Festive Christmas Quotes

This faulty light fitting at the front door with the dangerously flickering bulb looks rather festive. Who says I don't do Christmas?

Christmas crept into Pine Cove like a creeping Christmas thing: dragging garland, ribbon, and sleigh bells, oozing eggnog, reeking of pine, and threatening festive doom like a cold sore under the mistletoe.

Christmas it seems to me is a necessary festival; we require a season when we can regret all the flaws in our human relationships: it is the feast of failure, sad but consoling.

Christmas is the gentlest, loveliest festival of the revolving year - and yet, for all that, when it speaks, its voice has strong authority.

A snow globe,” I say slowly, waiting for her to look up, which she doesn’t do. “You made a severed finger into a feckin’ snow globe.” “It was almost Christmas,” she says with a shrug. “It felt … festive.

If you desire to find the true spirit of Christmas and partake of the sweetness of it, let me make this suggestion to you. During the hurry of the festive occasion of this Christmas season, find time to turn your heart to God. Perhaps in the quiet hours, and in a quiet place, and on your knees—alone or with loved ones—give thanks for the good things that have come to you, and ask that His Spirit might dwell in you as you earnestly strive to serve Him and keep His commandments. He will take you by the hand and His promises will be kept.

Odd that a festival to celebrate the most austere of births should end up being all about conspicuous consumption.

Instead of a thigh-high miniskirt or a leather bustier, I wore my usual ensemble—dark jeans, heavy boots, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a black fleece jacket. Since it was almost Christmas, I’d donned one of my more festive T-shirts to celebrate—thick crimson cotton with a giant candy cane in the middle of my chest. The fabric was dark enough that Vinnie Volga’s blood wouldn’t stand out on it—much. Happy holidays.

Fear and excitement are twins; they live on opposite sides of the same door. It's up to you which room you live in. [Violet Harper Armitage]

The white-and-green ferry gliding across the dark waters of Puget Sounds looked like a beacon steering toward Bremerton. The entire Seattle waterfront was lit up a festive holiday scene.

Well, stop it or . . . Crap, is that Drunk Santa currently mooning passing traffic?” “Wow, that’s some ugly ass he’s got there. It is Drunk Santa. Oh, please, do we have to stop? Think of the smell. Fear it.” “We can’t leave that ugly ass hanging out on Ninth Avenue.” Resigned, Eve started to pull over, then spotted two hustling beat cops. Pitying them, she kept going. “It’s a Christmas miracle,” Peabody said, reverently.

The truth is Christmas evolved from the Roman holiday Saturnalia, a winter festival where men gave gifts to each other. They also would get drunk, have sex with each other and beat their wives

To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: HAPPY CHRISTMAS Have you gotten used to the time difference? Bloody hell,I can't sleep. I'd call,but I don't know if you're awake or doing the family thing or what. The bay fog is so thick that I can't see out my window.But if I could, I am quite certain I'd discover that I'm the only person alive in San Francisco. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: I forgot to tell you. Yesterday I saw a guy wearing an Atlanta Film Festival shirt at the hospital.I asked if he knew you,but he didn't.I also met an enormous,hair man in a cheeky Mrs. Claus getup. he was handing out gifts to the cancer patients.Mum took the attached picture. Do I always look so startled? To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: Are you awake yet? Wake up.Wake up wake up wake up. To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: re: Are you awake yet? I'm awake! Seany started jumping on my bed,like,three hours ago. We've been opening presents and eating sugar cookies for breakfast. Dad gave me a gold ring shaped like a heart. "For Daddy's sweetheart," he said. As if I'm the type of girl who'd wear a heart-shaped ring. FROM HER FATHER. He gave Seany tons of Star Wars stuff and a rock polishing kit,and I'd much rather have those.I can't beleive Mom invited him here for Christmas. She says it's because their divorce is amicable (um,no) and Seany and I need a father figure in our lives,but all they ever do is fight.This morning it was about my hair.Dad wants me to dye it back, because he thinks I look like a "common prostitute," and Mom wants to re-bleach it.Like either of them has a say. Oops,gotta run.My grandparents just arrived,and Granddad is bellowing for his bonnie lass.That would be me. P.S. Love the picture.Mrs. Claus is totally checking out your butt. And it's Merry Christmas, weirdo. To: Anna Oliphant From: Etienne St. Clair Subject: HAHAHA@ Was it a PROMISE RING? Did your father give you a PROMISE RING? To: Etienne St. Clair From: Anna Oliphant Subject: Re: HAHAHA! I am so not responding to that.

The cultural event being threatened in this case was Christmas, that most Anglo-Saxon of festivals whereby the birth of a Jewish baby in a Middle Eastern stable two thousand years ago is commemorated.

Sometimes we're born into situations, he'd said. We have to decide if we're gonna be a part of it or if we're gonna put an end to it.

Leaves have fallen onto the snow like punctuation marks. They've held on for so long, but winter gets to us all in the end.

Pope Gregory I (in 601) laid the church’s strategy out quite plainly. As he wrote to Mellitus, his missionary in England, “[Do] not…stop such ancient pagan festivities…adapt them to the rites of the Church, only changing the reason of them from a heathen to a Christian impulse.

It has been said that Christmas is for children; but as the years of childhood fancy pass away and an understanding maturity takes their place, the simple teaching of the Savior that ‘it is more blessed to give than to receive’ (Acts 20:35) becomes a reality. The evolution from a pagan holiday transformed into a Christian festival to the birth of Christ in men’s lives is another form of maturity that comes to one who has been touched by the gospel of Jesus Christ.

It’s being here, surrounded by ghosts and people who are crying out for help and screaming at me to stay away. It’s nothing and everything at once.

Merry Christmas. His would be without the Merry for sure.

festive hearts wane and sink like tides of joy.

On an average, we celebrate 4-5 festivals per month. There are the major ones like Christmas and Diwali and then there are minor ones like whatsitsname-get-drunk-and-dance-in-front-of-temple-near-bomanahalli festival.

Festivals are occasions to empower ourselves in the course of humanity - they are the occasions to rekindle the promise of humanity in our heart - the promise that we keep forgetting in the cacophony of manmade labels.

It’s a much more beautiful city than I’d imagined, soaring gray buildings and grand, imposing architecture. Perhaps it’s the fact that the streets glitter with frost and there are snowflakes blowing in the air, but there’s a magical edge to it. It’s Christmas in two days; revelers spill onto the cobbled pavements from the bars and pubs, and it’s wall-to-wall festive music on the cab radio.

Hamish’s family were unusual in that they had always celebrated Christmas—tree, turkey, presents and all. In parts of the Highlands, like Lochdubh, the old spirit of John Knox still wandered, blasting anyone with hellfire should they dare to celebrate this heathen festival. Hamish had often pointed out that none other than Luther was credited with the idea of the Christmas tree, having been struck by the sight of stars shining through the branches of an evergreen. But to no avail. Lochdubh lay silent and dark beside the black waters of the loch.

Just when the air turns frosty and the days shrink into darkness, the Christmas season arrives in America. It begins at Thanksgiving--with families, feasts and football. Then during the next six weeks we shop and decorate, worship and make merry. Our hearts warm in the winter cold. We find compassion for strangers, and we remember there are miracles. Pious or festive or both, we join together in an extraordinary national festival.

Not only weight loss surgery is unnecessary but also it deprives human being a normal life. People after surgery would never be able to enjoy their food ever for the rest of their life whether it is Christmas or they are on their holidays or their child birthday or any other festival. List of problems and complications after the weight loss surgery operation are endless as one may get additional problems such as Hernia, Internal Bleeding, Swelling of the skin around the wounds, etc. I wonder how many weight loss surgeons advice about weight loss surgery to their own family members.

Coming but once a year – and thank fuck for that – the Yuletide brings more than its rightful share of hospital drama. Festive flus and pneumonia keep the respiratory teams busy, while norovirus and food poisoning are the season’s special guest stars for the gastro doctors. Endocrinologists drag patients out of their mince-pie-induced diabetic comas, and the orthopaedic wards heave with elderly patients who’ve gone full Jenga on the ice, shattering their hips like bags of biscuits.

At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common

Christmases are like snowflakes – each one is unique.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations.

Logan sure as hell didn’t do love with men, but it had to be easy enough to fake. He grasped Seth’s palm firmly. “Deal.

You’re already dripping for me. Gonna feel so good inside. You’re so big, you’re gonna split me open, and I’ll love every second of it. Want you so bad, want you to—mmph.

You make me feel like I’m having a myocardial infarction.” I laughed. “The feeling’s mutual. I think.

The night passes slowly, as interminable as a Monopoly game.

May this time adorn you with fond memories with your family. I wish you light, comfort, and clarity. Merry Christmas.

Christmas is a sacred festival. It is celebration of Christ love for Humankind. And the love that bind us together.

May the closeness of friends, the comfort of home, and the unity of our nation, renew your spirits this festive season. Merry Christmas to your family.

to clarify, I’m an atheist, and I’m not consumer oriented, so the midwinter shopping festival otherwise known as Christmas is of little interest to me.

You are so kind," she murmured. Then, with a wistful glance at her brother, she added, "Fitzwilliam, isn’t she kind? I understand now why you love her.

Georgiana,” he said warningly. “You are drunk. Perhaps it is best to hold your tongue.

Ugh. Would that Christmas could just be, without presents. It is just so stupid, everyone exhausting themselves, miserably haemorrhaging money on pointless items nobody wants: no longer tokens of love but angst-ridden solutions to problems. [...] What is the point of entire nation rushing round for six weeks in a bad mood preparing for utterly pointless Taste-of-Others exam which entire nation then fails and gets stuck with hideous unwanted merchandise as fallout? If gifts and cards were completely eradicated, then Christmas as pagan-style twinkly festival to distract from lengthy winter gloom would be lovely. But if government, religious bodies, parents, tradition, etc. insist on Christmas Gift Tax to ruin everything why not make it that everyone must go out and spend £500 on themselves then distribute the items among their relatives and friends to wrap up and give to them instead of this psychic-failure torment?

It was nine-thirty on Christmas Eve. As I crossed the long entrance hall of Monk’s Piece on my way from the dining room, where we had just enjoyed the first of the happy, festive meals, toward the drawing room and the fire around which my family were now assembled, I paused and then, as I often do in the course of an evening, went to the front door, opened it and stepped outside.

«Natale una fesseria, zio?», disse il nipote di Scrooge; «sono sicuro che non pensi una cosa simile». «Certo che la penso», disse Scrooge. «Buon Natale! Che diritto hai tu di essere allegro? Che ragione hai tu di essere allegro? Sei povero abbastanza». «Andiamo, via», rispose allegro il nipote. «Che diritto hai tu di essere triste? Che ragione hai tu di essere scontento? Sei ricco abbastanza».

continually amazed at just how many skills and crafts could go into making “a lovely home”—the patchwork quilts you could sew, the curtains you could ruffle, the cucumbers you could pickle, the rhubarb you could make into jam, the icing-sugar decorations you could create for your Christmas cake—which you were supposed to make in September at the latest (for heaven’s sake)—and at the same time remember to plant your indoor bulbs so they would also be ready for “the festive season,” and it just went on and on, every month a list of tasks that would have defeated Hercules and that was without the everyday preparation of meals,

Sonnet of Festivals Christmas isn't about the decorations, It's about compassion. Hanukkah isn't about the sufganiyot, It's about amalgamation. Ramadan isn't about the feast, It's about affection. Diwali isn't about the lights, It's about ascension. Our world is filled with festivals, But what do they really mean? Celebrating them with cultural exclusivity, Makes us not human but savage fiend. Every festival belongs to all of humanity, For happiness has no religious identity.

I'll fix things up with George soon as she gets here," Anthony mumbled. "You may depend upon it." "Oh,I know you will, but you'll have to hie yourself back to London to do so, since she ain't coming here. Didn't want to inflict her dour mood on the festivities, so decided it ould be best to absent herself." Anthony looked appalled now and complained, "You didn't say she was that mad." "Didn't I? Think you're wearing that black eye just because she's a mite annoyed?" "That will do," Jason said sternly. "This entire situation is intolerable.And frankly, I find it beyond amazing that you have both utterly lost your finesse in dealing ith women since you married." That,of course, hit quite below the belt where these two ex[rakes were concerned. "Ouch," James muttered, then in his own defense, "American women are an exception to any known rule, and bloody stubbron besides." "So are Scots,for that matter," Anthony added. "They just don't behave like normal Enlgishwomen,Jason,indeed they don't." "Regardless.You know my feelings on the entire family gathering here for Christmas.This is not the time for anyone in the family to be harboring any ill will of any sort.You both should have patched this up before the holidays began. See that you do so immediately, if you both have to return to London to do so." Having said his peace, Jason headed for the door to leave his brothers to mull over their conduct,or rather, misconduct, but added before he left, "You both look like bloody panda bears.D'you have any idea what kind of example that sets for the children?" "Panda bears indeed," Anthony snorted as soon as the door closed. James looked up to reply drolly, "Least the roof is still intact.

However tricky things were, there was something like a promise kept: Every year, there will be a festival. There will be tiny lights. There will be joy, and hope. In the very center of the dark, when things seem at their bleakest, there will be firelight and candles and joy.

Floyd arrived in the kitchen and leapt onto Casper’s back, then proceeded to start biting his neck. I’m an only child with a smallish family who had never done Christmas in a big way, but there was something about having two male cats tenderly humping in the corner of the room that made the occasion a little more festive.

Whenever five or six English-speaking people meet around a fire on Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories. Nothing satisfies us on Christmas Eve but to hear each other tell authentic anecdotes about spectres. It is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and murders and blood.

The two festivals have one real point of contact. Had Antiochus succeeded in obliterating Jewry a century and a half before the birth of Jesus, there would have been no Christmas. The feast of the Nativity rests on the victory of Hanuka. Chapter 8 The Prayers, the Synagogue, and the Worshippers GOD cannot be much of an Almighty, it has

Christmas,” said Robin, with a faint grin but without apology. “I was going to put it up yesterday, but after Leonora was charged I didn’t feel very festive. Anyway, I’ve got you an appointment to see her at six. You’ll need to take photo ID—” “Good work, thanks.” “—and I got you sandwiches and I thought you might like to see this,” she said. “Michael Fancourt’s given an interview about Quine.” She passed him a pack of cheese and pickle sandwiches and a copy of The Times, folded to the correct page. Strike lowered himself onto the farting leather sofa and ate while reading the article, which was adorned with a split photograph. On the left-hand side was a picture of Fancourt standing in front of an Elizabethan country house. Photographed from below, his head

In the Spanish-speaking Americas, Christmas is much more than a one-day event followed by a staggering credit card bill. The festivities last for weeks, beginning well before Christmas, and continuing straight through to the arrival of the Three Kings and the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. Las Navidades involves a lot more partying and a lot less shopping than a US. Christmas.

Albert Ken-rich Fisher’s 1900 “Summary of the Contents of 255 Stomachs of the Screech Owl” made me feel tired and sad, though also vaguely festive, owing to the author’s “Twelve Days of Christmas”–style presentation: “91 stomachs contained mice … 100 stomachs contained insects … 9 stomachs contained crawfish … 2 stomachs contained scorpions …” Droppings provided a kinder, less taxing alternative.

Jerome K. Jerome used the telling of Christmas Eve ghost stories as a framing device for his 1891 ghost-story collection, Told After Supper, claiming in his introduction that: Whenever five or six English-speaking people meet round a fire on Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories… It is a genial, festive season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and murders, and blood.

In the Victorian era, the wildness of Christmas wasn’t just tamed – it became thoroughly domesticated. The new fashion for Christmas celebrations embraced the festivities, the good cheer and the parties, but also set them firmly inside the home. Family was becoming central to Christmas, with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert portraying themselves celebrating in domestic bliss, surrounded by their children.

All ceremony depends on symbol; and all symbols have been vulgarized and made stale by the commercial conditions of our time...Of all these faded and falsified symbols, the most melancholy example is the ancient symbol of the flame. In every civilized age and country, it has been a natural thing to talk of some great festival on which "the town was illuminated." There is no meaning nowadays in saying the town was illuminated...The whole town is illuminated already, but not for noble things. It is illuminated solely to insist on the immense importance of trivial and material things, blazoned from motives entirely mercenary...It has not destroyed the difference between light and darkness, but it has allowed the lesser light to put out the greater...Our streets are in a permanent dazzle, and our minds in a permanent darkness.

I later asked Mr. Jia about the characters for Christmas. He told me they meant 'holy...birth...festival'---Holy Birthday. So while my students may have never heard the Christmas story, their language still recognized its basic significance, all in just three characters. And those three characters expressed the essential meaning far more succinctly than the Latin-based expressions for Christmas I was familiar with.

At Christmastime, the whole Christian world stands still to celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Christmas cannot be cut out of the calendar nor out of the heart of the world — it is the supreme festive season of mirth and gladness. Love for God and one another should be the Christmas theme. Such was the divine announcement by the heavenly host that first heralded the good tidings of great joy, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.

We buy countless products that we don’t really need, and that until yesterday we didn’t know existed. Manufacturers deliberately design short-term goods and invent new and unnecessary models of perfectly satisfactory products that we must purchase in order to stay ‘in’. Shopping has become a favourite pastime, and consumer goods have become essential mediators in relationships between family members, spouses and friends. Religious holidays such as Christmas have become shopping festivals.

«Ci sono molte cose, credo, che possono avermi fatto del bene senza che io ne abbia ricavato un profitto», replicò il nipote, «e Natale è una di queste. Ma sono sicuro che ho sempre considerato il periodo natalizio, quando è venuto — a prescindere dalla venerazione dovuta al suo nome e alla sua origine sacra, ammesso che qualcosa che si riferisca possa esser tenuta separata da questa venerazione — come buono; un periodo di gentilezza, di perdono, di carità, di gioia; l'unico periodo che io conosca, in tutto il lungo calendario di un anno, nel quale uomini e donne sembrano concordi nello schiudere liberamente i cuori serrati e nel pensare alla gente che è al disotto di loro come se si trattasse realmente di compagni nel viaggio verso la tomba, e non di un'altra razza di creature in viaggio verso altre mete. E per questo, zio, anche se il Natale non mi ha mai fatto entrare in tasca una moneta d'oro, e neanche d'argento, credo che mi abbia fatto bene e che mi farà bene, e chiedo che Dio lo benedica».

Well, happy Christmas,” said Carmen. Bronagh frowned again. “It isn’t Christmas, my dear! It’s midwinter! It’s Heliogenna.” “Okay,” said Carmen. “Those bloody Christians. Came along and hijacked everything. It’s all just marketing, you know. Coke marketed Santa Claus. Bloody Christians marketed midwinter.” “Um . . .” said Carmen. “They took the ancient festivals and pretended it was about some . . . ‘baby.’” Bronagh shook her head. “Bloody moneymen ruin everything. Happy solstice!” They chinked goblets.

in Howard was in one of those moods during which crazy ideas sound perfectly sensible. A bullish, handsome man with decisive eyebrows and more hair than he could find use for, Lin had a great deal of money and a habit of having things go his way. So many things in his life had gone his way that it no longer occurred to him not to be in a festive mood, and he spent much of his time celebrating the general goodness of things and sitting with old friends telling fat happy lies. But things had not gone Lin’s way lately, and he was not accustomed to the feeling. Lin wanted in the worst way to whip his father at racing, to knock his Seabiscuit down a peg or two, and he believed he had the horse to do it in Ligaroti.1 He was sure enough about it to have made some account-closing bets on the horse, at least one as a side wager with his father, and he was a great deal poorer for it. The last race really ate at him. Ligaroti had been at Seabiscuit’s throat in the Hollywood Gold Cup when another horse had bumped him right out of his game. He had streaked down the stretch to finish fourth and had come back a week later to score a smashing victory over Whichcee in a Hollywood stakes race, firmly establishing himself as the second-best horse in the West. Bing Crosby and Lin were certain that with a weight break and a clean trip, Ligaroti had Seabiscuit’s measure. Charles Howard didn’t see it that way. Since the race, he had been going around with pockets full of clippings about Seabiscuit. Anytime anyone came near him, he would wave the articles around and start gushing, like a new father. The senior Howard probably didn’t hold back when Lin was around. He was immensely proud of Lin’s success with Ligaroti, but he enjoyed tweaking his son, and he was good at it. He had once given Lin a book for Christmas entitled What You Know About Horses. The pages were blank. One night shortly after the Hollywood Gold Cup, Lin was sitting at a restaurant table across from his father and Bing Crosby. They were apparently talking about the Gold Cup, and Lin was sitting there looking at his father and doing a slow burn.

If you cared about the thousands of children suffering today in Gaza, as much you care about the birth of one middle eastern child two thousand years ago, perhaps then, you could've understood the true meaning of Christmas. As of now, Christmas is just a festival of hypocrisy - and that too, in the name of a man who gave his life to lift up the fallen. My question is, if you cannot be Christlike in your deeds, what's the point of all these festivities, which are supposed to be rooted in goodwill towards all, not mindless self-obsession!

This is all part of having a teenager, trust me. My girls think they know every darn thing there is to know.” “So how do you stay patient?” Logan asked. Angela lifted her glass. “Lots of Merlot. But really, it’s hard sometimes. You just want to shake them and stop them from making mistakes you can see coming a mile away. I remind myself that it’s my job to love them through all their mistakes. Hug them when they need it, and especially when they think they don’t. Because they sure need all the hugs and patience we can give them. Even when they’re bein’ assholes. Especially then.

Someone must perform my duties." Levet stiffened. There was a faux innocence in her tone that set off his spicy senses. Or was it Spidey-sense? He narrowed his gaze. "Duties?" She blinked, a dimple abruptly appearing beside her mouth. "I'm a Christmas angel." "Oui, so you said." She waved a hand toward the nearby pines covered in snow., "And it is Christmas." Hmm. Levet tried to recall what he'd heard about Christmas angels. He knew they didn't slide down chimneys or ride reindeer, but it seemed that they were rumored to do something Christmassy. "Do you spread festive joy?" he demanded.

In addition to legal assemblies such as the one at Thingvellir, major public rituals were part of the celebration of the three big festivals around which the Viking calendar turned. One of these was Winter Nights, which was held over several days during our month of October, which the Vikings considered to be the beginning of winter and of the new year generally. The boundary between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead was thin, and all sorts of uncanny things were bound to happen. At this festival, the divine powers were petitioned for the general prosperity of the people. The second critical festival was Yule at midwinter - late December and early January - Which, with the arrival of Christianity, was converted into Christmas. Offerings were made to the gods in hopes of being granted bountiful harvests in the coming growing season in return. The third major festival was called "Summer Time" (Sumarmál), and was held in April, which the Vikings considered to be the beginning of summer. When the deities were contacted during this festival, they were asked for success in the coming season's battles, raids, and trading expeditions. The exact time of these festivals differed between communities.

Men," said the little prince, "set out on their way in express trains, but they do not know what they are looking for. Then they rush about, and get excited, and turn round and round..." And he added: "It is not worth the trouble..." [...] "I am thirsty for this water," said the little prince. "Give me some of it to drink..." And I understood what he had been looking for. I raised the bucket to his lips. He drank, his eyes closed. It was as sweet as some special festival treat. This water was indeed a different thing from ordinary nourishment. Its sweetness was born of the walk under the stars, the song of the pulley, the effort of my arms. It was good for the heart, like a present. When I was a little bou, the lights of the Christmas tree, the music of the Midnight Mass, the tenderness of smiling faces, used to make up, so the radiance of the gifts I received. "The men where you live," said the little prince, "raised five thousand roses in the same garden - and they do not find in it what they are looking for. [...] And yet what they are looking for could be found in one single rose, or in a little water." "Yes, that is true," I said. And the little prince added: "But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart...

Manufacturers deliberately design short-term goods and invent new and unnecessary models of perfectly satisfactory products that we must purchase in order to stay ‘in’. Shopping has become a favourite pastime, and consumer goods have become essential mediators in relationships between family members, spouses and friends. Religious holidays such as Christmas have become shopping festivals. In the United States, even Memorial Day – originally a solemn day for remembering fallen soldiers – is now an occasion for special sales. Most people mark this day by going shopping, perhaps to prove that the defenders of freedom did not die in vain.

THE HOUSE SEEMED UTTERLY deserted. Compared to the Christmases of his childhood there was something unforgiving about Leyville now. Montignac’s aunt, Ann, had always made the house seem incredibly festive, with an enormous Christmas tree in the downstairs hallway that stretched halfway up the house, past the staircase, in the direction of the first-floor bedrooms. The mantelpieces were always covered with holly and cards; stockings were pinned by the fireplace. Wrapping paper and presents were to be found in every nook and cranny. There was nothing like that now, just the stark emptiness of the rest of the year and the echoing silence of generations that had passed through the house and died.

In the fourteenth century, the name Perchta started being used to refer to these women. With the name derived from the word ‘Epiphany’, it may be that Perchta herself was part of a medieval tradition of personifying festivals. From the early fourteenth century on, over the Twelve Nights of Christmas Perchtas joined the gang, roaming about at night, bringing prosperity to those who left them food, occasionally eating babies, disembowelling people and stuffing them with straw. St Lucy, sweet, innocent and pure, would be absorbed into all of this as well – a girl associated with Christmas and midwinter because of the date of her saint’s day, pulled into the pack of semi-benevolent monstrous Christmas women.

I got the winning end, and a small plastic object rolled on to the floor. I was glad to see that it was not a hat. Major Charge leapt at it and gave a snort of laughter as merciless as a nose-blowing. He put it to his mouth and breathed hard, making a sound like a raspberry. Then I saw that it was shaped like a tiny po with a whistle in the handle. ‘Lower-deck humour,’ Miss Truman said in a kindly way. ‘It’s the festive season,’ Major Charge said. He blew another raspberry. ‘Hark! the herald-angels sing,’ he said in a tone of savagery, as though he were taking some kind of revenge on Christmas Eve and all its impediments of holy families and managers and wise men, a revenge on love, a revenge for some deep disappointment.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and goodwill to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It was no mere astronomic festival, then, that the Pagans celebrated at the winter solstice. That festival at Rome was called the feast of Saturn, and the mode in which it was celebrated there, showed whence it had been derived. The feast, as regulated by Caligula, lasted five days; loose reins were given to drunkenness and revelry, slaves had a temporary emancipation, and used all manner of freedoms with their masters. This was precisely the way in which, according to Berosus, the drunken festival of the month Thebeth, answering to our December, in other words. the festival of Bacchus, was celebrated in Babylon. "It was the custom," says he, "during the five days it lasted, for masters to be in subjection to their servants, and one of them ruled the house, clothed in a purple garment like a king." This "purple-robed" servant was called "Zoganes," the "Man of sport and wantonness," and answered exactly to the "Lord of Misrule," that in the dark ages, was chosen in all Popish countries to head the revels of Christmas.

Season's Greetings by Stewart Stafford Season's Greetings To those we are needing, While I am leading The Festive charge. Christmas love is fleeting, The snow is sleeting, And there's every chance of feeling, A thaw in my cold heart. Season's Greetings everywhere, Let War cease and all be fair, A heart that's full of Christmas cheer, Bravely faces the New Year. And so, we feast and celebrate, For those we've lost, we contemplate, Christmas is an emotional stocktake, Of those still here and those that are late. The year winds down to that last date, Resolutions tempting fate, New Fear's Eve, many hate, And choose to socially-isolate. Season's Greetings while you can, To every woman, child, and man, Season's Greetings, don't you wait Hold back now, and it's too late. And in the end, all we do, Is create memories for the few, Who mattered while we strode this earth, Then back to the place before our birth. Season's Greetings, decorations down, Bittersweet crunching sounds, Topple the tree to live again, Twelfth Night, the inevitable end. © Stewart Stafford, 2020. All rights reserved.

Our supposed leader was Miss Joyce, who had been working as a civil servant in the department since its foundation forty-five years earlier in 1921. She was sixty-three years old and, like my late adoptive mother Maude, was a compulsive smoker, favouring Chesterfield Regulars (Red), which she imported from the United States in boxes of one hundred at a time and stored in an elegantly carved wooden box on her desk with an illustration of the King of Siam on the lid. Although our office was not much given to personal memorabilia, she kept two posters pinned to the wall beside her in defence of her addiction. The first showed Rita Hayworth in a pinstriped blazer and white blouse, her voluminous red hair tumbling down around her shoulders, professing that ‘ALL MY FRIENDS KNOW THAT CHESTERFIELD IS MY BRAND’ while holding an unlit cigarette in her left hand and staring off into the distance, where Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin were presumably pleasuring themselves in anticipation of erotic adventures to come. The second, slightly peeling at the edges and with a noticeable lipstick stain on the subject’s face, portrayed Ronald Reagan seated behind a desk that was covered in cigarette boxes, a Chesterfield hanging jauntily from the Gipper’s mouth. ‘I’M SENDING CHESTERFIELDS TO ALL MY FRIENDS. THAT’S THE MERRIEST CHRISTMAS ANY SMOKER CAN HAVE – CHESTERFIELD MILDNESS PLUS NO UNPLEASANT AFTER-TASTE’ it said, and sure enough he appeared to be wrapping boxes in festive paper for the likes of Barry Goldwater and Richard Nixon, who, I’m sure, were only thrilled to receive them

Look into Bavarian and Austrian tradition further and there is another witch monster who bears a striking similarity to Lucy: Perchta. Rather than travelling on Lucy’s Night, Perchta conducts her grim business on the Twelve Nights of Christmas or the week after Lucy’s Night (a period known as the Christmas Ember Days), and is especially associated with Epiphany itself. In fact, it’s where Perchta’s name likely comes from – and why it sounds so similar to the ‘Perchten’ monsters mentioned in the chapter before – both were named after the day they appeared.vii But in all other regards, Lucy and Perchta are almost identical – rewarding good children and gutting the bad before stuffing them with straw (Perchta adds the flourish of sewing up her victims using a ploughshare as a needle and a chain as thread); obsessed with the idea that the tasks of the household – especially weaving – must be completed and set aside before their nights begin, and demanding food offerings be left out for them, bringing good luck where they find them and bad where they do not.viii There’s another Christmas witch too – though an altogether kinder one – the Befana. An Italian variant, Befana, like Perchta, appears on Epiphany, and, like Perchta, she takes her name from the festival. She also gives good children sweets, but the bad children who meet Befana only have to contend with gifts of coal rather than being gutted. The history of these Christmas witches may well be one of the most complex of all the seasonal monsters. After all, only an utter mess of tangling beliefs can lead to a semi-benevolent, disembowelling witch who demands offerings, gives presents, and flies across the land followed by an army of the dead.

Advent Season by Stewart Stafford A house bedecked in verdant wonderment, With lights that mirror the starry firmament, Where the Christmas Star did once shine, To guide worshippers to the Divine. The wreath on the door is a welcome portal, For any passing cheerful mortal, Wishing to enjoy warm company, And mountains of gravy-drowned turkey. Nostrils fill with cooking scents, That waft through the house with excitement A feast to consume on the 25th, After the Man in Red has paid a visit. Children orchestrate great noise, And sit and play with gifted toys, While adults watch and reminisce, On childhoods past and favourite gifts. The Wheel of Time turns, Festivities End, And the year itself begins again. In Time's juvenile crawl, Or adult speed, Life zips forward, and history repeats. © Stewart Stafford, 2020. All rights reserved.

The composite quality of Christmas has been part of the holiday…almost certainly long before there was a Christ owed a mas. There has been a mid December holiday to celebrate the winter solstice by appeasing the sun god and assuring the return of spring since people first noticed the sun’s retreat…and the festival is almost always a festival of supplementary light. The light’s going out in the heavens, so we light one here. The Roman Kalends festival of light, greenery, and gift giving. All were recycles by the early Judeo-Christian followers: the act of lighting candles, the practice of giving gifts, even the use of holly and ivy.

I stared around us. Christmas parcels were piled in every corner, pushed under tables among tired shoppers' feet. Above the steam from the teapots and the waft of the fresh buns there was a sharp scent of pine from the boughs hung up in the corners of the room—it was all wonderfully festive, and I loved it.

The lamps were lit, and the candles on the Christmas tree were burning. They made the tinsel glitter, the fronds of it floating gently, like fur or feathers. It all looked wonderfully festive.

Now would be a thoroughly inconvenient time for mystery and intrigue. It was Christmas. And Solstice. And … that weird vampire mourning festival, too. It was time for tinsel, bright lights and overindulging.

Sure, I normally liked to get to the bottom of things, but not now.  Now would be a thoroughly inconvenient time for mystery and intrigue.  It was Christmas.  And Solstice.  And … that weird vampire mourning festival, too.  It was time for tinsel, bright lights and overindulging.

Tragedia nie oznacza, że nie można się dobrze bawić (...) Czasami emocje są ze sobą połączone. (...) Strach jest po drugiej stronie muru ekscytacji. (...) To pomaga nam docenić życie.

... przemilczany uraz przechodzi w trwały ból. To, że nie objawia się na zewnątrz, nie znaczy, że zanikł.

Indeed,” I said. The queen-sized bed against the right curving wall was neatly made with pristine linens and looked soft and inviting. And it was only the one bed.

I wished I could wear a sign around my neck that read: Life and a Christmas tree kicked my ass. I won’t be taking questions at this time.

It had been a while since I’d dated anyone long enough to indulge in PDA. Joanne from marketing passed by on horseback and gave us a wave and an encouraging thumbs-up, which was quite unnecessary but sweet all the same.

Shrugging, Logan said, “Sure.” He didn’t usually think of men’s looks or personalities that way since that stuff didn’t matter when it came to simply getting off.

Oh, look, pookie—that kind of chair would be perfect for our new table,

A crazy fucking idea.

No. That would be way too… No. Not into it.” He could admit he’d never tried, and that the idea of being fucked was way too…much. Too gay, although he didn’t say that out loud. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. It just wasn’t for him. And maybe he’d thought about it sometimes, and he’d been curious once or twice, but hell no. Letting a guy do that would be… Hell, he didn’t know what, but it was better to keep it simple with men.

Logan looked at Seth, and they shared a laugh. Logan hadn’t imagined smiling on this crappy day, let alone laughing. That little flare of hope burned brighter. The plan was nuts, but it was all he had.

It’s okay.” Seth forced a laugh. “I mean, it’s not okay, but it is what it is. I couldn’t stay in the closet. I like to believe in a God who made people the way they’re supposed to be.

Oh, let me get you some towels.” He spun to escape before Logan could reply and tried not to think of Logan naked and wet in the shower. He failed badly, but at least he tried.

This breakup had kicked Seth in the nuts, and Logan wasn’t going to let any shit-brick ex make him feel worse. In a world full of assholes, Seth was good.

He had been entirely unexpected, and I’d never been more excited.

Suddenly, Reid’s easy, sexy vibe vanished. He propped himself on his elbows and asked, “Veto?” “God, no!” I dropped the towel and practically jumped between his legs. “Merry Christmas to me!

Part of Logan still couldn’t believe it. Him and Seth. Him and Seth for real. Everyone knowing and not seeming to mind. Maybe it was the peace and good will and all that shit, but whatever it was, he’d take it.

Fuck Seth’s family and him “leaving” home. Fuck their obituary. Fuck them all in their pious, hypocritical ass-faces. “You deserve every single bit of Christmas,” he said fiercely.