A satirical weekly article highlighting humorous moments in Midwestern history
By Silas P. Whitmore, Guthrie Center, Iowa, April 18, 1889
In the quiet town of Guthrie Center, where the most scandalous event is typically a pie contest gone awry, an Easter Monday in 1888 brought forth a tale that would ruffle more feathers than a fox in a henhouse.
The Union Cemetery, established just three years prior in 1885, had become the final resting place for many of the town’s dearly departed. Among the modest headstones and blooming lilacs stood a peculiar cement-cast chair, unmarked and situated conspicuously between two graves. Its origin was a mystery, and its presence sparked whispers among the townsfolk.
Local legend claimed that misfortune would befall anyone who dared to sit upon this so-called “Devil’s Chair.” Children dared each other to touch it, while elders crossed themselves when passing by. The chair became the subject of hushed conversations and speculative theories, ranging from a mourning seat for a grieving widow to a throne for the Prince of Darkness himself.
On that fateful Easter Monday, young Timothy O’Sullivan, emboldened by a morning sermon on courage and perhaps a tad too much of his aunt’s rhubarb wine, declared he would challenge the legend. With a crowd of townspeople gathered, he approached the chair with theatrical bravado, reciting a mock incantation before plopping himself onto the cold stone seat.
For a moment, all was silent. Then, a sudden gust of wind blew through the cemetery, extinguishing lanterns and sending hats flying. Timothy leapt up, eyes wide, and proclaimed he felt a chill “straight from the underworld” coursing through his britches. The crowd gasped, and Mrs. Abernathy fainted into the arms of the local blacksmith.
In the days that followed, Timothy reported a series of unfortunate events: his prized rooster ran away, his suspenders snapped during a town meeting, and he developed an inexplicable craving for turnips. The townsfolk, ever superstitious, attributed these misfortunes to his dalliance with the Devil’s Chair.
To this day, the chair remains in Union Cemetery, a silent sentinel to the curious and the brave. While some dismiss the legend as mere folklore, others swear by its eerie power, especially when their turnip cravings become too strong to ignore.
So, dear reader, should you find yourself in Guthrie Center, tread carefully among the tombstones, and think twice before taking a seat where angels fear to tread.
🙂