The
young man attending a cartoon
class
I was teaching asked me if I had
done
anything famous that he might
know.
Have you ever seen the comic
strips
Peanuts or The Far Side, I asked
him?
Everyone knows those, he smiled
in
reply. Well, I went on, I had nothing
at
all to do with them.
And
then there was the time when an
acquaintance
of mine wondered why my
writings
had not made me famous and a
millionaire?
I had no explanation to share.
I
can’t tell you how often I have been told,
you’re
paintings are good enough to hang
in
museums and make you the big bucks.
It’s
a gift, I’m often told.
I
am gratified by these comments, and a bit
embarrassed
at the same time. About a year
ago
while conversing with a man I know, I
asked
him if he remembered that apartment
fire
in Red Bridge late last year? It made the
newspaper,
and was on the five o’clock TV
news,
the one where a reporter interviewed
a
resident who had survived?
Sure
do, he recalled. That was me, of modest
means,
mind you, and still not noteworthy as
an
entry in the annuls of mankind history, but
damned
lucky indeed for making it out alive.
As far as I’m concerned, you can forget Andy
Warhol’s claim that everyone in the future
will receive their 15-minutes of fame.
Chris
Hanch 9-21-18
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