Selections from Mr. Kringle’s Tales: Mr. Kringle Visits the President

In a variation on “From the Stacks,” I have decided to offer you, between now and Christmas, a few of Jonathan’s stories from one of his most popular books:

Mr. Kringle’s Tales: 26 Stories ‘Til Christmas

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Mr. Kringle Visits the President

On December 20th, 1862, Abraham Lincoln was sitting in his office alone, deliberating the fate of young men he had sent to a war not of his making. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Is that you, Mr. Hay?” he asked without budging from his chair.

“It is not Mr. Hay.” The voice said no more.

Abraham stood to his feet and creaked toward the door. Opening it, he gazed at a man with a smoky-white beard, stovepipe hat, dressed in the uniform of a colonel in the Union army. “I have two questions for you, Colonel,” said Abe. “Who are you and how did you get past my aide?”

“He became distracted by an urgent personal need which called him to the water closet,” responded the courtly colonel.

“Well, that answers one.”

“For the other answer, I think we should both sit down, sir.”

“I am always of a mind to put more pressure on my backside than my feet,” Mr. Lincoln smiled, motioning to a chair for his guest and heading for one himself.

The distinguished colonel sat, drew a breath, and began. “Mr. President, I am Kris Kringle.”

“Dutch or German?”

“Very.”

“Well, Colonel Kringle, you are honored with a fine name.”

“I am not a colonel.”

“Then you are in danger of being shot for impersonating one. Have you come to assassinate me?”

“Heavens, no. I have come to see you on behalf of the children.”

“Children? Are you a father?”

“Many children, I hope. Some are black.”

“A plantation owner?”

“No. A toyshop.”

“Mr. Kringle, I am not partial to riddles unless they are of my own making.”

“Then let me speak plainly. I am Santa Claus.”

“A little too plainly, dear sir. I must ask you to leave.”

“I know it is hard to believe. But sir, you are a man of great hope and faith. Stretch that belief for a few moments.”

“Speak on. You have until my aide returns to throw you out.”

Kris fidgeted in his chair, not sure what he had expected, but definitely discouraged by this beginning. “I have received words, letters and heard the prayers of black children across the South. They asked me for a Christmas gift — liberty.”

“That is why we are fighting this horrible war. Are you some sort of abolitionist-soothsayer?” Lincoln was perturbed.

“I am what I am, which I declared myself to be. I know you have a proclamation you are about to make law.”

“This is common knowledge.”

“I also know you are reconsidering your decision because people are putting pressure on you to keep slavery out of the issue.”

Abraham sat straighter, cleared his throat, and said, “Go on.”

“Freed children make productive men and women — the kind that build nations.”

“Maybe they would be happier back home in Africa.”

“These children are home. This is their land. They were born here. It is their dream. It is their hope. It is the land where they ask me to come and bring them presents. They are you and you are them.”

Lincoln probed the rotund stranger for a glimmer of sanity. Satisfied, he asked, “Well, Santa Claus, if you are, what should this old President do?”

“Be Santa Claus to a whole race of children. Give them what they deserve this Christmas — freedom. They’ve been good They have suffered quietly. It is time to let them run and play.”

Mr. Lincoln’s eyes welled with tears as he nodded his head. Kris Kringle stood to leave. Empty of words, he headed for the door.

“Mr. Claus,” Lincoln called, “what do I get for Christmas?” Abe’s eyes twinkled in the fading light.

“What do you want?”

“I fancy that stove-pipe hat on your head, dear sir.”

“It is yours.” Kris strolled over and handed it to the President.

“Is it magic?” Lincoln pursued.

“Everything has its moment of magic,” Kris chuckled.

Lincoln smiled. “The children will have their Christmas, Mr. Kringle.” He then turned away and stared out the window as Mr. Kringle vanished.

***

On January 1st, 1863, Abraham Lincoln declared the Emancipation Proclamation to be the law of the land, freeing the slaves.

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In the spring of 1865, while riding a horse near enemy lines, President Lincoln was shot at by a sniper, the bullet passing cleanly through his stovepipe hat, leaving him unharmed.

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Afterward

I wrote this story in 2004 as part of a collection. There are twenty-six stories (hence the title!)

If it intrigues you, go ahead and purchase a copy of the book. It’s on Amazon. Just click the title below.

Mr. Kringle’s Tales: 26 Stories ’Til Christmas

Sit Down Comedy … July 31st, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Old people talk about old things.

That’s how you know they’re old.

They think they’re relevant. They think they’re talking about new things.

But they’re wrong.

They are old people talking about old things, sounding an SOS:

Same Old Shit.

The trouble is, not all old people are collecting Social Security. Some of the old people talking in our generation are supposed to be young. But for some reason, they’re talking about old stuff.

I don’t know why.

The Civil War? Are you nuts? Are we really still discussing a flag of a group of rebellious traitors who wanted to subjugate a race of people to be their slaves and decided to fight on every flat spot in the Eastern U. S., to try to prove their point?

The Civil War is over.

It has been decided. Slavery is not coming back. So all your banners are outdated. If you’re still talking about it, you are goddamned old.

Abortion? This has been settled.

It’s a nasty procedure that no one really wants to claim but needs to be a freedom given to a woman—because it’s her body. Sure, we would hope that it would not be used as birth control, or a way to get even with conservatives. But the discussion is over. If you’re still talking about it—pro or con—you’re decrepit.

And referring to politics, I wouldn’t even know where to start.

Republican and Democrat? These are things my grandparents talked about. You can tell it’s old stuff. The parties still use flyers, bumper stickers, buttons, slogans, attack ads… Are you kidding me? This stuff is old for old.

The election is really simple. We need to put somebody in the government who will allow us to live our lives fruitfully, make sure the roads are paved, and don’t blow up the rest of the world. If you want to call those “issues,” then I guess you could have one of your debates.

I stand dumbfounded when I hear people talking about race.

Are we really discussing color? Because honest to God, so many people have tattoos, I don’t know what color they are.

I heard an old woman say, “I just don’t think it’s right for black people and white people to marry and have children.”

“Fine,” I told her. “Then you probably shouldn’t fuck a rapper. And maybe don’t watch somebody else do it either.”

I’m astounded when I hear old people talking about rich and poor.

It’s so OLD. Get what you can and help everyone else. How hard can that be?

And by the way, can anything be older than religion?

We spend all of our time in a church talking to people (who are wearing jeans and crocs) about patriarchs in Israel. Old people talking about old things—stinking up the joint with old.

Can we ever get over the idea that men and women have to fight with each other? It’s so damn old.  Maybe we could do something new.

We could counteract our entertainment and create shows where men listen, and women are reasonable.

It’s all about human rights.

We cannot let these unfortunate, mentally stalled old people continue to insist on the fact that a few human wrongs should still be discussed.

You can identify old people because they talk about old things in an old way.

I would think, after Covid-19, we should be able to hear a scream coming from America. “I don’t want to debate the issues anymore!”

Don’t we all want to live in an America where there are only two rules?

Do the best you can.

Help somebody out when you can.

 

Sit Down Comedy … July 24th, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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The Science of Séance

Jackson Coodabury was a fervent believer in spiritualism. He not only contended that it was possible to communicate with the dead, but had attempted it several times, gaining great soul satisfaction and insight through the experience.

His greatest hope—his aspiration, if you will—was to make contact with his great-great-great uncle, Homer Coodabury. Homer had fought in the War Between the States, dying from a bayonet wound in the chest on the bridge at Antietam.

Jackson was a fervent believer in states’ rights and an aficionado on both the Antebellum period and the Civil War itself. Even though Kentucky was a border state, the Coodabury family had forged its allegiance with the Dixon side of the line long before it went to war with Mason.

So Jackson decided to hold a séance.

He got together with two friends who were interested in contacting their relatives from the period and hired the most well-known spiritualist in all the tri-state area to conduct the event.

The spiritualist went merely by the name Hector, had written five books on the subject, and it was reported that he had once been able to conjure the ghost of Stonewall Jackson.

Jackson himself was named after the great General. So whether it would be his relative, Homer, or the great Stonewall made no difference to Jackson. He just felt disconnected from this present time, still holding a deep belief that black men and black women were inferior to the white race. This was not a popular idea—not even in a prejudiced community like Melrose, Kentucky.

Jackson didn’t care. He yearned to have a touchstone with someone from the era, who could explain in detail what it felt like to be on the battlefield, fighting for what he believed in.

A small room was selected. All the blinds were pulled, and black cloth was placed over the windows to make sure nothing from the outside world could interfere. A round table was readied for the four to gather, with a single candle and a letter that Homer had written to his mother, right after the first Battle of Manassas.  Jackson clutched the letter in his hands, hoping to drain the soul of his uncle.

The evening began simply, with some quiet music, which gradually Hector decreased as he began to recite information about the life and times of the soul he was calling forth from the cosmic realm.

Jackson sat quietly, trying to calm his nerves. He understood that there would be no physical presence of his uncle but the ghost of his kin would speak through Hector.

There were mumblings from Hector—requests. And finally, a sudden silence.

All at once, Hector began to speak with a strong east Kentucky accent.

“I cannot see you, but I can hear you.”

Jackson broke into tears. He was being addressed by his uncle—a regaling voice. Commanding, filled with authority.

Jackson spoke. “Are you Corporal Homer Coodabury, of the Fourteenth Kentucky Regiment?”

“I was,” bellowed the voice. The tone was eerie, with just a touch of echo.

Nodding his head, Jackson looked his friends, who were just as astonished as he. Probing on, Jackson said, “I understand you were seventeen years old when you joined up to fight the Yankees.”

There was no response.

“Am I right about that?” asked Jackson.

Suddenly, even louder, the voice replied, “Have you come here to confirm history, or to learn the truth?”

Jackson nodded, feeling impotent. Here he was, talking to a spirit from the other side and not sure about what to request. He gathered himself and formed a real question. “What is it like where you are?”

“It changes,” the voice replied. “When I first came, after the Yankee stabbed me with his bayonet, I found myself in a small room, where one corner occasionally lit up with a glow. And when it did, there was a question inside me being asked. And I, without words, was communicating the truth of my experience.”

The answer baffled Jackson, so he followed up. “Who was questioning you and what did they want to know?”

The spirit replied, “I don’t know who, and if I did, I would never be able to explain it to you. What was sought from me was an answer as to why I chose, at seventeen years of age, to give my life for the cause of the Confederacy.”

Jackson scoffed. He now realized that Hector was apparently some sort of Northern sympathizer, who was using the séance to discredit the cause of Dixie.

Jackson stood to leave and turned toward the door. As he did, the voice continued. “Did you come for answers, or did you come for confirmation? What I learned in those sessions in that room with the glowing light which illuminated my mind was that no one is better than anyone else.”

Jackson stalled and stiffened. He remembered those words. In the midst of a very prejudiced upbringing, he had a Grandma who constantly spoke that statement to him, over and over again.  “No one is better than anyone else.”

Jackson had rejected it—but now, here it was again, being uttered to him in a séance from the grave.

Jackson whirled around and blurted, “Where did you get those words?”

The spirit replied, “You know where I got them. She was your grandma, right?”

Jackson was horrified. He slowly walked over and sat back down. After a moment of reflection, he spoke again. “If you could fight—or could have fought more—would you do it today, for the cause of freedom?”

The answer came quickly. “I spent the first part of my time in eternity learning the value of human life, which I could no longer possess. I felt shame. I remembered as a small boy, making fun of the abolitionists because they believed the black man had a soul. Now here I was, dead and gone, dealing with my own soul, tormented by my choices.”

“It was a noble cause!” Jackson screamed. “It was for the glory of the South, the honor of tradition and the heritage of the white race.”

Through Hector, the spirit replied calmly. “Where I am, there is no honor in these things.”

Jackson pursued. “How about the monuments? The statues? The Confederate flag? Consideration of the lost lives? Shouldn’t there be a tribute for the courage of these patriots?”

There was a silence. Then the spirit spoke. “Courage is only powerful when it saves someone instead of hurting them. Don’t make any statues for me. Don’t remember my war record. Just understand that I was young and foolish, and that somehow God, in His mercy, has given me a chance to make amends.”

Jackson still had questions, but Hector shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and emerged from the trance.

Jackson thanked Hector for leading the gathering, and he and his two friends went out for a drink at the local bar.

His two buddies were unimpressed with the whole process—figuring that Hector was a fraud.  Jackson, who had originally been quite impacted by the encounter, gradually lost his fervor, taking on a cynical outlook. “I don’t care what anyone says,” he declared. “Let’s lift our glasses to the glory of Dixie.”

The three drank a toast to the Confederate States, put their glasses down and headed for the door. The waitress arrived with their bill.

As they were paying, she explained that drinks on this particular night were supposed to cost twice as much because there was a convention in town and the proprietor had raised the prices. She further stated that she knew they were regulars and were unaware of that situation, so she charged them the regular cost.

The three of them were grateful and offered her a large tip, which she refused. “No, that’s not necessary,” she said. “We need to do good to each other. Because no one’s better than anyone else.”

Jackson grabbed her arm. “What did you just say?”

She replied, “I said we need to do good to each other.”

“No,” Jackson interrupted. “The last part.”

“I don’t remember,” she replied, a bit startled by his reaction.

Jackson prodded her. “You said ‘no one is better than anyone else.’”

She shook her head, frowning. “Did I? Huh. I don’t remember.”

The waitress escaped his grasp, a bit unnerved. Jackson looked over at his friends, who were nearly as startled as he was.

Jackson took a ragged breath. “Maybe Hector was better than we thought.”

Sit Down Comedy … Juneteenth, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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I don’t like to lose.

Maybe no one does.

There is certainly no celebration going on in the locker room of the vanquished team.

No retelling of dropped balls, missed tackles or fumbles.

Losing is intolerable in its inception but even more lonely in its conclusion.

There will certainly be no fellowship in hell for those who are self-condemned to dwell in the loneliness of ineptitude.

I once walked off a football field having been thoroughly beat up—64 to nothing. And yes—it felt like just me—like I was whipped, dragged and humiliated by eleven bullies. My teammates sat in silence, with an occasional sob.

I don’t like to lose.

I don’t keep old raffle tickets which failed to deliver the prize.

I don’t have video footage of me coming in fourteenth in a talent contest.

Yet today I feel like such a goddam loser.

I’m white.

But the only privilege I seem to garner from this statis is the curse of achieving my rank through vile prejudice and bigotry.

It is Juneteenth.

Yet do I have a right, as a white, to even mention it?

What would be my statement?

“I’m so glad my relatives stopped owning yours. Just for the record, I would never have bought you.”

Yuk.

It’s like working really hard to be at the top of your class and then realizing when you got there, everybody hated you.

I’m white.

I’m sorry.

I don’t mind saying I’m sorry.

I understand why it’s necessary for me to be sorry.

But I don’t feel better after I say it.

It just doesn’t seem enough.

Maybe it’s because racism has never died.

Maybe it’s because there’s a whole region of the country which still thinks the Civil War was a grand cause.

Maybe it’s because I’m part of a race that shoots black people in the street and applauds them when they run in a sports arena or dance on a video.

I don’t know how to be white.

It doesn’t matter—whether I know how to do it, I still get the benefit. Or can we call it a benefit? It’s more like the spoils of a war, where the other side wasn’t even allowed to fight.

I want to say something, but everything comes across as anemic as the color of my skin.

I want to be one of those whites who’s “a dude” instead of one of those whites who’s really just crude.

But the harder I try, the worse I look.

Because this problem is not going to be salvaged from destruction by platitudes or promises.

It’ll take a generation—maybe two—before we can even begin to trust each other.

Because while I listen to the news, which implores me to be more tolerant, evening television is still about murderers and rapists, who are usually “colored in” with dark ink.

I just wanted to let you know that I don’t like being this loser.

And I just wanted to let you know that me complaining about being a loser is really a loser thing to do.

I wanted to say, “Happy Juneteenth,” because I am happy about it. Not happy in the sense that I personally was awarded liberty, but happy because hopefully, we can reach a point when we don’t have to award it.

It’s a given.

I don’t like to lose.

If there’s a way out of this, I will find it.

If there’s an opportunity to remain silent, but still be actively involved in reparations for the sin of our country, I want to discover it.

I don’t want you to listen to me whine.

But I’m also not going to watch “Roots” one more time to make sure I’m aware of what slavery was.

Somehow or another, you and I need to go forward trusting each other—that we got the message.

I don’t know how that can happen.

But it’s a nice thing to write down as a goal on a Friday afternoon.

And belief in it, pursuit of it and faith that it’s possible…

…makes me feel just a little less like a loser.

Sit Down Comedy … May 15th, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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1777

In the frigid squall of a Nor’easter, a people of revolution discovered themselves without victory, their Declaration of Independence descending into an anemic squeal.

Hopelessness.

1862

American brothers and sisters embroiled in an un-Civil War, where those who still desired a Union were being butchered weekly on the battlefields, bleeding for a lost cause.

Maddening despair.

1929

As the year draws to a close, a nation which has survived a World War, a pandemic flu and a crime spree brought on by Prohibition, is completely swept away by a nationwide depression, making one and all paupers.

A nonsensical horror.

1940

The British Isles left as the only nation standing between civilization and complete domination by a tyrant from Germany.

Terror from the skies.

2001

The sunshine over New York City, Washington, D.C. and eastern Pennsylvania is suddenly blackened by the religious fanaticism of men who thought they were doing the will of God.

Breathless devastation.

For the human race to have no apparent solution or doorway to possibility is nothing new.

Covid-19 is not a worse adversary than terrorism, Nazis, financial devastation, slavery and domination by a foreign power.

We just need to hear the words again.

Someone needs to speak them, and then we need to say them to one another and continue reciting them until our brains sprout minds of wisdom to guide us to the next step in restoring our dominion on Earth.

Covid is a virus—it has not come to replace us.

We are not its servants.

We are not without insight, history and potential.

The words need to be spoken:

“There is no temptation that is not common to all men. But God shall provide the way of escape.”

Somewhere between our American brethren who want to save their political asses, and the members of our family, who are halted in fear and don’t know what to do is the necessity of hearing a George Washington, an Abraham Lincoln, a Franklin Roosevelt, a Winston Churchill, and yes—Rudy Giuliani.

• We are not going to walk out of this.
• We are not going to crawl out of this.
• We will need to define a realistic plan that leaves room for error and adjustment.

And then, as a people…

We must march out of this.

Drawing Attention … February 5th, 2020

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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The Unlearned Lesson (Final Week)

(tap the picture to see the video)

art by Clazzy

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Drawing Attention … January 29th, 2020

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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The Unlearned Lesson (Week 2)

(tap the picture to see the video)

art by Clazzy

Music:  War

from the symphony, Jack by Jonathan Richard Cring

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