Anne Sweazy-Kulju's Blog

(Based on a True Story!)

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the farm team on that day.

The score was nothin’-nothin’, not one inning did they play.

The home plate ump implored the child–Musberger was his name,

The Red Sox catcher (minor league), said, “C’mon, let’s play the game.”

The mother glared in her reply, “she’s not a charm”, she said,

“Like unwashed socks and jock straps, or rubbing Pumpsie’s head.”

“Oh, c’mon, I’ll pay the kid. Heck, I’ll do anything,”

Is what the third base coach professed, then he began to sing.

Soon the players of both sides piped up a lullaby,

But instead of growing sleepy, the child let out a cry.

Upon the stricken bleacher-crowd grim hopelessness convoked.

“This is a strange ‘delay the game,’” Musberger softly joked.

They sat down on the outfield; the infield swiped at flies;

“Well, I can’t just give a bottle every time my baby cries.”

The visitors grew restless, unversed in baby’s grunt,

Demand, they did, to start the game,

“Enough! This is a stunt!”

All eyes were on the baby, as Musberger yelled, “Play ball!”

Mom stood the baby on her lap in answer to the call.

From benches full of people, there came a growing rumble;

“They don’t pay me enough for this,” the home plate ump did grumble.

“Grunt, grunt, grunt, grunt,” came the allied roar.

It carried on the summer breeze; it beat the distant shore.

And then…the baby’s face did scowl; they saw her muscles strain.

“I’ll make her MVP,” said coach, “if she’ll just do her thing.”

Suddenly, a lip curled up–a grimace for the crowd.

And to the wonderment of all, she grunted good and loud.

The mother blushed bright scarlet. The catcher did the same.

Musberger smiled benignly, “Now we can start the game.”

It was spring training with the Red Sox farm team, it was the 1950’s, Brent Musberger was the home plate ump and Anne’s dad was catcher. This little poem, set to the rhythm of “Casey at Bat,” is actually based on true events involving one of Anne’s sisters. (I wonder if Brent Musberger would remember this…?) *Anne’s father did promote to the majors and played a few games, but then injured his arm during spring training and never played again.

If you agree with Anne Sweazy-Kulju (and Anatole France) that

history books that contain no lies are extremely dull,

visit her website: www.Historical-Horse-Feathers.com,

and read more of the author’s fun perversions of the past!

(500 Words–The Source Flash Fiction Contest 2012)

Winner: Honorable Mention

Mandatory First Sentence: “She stumbled out the front door and down the wet steps.”

She stumbled out the front door and down the wet steps. Boots quickly abandoned pathway for tilled ground and stalks of corn. Berthine “Bert” Blakely vomited immoderately. Wiping her face, she started giggling, and then collapsed as giggles turned to laughter. The employer of The Dog Sniffer-er, looking unwell, tottered to the doorway after her. He looked to say something, but thought better. “Ruff,” Bert said.

Bert lost her job months earlier when the factory closed. She wasn’t trained for any job openings in her town, and she couldn’t afford to commute to another. She had the cabin, inherited from an uncle, but the taxes were overdue. She fed herself and Jake by parking her pickup and ears of corn at the intersection on weekends. A scrawled sign offered four ears/$1.00. Bert had no idea what they’d eat once summer ran out. Anyway, she was sick of baloney on white bread that stuck to the roof of her mouth. Jake didn’t like his food either, but never complained. The dog had wandered onto Bert’s property the previous year looking as if he’d been through it. Bert adopted him, and now she loved Jake more than air.

When a storm washed out the bridge a mile north of her, Bert’s luck changed: her property had a single-lane bridge that crossed the river at its most narrow point. The next bridge was another 20 miles. Bert considered wear to her bridge and the cost to take the detour around; she charged a dollar for foot-traffic and five for autos. Duly sensitive to out-of-work men with no money to cross, Bert also arranged for payments in meat. Most were hunters, farmers or fishers with freezers full of elk, salmon and fowl. However, a malcontent at the local pub, who wondered about Bert’s solitary life with her dog, bemoaned her gouging folks with a toll of meat. He sneered above his fourth beer to a half-pint pal, that he’d teach Bert Blakely a lesson.

The bully was at Bert’s door the next day, asserting she’d stolen his dog. He introduced his pal as a “specialist,” able to sniff a dog and tell from whence it came. Burt laughed, “you’re a…a… Dog Sniffer-er?”

Naturally, the specialist asserted Jake was his employer’s dog, but Bert called her own specialist. Jesse came right over. Jesse lifted Jake’s tail and proceeded to wave scent toward him, inhaling discriminately. “The dog is Bert’s,” he announced. Then to avoid a fight, he suggested a tiebreaker: the taste-test. Before anyone knew, Jesse touched his middle finger to Jake’s south end, pulled his hand free, and popped his index finger into his mouth.

“Not it!” yelled the Sniffer-er, hotfooting it from the cabin.

Enraged senseless, the bully touched fingertip to dog and licked. “Blaaah!” he spit several times. “How could…? Christ! Where were you raised?”

“First, I didn’t.” Jesse replied, holding up his middle finger and then licking his index. “And second, you’re the experts…” he turned and bent, “you tell me.”

(An Excerpt from “Grog Wars”)

“I’ll take the little hinny with me on patrol, but it’ll be a pig-shearing expedition,” he grumbled.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means, Queensy. But I do appreciate your taking Bleeker with you.”

Queensy smirked and asked his friend, “Have you ever tried shearing a pig?”

“Certainly not; why would anyone do such a–”

“Exactly, Mate! It’s too much squealing, and too little wool. When it comes to hunting renegade Indians with the Pommie, I think I’d rather take my chances with the pig”.

“You there, Pommie, three of us are heading out tonight; we’ll leave in an hour, maybe two. Hard to notice you haven’t been of a scouting party, so far. And I hear you’ll be leaving us tomorrow when we reach the fort.” He clucked facetiously. “So, you know what that means, Pommie? Tonight is your night. We need a fourth, an’ you’re it.”

Bleeker stared aghast at Queensy for several long seconds before he found his voice. By then, Queensy was already headed back to check on the horses and cattle. “I wouldn’t go to a party with the likes of you, ever–Indian or otherwise, Mr. Queensy. I don’t bear fools!” he hollered after him, tossing his nose into the air.

Queensy stopped in his tracks, turned slowly and smiled wicked at the snit they called Bleeker. “Well, I find that wonky queer, mate. Your mum certainly did.”

Bleeker could only spit and huff at Queensy–to do more would be to invite pain. He snatched up his journal and pencils and hurried off for his buckboard.

Detergent blue sky, birdcalls and nothing else; it was too early to be morning already. Queensy shook his shoulder until he woke.

“Georg-without-the-e didn’t make it back last night. Don’t know if he’s off on the one-way trail, or not. The, uh, the Pommie didn’t make it either–so they tell me. One of the others in the party, that meaty-pawed cooper, he saw Georg in a bit of a pickle, he told me. At the time, he was locked in fierce battle himself and couldn’t be of a help to Georg. He went looking for him later on, but there was nothing for it. Everyone was gone.”

Burke shook the cobwebs from his head and expelled them with a yawn. “What…well, how bad a pickle was Georg in, did the cooper say?” Burke asked, concerned.

“Well, the cooper said Georg had hollered to him that his sidearm only had two pops left in it. When the cooper looked Georg’s way, he saw an Indian on Georg’s left, and another savage to his right. An’ as I mentioned, the bookish little pommie, Bleeker, whinger about everything under the sun, including the sun, well, the cooper caught sight of him too—of course he was carrying on like a hinny, savages all around and he’s worthless as tits on a bull—I tried to tell you, Burke, pig shearing…”

Burke exhaled audibly. “We all know how you feel about him. Well, did the cooper say whether Georg had managed to shoot the Indians?”

“That’s just it, Mate. Georg didn’t shoot either one! The cooper said Georg shot that pommie twice, instead!”

If you agree with Anne Sweazy-Kulju (and Anatole France) that history books that contain no lies are extremely dull, visit her website: www.Historical-Horse-Feathers.com, and read more of the author’s fun perversions of the past!

“If you took all the Cindy Marshall’s and all the Helen Kane’s

and laid them end-to-end…I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.

(A Dorothy Parker-ism)”

It’s New Year’s Eve, and a small part of me wonders if she chose me because she knows how much I adored the holiday…or because of how much I adored champagne. I had such a penchant for those little French bubbles! I know I let it get the better of me just that one time, but sometimes that one time is all it takes. I guess it could be said that champagne hastened my downfall–or that it awakened me to the mess I’d left behind me. No matter the verdict, I did have fun while it lasted! My author gave me that gift, after I was so certain I would have no life at all. I’m grateful for the joyous memories–they helped to squeeze out the very, very bad ones, at least for a time. So, no, I don’t mind talking to you about Anne. I guess I probably know her better than anyone; she’s my creator so, in many ways, I’m her. I must confess that Anne is not as free with her personal information as she is with mine. But that’s fine with me, really. Thinking rationally, I know that without her story-telling, I would cease to exist, whereas, with too much revealed about her, she might cease to exist. I can tell you she loves champagne as much as I do, but she prefers the brut variety of an enormously-economical brand. I think it’s fine to share that. It’s no trade secret.Goodness, my manners! Without further delay, my name is Cindy Marshall. I’m a hero in Anne’s debut historical fiction saga, “the thing with feathers.” I would like to have been able to say I’m the hero, but I had a frailty which required me to share the designation with another unfortunate character, as well as with another–oh dear! I nearly bobbled it! I’m warned not too say too much because of something Anne calls a “spoiler.” And anyway, isn’t this interview about Anne?

She was one of four children (the sickly one), belonging to a newly-advanced catcher for the Red Sox. But things didn’t go easy, and her father suffered a career-ending injury just after moving up to the majors. Anne’s father went back to school and came out the other side a teacher of history, with a load of medical bills. There wasn’t a lot of money to go around. But Anne had a wealthy cousin who treated her to a summer vacation of girl scout camping. During the trip, the two wrote a collection of skits for their camp to perform in a talent show. They were a big hit and Anne knew she wanted to entertain people. But with a face made for radio and a voice made for silent film, she figured she’d probably do something in the background.

That doesn’t mean Anne never got out in front in life. Au contraire, Anne’s time in college was a series of frat parties, No-doze, and term papers with coffee-shop breakfast on the side. But every now and then her candle would begin burning at both ends. Whenever that happened, Anne would (in pseudo-Hemmingway style), abandon everything–including her current hair color (that might be sharing too much). She’d up and move somewhere new to refresh and perhaps see things she’d not seen before. In those early days, she didn’t simply move from state-to-state, she jumped from career-to-career, collecting as many new experiences as possible. Anne was a phlebotomist, a PBX operator and a door-to-door encyclopedia salesperson, all before she’d turned twenty-one. Lord, there were many more professions besides those, like high-stakes Blackjack Dealer, Granola Manufacturer and Piercing Jewelry Importer, to name a few. Some jobs Anne was proud of and some she wasn’t, but I’ll tell you one truth: the girl always landed on her feet. Anne had been known to act on a whim, and I believe she called upon one of those experiences when she was writing my get-away. But for that one socialite, named Percy, who chatted me up non-stop on the train, I told no one where I was going. In fact, I went to great lengths to hide it. That wasn’t my only secret, Lord knows. I suffered from severe mental defect, but I’d managed to keep that fact from almost everyone…almost. My husband was–no, I’m sorry, it still pains me. Perhaps my own New Year’s Resolution should be to make peace with my life’s sorrows. Then I might begin to reminisce about the sweet things.You know, I could draw a number of parallels between Anne and me. She, too, had the misfortune of growing up with a mental, well, not a defect per se, but an issue, certainly. While growing up, Anne had displayed psychic abilities over-and-over, but whenever folks found out they were far from impressed. One person even told her she couldn’t be a Christian if she believed in her ability. Anne learned to keep her feelings to herself, most of the time (she could be counted on to pick winning horses at the racetrack when her daddy needed it, and she’d risked the humiliation a couple of times when it was a matter of life-and-death. Sadly, it did not alter the outcomes.) I, for one, never doubt that at times life can be stranger than fiction.

Anne eventually settled down and had a baby, then married her husband a couple of years later. Soon after, the couple abandoned their Southern California lives for a 1906 Victorian farmhouse, badly in need of repair, on Oregon’s wild central coast. Anne, her husband and her daughter, restored the home and the old carriage house, and turned it into a B&B. This beautiful Victorian was the setting of the Marshall house, my home in “the thing with feathers.” It was also the B&B setting in her second novel, “Bodie.” Anne’s writing started there, with award-winning editorial contributions to travel magazines. Later on, there was a self-published recipe and local history book. The couple had also begun manufacturing their homemade granola cereals. Before long, their line was picked up by a specialty food distributor. Anne’s family was living a dream. But then there was a car accident, and Anne suffered fairly serious, lasting injuries. Once more, things didn’t go easy. If I may, I suddenly feel the yen for some bubbly, don’t you

“Oop-boop-be-do”

Anne and her husband put their inn up for sale, but the market was slow and it took a full year for a sale to happen. In the meantime, there was a nagging recurring dream which Anne had experienced for many years, about the murder of a woman in the late 1800’s, in a town named Bodie. She’d always wanted to explore that dream further. Then Anne learned her sister had a recurring dream, too–the same as hers! The writer began to postulate what it would take to make that possible. She researched the town of Bodie as best she could from her rural village of Cloverdale–but really, isn’t that tantamount to polishin’ cow patties? There wasn’t any meaty information to be found in the local libraries of easy country–land of church socials and lemonade stands. So, Anne sent for materials from U.C. Berkeley, where all of the preserved Bodie newspapers were kept, as well as information from California’s State Parks Department, and from a small preservation group called The Friends of Bodie. Well, Anne turned up an interesting, buried morsel by reading all of those old newspapers, and there was just no stopping her after that! She investigated recurring and genetic dreams, read books written by a renowned regression therapist at a Boston University, and even had her husband take them to Bodie for their annual vacation. It was when her boots touched Esmeralda dust that Anne knew she was going to write a story about Bodie.

It was the first story she wrote, but it became her second novel, some seventeen years later. Again, not unlike me, Anne lost a few years. She’d had some other successes, such as having two of her short stories published, and then a movie producer made an offer on the rights to “Bodie.” While the manuscript was being haggled about, Anne wrote her next novel–the one about me, sort of. She’d found a vintage photo of me during the restoration of her inn and decided she would one day write a story about it. You see, although I was smiling in the photo, Anne somehow knew I was sad. She’d thought often about what could make a pretty young girl so horribly sad. I could tell you how close she came to the truth, but you wouldn’t believe me. And why should you? I’m a literary character. I’m not her, even if at times she is me.With two recently-published short stories and two completed manuscripts, one being optioned for a motion picture, we all believed Anne’s star was on the rise. And yet, my story was the last thing Anne wrote for more than fifteen years. Oh, she wanted to write, but there’s no rest for the wicked. In order to keep up the house payments until the businesses could sell, Anne began working full-time jobs between her post-accident surgeries, while her husband ran the inn by himself. Pain medications weren’t cutting it, money was tight, depression set in from chronic pain, and then the movie deal fell through. When Anne’s most recent surgery was completely undone by an aggressive physical therapist, and she debated another surgery and three more months of eating baby food through straws, she gave up writing entirely. Naturally, I thought of my friend Helen Kane during those dark times.

When I’d first met Helen, I had been living in Chicago for a couple of years. While many of my important and affluent customers referred to me as, “the toast of Chicago,” Helen Kane was a popular nightclub singer and stage actress from New York City. The actress had a love for champagne to equal my own, and we traveled among the same social circles. It was only a matter of time before we met. It was at a nightclub where she was singing, and we hit it off immediately. This was after her shiftless second husband, Max Hoffman, Jr., a mediocre actor at best, left her penniless and alone in Chicago, in 1933. Months later, Helen and I shared a magnum bottle of champagne with her show’s director and one of the producers from her last Broadway show. We over-indulged, just a bit. When Helen got up to sing another song, she finished the number with a slight shoulder roll and a batting of her lashes–mannerisms she borrowed from me, plus a little, “oop-boop-be-do,” borrowed from a young black girl she saw perform with a jazz group in Harlem. Then she giggled like a little girl and all the men in the club went mental! My slightly pudgy friend was reborn; she was suddenly more popular than beer. Every girl wanted to copy her Flapper-esque style, and every man wanted to date her. Her writer-friend in New York, Dorothy Parker, once complained of her, “You can’t throw a brick in any direction without hitting a Helen Kane.” (Miss Parker could be quite a pistol.)But then the poor dear had to sue her studio, Paramount, for the theft of her persona and signature phrase, which they copied for a comic-strip character they named “Betty Boop.” The lawsuit dragged on almost two years and, surprisingly, did not look to be going in her favor. Soon the Betty Boop character was more popular than Helen, herself. She had no love interest in her life and everything seemed to be heading south: career, wealth, the lawsuit, her failed second marriage. Helen grew very depressed. Of course none of this ever made it into Anne’s novel, but it’s true just the same. I got Helen to snap out of her depression with a pep talk and a fountain of champagne one wild New Year’s Eve, where Helen met husband number three–the love of her life. But for Anne it took a lot more time, a lot more champagne, and a great, big, giant pep talk–but not from me. It came from Glenn Beck, the cable television host[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/1″][vcex_spacing size=”30px”][vc_column_text]Mr. Beck was performing a Christmas Special from a location called Wilmington, Ohio. It’s a town that was beating the poor-economy odds by everyone pulling together; their successes fueled their hope, and hope spurred everyone to give their all. Mr. Beck had made an impassioned challenge to folks watching his show to get up and do something, anything, to better their situations. He prodded his viewers to stop blaming others for their failures, to take some chances, and make some changes in their lives; he challenged folks to help themselves or help another. Well, my creator took up that champagne-induced challenge for her 2011 New Year’s Resolution, and just look how things turned out for her (big smiles, here).

The anniversary has rolled around again. It’s just minutes before midnight and I am all gooseflesh and shivers at the prospect of a brand new year filled with new opportunities. It has been my humble pleasure to tell you Anne’s story, and now her New Year’s Resolution for 2015: Read more, write more (finish “Grog Wars II”), and mentor someone this year. Just like Mr. Beck did for Anne, we hope we can inspire some of you folks to take a chance or make a change in your own lives during this shiny New Year.

Oh my! It’s midnight! Can we all drink a toast to that?

Recently, Bodie was Novel Writing Festival ‘s Logline Winner of the Day. As a result, an actor performed a reading of the first 5 pages of the book, for YouTube Visit the Novel Writing Festival Website for an exclusive interview...

The post Bodie – Novel Writing Festival’s Logline Winner Of The Day appeared first on Historical Horse Feathers - Historical Fiction and Young Adult.

Recently, Bodie was Novel Writing Festival ‘s Logline Winner of the Day.

As a result, an actor performed a reading of the first 5 pages of the book, for YouTube

Visit the Novel Writing Festival Website for an exclusive interview too

“How did you get that?” my brother wanted to know. I pulled free another long red string of licorice to nibble. “Money that I found.” I answered, a bit quietly. Did you find it in Grandma’s purse? He persisted. “No,...

The post Krampus Claws Is Coming To Town appeared first on Historical Horse Feathers - Historical Fiction and Young Adult.

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“How did you get that?” my brother wanted to know.

I pulled free another long red string of licorice to nibble. “Money that I found.” I answered, a bit quietly.

Did you find it in Grandma’s purse? He persisted.

“No, and it’s none of your business.” My heart began beating a little faster. If he tattled, I would be in a lot of trouble. I really didn’t take money from my grandma’s purse. I took the change I saw laying on top of the crochet doily on her dresser and, yes, I knew it was wrong. In my defense, I had not merely wanted something sweet; I swear I needed it. It had been so long. To be fair, Saint Nicholas visited weeks earlier and left us mostly nuts and small oranges to fill our shoes. It was only a little bit of change, after all, not even a dollar. I tempered my speech while I offered him some. “You can have some if you want.”

“No way, that would make me your accomplice. I don’t want to be eaten by a Krampus.”

I squinted at him. “I’ve never heard of a Krampus. I think you just made that up.”

He laughed at me. “You wish! You know how Santa Claus keeps a list of who is naughty and who is nice, and the naughty ones get coal? Well, he only has the one night to deliver gifts and coal all over the world, which is not nearly enough time. In some of the busiest and hardest-to-reach areas, he accepts the help of the Krampus’ to weed-out the really rotten children…like ones who steal from their grandma.”

I just made a face at him, unconvinced. “Santa has elves–lots of them. That’s who helps him. Not some monster who eats children. And I’m not rotten. I found this money.” I had lost my taste for the licorice now. “Leave me alone,” I snapped.

“Okay, but the Krampus isn’t a monster, he’s a goat-man. He’s the one who, like the song says, knows when you are sleeping and when you are awake. We should be singing, “Krampus Claws” is coming to town.” My brother reached out and dragged his nails down my arm as he continued, “he has long, crooked horns that will scrape along your bedcovers while you sleep, until he reaches your shoulders, and then–”

“You’re stupid.” I interrupted him, shaking my arm as though he’d hurt me.

He shrugged. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. He doesn’t eat all the bad kids; some get by with a severe warning.” He ducked his head in my direction and whispered in his best Vincent Price voice, “but the ones who are really bad–the ones who won’t even confess when they’re caught, they will be stuffed in his sack–along with the rest of his Christmas dinner. Don’t you worry, you will meet a Krampus soon enough.” He rubbed his hands together and cackled like a witch.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, feigning disbelief and disinterest. But I silently wondered how much“borrowed” money constituted a crime worthy of a Krampus buffet. I had never stolen anything before. I wasn’t a bad kid.



My brother’s words haunted me the remainder of Christmas Eve day. I found myself dreading the night as the hours wore on. I nervously inspected the tray of milk and cookies, making certain there would be enough–not just for Santa Claus, but also enough to charm any guest who may accompany him. For a moment, I even thought to tell my grandma about the money I took, just to get it off my chest. That moment passed.

Soon, it was time to bathe and put on pajamas. I never buttoned my jammies so slow in my whole life. I shuffled off to my room in the very back of the house like I was a doomed prisoner on death row. The only window had drapes thick enough to snuff out every ray of light, but they were not closed completely. A thin stream of the moon’s light illuminated a tiny sliver of the wall opposite my bed. It was just enough to bring the painting of Jesus-on-black-velvet to life. In fact, his eyes and the blood dripping from his thorny crown actually glowed. I got under my bedcovers and pulled them up to my chin. The thick drapes did nothing to quell the lonely drone and rattle of the passing trains, whose tracks lay just beyond the backyard fence. An icy tree branch too near the house was scraping now-and-then in the chill winter breeze; yes, that’s what that sound must be. I pulled the bedcovers over my head. Another train’s whistle sounding forlorn and hopeless, bleared in the distance. I tossed and turned the whole night through, jumping at every foreign sound. I could not wait for it to be daybreak, to find that I had survived the judgment of the Krampus.

It was just then that I heard someone–or something–in my room. I startled myself fully awake, wondering what sound had alerted me. Fabric. It was the sound of someone dragging their fingernails (or long, crooked horns?) up the comforter, stopping at about my shoulders… “No!” I screamed and pulled my covers down from my face. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the monster, so I cried and pleaded. “Don’t eat me, Krampus, please! I’m not bad. I’m sorry. I won’t take money from my grandma’s bedroom again, ever!

Nothing happened. The room remained quiet. So I opened one eye and spotted Grandma standing before me, the wooden spoon she had dragged along my bed to wake me up, still in her hand. She did not look happy.

“You are frightened of the Krampus that sometimes helps rid the world of the truly bad children? You needn’t be.” She said in her thick German accent. “He does not go out on Christmas Eve, child. Who told you that? He accompanies St. Nick on the eve of the feast of St. Nicholas. That was December 5th, several weeks ago, but you are still here, safe and sound. Now, what about this money you took from me?”

I confessed everything and promised to do extra chores. “So, I didn’t need to leave all those cookies and milk?” I asked my grandma later.

“No, that was too much even for Santa, and the Krampus’ do not eat milk and cookies. I think you know what they eat, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I mumbled.

She pinched my cheek. “And next year, let’s make it Root Beer Schnapps instead of milk, shall we? I hear the Krampus’ are all lactose-intolerant.”

# # #

BONUS: Rumor has it if you are a “good kid” and you send a letter to Santa Claus at the North Pole, and use zip code: H0H0H0, you might get a reply!

Holidays got you down? What is it, the fattening foods you know you won’t resist? Is it the fear you won’t get that Pet Rock you’ve been hinting at? No, I know what’s got you down. It’s the relatives, right? That tribe of primitives that always makes the Season fright? Well, if you are one of those people who normally dreads the holidays because your family is a bunch of Barbarians, allow me to make some suggestions for a happier Holiday season this year.

My family didn’t invent holiday dysfunction… but we may very well have perfected it. I’ve always been a good cook, so this meant the insanity usually came to my house to celebrate. It took time and maturity on my part before I finally realized, insanity need not exclude hilarity.

Doesn’t laughter make everything better? I’ve learned to mellow some in my midlife years; I’ve learned that if I can’t beat ‘em (I can’t run as fast carrying a big club as I used to), I should just kick back and enjoy the fun. I mean, say what you want about those guys in the animal skin pants, they’re not all wrong–those guys know how to party. So without further ado, here are my tips for surviving the holidays when the Barbarians are coming to your castle:

Add some excitement

to the dinner. Stow a battle axe (no, I’m not referring to your mother-in-law) nearby the roasted ham. You can’t imagine the children’s glee that’s generated when your crazy uncle uses it for carving. Sure, a little food may fly, but my goodness, what did they think you meant by a six “coarse” dinner. Geez;

Add some suspense

to the party. Put the family bitch in charge of the cauldron of burning pitch, and seat her next to your brother, the court jester. Then, have everyone bet on what time she rolls out the catapult;

Add some culture

to the mix. Yes, Barbarians are by very definition, uncivilized. So why not introduce a little… refinement? Offer a prize to the Hun with the nicest fur, plan to attend a Midnight Mass –marauding, or try singing some nostalgic Barbarian Christmas Carrols: Jingle Bones, It Came Upon A Midnight Spear, Silent Knight, Oh Cannon-Bomb, Rudolph the Red-nosed Philistine, and that timeless favorite, Chestnuts Roasting o’er a Grecian Fire; and, lastly,

Add some fun

for the kids. Make games a part of your new holiday tradition. Here are some time-tested mini-Barb favorites: Pin the Mace on the Face, Red Rover Red Rover Trebuchet a Man Over, Grand Theft Battling Ram, Keep Away From the Celts, and my personal favorite, the Scavenger Hun.

So remember, even if you have always dreaded the holidays of yore, with a little imagination (and a whole lot of mead), you can turn those holidays blues into Medieval old news. Just remember to keep your sense of humor about you… and party like its 1499!

Holidays got you down? What is it, the fattening foods you know you won’t resist? Is it the fear you won’t get that Pet Rock you’ve been hinting at? No, I know what’s got you down. It’s the relatives, right?...

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