Wednesday, February 11, 2026 – Day 537

Wednesday, February 11, 2026

Good morning, everyone.

I had a so so overnight, but it’s still a three-way wrestling match between machine, mouth, and mind.

We adjusted the humidity setting on the ventilator and finally found a level where there wasn’t excessive condensation dripping through the hose. That part worked. But there wasn’t quite enough moisture for me. At 2:00 a.m., I woke up with a desert in my mouth.

Once I wake up like that, my mind starts racing. And when it starts racing, it heads straight to places I don’t want to go. I begin projecting what the end of my life might look like. It’s like getting stuck on a Ferris wheel of dark thoughts — round and round, no exit ramp. And then my conscious self torments me.

I pull my phone closer, hoping the Calm app will quiet things down. For the next three hours I drifted in and out — not quite asleep, not fully awake — until my morning alarm finally rescued me from my nighttime prison. I’d much rather face these things downstairs, in the light.

This morning brought another wrinkle. I had to switch to the ventilator we’ve set up on the main floor. As soon as I disconnected from the bedroom unit, I felt short of breath. That is not how I wanted to start the day. I’m hoping it’s temporary and I can park the vent for most of the day. Otherwise, my leash just got shorter — these hoses only stretch six feet. But enough of that.

Let’s head back to Waukegan.

When we were kids, my parents somehow brought home a nickel slot machine. I have no idea how that transaction went down — especially since owning one was illegal at the time. And apparently, if you’re going to bend the rules, you might as well go big, because my mom’s two sisters wanted one too.

I still remember the thrill of it. A real gambling machine. The kind you could only legally play in Las Vegas or possibly the back room of certain bars. Not that I witnessed, but heard stories.

It lived in the basement, out of sight, and only came out on Mother’s Day — after church — so Mom could play. We’d all gather around in awe as the three reels spun and stopped one at a time. The machine was fully mechanical, and it had a rhythm to it. You’d pull the handle, hear the clacking gears, then a final heavy thud.

And if you won?

That beautiful, high-pitched cascade of nickels spilling into the tray.

When we moved to 1922, the slot machine found a permanent home in the basement — on top of the bar — where it stayed for nearly fifty years.

As kids, we could entertain ourselves for hours. We learned quickly that the house always wins… but we also knew where the key was hidden. Which meant we had unlimited access to the nickels in the back. Vegas had nothing on us.

After my parents passed in 2014, the machine went to my brother Nick. Any one of us would have gladly taken it — it carried a lifetime of memories.

Then one day I was wandering through the Roscoe Woodstock Antique Mall in Woodstock. A new owner had just taken over and specialized in antique slot machines. I rounded a corner… and there it was.

Our nickel slot machine.

I didn’t hesitate.

Over the next few months, I found the matching dime and quarter models to the set. There’s a penny machine that belongs with them, but I’ve never seen one — which is probably a good thing. We don’t have the room, and I’m sure it would come with a price tag worthy of Las Vegas.

Like my parents before me, the machines are now squirreled away in the basement. Someday, if someone remembers, they’re supposed to head up to Fence Lake (on loan) to II and join the pinball machine that also came from my parents’ basement.

Some things just belong together.

Have a great day. Love you guys. ❤️