I just erased several paragraphs.
I was going to tell you that my circle is tired. Not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep fixes. I mean worn down, worn thin. The kind of tired that comes from too much noise and not enough meaning.
Cable television, the home computer, the cell phone and streaming everything all the time. Somewhere along the way, convenience turned into clutter, and clutter turned into decay.
We used to have edges to the day.
You got the final edition of the Chicago Tribune. You watched the local news at 7:00 AM. If you missed it, that was on you. The day moved on without you. Soap operas filled the afternoon until the five o’clock news brought you back to center. Followed by network news, game shows and prime time on three networks. You closed it out with the 10 o’clock news and maybe a rerun of The Honeymooners before bed.
There was structure, there was rhythm and there was always a finish line and a closing bell.
Now it’s just… endless.
Harry Truman took a train home after his presidency. Think about that. He didn’t have a motorcade. There wasn’t a book deal waiting or grotesque libraries being built. No empire was built on the back of the office. He came in as a man and left as a man.
We have drifted a long way from that.
Radios should come back, get rid of Spotify, Sirius and iHeart. So should movie theaters where people sit shoulder to shoulder and actually watch the same thing at the same time. Diners that never close should bring a neon glow back. Newspaper stands on the corner. Horse tracks that smell like cigar smoke and bad decisions. Taverns within walking distance where the bartender knows your name and your business, but keeps one to himself.
Streetcars, not buses. Neighborhoods with identity known by names and the local Catholic parish.
Black neighborhoods. Puerto Rican neighborhoods. Irish, Polish, Mexican, German, Jewish, Italian neighborhoods.
Not to divide, but to belong. Keep to yourself if you want. Just be decent and courteous.
And every one of those neighborhoods should have good schools, clean grocery stores, steady jobs, and a place for the old folks to sit and play bingo.
That isn’t nostalgia, that is dignity.
This summer we turn 250 years old. That number doesn’t mean a damn thing unless we act on it. Not as a country pointing fingers, but as individuals deciding to be better where we stand.
Because the truth is, these politicians aren’t going anywhere. Some months the paycheck will be light. Some months the bills will stack higher than you would like.
And still… life moves.
What I learned when my parents went to heaven is this: everything they worried about is gone.
Not solved, not fixed. Just… gone.
Most of it disappeared faster than the grief it created.
What is left of their lives fits into a couple boxes in the back of my bedroom closet.
You want to know what isn’t in those boxes?
The bills.
The overtime.
The missed deadlines.
The broken cars.
The loose toilet handles.
The spilled turkey gravy from Thanksgiving 1975.
None of that crap made the cut.
What made the cut were the things that mattered, and even those are just fragments now.
So no, I’m not worried about the economy or the government. I’m worried about the people I love. The ones grinding every day. The ones trying to get ahead and feeling like they’re falling behind. The ones who are too damn tired to enjoy what they’ve already earned.
Take care of what you can touch. Let go of what you can’t.
Because none of the noise, none of the stress, none of the worry is going to be there when the boxes get packed.
The dance ends quicker than you think. Don’t walk off the floor and go home disappointed. Grab your crush, pull them close and slow dance while the music is still playing.
I ended up erasing and chalking more than I thought this morning. I need to take the erasers out to the playground and beat them on the concrete.
Stress less Chalkheads, stay hydrated and unbothered…
