On Any Given Day

My mountain climbing is over. I’ve seen the hidden

Valleys beyond. I never got to cross the plains of

Mongolia, but I did see Reykjavik from 30,000 feet.

Once a disheveled vagrant sat beside me on a park

Bench in Albuquerque and asked me for some change.

Any amount would be helpful, he begged.

I held my newborn grandson when he was barely

A week old. He turned twenty last Saturday, and now

He wears a size-15 shoe.

I’ve listened to all nine symphonies from Beethoven

A hundred times or more. Sitting down over coffee

At a cafe, I have some stories I could tell you.

See that young lady over there, I would suppose

(and rightly so) that she has a good many years of life
Ahead of her.

I’d be willing to bet she has a great deal to say. She

Looks like the outdoorsy type to me, a mountain climber

I’d guess. Let’s go over and ask.

Chris Hanch 3-6-17

Famous Last Words

Famous last words: “This is the last of Earth! I am content!”

John Quincy Adams; “Wait a minute...” Pope Alexander VI;

“Am I dying, or is this my birthday?” Lady Astor; “I want

Nothing but death” Jane Austen. Now, let’s consider these

And other pithy, witty or prophetic final pronouncements.

Why is it that generally only the rich and famous, indeed

Many of the infamous as well, are quoted for that which

Is said on their deathbeds? Most common folk, the rural

Mother of five or the blue collar worker in Bismark are rarely

Afforded the privileged of having their final utterance passed

Along to the masses. And then there are those, rich and poor

Alike, those who have the misfortune of leaving this life

Suddenly without warning. I can imagine looking up at the

Streaking asteroid fireball falling from the sky, or being fatally

Stricken by a massive cardiac infarction. Could be the oncoming

Bus aimed at me which happens to be the last thing I see. What

Then, with no final say on my headstone to be engraved? Perish

The thought (literally)! Lest we forget, Nature has erased myriad

Species from the face of this Earth numerous times in her 4.6

Billion year history. And it is only a matter of time before another

Devastating calamity of global proportions happens again. In

Preparation for the possibilities, whether indicated by fate or

Accident, I submit this, for recorded history, my last testament

For all to see. In advance, I leave the only world and life I have

Ever known with these finals words--”Oh my God, will you look

At that…!” To you, my friend, I suggest the same. Before the end

Appears naturally or man-made, is actuated by accidental mishap

Or physical malady, while you’re still alive, come up with some-

Thing simply profound to say (preferably short and to the point).

And by chance you should survive today, write something down

Anyway. Should you be pressed for time, take a selfie with your

Smart phone. Photos are still worth...Well, you know. Then by all

Means, carry on.

Chris Hanch 3-5-17

Consider This

There are days (and I would say most of our days) when

little or no attention is paid to things many of us may take for

granted. There is such a case to be made for the common

shoelace, that simple string so many of us bend over to tie

or untie in our routine comings and goings day after day.

Oh sure, when one breaks unexpectedly it frustrates and

angers us because that often happens when we’re in a rush

to get somewhere—to work or play, off to an important

appointment we’ve made. Now consider this—there are

those, a woman for instance, who slips into her clogs or

high heels, lace-less; the barefoot boy who walks all day

shoe-less across the sun-baked African plain, lace-free;

the old man who hobbles around the house in slippers

going nowhere in particular every day, sans-laces; that

casual guy who prefers loafers or cowboy boots as his

footwear style, lace-unbound. Indeed, day after day.

In our world of wonderment, of purpose and strife, we walk

with those of our own species who may explain away the ne-

cessity for laces. Those neatly-tied devices, securely bowed

or suddenly snapped in half when there are places to go, for

the trouble-free some among us, shoelaces mean absolutely
nothing.

Chris Hanch 3-4-17

A Plan to be Made

Here I go again. This happens to me

Each and every morning I sit cozy in

My recliner to breathe a sigh of relief.

There is so much I could do today had

I a rightful mind to, should my flabby

Will somehow propel me into meaning-

Ful and productive action, should I sud-

Denly choose to rise, to lift a finger and

Grab the bull of progress and change by

The horns. Sure, there is house cleaning

And laundry to be done. There are over-

Due bills to be paid, not to mention those

Proverbial best laid plans of mice and

Men to be made. As I sit here listlessly

In my easy chair with the early March

Morning furnace whirring, I find myself

In the 7 AM hour, waiting and wonder-

Ing what on Earth is to come, the next

Purposeful thing in my life which needs

To be done? Will this be that momentous

Day of the fateful asteroid strike which

Will negate any designs I have made, or

Is this merely another one of those irrita-

Ting Ground Hog Days which repeats itself

Over and over again? I have at this very

Moment decided to write about this perplex-

Ing situation I face each and every day. And

Should this bit of literature I write be read

By you at some point in time, you will surely

Understand that it all worked out for me. And

At least in the here and now, I am fine. But

For safety sake, let’s synchronize our watches,

And check in again with one another at 0800

Hours…tomorrow that is. For today at least,

Plans have already been made.

Chris Hanch 3-3-17

Potato Salad and Stuff

As children, mother taught my brothers and me to always

attend Mass on Sunday, to pick up our toys before bedtime,

to keep our elbows off the table at dinner time, and to love

her potato salad.

Now, just about everyone knows that as you grow up and

move along in life, and you have your own place, some of

mother’s rules may no longer apply. Personally, I got worn

out with the Sunday Mass thing, figuring I could pray any-

time and anywhere I pleased. With everything else He’s got

on His mind, I’m pretty sure an all-forgiving God would

think no less of me.

Life is and always has been an ongoing evolution where

often we have the opportunity to pick and choose. I am

pleased to say that I have outgrown scattering my toys

across the floor. Keeping an uncluttered and stumble-free

pathway through the room makes a great deal of sense to

me. And, as I see it, elbows to lean upon, although some

may consider it slovenly, is naturally acceptable to me.

I spoke with one of my brothers over the phone the other

day, and mother (who had long since passed away) came

up in our conversation. “She wasn’t a very good cook,”

he offered, “but her potato salad was the best.”

As for me, having traveled around the world over the years,

having placed my knobby elbows on dining room tables from

Hamburg to Sydney, having been served potato salad from

New York to LA, and having tasted myriad versions, hot and

cold, I have concluded, mother’s version of that spud-spun

dish never really did cut the mustard (if you’ll pardon the pun).

I did not challenge my brother’s culinary critique for I did not

wish to hurt his feelings or berate his fond childhood memory.

That would have been a futile exercise for me. Why should I

try and convince him of anything which is subjectively a mere

matter of personal taste. Besides, my brother is predisposed to

basking in the self-illuminating light of always being right.

The issue of my brother continuing to attend Mass religiously

every Sunday is a much more disconcerting issue for me. He

continues to believe that there is only one proper place and

time for prayer. And I know for a fact that he’s not opposed to

putting his elbows on the back of the pew in front of him

when kneeling down to pray. What’s up with that anyway?

Chris Hanch 3-2-17

You and Me Following a Preposition

I pick up the pen, and I put it down.

I pick it up and put it down again.

The sheet of paper stares at me,

A blank look, a clean white slate

Indeed. I prod the brain to find a

Fitting way to address the page.

Yesterday I named forest and birds;

Today I look to the sun-shafts of

Enlightenment beaming a flutter

Of other words. The idea of You and

Me coupled in a stanza of life arrives.

You and I. It is proper, You and I,

Should we follow a structure

Without a preposition preceding

The reference of You and Me.

You and Me would be appropriate,

Should our mention have followed

Before. I pick up the pen again and

With You and Me in mind, I begin.

Chris Hanch 3-2-17

Alone

You are alone. It could be a slow walk through

Pines in the forest, or an early morning at home,

That breathless moment of stillness just before

Dawn. For some, midnight is the quietest time

When the sleeping abandon you with nothing but

Stifled thoughts to accompany the calmness all

Around. No dialogue to distract you, not a note of

Music disturbing the air. You are alone. It could be

That deep silent void which precedes the moment

Before death. One slow breath exhaled, a final

Heartbeat, wingless birds hidden high in the

Branches without a single chirp--the deafening
Thunder of nothing heard.

Chris Hanch 3-1-17