Yuletide Quotes

Ever since the Christmas of '53, I have felt that the yuletide is a special hell for those families who have suffered any loss or who must admit to any imperfection; the so-called spirit of giving can be as greedy as receiving--Christmas is our time to be aware of what we lack, of who's not home.

Twas a cold Yuletide evening, and I wandered the stacks, shelving multiple titles that the patrons brought back. We toiled overtime at our library here, 'cause the powers that be cut our staffing this year.

Thr rareness, the specialness, of North. Of this night. She wished it could last forever. (It's a yuletide miracle, Charlie Brown)

How will I make a people who do not understand the power of belief believe? And without their belief Mother Earth will wither and Yuletide will fade...and so, too will I...like all the spirits and gods before me.

I still have your handkerchief, from the Yuletide." "Raspberries, do you really?" He produced a crumpled, clean handkerchief, and gave it to Azalea. She tried to hand him the watch, but he wouldn't take it. "It's still for ransom, is it not?" he said. "I'll collect it when I set the tower again." Azalea smiled, warmth rising to her cheeks. "Well, it has been awfully useful. Thank you, Lord Bradford." He mounted with ease, even with the books, and smiled a crooked smile. "Mr. Bradford," he said sheepishly. "Mr. Bradford," said Azalea. And now, her cheeks burned. It wasn't unpleasant. "Thank you," he said, tipping his hat. "For the pleasant evening.

Yule is the true spirit of Mother Earth. Yule is the rebirth of the seasons. Without Yuletide, Mother Earth cannot heal herself . . . will wither and die. That is why it is so important that I reawaken the spirit within mankind. Help them to believe again. Because it is their power of belief, their love and devotion, that heals the land.

watch William’s beloved sport, but to him televised football was no more interesting, or even narratively intelligible, than a flea circus, so he got up and went to the kitchenette to do the other stations of the Yuletide cross.

People can change, Mitch, but they have to want it more than their sin.

Life isn't easy... Sometimes, stuff happens that isn't your fault, that you can't control. It doesn't mean you've failed or that or that you won't fail again. It just means that you have to fight harder. You have to be stronger. You can't let the bad stuff win. You have to keep getting up and moving forward even when you're afraid to or you don't think you can.

A regrettable situation,” said Bierce, smiling, “for the Yuletide merchants who, toward the last there, as I recall, were beginning to put up holly and sing Noel the day before Halloween. With any luck at all this year they might have started on Labor Day!

Ever since the Christmas of ’53, I have felt that the yuletide is a special hell for those families who have suffered any loss or who must admit to any imperfection; the so-called spirit of giving can be as greedy as receiving—Christmas is our time to be aware of what we lack, of who’s not home.

Tired of that hermeneutical delirium, the workers turned away from the authorities in Macondo and brought their complaints up to the higher courts. It was there that the sleight-of-hand lawyers proved that the demands lacked all validity for the simple reason that the banana company did not have, never had had, and never would have any workers in its service because they were all hired on a temporary and occasional basis. So that the fable of the Virginia ham was nonsense, the same as that of the miraculous pills and the Yuletide toilets, and by a decision of the court it was established and set down in solemn decrees that the workers did not exist.

Rudy draws his knees up and wraps his hands around his legs, laughing shakily against his thighs. This is not how he planned this, ever, but he can't stop the words bubbling up his throat. "Not gay? Dad, I'm a total nutcracker." Mr Kringle takes a sharp breath as he looks down at Rudy. "What are you saying?" He stands up. "That I am gayer than a rainbow Christmas tree. I'm gayer than a sugarplum fairy. Hell, I am a sugarplum fairy.

Hugh’s grunt sounded hollow in the night air. How dense of me not to have guessed the truth.

Oh dear thought Cobb. Never mind Father Yule, he sounds more like Ebenezer Scrimge from Charles Pickens’ book “A Yuletide Song”.

It was the Yuletide, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind.

Manhattan is at her best at Yuletide the way a pretty woman is even prettier with make up

Tired of that hermeneutical delirium, the workers turned away from the authorities in Macondo and brought their complaints up to the higher courts. It was there that the sleight-of-hand lawyers proved that the demands lacked all validity for the simple reason that the banana company did not have, never had had, and never would have any workers in its service because they were all hired on a temporary and occasional basis. So that the fable of the Virginia ham was nonsense, the same as that of the miraculous pills and the Yuletide toilets, and by a decision of the court it was established and set down in solemn decrees that the workers did not exist.

Christmas,” Krampus spat. “No, Christmas is an abomination. A perversion! Yule is the true spirit of Mother Earth. Yule is the rebirth of the seasons. Without Yuletide, Mother Earth cannot heal herself . . . will wither and die.

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.

Oh for love of the Gods, thought Jim. The last thing I need right now is philosophical discussion with a madman, on a snowy roof, about the merits of capitalism.

He wasn’t really a spy; he just helped them out when they were busy.

He was no prude, but he had those decent prejudices of which no self-respecting man can wholly rid himself, however broad-minded he may try to be.

She saw something in his eyes. She knew those eyes, knew that voice with its hint of a blunt northern accent…

You must come to me as an equal, and then we will see what the galaxy holds for us.

In the energies of the Green Knight, we have an Elder who comes to the entire court of Arthur to challenge and "open a bridge" to the Otherworld. Here is the Holly King, the Forest Lord, the Green Man. The Green Knight enters Arthur's court at a Yuletide festival and challenges at once both Arthur and his warriors to step forth and take part in the traditional Beheading contest

.....I'm certain I asked for a cowboy one December past-- For I wanted the excitement of pioneers to last; I ached to sing with a fiddle, speak with a drawl and twang; I surely requested John Wayne to be part of my gang. Of course I dreamed of a cowboy in those Yuletides of yore-- For I wanted that ace, that corral fighter, that scout roar; I ached for the authentic frontier hero of the West; I surely requested the sacred battleground's finest. I did pray Santa'd give me a cowboy some time ago-- For I wanted a legend in denim wrangler for beau; I ached to be rounded up safely by my saddled knight; I surely requested I be prospected, mined, settled right... -----excerpted from the poem 'A Cowboy For Christmas' in the book FROM GUAM TO CROWN CITY CORONADO (THANKS TO HERMANN, MISSOURI): A JOURNEY IN POESY, by Mariecor Ruediger

Yule is when the dark half of the year cedes to the light half. Known as Solstice Night, Awaiting the rebirth of the Sun God. Bonfires, wassailing crops with toasts of spiced cider a time of madness and awesomeness

Santa was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. The after-action report was signed by the field commander, the director of operations, the secretary of the Office of Sidhe Affairs, and the chief battle-mage. Janus had signed it — and Janus’s word could be counted upon for anything he chose to put his name to. Old Saint Nicholas, the Sidhe Lord of the Yuletide, was as dead as a door-nail. It didn’t stick.

The Vikings spoke of a place at the world’s northern rim, sometimes called Ultima Thule, where the oceans emptied into a vast hole that recharged all the springs and rivers on the earth. The Greeks believed in a realm called Hyperborea that lay far to the north. A place of eternal spring where the sun never set, Hyperborea was said to be bordered by the mighty River Okeanos and the Riphean Mountains, where lived the griffins—formidable beasts that were half lion and half eagle. The notion that Saint Nicholas—a.k.a. Kris Kringle or Santa Claus—lives at the North Pole seems to have a much more recent vintage. The earliest known reference to Saint Nick’s polar residence comes from a Thomas Nast cartoon in an 1866 issue of Harper’s Weekly—the artist captioned a collection of his Yuletide engravings “Santa Claussville, N.P.”Still, the larger idea behind Nast’s conceit—of a warm, jolly, beneficent place at the apex of the world where people might live—had ancient roots, and it spoke to America’s consuming fascination with the North Pole throughout the 1800s.

The notion that Saint Nicholas—a.k.a. Kris Kringle or Santa Claus—lives at the North Pole seems to have a much more recent vintage. The earliest known reference to Saint Nick’s polar residence comes from a Thomas Nast cartoon in an 1866 issue of Harper’s Weekly—the artist captioned a collection of his Yuletide engravings “Santa Claussville, N.P.” Still, the larger idea behind Nast’s conceit—of a warm, jolly, beneficent place at the apex of the world where people might live—had ancient roots, and it spoke to America’s consuming fascination with the North Pole throughout the 1800s.

At Christmas the only sign of the season at Levy's Lodge, the only barometer of Yuletide spirit was the appearance of his daughters, who descended upon him from college with demands for additional money coupled with threats to disavow his paternity forever if he continued to mistreat their mother. For Christmas, Mrs. Levy always compiled not a gift list but rather a list of the injustices and brutalities she had suffered since August. The girls got this list in their stockings. The only gift Mrs. Levy asked of the girls was that they attack their father. Mrs. Levy loved Christmas.

Driven by heartache, she beat the eggs even more vigorously until the glossy meringue quickly formed into stiff, bird's beak peaks. "Philippe, do you have any orange liqueur?" Marie asked, rummaging through her brother's pantry. "Here it is," Philippe said, handing a corked bottle to her. "What are you making?" "A bûche de Noël," Danielle said, concentrating on her task. Carefully measuring each rationed ingredient, she combined sugar and flour in another bowl, grated orange zest, added the liqueur, and folded the meringue into the mixture. "It's not Christmas without a traditional Yuletide log." Marie ran a finger down a page of an old recipe book, reading directions for the sponge cake, or biscuit. "'Spread into a shallow pan and bake for ten minutes.'" "I wouldn't know about that," Philippe said. "I don't celebrate your husband's holiday," he said pointedly to Marie. "Let's not dredge up that old argument, mon frère," Marie said, softening her words with a smile. "I converted for love." A knock sounded at the front door. Danielle threw a look of concern toward Philippe, who hurried to answer it. "Then we'll cool it," Danielle said, trying to stay calm. "And brush the surface with coffee liqueur and butter cream frosting, roll it like a log, and decorate." She thought about the meringue mushrooms she had made with Nicky last year, and how he had helped score the frosting to mimic wood grains.

Meet Me In Toyland by Stewart Stafford Santa handed me the keys to Toyland, And, placing them squarely in the palm of my hand, He bid me go and have lots of fun, With all kinds of everyone. I skipped across the gingerbread bridge, Yuletide coffee flowing down from the ridge, To a Christmas tree consisting of mint, Lit all around by falling star glint. At the frosting gates of Castle St Nicholas, Silver snake tinsel began to hiss, As polar bears to a clockwork orchestra danced, With elves as their partners gleefully entranced. Multitudes of children whooped and cheered, Forgetting all their doubts and fears, Celebrating their gifts of toys, With every kind of girl and boy. Alas, our midwinter joy came to an end, And I tearfully bid adieu to all my new friends, And took a shooting star comet home, Across the Northern Lights in the sky’s dome. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Man/Woman, it has always insisted, does not live by bread alone. The weakness of the church is that it has too often accepted the separation between the material and the spiritual … leaving the material to the economic and political power structure.… The crisis of a city like Detroit provides the church with an extraordinary opportunity to develop and practice a vision of a new economy and a new educational system which meets both the material and spiritual needs of human beings.… Churches are … in an excellent position to develop small enterprises that provide models of how to meet the needs of the community and the city and at the same time teach young people the importance of skills, process and respect for Nature. All over the city churches are surrounded by vacant and unused land. If Detroiters, and especially young Detroiters, could see this land being used by churches for organic gardens to supply produce for local needs or to plant Christmas trees for sale at Yuletide or greenhouses where vegetables are grown year round, the idea of a self-reliant living economy to meet the material and spiritual needs of people could come alive.10

It was true what Doc had said, that Christmas succeeds Christmas rather than the days it follows. That had become apparent to Smoky in the last few days. Not because of the repeated ritual, the tree sledded home, the antique ornaments lovingly brought out, the Druid greenery hung on the lintels. It was only since last Christmas that all that had become imbued for him with dense emotion, an emotion having nothing to do with Yuletide, a day which for him as a child had nothing like the fascination of Hallowe'en, when he went masked and recognizable (pirate, clown) in the burnt and smoky night. Yet he saw that it was an emotion that would cover him now, as with snow, each time the season came. She was the cause, not he to whom he wrote. "Any," he began again, "my desires this year are a little clouded. I would like one of those instruments you use to sharpen the blades of an old-fashioned lawn mower. I would like the missing volume of Gibbon (Vol. II) which somebody's apparently taken out to use as a doorstop or something and lost." He thought of listing publisher and date, but a feeling of futility and silence came over him, drifting deep. "Santa," he wrote, "I would like to be one person only, not a whole crowd of them, half of them always trying to turn their backs and run whenever somebody" - Sophie, he meant, Alice, Cloud, Doc, Mother; Alice most of all - "looks at me. I want to be brave and honest and shoulder my burdens. I don't want to leave myself out while a bunch of slyboots figments do my living for me." He stopped, seeing he was growing unintelligible. He hesitated over the complimentary close; he thought of using "Yours as ever," but thought that might sound ironic or sneering, and at last wrote only "Yours &c.," as his father always had, which then seemed ambiguous and cool; what the hell anyway; and he signed it: Evan. S. Barnable.

spent

moment ago seemed

(140°C), or a gas oven, in which case preheat to level 2. Then, place the cinnamon stars on the baking sheets, on the middle rack, for 7–8 minutes. Afterward, they should still be very light in color and soft on the inside.

Christmas Eve 2012 Continuation of my Message to Andy (part one)   Hi Loverboy,               I wish you a very Merry Yuletide, and I hope 2012 had been good to you. I’m back to tantalize you with my 1970 experience at OBSS. LOL!               Without further ado, this is how I remember the unfolding events.               Curious Kim was eager to find out what had transpired after Jules left our tent. I was pretty sure my tent-mate was gay. He, like me, had the hots for our handsome instructor.               Though I revised the story to that of Jules sticking his tongue into my mouth during my resuscitation process rather than the other way round, Kim found my narration titillating. He pressed me to tell him what it was like to kiss Jules.               I queried, “Why don’t you make a move on him to find out?”               He was shocked by my suggestion and exclaimed, “I would never do such a thing!”               “Why not?”               “Because… because I’m not that way inclined,” he said.               Although I did not press him to admit his homosexual tendencies, I asked, “Are you afraid of getting caught?”               He was taken aback by my boldness. He went silent before commiserating, “No one is a homosexual in Singapore, let alone at the Outward Bound School.”               I burst out in laughter. “Are you kidding me? What planet do you come from?”               The Eurasian added, “It’s illegal to be a homosexual in this country.”               I challenged, “Just because the government ruled against homosexuality doesn’t mean gay people don’t exist.”               He looked around conspicuously before he countered, “If you say these kinds of things, you’ll be expelled.”               “Are you telling me you don’t fancy our instructor?” I pressed.               As if I had cornered him, he stammered, “I… er… like him. He’s my teacher. Of course I like him.”               “You don’t get aroused when he’s close to you?” I exerted.

Mr. Harrison glanced up, as if entreating the heavens, then grimaced. “The Yuletide season has officially started.” He pointed to the crossbeam over the antechamber, where a swag of mistletoe had been hung. “Louisa and Joseph are quite enamored of all things—” Whatever nonsense Jenny had intended to spout one minute before Elijah Harrison trotted out of her life, she forgot as he put a gloved hand on her shoulder. “It’s a harmless tradition,” he said. “One I’ve had occasion to appreciate.” With that, he kissed her, and not on the cheek as a proper gentleman ought. He touched his mouth to hers softly, a lingering, gentle kiss that conveyed… something. Regret perhaps, at having to face the miserable winter day. Before he drew back, he whispered, “You’ll want to look at the sketchbook I used, and, Genevieve?” He bore the scent of rosemary and lavender, and he was leaving. “Mr. Harrison?” “You draw wonderfully. Be proud of yourself.” He gave her cheek a quick buss and passed through the door. Jenny held his compliment close to her heart—the real compliment, the one he’d whispered. She held his kisses closer.

Twas the night before Christmas, at a town in the South, A band of ex-Confederates gathered, down in the mouth; That the black man was now free, they felt was unfair, An abomination they’d address with terror to spare; Crosses they’d burn with white hoods on their head, Spreading their message of hate with horror and dread.” Yes, ringing in the season with Yuletide cheer, the Ku Klux Klan was officially organized in Pulaski, Tennessee, on December 24, 1865.

The last thing Gabe Cutler wanted was to fail another innocent child." The Lawman's Yuletide Bride

I wake up when a hand slips under my shirt and settles on my hip. I have no idea what time it is, but based on the angle of sunlight streaming through my window, I’m going to take a wild guess that it’s way too fucking early for Blake to be waking me up right now. Especially since I didn’t go to bed until almost three in the morning. I groan when Blake’s morning wood prods me in the ass. “Stick your yuletide log somewhere else. I’m sleeping.” Kissing my shoulder, he grinds his erection against me. “Should I stick it in your chimney?” “That depends. Is the chimney my ass?” “Only if you want it to be.” I laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s exit only.” “Why does that not surprise me?” I grin and glance over my shoulder. “What are you saying? That I’m a prude?” “No. I’m saying that your asshole’s lived a very sheltered life.

This Christmas, make it next Christmas.

Peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near. Isaiah 57:19.

The envelope he was carrying was dated January 15, 1965, a Saturday—and it had snowed then too.

Hypocrites can be very pious,

Which was the moment, of course, in which she began to fall in love. Oh Lizzy, you do know how to pick them!

Yuletide Unburdening by Stewart Stafford Fading embers of the final Christmas test, No more the frantic angst of dawn, Now it is poised last-minute checks, And then the flushing of responsibility. A fortnight of relaxation and merriment, Awaits the temporarily-exonerated inmate, Though it means entering the bruising storm, Bartered freedom a passenger and guide home. Cross the draughty, great hall, and finish line, Whispered submission of completed exam papers, And the old year's prescribed work is done, Then outside, leaving others to their stress.

Aunt?” he said tentatively. “There–there…has been some mistake. I–I heard you were dead. I am so—” “There has been a mistake,” she announced regally. “Grave, momentous errors have been perpetrated. I am here to see that they are corrected.” With that, and much to his continued astonishment, she pushed her way into his bedchamber, dragging behind her what looked to be the chimney-piece from Rosings’ finest drawing room. How it fit through his door, he could not have said.

You can learn a lot about someone by their song choice. It’s a valid question.

I have two kids: Gomer (age ten at the writing of this book) and Adolpha (age eight). Before you have a hissy fit and sit down to write me a nasty letter about my children’s horrible names, just stop. Of course those aren’t their real names. Their real names are worse, but I can’t take the ridicule, so I just made up what I consider to be horrific names for my blog, People I Want to Punch in the Throat, and my books. Are you still writing that letter? Why? Because your kid’s name is Gomer and you take offense that I just called it “horrific”? Ugh. Actually, you know what? Go ahead, I don’t care. Write away. As long as you bought this book, you can bitch at me about anything you’d like.

hunt the slipper,

There was no sound from the cats. Unlike dogs and rattlesnakes, they don’t warn you before they strike. They aren’t gentlemen. That’s one of the reasons why I like them.

wasted the first hour driving around aimlessly until I ended up at the mall. Why were stores full of such worthless shit? I poked through a display of calendars, and grabbed one full of photos of puppies. As soon as I got out of the store, I tore the calendar up and threw it in the trash. How would a calendar make him happy? How would any of this crap make him happy?

gripped his hair tight as a moan tore through me. The feeling of him inside me; his hand on my cock; his exhales steaming against my skin; it was too much.

surfed the channels, using the remote control, until landing upon the Fox News network,

I returned to my chair and waited for the TV weather report.

When I look at Candance, I know that you risked your life for her. Max risked his life for you. My ranger brothers and I risked our lives every day, but it was for a reason. I've always known that, but I suppose I lost realization that there are things worth risking your life for.

Etymologically, the word time comes from tide—an ancient reference to the lunar cycle still retained in such expressions as “yuletide” and “good tidings.

none of which pleased my pedestrian palate.

There is only one kind of reindeer suitable for pulling Santa’s sleigh and that is the harke, or castrated male. The harke, whose testicles were traditionally bitten off by the herdsman, is real Christmas-card material.

Askasleikir, Bowl-Licker, December 17 to December 30. If you bring a bowl of gruel or warm cereal to eat in bed before you drift off to sleep, this Lad is waiting under your bed for when you set the bowl on the floor. That's when he slides the bowl underneath and licks it clean.

Besides, nobody in their right mind turns down an invitation to the Earl of Matlock’s Twelfth Night ball,

The spring celebration of the Germanic goddess Eostre merged over time with the celebration of Christ’s death and resurrection to become the Christian festival Easter. Christians adopted the Celtic festival of Samhain at the end of October, sometimes known as the Feast of the Dead, by moving All Saints’ (Hallows’) Day from May to November, making All Hallows’ Eve a time to remember the dead. The midwinter pagan festival of Yuletide became Christmas.

Now, at last, I feel confident enough in my feelings to say that I care not what any of you want. Jane is the woman I love. I shall marry her.

Why did you lie, Mr Wickham? Why lead me to believe you were someone you were not?

Elizabeth watched as he retreated, the mystery surrounding Mr Wickham deepening in her mind.

Carissa had come to Yuletide to find Christmas, but she’d found so much more—an affectionate husband, a loving family and a closer relationship with her Lord. ISBN:

Do you host a great many weddings as your ... What is it called? Pecklebey Estate?

He’d be declared utterly bird-witted and would never see her again. No, it would not do. Not at

There was also a belief, handed down from antiquity, that black made the wearer invisible to the spirits of the dead. (That is why black is the colour of mourning in the Western world: originally it was a means of protection, not an expression of sorrow.)

We don’t have many murders here in Cabot Cove.

Love sometimes comes fast, sometimes slow. Snatch it when it does, either way.

But the flame of magic, even the smoky rumour of magic, is a hard one to snuff out. No matter how thick a layer of ashes you kick over it, the fire always struggles back to life, though it may not burn the same colour as before.

Never underestimate the magic of a memory. A life full of great memories is a rich one.

Every day leaflets fall from the sky, Japanese planes whirring overhead and letting loose propaganda, all over the colony, telling the Chinese and the Indians not to fight, to join with the Japanese in a “Greater Far Eastern Co-Prosperity Sphere.” They’ve been collecting them as they fall on the ground, stacking them in piles, and Trudy wakes up on Christmas Day and declares a project, to make wallpaper out of them. In their dressing gowns, they put on Christmas carols, make hot toddies, and—in a fit of wild, Yuletide indulgence—use all the flour for pancakes, and paste the leaflets on the living room wall—a grimly ironic decoration. One has a drawing of a Chinese woman sitting on the lap of a fat Englishman, and says the English have been raping your women for years, stop it now, or something to that effect, in Chinese, or so Trudy says.

Adelaide nodded. “I don’t suspect you need my intervention any longer.

Whatever the case, as long as she kept her feelings firmly entrenched in the "like" category, she'd be fine. Anything less than complete emotional vigilance would be dangerous; Owen was leaving in a few weeks, end of story.

for the spring offensive to stop the impending squirrelpocalypse.

For now, to keep myself sane, let me focus instead on the bluebells carpeting the forest floor; the misty sunlight that broke through the clouds, blurring the edges of things and turning the world to watercolors. The occasional glint of silver from the treetops. These are indeed baubles--- I climbed up into one of the oaks to check--- but larger than the ones mortals place on Yuletide trees, globes of delicate silver, hollow and light as eggshells. Something about them put me in mind of faerie stones, and I hastily released the bauble to drift back into the trees, among which it hovered like a puff of mist, disdaining the notion of gravity.