time when I needed it.

That friendship ended soon after October 7, 2023. It ended because I stood with Israel. It ended because I refused to accept antisemitism dressed up as politics.

That loss hurt, but three years later, I have come to see it clearly. A friend who abandons you because you reject hatred is not a friend at all. A friend worth keeping does not walk away when standing shoulder to shoulder with the Jewish people becomes inconvenient.

The bible verse tells us to put on God’s armor. Not halfway, not just the helmet or the shield, but the full armor.

Why?

Because the attacks that come against people of faith, whether Jewish or Christian, are relentless. Hatred does not rest. It finds new disguises, new justifications, new excuses. And yet, it is the same ancient evil that has haunted humanity since 600 A.D..

That is where Nil Desperandum comes in.

Never despair.

The attacks are real, the losses cut deep, but despair is exactly what the enemy wants. The way to fight back is not with surrender, not with silence, and not with bitterness, but with faith, courage, and solidarity.

Today, we say to our Jewish friends, You are not alone.

The Christian community stands with you. Together, we will not bow to those who thrive on division and bloodshed. We will not let hatred dictate who is worthy of compassion.

The armor of God is not just for defense; it is for holding firm in the face of darkness and “never despair” is not blind optimism. It is the steady heartbeat of people who know that faith, memory, and love are stronger than any ideology of hate.

So, on this anniversary, let us remember.

Let us honor the lives lost.

Let us stand together, armored and unbroken, never despairing, never silent.

Because the world may tremble, but the light of God’s people, Jew and Christian alike, will not be extinguished.

October 6th, 2026

     Today’s quote is from James Baldwin, a civil rights activist, an incredible writer, a gay man, a Black man who used his brilliance to outshine the hatred he faced.

       “Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.”

   It comes from Giovanni’s Room, published in 1956. I love this quote. It makes me think about what belongs to me permanently, what a change of ZIP codes cannot take away.

    When someone asks where I’m from, I tell them Chicago. I was born on Montrose Avenue, lived in the city until I was twelve, and worked in the Loop for over thirty years. Chicago is in my voice and in my blood pressure as well.

      But home has never been one permanent address.

  My parents moved me from the North Side to the South Side, then to Indianapolis and over to Oak Park. Indianapolis never quite felt like home, even though the strongest household of my childhood was there, my maternal grandmother’s small house in Broad Ripple.

    That house had structure, Faith, and German nurturing. Things a kid might not appreciate until he becomes the adult responsible for providing them to his kids. Years later, I would try to build those same things into my own home in the Divorced Dad District.

    Oak Park felt like home to me. My father was there, I had a solid base of friends, and it became the place where I found my footing as an adult.

    Then marriage and parenthood moved me around again. Somewhere along the way, I found places to live without finding a home.

    Finally, divorce landed me in the town by the river. From the ashes of a failed marriage, I found a home and began to understand what I needed to put into it.

         Which brings me back to Baldwin’s word: irrevocable.

   Something that cannot be taken away. Something I carried from Edgewater to Broad Ripple, from Hemingway’s hometown to Riverside. Something gathered along the way that nobody can take from me.

    Home is the identity we carry with us. Our faith, our spirit, our love, our moods. The people who shaped us and the habits they left behind for us to learn. Memories are irrevocable lessons that never abandon us.

     For me, it is being a jagoff with a Chicagonese accent and having a little Hoosier wholesomeness underneath. It is the anxiousness of working on a trading floor and the tenderness of witnessing three children enter the world.

     It is opening a library book to page one, eager to discover what waits in the last chapter. Walking a leaf-littered path at the height of autumn. Hearing Big John Wrencher play his harmonica on Maxwell Street with the smell of grilled onions drifting from the polish sausage stand. It is Being a cafeteria Catholic and a miserable fan of mediocre sports teams.

     It is knowing my parents brought me into this world and believing they will welcome me into heaven.

   It is changing a diaper, putting gloves on little hands, watching a cartoon, making pancakes, wiping a nose, tying a shoe, and unclogging the toilet. Home has plenty of tender moments, but somebody still has to clean up the snot and crap.

   It is the thrill of an opening bell and the roar of an uptick. The smell of a CTA platform on a sweltering summer night. The fireworks when the White Sox hit a home run. The heat of that first bite of thin-crust pizza and the drips of Italian Beef juice down your forearms.

    It is a phone call from an old friend whose voice makes the years disappear.

   These are the irrevocable pieces of my life. They belong to me wherever I live.

    5700 North Kenmore, 106th and Avenue E., 6130 Indianola, 220 South Lombard. I can still name the addresses, but an address alone never made any of them home. The people, the routines, the meals, the love, and even the aggravation gave those places their meaning.

    I carried something away from each of them. Together, those things gave my heart and soul a foundation. They also gave me something to offer my children as they begin building lives of their own.

   Thank you, James Baldwin, for helping me figure it out. A small gay Black man from Harlem reached across the years and made sense to a heavyset, vagitarian white kid from Chicago.

       Enjoy the best weeks of autumn, Chalkheads. I have put a couple dates in the grabber section to keep us aware of the time. The season moves quickly. Take a walk while the leaves are still putting on their fashion show.

      Gusto, astonishment, irrevocable conditions, and a smile on the sun.