Beulah Quotes

In many ways, Eulah-Beulah prepared me for literary criticism. After having a two-hundred-pound babysitter fart on your face and yell Pow!, The Village Voice holds few terrors.

Beulah has a husband?' I know. It's a miracle. There can't be more than two people on the planet who'd be willing to sleep with her, and here we are both in the same town.

I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wakened my hope, bore my spirit, triumphantly towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy,--a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist delirium; judgment would warn passion

A little black child fighting in her sleep against an opponent she couldn't name come morning because in the light that opponent just looked like the world around her. Intangible evil. Unspeakable unfairness. Beulah ran in her sleep, ran like she'd stolen something, when really she had done nothing other than expect the peace, the clarity, that came with dreaming. Yes, Jo thought, this was where it started, but when, where, did it end?

Poetry is the purest form of insanity.

then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of heaven.

I had to say it gave me a warm feeling to picture Meredith Winslow spending twenty years or so in an ill fitting orange jumpsuit, cozying up to a great big girl named Beulah

There is a place where Contrarieties are equally true. This place is called Beulah. it is a pleasant lovely Shadow, where no dispute can come, because of those who sleep.

She was right. The purebred girls were making mistakes on purpose, in order to give us an advantage. 'King me,' I growled, out of turn. 'I say king me!' and Felicity meekly complied. Beulah pretended not to mind when we got frustrated with the oblique, fussy movement from square to square and shredded the board to ribbons. I felt sorry for them. I wondered what it would be like to be bred in captivity, and always homesick for a dimly sensed forest, the trees you've never seen.

The handsome dining room of the Hotel Wessex, with its gilded plaster shields and the mural depicting the Green Mountains, had been reserved for the Ladies' Night Dinner of the Fort Beulah Rotary Club.

I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah

I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy--a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.

The pain of ignorance can end. The pain of knowledge is forever

Another was: You’re a babe. Tickle my feet. XO Beulah

Aunt Beulah could hear the dust moats collide in a sunbeam.

Beulah has a husband?” “I know. It’s a miracle. There can’t be more than two people on the planet who’d be willing to sleep with her and here we are both in the same town.

I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy--a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.

Eula-Beulah was prone to farts—the kind that are both loud and smelly. Sometimes when she was so afflicted, she would throw me on the couch, drop her wool-skirted butt on my face, and let loose. “Pow!” she’d cry in high glee. It was like being buried in marshgas fireworks. I remember the dark, the sense that I was suffocating, and I remember laughing. Because, while what was happening was sort of horrible, it was also sort of funny. In many ways, Eula-Beulah prepared me for literary criticism. After having a two-hundred-pound babysitter fart on your face and yell Pow!, The Village Voice holds few terrors

According to the local gossip,” Gertie said, “Beulah was over the moon for this guy. She even mailed him a pair of her underwear.” “If he was really a marine,” Ida Belle said, “he could have used them as a parachute.

Mary was the wife of Fowler Greenhill, M.D., of Fort Beulah, a gay and hustling medico, a choleric and red-headed young man, who was a wonder-worker in typhoid, acute appendicitis, obstetrics, compound fractures, and diets for anemic children.

Suddenly, lots of things of my own life occurred to me for the first time as stories: my great-granddaddy's 'other family' in West Virginia; Hardware Breeding, who married his wife Beulah, four times; how my Uncle Vern taught my daddy to drink good liquor in a Richmond hotel; how I got saved at the tent revival; John Hardin's hanging in the courthouse square; how Petey Chaney rode the flood; the time Mike Holland and I went to the serpent handling-church in Jolo; the murder Daddy saw when he was a boy, out riding his little pony - and never told... I started to write these stories down. Many years later, I'm still at it. And it's a funny thing: Though I have spent my most of my working life in universities, though I live in piedmont North Carolina now and eat pasta and drive a Subaru, the stories that present themselves to me as worth the telling are often those somehow connected to that place and those people. The mountains that used to imprison me have become my chosen stalking ground.

Maybe Beulah was seeing something more clearly on the nights she had these dreams, a little black child fighting in her sleep against an opponent she couldn’t name come morning because in the light that opponent just looked like the world around her. Intangible evil. Unspeakable unfairness.

Eula-Beulah was prone to farts—the kind that are both loud and smelly. Sometimes when she was so afflicted, she would throw me on the couch, drop her wool-skirted butt on my face, and let loose. “Pow!” she’d cry in high glee. It was like being buried in marshgas fireworks. I remember the dark, the sense that I was suffocating, and I remember laughing.

Exactly,” Gertie said. “This hot young stud claiming to be a marine stationed in the Middle East friended her on Facebook. Apparently, he sent her long letters and poetry and even a nude photo.” “Doesn’t sound like anything worth putting a bra on for,” Ida Belle said. “Well,” Gertie said, “in all fairness, that photo is probably the closest Beulah will ever get to male plumbing.” “Are you kidding?” I said. “The Internet is full of male plumbing. It’s like the Walmart of man parts.

Today, names of screenwriters like Zoe Akins, Jeanie Macpherson, Beulah Marie Dix, Lenore Coffee, Anita Loos, June Mathis, Bess Meredyth, Jane Murfin, Adela Rogers St. Johns, Sonya Levien, and Salka Viertel are too often found only in the footnotes of Hollywood histories. But seventy years ago, they were highly paid, powerful players at the studios that churned out films at the rate of one a week. And for over twenty-five years, no writer was more sought after than Frances Marion; with her versatile pen and a caustic wit, she was a leading participant and witness to one of the most creative eras for women in American history.

This day, Jo looked out and saw the girl's little legs start to move: a bend at the knee, an outward kick, repeat. Beulah was running. Maybe this is where ti started, Jo thought. Maybe Beulah was seeing something more clearly on the nights she had these dreams, a little black child fighting in her sleep against an opponent she couldn't name come morning because in the light that opponent just looked like the world around her. Intangible evil. Unspeakable unfairness. Beulah ran in her sleep, ran like she's stolen something, when really she had done nothing other than expect the peace, the clarity, that came with dreaming. Yes, Jo thought, this was where it started, but when, where, did it end?

Christ said to Nicodemus: “Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” You may see many countries; but there is one country—the land of Beulah, which John Bunyan saw in vision—you shall never behold, unless you are born again—regenerated by Christ. You can look abroad and see many beautiful trees; but the tree of life, you shall never behold, unless your eyes are made clear by faith in the Saviour. You may see the beautiful rivers of the earth—you may ride upon their bosoms; but bear in mind that your eye will never rest upon the river which bursts out from the Throne of God and flows through the upper Kingdom, unless you are born again. God has said it; and not man. You will never see the kingdom of God except you are born again. You may see the kings and lords of the earth; but the King of kings and Lord of lords you will never see except you are born again. When you are in London you may go to the Tower and see the crown of England, which is worth thousands of dollars, and is guarded there by soldiers; but bear in mind that your eye will never rest upon the crown of life except you are born again.

Make everyday the best day of your LIFE!

Aunt Beulah could hear the dust motes collide in a sunbeam; she could hear spiders chewing on flies.

October 26 He went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone. (Matthew 14:23) Christ Jesus, in His humanity, felt the need of complete solitude—to be entirely by Himself, alone with Himself. Each of us knows how draining constant interchange with others can be and how it exhausts our energy. As part of humankind, Jesus knew this and felt the need to be by Himself in order to regain His strength. Solitude was also important to Him in order to fully realize His high calling, His human weakness, and His total dependence on His Father. As a child of God, how much more do we need times of complete solitude—times to deal with the spiritual realities of life and to be alone with God the Father. If there was ever anyone who could dispense with special times of solitude and fellowship, it was our Lord. Yet even He could not maintain His full strength and power for His work and His fellowship with the Father without His quiet time. God desires that every servant of His would understand and perform this blessed practice, that His church would know how to train its children to recognize this high and holy privilege, and that every believer would realize the importance of making time for God alone. Oh, the thought of having God all alone to myself and knowing that God has me all alone to Himself! Andrew Murray Lamartine, the first of the French Romantic poets and a writer of the nineteenth century, in one of his books wrote of how his mother had a secluded spot in the garden where she spent the same hour of each day. He related that nobody ever dreamed of intruding upon her for even a moment of that hour. It was the holy garden of the Lord to her. Pity those people who have no such Beulah land! (See Isa. 62:4.) Jesus said, “Go into your room, close the door and pray” (Matt. 6:6), for it is in quiet solitude that we catch the deep and mysterious truths that flow from the soul of the things God allows to enter our lives.

I’ve read where analysts have taken the “fear of change when recurring in adults” and dissected it and laid its parts on a table for examination and found as its main component the “fear of failure”— a lack of confidence in one’s own abilities.

I’ve read where analysts have taken the “fear of change when recurring in adults” and dissected it and laid its parts on a table for examination and found as its main component the “fear of failure”— a lack of confidence in one’s own abilities. To me this analysis is far too complicated and does not pin down the truth altogether. It is because of our natural desire to be close to familiar things, and our longing for a sense of permanence, that we wrestle with change. We grab hold of whatever we can in our attempt to slow down change as it’s pulling us out the door. We drag our feet even though we know change will improve our situation, muttering and groaning and rationalizing even when we know fate has

Tragedy preceded the verdict when Beulah Melton’s car went off the road and into a bayou on a dark night four days before the trial began. She drowned, but the two children who were with her were rescued, just in time to join their two other siblings as orphans. The drowning was ruled an accident, the sheriff surmising that because Beulah was a new driver, she probably lost control of the car.12 Others believed that someone close to Kimbell intentionally ran her off the road. Regardless, it was clear by the verdict that in the six months since Emmett Till’s killing, things had not changed in the Mississippi Delta.

Morning, October 4 "At evening time it shall be light." Zechariah 14:7 Oftentimes we look forward with forebodings to the time of old age, forgetful that at eventide it shall be light. To many saints, old age is the choicest season in their lives. A balmier air fans the mariner's cheek as he nears the shore of immortality, fewer waves ruffle his sea, quiet reigns, deep, still and solemn. From the altar of age the flashes of the fire of youth are gone, but the more real flame of earnest feeling remains. The pilgrims have reached the land Beulah, that happy country, whose days are as the days of heaven upon earth. Angels visit it, celestial gales blow over it, flowers of paradise grow in it, and the air is filled with seraphic music. Some dwell here for years, and others come to it but a few hours before their departure, but it is an Eden on earth. We may well long for the time when we shall recline in its shady groves and be satisfied with hope until the time of fruition comes. The setting sun seems larger than when aloft in the sky, and a splendour of glory tinges all the clouds which surround his going down. Pain breaks not the calm of the sweet twilight of age, for strength made perfect in weakness bears up with patience under it all. Ripe fruits of choice experience are gathered as the rare repast of life's evening, and the soul prepares itself for rest. The Lord's people shall also enjoy light in the hour of death. Unbelief laments; the shadows fall, the night is coming, existence is ending. Ah no, crieth faith, the night is far spent, the true day is at hand. Light is come, the light of immortality, the light of a Father's countenance. Gather up thy feet in the bed, see the waiting bands of spirits! Angels waft thee away. Farewell, beloved one, thou art gone, thou wavest thine hand. Ah, now it is light. The pearly gates are open, the golden streets shine in the jasper light. We cover our eyes, but thou beholdest the unseen; adieu, brother, thou hast light at even-tide, such as we have not yet.

Cooper caught a break with a featured role as a doomed aviator in Wings (1927), but Walter remained on the periphery, observing the unwritten rule that extras did not consort with stars, yet taking pride in work that reinforced the function of character actors. As character actress Beulah Bondi said, “We are the mortar between the bricks.” For Walter Brennan, it was enough to know that a chosen few—Joan Crawford, Norma Shearer, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable—began as extras and ended as stars. For a television documentary, the actor Richard Arlen, one of the stars of Wings, was asked what Walter Brennan was like in these early days as an extra. “He was not too unlike Gary Cooper in his mannerisms in those days. A slow way of talking—very much like Will Rogers,” said Arlen. “Walter sounded very much like he does today. Very dry and one of the nicest men I’ve known.

Not that Beulah didn't present her own set of problems. She did. Not least of which was fighting the temptation to fake some scribbles on her and let the ghost have fun.

C’mere. I want to hold you.” He led her over to the padded window seat, where he sat with his back against the wall and one leg spread along the length of the seat. He pulled her down between his legs, wrapped his arms around her and their children, and stared out at the view of Hummingbird Lake and Sinner’s Prayer Pass beyond. So beautiful. So joyous. He cleared his throat against a lump of emotion, then patted her tummy. “How about Beryl and Beulah? Beryl and Beulah Callahan. What do you … whoa! Did you feel that kick?” “A reaction to the name, I’m sure,” she dryly replied. “So, what do you think?” He nuzzled her neck. “I think you’re a bit rusty at picking names. We’ll work on it.

He was full of the glossy self-regard of men who shrugged off their importance in a way that only emphasized it.

Anywhere he went in the town he could hear water running. Beulah had told him Yuneetah was the white man’s corruption of an Indian word for the spirit of the river. She said the Cherokees who once lived on its shores had called it Long Man, with his head in the mountains and his feet in the lowlands.

Marriage gives you the freedom to give your all to your husband.  When you are not married you tend to hold back, just in case.  Once you are married you are free to surrender your heart, your love, and your body to your husband.  Then and only then, can God bless your coming together.”  Gail spoke up again and asked Bracie “So God blesses sex?”  She smiled at her and told her, “Yes, I believe he does, when you are married.  God instituted sex for marriage and it’s always in our best interest to wait.

Beulah is pleased she dialed 911. She didn’t really think Horton could have hurt anyone, but she’s relieved to hear other people are being questioned and not her son.

We walked to a row of three stones: our grandmother and grandfather and, between them, our mother. There were crocuses and daffodils and snowdrops blooming on my mother's grave. Gran had always carefully tended it. After Sunday dinners, when we were little, Gran would put on her wide-brimmed gardening hat and gloves and take along her basket of garden tools and bring us down here. She would plant lavender petunias and purple bearded irises. She would deadhead the spent daylilies and pull up weeds on my mother's grave and on my great-grandmother Beulah's grave back in the corner. She barely touched my grandfather's grave, scratched in some monkey grass and ivy and told us even that was too good for him.

But it was the broken statue in the corner that drew Elizabeth's attention: a seraphim in despair leaned casually there against the back gate. "That's Beulah," said Cutter, following her gaze. "Well, for Beulah. Beulah was my great-grandmother and the angel was there on her grave till the storm of sixty-eight knocked her over. She's my garden angel." "Your garden angel?" "When I was about seven or so, I heard about guardian angels, how everyone's supposed to have one. Only I heard it garden angel. And I thought of Beulah's angel in the dead garden. I knew she was my garden angel." Cutter's hands fluttered over the statue, her touch reverent, light, brushing off leaves, stroking the stone face, like feeling the forehead of a feverish child. Moving closer, Elizabeth saw that Beulah was not in despair after all. She was just waking up, maybe, shaking off an afternoon doze, one arm thrown over her face, a dimple in the elbow of a plump arm, her mighty wings curled around her body like wilted leaves. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought of her before exams, my driver's test, job interviews, even when Gran died. I close my eyes and picture her and I know things will be all right. At least they seem better.

about things beyond my ken, like the preacher coming or a storm brewing or the rooster croaking, Pa’s jaw muscles would quiver as Ma praised Jesus, calling it the gift of second sight just like her aunt Beulah, who talked to the birds. S

He should have shot the lamb the night before. That was true, too; he ought to have done the proper thing, the manly thing. Clyde couldn't tell, couldn't imagine, why he hadn't gone through with it. But the night before, after he and Beulah had bedded down the ewe and her offspring in the stall, he had lain awake on his cot listening to the hearth fire. At first, every snap of cinder and spark had been distinct, but as sleep settled into him, the crackling fire had blurred and blended to a low and steady music. It was one sound, one song, the wind across the prairie was one endless breath, a body that never stopped sighing. It put Clyde in mind of the dream--the fever dream, and the certainty of oneness that had come to him then--all separate and distinct sounds merging into one endless hum.

Beulah looked up into Clyde's face. The tears had dried on her cheeks. "I'll marry you someday." Clyde laughed--a choking, bitter sound, for what chance had they now of marrying? "I never asked you." "You will someday," Beulah said. "So I'm telling you now: my answer is yes.

She would keep nothing to herself now. Her heart had opened with Beulah's eyes, and gladness had flooded in. She could feel it rising, threatening to overspill its banks. [Nettie Mae - italics] Let joy run out of me. Let it soak the barren ground of this house--my home--and let something new and bright grow up from the field of my past bitterness.

He moved into her house allegedly to care for her. Beulah knows he’s just after the house. It’s a highly valuable piece of luxury waterfront property now. Horton is a caregiver, not a carer. Sometimes she wonders if he’s trying to hasten her demise. Horton is Beulah’s big regret in life. She bites into the soggy biscuit and wonders what her boy will do with all the family china when she’s gone.

Bee’s Wings This washed-out morning, April rain descants, Weeps over gravity, the broken bones Of gravel and graveyards, and Cora puts Away gold dandelions to sugar And skew into gold wine, then discloses That Pablo gutted his engine last night Speeding to Beulah Beach under a moon As pocked and yellowed as aged newsprint. Now, Othello, famed guitarist, heated By rain-clear rum, voices transparent notes Of sad, anonymous heroes who hooked Mackerel and slept in love-pried-open thighs And gave out booze in vain crusades to end Twenty centuries of Christianity. His voice is simple, sung air: without notes, There's nothing. His unknown, imminent death (The feel of iambs ending as trochees In a slow, decasyllabic death-waltz; His vertebrae trellised on his stripped spine Like a 'xylophone or keyboard of nerves) Will also be nothing: the sun pours gold Upon Shelley, his sis', light as bees' wings, Who roams a garden sprung from rotten wood And words, picking green nouns and fresh, bright verbs, For there's nothing I will not force language To do to make us one — whether water Hurts like whisky or the sun burns like oil Or love declines to weathered names on stone. George Elliott Clarke, Whylah Falls (1990)

Blessed be any wind that blows us into the port of our Saviour's love! Happy wounds, which make us seek the beloved Physician. Ye tempted ones, come to your tempted Saviour, for he can be touched with a feeling of your infirmities, and will succour every tried and tempted one. Morning, October 4 "At evening time it shall be light." Zechariah 14:7 Oftentimes we look forward with forebodings to the time of old age, forgetful that at eventide it shall be light. To many saints, old age is the choicest season in their lives. A balmier air fans the mariner's cheek as he nears the shore of immortality, fewer waves ruffle his sea, quiet reigns, deep, still and solemn. From the altar of age the flashes of the fire of youth are gone, but the more real flame of earnest feeling remains. The pilgrims have reached the land Beulah, that happy country, whose days are as the days of heaven upon earth. Angels visit it, celestial gales blow over it, flowers of paradise grow in it, and the air is filled with seraphic music. Some dwell here for years, and others come to it but a few hours before their departure, but it is an Eden on earth. We may well long for the time when we shall recline in its shady groves and be satisfied with hope until the time of fruition comes. The setting sun seems larger than when aloft in the sky, and a splendour of glory tinges all the clouds which surround his going down. Pain breaks not the calm of the sweet twilight of age, for strength made perfect in weakness bears up with patience under it all. Ripe fruits of choice experience are gathered as the rare repast of life's evening, and the soul prepares itself for rest. The Lord's people shall also enjoy light in the hour of death. Unbelief laments; the shadows fall, the night is coming, existence is ending. Ah no, crieth faith, the night is far spent, the true day is at hand. Light is come, the light of immortality, the light of a Father's countenance. Gather up thy feet in the bed, see the waiting bands of spirits! Angels waft thee away. Farewell, beloved one, thou art gone, thou wavest thine hand. Ah, now it is light. The pearly gates are open, the golden streets shine in the jasper light. We cover our eyes, but thou beholdest the unseen; adieu, brother, thou hast light at even-tide, such as we have

Beulah drifts deeper. Part of her knows tonight is the night she will not wake from her slumber. Come morning she will be gone, and this house will be Horton’s.

No one should get above their raising... Beulah Klopp, as did her judge husband, believes everyone has a fixed place in this world, decided at the moment of birth. There are those who are high borns and those who are low borns.

tautologous,

In chess everyone had a pattern, a tendency. Average human players were invariably predictable. They had grooves in their brains, like furrows in a plowed field out in Beulah County. And the trick to being a great chess player, the masters said, was to be unpredictable. To get out of your groove.

Make friends unless you feel strong enough to make enemies

Lillian Randolph, who had also played a maid on The Billie Burke Show and eventually took the lead on Beulah, was at her peak as Birdie, playing the role all the way. Birdie was perhaps the most endearing in radio’s long parade of Negro maids, cooks, and housekeepers. She had genuine warmth, an infectious laugh, and a heart as big as the great man’s midsection. She also had a feisty side, being fully capable of deflating Gildersleeve’s ego. She spoke her mind, did it respectfully while making certain that her voice was heard, and remained a sympathetic character to both races in mid-1940s America.

Before you turn to dust, Travel over it as much as you can!!!

He looked real sad and lost. And all he said was, ‘Help me, please help me.

But I think mebbe it was himself he blamed most. ‘It ‘ud be different if only she’d come back,’ he’d say. ‘I’d never let her out of my sight.

Like the Fat Man said, it wasn’t your collars kept you awake, it was the ones that got away,

Then Miss Turner noticed Rosie was a bit hot and flushed. Probably only the start of a summer cold.

Hope is a black beetle. Stamp on it hard as you liked, it still scuttled on