L.A.’s Octobers are like that. It’s not chilly but it brings a bit of bluster. The winds kick up, the yard signs go flying.

The other day, White Fang tinkled on the face of a School Board candidate, whose campaign sign had flopped along the sidewalk. I don’t think it was personal. But maybe.

Welcome to public service, pal.

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Puddles, who just turned 2, also boasts a cowboy spirit and a Bozo smile. He is the kind of person others fuss over and surround.

True charisma? Wouldn’t know. Never had much of that myself, though I did once charm 200 Jewish women at a charity lunch at the Skirball Center. You have any idea how hard that is?

Still, a fluke, an aberration.

Maybe that’s why I adore Puddles. He’s got swagger. He’s got game. My grandson possesses all the good qualities that I seem to lack.

It’s as if God got a Mulligan.

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1. Pick a topic.

2. Name your Mt. Rushmore.

For example, when Chicago legend Mike Ditka died the other day, I suggested that he belongs on Chicago’s Mt. Rushmore with Old Man Daley, George Halas and Dick Butkus.

Other Chicagoans would dispute that. They’d want to put Walter Payton up there, Ernie Banks, Bobby Hull, Harry Caray, John Belushi or Mike Royko. Even Oprah, that big blowhard.

To be fair, half the people I mention were blowhards, especially Ditka.

Yet, I’d suggest that a city is only as good as its Mt. Rushmore.

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And I write like a guy trying out one-liners at a bar.

Yet, I recently realized that doing things for other people purifies me in some quiet way, that their joy is my Aaronic blessing.

A good life contains so much servitude.

I mean, that’s what parenthood is all about, right? But it’s really the essence of my life right now, as I prefer helping friends and family to chasing Crypto and castles.

Here’s an example: The other day, in her grandparenting class, Suzanne sang “The Johnny Appleseed Song.” I’d have attended if I’d known.

To me, The Johnny Appleseed Song ought to be a seasonal rite. We ought to sing it at ballgames and weddings.

Imagine: 25 beautiful and maturing L.A. moms, singing in unison, glassy-eyed over their grandchildren. To me, that’s what Heaven looks like. Plus, platters of wings (catch the overlap?).

My buddy Chuck wanted me to take this same grandparenting class. Problem is that I’ve never been much for classroom instruction. Too much group-think and intellectual consolidation.

In classroom settings, I still fidget and stare at the clock, awaiting the afternoon bell.

Here are my own five simple rules for being a grandparent:

1. Show up.

2. Shut up.

3. Clean up.

4. Pick up the check.

5. Flee.

Otherwise, you get roped into this “gentle parenting” approach that the kids insist on nowadays, where you never tell a kid “no” or “stop” or “get your finger out of that socket.”

With so-called gentle parenting, you let the kids run your life, you insist they stay feral. Presumably, that helps prepare them for an untamed world.

Hey, who am I to judge? Did I ever hit parenting out of the park? No one does. A base hit here, a base hit there. Grind-grind-grind.

I remember years ago when my own parents would fly in to see their young grandkids. First thing, they’d pour a drink. That generation really knew how to grandparent.

Back then, adult children still asked their parents for advice. Is this a rash? How do I know if she’s getting a tooth? Can she eat pastrami yet? Stuff like that.

Today’s parents Google all the parenting info they need. Or listen to the loudest person in their Mommy and Me Class.

At some point, there’s no substitute for a grandparent — for having been there.

Once you realize how much grandkids mend our ancient hearts, maybe you kids will buy in? Grandparents always bring the wings.

Meanwhile, it’s tailgate season — all that Johnny Appleseed stuff. I opened the fridge the other morning and $300 worth of tailgate ribs tumbled out, like pillows from a closet.

“I think it’s going to be a good day,” I texted my fellow tailgaters, good men gone a little mad with fall— as if you crossed a pirate with a priest.

Most of them are grandparents now, and it could well be the greatest thing that’s ever happened to them.

Then again, maybe not.

Me, I like grandparenting, just as I like lemonade stands and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

To the grandkids, my son Smartacus and I are mythical forest creatures who drop in sporadically to make a lot of noise, then vanish into the night.

The grandkids aren’t sure where we live or what we do for money. But we enter the house laughing at our own jokes.

“Knock-knock. Who’s there? The pregnant moose…”

I relish every moment with these grandkids because I worry that — at any minute — their frustrated parents will declare “WE CAN’T AFFORD TO LIVE HERE ANYMORE!”

As you know, everyplace is cheaper than L.A.

And everyplace else has easier airports … better schools … cool Octobers. More than anything, they have affordable four-bedroom homes with fairway front yards — lush lawns, like quilts.

That’s my deepest personal fear — more than health, more than money: That one day soon the grandkids will leave and the only reason I’ll drive across town anymore is to people-watch at Big Dean’s, the greatest think-tank in the entire world, or at Tiny’s, the second-greatest think-tank in all the land.

At Tiny’s Bar, the cars whoosh by on Pico, people rushing to do what: Celebrate a birthday? Play mahjong? Race to LAX to pick up their adult kids coming back from vacations in Greece

I suppose that, at the end of the day, we are the answers to our own quiet prayers.

Amen, baby.

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Next week: Puddles turns 2, can you believe it?

A rainy-day recipe

A much-welcome cool rain is in the forecast. Finally! Smartacus ran across this terrific Trader Joe’s dish that is perfect while watching baseball or football on a fall evening. Goes together in 20 minutes. Hearty and rich as a good chili, the only things I’d add is a crusty sourdough and a glass of wine. Enjoy!

Much like journalism.

Yet, lit it is. The U.S. flag flies high and mighty over this jewel of the Midwest. At night, you expect movie ghosts to circle Tribune Tower, chased by Bill Murray.

I’ve landed back in Chicago for the first time in a year. Nice bed at the Hyatt. When I sleep, my nose is inches from the mini-fridge. When the room gets stuffy, as corporate suites do, I just crack the mini-fridge door.

Ahhhhhhh! Oxygen! Refrigerent!

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• Welcome to the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” as Keats put it.

• Welcome to October.

• TV needs more funny.

• TV needs more heart.

• “Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils.” — Tom Hanks in “You’ve Got Mail.”

• Health update: My love for college football has just been upgraded to “serious.”

• Doctor: “Take two brats and call me in the morning.”

• The only dog breed capable of sarcasm: Siberian huskies.

• And you know who’s super sardonic? French poodles.

• “People forget years and remember moments.” —Ann Beattie

• Note: If you’re raising a family, you’re raising the future.

• Quick question: Has any hit show bottomed out as quickly as “Ted Lasso?”

• “The Bear” has crashed too.

• Makes you appreciate “Cheers,” doesn’t it?

• “I’m on top of the world….it’s a dismal spot in Greenland somewhere.” — Norm Peterson

• Oddest county fair food: Indiana’s hot beef sundae.

• Runner-up: Wisconsin’s Elvis on a Stick.

• Remember when there was a sitcom about a talking horse?

• Remember when a TV housewife was actually a witch?

• “I don’t know. I have an aunt who thinks she’s a lighthouse. Whenever it rains she insists on climbing up on the garage roof to warn the sailors.” — Darrin Stevens on “Bewitched,” trying to brush aside the news that his new wife is a witch.

• My first crush: Wilma Flintstone.

• To me, Dodger Stadium sunsets are like jewelry.

• Meanwhile, Dave Roberts is becoming the most-beloved sports figure since Vin Scully.

• In L.A., legends are jewelry too.

• Overheard: “If you want a foldable device, buy a book.”

• I really dig Burbank.

• And Larchmont Village still speaks to me.

• If I lived in Hancock Park, I’d breakfast at the Original Farmer’s Market every morning.

• Definition of “drop-dead gorgeous”: the Rose Bowl’s new Field Club.

• UCLA tailback Wayne Knight has Heisman-caliber hops.

• Best small city in America? Pasadena.

• Recently on the market there: Batman’s TV mansion, listed at $32 million.

• Ka-POWWWWWWW!

• “Alfred, please patch me through to the Commissioner.” — Batman.

• Simple walks appeal to me more and more.

• Yet, so does keeping Gotham safe.

• Confession: I just had a fling with a nice bowl off chili.

• “You better live every day like your last. Because one day you’re going to be right.” — Ray Charles.

• Alfred, where are you?

• Definition of “separation anxiety”: the way dogs follow us into the loo.

• I prefer “songs from the era before songwriters took drugs to make themselves stupid and ambiguity became the sign of artistic ambition.” —Garrison Keillor

• Brutal. But I know what you mean, GK.

• Top five marching bands (my ranking): 1. Ohio State; 2. Jackson State; 3. Notre Dame; 4. Purdue; 5. USC.

• Bottom five: 1. Rice; 2. Oregon, 3; Colgate, 4; UCLA, 5; Yale.

• Still, a big shoutout to all the kids who put in the time.

• Why can’t NFL teams stick with one basic uniform?

• Why can’t they all play outside, instead of domes?

• “People don’t live in New Orleans because it is easy. They live here because they are incapable of living anywhere else in just the same way.” — Ian McNulty

• Same for Los Angeles.

• Trivia time: What is a “Goldilocks temperature?”

• “It was a year without seasons; it was a year without punctuation.” — poet Donald Hall, after the death of his wife, Jane Kenyon

• FYI, I prefer Santa Monica at low tide (when there’s more of it).

• Coolest animals in the world: bobcats.

• “Hope is easy; faith is tough.” —reader Joe Paggi

• Inflation hack: Don’t buy a new $18 AC filter. Just shop-vac your old one.

• Only in L.A.: The new Lucas museum reportedly wants to be “inclusive,” so it’s offering simple fare such as club sandwiches and mozzarella sticks.

• Price of a burger at the Skywalker Grill: $38.

• Price of admission: $25.

• “If you want to grow the game, grow it in the United States.” —Jon Gruden

• Amen, brother.

• Trivia answer: A so-called “Goldilocks temperature” is neither too hot nor too cold, often found in fall and hovering around 65 degrees.

• My sisters are still two of the best people I know.

• My daughters rock too.

• The granddaughters? Tough to be objective. But they’re magic.

• More on the way?

• “I stepped out of Mississippi when I was 10 years old, with a suit cut sharp as a razor and a heart made of gold.” —B.B. King

• Dogs are family.

• Dogs are kindness.

• Dogs are gold.

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  Next week: My five tips for grandparenting.

That’s so dull and predictable. And the last person you should ever bore is yourself.

So I slip into the too-cold lake. For the first 15 seconds, I am insane with chill.

Then, as with much in life, the idea starts to grow on me … this swim across the little bay, the autumn sunlight skidding across the water, sideways like a book…laterally, like a flip to the tailback

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Double the tailgates. Double the pumpkins on the porch.

Double the time I go kicking through the sycamore leaves — if I can find enough sycamore leaves. How about pinecones? Who doesn’t love pinecones?

Double my childhood memories of pumpkin patches, and corn stalks lashed together in frosted fields.

Double the go-ahead touchdowns. Double the goo in my pumpkin-spiced latte.

Double the chowders, the chilis, the stews.

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Fang is a mellow dog, loves people, unless you show the slightest hint of fear, then she foams at the mouth and lusts to taste your blood, your tendons, your teeth.

Like Hollywood executives, or corrupt popes, she traffics in the fears and aspirations of others. I suspect it’s a way to mask her own self-doubts.

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Your life. Your choice.

Self-interest guides almost everything we do — some people more than others. Oddly, we’re attracted to both species: the very selfish and the invariably kind.

A personal note of condolence to those who make the wrong life choices, over and over. Helluva rut. But if it feels good, do it. I’m not your mother.

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• If only I could get the dishwasher to work better on the spoons.

• If only the gardeners next door would not swoop in the day after I wash the car.

• If only I had held on to that Apple stock.

• If only I were taller, richer, wiser.

• If only I had more chin.

Someone asked the other day: When was the last time you thought about the best day of your life?

My response: I had one?

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Late-summer morning. Random Saturday. 7 a.m.

A small-mouth bass nabs the rubber worm on the end of my line, an exciting moment, perhaps too much activity for so early in the day.

The hook proves too big and the lucky fish escapes deep into the lake.

Na-na-na-naaaa, na-na-na-naaaa, hey-hey, goodbye…

To date, my life has been a series of near-misses and condolences. Add one more.

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Here are my suggestions for extricating yourself from its deep pocket:

First move: Kip to a half-pike position.

Second move: Push with all your might and cuss a couple of times (I recommend multisyllabic curse words, the kind your dad relied on to change a tire in the rain).

Final move: Thrust skyward — no, really THRUST!!! — with your tired old legs.

The first couple of attempts will be a disaster, and you might snag your britches or rip a schnitzel.

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The two-inch ink mark on my leg took me back to the days when I had blue pen marks all over my fingers and wrists. They got on my pants, my shirts. In high school, in the early ’70s, we even scribbled on our faded jeans.

It took me back to the fifth grade, when BIC pens were all the rage — 19 cents, almost free. We’d take them apart to make spit-ball shooters.

Then Magic Markers came along, fat and glorious, a barroom scent.

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end…

Now pens are nearly obsolete. We don’t write checks or letters. Best we can do, now and again, is a grocery list or a thank-you note.

My granddaughter Cakes started school the other day. Milestone moment. Tweedy Catholic school skirts. Braids. Backpacks. Happy tears.

The first day of kindergarten is the first day of the rest of your life. And only college dropoffs are harder on moms and dads.

It’s a leap of faith to finally march them off to kindergarten, to put them under the spell of somebody else for large chunks of the day. We should be quite wary of conformist, factory-made kids.

That said, a good American education is a gift.

Hey Cakes, hand your mom a Kleenex. She’s a mess. We Irish cry at touchdowns and first dates, but never at funerals. Go figure. We’re an excessively odd brand of people.

One of my earliest memories is my own first day of kindergarten. The year: 1960, dawn of the space age. I’ve been taking credit ever since.

I was only 3, quite a bit younger than the rest of the kindergarteners. Mom sensed I was ready.

“Time to fly, buddy,” she said, and booted me out the door.

Woooooomp. So much for gentle parenting.

On that first morning, all the mothers came to school. Not mine. I actually liked that she sent me off with the tribe of neighborhood children who walked the six blocks to Hough Street School, an old red brick building right out of a storybook.

When I realized I was the only kindergartner without his mom, I didn’t panic. I was too young to panic. I didn’t even know what panic was.

I remember my classmates and I brought beach towels on which to nap on the floor. We stored them in cubicles with our slippers. In 1960, everybody wore slippers in kindergarten. It was a gentler time.

We quickly fell into a routine. A bit of alphabet. Story time. Snacks: graham crackers and cartons of waxy milk.

Such a life. At age 3, I felt as if I’d retired. I was living better than Harry Truman.

“I like this,” I thought to myself as I kicked off my shoes to nap.

In kindergarten, I quickly established myself as a good kid to mess with at recess, and an easy mark in card games and craps. In short, I was very popular.

To this day, I don’t remember my teacher’s name. My kindergarten teacher was just another adult to me — and that’s the way I wanted it. I was not yet ready to answer to anyone, or forge a personal relationship that I would be unable to maintain over time.

I do know this. The teacher smelled like crayons and potted paste. And Aqua Net, the super-hold hair spray, an adhesive that defined the era.

Eventually, I loved her, just as I would love all my elementary teachers, especially the old ones in support hose and sensible shoes.

It went fast, that year of kindergarten.

Did I learn anything? Well, I was 3, so I learned everything. I learned how not to show fear. I learned that, when you cry in public, everybody laughs — wah-wah-wah — like in a Peanuts cartoon.

I learned how to chew…how to throw up…the best way to get under a classmate’s skin, to tease, to prod, to annoy.

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end…

I mean, what did we know about the passage of time?

From all reports, Cakes did quite well on her first day of kindergarten as well.

I called her later that day for a full report.

Me: Did you make any friends?

Cakes: No.

Me: Good. Don’t rush into relationships. Worst thing you can do.

Cakes: OK, Papa.

Me: Did you have some nice snacks?

Cakes: Pirate’s Booty and apples.

Me: Cool. How’s the wine list there? I mean, you Catholics and your red wine…

And then her mom hung up on me.

By most metrics, a fine first day.

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Next week: The puppy’s heartbeat is a caress, a tick without a tock. It’s like a thought that barely registers as you drift off to sleep.

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Either venom will work fine — one quickly, the other over time. I will admit that the cobra is far more dramatic, almost romantic.

That’s Cleopatra for you, right?

By all accounts, she was pretty insufferable, always losing her marbles over petty stuff.

We’re all a bit of a poetry book; some couplets are happy, some angry, some sad.

My coffee always tastes like the salty finger I stir it with. Or faintly of my own tears.

As you may know, I’m still recovering from Gordon Lightfoot’s death three years ago….anger, denial, bargaining, sorrow. And how could the Cubs let Kyle Schwarber go?

I’m hoping that, as we pivot towards fall, we can soon put all that behind us.

Equally upsetting, of course, is the departure of Dolly Parton, by most accounts America’s most-popular person, a chicken-fried angel/saint in an industrial-strength bra (40DD by some accounts).

“We should all be more like Dolly,” was the overriding public sentiment.

Did you see the cringy clip of her being interviewed by Barbara Walters, her polar opposite in regards to kindness and class?

In the interview, Walters called her a joke, telling Dolly she didn’t need to rely on all the embellishments she was famous for. Walters bore down, then bore down some more. But she couldn’t cut through the singer’s sequined charm.

PR note to selves: Should you ever face unsolicited advice from a brassy New York chatterbox, just smile modestly. Then, during the commercial break, drop a cobra in her purse.

I once postulated that every delicious thing in the cosmos seems conical or elliptic: Easter eggs, pizzas, Dolly Parton.

I’ll stand by that.

Yet, Dolly’s true appeal wasn’t her outsized persona, her hourglass dresses. It was how sly and sneaky smart she was.

It was like she teed us up, smacked us in the head with the judgments we quickly formed about her — that she was some wiggy Harlequin hussy, a hootenanny scamp.

The joke was on us though. And Dolly always got the last delicious laugh.

I love people who can light up a room — or a country — without being unctuous about it.

That she was generous beyond reason added to her allure. She seems to have sent all of Tennessee off to college.

Her songwriting, meanwhile, on pieces like “Jolene” or “The Bridge,” gave her range and wistfulness that filled our hearts.

Hearing Dolly was always like hearing the first Christmas carol of the season.

I noted last week how some deaths kick us in the gut: Robin Williams, Betty White. Diane Keaton.

And now Dolly.

What do they have that we crave? Why did we latch on to them above all others?

With Dolly, I think it was maternal. Like a good mom, she loved us even more than we loved her.

Dolly Parton was fierce but fragile, a tenderness conveyed by that tight trill, that trademark vibrato she borrowed from chickadees.

What a lovely person she was. What a national treasure.

And what an unlikely American hero.

So long, Dolly.

Soft pillows. Safe flight.

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Coming next: Cakes heads off to kindergarten, can you believe it?

I like when the ketchup pours out too fast and Peckinpahs the fries.

I like when waves snatch your flip-flops, and you chase them into the laughing sea.

I like when I can reboot the glitchy cable box, so that I can watch more overpriced TV.

Full disclosure: Most of the things I fix end up breaking again. But if I half-fixed them once, I can half-fix them again.

The other day, I tried to flush the woodpeckers from Suzanne’s creaky mountain cabin, then accidentally slimed her siding, foam filler dribbling down the exterior wall.

Day by day, I’m becoming the Ted Lasso of romance and home repair.

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I could probably plop 14,000 calories a day in my mouth before remembering to chew.

I’ll remind you that most people in our family stay very sharp until well into their 30s. And I’m twice that.

Honestly, I’ve been a little disoriented since they started putting those backup cameras into all the cars. Now, pulling out of the hardware store leaves me dizzy.

Back to cooking for a moment …

Never admitted this to anyone but you: On occasion I have scraped the mold off an otherwise decent piece of bread and served it up.

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• Dad jokes are the best jokes.

• Mom jokes are good too, though.

• Bulletin: The Lakers have not been sold today.

• To me, most dark comedies are barely comedies.

• But “Flirting With Disaster” is brilliant — and possibly the funniest dark comedy you’ve never seen.

• Love is light.

• Love is lit.

• “We need scientists in this world but not a world of scientists.” — Winston Churchill

• In short, don’t forget books.

• Just remember, everyone has a stray hair that pokes out somewhere.

• To me, Brooklyn Italians are an elite subset of Italians.

• Like the Chicago Irish.

• Or Boston terriers.

• Did you know there’s a sleep disorder named after Rip Van Winkle? Well, now you do.

• “We’re surrounded by rant, not reason.” — reader Anne Meeker

• Wait, is she talking about me?

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They wake me in the morning way too early.

See, dogs have this alarm clock inside them, right next to their oversized hearts, and when the clock strikes 6 a.m., the alarm clock goes off.

Doesn’t matter if it’s dark or snowing or you drank a little too much tequila the night before. They don’t seem to care.

Look, I’ve been getting up with babies for 40 years. What’s a few years more of that, right?

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Have you ever met anyone so taken with the minuscule and mundane: lashing rains, chili dogs, little churches on the edge of town?

Dear gawd, I hope not.

When I lie in the summer grass, which is often, I harken back to the yards of my Midwestern youth — plush, shag-carpet lawns, the pride-and-joy of Barrington, Illinois, which to this day has the prettiest front yards the world has ever seen.

To run barefoot through such grass was a sacred experience. Your feet turned green. When you fell, your knees and elbows turned green too.

As kids, we’d dogpile atop each other in that grass, all these green kids growing itchy in the neck, till the moms called us home to dinner.

Devon! Dave! Huckleberry!

The lawns of my hometown were the carpets of kings. When I reached a certain age, I started to spot opportunity. Like Vanderbilt, like Carnegie.

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