September 2nd, 2026

 

     At 11:30 last night, three Riverside police officers knocked on my door. They woke me up and asked about the well-being of my son. Someone George knew online had called the police because George threatened to take his life.

    I opened his bedroom door and found George was asleep. He startled awake when I walked in. He was fine and I was pissed.

    Because once you say something like that, people have to take you seriously. Tuesday night became Wednesday morning sitting in an emergency room while my autistic son was evaluated.

       The ER was filled with tired nurses, stressed doctors, people in pain, crying babies and frightened families…

                                … and there I sat, pissed off at George.

   All of this because he had been ghosted by an online friend. I’m just an old man, but I don't understand this shit.

    How did we go from being social together to being social misfits? We met friends at school, at church, at work, in the tavern or at the ballpark.

   Today, your best friend might be a made-up name in a chat room whom you have never actually met. I don't understand that crap, but I don't have to.

    I have to understand George. Autism already makes it difficult for him to express what he is feeling. Add a world where friendships begin and end through words on a screen and something that seems ridiculous to me doesn't feel ridiculous to him.

    I've lost friends. I've been dumped. Hell, my wife cheated on me. I never threatened to kill myself, but that is my measuring stick and not George's.

 

       …And somewhere during my long night/early morning, my anger ran headfirst into gratitude. Because today, September 2nd, is Look for Charlie's Star Day.

     Charlie was the son of a friend of mine. Charlie’s family doesn’t get the chance to see him every day. They only see him when they look up to heaven.

   His parents do not have the luxury of being pissed off at their son this morning. They can't open Charlie's bedroom door and find him sleeping. Charlie’s parents didn’t drive him home from the hospital, but I was able to drive George home.

   There are parents who have lost children to suicide, overdoses and car accidents who would give everything they own for one more stupid decision. One more argument. One more chance to be pissed off. 

    Instead of silently driving their child home from the hospital, they drove to a funeral home to make arrangements. I drove home with George.

              That is the lesson from last night.

     George told us he never intended to hurt himself. It was something stupid that he said during a painful moment, but somebody online didn't know that.

      Somebody cared enough to call, and three Riverside police showed up in the Divorced Dad District. Then the paramedics showed up. Then the ambulance ride to the hospital. Doctors and nurses evaluated him, and George didn't fall through the cracks.

     In a world where we spend so much time talking about everything that is broken, last night the system worked. Someone took a young man's words seriously and this morning he is back in his bed.

      My anger will go away. I'm heading to work on about ninety minutes of sleep, and I'll survive that too.

     Because I have something Charlie's family would give anything to have. I get to be pissed off at my son today.

     Sometime tonight you Chalkheads, look up. Find Charlie's Star and tell him that you love him.

September 1st, 2026

 

           We have reached the ’Ber months of 2026.

     It might be the meteorological start of autumn, but September is beginning with a Gold Bond alert.

      Why in the hell would I quote Scotty Fitz talking about the crispness of fall when it is going to be in the nineties today?

  The Grabber section has three important dates on our autumnal schedule.

      One is the day we dress up like ghosts and vampires. One is the day we remember the veterans who fought for the liberty and freedom we woke up with this morning. The last is the day we give thanks for everything we have and the opportunity to argue with relatives about politics and football while somebody asks who wants another piece of pie.

      So, reach into the sweater drawer and pull out the gusto and astonishment. The sweater can stay there for now.

              Powder up, Chalkheads. September has arrived.

August 31st, 2026

 

     There is something satisfying about finishing a month on a Monday. Mondays are supposed to be beginnings but today happens to be an ending.

    August gets one last day before we flip the calendar and September takes over. Summer has not officially finished, but we can see the finish line from here.

T.S. Eliot wrote, “To make an end is to make a beginning.”

     That is a clever way to look at today. We spend too much time waiting for the perfect moment to start something. The first of the month, Monday mornings, New Year's Day, and our birthday.

    Today gives us both. It is Monday, and it is the last day of the month.

Finish something.

         September arrives tomorrow morning.

We do not have to drag everything from August into September. Some things deserve to be carried forward, and some things are better left behind.

              ..And some things need to be finished.

       

     Give August a proper goodbye today because tomorrow morning we get thirty brand-new days.

       The Cubs and Sox having winning records at the end of August, W I N N I N G!

August 30th, 2026

 

       A rainy Sunday morning followed by a cloudy, humid afternoon.

    I am not sure it is perfect weather for toasting marshmallows, but today is Toasted Marshmallow Day, so we work with what we have.

      Recently, I chalked about being a latchkey kid like so many of us Gen Xers. I also chalked about how, when I was a little boy, whenever I tried something for the first time, I didn’t say I tried it. I said I invented it.

    Well, I remember the day I invented toasting marshmallows over the stove.

I was living in my first apartment in Oak Park. I bought a bag of jumbo marshmallows at the Jewels up the block and carried them back to my little apartment.

    When I moved out, my parents had used the occasion to clean out their kitchen drawers, so among my new possessions was an old roasting fork.

Perfect. I stuck a marshmallow on the end of it, turned up the gas burner and started roasting.

    I toasted about half a dozen, sat down in front of the television I had just bought at Polk Brothers, cracked open an Old Style, and watched the Sox game.

     It was pretty damn good. I was living the dream.

    The caramelized sugar and gooey softness of a toasted marshmallow went surprisingly well with the kraeusened-water-brewed pilsner.

             At least the first few did.

   After about a six-pack and a dozen marshmallows, I discovered something else I had not thought about when I moved into my first apartment.

          I needed Alka-Seltzer.

   I couldn't just walk over to my Oldman's medicine cabinet anymore and grab a couple. There are certain moments when you realize you are truly on your own.

           That was one of mine.

    So, enjoy the down day the weather has given us on this last Sunday of August 2026.

     August is leaving us hot and humid, dragging September through the door wearing the same damn clothes.

      Fortunately, my Oldman had the foresight to throw a bottle of Gold Bond into that box of kitchen appliances and assorted crap he gave me when I moved across town.

     I have had that magical powder in every bathroom cabinet I have owned since that first apartment many years ago.

       Some lessons from your Oldman take a while to appreciate. Others become apparent the first humid day of September.

      So, Gold Bond up this week, you gorgeous Chalkheads.

Keep your nooks and crannies dry and unchaffed.

         …And if you are going to invent toasted marshmallows over the stove, stop before the second six-pack.

 

August 29th, 2026

       “Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” — William Shakespeare
   Billy Shakes sure as hell understood this one.
      Here we are on the last Saturday of August, and another summer is getting ready to get packed away and added to the history book.
           That got me thinking.
     There are only 24 summers between this one and the summer of 2050.
 Put it that way and 2050 doesn't sound as far away as it did five minutes ago.
   We tend to think of summers as an unlimited commodity. Another one will come around next year and bring another baseball season and another Fourth of July.
      But Shakespeare had it right. Summer's lease is short.
 That is why these final August weekends feel different. The sun sets a little earlier. The shadows get a little longer. Football starts creeping into the conversation. School is back in session, and Labor Day is sitting on the doorstep.
    Summer doesn't slam the screen door when it leaves, it quietly slips away.
   So do not spend this last Saturday of August worrying about September.
Sit outside, grill something and listen to the ballgame.
   Take the long way home this afternoon. Have dinner with somebody that you love and watch the sunset together.
   Because someday we will reach the summer of 2050 and we will probably wonder how in the hell those 24 summers went by so fast.
     Do not count the summers you have left, make the summers you have count.