"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."
This morning's quote got me thinking about random moments.
This morning's quote got me thinking about random moments.
Like putting on a Little League uniform that you laid out the night before the big game. Serving eight o’clock mass as an altar boy and seeing your proud parents in the first pew.
Eating lunch at Gramma's dining room table with WIBC carrying the mid-day farm report.
Watching Bears games with Bobby Grilliot or Indianapolis Indians games with Bob McCutcheon.
Sitting in my dad's car, listening to WGN while eating White Castles. Putting on a trading jacket for the first time and hearing that opening bell.
Falling asleep on my dad's family room couch while war documentaries played on PBS.
French kissing for the first time at Broad Ripple Park in the Nickel Plate steam locomotive.
Taking naps with George asleep on my belly. Sitting with Fritz next to a sewer cap, waiting for an alligator to crawl out or playing Barbies with Hazel for hours.
Worrying about the Cartersburg Fog Monster at my aunt and uncle's house. Eating ice cream cones with my mom during a summer rainstorm.
None of those felt like history while they were happening. They were just another Tuesday.
The same is true of so many things that disappeared before we knew they were disappearing. The last ten times you hugged your parents. The last closing bell, walking off the trading floor, never to hear open outcry again. The final dinner at a favorite neighborhood restaurant before the lights went out for good.
The old Chicago Stadium with cigar smoke hanging in the rafters and Keith Magnuson patrolling the blue line. Friday nights at Comiskey watching the South Side Hitmen bang dingers. Soldier Field beneath the colonnades while Walter Payton picked up another first down. Sitting in the Wrigley Field bleachers the summer I turned twenty-one, drinking Old Style with friends who seemed like they'd be around forever.
At the time, they were ordinary days. Looking back, they were some of the biggest moments of my life.
Maybe George will someday remember our trips to the Polar Bear for an ice cream. Maybe Fritz will remember grabbing a hot dog at Parky's with his Oldman. Maybe Hazel will remember lying on a blanket with her head nestled in DaDa's hug, watching clouds drift across the April sky.
I hope so.
Because I have learned that extraordinary lives are rarely built from extraordinary days. They are built from thousands of ordinary moments that reveal their true value only after they have become memories.
To all of my French Chalkheads...
Happy Bastille Day. Vive la France!
Eating lunch at Gramma's dining room table with WIBC carrying the mid-day farm report.
Watching Bears games with Bobby Grilliot or Indianapolis Indians games with Bob McCutcheon.
Sitting in my dad's car, listening to WGN while eating White Castles. Putting on a trading jacket for the first time and hearing that opening bell.
Falling asleep on my dad's family room couch while war documentaries played on PBS.
French kissing for the first time at Broad Ripple Park in the Nickel Plate steam locomotive.
Taking naps with George asleep on my belly. Sitting with Fritz next to a sewer cap, waiting for an alligator to crawl out or playing Barbies with Hazel for hours.
Worrying about the Cartersburg Fog Monster at my aunt and uncle's house. Eating ice cream cones with my mom during a summer rainstorm.
None of those felt like history while they were happening. They were just another Tuesday.
The same is true of so many things that disappeared before we knew they were disappearing. The last ten times you hugged your parents. The last closing bell, walking off the trading floor, never to hear open outcry again. The final dinner at a favorite neighborhood restaurant before the lights went out for good.
The old Chicago Stadium with cigar smoke hanging in the rafters and Keith Magnuson patrolling the blue line. Friday nights at Comiskey watching the South Side Hitmen bang dingers. Soldier Field beneath the colonnades while Walter Payton picked up another first down. Sitting in the Wrigley Field bleachers the summer I turned twenty-one, drinking Old Style with friends who seemed like they'd be around forever.
At the time, they were ordinary days. Looking back, they were some of the biggest moments of my life.
Maybe George will someday remember our trips to the Polar Bear for an ice cream. Maybe Fritz will remember grabbing a hot dog at Parky's with his Oldman. Maybe Hazel will remember lying on a blanket with her head nestled in DaDa's hug, watching clouds drift across the April sky.
I hope so.
Because I have learned that extraordinary lives are rarely built from extraordinary days. They are built from thousands of ordinary moments that reveal their true value only after they have become memories.
To all of my French Chalkheads...
Happy Bastille Day. Vive la France!
