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Hearth and Home Witchery
unless otherwise noted

Holiday stories and giggles

on this page:
The Good Wife and the Silver Pine Cones
Visions of Sugarplums
'Twas The Eve Of Midwinter

elsewhere on the site:
A Yule Poem: A Child's Wonder
The Yule Faeries- A Winter Solstice Story

The Good Wife and the Silver Pine Cones

author unknown.
originally found on Witchworks.com

A very long time ago in a land far away lived a elderly woodcutter and his wife amidst a grand forest. The woodcutter had a good life chopping firewood from the surrounding forest to sell to the nearby town for food and money for him and his wife. Until one day when the tree he was cutting fell the wrong way and he was very badly injured and unable to continue working. Which soon made life very hard for them as there was no longer any money for food or any other necessity that they needed. What money that the good wife could find she would use on medicines for her husband to make him more comfortable. The good wife struggled to feed her husband and herself from her garden until winter made it impossible to continue growing food and their stores of food were soon gone. But, still she tried to find ways to make money for food by helping others by doing small chores, and by gathering roots in the forest to stipend her meager food that she could buy. She continued working hard until one day when the good wife discovered an abundance of pinecones scattered around the many pine trees throughout the forest amidst the winter snow. She realized that even though she could not carry, cut or bring enough large pieces of wood to sell to the town that people would buy pinecones for kindling for their fireplaces. So each day she would load up a bag with an apple and a small sandwich for her lunch so that she could make a trip into the grand forest to search for pinecones. One day after she had gathered a apron full of pine cones and her back was sore from bending she decided to sit down underneath a huge oak tree to eat her lunch and to gather her strength for the long walk home. She had just pulled out her apple and sandwich when she realized that she was no longer alone. Looking up she found a very small, strangely dressed little man standing before her. Noticing that he seemed to be hungry she asked him if he would like her apple from her lunch. He quickly nodded and took the apple from her open palm and within a wink the apple was eaten. Thinking to herself that someone who would eat something so quickly must be in more strife than her little family she offered him her sandwich as well. She knew that giving him all her food would make her very hungry as this was all the food that she could spare for herself that day, but she could not allow anyone to go hungry. The little man took the sandwich with a grateful smile and quickly ate the sandwich with much relish and enjoyment. The good wife watched his enjoyment of her offering with a kind smile even though her empty stomach grumbled with hunger. As soon as the little man finished his little meal he picked off each crumb and each morsel of food off of his clothing and ate them. He then licked his hands of all the tasty apple nectar and sighed with contentment patting his now full stomach. He then sat down beside the good wife and looked at her apron filled to spilling of gathered pinecones. He smiled at the good wife and touched the apron with one tiny hand and said.. "Good wife I thank thee for the wonderful food you gave with such a giving heart and without asking for anything in return. I have a gift for thee in your apron, however, do not look within your apron until you are home again with your husband." Then with a wink and a lilting giggle the little man bounded away deeper into the forest. The good wife smiled and shook her head thinking that the little man must be "touched in the head" and got up and started her long journey home. She was curious at what gift he had put into her apron as she knew that he hadn't placed anything in with the pinecones, but decided to do as he said and not look until she was home with her husband. Once she arrived home she went to her husband's bedside and quickly told him about her adventure in the forest with the strange little man. He was very upset with his wife as he had warned her of the dangers of the forest and to speak to a strange man was worth his worry. But, his good wife just smiled and touched his hand and told him that she knew of his worries and that she had been careful. Shaking her head she smiled and told him of his promise of a gift as she reached into her apron and pulled out a pinecone. The woodcutter gasped in amazement at the pinecone that his wife held in her shocked grasp for instead of a pinecone of wood she held a pinecone made out of solid silver. Quickly she stood up and emptied her apron onto her husband's bed and looked in amazement at the large pile of silver pinecones. With one kind gesture of giving food to someone less fortunate than herself the good wife had gained enough treasure to allow her and her husband to live very comfortably for the rest of their days amidst the forest that they both loved. Thus it is taught in the three fold law that what you do in kindness without expectations of gain you receive bounty back three fold more. Blessed Yule to you and yours!

SOURCE: unknown

Visions of Sugarplums

by Margaret Morrison

Five minutes before the Winter Solstice circle was scheduled to begin, my mother called. Since I'm the only one in our coven who doesn't run on Pagan Standard Time, I took the call. Half the people hadn't arrived, and those who had wouldn't settle down to business for at least twenty minutes.

"Merry Christmas, Frannie."

"Hi, Mom. I don't do Christmas."

"Maybe not--but I do, so I'll say it." she told me in her sassy voice, kind of sweet and vinegary at the same time. "If I can respect your freedom of religion, you can respect my freedom of speech."

I grinned and rolled my eyes. "And the score is Mom - one, Fran - nothing. But I love you, anyway."

People were bustling around in the next room, setting up the altar, decking the halls with what I considered excessive amounts of holly and ivy, and singing something like, "O Solstice Tree."

"It sounds like a...holiday party." Mom said.

"We're doing Winter Solstice tonight."

"Oh. That's sort of like your version of Christmas, right?"

I wanted to snap back that Christmas was the Christian version of Solstice, but I held back. "We celebrate the return of the sun. It's a lot quieter than Christmas. No shopping sprees, no pine needles and tinsel on the floor, and it doesn't wipe me out. I remember how you had always worked yourself to a frazzle by December 26."

"Oh honey, I loved doing all that stuff. I wouldn't trade those memories for all the spare time in the world. I wish you and Jack would loosen up a little for the baby's sake. When you were little, you enjoyed Easter bunnies and trick-or-treating and Christmas things. Since you've gotten into this Wicca religion, you sound a lot like Aunt Betty the year she was a Jehovah's Witness."

I laughed nervously. "Yeah. How is Aunt Betty?"

"Fine. She's into the Celestine Prophecy now, and she seems quite happy. Y'know," she went on, "Aunt Betty always said the Jehovah's Witnesses said those holiday things were pagan. So I don't see why you've given them up."

"Uh, they've been commercialized and polluted beyond recognition. We're into very simple, quiet celebrations."

"Well," she said dubiously, "as long as you're happy."

Sometimes long distance is better than being there, 'cause your mother can't give you the look that makes you agree with everything she says. Jack rescued me by interrupting.

"Hi, Ma." he called to the phone as he waved a beribboned sprig of mistletoe over my head. Then he kissed me, one of those quick noisy ones. I frowned at him.

"Druidic tradition, Fran. Swear to Goddess."

"Of course it is. Did the Druids use plastic berries?"

"Always. We'll be needing you in about five minutes."

"Okay. Gotta go, Mom. Love you."

We had a nice, serene kind of Solstice Circle. No jingling bells or filked-out Christmas Carols. Soon after the last coven member left, Jack was ready to pack it in.

"The baby's nestled all snug in her bed," he said with a yawn,

"I think I'll go settle in for a long winter's nap."

I heaved a martyred sigh. He grinned unrepentantly, kissed me, called me a grinch, and went to bed. I stayed up and puttered around the house, trying to unwind. I sifted through the day's mail, ditched the flyers urging us to purchase all the Seasonal Joy we could afford or charge. I opened the card from his parents. Another sermonette: a manger scene and a bible verse, with a handwritten note expressing his mother's fervent hope that God's love and Christmas spirit would fill our hearts in this blessed season. She means well, really. I amused myself by picking out every pagan element I could find in the card. When the mail had been sorted, I got up and started turning our ritual room back into a living room. As if the greeting card had carried a virus, I found myself humming Christmas carols. I turned on the classic rock station, but they were playing that Lennon-Ono Christmas song. I switched stations. The weatherman assured me that there was only a twenty percent chance of snow. Then, by Loki, the deejay let Bruce Springsteen insult my ears crooning, "yah better watch out, yah better not pout." I tried the Oldies station. Elvis lives, and he does Christmas songs. Okay, fine. We'll do classical--no, we won't. They're playing Handel's Messiah. Maybe the community radio station would have something secular humanist. "Ahora, escucharemos a Jose Feliciano canta `Feliz Navidad'." I was getting annoyed. The radio doesn't usually get this saturated with holiday mush until the twenty-fourth.

"This is too weird." I said to the radio, "Cut that crap out." The country station had some Kenny Rogers Christmas tune, the first rock station had gone from John and Yoko's Christmas song to Simon and Garfunkel's "Silent Night," and the other rock station still had Springsteen reliving his childhood.

"--I'm tellin' you why. SANTA Claus is comin' to town!" he bellowed. I was about to pick out a nice secular CD when there was a knock at the door.

Now, it could have been a coven member who'd forgotten something. It could have been someone with car trouble. It could have been any number of things, but it certainly couldn't have been a stout guy in a red suit--snowy beard, rosy cheeks, and all--backed by eight reindeer and a sleigh. I blinked, wondered crazily where Rudolph was, and blinked again. There were nine reindeer. Our twenty-percent chance of snow had frosted the dead grass and was continuing to float down in fat flakes.

"Hi, Frannie." he said warmly, "I've missed you."

"I'm stone cold sober, and you don't exist."

He looked at me with a mixture of sorrow and compassion and sighed heavily. "That's why I miss you, Frannie. Can I come in? We need to talk."

I couldn't quite bring myself to slam the door on this vision, hallucination, or whatever. So I let him in, because that made more sense then letting all the cold air in while I argued with someone who wasn't there. As he stepped in, a thought crossed my mind about various entities needing an invitation to get in houses. He flashed me a smile that would melt the polar caps.

"Don't you miss Christmas, Frannie?"

"No." I said flatly, "Apparently you don't see me when I'm sleeping and waking these days. I haven't been Christian for years."

"Oh, now don't let that stop you. We both know this holiday's older than that. Yule trees and Saturnalia and here-comes-the-sun, doodoodendoodoo."

I raised an eyebrow at the Beatles reference, then gave him my standard sermonette on the appropriation and adulteration that made Christmas no longer a Pagan holiday. I had done my homework. I listed centuries, I named names--St. Nicholas among them. "In the twentieth century version," I assured him, "Christmas is two parts crass commercialism mixed with one part blind faith in a religion I rejected years ago." I gave him my best lines, the ones that had convinced my coven to abstain from Christmasy cliches. My hallucination sat in Jack's favorite chair, nodding patiently at me.

"And you," I added nastily, "come here talking about ancient customs when you--in your current form--were invented in the nineteenth century by, um...Clement C. Moore."

He laughed, a rolling, belly-deep chuckle unlike any department-store Santa I'd ever heard. "Of course I change my form now and then to suit fashion. Don't you? And does that stop you from being yourself?" He said, and asked me if I remembered Real Magic, by Isaac Bonewits.

I gaped at him for a moment, then caught myself. "This is like `Labyrinth', right? I'm having a dream that pretends to be real, but is only made from pieces of things in my memory. You don't look a thing like David Bowie."

"Bonewits has this Switchboard Theory." Santa went on amiably, "The energy you put into your beliefs influences the real existence of the archetypal--oh, let me put it simpler: `in the beginning, Man created God'. Ian Anderson." He lit a long-stemmed pipe. The tobacco had a mild and somehow Christmasy smell, and every puff sent up a wreath of smoke. "I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than Bonewits tells it, but that's close enough for mortals. Are you with me so far?"

"Oh, sure." I lied as unconvincingly as possible. Santa sighed heavily. "When's the last time you left out milk and cookies for me?"

"When I figured out my parents were eating them."

"Frannie, Frannie. Remember pinda balls, from Hinduism?"

"Rice balls left as offerings for ancestors and gods."

"Do Hindus really believe that the ancestors and gods eat pinda balls?"

"All right, y'got me there. They say that spirits consume the spiritual essence, then mortals can have what's left."

"Mm-hm." Santa smiled at me compassionately through his snowy beard.

I rallied quickly. "What about the toys? I know for a fact they aren't made by you and a bunch of non-union elves."

"Oh, that's quite true. Manufacturing physical objects out of magical energy is terribly expensive and breaks several laws of Nature--She only allows us to do that on special occasions. It certainly couldn't be done globally and annually. Now, the missus and the elves and I really do have a shop at the North Pole. Not the sort of thing the Air Force would ever find. What we make up there is what makes this time a holiday, no matter what religion it's called."

"Don't tell me," I said, rolling my eyes, "you make the sun come back."

"Oh my, no. The solar cycle stuff, the Reason For The Season, isn't my department. My part is making it a holiday. We make a mild, non-addictive psychedelic thing called Christmas spirit. Try some."

He dipped his fingers in a pocket and tossed red-gold-green-silver glitter at me. I could have ducked. I don't know why I didn't.

It smelled like snow, and pine needles, and cedar chips in the fireplace. It smelled like fruitcake, like roast turkey, like that foamy white stuff you spray on the window with stencils. It felt like a crisp wind, Grandma's hugs, fuzzy new mittens, pine needles scrunching under my slippers. I saw twinkly lights, mistletoe in the doorway, smiling faces from years gone by. Several Christmas carols played almost simultaneously in a kind of medley.

I fought my way back to my living room and glared sternly at the hallucination in Jack's chair.

"Fun stuff. Does the DEA know about this?"

"Oh, Frannie. Why are you such a hard case? I told you it's non-addictive and has no harmful side effects. Would Santa Claus lie to you?"

I opened my mouth and closed it again. We looked at each other a while.

"Can I have some more of that glittery stuff?"

"Mmmm. I think you need something stronger. Try a sugarplum."

I tasted rum ball. Peppermint. Those hard candies with the picture all the way through. Mama's favorite fudge. A chorus line of Christmas candies danced through my mouth. The Swedish Angel Chimes, run on candle power, say tingatingatingating. Mama, with a funny smile, promised to give Santa my letter. Greeting cards taped on the refrigerator door. We rode through the tree farm on a straw-filled trailer pulled by a red and green tractor, looking for a perfect pine. It was so big, Daddy had to cut a bit off so the star wouldn't scrape the ceiling. Lights, ornaments, tinsel. Daddy lifted me up to the mantle to hang my stocking. My dolls stayed up to see Santa Claus, and in the morning they all had new clothes. Grandma carried in a platter with the world's biggest turkey, and I got the drumstick. Joey's Christmas puppy chased my Christmas kitten up the tree and it would have fallen over but Daddy held it while Mama got the kitten out. Daddy said every bad word there was but he kept laughing anyway. I sneaked my favorite plastic horse into the nativity scene, between the camels and the donkey.

I came back to reality slowly, with a silly smile on my face and a tickly feeling behind my eyes like they wanted to cry. The phrase "visions of sugarplums" took on a whole new meaning.

"How long has it been," Santa asked, "since you played with a nativity set?-"

"But it symbolizes--"

"The winter-born king. The sacred Mother and her sun-child. Got a problem with that? You could redecorate it with pentagrams if you like, they'll look fine. As for the Christianization, I've heard who you invoke at Imbolc."

"But Bridgid was a Goddess for centuries before the Catholic Church-oh." I crossed my arms and tried to glare at him, but failed. "You're a sneaky old elf, y'know?"

"The term is `jolly old elf.' Care for another sugarplum?"

I did.

I tasted gingerbread. My first nip of eggnog the way the grown-ups drink it. Fresh sugar cookies, shaped like trees and decked with colored frosting. Dad had been laid off, but we managed a lot of cheer. They told us Christmas would be "slim pickings." Joey and I smiled bravely when Mama brought home that spindly spruce. We loaded down our "Charlie Brown Christmas Tree" with every light and ornament it could hold. Popcorn and cranberry strings for the outdoor trees. Mistletoe in the hall: plastic mistletoe, real kisses. Joey and I snipped and glued and stitched and painted treasures to give as presents. We agonized over our "Santa" letters...by now we knew where the goodies came from, and we tried to compromise between what we longed for and what we thought they could afford. Every day we hoped the factory would reopen. When Joey's dog ate my mitten, I wasn't brave. I knew that meant I'd get mittens for Christmas, and one less toy. I cried. On December twenty-fifth we opened our presents ve-ery slo-wly, drawing out the experience. We made a show of cheer over our socks and shirts and meager haul of toys. I got red mittens. We could tell Mama and Daddy were proud of us for being so brave, because they were grinning like crazy.

"Go out to the garage for apples." Mama told us, "We'll have apple pancakes."

I don't remember having the pancakes. There was a dollhouse in the garage. No mass-produced aluminum thing but a homemade plywood dollhouse with wall-papered walls and real curtains and thread-spool chairs. My dolls were inside, with newly sewn clothes. Joey was on his knees in front of a plywood barn with hay in the loft. His old farm implements had new paint. Our plastic animals were corralled in popsicle stick fences. The garage smelled like apples and hay, the cement was bone-chilling under my slippers, and I was crying.

My knees were drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped around them. My chest felt tight, like ice cracking in sunshine. Santa offered me a huge white handkerchief. When all the ice in my chest had melted, he cleared his throat. He was pretty misty-eyed, too.

"Want to come sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?"

"You've already given it to me." But I sat on his lap anyway, and kissed his rosy cheek until he did his famous laugh.

"I'd better go now, Frannie. I have other stops to make, and you have work to do."

"Right. I'd better pop the corn tonight, it strings best when it's stale." I let him out the door. The reindeer were pawing impatiently at the moon-kissed new-fallen snow. I'd swear Rudolph winked at me.

"Don't forget the milk and cookies."

"Right. Uh, December twenty-fourth, or Solstice, or what?"

He shrugged. "Whatever night you expect me, I'll be there. Eh, don't wait up. Visits like this are tightly rationed. Laws of Nature, y'know, and She's strict with them."

"Gotcha. Thanks, Santa." I kissed his cheek again. "Happy Holidays."

The phrase had a nice, non-denominational ring to it. I thought I'd call my parents and in-laws soon and try it out on them. Santa laid his finger aside of his nose and nodded.

"Blessed be, Frannie."

The sleigh soared up, and Santa really did exclaim something. It sounded like old German. Smart-aleck elf. When I closed the door, the radio was playing Jethro Tull's "Solstice Bells."

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

'Twas The Eve Of Midwinter

'Twas the eve of midwinter, and all through the coven

The Witches were cooking strange things in the oven.

There were mugwort frittatas, and dragon's blood stew

And mescaline eggnog and mandrake fondue.

There were hot mountain oysters and road-kill pate

and spotted-owl kidneys, and wombat flambe.

The circle was cast and the herbs had been smoked

In the hopes that the Goddess would soon be invoked.

When out by the hot tub arose such a clatter

I jumped on my broom to see what was the matter.

And what should I see in the blackberry thorns

but a soaking wet Goddess and eight unicorns!

"I was just sitting down with my vibrating phallus

and a good book," she muttered, "You bitches are callous.

I came when you called, over all my objections,

and got lost in the woods - you give lousy directions.

You turkeys invoked me, now look at my dress

My period's late and I've got PMS."

She cursed and she muttered, she looked like a wreck

The unicorns whimpered and shat on the deck.

We gave her some weed and we got her some grub

We brought her clean towels and she soaked in the tub.

Then she rose, hot and dripping, and gave us her blessing

And jumped in her chariot, without even dressing!

"On Isis! On Eris! Oya and Astarte!

On Ishtar! Inanna! Kali and Hecate!"

We heard her exclaim as she climbed through the air

"Thank Goddess there's only eight Sabbats a year!"

SOURCE: unknown