I'll Say It Again

I am often amazed that I have made it

this far in life. Friends tell me 73 isn’t

that old these days. You could live to

be in your 80s or even 90s. Not with

the life I’ve led, I won’t.

I have decimated enough brain and liver

cells with my alcoholic excesses to do in

many men much younger than I. Besides,

I’ve been a smoker since I was 12-years old.

Why, I have personally known people

who didn’t make it past their thirties.

If it wasn’t cancer, it was suicide, murder

or accidents. No, just lucky I suppose. I

have dodged a lot of bullets in my time,

metaphorically speaking that is.

There are still times when I think about

the past. I’ll catch myself remembering

a particular time and place, and recall the

year. That was 1973, 47-years ago. Then

I’ll calculate how many years need to be

added to that to get me here and now.

Damn! I’m 73 friggin’ years old. As a young

man, even into my early sixties I never ex-

pected to be disabled with arthritis in my

later years.

I’ve known impaired old folks before, and

I used to think, poor old crippled Joe, he has

a hard way to go. Wouldn’t want to be in that

shape when I come of age. And then there

was Maggie in her early seventies who was

afflicted with several painful maladies. “I wish

the Good Lord would just take me,” she would

often say.

And now I am there; I have arrived. Don’t get

me wrong, whether genes, attitude, luck or

misfortune got me to this place, I can’t complain.

And as my old friend Connie and countless millions

of others throughout the ages have said over and

again, “It wouldn't do any good if I did.”

Even though they don’t really mean it, old people

say that a lot.

                         -30-

Chris Hanch 8-5-2020

Mother, Something of a Mystery

Mother lay in bed playing canasta, smoking her

Kent Cigarettes. She would alternate her card game

with reading in bed every day. A small frame on her

nightstand contained a picture of Mother of Per-

petual Help holding her son, Jesus. Mother would

also pray every day. Most of her days were spent

that way—in bed, smoking, canasta, reading and

praying.

The illness she claimed was a liver disease, but as I

later came to understand, it was mostly the tremen-

dous weight of anxiety and depression to which she

was held captive.

Weekly trips to a physician who gave her benzo-

diazepines for her melancholia, and B-12 shots to

support her liver condition diagnosis. There were

also numerous trips to the hospital when her an-

xieties became too great. Years of chronic mental

and physical pain were spent that way.

Mother loved baseball and her St. Louis Cardinals

which in spring and summer she tuned in on the

radio each and every game. Bob Gibson was her

number one ace on the mound. Lou Brock was her

favorite at bat and running the bases.

Mother had a shaggy, terrier dog she named Gibby

after her favorite pitcher. Mother was divorced from

our father, but the onset of her illness came long

before that.

My two brothers and I pretty much fended for

ourselves growing up. Oh, there was a period

earlier on when she would do what she needed

to do to care for us, but as we grew old enough

to take care of ourselves, mother became less

actively involved in our lives.

Once a week Mother would talk on the telephone

with her lifelong friend Lois, her sister Molly, and

a nice lady named Teresa, a retired secretary to

her father when Mother was a child.

She once told me that her favorite classical piece

was Intermezzo by Dvorak, but I don’t recall her

ever listening to music on the radio, just Cardinal

Baseball as she would lay one card down after

another on the bedspread, playing her games

of canasta and smoking her Kent Cigarettes.

Mother died at age fifty-nine.

Other than what I have stated here, Mother

and her illness were a mystery to me. There

must have been a reason for who she was

and that which she came to be, a traumatic

incident in her life, perhaps, or a genetic

chemical imbalance, which was passed along

to me.

The longer I live, and knowing now what I know

about myself, I understand more about mother

than I did when she was alive. Some of who she

was still lives inherently in me. One thing is for cer-

tain, though, I don’t have the canasta gene running

through my veins.

                                   -30-

Chris Hanch 8-4-2020

Excuses

Excuses, everyone’s got ‘em.

Excuses, use ‘em when you want to

or need to.

I’ve got several I keep at the ready,

and they are good ones, valid ones.

I’m 73-years old and have arthritis

bad in both legs, need a cane or

a walker to get around, even in my

small apartment.

Couldn’t get ‘round and about anyway,

don’t have transportation. Besides,

there’s a pandemic going on out there,

and I’m prime for a serious time, even

death should I be exposed.

Love to visit you all, but...you know.

Kids, grand kids, they can’t visit. Have

their jobs and activities, you know, and

the pandemic is a valid excuse for them

as well.

Even so, they have friends they’d rather

see then little, old, aching, disabled, cur-

curmudgeonly me.

Yep, by golly, everyone’s got their

excuses. Some are solid, some are bogus,

you know, made up conveniently.

What’s my excuse today? I’ve already

explained. Now if you’ll excuse me.

I’ve got some Beethoven to listen to.

I’ve got a nap to take. I’ve got nowhere

to go, and no one to see.

Surely you can come up with something

better to do than to mess with me.

See there, I’ve got so many excuses I’ve

even made some up for you.

-30-

Chris Hanch 8-3-2020

Home Alone

I was living alone

at the time.

After calling the

apartment landlord,

he came over to change

the heating element

in my oven

which had broken in half

the day before.

It rarely happens,

he told me.

What surprised him

was that I used

the oven to cook for

myself.

Surprised in turn,

I told him,

I use it

only if I want

to eat.

I figured

the landlord’s

wife did all the

cooking

at his place.

For him

every night

dinner was

a surprise.

No surprises

in store

for me.

I had already

made plans

for mine.

     -30-

Chris Hanch 83-2020

The World on Parade

The psychologist for my Social Security

disability claim diagnosed me, among

other things, with Attention Deficit Dis-

order.

I was in my late fifties. Since childhood

I knew I had problems in school paying

attention, and my reading capabilities

were slow. I’d skip lines and have to read

them over and over again. Those were

the days when many children with such

issues were never properly assessed.

Teachers would often tell me and my

parents that I was basically not applying

myself. Of one thing I was keenly aware,

that I rarely learned anything by reading

or following written instructions.

I picked up things by either watching

or listening to verbal explanations.

ADD or a form of dyslexia were never

properly diagnosed as a problem for

me. I literally learned things by visual

observation.

In class as a youngster, I looked out

the window a lot or watched other kids

in class, studying their physical and

facial features. That was why I was so

adept at art. I visualized shapes, form

and behaviors in great detail.

I got the highest grades in art throughout

my school years. And I continued to pursue

my artistic endeavors well into adulthood,

even made a living at it from time-to-time.

I made friends and enemies with my art.

I made people laugh and cry with my art.

I could not memorize Lincoln’s Gettysburg

Address, but I could draw Old Abe’s and just

about everyone else’s portrait or caricature

from memory.

Nowadays, given my age and disabilities,

I can no longer draw, paint or sculpt. I have

tremors and shakes which barely allow me

to sign my name.

My art served me well in my younger years,

so I can’t really complain. I have accepted

the way things are. It is what it is.

I have done a lot of writing in recent years,

poetry and prose mostly. I can punch a key-

board two-fingered with a fair amount of

accuracy.

I haven’t really sold any of my written works.

I have had a few minor things published occa-

sionally. And all of that is okay by me.

I have come to realize that my disabilities

spawned other creative abilities in me.

Looking back, even had I been able to

change things, I would have it no other

way.

From my picture window, I am pleased

to say, I have portrayed the world on

parade in passing.

                          -30-

Chris Hanch 8-2-2020

State of the Union

There is a raging pandemic

going on. So far in the USA

154,000 people have died.

Million of citizens are un-

employed, and the GDP has

decreased 34.3%, lowest

since the Great Depression.

Between golf swings, the

President insists our highest

Covid-19 rate in the world

is due to increased testing.

And he claims, due to mail-in

voting, that the November

election will be the most

fraudulent in history.

I had a weird dream last

night: I was on a ladder,

and mortar holding the

bricks in place between

the sixth and seventh

stories was cracked and

loose. The bricks were

wobbly to the touch.

One of those propellered

drones was buzzing around

my head.

I was helpless, and there

was not a thing in the world

I could do.

I woke up in a cold sweat.

Thank God I had already

requested my Absentee

Ballot.

Vote!

                   -30-

Chris Hanch 8-2-2020

Mood Music

Late afternoon, Friday, July 31^st, listening

to Greek Music on my Amazon Echo. A

lovely device. I get to pick and choose any

genre of music to suit or change my mood.

This morning it was Copeland, Appalachian

Spring to soothe, and this afternoon spicing

things up with Manos Hadjidakis.

Reading Bukowski again. Although he writes

about a battered childhood at the hands of

an abusive father, and the ensuing depressed,

angry and lonely alcoholic life he led, I find his

style inspiring—simple and plain words, easy

for me to read and comprehend.

I can certainly relate to his alcoholic stupors

and depressive attitude. However, I can’t say

that I have ever reached the length and depths

of his despair. He was explicitly honest about his

lifelong revilement and abusive situation.

In fact, he not only recognized the gravity of

his condition, but he seemed to languish and

thrive in it. A prolific writer, he wrote obsessively,

trying with his blunt honesty to quell the fires of

his own personal hell.

Life for him could be no other way. And he knew

where his dark destiny would inevitably lead him.

So be it, as far as he was concerned. In his 73-years

of life, Bukowski managed to achieve notoriety and

financial success with his misery.

Perhaps I am inspired by his grievous writing, yet

can take some consolation in knowing that his pain

was far greater than mine. I too write with regular-

ity, feeding off the musical offerings of Copland and

Hadjidakis to comfort and soothe the musings of

my own misery.

                               -30-

Chris Hanch 8-1-2020

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