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.

 

October 5th, 2026

 “Never give up on something that you can’t go a day without thinking about.”

       A good quote for a Monday morning. It got me thinking about the things that show up in my head every day, whether I invite them in or not.

   I suppose my first thought should be my Faith. But if I am being honest, it is the ShepKids. George, Fritz and Hazel.

   Their health, their happiness, their future. I want them to find their footing, enjoy their lives, and learn how to manage the days that do not go their way. A father can spend a considerable amount of time thinking about three people who occasionally forget to answer his texts.

     God is there every day, too. Along with Mom, Dad and the other people I love who have gone to heaven. Maybe thinking about my children first isn’t such a terrible failure of my Faith. Many of those thoughts turn into prayers before I am finished having them.

     I think about my career. I have put a shit ton of years and hard work into this business, and I still have several good years left standing at a trading desk. I would like those years to help build a comfortable retirement, nothing extravagant. Enough to pay the bills, enjoy myself and order the steak I want without consulting a financial adviser.

    I think about my home and how fortunate I am to have a comfortable place to live. I was lucky to land near a river, in a town whose streets wind with the same curves.

     I think about my health. This heavyset kid has made it to sixty without daily medication, and I am grateful for that. I would like another twenty-five years of good living. That means giving my body some cooperation. Gratitude ought to include taking care of what I have been given.

       Then there is everything I think about that I can’t control.

  Growing older will proceed without my permission. Politics will keep swinging, and people will keep insisting their side has all the answers. There will be anger, arguments and somebody determined to ruin a perfectly good morning.

    Grow older, not old. Always vote close to home. Stay clear of jagoffs and assclowns.

    I can only show love to the people within an arm’s length. I can listen, help, show a little patience and choose what comes out of my own mouth.

    Although the barbershop offered a more memorable philosophy this weekend: “Don’t hate, masturbate.”

       There you have it. A haircut and a plan for world peace.

    I have also spent enough time imagining what other people think of me. That is a lot of unpaid work, especially when most of them are busy thinking about themselves. There is good sense in the old advice to be yourself and let the people who matter recognize you.

    I want to keep the people in my prayers close. I want to remember that waking up tomorrow is a gift.

     And I would like to spend less time mentally organizing the aftermath of the morning I don’t wake up.

     Who will cover me at work?

     Who will clear out my belongings?

     Who will take care of the ShepKids?

       …And, naturally, who will win the Sox game?

   The markets will keep trading after I am gone. Somebody will find a home for my shot glasses, old Playboy magazines, and jazz albums. Sorting that collection should give them a fairly rounded picture of who I was.

     The ShepKids will grow into adults, carrying what I have taught them and figuring out plenty for themselves. They will have troubles, triumphs, and bills with their names on them. My job today is to help prepare them and let them know they are loved.

         … And the White Sox?

  Hell, every win lately feels like one more than we expected. Any October victories are gifts. Having Father Bob from the South Side up at the Vatican certainly can’t hurt.

       Pope Leo, baby. Keep the Go Go White Sox in your prayers.

Today’s quote reminds me how much I still care about.

My children.

My faith.

My work.

My health.

    The life I am fortunate enough to wake up to. All of it deserves my effort today.

    Get out there with gusto and astonishment you beautiful Chalkheads.

     Put a smile on the sun. We have got another day to work with.

October 4th, 2026

  My Dinner with Billy Shakes (based on My Dinner with Andre)

  Charlie Brown arrived at the restaurant carrying a yellow legal pad.

Shakespeare was already at the table, examining the wine list as though somebody had murdered his lead character somewhere between the cabernet and the merlot.

      “Rough day?” Charlie asked.

“Life’s but a walking shadow.”

       “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The waitress appeared.

    “Can I start you gentlemen with something?”

   “A little hope,” said Charlie Brown.

       “Something to quiet the sound and fury,” said Shakespeare.

 She nodded. “Two bourbons for the playwright and the bald kid with the big head..”

      Charlie opened his legal pad.

“I’ve been trying to figure something out. I keep hoping yesterday will get better.”

        Shakespeare leaned back.

“All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.”

     Charlie studied him.

“Do you ever just say, ‘Yeah, that sucks balls’?”

The waitress returned with their drinks. Shakespeare raised his glass and began, “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow—”

        “Kitchen closes at nine,” she said.

   That settled him down.

Charlie explained about Lucy and the football. Every time, she promised to hold it. Every time, he trusted her. Every time, he landed flat on his ass.

      Shakespeare listened carefully.

“You could stop running at the ball.”

     “That seems obvious when somebody else says it.”

“Most wisdom does.”

      Charlie took a drink.

“What bothers me is the story afterward. Lucy goes home while I lie there thinking about what it means. By bedtime, missing a football has become proof that my whole life is a failure.”

       Shakespeare lowered the menu.

“I may have contributed to that sort of thinking.”

     “You think?”

“I have written a considerable number of people having one bad evening and killing half the county.”

They ordered dinner.

Charlie wanted a hamburger. Shakespeare requested something worthy of a king.

“Burger with an egg,” said the waitress.

    “Splendid choice my lady.”

For a while, they ate quietly. Then Charlie asked why Shakespeare’s people always made such a mess of things.

   “Pride, fear, jealousy. They become convinced they know how the story must end.”

       “Lucy says I’ll never learn.”

“Lucy charges five cents for advice and maintains a profitable arrangement with a football. I would examine her interests.”

       Charlie smiled.

It was a small smile, but Shakespeare noticed. Writers notice things. Occasionally even the check.

     “Tell me something good,” he said.

Charlie thought.

     “My dog is glad to see me.”

“There. Begin with that.”

      “He’s also convinced he’s a flying ace.”

“I made a forest walk toward a castle. Your dog seems reasonable.”

Charlie looked down at his legal pad. He had written Yesterday at the top and filled most of the page with complaints.

He turned to a fresh sheet.

      “What if I’m telling the story too soon?”

Shakespeare put down his fork.

     “Go on.”

“Well, yesterday I was the idiot who trusted Lucy. Today I’m the idiot who understands the arrangement a little better. Maybe tomorrow I will invite somebody else to hold the football.”

      “Excellent.”

“Maybe I’ll just go for a walk.”

“Even better. Fewer medical expenses.”

      The waitress cleared their plates.

    “Dessert?”

Charlie asked for apple pie. Shakespeare said he was full.

She brought two forks anyway. She had heard that story before.

Over pie, Charlie admitted that he wanted a better life but kept using the worst parts as evidence against himself.

         Shakespeare nodded.

“The same narrator, reading an unfinished manuscript.”

“And being a real bastard to the main character.”

      “Yes. You might allow him a little development.”

Outside, Snoopy waited beneath a streetlight. Shakespeare scratched his ears.

Charlie tucked the legal pad under his arm.

Yesterday hadn’t changed. He had something else to say about it now.

That is how the story grows, Chalkheads. We live another day, learn another thing, and occasionally discover that the fellow we have been calling an idiot was doing the best he could with the information available.

    Give him another chapter and for God’s sake, let somebody else hold the football.

 

October 3rd, 2026

Road game in Cleveland today. There is value in arriving. Sometimes in a hurry and sometimes at a snails pace. Just keep moving….
                … today, let us pray that those moving are the visitors from Chicago around the bases.

 

October 2nd, 2026

  “Every day is something new.”
  Some mornings you have to look a little harder to believe that. The alarm sounds, the coffee brews, and the same responsibilities are waiting where you left them. Familiarity can make a fresh day look just like yesterday….
                            …only wearing a different shirt.
   Then something catches your memory. Today, it is a 1973 Chevy Vega. The first car I owned.
    An old car can open a remarkable number of doors in your memory. You think about the roads, the radios, the clothes, and the people who occupied that time. Even the dashboard can remind you how differently the world once lived with itself.
    There was a time when that old Chevy was new. Somebody looked at it with anticipation instead of nostalgia.
     That is worth remembering when we catch ourselves dismissing everything unfamiliar.
     I love things with history, but I also want to keep enough curiosity to notice what is arriving. A new book, a new restaurant, a different route or a conversation with somebody you just met.
    You can appreciate yesterday and still give today a fair chance. The calendar has handed us another Friday. There is no requirement that we spend it on autopilot.
      Look around, ask a question and try something.
                      Keep your curiosity running.

 

October 1st, 2026

 

    “Difficulties mastered are opportunities won.”

Nobody becomes dependable because life went smoothly. We learn something about ourselves when the plan goes to shit, the work gets harder, and quitting begins to sound reasonable.

    You discover whether you can adjust. Whether you can ask for help. Whether you will return tomorrow and give the thing another honest attempt.

    The grabber says, “Go Go You ChiSox,” and that puts a familiar soundtrack behind today’s thought. Baseball offers plenty of practice in persistence. A long season leaves very little room for believing that one bad afternoon defines everything.

There is another inning to play, another adjustment to make, another chance to do your job properly.

      Welcome to October.

Square your shoulders, take your place, and do the work.

            Go Go, White Sox.

September 30th, 2026

     “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

Beauty has a way of staying with us long after the moment has passed. A song brings back a room. A familiar smell brings back a kitchen. A photograph returns us to people we would give anything to sit next to again.

     Today’s grabber is Chewing Gum Day, which brings the lofty business of beauty down to the checkout counter at White Hen. There is something wonderfully ordinary about a stick of gum. Unwrap it, and suddenly you might remember a baseball dugout, a school hallway, or a long ride in the back seat.

   The crumby thing about getting old. I don’t have a favorite stick of gum. I need to do that before the end of the year, find a new go to pack of gum. 

 

September 29th, 2026

Tell the truth, and the paperwork gets easier. Big win for the Bears last night. 

 

September 28th, 2026

 

September 27th, 2026

 

September 26th, 2026

      Today’s quote comes from a Peanuts cartoon strip.

  Linus and Charlie Brown are standing behind the brick wall where they always contemplate life. Linus tells Charlie Brown, “I guess it’s wrong always to be worrying about tomorrow…. Maybe we should think only about today…” Charlie turns to Linus and says, “No that’s giving up… I’m still hoping that yesterday will get better.”

      I think with time, yesterdays look better with hindsight. Even the bad ones. I don’t have time to worry about yesterday sucking. I live and learn and move on.

     Harvest moon tonight. Look at it knowing there is a Chalkhead out there who cares for you….

 

September 25th, 2026

       “You must bury your old ways, burn the dead wood.”

   That sounds easy until you realize how much dead wood you have grown comfortable carrying.

   Eventually, you have to ask whether something belongs in your life simply because it has always been there.

         I value the past.

   There are traditions worth protecting, lessons worth remembering, and people whose influence deserves a permanent place in our hearts. Growing older has made me appreciate those things more.

     The distinction is knowing what nourishes you and what holds you back.

  Today is my Father-in-laws eighty-fifth birthday up in heaven. On his sixty-third birthday he gave his daughter’s hand to me. I don’t celebrate this day with that girl anymore. Each September 25^th is a reminder that we didn’t work hard enough, we quit…..

                    Sorry PopPop…

 

September 24th, 2026

   It is easy to defend fairness when we are the ones getting the short end of the stick. The harder test comes when somebody else is being mistreated and speaking up might cost us something. That is where our principles have to get out of the comfortable chair and go to work.

   We all want our children treated fairly. We want someone to listen when they are struggling, protect them when they are vulnerable, and give them a fair chance. Other people want those same things for their children.   Remembering that would improve quite a few conversations.

    You do not have to solve every problem in the world. Start with the one standing in front of you. Listen before judging. Refuse to join the pile on. Have enough backbone to say something is wrong, even when the people doing it are your friends.

  Meanwhile, the little countdown at the bottom of the board says Christmas is ninety-two days away. There will be time for lights, music, and shopping lists.   

    Today, there is time to practice the kindness we celebrate in December.

The calendar keeps moving. Our responsibility to one another is already here.

Make today count.

 

September 23rd, 2026

 

    There was something floating around the internet yesterday about men who treat their birthdays like any other day.

   It said these men are used to doing life alone. They don't need much fuss and they tend to give more than they receive. They have learned how to create their own happiness and instead of measuring life by birthdays, they measure it by whether they are still growing.

      I read this story and thought that somebody has been spying on me. When I turned sixty this past summer, I spent weeks making everyone think I was planning some sort of extravaganza.

               "Sixty! I’m sure Jumbo is going to throw a party for his sixtieth. He always threw Christmas parties and Mardi Gras parties back in the day."

     There would be a great mix of people, noise, drinks, and outlandish stories. There will probably be somebody doing something stupid that would eventually become another Morning Chalkboard tale.

   Instead, when July 1st arrived, I got dressed up and took myself out and had a steak dinner, Han Solo, and I had a memorable evening.

    That probably sounds strange to some people but not to me. I am an only child, I learned a long time ago that being alone and being lonely are two completely different things.

   I do not have brothers or sisters, my parents are in heaven, and I have a spouse who is an ex. I know a shit ton of people, but I don't have that one close friend who gets an emergency phone call at two in the morning. Let alone planning a 60^th birthday party.

   The groups of people I have spent time with over the years are slowly doing what people eventually do, they drift apart.

      Families become empty nests. Retirements are starting to trickle in. Different towns, different routines, different lives…

    Nobody is doing anything wrong. Life just keeps moving the furniture around. That is why birthdays were never a huge production for me.

      I remember one or two birthday parties when I was a kid growing up. For my seventeenth birthday, my mom bought me tickets to an Indianapolis Indians game. For my twenty-first birthday, my Oldman bought me dinner and margaritas at La Majada in Oak Park. At thirty, I went to a White Sox game with my Wild Turkey buddies.

          And my fifty-first birthday?

     That one came with a particularly unusual present, my marriage ended. That July 1st became the opening act for what would eventually become my Felix Unger Day.

       Quite a birthday candle to blow out, but here is the thing.

             None of those memories make me sad, quite the opposite.

    They remind me that somewhere along the way I learned something of great value.

        I know how to keep myself company and that might be one of the great gifts of being an only child.

      You learn how to read, how to think, how to wander, how to listen to the radio and how to sit quietly by yourself.

     You learn how to go somewhere without needing somebody sitting beside you. How to walk into a restaurant and say, "Table for one please," and not whisper it like you are confessing to a crime.

           I have gone to ballgames alone, restaurants alone, bars alone, church alone, concerts alone, movies alone, and road trips alone.

      The funny part of it is wherever I go somewhere alone, I rarely stay alone long.

     

    Now autumn has arrived, maybe that is why this is on my mind this morning.

    Fall has always felt less like an ending to me and more like an inventory. Summer throws everything outside and Autumn brings it all back in.

    The screens come down and the storm windows go back up. The days get shorter and shadows grow longer. Leaves begin surrendering from their branches and we start preparing for winter.

     I am going to do a little of that myself this year. I have had enough noise and running around. This fall I am going to prepare the cave.

    Books piled up next to my chair. Writing all hours of the day. A radio constantly on in the kitchen. Football and hockey take over baseball. Hot meal in the Crockpot. Prayers and swearing, more swearing, and more praying. Early mornings with a pot of coffee and the occasional martini and Manhattan.

   When winter arrives full force, I may very well disappear into my little corner of Riverside and hibernate until spring of 2027. Not because I am hiding from life, but because I rather enjoy reinventing life.

      There is an important distinction.

   Loneliness is wanting someone to show up. Solitude is realizing you already did. Somewhere in these first sixty years I learned that I don't need balloons hanging from the ceiling to know I had a good year.

  I do not need people singing Happy Birthday to know I matter. I don't need a crowded calendar to prove I have a life.

     The scoreboard is simpler now.

Did I grow?

Did I learn something?

Did I help somebody?

Did I laugh?

Did I remain curious?

Did I stay grateful?

Did I use the day I was given?

     If the answer is yes, put another mark on the board.

      So welcome, Autumn. I will gather some firewood. Stack some books. Turn up the jazz. Watch the leaves come down. Prepare for winter and continue this strange, wonderful experiment of being perfectly capable of sitting alone while remaining completely available to the world.

    Because after all, I know exactly what I am bringing with me. Not my pronouns or any titles. Not the number of candles on a cake. I am bringing my adjectives…. Gregarious and Grateful.

        … And as long as I have those two things, I suspect there will always be somebody to talk to, something to marvel at, and another reason to get out of bed tomorrow morning. Even if I crawl right back into the cave at sunset.

     Happy Autumn.

       Get out there today with gusto and astonishment and do not forget to put a smile on the sun.

September 22nd, 2026

 

    Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall. Fitzgerald wrote that almost a hundred years ago, and I will be damned if he didn't understand September.

   There is something about that first cool morning. You walk outside and the air has changed with the flick of a switch.

    Not winter cold, but the crisp and refreshing change that nips the staleness of summer. Just enough bite to remind us that July didn't own the place forever.

   The windows open up giving the air conditioner a deserved break. The sweaters comes out and football is on the radio. Leaves begin collecting along the curb, and somewhere in the neighborhood somebody gets the first fireplace going.

    You can start over on a Tuesday morning in September.

        All you really need is a little crisp air...

                                …and another piece of chalk.

    Chicago Henge is beginning as the sun leaves the southside and travels towards Fullerton and Belmont for the next few months.

                       I am already in, in a daydream….

September 21st, 2026

 

     There are mornings when the sun comes charging through the windows and practically orders us to get moving, and then there are Mondays like this one.

      

     Gray sky and damp air is the forecast for EWF Day 2026. Coffee tastes a little more necessary as I prepare for remembering the 21^st of September.

  

           Ba-dee-ya.

September 20th, 2026

 
     I have a habit on Saturday mornings. When XRT does Flashback, I send the year they are featuring to a handful of friends. Sometimes someone gets a personal shoutout because I know this week’s year was special to them.
          Yesterday was 1996.
  One of the guys texted back that 1996 was the year that had just fallen out of his Golden Years. I immediately thought, what a great subject for Sunday’s Chalkboard.
         What are the Golden Years of our music?
   Music has always been called the soundtrack of our lives, but if that is true, no two soundtracks can possibly be the same.
    Too many things go into making our own song list. It starts with when you were born. Before you ever had any say in the matter, somebody else was picking the music. Your parents, your older brothers, sisters or cousins.
   Whatever was playing on the stereo in the living room, the radio in the kitchen, your sister's turntable, or the car radio. Maybe it was a family trip to a concert or a musical or Maxwell Street.
    Long before we developed musical taste, we were absorbing somebody else's.
        I was born in 1966.
  My parents had one of those big console stereos in the living room that was as much a piece of furniture as it was a stereo. Their record collection was heavy on Broadway musicals, with some jazz and the singer-songwriters who were emerging around the beginning of my life.
   So before I knew what kind of music I liked, I knew Broadway. I knew Gershwin and I knew Carole King.
          Then came the transistor radio.
   I got my first one in the early 1970s, and that bad boy was glued on WLS. That is probably where my first Golden Years began, somewhere around 1971.
      Then came another giant leap forward, my own record player.
   Back then, the neighborhood record store would post the weekly Top 20 albums and Top 40 forty-fives. Buying a record wasn't clicking a button while sitting on the crapper. You went to the record store. You looked through the bins. You studied the album covers, and you spent your allowance on the Bay City Rollers or ABBA.
     My first album was Simon & Garfunkel, Bridge Over Troubled Water. My first forty-fives were ABC by the Jackson 5 and Betcha by Golly, Wow by The Stylistics.
    Then, in 1977, I was given my first real stereo with a turntable and cassette deck. That was the day my Golden Years exploded.
   Like every boy in 1977, I owned the famous Peter Frampton album, but I also still had a shit ton of those hand-me-downs.
     Al Green, Carly Simon, The Beatles, The Stones, Marvin Gaye, Leslie Gore, Miles Davis, Preservation Hall…
    Looking back, the foundation of my record collection was not really built by me at all. It was built by the older people in my life and what a solid footing they gave me.
   My beginning was Broadway, Vivaldi, and Frank Sinatra, but I was also surrounded by classic rock and hard rock, too. Funk, soul, and classic R&B became a huge part of it.
    Saturday mornings started with cartoons and ended with Soul Train. I was probably one of the few ten-year-old white boys who preferred Don Cornelius to Dick Clark.
      Then came pubic hairs and along with them came punk rock, New Wave, and synth-pop.
        What a time to be a kid discovering music.
   My generation went from AM Top 40 to album rock on FM to music videos on MTV in what seemed like the blink of an eye.
    Think about that. In just a handful of years, the way we found music completely changed. By high school and college, my musical world was all over the place.
   Bob Marley to Talking Heads. John Coltrane to R.E.M.. Grandmaster Flash to the Beastie Boys. The Clash to Elvis Costello. There weren't any rules or guidelines anymore.
     Then our record collections began disappearing and our CD collections took their place.
     For me, that meant losing many of those old hand-me-down albums and starting over. This time I was buying the foundation of my own Golden Years of Music.
   After college came another change. Rap became hip-hop and Grunge exploded on the scene. Alternative rock fought for space with Britpop. Madonna was sharing the airwaves with Mariah and Janet… Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty.
      Somewhere around then, I started realizing that my musical tastes had pretty much been formed.
   The guy who texted me about 1996 might have it about right. By the time I reached my early thirties, a lot of new music was beginning to sound the same to me. It seemed less original. Maybe the music changed or maybe I did.
    If I had to put dates around my own Golden Years of Music, I would probably say the peak was 1983 and the era was 1971 through 1991.
       Here is where this little Saturday morning exercise surprised me.
    My Golden Years of Music and the soundtrack of my life are not the same thing. They cannot be because music that existed long before my Golden Years helped create them.
     Old country standards, gospel, Chicago blues, and bluegrass are part of my soundtrack. So is early rhythm and blues before rock and roll came along and stole it. Classical music and opera wander in every once in a while.
               And jazz... how I love jazz!
    Dixieland, Swing, Bebop, and the cool sounds of the late '50s and early '60s. Much of that music isn't technically from my Golden Years, but it sure as hell is part of my soundtrack.
       My parents are still in there, too. Man of La Mancha. Bach, Camelot, Dvorak, Fiddler on the Roof, Beethoven, Porgy and Bess, and Godspell.
   Records they put on a console stereo in a living room when I was a little boy somehow survived transistor radios, turntables, cassettes, eight-tracks, FM radio, MTV, CDs, iPods, streaming and sixty years of living.
          That is the difference right there….
    The Golden Years are when your musical identity was formed. The soundtrack is everything that found a way into your life and stayed there.
     And even inside my Golden Years, I didn't love everything. I never got into all that hair-banging music that showed up right in the middle of my years. Give me Morrissey over Axl Rose every damn time.
      So there is your rainy Sunday assignment, Chalkheads.
               Think about it.
          What are your Golden Years of Music?
  Not your favorite decade. Not what The Rolling Stone magazine tells you was important. Not what you are supposed to like because of your age.
        When did music become yours?
      Then ask yourself the bigger question, what is the soundtrack of your life?
  What came out of the kitchen radio, the dashboard, the neighborhood record store, the college dorm room, the jukebox at your favorite tavern?
    What songs can still put you inside a particular room, with particular people, on a particular day, forty or fifty years later?
        And finally...
         Do you have a theme song?
  Hell, that last question might be a Chalkboard all by itself.
   Now that you have your assignment, enjoy the rainy day in Chicagoland. Put on an old record that takes you somewhere filled with gusto and astonishment.