Sit Down Comedy … July 24th, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Sit Down Comedy

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.”

Iffing Way–Part 4: UnPharoah … November 10, 2014

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(2409)

If bigger

What if a voice of sanity had risen up at various stages in the story of human history, to offer a challenging view when craziness was about to win the day?

If …

It all revolved around a game of intimidation.

The only way to protect your particular parcel of land from intrusion and invasion was to convince other kingdoms nearby that you were well-established, well-fortified and darned well intent on fighting to the death to “keep your own.” Thus the purpose for building huge walls, great monuments and fortifications.

Thutmose III was well aware of the situation.

As Pharoah of Egypt, it was his job to maintain the order of his domain and keep his citizens safe from the marauding hordes. Any sign of weakness was an invitation to be destroyed by the stronger villains of the desert.

To build such huge constructions took man power. Now, society was divided into four sections:

  • royalty, which would never lift a finger for such tasks
  • farmers, who raised the food which kept the citizenry in bread and wine
  • soldiers, who protected the sovereignty of the turf
  • and slaves, the cheapest labor possible, to perform the most arduous duties

After many years of peaceful coexistence with the Jews, the Egyptians grew tired of this clan of immigrants who seemed to be overtaking the social order of the land. A movement began against them. It was decided that the free meal ticket provided by the previous Pharoah, out of loving deference to Joseph, should be terminated and that these people should be put to hard labor, working for the state.

The pressure was immense.

Matter of fact, sitting in front of Thutmose III was an edict to proclaim all Jews as slaves. All that was needed was his seal. Then the document would become a holy edict, enforced viciously by the taskmasters against these people without a country.

He delayed.

He stalled so long that his critics began to call him a coward, and even a traitor. Thutmose III tried to draw a deep breath of wisdom and sanity. For after all, what seems prudent today has arms, legs, breath and anger in the future generations subjected to the treatment.

What should he do?

After many nights, lying sleepless in his bed, he devised a plan. He decided to alternate his work force–take the relocated Jews and put them in the fields for part of the year and bring the field workers in to build the walls and monuments necessary to maintain a sense of control.

He also concluded that it was unnecessary to build many pyramids–one for each Pharoah who died. Why not one gigantic pyramid for all the rulers who had gone on? It would be just as intimidating and beautiful, but more easily conceived and carried out by the workers.

When Thutmose III presented his plan to the council they immediately rejected it, which made no difference whatsoever, since he was a dictator.

Reluctantly, the plan was carried out and the Jews, rather than being slaves, were turned into brethren with a variety of tasks to contribute to the cause.

After many years and much success with this new plan, the Council of the Jewish people, under the leadership of a man named Moses, came and asked for permission to emigrate to another land, where they would take the experiences of Egypt and their own faith, and build a life.

It was negotiated. It was agreed.

The transition was smooth because it was not the escaping of slaves, but rather, the releasing of friends to their new mission.

Thutmose III died a happy man, interred in the greatest pyramid ever constructed, having saved a whole race of people from slavery and allowing for that same tribe to find their God and their expression.

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