Just Another Day

One day when the Earth is swept clean and starts all

over again, what then?

No one will care, I imagine; no one is there (not even

you and I imagining). No surprise—no truth to tell, no lies.

Sister Marietta erases Magellan’s name from the chalk

board leaving but a streaked trace of white

as she walks out of the room turning off the light. Class

is over. No homework in history tonight. No one is

grateful (not even the dead); no one forlorn. Tomorrow

is just another day without a number, without a name.

Chris Hanch 9-30-19

Cheers?

Saturday, watching college football on TV. Rest-

less and reflective am I, but still alive after all

these years. The young college men from Notre

Dame and Virginia competing on the gridiron field

of play, athletic and virile as I once was myself

in days long since passed away. The touchdowns

made, and the team who made them cheerful

with high-fives, prodigious leaps and goal line

antics. And young and relevant women swinging and

swaying youthful attributes, flapping their pompon

wings as the brass band plays. Premier cheerleaders

indeed. Everyone I can see through the images pro-

jected onto my TV is 30, 40, 50-years younger than

I, the sedentary spectator at home I happen to be.

Happy and relieved am I, though, in a certain way

that I no longer have the muddle of life uncertainties

ahead of me. Oh young ones, If only you knew the

tribulations and tragedies in store for you. I think of

time—time passing before me; time—far less today

than I had yesterday; all which I have done, all I have

failed or neglected to do. Gray beard, wrinkles, arth-

ritic hips, old age, the cane I need to get me around

nowadays beside the recliner I sit in presently. Good

God, give me something, anything to cheer about.

And wouldn’t you know, the lead keeps changing sides.

I guess that’s the way the game was meant to be played.

Chris Hanch 9-29-19

The Sounds of Silence

Ever sit in the silence of your own making,

barely a sound and no one around, thinking

about nothing of consequence in particular?

Deafening. The world is a distance away not

considering you in the least. Sirens and light

do not sound and shine for you, and in a way

your are grateful for the lack of attention paid.

No phone calls or knocks at the door, one dog

asleep in your lap, the other napping on the

floor. They are enjoying carelessness the

same as you. The atmospheric pressure is low

and no bills are due today. Tomorrow’s like-

lihood is a billion miles away. You sip your

morning coffee and turn the page. Yesterday

got you here; the world at large is out there

plotting its next move which may or may not

include you. Rock-a-bye, Baby. Hush, don’t

you cry. End of story. You close your eyes.

Chris Hanch 9-28-19

Something about Attitude

Bright day, sunny day, storm clouds gather

to the West, there are decisions to be made.

Some none of my business; some pertinent

and ascribed to me personally. I can choose

to act, to ignore or delay. Today, sunny and

bright. Storm clouds gathering to the West

with might. I slip on my pants, button my

shirt, secure my boot straps in place, don-

ning my first-class, Postal Service attitude,

and head out into the world no matter the

case—Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor

gloom of night can stay me from the swift

completion of my appointed rounds. Even

though, I might add, expecting unforeseen

obstacles to be blocking the way.

Chris Hanch 9-27-19

The Drawing Lesson

Warren Walter Waldman III went up to Sr. Mary

Grace, our teacher in the 3^rd grade. I can’t rightly

remember the actual name of the good sister for

it got lost somewhere in the malaise of a million

or more happenings which have inundated my brain

since then. I have, however, retained the name, Warren

Walter Waldman III , who became a friend of mine that

day. Warren was crying when he explained to the sister

that he tried and tried so hard, but could not success-

fully complete his assignment to draw a Cardinal, the

subject he had chosen to illustrate for the class assign-

ment that day. It just won’t come out right. It doesn’t

look anything like a Cardinal, he explained, wiping the

tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. Sr. Mary Grace,

knowing that I was a pretty good artist, called me up to

her desk and asked me to take Warren out into the hall

and help him finish his work which I did gladly. I told him

to watch me as I drew a Cardinal myself. Here’s its round-

ed beak, I demonstrated. And notice the pointed crown

on the top of its head, I said. And oh, of course its color

is red. See, simple as that! And Warren, smiling now with

confidence, followed my lead and proceeded to draw his

own Cardinal perfectly. He returned to Sr. Mary Grace

and proudly handed in his work. Warren got a grade “A”

for his effort that day. Likewise, I earned an “A” for mine.

That was some 65-years ago, and today my hands are no

longer steady enough to draw anything worth a damn.

Long gone now are my friend, Warren, and the drawings

of Cardinals he and I made way back then. Even now to

this day, every time I see a redbird on the branches

and hear its melodic song, I remember. Although, of

Sr. Mary Grace’s actual name, I can never be sure. But

Warren Walter Waldman III, who could ever forget a

name such as that?

Chris Hanch 9-25-19

A New Season

When autumn falls again, a new season begins.

I know it is so when leaves change color on

the trees, when morning chill fills the air, when

flannel shirts, corduroy pants and sweaters

appear. Holy and holiday seasons are ahead to

brighten the ofttimes otherwise gray and gloomy

days. Many prefer the prospects of springtime in

the wings, and with good reason that is under-

stood. Without question, there is something to

be said about the promise of planting and renew-

al to come. For one, florists are available to pro-

vide blooms in wintertime. Cold, snow and ice

sweep the landscape clean, preparing the way

for another resurrection in Spring. I don’t drive

anymore, no failed batteries or scraping of wind-

shields to fear. What’s more, I am pretty much

restricted to staying indoors. So, none of that

burdensome shoveling sidewalks for me. Plus

for a fee, USPS, Amazon and FTD still make year

round deliveries.

Chris Hanch 9-24-19

Roll Call

“Fall in!” the command comes. And we do,

measuring our distance in the ranks, an arm’s

length apart, side to side, front to back. Eyes

straight ahead.

Morning roll call, each day, the military way.

Everyone dressed in fatigues, at attention,

standing upright straight, arms rigid and to

the sides...

“Anderson?” the platoon sergeant calls out.

“Here!” Anderson sharply replies.

“O’ Leary?”

“Here!”

“Ortiz?”

“Present!” (Oh, wise guy eh?).

“Polakowski?”

“Here!”

And throughout the formation the roll proceeds…

“Sampson?”

(No response)

“Sampson?...”

And an answer rings out, “Sampson went on sick

call, Sergeant!”

“Thomas?”

“Here!”…

And on until every man was accounted for.

And so, here I am today some 55-years later.

Here in a different place, far removed from

the world where I used to be.

Here in my current place and time. Here, much

more than an arms length away from society—

a comfortable distance removed, no one to call

out my name, and accountability held to no one

else but me.

Here presently, thank god, and damned lucky

to be. (So many didn’t make it this far.)

For today, all I can say is that I am once again as

I was back then—

“Hanch?”

“Here, yes indeed...and until I am no more,

present and accounted for.”

Chris Hanch 9-23-19

Facing Reality

After 2-years, Puerto Rico still struggles from Hur-

ricane Maria’s devastation. Parts of The Bahamas

have been reduced to rubble, and thousands are still

missing from Dorian’s rampage. Glacial Greenland

is melting as fires are consuming tens of thousands

of rain forest acres in the Amazon. Torrential rains and

severe flooding are inundating regions of Southeast

Texas. In droves, starving Guatemalans flee their country

because of drought and crop failures, seeking refuge in

The United States. Seems Nature, knowing her way,

has no choice but to act in the extreme as the powers

that be in humanity continue to ignore or deny Climate

Change. The self-absorbed, orange-faced ogre in The White

House shaves each morning indignantly refusing to accept

his duty and take responsibility. Vindictively, he tweets his

blames repeatedly—Fake News, Hoax and Witch Hunt.

And the best and least of humankind shall pay. Shame!

Shame! For Shame!

Chris Hanch 9-22-19

Something About Order

There must be order in the world, an order

to the way things go. You know, the horse

before the cart scenerio. Things go wrong

when they are placed the opposite way.

You know you’re having a bad day when

the old switcheroo comes into play. Put

your seat belt on before you drive; after the

crash and you may not survive. Get what I

mean? In my Army days in Germany, it was

understood, you drank the beer first to quench

your thirst, then stopped and ordered a brat-

wurst last before staggering back to the bar-

racks and hitting the sack, passing out before

the CQ came around for bed-check at midnight,

12 AM. Order—It’s a given, everything needs

to take place a certain way. Keeps the gears

rolling, I tell you, and the world working

properly. Otherwise, you may find yourself in

deep kimchi, the old Korean Vets used to say.

Senf is applied to the Bratwurst after it has

been placed on the bun. Everyone knows that.

Chris Hanch 9-21-19

Tell Me, Please

Tell me something I don’t know today.

Tell me about sorrow, the pain. I want

to understand. Tell me about the bitter

cold and torrents of rain, the desert

heat and farmland fields of grain. Today,

this day, I want to feel what you know

to be true. And the lies, I want to know

them too. There are secrets which need

to be revealed so that we know what

makes the flowers grow, what makes

the world turn and the birds fly. I want

to know the when, where, how and why?

Tell me again from where you come,

what motivates you to continue on

this course you are on? I want to know

about all the sticks and stones, what it

feels like to be alone? Your thoughts,

please, on the righteousness and indig-

nities. Let me in on all the atrocities

you have seen. I need to know the pon-

derings of import, each and every triviality.

And once again, more importantly, tell about

the mystery of you and me? Tell me some-

thing I need to know. What on Earth makes

the flowers grow? And don’t tell me it’s a

bloody mystery. Believe it or not, there are

reasons for all these happenings and more,

you know.

Chris Hanch 9-20-19

Talent, Some Will Say

I wish I had your talent...I have been told a lot in my

lifetime. I can’t draw a straight line, they may go on.

Neither can I, is my ofttimes sarcastic but honest reply.

If I could, I’d be an architect or an engineer and not

the struggling and unknown cartoonist I happen to be.

But with your gift surely you must be pleased? A mixed

bag, I’ll tell them with the utmost sincerity—sometimes

happy, sometimes depressed and sad like regular folks,

you know. Say, can you draw a caricature of me, they

may ask? Not for cash, I’m broke, but posterity. Who

knows, perhaps you’ll become famous one of these

days. And I can say that I knew him way back when, be-

fore he achieved fame and fortune. Look here, I tell him,

just because I can draw and you can’t is no guarantee for

either you are me. Oh, what the hell...here, that’s the best

I can do right now. Take it or leave it. And smiling ear-to-

ear, he goes on his merry way, for now a happy man and

pleased as a tick on a dog could be. Why, that damned

sketch I rendered didn’t even come close to resembling

him. And showing it to his wife when he got home, she

didn’t mind telling him so. Chris Hanch, she read the name

at the bottom...Who in hell is that? Same thing you, dear

reader, may be asking yourself when you get to the bottom

of this.

Chris Hanch 9-19-19

Life, Biologically Speaking

No doubt, biology got the best of me.

It took years for me to realize that early

on in life, say about 17, 18 years or so,

I was duped by the science of living

organisms which had control over me.

Science was never an easy subject. I

failed it twice in high school in my

sophomore and junior years. Dropped

out a few weeks into my senior year,

and never returned. Enlisted in the

Army instead. Figured marching and

stuff instead didn’t require biology to

mess with my head. I was wrong. Bi-

ology stuck with me like glue, not in-

tellectually, mind you, but intrinsically.

My biological being knew long before

I had the capacity to understand what

was going on with me naturally. And

when my girlfriend shocked me with

her pregnancy one day, I thought to

myself, how stupid of me. I should

have known better. When I saw her

as pretty and had a natural attraction,

I hadn’t the slightest clue that this was

where biology would eventually lead

me. I figured that she must have failed

the basic science of reproduction in

high school as well. And the myth that

opposites attract was a theory tested

which we eventually would blow out

of the water too. Biology, all so compli-

cated. Took me decades to figure out.

Well, better late than never, so they say.

I can now claim, for all it’s worth, that I

have become more attuned to the sciences

in my old age. For me, astronomy is far less

troublesome.

Chris Hanch 9-18-19

No Changes, I Pray

It has come to this—in my old age as each day

passes, I pray for no changes to be made. Keep

everything the way it is, good and evil remain

stagnate and in place. One day like another,

consistency, I pray. As long as nothing new

knocks at the door, as aging forgets the elderly,

I suppose I will not crumble under the weight,

and everything shall remain the same as it was

yesterday. I can deal with such pain as long as

my cane which keeps me upright does not fail.

I may as well believe in horseshoe and four leaf

clover luck. I realize my prayers today will go

unheard for the slippery slope the world is on

is bound to quake and shake us all to our senses.

Dogs know better than to believe in miracles.

I have a Chihuahua who recently turned 18-years

old. He has survived all that time, older than

most canines go, without a prayer ever being

said, without a rabbit’s foot or a pocket or belt

loop to carry one. If his poop is regular and on

time, I consider both of us lucky. No changes

so far have been made today. For the moment

at least, none I can see to interrupt either him

or me and our current state of being. Good boy!

Chris Hanch 9-15-19

Life Sometimes

For so many years in my life, I used to

sketch and draw to pass the free time.

Often, I was inspired by someone or

some happening nereby or far away.

Sometimes I’d just doodle on paper to

see where it would lead me. I wound up

throwing away more than I saved. Many

of those pieces I decided to keep were

either lost in the myriad ramblings of my

life or destroyed by water from burst pipes

and an apartment fire in the middle of the

night. Then too, there were the give-aways

to friends and aquaintences. Even so, I

managed to save enough over the years

to make some sense of life, and leave a

modest record of my work for those I shall

one day leave behind. Today, in the throes

of old age, and due to shaky hands and

arthritic pain, I am unable to draw and

paint anymore. So, I have taken up writing

poetry mostly. Being retired, my free time

these days extends from the moment I wake

early in the morning to bedtime late at night.

I manage to write something, albeit short

and terse, most every day—thoughts of where

I have been and given where I happen to be

situated today. I suppose there is so much more

I could say. And considering all the time wasted

drinking myself senseless with vodka and brandy,

and the thousands of renderings lost or never

done along the way, I may have said so much

more than I could ever remember anyway. I

figure that’s how life flows sometimes. So, in

keeping with the theme presented here today,

feel free to shred this paper when you reach

the end. For in the grand scheme of things, my

friends, one more piece of my drivel gone missing

won’t make a hell a lot of difference anyway.

Chris Hanch 9-13-19

Something About Tee-shirts

Tee-shirts every day, that’s all I wear anymore.

Most of them I pull from the dresser drawer, a
clean one every now and then. No words or

names silk-screened on the front or back, I like
them like that. I see no need to either advertise
a favorite product or team, have no affiliation

with any college or university. No U of C, no
#12 Brady, no Adidas or Nike, no pithy slogans
like I’m a proud granddad (even though I am),

blank, mind you, front and back. Why tee
shirts then, why not a clean one every day?
Because I am not a one man billboard dis-

play, because it’s summer and flannel is not
suitable for Midwest weather's flame. And
ocassionally a change because I’m a plain

and simple old man, isolated from contact with
prim and proper society whose attitude stinks.
And my sometimes aromatic tee shirts which are

few in number tend to agree. And my plan, though
tenuous and incomplete, is to shower with my tee
shirt on perhaps sometime next week.

Chris Hanch 9-12-19

Midnight

Asleep or awake, and depending upon

where you are, Midnight could be a

curse or a blessing. In either case, it

has been a day, a done deal, one of

many, rain or shine, a mixed bag filled

with despair and or delight. Midnight,

the midway safe-haven harbor of seconds

between a yesterday fully lived or barely

survived, and a brief respite before the dire

or more promising tomorrow. Midnight,

a reflective hour in darkness before the

dawning of light. It is what it is, and for

now, tonight, it’s 10 PM, two hours remain

in the day before the strike of Midnight.

Yesterday and tomorrow waver side-to-side

on the pinhead of your mind. You retire.

Sweet Dreams!

Chris Hanch 9-11-19

A Walk in the Park

For the life of me, I could not see what

she saw in him. Pretty? She certainly

came close to that. I’d say a respectably

handsome woman, attractive in her way.

He, however, was slovenly, unkempt and

crude by modest measure. They had a

thing going, and I was not privy to those

unknown factors intimate closeness be-

tween lovers does not disclose. Still their

relationship, as it should be I suppose,

remained a mystery to me. Strolling as

friends in the park one day, she suddenly

broke away from our casual conversation,

and went up to give an old oak tree a big

hug. For me it was an unusual thing to see,

not quite lunatic crazy, but given the con-

text of that moment in time, I’d say, it was

a bit out of the ordinary. However, right then

and there, I did come to a clearer understan-

ding of her relationship with that other guy.

Now mind you, I never considered myself as

a prize, but whatever it was she saw in that

other guy had me figuring that it was much

better he than I. Now don’t get me wrong,

I too have an affinity for trees. I do, however,

have an aversion to hugging a body with a

girth so large I can’t get my arms around.

Chris Hanch 9-10-19

Striving

Should I remain still, perfectly still,

should I breathe shallow and easy,

I believe even death for the moment

will ignore me. News media shall go

unheard, and all tragedies will be

ignored. Pandamonium will abate

and hold its fate in abeyance for a

time. Words and their meaning will

be unlearned should I remain silent

with the enless sound of nothing

flowing through my mind. This is

not the reality of life, some will

contend, this is not the hope of new

beginnings, but a harbinger of the

end. The color blue, the word renew

need us to call them out by name

should you and I remain. I shall

then take a deep breath and begin

where I left off all over again. My

fingers and toes know, and once

again wiggle me alive.

Chris Hanch 9-9-19