Albert in Remembering

Albert, I think of you now and again.

I remember when your Aunt Bessy asked

our mom if she could bring you with her

to spend the day with my two brothers

and me. “Albert’s neighborhood is not a

safe place for a child to play,” she told mom.

(Back in those days, the late 1950s, it would be

an unusual thing to see a black child hanging

around with white kids in our prim and proper

all-white suburban neighborhood.) Without

hesitation, our mother told Bessy, our domestic,

“That would be just fine. Bring Albert along with

you anytime.” And she did on several occasions.

On those oppressively hot, St. Louis summer days,

Bessy tended to house cleaning, her washing and

ironing duties as she kept her spirits up faithfully

humming and singing gospel songs all day long.

The four of us boys played mostly outside, throw-

ing and batting the baseball around. We were all

equally avid Cardinal fans from the same hometown.

In a sense, although we were still too young to have

developed prejudices as a cursed life’s philosophy.

Instead, there was a bonding of sorts, a camaraderie

formed from being on the same team. Kind of like

Ken Boyer and Stan Musial playing alongside one

another in their Red Bird Brotherhood with Bill

White and Curt Flood. Nowadays, old and gray,

and in my seventies, all the old team has long since

passed away. In my mind, though, I can hear Aunt

Bessy singing those old spirituals she used to sing

while ironing. And occasionally, I think fondly of

Albert. And in my advanced years here on Earth,

I realize that in my place and time, rarely did I

give the slightest thought of living my life as a

white. I imagine Albert as a black child was likely

not afforded living his life the same as I. Remember,

my friend, wherever you may be, we did play on the

same team. Remember, on those horribly hot and

humid St. Louis summer days, neither race, nor color,

not even the oppressive heat seemed unbeatable

obstacles for the best in us back then.

Chris Hanch 8-12-18

The Cowboy Life for Me

When I was a child, I didn’t really know

or care why and for what I was here. When

I came of age, I realized what I wanted to

be when I grew up—a cowboy I dreamed,

just like Roy Rogers and Hopalong Cassidy.

I had the hat; I had the six-shooter and caps.

I needed a horse and cowgirl to ride along-

side of me. And, I needed to be on TV, on

Saturday morning preferably. That’s when

all the other kids would be watching me.

I would lasso the bad guys and take them to

the hoosegow. “What’s that?” my lady-friend

sidekick would ask. “Don’t you know?” would

be my reply. “Aww shucks, Ma’am, why that’s

cowboy lingo for jail,” I would proudly tell her

with my thumbs tucked boldly between my

belt and jeans.

And she would look up and smile at me

admiringly. No one could smile like she.

It was almost enough to pop the buttons

right off my vest. I really wanted, no I had

to have Annette Funicello as my best girl.

I reckoned then my cowboy life would be

complete. As a city boy, I had my Saturday

morning dreams of the wild west, that is

until my mom and dad would get up and

turn off the TV. How was I ever going to

meet Annette Funicello when stupid stuff

like that kept happening to me?

Chris Hanch 8-11-28

Elegy

This is how I see a potential elegy

for me – He was what he was until

he was no more. He was then found

to be in a grand yet gross entangle-

ment, transformed significantly into

a twisted and hairy mass of keratin

debris. Apparently, he had not clipped

his nails or trimmed his hair in years.

(It is worth noting, biologically, those do

continue to grow for a time after one is

gone—A form of protein, you know.)

Chris Hanch 8-10-18

Where Have All the Old Men Gone?

I remember as a young man in my

twenties, thirties and even my forties,

there were all these old men around me,

most everywhere I went, a slew of old

men around. And into my fifties, other

than some of those occasional aches

and pains, I barely noticed the change.

Sixty is when it really hit me. And seventy,

well at seventy, anyway, nowadays I avoid

looking into the mirror for seeing the

realities of old age which have encrusted

me. All the old men who used to be are

gone now. Once in awhile I see some of

them in reruns on TV. Sometimes they’ll

claim to be fifty-five or sixty. Crap! They

look old, but then I’ll realize, not older

than I am...not nearly as old as the lack-

luster old I have grown to be. Turn the

damned thing off or change the channel,

I tell myself. At first it was the stupid mirror

and now this. I watch too much friggin’ TV.

Chris Hanch 8-9-18

Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,

seconds on the clock...

The countdown is on.

Whiskers have whitened,

and the young one has grown old.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,

seconds on the clock…

The sapling tree has grown;

leaves have greened,

and the oak reaches maturity.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick tock,

second on the clock…

Memories fade away, lost

in the persistent accumulation,

day after day.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,

seconds on the clock…

A thought passes, and memories

are relegated to the scrap heap of

unrecorded history.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,

seconds on the clock...

A dog wags its tail, and the hurricane

sweeps clean the Beach of Eternity.

All is lost on any given day

Even the clock harbors no more tick-tock.

Time passes silently in the Digital Age.

The countdown these days flashes its

LED warning more discreetly. Turn away!

5...4...3...2...1...

Chris Hanch 8-8-18

A Good Ol' Charlie Brown Day

Today, something freaky weird happened to me,

something seemingly insignificant, and probably

not worth mentioning, but somehow I feel com-

pelled to say something about my experience

anyway.

Reading and writing are the only meaningful
exercises upon which I rely to kick start my day
and figuratively speaking, these keep me thought-
fully alive.

Yesterday in the mail I received some used books

I ordered from Amazon (a really nifty service for

a home-bound old nerd such as I). Peanuts pocket-

books. You all remember Peanuts, Good Ol’ Charlie

Brown, Snoopy, Lucy, Linus and the gang.

I had this nostalgic wave come over me, the need

to revisit some of my more favorable bygone ado-

lescent days. After reading several pages of Charlie

Brown’s escapades, I put the comic strips down and

picked up a book of poetry from where I usually get

my literary feeding started in the morning.

I should preface this by saying that the particular

poet and his work which I am currently reading

are very emotionally dark and deep, a full 180-

degrees opposite to the lighthearted Charlie Brown

and Company.

Now comes that freaky weird happening I alluded

to at the beginning of this piece: The first two or

three poems I read although quite serious seemed

a farcical continuance of the Peanuts strips I had

read previously.

I had indeed retained my whimsical state of mind…

GOOD GRIEF!!! VERY FUNNY, CHARLIE BROWN!

Needless to say, I suppose I’ll just have to get more

serious about life some other day.

Chris Hanch 8-7-18

Thinking Today

Thinking about places far away, thinking

about places I may have been, thinking

mostly about places I have never seen.

Thinking, there stands a man (could also

be a woman or a child) who sees the world

the same as I.

Or quite possibly, through their own window

have a completely different view than I.

Thinking, sometimes a fog settles into the

lowlands and upon the vastness of seas

between us.

Thinking, there is a world of diversity out there

in which we, however, share the laughter and

tears, the commonality of joy and suffering.

Thinking about the neighbor next door and the

one above me. Although I hear the pounding of
their feet in the morning as they prepare to leave,
they too are likely see the world differently.

I cannot see them, and blocked by the walls
and ceilings between us, likewise, they cannot

see me.

Thinking, there might as well be oceans and

continents of difference between us instead

of scantily a few feet.

I stay at home most days in my old age and

disabled ways. And where in hell they may

be headed, who knows?

Thinking, were we able to share photographs

taken, even should perspectives be varied

between us, at least we’d have a clearer picture

from where each of us are so inclined to see.

Chris Hanch 8-6-18