Conundrum

It is bound to happen when one writes

everyday. Occasionally, without a second

thought, one may say something said

similarly before, and sometimes could be

said again exactly word for word. I have

revisited some of my earlier works, and

surprisingly to me, I had forgotten that

which I had written some time ago. I try

not to repeat my words let alone rehash

subjects and themes, but the brain train

has the tendency to roll over the same

tracks leading to familiar destinations.

Should you happen across a writing of

mine which suggests a redundancy, check

it out, and find where one word is substi-

tuted with another. Surely, that word is

intended to replace the one in the original.

Instead of “to” I may have substituted “to-

ward.’’ In place of “may,” “might” may now

occupy the space. “Upon” could replace “on.”

And so it goes. I may have even gone to the

extreme and replaced “I” and “me” with “you.”

It is agreed that I and me are two ways of ad-

dressing myself. Should you appear, however,

unmistakably, there can only be one you.

When I refer to you, you know to whom I

am speaking. There is really no other way

to replace you. That is, of course, unless I

resort to naming names. And I do believe you

wouldn’t want me to get started with that.

                               -30-

Chris Hanch 1-30-2020

Something About Passion

Old age reminds us, passion does not last.

Oh, you remember how it was, you couldn’t

wait. You recall that flawless face, that come

hither smile, that sumptuous figure. Even old

age will never take those thoughts and images

away. There is a great loss over time, however.

Life is just that way. It is meant to be, for un-

relenting passion shall eventually consume

both body and mind. Passion is Nature’s trick

of the trade. This is how a variety of species

proliferate. Flowers bloom in wondrous and

vibrant colors, and bees are drawn to light on

and pollinate. Seeds drop in place or sail miles

seeking fertile ground to germinate. An old friend

of mine once told me that after fifty-years of

marriage to his wife that to this day every time

she enters the room, he still gets excited. They

have three grown children together, and are

beyond Nature’s time frame to procreate. Un-

ashamed, he proudly admits that she still inspires

passion and intense desire in him. Mostly these

days, though, he writes poetry to her. As for me,

alone now and in my golden years, I have managed

to maintained a passion for writing as well. But then,

my friends, that’s a whole other story.

                       -30-

Chris Hanch 2-29-2020

Directions

You know what I miss? Now, this

may sound silly to you, and some

younger folks won’t have a clue,

but I miss getting and giving direc-

tions.

There are directions on how to

bake a cake or fix a car, directions

on what medications to take with

or without food, directions on how

to assemble or what to apply, di-

rections how to correct a mistake,

ambiguous directions given by

Yogi Berra: When you come to a

fork in the road, take it.

Or sagacious directions like, when

you don’t know where you’re going,

any road will do.

Once when a friend gave me direc-

tions to get to his house, he asked

me if I knew where the Walgreen’s

was on 75^th and Metcalf? Why sure,

pass it every day, I replied. Well, my

place is nowhere near there, he

said with a grin. (Needless to say,

our relationship came into question

right then and there.)

In this age of electronic wizardry

and cyber technology, my friends,

where GPS can get you most any-

where on Earth by verbally letting

you know in no uncertain terms

which way to go—turn left here,

take take a right over there, and

a quarter mile past the golf course

at the corner of Red Bridge and Pine,

take a left and enter the Interstate

on-ramp headed West.

Blah! Blah! Blah! La-de-dah! As for

me personally, I miss the good old

days and some of those no-nonsens-

ical old fashion ways. But then, it’s

no longer any skin off my nose. I’m

a shut-in nowadays, haven’t owned

a vehicle in several years. Detested

driving in traffic with all those ma-

niacs anyway.

I had a guy pissed off with me once

for giving him bogus directions. Had

the nerve to tell me to go straight to

hell. Looking forward to it, I told him.

Heard it’s not so bad in winter. Keep

it up, Buddy, I snickered. I’ll be meet-

ing up with you again. Won’t need a

GPS either. I’m betting, sooner or later

and given the directions our lives have

taken, the both of us are bound to

get there.

               -30-

Chris Hanch 1-30-2020

Something About Philosophy

1.

My son turned fifty-three last December.

I’m too old to take him out to the back-

yard and throw the ball anymore. Neither

of us have the equipment to do that, and

besides, I don’t have a backyard where

I live currently. We have, however, had

a number of good conversations over

the years, grown-up stuff, you know:

2.

How’s the teaching going? My eyesight

has improved considerably since that

cataract surgery, but my arthritis is play-

ing hell with me. How is Becca getting

along at school? Is that guitar you bought

her for Christmas working out well? Did

Roto Rooter fix that stopped up drainage

problem you had? He loves soccer, dif-

ferent blends of coffee, Bob Seeger and

NPR’s, This American Life, I know that.

You need a couple of bucks to tide you

over till payday, eh? Will forty-dollars do?

3.

Some of our chats include favorite music

and movies we’ve heard and seen, you

know the ordinary day-to-day things worth

sharing. My son turned fifty-three last

December, and throughout the years I

have come to realize that I never asked

him if he has a philosophy about life?

Now, I know he has grown to be a good

upstanding man. He’s a fine husband and

father as well. He’s been teaching high

school admirably at the same place for

over twenty-years.

4.

Although we have been divorced since

he was a teenager, individually he treats

his mother and me very well, helping each

of us out when we have the need. But,

philosophically, what are his personal views

on how life is seen, understood and lived.

That’s what I’d like to know from him. Now,

I realize he is his own individual, and from

time-to-time his perspectives and ideals may

differ from mine.

5.

I’m seventy-three years old, settled in my

ways and numbered in my days, but I’m still

curious to know. Because of my disability, he

comes over after school each Wednesday to

do grocery shopping for me. I intend to ask

him about his personal take on life then. Lest

I forget in my old age, I had better write that

down. Which also reminds me, I need to add

a large jar of mayonnaise to my list.

                    -30-

Chris Hanch 1-28-2020

This is Where

This is where opossum and raccoon lie flat-

tened beside country roads smoking cigars.

This is where Walmart and Walgreen invade

small towns and big cities brandishing wea-

pons while pushing drugs, handy wipes and

paper towels. This is where boll weevil and

woolly worm wear overcoats to breakfast,

where children grow into and become en-

tangled in the wiry beards of their forefathers.

This is were virtual reality became the sweet

tooth of society, rotting the enamel of adoles-

cent mentality, as Mount Rushmore was strick-

en with an acute case of periodontal disease.

This is where anthems are sung out of tune

in the key of C from brief cases carried by

castrated businessmen. This is where banty

roosters call out the names of Major League

ballplayers just before the World Series, where

nubile young women sew uniforms of chopped

liver for naked blue jays orphaned during the

Iraq war. This is where xylophones are played

by three fingered musicians who slobber relent-

lessly on their instruments. This is where the

nurse ran off with the physician after surgery.

The kidney transplant was successful. Thanks

for asking.

This is where the news breaks necks every day,

where sticks and stones thrown do break bones.

Here, the color chartreuse draws flatulent mos-

quitoes close to the vest, allowing hogwarts to fly

into the ears of unsuspecting widowed housewives.

This is Where the Sidewalk Ends, where time and

tide ride thin and oily-haired gelders in Columbus

Day parades. This is where runny noses are never

stopped and rarely if ever convicted. This is were,

infected with rabies, Batman and Robin have bitten

the legs of all the remaining street corner mailboxes.

And, the price of postage has gone up appreciably.

Oh yes, my friends, this is where it all happens,

each and every day, 24-7, except holidays and Leap

Year. Look around you, this is where Congress sus-

pended sessions and went home to their districts

for the remainder of the the 21^st Century. And not

even an amputee with a missing limb and half a brain

gives a flying shit. It’s hard to believe all this folly and

folderol is happening right here. Look, what’s that

going on over there. How are things working out for

you? Do you even care? Mustard makes the hot dog

taste much better.

-30-

Chris Hanch 1-23-2020

Another Day of Old Age

Seems every day it’s something new.

Look here, how thin my skin is. Why,

You can see the veins in my hands

plain as day. Damned old age any-

way. I awake each morning to more

spots, more aches and pain. It’s a

good thing I can’t see what’s going

on inside of me. Can’t be good, spent

a lot of years abusing my body—fatty

foods, cigarettes and booze, you know.

Didn’t give a rat’s ass at the time. No

wonder my body is in rebellion now.

It says to me, you may only be seventy

three, but you deserve to look and feel

like eighty. Why, just the other day some

young punk had the nerve to call me, Sir.

Sir is a title, I’ll remind you, reserved for

officers and old men. I am not of rank in

the military, and I do take offense at his

insulting characterization of me. Boy, I’ll

tell you, that to me was a slap in the face.

Woke up this morning with this red blotch

on my cheek. No, the kid didn’t actually

strike me physically. I have this tendencty

of speaking metaphorically. Had I been

ten-years younger, though, I may have

punched him square in the nose. Even

back in the day when I was in my prime,

I was always attracted to a good metaphor.

Huh, Sir, indeed!

                   -30-

Chris Hanch 1-25-2020

Blessings

I am not the first to say,

Yes sir, yes ma'am, count

your blessings every day.

I would add to your task,

however, a warning, use

both fingers and toes, and

count them once again.

Are you sure? Something

may turn up missing. Are

you an amputee, now what?

To get by in life, perhaps nine-

teen digits are all you need.

-30-

Chris Hanch 1-26-2020

Places to Go

Some folks go to the office, some go

to the studio. Factory workers clock

in and go to their station. Conductors

and engineers board their train. Pilots

and captains head for the cockpit or

wheelhouse. Milkmen and trash col-

lectors have their routes to drive.

Birds and squirrels head for the nest.

Mice scurry for any cover they can

find. I’m secure behind closed doors

in my apartment writing these lines

where no one sees me. Occasionally,

I pop up to post a poem or two and a

few photos on Facebook. Three Likes

today, four yesterday. Appears to me

at the end or beginning of day both

man and beast alike have found a

decent and safe place to hide.

                         -30-

Chris Hanch 1-25-2020

Amazed

Nuts and bolts aching to let go; screws

itching to loosen their hold; but despite

daily use, they won’t. Plastic and metal

pressed and bent to form complex shapes.

Springs secured and flexing against the

weight. Steel rods span, connecting a

volume of space. Wire strung between

motor and plug. Push-button switch to

complete or kill the circuit, on and off.

All designed aesthetically, engineered

to function properly in place. Ingenious

this is, mechanically and electronically.

Resistors, transistors and diodes quiver,

shimmy and shake. And how the damn

thing works, I am ever amazed.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 1-23-2020

Lucky Me

Lucky, I suppose. I could say grateful,

but to whom? Could have been born

wobbly-legged, but able to walk then

run on my very first day. Who can say

what may have been had I been born

a gazelle on the Serengeti instead of

a human being in St. Louis? Life for

me would have certainly been lived

differently. Would have spent my days

grazing the grassy plains, following the

herd in search of water. Oh, but could

I run and leap in prodigious bounds.

No rent and taxes to pay, no eight to

five every day. Free, free, free to run,

free to be the best I can be. One draw-

back, though, which I see. I never would

have made it in the wild to age seventy

three. Getting older and slower, pulling

up lame one day, and a pride of lions

would have made a meal out of me.

Given my advanced age as a human being,

even though hobbling about and having

seen better days, I’m damned lucky, I sup-

pose. At least I have my mattress, my pillow,

a cozy blanket and my sweet dreams at night.

And too, of course, there is the waking to that

intense aroma and stiff jolt of hot coffee in the

morning. A gazelle? Oh, hell no! Being human

and growing old is tough enough.

                              -30-

Chris Hanch 1-21-2020

This and That

Something different today. I’m thinking

about this and that, This is today, that was

yesterday. This is what I hold for now in

my own hands, that is what may have been

held yesterday. This is my idea, that is what

you may be thinking or that is what was on

my mind an hour ago or yesterday. I am in

control of this and that is what has control

over me. Simple, you see, the difference

between this and that, in the eye of the be-

holder, changes all too frequently. If I hand

you this, this become that to me. It’s a matter

of semantics, the logical linguistic definition or

meaning. Explain this to me; I’ll explain that

to you later. Wait and see. This is for now.

As for that which will come eventually, we’ll

just have to wait and see. This which I expound

upon today will become that which is has

passed or is reserved for tomorrow. It’s an

either or situation. You can’t have it both ways.

This and That. Both are pronouns, and that's

about as far as it goes. Class dismissed.

-30-

Chris Hanch 1-24-2020

Something About Growing Old

The days pass so quickly now that I

I rarely bother to name them. Every

day seems the same. The months, the

years and I grow old together. The

calendar flips month after month in

rapid-fire succession. Sometimes I

forget to advance the pages, and it

remains May three months in a row.

My checkbook, no longer used much

anymore, is the only thing around my

place which needs to know what year

it is. If a young person were to ask me

what it’s like to be old? I would answer,

the brittle bones and aching joints know.

My brain may have forgotten your name,

but guaranteed, it always remembers the

pain. What I miss most, though, is having

weekends and holidays to look forward to.

Nowadays, I rely upon my son calling me

on the phone in the middle of the day.

It is then I know, he’s on one of his days

off and at home. Then I too fell free to

relax and take a nap. Anyway, young folks

these days don’t care to know what it’s

like to grow old. No matter. Fleeting hours,

days, months and years, phases of the moon,

I’d say, three straight months of May, then

June...I think?

-30-

Chris Hanch 1-22-2020

The Trip

In 1984 I made a trip to Australia. I flew from

Kansas City to San Francisco, about a 2-hour

flight. I changed planes and flew off to Hawaii,

I believe 6 or 8-hours more. From Honolulu to

Sydney was the longest leg, 10-hours in the air.

That for me was the scariest prospect, for a lot

could happen at such a distance over so much

ocean. At 35,000-feet, a crash over water would

be as devastating as a crash over land, I suppose.

But 10-hours mechanically, who in hell knows?

I flagged down the stewardess in the aisle, and

asked for another vodka. And after about three

or four of those my nerves seemed to settled

down marginally.

After a brief nap, I got to thinking about those

ancient mariners who traversed the high seas in

sailing ships. It took months to get from England

to Australia I was told later by an old-timer who

had made such an excursion. He had no complaints

about sea sickness, there were far more serious

liabilities which could befall those held on board

a wooden rig at the mercy of an ofttimes raucous

and unpredictable sea, he told me.

“Then thar war scurvy,” his head dropped as

he went on, “and a raft of other sea-born mala-

dies. A sturdy swig of rum to numb ya perhaps,

if you was lucky. When you reached the Dol-

drums thar waren’t a whisper of wind to fill

the sails. Then you was at the mercy of the

currents to direct the ship and crew to where

only the good Lord knows.”

“And thar war sharks, man-eaters in them thar

waters,” the old salt went on. “Spring a leak

in one a them old vessels and yer done for.

Mind ya, mate, tain’t no service stations or

Triple A s out that far.”

One saving grace, and fortunately for me, I was

flying Quantas Airlines. At that time they poured

your drink out of full-sized fifths, not those chint-

zy little one-hot bottles they hand out these days.

I asked the stewardess if she could just leave the

bottle with me. “No sir,” she smiled sugary fake

at me, “That would be against regulations.”

What happened next, you may be thinking?

Don’t leave us hanging there, you say. Well,

how in hell do you think I felt, hung out to

dry for damn near ten hours at 35,000 feet?

                     -30-

Chris Hanch 1-18-2020

Space Enough

The old house on Oakland Avenue

has been torn down, my brother told

me. It was outdated by the standards

and needs today. Reality is, over gen-

erations, people and places change.

Three bedrooms and a small bath,

seven or eight-hundred square feet

of living space are no longer consid-

ered adequate for a family of five

like mine 65-years ago. We were

labeled middle class then, both

parents raised during the Great De-

pression, served in and lived through

World War II. Both long gone now;

one of three brothers passed as well.

And as for me, going on seventy-three,

renting an apartment space of I’d guess

three hundred square feet or so, ade-

quate enough for my needs. This gen-

eration today hasn’t a clue what they

may face when they get to a certain

age. I know for sure what lies ahead of

me, a few square inches of an unadorned

clay urn. That's all the space I’ll need,

and a hell of a lot cheaper to boot.

                 

                  -30-

Chris Hanch 1-20-2020