July 31st, 2025

 I always preach to you Chalkheads how important it is to know where you stand...

... compared to where the sun and moon are.

To know the length of your shadow and where it falls throughout the year. The angle of the sun and moon gives us a familiar bearing.

It grounds us.

It comforts us.

I know how the sunlight hits the skyline, where it rises over the lake. I know where it lands on the Northside in July, and how it shifts to the South Shore in winter.

I worked in the Chicago Board of Trade building for decades. Show me a picture of that building in daylight and I can tell you what season it was and what time of day.

That is familiarity.

That is why I live on a grid with a skyline mountain range. That is why I tell you every morning when the sun rises and when it sets.

Pull the Morning Chalkboard from any July 31st, and you will see that the times hardly change.

There is comfort in that kind of constancy...

... like crawling into your parents' bed long after it is gone.

I just want to have the comfort of knowing where my shadow falls. Because we are not always with those that we care about...

... But we can look up and see the same sun or moon and feel their presence next to us.

Bring it in closer: the birds. They mark beginnings, endings, lost loved ones, with each chirp is a gentle minuet.

And the wind?

In the spring, it whooshes through the trees with newness. In the summer, it skates across leaves like a wet bed sheet hanging on the clothesline. By late summer, it crunches through the forest with fatigue. Come winter, it gallops through bare branches with the kiss of cold discontent.

We are closing out July.

August steps in.

The days shorten.

The shadows grow long.

Find where the sun and moon fall on your path and where they are on your journey. It will add the comfort that you might need on this fetched day of gravity.

Today the sun has a smile, the sky holds a pleasant breeze, and everything is lined up just right for finding astonishment and enjoying a little gusto.

July 30th, 2025

 In the time of your life, live....

... I saw it everywhere on Tuesday.

A five-year-old girl holding court at the Polar Bear on her birthday, queen of the world, surrounded by the only people who know how special she really is. A kid dribbling a basketball up Lincoln Avenue in the Divorced Dad District while riding one of those Marty McFly hoverboards. A young couple pushing a stroller, both dragging from exhaustion, gently bumping into each other with that kind of nudge that says, we are in this together.

Then, across the street, an older couple probably in their seventies, walking slowly. She with a cane, but still holding her husband’s hand with the other.

All of this, on the last Tuesday evening of July. All of them, living in the time of their life. Different chapters, same book.

Even the sun seemed in on it, casting longer shadows while birds and bugs provided background music. Dvořák and a cocktail rounded it out for me up on the balcony.

Earlier in the afternoon, I was showing George what today's phrase means. A good lunch with the Oldman, running into some dear friends, and topping it off with ice cream at a spot that will be boarded up come October, once the boys of summer are gone.

So while we have it, let’s live it.

Let’s slide into August with gusto.

Let’s find astonishment in the ordinary.

... and never take it for granted when the sun smiles back.

July 29th, 2025

 You can knock on a deaf man’s door forever and some of those doors won’t open.

Not because you didn’t knock hard enough, or say the magic words, or wait patiently in the rain. It stays shut because the person inside already decided they weren’t answering the knock.

Then you start talking to the door. You explain, you reason, you plead...

Thinking if they just heard the tone in your voice, they’d remember who you were. Not the story of you, but you.

The parent.

The partner.

The person that once mattered.

Time has a funny way of turning ears to stone and hearts to echo chambers.

So eventually, you stop knocking.

You turn around and find that the people who need you, really need you, are out in the yard, waiting to go to the playground.

They don’t want to see you shouting at wood. They want to hear your voice again. The happy voice that sounds like Peppa Pig's dad.

So you go with them and walk away from the closed door...

... and maybe one day, when they are older, they’ll walk past that same door and understand.

Today is National Chicken Wing Day. Nothing better than a cold pitcher of Old Style and a plate full of spicy chicken wings.

... and I’m talking wings, not these boneless imposters processed in Olathe, Kansas.

You want chicken wings damnit!

You better be ready to choke on that bone and pull the meat off like a good Catlick girl.

Take the bubble wrap off, get greasy and stack up a big pile of cartilage and wingettes on the side plate. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they eat chicken wings and still keep the beer glass clean.

Where is your "go to" for chicken wings?

July 28th, 2025

 When the festivities of the weekend were wrapping up, an old friend said, "the best things in life are not things" and I thanked him for giving me the quote for Monday's Chalkboard.

Then I had to think of a list of things that weren't things. It was a harder drill than I thought. I took up that challenge and came up with a list. I'd like to suggest to you Chalkheads to try this writing drill to end your month.

Here is my list....

Things in life that aren’t things:

Hearing George and Fritz laughing together from the other room.

The smell of my Gramma’s kitchen when she was baking bread.

A long hug from Maureen when you walk into the tavern and seeing her give that same hug to every familiar face that walks in after.

Friends who stay loyal behind your back.

Miles Davis during a snowstorm.

The first smell of August rain.

Knowing Hazel is safe when she is asleep down the hall.

Pride in working in the same industry for almost forty years.

Forgiveness that shows up without ever needing an apology.

Sitting on the balcony while the sun shuts down shop for the day.

A head nod from a stranger that says, you’re good, I see you.

Courage to face the day when yesterday damn near broke you.

Hearing Gershwin and thinking about my Oldman.

Tingling when I say a Hail Mary and thinking my Mom might be listening in.

Love that holds the line when the like temporarily disappears.

Respect from someone who means the world to you.

And being called “Dad” right after the words, I love you.

Go out and make the end of July astonishing. We are in this thing together, so give a stranger an acknowledging nod and a dear friend a lasting hug this week.

July 27th, 2025

 Today's quote comes from Tennyson and it fits perfectly for today's Chalkboard.

Yesterday was the 2025 Wild Turkey Open. Two dozen brothers, friends, sons, and sons-in-law teed it up on a wet, sticky July morning. This wasn’t just a golf outing, it was a living testament to something bigger.

At the center of it all are the five Hamilton brothers. Around them... the guys from down the block, a few lucky stragglers like me, and a second generation that’s now taking up the torch. Whether they know it or not.

The softball bats haven’t seen daylight in years, but the spirit of the Wild Turkeys lives on. What started in the mid-’80s on dusty Oak Park diamonds and was born when the team name was selected at The Time Out Lounge, burns on. Not just in stories or old jerseys tucked in closets, but in these young men.

They showed up yesterday. They played hard, they laughed loud and they listened, too. I had conversations with kids thirty years younger than me that sounded just like the ones I had with their dads three decades ago.

Same grit. Same goof. Same heart.

That is legacy.

It didn’t start with us GenX guys. It started with the Hamiltons’ parents. With the grandparents who raised men of faith, humility, loyalty, and laughter. Then those men passed it down without sermons, but just by showing up. By always doing the right thing. By calling you out when you needed it and hugging you immediately after.

What I saw yesterday was not just a passing of the torch, it was a promise. That the Wild Turkey culture... this blend of fierce loyalty, deep roots, and inside jokes that still hit...

...will outlast us all.

We may not have a batting order anymore, but we’ve got a lineup that can carry this into the next chapter.

And I’ll tell you what, Chalkheads... the future’s looking damn good for the Wild Turkeys.

Speaking of Turkey, Thanksgiving is just 123 days away.

I chalked a smile on the sun today. Lets finish July of 2025 this week with astonishment and gusto.

July 26th, 2025

 “...grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel.” — Shakespeare

That line is about friendship... the kind that doesn’t bend or break. Polonius gave that advice to his son Laertes in Hamlet. Don Shepley gave it to his boy once too. I took it to heart and wound up with a band of brothers from the southwest corner of Oak Park.

We raised pints to 21st birthdays and again at 30. We toasted weddings, baptized babies, buried fathers, and fielded slow-pitch doubleheaders with hangovers and hustle. One night in a tavern on Roosevelt Road, most of us still too young to drink legally, we picked a name for our team: The Wild Turkeys. It stuck and so have we.

Forty years later, we are still swinging. Some with grandkids, some with pensions, some with emptier nests than they planned. I might be the only one officially divorced, but today we are together again for the annual Wild Turkey Open, followed by a cookout.

The storms might roll in and with my golf game, I might be better off skipping to the 19th hole anyway, but I’ll be shoulder to shoulder with the Turkeys. The laughter, the stories, the old memories… they show up every time.

We don’t see each other often, but when we do, it’s gusto, knowledge, laughter, and a fondness that doesn’t fade.

I’ll find my astonishment today.

It just won’t be wearing a smile on the sun.

July 25th, 2025

    We have seen some major celebrity deaths this week. We don't plan on it, but celebrities become a part of our lives. When we lose one who we grew up with, it can leave a void. Maybe not like when we lose a family member, a colleague or an old neighbor.

The Steinbeck line I chalked, “It’s darker when a light goes out than if it had never shone," hits different today. It speaks to the bittersweet truth of human experience. The darkness after the light isn’t just an absence. It is a reminder that something once burned bright in the world and during our lifetime.

The difference between a celebrity and, say, Uncle Gilbert or Larry Dodd, the boss who gave me my first shot after college? Celebrities leave behind their art, their music, their characters. Uncle Gilbert’s cigar smoke is long gone and Larry Dodd hung up his trading jacket well before 9/11.

But if you hit play, you can still hear David Bowie. You will still be able to hear Ozzie Osbourne howl at the moon.

The older we get, and I speak for Gen X here... we start losing our MTV crushes and sports idols at a faster clip. That is when we realize they weren’t that much older than us. They just seemed old when they were 29 and we were 15. We all know where we were when John Lennon was shot or when Elvis was found on his crapper. It lives with us and continues to linger with the drop of the needle on a record.

Pop in an old VHS tape and Hulk Hogan is still slamming Andre the Giant in WrestleMania. In fact, maybe they wrestled again the moment the Hulkster arrived in heaven.

From now on, when I hear thunder, I’m not saying Jesus is bowling and just nailed a strike. I am saying Andre just body-slammed Hulk Hogan down on the mat and created that thunderous clap.

That is why I chalked this particular Steinbeck quote today.

Famous people, at their best, shine a brief light on the world stage and that is better than if they had never found their stage at all.

What celebrity death hit you the hardest?

For me.... I just play a record or watch an old movie, and the loss doesn't seem so bad after all.

No smile on the sun today, but you might hear a body slam after a bolt of lightning this afternoon.

July 24th, 2025

  Hey you with the pretty face, welcome to the human race is fitting for July 24th.

Twelve years ago today, the world got a little louder, a little brighter, and a whole lot more interesting. I remember it well, probably because I haven't had a solid night's sleep since.

The ELO song has been my alarm clock for years now. “Mr. Blue Sky” kicks off at 3:33 AM, though most mornings I’m already up, coffee brewing, brain spinning. Today it hit me a little differently. This line stuck out because it was that first peekaboo with that little redhead welcoming her into the world, the human race. It reminded me that storms come and go, but the light, if you’re lucky, usually stays.

Life is funny like that. One day you are a rookie dad trying to swaddle a newborn without losing your cool and the next you are staring down at adolescence like it’s a thunderhead rolling in off the lake. The sun is out, then boom... lightning, wind, sideways rain and just as quickly, back to blue skies.

I don’t need to spell it out for you Chalkheads. Let’s just say fatherhood isn’t a job you clock in and out of.

It’s a lighthouse gig.

You shine steadily, even when the fog rolls in and the boat drifts further from the shore.

Twelve years. A blink and a lifetime all wrapped up in one. A thousand “I love you's,” a few slammed doors, lately a couple "I hate you's" and more pride than I ever knew I could carry.

La dolce vita...

Yeah, even when it's stormy, the blue skies are somewhere.

July 23rd, 2025

 The Glory of Late July...

In Chicagoland, the last days of July don’t whisper, they yell. Usually in a deep Chicagonese accent.

A symphony of attic fans, alewives laying on the shore, RC in a two liter, francheezies, ice cream trucks and kick-the-can echoing down cracked alleyways. The lightning bugs blink like Morse code sent from childhood itself, while the ghosts of a Schwinn Stingray leaned against a chain-link fence separating the park from the Lake Michigan beach. God, I wish I took better care of that bike, sorry dad....

We didn’t have calendars. We had Mrs. Jablonski’s pitcher of orange Kool-Aid. We had the ballpark dust on our shins, a brand new Louisville Slugger from the hardware store and the slow, sweet crackle of WLS under the pillow as we fell asleep on our baseball gloves.

Our older cousins played Cheap Trick too loud on the back stoop and someone always got socked in the arm for saying something stupid.

We kissed girls from the neighboring parish and swore secrecy on the walk home past their rectory.

Friday nights, when the kitchen was too damn hot, Mom dialed the local pizza joint and told them to make it quick. Soon delivered in a grease-stained bag with the map of Italy and a two-liter of RC ready to be divvied up between thirteen kids.

The attic fan, God bless... it had the pull of a DC-3. It took the heat, our snores, and our dreams right through the roof, replacing them with a breeze strong enough to lift the cowboy-and-Indian curtains like ghosts dancing one last reel across the plastered ceiling.

Now the end of July means waking up before the sun, answering emails, matching bids with offers and staring down at the dinner hour waiting to start over for the next monotonous day.

If I close my eyes just long enough, I can still hear the crack of the bat, still taste those creamy scrambled eggs that my ma occasionally made and still feel the worn leather of that glove swinging on my handlebars.

Growing up is mandatory.

Forgetting the glory of late July?

That is not acceptable.

Adulthood, parenthood, career and responsibility should never keep us from making new memories. Though relying on childhood memories is a sweet blessing.

What I would do for a swig off my Oldman's Lowenbrau right about now.

Anyway.... Let’s finish July with gusto and a couple wins at the old ballpark.

July 22nd, 2025

 Let me tell you something about barking dogs. Because I have met a few in my time. They sit behind the Goldman desk with their cufflinks and overpriced cologne, acting like their trade ideas are commandments from Sinai. When all they are is an overpriced phone clerk.

They show up in divorce court under a different last name, barking legal spew and stirring drama like it’s a crockpot. They whisper about my Chalkboard like it's too loud, too raw, too vulgar. They turned away when they saw the "I Love Hot Moms" sticker on Betty the Green Blazer...

...and they even laughed at me in ’84, until my big booty spun on that piece of linoleum and shut them all up.

But I never threw a stone. I just kept walking. Because barkers bark... that is what they do.

Me?

I build.

I pray...

I write.

I raise Shepkids.

I find bids and offers.

I dance if the music’s good.

Yap yap dogs come and go.

Like Norm said: “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milk-Bone underwear.”

And like I say: leave the yapper a bowl of water and he’ll piss himself out.

These mealy mouths, whether they are on the trading floor, in the front church pew, tailgating the yellow on Harlem, or hiding behind a keyboard...

they all bark loud, burn fast, and crawl back to their doghouse when the stamina runs out.

Don’t bark. Don’t throw stones. Just keep swimming.

July 21st, 2025

    Here we go with another Monday. The kind of Monday that separates the doers from the dabblers. While some people are still shaking off the weekend or nursing regrets, I’m already lacing up and leaning in. Because life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready. It just shows up and it is up to you whether you answer the bell or roll over and hit snooze.

I have spent enough time worrying about what people think. Enough hours twisting myself in knots trying to win over the miserable and the misinformed. That’s a game you never win. Those assclowns up in the cheap seats will always have something stupid to say. That is why they sit where they do. Because it is safer to heckle than hustle. Safer to mock than make.

They show up empty and leave bitter every time. You can spot them a mile away...

...arms crossed, eyes squinted, waiting to pounce on someone else who stumbles, so they can feel a little taller. Let them whistle in the corner, make their nervous humming sounds and apologize over and over again. Let them bark and point and gossip.

Because here is the truth...

... people doing something worthwhile rarely have time to sit around criticizing. They are too busy carrying the weight, chasing meaning and living in harmony.

Today is not about proving anything to anyone. It’s about putting your head down and stacking something real. It could be a decision, a phone call, a workout, a conversation you’ve been ducking. Whatever it is, get to it. Let the day meet a version of you that isn't hiding.

If the critics still chirp? Let them chirp. Let them whistle until their lips crack. I’ve got a job to do, a life to live, and a week to get after. There is joy in the doing, even if nobody is clapping.

Just put a smile on your sun, find something astounding and bring gusto to your world.

July 20th, 2025

 Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion?

Yeah?

I have two words for society that we throw around like rice at a wedding... hope and passion. Cheapened by repetition and worn down to smooth stones that don’t skip when you chuck them across a pond.

Hope?

That got hijacked by politicians with nothing in the tank but a catchphrase. Hope mattered when you were eight, wishing on Santa for a new Schwinn. After that, it belongs in a drawer with unicorn stickers, whoopie cushions, and that old leather wallet you carried through high school. The one with a ring in the leather from a condom you never used.

And passion? Christ!

That word gets tossed around like it belongs in everybody’s story. It's good for a centerfielder in October or a Broadway diva belting to the mezzanine...

...but for the rest of us, the Grawbowskis, it doesn’t belong on the menu.

I'm a Grawbowski and we don’t do passion. We do early shifts, burnt coffee, busted knuckles, and second helpings. My people came from bakeries, from quarries and from railyards. We don’t sip mimosas, we drink out of chipped mugs at diners with eggs that still jiggle. My couch has a slipcover and the last car I drove was born in the 1900s.

I do some damn fine things. I cook a mean steak, I bake a mean peach cobbler and I write words that land. I read a shit ton because my brain is a battlefield and books are how I keep the foxholes from caving in. That ain’t passion, that is survival and only the strong can survive.

Fatherhood?

It ain’t fairy dust and slaying dragons. It’s dilemmas, dedication, discipline, and showing up on the days that wear you down to a nub. Not because you're passionate, but because you're responsible. You plant seeds and pray they grow into humans that you will be proud of.

My job?

I don’t love it like some romantic fool, I respect it. I bring work ethic, show up clean and leave a trail of grit. I thank God every morning for a five-decade career that still pays the bills and lets me sleep at night. Passion? No. Integrity? Every damn ounce.

I don’t have hope, I have awareness.

I don’t have passion, I have follow-through.

I don’t sit around waiting for a genie in a bottle. I mop the floor, make the grocery list, stand at a trading desk, pack my lunchbox, pray to heaven and I get it all done without passion.

Joy?

That is seeing a sunrise and knowing three people in the world love me. I swear and pray in the same breath. I talk to heaven and cuss out hell before brushing my teeth. I listen for the roar of a lion and the coo of the Mourning dove.

That is joy for me.

Then I go do what needs doing. Not because I’m chasing a passionate dream full of hope. Because I’m a Grawbowski and Grawbowskis don’t have butlers or gardeners. We get morning light, stiff knees, and the blessing of one more go-round.

God willing.

You wanna throw some zeal or gusto into your Sunday Funday? Be my guest. I’ll be on the couch with a coffee watching golf in the Northern Irish wind. The British Open, now that’s a holy day. Passion? You keep it.

I’ve got chores to finish and JumboLove to spread.

July 19th, 2025

    Last night, the sunset didn’t do its job. Neither did the lightning bugs. Neither did my jazz music.

I sat on the balcony with a Manhattan and I let the day settle deep into my chest. Hard bop from seventy years ago poured from the speaker, but even Miles Davis and John Coltrane couldn’t shake the ache. The kind of ache that won’t show up on a calendar, but settles firmly into your bones.

I have a daughter who won’t come over to Riverside. I have an ex who would rather stir than settle and a home that I built on the belief that the Shepkids would always feel safe.

Just when I was sitting there talking to the night like it owed me a paycheck, Fritz came out on the balcony. Quietly, no big speech. Just checking on his Oldman. He was in the middle and he knew his Oldman wasn't his gregarious self. That is when I told him and now, I am telling you Chalkheads...

A bad day can’t become a bad week. A bad week can’t become a bad month and a bad month can’t turn into a bad year. Because that can only scar a glorious life.

We can't let that happen.

I know it isn't kosher to write about our problems in public. This board is where I go to talk to something steadier than Bob Newhart. It is my therapist and maybe yours as well. Sometimes when you are going through a shit storm, you gotta say it out loud so it doesn’t eat you alive in silence.

I don’t have any answers today.

But I’ve got this...

... pain makes us stronger if we let it teach us. Melody doesn’t always cure the ache, but it reminds us we are still alive enough to feel it.

So today, I’ll chalk the board. I’ll stack another brick. I’ll stand in the same spot I have stood in for many years. Because even when the melody is minor, the tune still plays.

...and when Hazel reads this someday, I hope she knows that her daddy’s home is the safest place in her world and the foundation she needs is always here.

Saturday is Daiquiri Day, I quoted Hemingway and my weatherman says we might have some rain. I just need you Chalkheads to walk on the sunnier side of your journey and bring an umbrella. If you are a banker and it is pouring rain, wear your mac and go check on Eleanor.

July 18th, 2025

    The first habit I picked back up after my Exile West of Mannheim Road was making my bed.

That was my bed again, no one else’s. I got in it alone and climbed out of it alone. So, every morning I made it my way. That simple act gave me a win before the day even got rolling. At night, no matter if the day was glorious or a full-blown shitshow, I climbed into a freshly made bed.

That’s closure. That’s pride.

Now, one habit I miss, deep in my bones, is reading the morning paper.

I come from a long line of ink-stained fingers. My Oldman could fold a crease in the Tribune like a Marine folds dress blues. I devoured the box scores, the standings and the Maywood and Sportsmans race results. I followed the circus at City Hall, read about aldermen throwing punches, and I got my movie picks from Roger Ebert. Royko was gospel. Holtzman told it straight. Gil Thorpe was the best coach. Kup was fading but still swinging by the time I picked up the paper.

And Sundays?

Jesus, a thick Sunday Tribune with the TV Guide, coffee cake and a fresh cup of coffee was a ritual.

I’ve got so many daily habits. Some I chose and some were handed down. Someday, the Shepkids are gonna sit around a Thanksgiving table, laughing about my quirks. If they start bitching over pumpkin pie about the way I did things, I swear I’ll flick the dining room lights from heaven just to remind them that old habits don’t die, they just dim a bit.

My Gramma had me up early when I was on her clock, working my ass off. Because of her, I’m the guy who shows up before on-time because on-time is already late. That stuck with me along with turning off WIBC to say Grace before breakfast and lunch.

The Chalkboard?

It’s a habit now too. Maybe the chalk breaks some days, maybe the sun doesn’t shine, but I’m still gonna chalk as long as I can. Some mornings I get fifty looks, other days I get five hundred. People tell me the Chalkboard has become part of their routine and if I have become their Royko or Wally Phillips, then I’m doing something right. That comes with a shit ton of responsibility. I won’t take it lightly you Chalkheads.

There’s less than two weeks left in July. We will lose 43 minutes of daylight by month’s end. The GoldBond will get swapped out for the Vicks VapoRub soon enough. Another habit formed through the years.

In 74 days, our Jewish brothers and sisters will atone on Yom Kippur. In 132 days, we will be rubbing BenGay on our cankles and shoulders before the annual Turkey Bowl.

Ditch the habits that drag you down. Keep the ones that lift you up. Put a smile on the sun and make the world astounding for yourself and the people lucky enough to cross your path.

Shabbat Shalom.

Keep chalking.

July 17th, 2025

 A quote from Scotty Fitz to inspire the Morning Chalkboard today...

One Fall Ain’t the Finish.

I’ve stumbled, yeah,

but I’ve never stayed down.

Not once.

Got that from my Oldman

who taught me life doesn't pause

for your bruises.

... and from Fitzgerald,

I learned not to bet my soul

on some green light

flickering across the bay.

Hope is a helluva thing,

but it won’t carry your weight.

Failure?

It knocks, but it doesn’t get to move in

unless you open the door and pour it a drink.

I’ve bounced.

Every damn time.

Not because I’m lucky...

... because I know the fall ain’t the finish.