Wednesday, February 4, 2026 – Day 530

Wednesday, February 4, 2026

Good morning, everyone.

I had a much better night’s sleep 😴. There’s an over-the-counter product called Biotène that helps with dry mouth, and it actually works. It’s not perfect, but it’s taken the edge off enough that I don’t feel the urge to rip the ventilator mask off in the middle of the night—which feels like a small but meaningful win 😃.

In my photo box, there’s a picture of all eight of us kids standing in front of our house at 316 Keith Avenue in Waukegan, probably taken just before we moved to 1922. I love that photo.

Tim is on the far left, either imitating the photographer or pretending to look through binoculars. Sarah and I are clearly deep in discussion about something—most likely her bike. Lis, the oldest, is sitting on the ground, almost certainly assigned the job of keeping an eye on Nick (he’s the only one smiling and looking at the camera) and Maria, the youngest. Bill is next, straddling his paper-route bike like he’s ready for takeoff. And Tom is on the end, caught mid-thought just as the camera clicks.

That photo instantly takes me back to summers growing up in the 1960s—and especially to bikes. We were not allowed to stay inside during the summer. My memory is being booted out of the house around 7:00 a.m. and not being allowed back in until it was time to wash up for dinner. I’m sure the rules weren’t quite that strict…but they were close. Once you were told to get out of the house, that was final.

So what did we do?

We rode bikes.

Growing up in a family of eight kids, in a neighborhood absolutely packed with kids, meant there were bikes everywhere. Riding bikes wasn’t just recreation—it was the main event. You were expected to go out and explore the world, even though “the world” was really just a couple blocks from home. Any farther than that you would be out earshot of the outside bell. When it rang, you had to get your butt home…no excuses.

We almost always rode in groups—big groups. We rode right down the middle of side streets without much concern for traffic. I sometimes wonder what drivers thought when they came upon a swarm of kids on bikes. I’m guessing there was some muttering under their breath.

Whenever we arrived at someone’s house, we’d just drop our bikes wherever we landed—across the sidewalk, in front of the door, piled on top of each other—creating a perfect obstacle course for anyone trying to enter. No one gave it a second thought.

My dad, on the other hand, definitely gave it some thought.

He got so frustrated coming home from work and finding bikes scattered all over the yard that one weekend he built us a proper bike corral. It was actually a pretty nifty setup. We used it…maybe 30% of the time.

A memorable bike story for me. I might have been 10 or 11 years old.

One afternoon, a small group of us was riding aimlessly on Colville Street in Waukegan…some of you know it. Somehow, someone in the group started talking about how drivers could cross their hands on a steering wheel and still drive straight.

That idea really hit me with interest. Could I do the same riding a bike? So as I pedaled slowly down the street, I decided to experiment.

I took my right hand off the handlebar and put it on the left grip. Easy enough. Then all I had to do was move my left hand over to the right.

That’s when things went south.

The bike started wobbling immediately. I’m not even sure I was still pedaling at that point. As soon as my left hand grabbed the right handlebar, my brain completely panicked and tried to “fix” everything at once.

I crashed.

Hard.

Scraped hands, bruised pride—classic kid wipeout. But that’s not the part that burned this memory into my brain.

There was someone nearby walking a small dog, and they rushed over to help me. But when the dog arrived, it lifted its leg and peed on my bike—and splashed me in the process.

Seriously. What kind of dog does that?

So now I’m scraped up, embarrassed, wet, and humiliated—all at once. The kids who witnessed the crash were far too busy laughing to offer any help. And honestly, I don’t think they were going to touch me anyway.

That was childhood in the 1960s. Bikes, scraped knees, freedom, and sometimes bad ideas.

It wasn’t the last time one of bikes got peed on. Story for another day.

Have a great day. Love you guys!❤️