"Being messy just means being
alive!"
Life was a hell of a mixed bag this week.
It started with the White Sox continuing their march toward baseball immortality. For a brief moment, the Pale Hose had us believing in miracles. Unfortunately, reality caught up with our Southsiders, sending them packing for their annual winter vacation.
By the end of the week, Chicago legend Mike Ditka had joined Heaven's roster. Somewhere up there, I imagine the Coach is already complaining about the officiating, questioning God's play-calling, and demanding that somebody block that goddamn outside linebacker.
The week was not finished reminding me about the passage of time.
Saturday brought me to a wedding.
The youngest daughter of my old friend Bill Hamilton was getting married. It was a beautiful celebration, filled with family, friends, laughter, and enough generations to make a genealogist reach for a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Her two older sisters were there with their husbands, toddlers, and babies. The young mothers had important responsibilities as members of the wedding party, leaving their husbands in charge of feeding, entertaining, and preventing the next generation of Hamilton descendants from destroying the reception hall.
The mothers delivered beautiful speeches and heartfelt toasts to their little sister and newest brother-in-law, while their young husbands performed their own acts of heroism involving juice boxes, and negotiations with small human beings who had zero desire to be at a wedding reception.
Watching the whole production, I could not help remembering that not terribly long ago, we were the young parents trying to survive a Saturday night.
And before that, we were the brides and grooms.
I spent much of the evening hugging and catching up with friends I have known for forty years.
Forty fucking years.
That number sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.
I remember when we were the young people at these weddings. Our parents sat proudly at their tables, watching their children begin new lives. They smiled as we danced, drank, laughed, and carried on like we were going to live forever.
Now we are the parents.
We are the generation sitting at the tables, looking at our children and their children, wondering how the hell we got here so quickly.
Bill gave a fantastic speech and danced with his daughter, looking every bit the dapper daddy of the bride.
Thirty-one years ago, he was the groom.
Back then, his parents were watching the same youthful exuberance that I witnessed Saturday night. The faces have changed, the music is different, and the dresses probably cost three times as much, but the celebration remains familiar.
The only difference is that I now need a scorecard to identify all the Hamilton offspring, their spouses, and their children.
At my table sat three couples whose weddings I attended decades ago.
At one of those weddings, my buddy sitting across from me and I were doing chest bumps on the dance floor. That wedding was for the couple sitting to my right Saturday night.
We were young, strong, stupid, and convinced we were indestructible.
We played softball at Ridgeland. We played tackle football in Lincoln Park without helmets, insurance, or common sense to know better.
We made chili in our first apartments and gathered around televisions to watch Mike Ditka’s Bears beat the living hell out of the Packers and Patriots.
Life was simple.
Our bodies worked, our hair was plentiful, and nobody gave a shit about the sodium content of the potatoes.
Saturday night, our conversation had evolved considerably.
The band was too loud. The spotlights were too bright, and somebody thought the potatoes were too salty.
Jesus Christ. We have become our parents.
Toward the end of the evening, I decided to execute the time honored Irish goodbye.
No speeches or extended farewells. Just quietly slip out the door and disappear into the night.
I almost made it.
Standing near the exit was the grandfather of the groom, a ninety-two-year-old gentleman with a cane. He stopped me with a question.
"Do you know the score of the Sox game?"
My escape had been foiled by a man who was ninety-two years into his own adventure.
He and his wife were sitting on a couch in the foyer because they, too, thought the music was too damn loud.
He introduced me to his second wife and casually mentioned that his first wife was also attending the wedding. They were still friends watching their son’s son get married into the Wild Turkeys.
Here is a man who understands diplomacy, forgiveness, and the importance of not burning bridges.
We started talking.
About Fenwick and Mr. Lattner.
About Johnny Morris and the Bears.
About Chicago, old neighborhoods, God, and second chances.
He asked where I lived. I told him a place where I can sometimes hear the lions roaring from across the river.
We talked like two old friends who had simply forgotten to meet each other until his grandson’s wedding.
There was something about that conversation.
Here was a man approaching a century on this earth, sitting beside his wife, enjoying a wedding, discussing old memories, and still interested in the score of a baseball game.
He wasn't finished with life, not by a long shot. He was still participating, still curious, still collecting stories, and still following the White Sox.
Driving home, I thought about the evening and the people who have accompanied me through my life. Friends who have witnessed my finest moments and forgiven some of my stupidest ones. People who have loved me despite knowing exactly who I am. People who show up with a phone call, a visit, a laugh, or a shoulder when life gets difficult.
Forty years of weddings, funerals, births, opening days, broken hearts, second chances, and memories that grow richer every time we tell them.
We have buried parents, welcomed grandchildren, celebrated victories, and survived disappointments.
We have lost some people we never imagined living without, and somehow, here we are, making another memory on a Saturday night in Bensenville.
I started the week watching a baseball team remind me that hope doesn't always deliver. Then came the passing of a Chicago legend, reminding me that even the toughest eventually leave the field.
I ended the week watching a beautiful young couple begin their lives together, surrounded by generations of love, and talking about life with a ninety-two-year-old gentleman who still had plenty of living to do.
That is quite an incredible week.
Today's Chalkboard reminds us that being messy just means being alive, and life is gloriously messy.
The weddings, the mysteries of our faith, the funerals, the friendships, the mistakes, the second marriages, the salty potatoes, and the Irish goodbyes that never quite work.
It is all part of the same beautiful, unpredictable story.
I used to think growing old meant gradually running out of things to look forward to.
Saturday night changed my mind.
If I am lucky, someday I will be the ninety-two-year-old guy with the cane, stopping the guy to ask him the Sox score.
… And maybe he will take a few minutes and listen to an old man's stories.
Maybe I will tell him about Mayor Daley, old Sox Park, the trading floor, and all the wonderful people who made my life such an interesting mess.
Because gusto and astonishment does not belong to the young.
Gusto and astonishment have a past, a present, and, if we are lucky, one hell of a future.
And who knows?
Maybe by the time I am ninety-two, the White Sox will win another World Series, and the Bears will win another Superbowl.
Now that is something worth living thirty-two more years to see……
Life was a hell of a mixed bag this week.
It started with the White Sox continuing their march toward baseball immortality. For a brief moment, the Pale Hose had us believing in miracles. Unfortunately, reality caught up with our Southsiders, sending them packing for their annual winter vacation.
By the end of the week, Chicago legend Mike Ditka had joined Heaven's roster. Somewhere up there, I imagine the Coach is already complaining about the officiating, questioning God's play-calling, and demanding that somebody block that goddamn outside linebacker.
The week was not finished reminding me about the passage of time.
Saturday brought me to a wedding.
The youngest daughter of my old friend Bill Hamilton was getting married. It was a beautiful celebration, filled with family, friends, laughter, and enough generations to make a genealogist reach for a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Her two older sisters were there with their husbands, toddlers, and babies. The young mothers had important responsibilities as members of the wedding party, leaving their husbands in charge of feeding, entertaining, and preventing the next generation of Hamilton descendants from destroying the reception hall.
The mothers delivered beautiful speeches and heartfelt toasts to their little sister and newest brother-in-law, while their young husbands performed their own acts of heroism involving juice boxes, and negotiations with small human beings who had zero desire to be at a wedding reception.
Watching the whole production, I could not help remembering that not terribly long ago, we were the young parents trying to survive a Saturday night.
And before that, we were the brides and grooms.
I spent much of the evening hugging and catching up with friends I have known for forty years.
Forty fucking years.
That number sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.
I remember when we were the young people at these weddings. Our parents sat proudly at their tables, watching their children begin new lives. They smiled as we danced, drank, laughed, and carried on like we were going to live forever.
Now we are the parents.
We are the generation sitting at the tables, looking at our children and their children, wondering how the hell we got here so quickly.
Bill gave a fantastic speech and danced with his daughter, looking every bit the dapper daddy of the bride.
Thirty-one years ago, he was the groom.
Back then, his parents were watching the same youthful exuberance that I witnessed Saturday night. The faces have changed, the music is different, and the dresses probably cost three times as much, but the celebration remains familiar.
The only difference is that I now need a scorecard to identify all the Hamilton offspring, their spouses, and their children.
At my table sat three couples whose weddings I attended decades ago.
At one of those weddings, my buddy sitting across from me and I were doing chest bumps on the dance floor. That wedding was for the couple sitting to my right Saturday night.
We were young, strong, stupid, and convinced we were indestructible.
We played softball at Ridgeland. We played tackle football in Lincoln Park without helmets, insurance, or common sense to know better.
We made chili in our first apartments and gathered around televisions to watch Mike Ditka’s Bears beat the living hell out of the Packers and Patriots.
Life was simple.
Our bodies worked, our hair was plentiful, and nobody gave a shit about the sodium content of the potatoes.
Saturday night, our conversation had evolved considerably.
The band was too loud. The spotlights were too bright, and somebody thought the potatoes were too salty.
Jesus Christ. We have become our parents.
Toward the end of the evening, I decided to execute the time honored Irish goodbye.
No speeches or extended farewells. Just quietly slip out the door and disappear into the night.
I almost made it.
Standing near the exit was the grandfather of the groom, a ninety-two-year-old gentleman with a cane. He stopped me with a question.
"Do you know the score of the Sox game?"
My escape had been foiled by a man who was ninety-two years into his own adventure.
He and his wife were sitting on a couch in the foyer because they, too, thought the music was too damn loud.
He introduced me to his second wife and casually mentioned that his first wife was also attending the wedding. They were still friends watching their son’s son get married into the Wild Turkeys.
Here is a man who understands diplomacy, forgiveness, and the importance of not burning bridges.
We started talking.
About Fenwick and Mr. Lattner.
About Johnny Morris and the Bears.
About Chicago, old neighborhoods, God, and second chances.
He asked where I lived. I told him a place where I can sometimes hear the lions roaring from across the river.
We talked like two old friends who had simply forgotten to meet each other until his grandson’s wedding.
There was something about that conversation.
Here was a man approaching a century on this earth, sitting beside his wife, enjoying a wedding, discussing old memories, and still interested in the score of a baseball game.
He wasn't finished with life, not by a long shot. He was still participating, still curious, still collecting stories, and still following the White Sox.
Driving home, I thought about the evening and the people who have accompanied me through my life. Friends who have witnessed my finest moments and forgiven some of my stupidest ones. People who have loved me despite knowing exactly who I am. People who show up with a phone call, a visit, a laugh, or a shoulder when life gets difficult.
Forty years of weddings, funerals, births, opening days, broken hearts, second chances, and memories that grow richer every time we tell them.
We have buried parents, welcomed grandchildren, celebrated victories, and survived disappointments.
We have lost some people we never imagined living without, and somehow, here we are, making another memory on a Saturday night in Bensenville.
I started the week watching a baseball team remind me that hope doesn't always deliver. Then came the passing of a Chicago legend, reminding me that even the toughest eventually leave the field.
I ended the week watching a beautiful young couple begin their lives together, surrounded by generations of love, and talking about life with a ninety-two-year-old gentleman who still had plenty of living to do.
That is quite an incredible week.
Today's Chalkboard reminds us that being messy just means being alive, and life is gloriously messy.
The weddings, the mysteries of our faith, the funerals, the friendships, the mistakes, the second marriages, the salty potatoes, and the Irish goodbyes that never quite work.
It is all part of the same beautiful, unpredictable story.
I used to think growing old meant gradually running out of things to look forward to.
Saturday night changed my mind.
If I am lucky, someday I will be the ninety-two-year-old guy with the cane, stopping the guy to ask him the Sox score.
… And maybe he will take a few minutes and listen to an old man's stories.
Maybe I will tell him about Mayor Daley, old Sox Park, the trading floor, and all the wonderful people who made my life such an interesting mess.
Because gusto and astonishment does not belong to the young.
Gusto and astonishment have a past, a present, and, if we are lucky, one hell of a future.
And who knows?
Maybe by the time I am ninety-two, the White Sox will win another World Series, and the Bears will win another Superbowl.
Now that is something worth living thirty-two more years to see……
