Grand Opening

It gives me great pleasure to announce the grand

opening of The Bridge, a crossing to and from,

a traffic-way, back and forth,

a steal structure, a girder span of adventure and

delight, a word passageway,

the linking of language, if you will, a chain

of mutual conversation between the two sides,

a connecting of you and me. Years in the making, my

friend, built by hand with local resources, funded

with grass-root donations and generous grants it

stands as a gateway to better understanding, and serves

to provide a mutual representation through the

communal education of who we are. Let’s drive,

ride, walk, hop, hobble, crawl across from your side

to mine and meet halfway in the middle,

a secure place where we can see more clearly eye-to-eye.

It is a pleasure to finally be reconnected. The wide

and roaring river of our division below has

finally been crossed. I’ll bring something of value to

exchange; you are encouraged to do the same.

Words of enlightenment and edification to share

is the modest toll required. Can’t wait to see you there.

                                  -30-

Chris Hanch 3-6-2020

So, It Has Come to This

The damn starter on the car,

scraping ice off the windshield

in sub-zero temperatures, no

longer. Gave up driving and

so-called pride of automobile

ownership several years ago.

State and Federal Income tax

hanging over my head, April 15^th

a cursed day making my brain

uneasy, my stomach queasy, no

longer. Made it past all that, sub-

sisting on Social Security now.

Ended raucous parties where
neighbors and friends smoke
up my place, drink to excess,

spill drinks, puke in the bath

and bed rooms, leave a hell

of a mess to pick-up after.

Past that stage of maleficence.

Rarely allow anyone to invade

my space anymore.

No more, Yes dear. or Why in hell

are you so late? The yard needs

mowing. I saw you making eyes

at that young woman at the mall

the other day. Time for new living

room furniture, move that sofa over

there. Tried marriage several times,

paid the price, and went my separate

and celibate ways.

Getting kind of use to being alone

and settling into my old age. No

longer get around so well. Arthritic

pain kicks my ass most every day.

Sick and tired of having noisy

neighbors above me, heavy feet

and noisy conversations. Pay too

much rent; goes up substantially

year after year. Smoke far too

much, going to get the best of

me one of these days. Regular-

ity and vitality are growing in-

frequent conditions most days.

It’s all a situation of give and take,

I find. Had I known things would

eventually turn out this way, I may

have planned one hell of a going

away party...at your place, not mine.

And no need to call and check on

me, you never do anyway. I’ll be

just fine until I’m not. The god-

damn cable bill is due, screwed

again. Higher than a bat’s ass—

criminal enterprise don’t you know.

Given my cuurent state of affairs,

I’m just fine. Mind your own bus-

iness and leave me the hell alone.

Just kidding...I am accepting

bribes and contributions.

-30-

Chris Hanch 3-4-2020

Misspeak

I was only fourteen, living in a small studio

mid-town with my dad. We had recently moved

to Kansas City from St. Louis where my mom

and dad got divorced. Dad showed me around

town so that I could go places my own. He tried

to keep me busy as to not think so much about the

family separation. One Saturday I took a bus

downtown to look around.

I found a place, the name of which escapes me

now. Inside, they had some really neat models

of city streets, buildings, cars, people, traffic signs

and all, the kind you’d see on a real fancy electric

train set-up. I was fascinated and studied it for quite

awhile.

That night when dad and I were in bed, I told him

about my trip downtown and the cool model I had

seen. “What would you call such a thing,” I asked

him? “A diorama,” he told me. “Oh right,” I replied

as if not to look completely stupid.

After a week or so, and having made another trip

downtown to take another look at the model city,

I told my dad again what I had seen. “I really like

those diaphragms,” I told him. “Diorama,” dad said

sharply. “They are called dioramas.” “Yeah right,”

I responded repeating what he said, “Di-o-rama!”

“Correct,” my dad said.

Dad never did explain my mistake, never told me

the difference between di-o-rama and dia-phragm.

It wasn’t until years later when I was grown and

living with a woman who used a diaphragm as a

birth control device. And it struck me then why dad

was embarrassed and reluctant to tell me the differ-

ence between the two. Some things a guy has to

learn on his own, I suppose.

At least I never made the same mistake in front of my

girlfriend. Had I called a diaphragm a di-o-rama, she

would have surely wondered what kind of simpleton

hick was this with whom she was involved?

Even though I always held a special fondness for and

fascination with dioramas, I was always a little hesitant

about bringing up the subject with my girlfriend. One

slip of the tongue, and I figured I’d be done.

-30-

Chris Hanch 3-4-2020

Factory Work

Factory Work

Factory work? Sure, I did some of that in the

late 60s after a 3-year stint in the Army. Ben-

son Manufacturing in Kansas City. They made

everything from beer barrels to backpack shells

for the Mercury astronauts.

I was a Boothhead, moved parts from one

operation to another. Did a decent job too.

My boss decided to move me to the machine

shop to replace a guy who had recently been

promoted to the front office.

After a few weeks, I approached my boss and

asked him for a raise since I had moved to a

new job with more responsibilities. He then

asked me to write down all the activities I

was now assigned at my new job. A day or so

later, I handed him the list of things the ma-

chine shop foreman had me doing. He went

through it item by item crossing things out

which he didn’t expect me to do.

One key activity in particular was driving the

fork lift. I helped the machinists change heavy

jigs on the larger machines. Some of those

weighed in excess of three-hundred pounds

or so. I would lift and drive those steel jigs

to the machine, and the operator would guide

and lock them into place.

Don’t do that anymore, my boss directed me

along with several other duties which he sum-

marily scratched off my list. It was his way of

telling me, no raise.

So, that day the shop foreman told me to get

the fork lift and help change the jig on one of

the large lathes. My boss told me not to operate

the fork lift anymore, I said respectfully. The fore-

man turned red in the face and was steaming mad.

He went and got on the forklift himself, and strug-

gled for over a half an hour with the operator to

eventually get the job done.

The foreman wouldn’t even look at me the rest of

the day. And the next day when I showed up for

work, my boss called me into his office and fired me

for insubordination. But, you told me I shouldn’t

operate the forklift, I reminded him. Gather up your

belongings and leave, he told me. We’ll mail you

your pay.

Now, some of the machinists and others had worked

at Benson Manufacturing for more than twenty-years.

I never saw any of them driving a fork lift. And besides

being and butt-ugly son of a bitch, the shop foreman

wasn’t any damn good at operating a fork lift either.

-30-

Chris Hanch 3-3-2020

The Frozen Pizza

It’s 8:57 in the AM, and a crazy thought

entered my head. I’m thinking about having

frozen pizza for dinner. Screamin’ Sicilian

is the brand my son picked up at the Sun Fresh

Grocery last week. Pretty damned good for

store-bought frozen. Not as tasty as the freshly

made pizzeria kind, but certainly better than

no pizza at all. Now here’s the weird thought

which came to mind: I wondered about the

employee at the frozen pizza company who

is assigned to put the pepperoni slices on the

Pizza Supreme? Oh yes, there is sausage and

olives, peppers and shredded cheese on top

as well. And a thick crust of dough underneath

holding all the ingredients in place. A note in

fine print on the cardboard container states

that the toppings may shift in shipping. And in

removing the product from its box, I can attest

to that very happening. So, why did the guy or

gal responsible for placing the pepperoni so

precisely spaced even bother? Why not just

dump everything in a pile to one side? Seems

to me it would save time in properly positioning

each pepperoni aesthetically pleasing and pro-

portionately in place. Who knows, perhaps at

4 or 5 dollars an hour or whatever their pay,

the assembler just threw a pile of ingredients

to one side and blamed the disarray on shipping.

I straightened out the mess, preheated the oven

to 425-degrees, baked for 15-minutes and ate

the whole damn thing in one setting. Now all the

toppings are a jumbled up mess in my stomach

anyway. Go figure? Pretty damn tasty pizza though.

                                           -30-

Chris Hanch 3-3-2020

A Cake Walk

As a youngster.

I once won a cake walk.

It wasn’t a fair game.

I pushed a smaller kid

out of the way to sit in

the last available chair.

Baseball, now there’s a

game where cheating

will get you nowhere.

You hit and catch the

ball, that’s it. Can’t

cheat or fake that.

As a young man,

When I was told my

first job was not going

to be a cake walk, I

decided to keep looking

around. Surely there

had to be a vacant chair

and smaller kid out there

somewhere.

Nowadays,

The younger vacate

their seat for me

out of respect

for the elderly.

And a handsome price

I must pay

for my cake

at the bakery.

              -30-

Chris Hanch 2-28-2020

Crossing the Line

There are those moments before sleep comes.

At times those moments become hours until

dream time arrives. It’s so subtle, the passing

between awake and asleep. I think about cap-

turning the instance, the very second between

light and dark, that hairline crossover between

consciousness and the somnolent peace of

slumber. Bottle that feeling and I’d be an in-

stant billionaire. Anyway, be that as it may,

I pass the time thinking. Some believers would

call it prayer. For me, I want to honor the less

fortunate and deceased. Bless the memory of

mother, father and brother; bless the victims

of hurricanes and wild fires; bless the refugees

and immigrants and their families, the sick who

have come to this country for medical attention;

bless all who are in despair and need. Bless us

all, give us strength and healing, I pray. A quick

glance at the illuminated clock on the nightstand—

11:33 PM. I shift positions, pull the covers up

and settle in...I do faintly remember talking with

someone familiar, a name I can’t recall, but surely

must have known. I open my eyes and the light says

5:00M. I rise, put on my pants, slip on my house

shoes, pee, and take the dogs out, wondering if any

of my prayers have been answered. Tonight, before

crossing that magical and nebulous line in my mind,

just for good measure, and peace of mind, I’ll try again.

                                              -30-

Chris Hanch 2-29-2020