Not Long Tales … October 1st, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4184)

8.

Play Boy

In 1864, while General William Tecumseh Sherman was marching across Georgia, destroying and looting everything in sight on his way to the sea, a man named Big Tom seized the opportunity to run away from the Hutchins Plantation, with all of its peaches and nearby cotton fields, to escape the prison that had been his life since birth.

The townsfolk were in disarray and the Rebel Army was being pushed back, and everybody’s attention was riveted on personal survival. So under the cover of night, with only his shirt, britches, a corn cob pipe and a small pouch of tobacco, Big Tom grabbed his eleven-year-old boy, Garby, and headed toward the North Star.

The best plan, he decided, was to stay two miles behind Union lines all the way North, sleeping in the woods during the day and traveling by night. Dad and boy lived on wild rabbits and scattered berries of questionable origin, as they lay on their bellies and drank out of streams, like all “deer folk.”

The whole trip took two months. Caution was the most important factor in determining the speed of the journey. There were Southern sympathizers everywhere—always the danger that bounty hunters, still loyal to Dixie, might grab the two of them and take them back to their bondage.

Yet there were some bright spots along the way. An old man and sweet lady let them sleep in their barn one night and brought them out some buckwheat pancakes dipped in molasses. Since it was so special, Tom decided to tell Garby that it was his birthday, and God had supplied a great surprise.

Patiently, tirelessly and fervently, they traveled until they stood on the banks of the Potomac River, and gazed across at the seat of freedom—Washington, D. C.

They had been warned by the old couple to be careful when they reached the Capitol, because there were many who favored Jefferson Davis. They suggested the runaways make sure to find an abolitionist to draw up some false papers for them, proving they were free men. So that was the first thing Big Tom did. Quietly he asked among the Negra population that inhabited the city where to find such an individual. He was finally directed to a Quaker couple, who welcomed him and Garby into their house, and drew up the phony identifications. It was a blessing of God.

Paper in hand, Big Tom was able to go to the Union Army and get a job as an orderly, emptying bed pans and taking care of the wounded soldiers housed outside of town. Young Garby went down to the local theater and was given the job of scrubbing the floors following the productions were performed. Sounded like a simple job to him, but he found that all he had was a mixture of lye and wintergreen to clean floors that were filthy from dirt, mud and the spit of tobacco chewers. He also had to freshen up the seats, which were sweaty and grimy—full of all sorts of nasty human residue.

But he never complained, nor did his papa. There was a huge difference between doing hard work as a slave and doing equally hard work when at nighttime, off by yourselves, you are free men.

Now, there were two or three old barns outside the city, where the Negra slaves congregated, making beds of hay and doing their best to cook for one another, sharing stories of their ordeals, with greater hopes for the future.

Although the labor was tedious, Garby was always thrilled to get to the theater—just to be around the kind of folk who lived in Make Believe. But he had to be careful not to be noticed, or they’d chase him away, watching out for him and preventing his curiosity. But after a while, he found some loose boards beneath the stage, and a cubbyhole on one of the ladders which carried the technicians up to check the props.

He loved it all—the funny parts, and even enjoyed it when the Booth family came to down to do their Shakespeare. He didn’t understand a word they said, but they did it all pretty-like, and they were so beautifully dressed up.

He got an opportunity when a magician rented the theater and advertised his show. He asked Garby if he would be willing to climb into a trunk and disappear. He wouldn’t really be gone, the magician explained. There was a trap door, and all Garby had to do was slip out of it. Then, after the magician startled the crowd with the disappearance, Garby needed to slip back through the trap door and reappear, so there would be double applause. Garby was ecstatic.

The first part went beautifully. He slipped out the trap door, disappearing, and shut the door behind him. But when it came time to slip back in, one of the latches got stuck and he couldn’t get it open, so when the magician pulled back the curtain, the little black boy was still gone. Whispering under his breath, the magician said, “Do it again.”

He put the curtain back over. This time Garby gave a big tug on the latch. It opened, and when the curtain was pulled back, there he was. Everybody applauded, but not nearly as much as they would have the first time. The magician was not terribly angry and didn’t yell too much, but also did not give Garby the dollar he’d promised.

Even though Garby was careful not to draw attention to his interest in the theater, and he made sure he got all the stains out of the floor and the seats, everybody still knew that the little Southern boy was crazy about the shows. Matter of fact, since none of them knew his real name, they started referring to him as “Play Boy.”

At first, he was offended, but then the costume seamstress, a woman named Auntie Minerva, explained that it was a compliment. “Don’t be so dense, little feller,” she said. “They’re just sayin’ that you’re a boy who likes the plays.”

Garby shook his head. There was so much to learn. For all eleven years of his life, he’d had two jobs: first, to do what his papa said, and second, to make sure he looked busy when Massa came by. Now he was in a different world, and he was trying to find his place.

Meanwhile, the war raged on, even though most folks knew it was coming to an end. The army of Robert E. Lee had been cornered in Northern Virginia, and the fall of Richmond was imminent. General Ulysses S. Grant had sent surrender terms to the secessionists, and now it was just a matter of days before the horrible four years would come to an end.

Garby didn’t worry much about the war. After all, his conflict was somewhat over. He had been a slave—now he was free. What happened next didn’t seem quite as important as what had come before.

But on one Monday morning shortly before Easter, it was announced that Robert E. Lee had surrendered at some little village in Virginia. (They pronounced the name to Garby, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Somethin’ like “Apple.”)

There was such a celebration in the city—firecrackers, guns shot into the air, people hugging one another (still careful to make sure the embraces were with the same color).

Papa Tom explained to Garby, “Livin’ in Washington does not mean that we are loved, or even accepted. It just means that we’re not gonna be forced to work the fields or beaten if we make a mistake.”

Then late Thursday afternoon—the end of the war week—word got out that the President of the United States would be coming to the theater on Friday evening to see the popular play, “My American Cousin.”

Garby really loved that play. It was silly, and he could understand most of the words. But when he heard that the President—the man who said he was free—the fellow who sent troops down to make sure that freedom was honored—well, when Garby heard that his President was going to be at the theater, he knew he had to make some connection with him. There would be no way to get close, of course—partly due to the fact that the man was President, but mostly because Garby was just a little black boy.

So Garby went out into the woods and found a small piece of wood. He sanded it down until it had a smooth surface for writing on. He hadn’t learned to write yet, but Auntie Minerva was really good at such stuff. He asked her if she would scrawl a note for him, which he wanted to try to get to the President.

She laughed. “You’re never gonna get close to Abe Lincoln,” she said. “He’s a busy, famous man.”

Garby’s heart fell down to his feet. Auntie Minerva continued, “Yet if you want me to do this—if you want to try—I see no harm. What do you want to write on this hunk of wood?”

Garby thought for a second. He had been thinking for several hours on what would be just right. It couldn’t be too long. He didn’t want to take up too much time with the President’s eyes.

“Write this,” Garby said. “Thank you for making me free.”

Auntie Minerva waited, then finally asked, “Is that it?”

Garby nodded. Faithfully, carefully and quite beautifully, the aging seamstress wrote the words on the wooden surface. She read them aloud, pointing to each one.

Garby wanted to hug her, but his papa said that was not something that black-skinned folks should do. So he shook his head over and over again, with tears in his eyes.

Auntie Minerva reached over and patted his nappy hair. He walked away from her slowly, staring at the beautiful figures written on his wooden message board.

Now…how could he get it to Mr. President?

Some of the slaves had started calling Mr. Lincoln “Father.” Others referred to him as “Captain.” Garby just thought he was great. He decided to do something bold.

When the soldiers in charge of the President’s detail arrived late Friday afternoon, before the play began, to make sure the President’s box in the theater was clear and there was no danger, Garby was waiting. He stepped forward to the man with the biggest feather in his hat. The Commander, in his haste, nearly knocked him down in his haste. Upset by the little boy’s appearance, he spat, “Get away! This is no place for a little urchin!”

Garby did not know what an urchin was, but he figured the Commander was right. It was probably no place for him. But he was on a mission. He mustered all the strength and all the will he could and spoke. “I was wondering if you could give this to President Lincoln?” He held up his small piece of wood.

The Commander took it, looked at it front and back and then read it. “I don’t even know if I’ll see the President,” he responded. “So you might want to keep it until you see him another day.”

Garby was determined and vigorously shook his head. “No, sir,” he replied. “He’s too big, and I’m too small.”

The busy Commander found himself touched by the words. He told Garby he would do what he could and tucked the piece of wood into his breast pocket. Knowing it was time to make a retreat, Garby turned and quickly slipped away. For the next hour he just sat in a corner of the alley behind the theater and dreamed about Captain—Father—President Abe—reading his note.

A little bit late, the Presidential carriage finally arrived, and the family was hustled into the theater and up to the awaiting Presidential Box. That night there were so many in attendance there was no room to even get through the front door, so Garby found his favorite side window and sat underneath it, listening carefully to what was going on. There were muffled words, laughter, hands clapping.

But then, all of a sudden, there was a bang. Then there were screams. Garby knew the play, and at no time would the production make folks scream. The screams increased. Before he could move one muscle, he heard the front doors of the theater bang open. Soldiers came running down the street.

All the instincts he had gathered during his time on the plantation in Georgia kicked into gear. He slid around the corner and pushed himself up against the building, trying to be invisible. Such horrible sounds. Frantic men, shuffling boots, screaming women. And then finally, from the front of the theater, a man bellowed, “The President’s been shot!”

Garby slapped his own face, praying, wishing that he had fallen asleep, and it was all a dream. A horrible dream. But he wasn’t sleeping—he was awake, and the message spread down the street like a brush fire.

Garby stayed where he was. He wanted to run. He wanted to find the man who had done such a thing to his hero. He wished he was a surgeon, and could remove the bullet, or that he had the power of Jesus and could heal the wound.

Instead, he sat very still, like a black boy should. For an hour—then two—and finally, he fell asleep. Horrible nightmares of bullets.

And a dead President.

It was morning when he woke up, chilled, shivering from fear. There was still a bustle in the street, but it was much quieter. He stood to his feet, his legs aching, and walked around the side of the building. He made his way to the front door.

The manager of the theater was standing, staring up at his own establishment. Garby had never spoken to him; he had only seen him two or three times. But all at once, his boss, as if awaking from a deep slumber, turned and saw him. “Aren’t you Play Boy?” he said.

Garby’s eyes grew very wide with surprise. He couldn’t speak—all he could do was nod his head. The manager motioned for him to come toward him, but Garby was afraid. What was wrong? Were they going to blame him for the President being shot? He knew that was impossible, but why would the manager want to speak with him?

The manager motioned again, and finally the boy was able to move. He stood next to his employer, looking up into his face. The man spoke, “I would like you to do something for me.”

Garby nodded.

“The President just died,” the manager said.

Garby sucked in air, tears struggling to push their way out. And then, an amazing thing—the manager knelt down and took Garby’s face in his hands. “He was our father, too,” he said.

The little boy could not contain it any longer. Forsaking propriety, he buried his face in the waistcoat of the white man and sobbed. The manager held him, and after a few seconds, pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Play Boy, I want you to do something that nobody else wants to do. They tell me that you’re my best cleaner. I’ve set aside extra lye and plenty of wintergreen, and even some bleach. Son, I want you to go up into the President’s Box and clean it thoroughly. Wash away all the blood.”

Garby could not believe it. Stunned, he stared at the man, who continued. “I don’t want it there. I don’t want people taking pictures of it. I don’t want people coming and trying to acquire drops of our President’s blood.”

Garby was scared, but in his own eleven-year-old way, he understood. He agreed to do it. Gathering the supplies necessary to do the job, he headed up to the very special box reserved for the nation’s leader.

Cautiously, he walked into the door. It was a total mess—chairs knocked over and the smell of death hung in the small room. He was completely alone. It was so quiet that he felt he could hear the beams of wood weeping.

He made his way down to the President’s seat, staring at the blood. He knelt and offered up a prayer to his Jesus. “Help me do a good job.”

Garby scrubbed and scrubbed, and he cleaned and cleaned. After about an hour, any trace of crimson had disappeared, and the wood shone through.

He was about to stand to his feet and leave the box when he noticed—right underneath the seat where the President had been watching the play—there was an object of some sort.

Slowly, tentatively, Garby reached for it. As soon as his fingers touched it, he knew what it was—his chunk of wood, with his note.

He couldn’t pick it up. He just kept his fingers on it, stilled in disbelief. Then, encouraged by a surge of faith, he grabbed it and looked at it. There was more writing on it than Auntie Minerva had originally written. Scrambling to his feet, he ran out the door, into the street, looking for anyone who might be able to read the words on his piece of wood.

There was a man strolling toward the theater door, with two other men carrying cumbersome camera equipment. Garby stopped him. “Please, kind sir,” he said, “can you give me a minute?”

The man brushed him to the side. Determined, Garby tugged on his coat. “Please,” he begged.

Angrily, the man turned. “What is it you want?”

Garby held up the piece of wood. “I need you to read this to me. I can’t read. Would you read it, please?”

The fellow heaved a huge sigh of disapproval but took the small slab from Garby’s hand. He glanced down and read aloud: “Thank you for making me free.”

He finished reading and handed it back to Garby, who thrust it back. “No, there’s another part. I can tell.”

The man looked down with a frown, which gradually, ever so slowly, melted into a smile. He read again, from the top, “Thank you for making me free.”

Garby interrupted. “Yes, that’s what I wrote. I mean, that’s what Auntie Minerva wrote for me.”

The photographer shook his head and continued. “Kid, then it reads: Gladly. A. Lincoln.

Garby grabbed it from the photographer’s hand. He stared down at the words. The wood was speckled with drops of blood.

The Captain had spoken.

Donate ButtonThe producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly donation for this inspirational opportunity

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … March 28th, 2018

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3625)

Can We Talk

I don’t want to die on a cross

Who would?

Are you crazy?

Wanting to die is insane

Giving up is anti-human

And I am human

Do you know that?

I am the Son of Man

Just like you

Do you want to die?

Even if it provided solution?

Ridiculous

Why would you believe in a God,

Who fostered human sacrifice?

Isn’t that sick?

Don’t the prophets tell you

That God hated all sacrifice

Even animals?

Why would He suddenly choose His Son’s blood?

A human being?

Preposterous

I love life

It is so unpredictable

So gloriously tenuous

I love people, if they will permit

I don’t want to leave

So much beauty

So much growth

Sinners becoming winners

The messed, blessed

Sad made glad

And the dead–born again

Leave me alone

If you don’t believe just ignore me

Keep your nails to yourself

Keep your whip off my back

I have things I want to do

I came to show the Father

Do you want to kill Him also?

Does everything have to end in bloodiness?

I asked my Father to give me a break

But…

He is honoring your free will

You want me dead

So…

I will die

I will bleed like no one has ever bled before

If you want my blood

I will pour it all out on the ground

But be careful

It came from me

I am a healer

My blood just might save you

*****

Did you enjoy today’s PoHymn? Buy the book!

Buy Now Button with Credit Cards

             $9.99 plus S&H

*****

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly donation for this inspirational opportunity

Donate Button

Jesonian: Lukey 13 … February 17th, 2018

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3586)

I gave this essay a title.

I don’t very often–but since I planned to refer to the Good Book in Luke the 13th Chapter, I decided to get cute: “Lukey 13.”

Very simply, this is where Jesus explains how the planet functions, progresses and purifies.

The explanation was required because the folks who surrounded Jesus of Nazareth were caught up in politics and blamed the government for all the ills that came their way. This spilled over into their conversation with the “carpenter-turned-preacher.”

They wanted to get his opinion on an event. Pontius Pilate, the governor, had killed a group of people who came to a religious service to offer sacrifice, and were brutally attacked by the Roman Legions–murdered during their ceremony.

The people dramatically cited to Jesus that “the blood of the victims was mingled with the sacrifices.”

They failed to say that the Romans knew these folks to be Zealots, viewing them as terrorists who raided the army and killed infantrymen.

(There are always two sides to a story, usually with neither one being the truth.)

The people wanted Jesus to be enraged. They wanted Jesus to be a nationalist. They wanted Jesus to be a Zionist. He astounds them.

He replies, If you won’t change, you’re next. (The actual wording was, “Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.”)

He asked them if they thought the Galileans who were killed were bad people because it happened to them. He asked if a tower which had recently fallen on innocent folks was punishment for their sins, once again closing with, if you don’t change, you’re next.

What is his message? First, it is impossible to comprehend the ministry of Jesus without realizing that he came to bring understanding to the Natural Order instead of having people believe in mysterious protections from a Supernatural Border.

The Jews thought as long as they were Jews, God should take care of them. They felt no responsibility to the world around them, referring to people who were not Sons of Abraham as “heathens.” They became targets for cultures which were stronger in military might, and in no mood to be called “dogs.”

In a parable, Jesus explains the nature of Nature. He also outlines the nurture of the Father:

You cannot get God’s grace if you do not honor Nature’s place.

Jesus tells a story about a tree. It had leaves, bark and roots. No fruit. This tree was deemed by those in charge to be worthless, and was marked to be cut down.

Consider: although God loves me, He wants me to understand that since I live on Planet Earth, I have to follow the rules of the trees. I am not allowed to take up space, suck out nutrients and just sprout leaves. I am expected to bear fruit.

What is fruit? What defines fruit? “I am trying to improve my life, therefore understand why you are attempting to do the same.”

That’s fruit.

Nature wants to get rid of anything that is not fruitful. Some people might even say that Nature is prepared to get rid of Earth, because its inhabitants are no longer respectful of the system.

Yet let’s talk about you and me. There is a Natural Order and a Supernatural Border. It is impossible to come under the grace of God if you’re not submissive to Earth. And on those occasions when you find yourself erring, and in danger of being eliminated because of your mistake, you will need the Supernatural Border.

There is only one way to get under the protection of God’s mercy: humility.

Yes. Be the first one on your block to know you’ve done something stupid. Repent of it before anyone else even knows you did it, and dip your head in respect to Mother Nature as a way of honoring Father God. When God sees this, He comes to Mother Nature and He says, “Dig and dung.” In other words, let’s not eliminate this person yet. Let’s give him or her a chance. Fertilize with dung.

To put this process in a lexicon we better understand: to gain God’s help, you must humbly admit your weakness and allow Him to send some shit your way so you can grow.

If you’re convinced it’s not your fault, and you reject the shit, get ready for the buzzsaw.

If you’re going to be oblivious, be prepared to be the next one eliminated. But if you honor Nature and the order of things and realize that it’s not the government’s fault–there is no massive plan against spirituality, but rather, misdirection on your own part, which needs to be humbly corrected–then God has the ability to extend His grace, to help you establish your change.

It is a powerful passage. It is our “Lukey 13.”

And if we comprehend its meaning, we have an earthly advantage over the religious fanatics who believe God owes them something, and also the secular world, which contends it can out-muscle the competition.

Donate Button

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this inspirational opportunity

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … December 27th, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3535)

 

I Took This Year

I took this year

Or was it given to me?

To come way down here

Curious to see

Papa Grace was my dream

Blended blood, as a team

One can speak

Another touch

This one meek

The other giving much

Turning thoughts into actions

Joining one from the factions

You can increase

I will decrease

Both on our knees

Calm the nasty seas

But I was wrong

It must have been

Didn’t last long

Two, four, six, ten

I lost a year

Or was it stolen from me?

To cripple in fear

Never meant to be

So I will go

Without regret

The road has my show

A fisherman’s net

I will love you forever

But will always wonder

Was it my fault,

My clumsy blunder?

I release this year

To heaven’s care

With much good cheer

I’m off to share.

 

 

Donate ButtonThe producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this inspirational opportunity

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … February 3rd, 2016

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(2833)

PoHymn February 3

Servant of All

I saw my Master serving

And I felt quite undeserving

Because I want to rule

Instead of play the fool

I grasp the tarnished crown.

 

For he took the water fine

And changed it into wine

Gave for all to share

To express his heartfelt care

Rejoicing in their pleasure.

 

While offering his words so wise

He touched the blind man’s eyes

Disturbing his time and space

To commune with the human race

I blare my horn in traffic.

 

When arrested in the garden green

At the mercy of the mob obscene

He healed the ear of his accuser

Wounded by a nearby abuser

As I wipe the blood from my sword.

 

Hanging, bleeding, black and blue

Father, forgive them for what they do

Weary and worn in his demise

He welcomed a thief to Paradise

While I abhor inconvenience.

 

For I wait at the table demanding to be served

Impatient as always, often unnerved

While he kneels down to wash my feet

I am embarrassed, seeking a hasty retreat

He smiles and continues his labor.

 

I am not a worthy soul

Less than half of what is whole

But if I can slow down from moving faster

I can become the servant worthy to be master.

Donate Button

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

 

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … October 7th, 2015

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(2715)

PoHymn 10 7 gun

Our National Sin

Yet another fool

Went into the school

To break the Golden Rule

While on the run

He took a gun

And shot his chosen few

Nine are dead

Is what they said

After commercial break

Experts are sought

A lesson is taught

About the creepy fake

Mama cries

Daddy lies

And old friends have their take

I sit and stare

As if I care

Stunned by the sameness

Looking for proof

Some lasting truth

To proclaim myself blameless.

Only nine

Slaughtered this time

A little less than before

But if nine were me

It would be different, you see

Someone shout and roar

But since I live

The little I give

My sympathy

Not much more

When blood is red

Folks are dead

Never to breathe again

Is the gun to blame?

Don’t use his name

Just bury our national sin.

 

Donate Button

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

***************************

NEW BOOK RELEASE BY JONATHAN RICHARD CRING

WITHIN

A meeting place for folks who know they’re human

 $3.99 plus $2.00 S&H

$3.99 plus $2.00 S & H

$3.99 plus $2.00 S & H

Buy Now Button

 

Cracked 5… August 25th, 2015

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(2673)

cracked 5 logo keeper with border

Words or Phrases Other Than “Murder” that the Murder Mystery Writer Came Up With So He Wouldn’t Murder His Script by Using the Word “Murder” Too Often When Telling the Murder Story

 

A. Blood-stopper

 

B. Eternity Commencement

 

C. Cut and Waste

 

D. Airless to the Throne

 

E. Snuffered

Murder with pictures

 

 

Donate Button

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

***************************

NEW BOOK RELEASE BY JONATHAN RICHARD CRING

WITHIN

A meeting place for folks who know they’re human

 $3.99 plus $2.00 S&H

$3.99 plus $2.00 S & H

$3.99 plus $2.00 S & H

Buy Now Button

 

Published in: on August 25, 2015 at 12:44 pm  Comments (1)  
Tags: , , , , , , ,
<span>%d</span> bloggers like this: