I'm going to slap you with a little quote from Vonnegut to kick start the first full week of July.
There was a stretch in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s when I dreaded July 7th. It always meant the end of something that I loved, and the start of something I didn’t.
The Fourth of July weekend with my dad in Chicago and Oak Park. Petersen's for ice cream, a movie at the Lake Theater, fireworks at the high school, Maxwell Street sausages, military marching band music on the stereo, baseball games on either side of town, and laughter that wasn’t forced. That would all come to a screeching halt as I boarded an Amtrak back to Indianapolis.
I would go from the warmth of my father’s world, his voice, his stories, his rhythm...
...to a cold, quiet place where my mother lived. She loved me in her own way, sure, but it was a love layered in sadness and regret. I didn’t feel like a kid with a summer, I felt like a package being returned to the wrong address.
There was a routine to those summer handoffs. My Oldman would meet me at Union Station, drop a heavy hand on my shoulder and without hesitating we would head to the corner of Halsted and Maxwell. Grilled Polish sausage with onions and mustard. Our version of holy communion.
He would talk to me in Chicagonese and make fun of my twangy accent. Knowing that it would get me riled up.
He would slip me a saw-buck and a couple CTA tokens to go catch the Lake Street el to whichever park had a team in town.
That was our Chicago and just like that… July 7th would come and gut me.
The train south always felt colder than the one heading north. I never looked out the window. I just stared at the seat in front of me and counted the stops until I had to pretend everything was fine again.
Funny thing is, I still kinda hate this date.
This year, the weekend wasn’t anything special. No fireworks to remember. No sausages worth writing about. Honestly, I’m glad to get back to the Oakbrook Board of Trade and the electronic trading pits.
The sun on the chalkboard is smiling at you, but we all know the long run of 8:30 sunsets is in the rearview.
The light is slowly slipping, but that makes for a better view of the summer stars and the lightning bugs on the front lawn.
So here’s your gentle reminder, from one soul to another...
....Don’t jag off the rest of 2025.
Thanksgiving is 143 days away.
New Year’s Eve is 177.
That gives us just under six months to clean it up… or double down baby.
I won’t judge your decision. Just make it astonishing!
All this happened.
More or less.
And I'm still here.
More or less.
