Scribbleskiff is sitting in dry-dock for a spell. We’re taking some time away from the business of busyness to rest and clear out the scuppers, so to speak, to restock our supplies, chart new courses, and ready ourselves for the next adventure.

A few of our favorite new seasonals

For instance, we’re keeping our weather eye trained on the approaching, unusually large waves of seasonal drafts — both autumnal and Yultidal. Also, the alluring siren songs of bands both familiar and foreign have been calling to us from the far shore. And we have been receiving reports of new book launches, as well as sitings of old tomes worth rediscovering and re-examining. And much, much more.

So, we’ll be back soon with a fresh store of aimless writing intended to distract you from your daily routine. Until then, here are a few of our (and others’) favorite posts, in each category, from the past year or so. If you are a faithful reader, then you may enjoy having the chance to riffle through them again. If you have never read Scribbleskiff, then these will be new to you. Enjoy!

Beery Scribblings
Not Near Enough: In Search of the Elusive, Authentic German Radler
Sacre Bleu! The Best French Beers for Thanksgiving May Be Made in America
How to Host Your Own ‘Mencktoberfest’

Bookish Babble
Of Poems and Promises, Meatloaf, Memories, and the Pleasures of Failure
It’s No Myth: Fathers and Sons Who Read (and Write) Together Can Grow Together
Finding the ‘Wit’ in Twitter

Musical Musings
Musically Speaking, My Kids Are All Right
It’s a ‘70s Thing: Learning to Fall in Love Again With the Songs of Alex Chilton
When It Comes to Some Tribute Records, Mature Imitation May Be Most Flattering

So, there you have it, a Scribbleskiff sampler — a triple trifecta of trivial treats. As always, tell us what you think. Do you have a favorite post from this past year? Or is there something new you want to learn more about — a seasonal craft beer, for instance, a song by an unknown band, or a recently published poetry collection? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

January is named for Janus, the Roman god of gates and doors, beginnings and endings. Often depicted with two heads — or, more unnervingly, with one head and two faces — Janus had the ability to look forward and backward at the same time.

Just a few of our favorite things in 2010.

Which seems a fitting namesake for a month that straddles the twelvemonth fence, endlessly putting the old year out to pasture and ushering in the new. And having such an origin may explain why so many of us citizens are inclined to spend a portion of January glancing over our shoulders, cataloging our accomplishments (and, ah-hem, failures) from the year gone by, and peering out toward the horizon, hopefully compiling lists of things to do.

We at Scribbleskiff are not above summational list-making, either. Although not fans of the art of compiling “top” lists — picking the most favorite among our favorite beers, books, or bands equates to a Sophie’s Choice, and miserable failure is inevitable. For example, we set out to create an iTunes playlist of the top 10 tunes of 2010 (clever, huh?) and wound up with a scroll 37 songs long that couldn’t be pared down. So it goes.

Nonetheless, we like to be categorical on occasion, picking out some “songs for a quiet moment,” for instance, or “six beers for a summer solstice,” etc. Doing so makes us feel less disorganized than normal and, perhaps, a bit more purposeful. More important, we recently received some pointed requests to “tally things up” and “entertain us” — Nostradamus-like — with predictions for next year’s bests. So we are caving in to both our whims and the peer pressure. (This one’s for you, Otto! Not [necessarily] to be confused with this Otto.)

Falling on the heels of the recently launched series “year-end wrap-up for holiday wrapping,” for which we attempted to take stock of and draw some conclusions about our favorite attainments from 2010 — the books read, beers tasted, bands discovered, etc. — we now bring you our “list of lists.” None of the following is definitive or even all that enlightening, but compiling these compilations has amused us muchly these past few weeks and distracted us from many mid-winter mundanities, and isn’t that the point? Enjoy!

The Seven Most Played Songs of 2010 (According to Our iTunes Library, as of December 31, 2010) That We Didn’t Review
Yes, this is clunky and far from gutsy, but there were more than 415 songs in the 2010 playlist, and it ain’t easy picking ponies. These aren’t necessarily “the best” or “the most [insert superlative]” anything. Apparently, we just liked and played them a lot but didn’t get around to commenting on them, as we did with others here and here.

“Boy,” The Orchard, Ra Ra Riot. Although the fluttery bass line and hooky chamber-pop melodies continually reel me in, it’s singer Wes Miles’ gliding glissando vocals that are the real catch here.
Listen to “Boy” (mp3):

“Wait Up (Boots of Danger),” Champ, Tokyo Police Club. This (non-Asian, non-law-enforcement) Toronto-based four-piece returned last year with a follow-up to their 2008 debut that was energetic, irresistible, and worth the wait.
Listen to “Wait Up (Boots of Danger)” (mp3):

“Big Wave,” I’m Having Fun Now, Jenny & Johnny. Neither half of this duo of indie-rock darlings (Jenny Lewis and Jonathan Rice) has ever sounded as captivating or fun-loving apart as they did together on this single.

Listen to “Big Wave” (mp3):

“Airplanes,” Gorilla Manor, Local Natives. Not locals nor natives (unless you reside in Silver Lake, CA), these guys have fashioned a unique mix of Afro-pop rhythms and laid-back folk lyricism (think Vampire Weekend meets Fleet Foxes) that would seem at home anywhere.
Listen to “Airplanes” (mp3):

“Bloodbuzz Ohio,” High Violet, The National. If there is a such a mellifluously named town in Ohio — and even if there isn’t — this song makes me wish I could be carried there, in a swarm of bees. It also boasts the line most evocative of 2010’s national predicament: “I still owe money to the money I owe.”
Listen to “Bloodbuzz Ohio” (mp3):

“Sad Smile,” A Storm, A Tree, My Mother’s Head, Bobby Bare Jr. With a knack for crafting catchy countrified pop songs (think John Hiatt) tempered with a rock-’n-roll gallows wit (akin to Paul Westerberg’s), Bobby Bare always make me smile, in a not-so-sad way.
Listen to “Sad Smile” (mp3):

“The Book of Love,” Scratch My Back, Peter Gabriel. As an elder statesman of rock, Gabriel can cover just about any band’s song and make it his own. Here he lends an appropriate air of maturity and wistfulness to this song of youthful wonderment by The Magnetic Fields.
Listen to “The Book of Love” (mp3):

(If you are receiving this via email or Facebook and do not see the flash music players below each song, click here to listen in full on the blog site.)

The Three Beers We Wanted to Taste More than Once
Like gluttonous Goldilocks, we tried a lot of different beers last year, in a variety of styles, from amber ales to wheat beers. Most were delicious and provided great accompaniment (and, in some cases, a helping hand) to many good meals. But there were three in particular that we enjoyed and, once we had shared, wished we had not.

San Diego Session Ale, Stone Brewing, Ballast Point Brewing Co., Kelsey McNair. The latest in Stone’s ongoing series of collaboration beers (I reviewed another joint-venture byproduct here), this was not only one of my favorite brews from 2010 it is also one of the best I’ve ever had. Truth. It offers a pucker-making mix of hops bitterness, tangy citrus aromas, and a slightly sweet malt flavor, with plenty of carbonation. It comports well with both appetizers (a nutty Asiago cheese on wheat crackers, for instance) and main dishes, like herb-roasted chicken. Best of all, it’s light in alcohol (4.6%) and clearly designed to be the one beer to have when you’re having more than one.

A Saison Darkly, Stillwater Artisanal Ales. Another collaboration, this time a limited-release black ale flavored with hibiscus and rose hips brewed by Baltimorean Brian Strumke at the Huisbrouwerij Sint Canarus in Deinze-Gottem, Belgium. Strumke, a self-proclaimed “gypsy brewer” and the man behind the curtain at Stillwater (I’ve written about Strumke’s rise from homebrewer to big-leaguer here and elsewhere), has produced several variations on the Saison theme in the past year or so, and this was by far the most complex and delicious. A mix of chocolatey dunkel sweetness and standard Belgian floral aromatics, the flavor combinations were contrasts in character — peppery and citrusy, roasted caramel and fruit (berries), creamy and dry, etc. — and anything but expected. A dark horse, for sure.

Bitches Brew, Dogfish Head Craft Brewery. Speaking of collaboration, this match-up was inspired not by zymurgy but by musicology. Created to coincide with the 40th anniversary release of Miles Davis’ eponymous breakthrough jazz-rock album, the beer fuses an Imperial stout with an African honey beer, creating a dark, rich concoction with sweet overtones. It was surprisingly smooth and delicious, enjoyed as the label suggested, as “the ultimate partner for chili or spicy curry chicken,” or alone, sipped cool — like Davis’ music.

Our Favorite Non-Poetry Reads
As any Scribbleskiff reader knows, our preferred choice for poolside perusing is a slim volume of poetry. We read and recommended several fantastic titles last year, including these. However, we also managed to find time to be delighted by and devour several non-prosodic tomes worthy of mention.

The Ask, by Sam Lipsyte (Farrar, Straus and Giroux), and Super Sad True Love Story, by Gary Shteyngart (Random House). Not much for novel reading, mainly because I have a short attention span, I nonetheless found both of these to be a cut above the usual tiresome and bathetic best-sellers. In fact, they were two of the funniest and most frightening books I’ve ever read. Sad but true — but don’t ask.

Hint Fiction, Robert Swartwood, Ed. (W.W. Norton). What if a haiku were like a novel? Or vice-versa? The entries in this pocket-sized collection, subtitled An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer, attempt to answer (or refute) such a hypothesis. Spare and evocative, these 125 “stories,” written by writers both famous (Joyce Carol Oates, Peter Straub) and unknown, illustrate that length doesn’t always ensure complexity in fiction.

Drinkology: The Art and Science of the Cocktail, James Waller (Stewart, Tabori & Chang). I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t I take that course in college? Well, now you can. Waller’s book, a revised and updated version of the 2003 edition, offers everything any budding bartender or mature mixologist needs to know — from instructions on how to set up and stock a home bar to more than 400 recipes for classic and novel drinks. Best of all, Waller’s writing is as entertaining as it is informative.

Esopus Magazine, The Esopus Foundation. Calling this twice-yearly collection of artists’ projects, critical writing, fiction, poetry, visual essays, interviews, and a themed CD of new music a “magazine” is a little like saying the Grand Canyon is a nice place for a picnic. It just doesn’t cover it. Nonetheless, I look forward to receiving each indescribable issue and savor it with desert-island devotion.

So, there you have it. A sampling of who and what carried us away last year. And now, in Janus-like fashion, as we say goodbye to January, we say hello to what’s in store for Scribbleskiffers in 2011:

• For instance, we are looking forward to over-indulging ourselves on new-music releases from The Decemberists, R.E.M., Cold War Kids, Peter Bjorn & John, among others.
• We’re getting foamy over some new beers we’ve been hearing about, including “Le Terroir,” a dry-hopped sour ale from New Belgium; a new, as-yet unnamed joint brew from Cambridge, Stone, and Victory; “Hoptimum,” an extremely hop-heavy IPA from Sierra Nevada; and “Black Cannon,” a black India pale ale from Heavy Seas.
• And we are making room on the shelf for a slew of new books, including Money Shot, by Rae Armantrout (Wesleyan); Poems, by Elizabeth Bishop (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux); Sky Burial, by Dana Levin (Copper Canyon); How Long, Ron Padgett (Coffee House); and Your Father on the Train of Ghosts, a poetic exchange between G.C. Waldrep and John Gallaher (BOA Editions).

As always, tell us what you think. Did you read/listen to/taste any of these 2010 new releases? Are there others that you think everyone should try? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

In December, a young man’s fancy doesn’t normally turn to thoughts of nature, or to the arousing (and consolatory) effects of it. Not in the usual, “greeny flower” ways, that’s for sure. That’s a spring thing. No, common thoughts of nature this time of year usually involve strategies to avoid it. Sure, snowstorms in a frozen oasis can seem beautiful in their ferocity and stark majesty. But mainly from behind the window of a warm and cozy living-room. Often the only cut flower in a vase you’ll find in our house in December is a Christmas tree.

Jim Harrison's new book of poems is a natural thing.

So why am I thinking (and talking) about the beauty of nature in the dead of winter? Blame Bill McKibben. You see, several years (OK, decades!) ago, I read his book The End of Nature, which was published in 1989, during this country’s last great frog-leap forward in the attempt to prove how important (and easy) it is “being green” (remember the pandering 50 Simple Things You Can Do… book?). Although the thrust of McKibben’s argument was simple — that the survival of the planet “is dependent on a fundamental, philosophical shift in the way we relate to nature” — his doomsday catalog of manmade cataclysms, like global warming, acid rain, deforestation, etc., simply scared the crap out of me. And not in the way he intended, I’m sure. Statements like this one — “in 1988—for perhaps the first time since that starved Pilgrim winter at Plymouth—America ate more food than it grew” — turned me from activism to skepticism and inaction.

Perhaps I wasn’t the only one to react this way, because one scare hasn’t been enough for the unnerving Mr. M. He has been banging his gong of gloom pretty steadily for 20-odd years and more than a dozen books, and he was back in the spotlight again this fall with another shocker, the unsettlingly titled Eaarth. I didn’t have the stomach to read it. (You can find out more about McKibben, his books, and his prophecies at his Web site here. Enter at your own risk.)

But re-confronting his Morrisonian concept of “the end” did inspire me to wonder about the affect that the natural world has had on my life, in big and little ways. For instance, if I just take the time to notice its existence — some days literally forcing myself to stop and smell the roses (or dahlias or cherry blossoms, etc.) or to pause and photograph a maple tree in full autumnal luster — I realize how unpleasant life would be without the cosmos. Oh, and unlivable, of course.

Luckily, nature didn’t quite end, not in the ways McKibben predicted, not yet. In fact, it’s fairly thriving, at least in my little corner of Earth (just one “a,” thanks), and in the minds of many of the writers I read these days, especially (though not surprisingly) the poets. Several of my favorite books of the past year offered a unique perspective on “the way we relate to nature,” and vice-versa. If nothing else, they remind us that the natural world has an important role in our lives: as a renewable source of inspiration.

As part of Scribbleskiff’s “year-end wrap-up for holiday wrapping” series, here is an overview of five of our favorite books of poetry published in 2010. Enjoy!

In Search of Small Gods, Jim Harrison (Copper Canyon Press). Not only is this my favorite book of the year, but it is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time, poetry or otherwise. High praise or hyperbole? Yes. Harrison, who is perhaps best known as a novelist — he wrote Legends of the Fall and Julip– also is an accomplished and highly readable poet. His writing style is unadorned and straightforward, as are his sensibilities: “What could it be, this astonishment / … to finally understand that the purpose / of earth is earth?” And so is his sense of humor:

If a peregrine sees fifty times better
than we, what do we look like to them?
Unanswerable.

To Harrison, nature and the natural objects that comprise it (the “small gods” in the book’s title) aren’t something to fear or protect. Nature is simply a part of everyday living, important and necessary, but intangible and fleeting, like “the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see / from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling / to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.” Sure, rivers, mountains, and animals — including lots of birds, dogs, deer, even the “lowly stinkbug” he accidentally crushed with the garden gate — play a significant, even spiritual role in his life. But he knows that these are not harbingers or a hypostasis. After all, he states, “nature only leads us to herself.”

What makes In Search of Small Gods such a natural fit for me is the craftsmanship of the language that fills every page. Harrison’s talent is translating the transcendent into earth-bound, yet elegant statements, infused with warmth and wit, from the seemingly pointless (“my heart must open to the cosmos with no language”) to the poignant:

in Montana you can throw yourself down just about anywhere on a green grassy bed, snooze on the riverbank and wake to a yellow-rumped warbler flittering close to your head then sipping a little standing water from a moose track. … [But] first look for hidden rocks. Nothing in nature is exactly suited to us.

Everything about Jim Harrison’s 12th book of poems suits me. And the same holds true with some other 2010 books that I encountered this year:

The Forest of Sure Things, Megan Snyder-Camp (Tupelo Press). With such a confident tone and heartfelt honesty, it’s hard to believe this compact volume is a debut. The Forest of Sure Things offers an eerie, mesmerizing sequence of poems, split between imagined (or “borrowed”) memories of a real-life family tragedy and the poet’s reactions to it, that left me feeling both at home in this seascape where “shipwrecks build houses” and crate-loads of oranges “bob along the coast like subtitles” — and uneasy: “In this land the children tear their hearts in half.”

Bird Lovers, Backyard, Thalia Field (New Directions). It’s difficult to call Field’s new book “poetry” because, traditionally speaking, there are few discernible lines of verse here. Nonetheless, her experimental, genre-blending “stories,” which offer a stylistically daring exploration of our natural (and un-natural) world, are ripe with lyricism: “Until their power over the cities becomes too great, we think the pigeons will be able to continue. Then we think thinking will no longer help them.” This book is an aphrodisiac for word (and nature) lovers.

Child of Nature, Lujeta Lleshanaku (New Directions). Lleshanaku’s stark poems, translated from the Albanian by Henry Israeli and Shpresa Qatipi, plumb the lives of people living in a changed landscape where “spring kills solitude with its solitude.” These are haunting portraits, with their intensity often sparking at the intersection of human nature and nature itself. Here, a widow’s breasts droop “like flowers,” while “soft rain falls like apostrophes / in a conversation between two worlds,” and “praying was considered a weakness/ like making love.”

On Speaking Terms, Connie Wanek (Copper Canyon). Commonplace moments form the outstanding features of the landscape Wanek explores in this third book of poems. The speaker of one poem, for instance, writes a word on “the delicate paper [torn] from a garlic clove,” the result of “a whimsy / that came out of my pores.” In “Scrabble,” the poet admits that a lack of gamesmanship is “the story of my life, / rearranging assets and coming up shor.” Such word-playfulness is refreshing and inspirational, especially during these super-serious times, and feels hopeful, the way each puff of breath on a cold day, she says, might form “a little cloud capable of a single snowflake.”

So there you have it, five new books from this past year that should appeal to the natural instincts of the book-lovers on your list.

As always, tell us what you think. Have you read any of these new releases? Are there others that you think everyone should try? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

This week’s posting on Scribbleskiff is part treat, part trick. It’s our way of honoring Halloween and, at the same time, shirking our responsibilities. Typical? Exactly!

Boo-ya! Or boo-hoo?

Well, for several reasons, we just can’t be aimless and informative right now, but we didn’t want to let one of our favorite holidays slip by without some sort of nod. So we are handing out a few novelties, including some seasonal songs, spirited books, and sinister beverages, and offering a little tomfoolery, too — namely, a repeat of some popular past postings. If you’ve never read any of the following words before, then this entry will be sweet music to your eyes and ears. If, on the other hand, you feel like you have previously encountered some of these specters, well, then, boo!

Treats: For starters, we recently uploaded a new Halloween-themed playlist at 8tracks.com. All 18 songs, by everyone from The Acorn to Wolf Parade, have some type of seasonal tie-in to put you in an All-Souls-Day state of mind. And all were released in 2010. Click here to hear them.

Trick: We recently invoked the magic in the relatively new search function on this site (floating in the upper right-hand corner). We typed in “Halloween” and, surprise-surprise, more than a dozen entries appeared that either featured or were related to this most un-hallowed holiday. One of our top picks was this one (click here to read it), which involved the search for an adult-strength beverage appropriate for sipping while handing out (and sneaking) Halloween candy.

Treat: Sometimes, reading a good book can be a spiritual experience — especially if said book is about alcoholic beverages. Such is the case with Beer Is Proof That God Loves Us, a frothy and refreshing look at “the soul of beer and brewing.” Author Charles W. Bamforth, a British ex-pat and a 32-year brewing industry veteran, offers a personal look at everything from the rebirth in a “beer ethos” to the reasons why a few simple ingredients (water, grains, hops, and yeast) are simply divine. Buy your copy of it here.

Trick: Here’s another of our favorite reruns (here, actually), in which we once again enjoy being visited by a palpable, menacing specter that haunts (and, in so many ways, delights) us all.

Treats: And speaking of spiritual (and spirited) visitations, lately our inbox has been a virtual medium for a slew of seasonal cocktail recipes that we are just dying to try. Here are a few:

Corpse Reviver
2 oz Kanon Organic Vodka
¾ oz Fresh Lemon Juice
¾ oz Orange Curacao (or Triple Sec)
¼ oz Absinthe (or any Pastis)

Combine all ingredients in a mixing glass, add a few ice cubes, and shake.  Strain the mixture into a Martini glass.

Fake Blood
1 1/2 oz. Riazul Silver Tequila
1 oz. cranberry juice
Lime wedge
1/2 oz. simple sugar
1 splash ginger ale

Combine tequila, cranberry juice, squeezed lime juice, and simple sugar with ice. Shake and strain into a chilled glass. Fill with a splash of ginger ale.

Jack-o’-Lantern Punch
2 oz. Flor de Caña rum
4 Sugar cubes
3 oz. Club soda
1 oz. Lemon juice
1 ½  oz. Pumpkin puree
Dash of allspice

Muddle four sugar cubes with lemon juice. Add Flor de Caña rum, pumpkin puree, and a dash of all spice and a cinnamon stick. Top with club soda. Garnish with an apple slice.

Trick: We’ve saved the best (and bloatedest) Scribbleskiff replay for last. In it (click here to read it) we offer a half-dozen recommendations that, though they may not help explain why we celebrate this ancientest of holidays, they should make Halloween more spirited if you do.

But don’t let these lazy bones scare you away. We’ll be back soon with new postings that feature the same aimless nothingness that you’ve come to expect (and, we hope, enjoy) at Scribbleskiff. In the meantime, tell us what you think. How do you celebrate Halloween? Are there any other new seasonal offererings that you think everyone should try? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

This week, Scribblskiff is like CNN, except sudsier. In other words, we’re all beer, all the time.

A big beer that's at home on the range.

Why? Well, as mentioned previously here, we are celebrating “Baltimore Beer Week” and decided that a single post’s worth of palaver wouldn’t do justice to the scale of this second-annual event. As a result, we’ve been offering one brief review of a new brew each day (just like this one and this one) during this past week.

And why not. It seems like the neighborly thing to do. Besides, our selections are based on the long list of breweries supporting the 11-day Bawlmer benefit (see who the sponsors are here), or are at least something that you might find at a bar or store in this region. As always, we’ll be choosing a unique or unusual offering, and we’ll provide some suggestions for pairing our picks with food for your enhanced pleasure. Enjoy!

• My Antonia, Dogfish Head Craft Brewery. Occasionally, I’ve been known to judge a book by its cover, and I’ve purchased many a beer because of the label. But I’ve never chosen a beer because its name reminded me of a favorite book. Until now. I have fond memories of reading the Willa Cather novel that shares its title with this latest offering from Dogfish Head. And, similar to its ground-breaking literary antecedent, this “continually hopped imperial pils” is, according to the label, “a marriage of old world tradition and new world innovation.” And like the Nebraska prairies, where Cather’s free-spirited Bohemian heroine roamed, this Bohemian-style beverage is expansive, with big grassy-grainy aromas, complex citrus and fruity flavors, plenty of creamy, malty sweetness, and a driving carbonation to lift your spirits. It was textbook tasty next to a grilled burger (if only we’d had bison, right?) with Cheddar cheese, mayo, tomato, and crisp Romaine lettuce leaves. My, oh my.

And, speaking of literary drinks, I recently received a copy of In Their Cups, an anthology of poems about “drinking places, drinks, and drinkers.” Edited by A.J. Rathbun, a food/drinks writer and a poet himself, this little volume contains a heady mix of classic and newer verse, including entries from such infamous imbibers as Catullus, Li Po, and Rimbaud, as well as a few surprises, like one from Emily Dickinson — who knows, perhaps she was “the little tippler / leaning against the sun.” Best of all, it’s pocket-size, so you’ll always have a well-read drinking buddy on hand.

As always, tell us what you think. Have you attended any Baltimore Beer Week events? Are there other new beers, or beer and food pairings, that you think everyone should try? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

It’s mid September, and for every self-respecting, semi-literate Germanophilic Baltimoron — like myself — that can only mean one thing: It’s time to celebrate not one but two holidays: Der Tag and Oktoberfest.

Everything you need for starting a new tradition.

The latter, of course, is a wildly popular, mammoth festival held in Germany to promote Bavarian culture and its greatest contributions to international cuisine — namely, sauerkraut, bratwurst, and Marzen beer. The former, however, is a tiny, little-known birthday celebration for the greatest writer ever brought forth from a rowhouse on Hollins Street — namely, Henry Louis “H. L.” Mencken.

And I for one — and for many reasons — make it a point to partake in both annual events.

The first, better known as “Mencken Day,” is held every year on or about September 12 (Mencken’s birthday) and attracts a hundred or so scholars, enthusiasts, idolaters, and other ignoramuses, who gather in an upstairs room at the Enoch Pratt Library to read from works by, and discuss in minute detail the life of, the so-called “Sage of Baltimore.” For example, this year’s program boasted a speaker who “has done heroic work in exhuming the [Pratt’s] entombed collection” of sheet music favored by Mencken and other amateur musicians conjoined in the weekly Saturday Night Club gathering. A Sermon on the Mount this ain’t. But, as card-carrying members of The Mencken Society, my father and I have delighted in such pecksniffery off and on for nearly 20 years.

When unable to attend “The Day,” as was the case this year, I attempt to please Mencken’s ghost — he died in 1956 — by picking something to read, either by or about him. With hundreds of books, broadsides, papers, palimpsests, and the like already in print, there’s never a shortage of available material. And this year, another tome was added to the pile: the aptly titled Mencken on Mencken: A New Collection of Autobiographical Writings. The key word here is “new.”

Late in life (and, later, in the afterlife), Mencken revitalized his flagging reputation by publishing half a dozen autobiographical works, the most (positively) popular being the nostalgic three-volume Days collection, in which Mencken chronicled his life from infancy to the start of his career as a journalist. They were rollicking reads and solidified his reputation as one of the most influential American writers of the first half of the 20th century. Other books, published posthumously, including several memoirs and his controversial diary, spotlighted specific aspects of his career, public persona, and personal life.

So it seems hard to believe that the unabashedly self-promoting author could have more to say about himself — Mencken estimated he had published 10 million words in his lifetime — but apparently he did. The 44 pieces in Mencken on Mencken, gathered and edited by S.T. Joshi, include snippets of reportage and reflection covering facets of Mencken’s life and thought that were only hinted at or missing from his other self-histories. Written over a period of 50 years, for such popular periodicals as the New Yorker, Esquire, Vanity Fair, and the Chicago Tribune, none has ever appeared in book form. The topics cover some familiar territory but are no less entertaining — incidents from everyday life, accounts of friends and colleagues, ruminations on his careers as author, journalist, and editor, his views on politics and religion, and several travelogues from trips abroad.

It’s the latter category that’s proved most appealing, and one of my favorites seems fitting to mention here now. Called “The Beeriad,” and published in 1913, it’s a rousing account of Mencken’s encounters with the food, brews, and barmaids of Munich. Fueled by pride in his German heritage, and guided by his self-proclaimed “capacity for gusto,” Mencken let few details pass by his hungry eyes — from the genius of sauerkraut (“a perfect grass, embalmed to perfection”), to the quality of the native beers and beer halls (“the best beer in Munich is the Spatenbrau; the best place to get it is at the Hoftheater Cafe in the Residenzstrasse”), and the ideal means for a man to enjoy it all: “with the seidel of that incomparable brew tilted elegantly toward his face and his glad eyes smiling at Fraulein Sophie through the glass bottom.” It’s an outdated account and no longer (if ever) could serve as a useful guide to the city. But, in terms of the caliber of the prose and acerbity of the wit, here as elsewhere in the book, it’s certainly vintage Mencken.

Now, it would seem improper not to imbibe a little while perusing (and carousing with) Mencken. And what better beverage than what he termed “the best beer in Christendom”: the Marzen, the kind commonly served to the millions of revelers who gather in Munich to celebrate Oktoberfest, which begins (albeit confusingly) on September 18 and runs to early October.

The beer is named for March, the month in which it was traditionally brewed. Long before refrigeration, brewers in Germany would make one last vatful before summer’s heat made beer-making impossible. They brewed this last-ditch batch in early spring and lagered, or stored, it underground in ice cellars or caves until September or early October, when brewing could resume. It’s this prolonged period in “za cooler” that creates its characteristic rich, caramel sweetness, signature coppery color, and subtle hop aroma.

Oktoberfest is one of my favorite holidays for beer-picking, for several reasons. First, there are always so many choices. Nearly every brewery, on both sides of the Big Pond, rolls out its own version. Second, Oktoberfests are great all-around, very drinkable beers that provide a nice transition from the lighter tonics of summer to winter’s heartier brews. Best of all, they go with many different foods, from grilled burgers and sausages to pizza and fried chicken.

This year, I sipped on a mix of new (or new-to-me) seasonals, including some model Marzens and a few non-standard autumn ales, while supping on a simple dinner of pan-seared bratwurst, served with either broiled potato wedges and asparagus, or pasta with sauteed zucchini and tomato sauce. All six performed very well at the table, in different ways.

Paulaner Oktoberfest-Märzen, from Paulaner Salvator Thomasbrau AG, is a staunch traditionalist. Although lighter in color than some Oktoberfests, its roasted malt aroma, creamy-soft, full body, and nutty sweetness make it a classic. It’s a very approachable, very versatile amber lager that said “jah!” to the salty, crsipy veggies.

Dominion Octoberfest, Old Dominion Brewing. This is as close to a traditional Marzen as you can get this side of Bavaria. Smooth and malty, slightly sweet with a hint of hops, it was delicious with the smoky, spicy meat and wunderbar with honey mustard.

Octoberfest, Samuel Adams. This seasonal deliciously illustrates the possibilities to be had when you combine Old World charm and Yankee ingenuity. Dark orange in color, and giving off a robust malty fragrance, this Marzen is slightly hoppier and has a spicy bite to match the zesty tomato sauce.

Prosit!, Clipper City Brewing Company. The brewery calls this an “Imperial Oktoberfest Lager,” which means it’s richer and more potent than its Bavarian brethren. Truth is, despite the skull-and-crossbones label, and 9.0% alcohol content, this is a sweet, creamy, good-natured Marzen that loves a bratwurst.

Oktoberfest, Otter Creek Brewing. With its ruddy color and bold use of hops, this beer is technically an amber ale. But I think its slightly pronounced bitterness complements (and compliments) the expected malt sweetness, creating a crisp, welcome alternative to the common seasonal.

Tumbler Autumn Brown Ale, Sierra Nevada Brewing Co. This is a nut brown ale — emphasis on the “nut” — with an earthy aroma and a dry, mildly bitter flavor that suited the acidic asparagus. Yet it’s sweet (there are hints of burnt caramel and roast coffee) and rich enough to serve as a stand-in at any Oktoberfest offering.

So, there you have it, the perfect ingredients for celebrating the two September events in style. Or if, like Scribbleskiff, you can’t post at either party this year, then combine efforts and establish a new tradition: Grab a book on Mencken, fill a krug with Marzen, don some dirndls or lederhosen, and host your own “Mencktoberfest.”

As always, tell us what you think. Have you ever been to Oktoberfest or “Mencken Day”? Are there other autumn seasonals that you think everyone should try? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

As I’m sure you have heard by now, this week marks the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. And, as I’m sure you remember, August 29, 2005, was an awfully stormy Monday, a supernatural event that has given rise to more than a few superlatives over the years. From the sounds of things, there will be no lack of handwringing, fingerpointing, and pontificating this go-round.

I’m not sure why we as a people make a fuss over events at five- and 10-year intervals, since my guess is that at any other point, like the third or sixth anniversaries, the emotions are no less acute. Nonetheless, for better or worse, we do. And this week my mind has been occupied by recollections of New Orleans, too.

Listening to jazz is one form of self-preservation

But, perhaps in reaction to the general overreaction, I’m trying to conjure up memories of an antediluvian world, if you will, a happier, drier version of the Big Easy that I had the pleasure of visiting several times prior to 2005. Escapist? Of course! (Need I remind you of what you are reading?) But as John Ashbery once quipped, “we need all the escapism we can get.” Now more than ever.

So, while woolgathering during the woeful newscasts these past few days, my self-reflections kept returning to the three activities I always indulged in once I reached the Crescent City, no matter how brief or over-programmed my stay: having a native cocktail and an authentic creole meal in the French Quarter, catching at least one set at a jazz club, and nosing through the stacks in a used bookstore. Alas, it doesn’t appear that I will be getting back there any time soon (despite a very tempting invitation to join a group of dear friends heading there to mark a 40th birthday). So, I’ve prepared a to-do list for a staycation to the New Orleans in my mind. I’m posting the following, typically Scribbleskiffian useless bits of info in case you want to come along, too (and I hope that you do).

On my very first trip to NOLA (that’s “New Orleans, Louisiana,” BTW), I met the Sazerac, a beguiling whiskey-based elixir that is reportedly the first cocktail invented in America. I’d had plenty of bourbon drinks at that point, including my fair share of Old Fashioneds, but what made this homegrown concoction so intriguing was that its main ingredients, absinthe (or Pernod, both of which taste like licorice) and rye, were so “flavor-forward,” as the foodies say. I’m sure I’d had rye by then, too — my dad, a loyal Marylander, always had a handle of Pikesville Rye on hand — but I doubt if I had ever noticed its uniquely dry and spicy bite. The Sazerac (and my generous waiter on that fateful night, who was pleased to see my eyebrows rise after the first sip) brought that sensation to my attention. Now, whenever I want a “taste” of New Orleans, I shake out a Sazerac. It’s a little tricky but worth the effort. Here’s one recipe I’ve tried (from drinksmixer.com):

Sazerac Cocktail

1 tsp sugar
1 1/2 oz rye whiskey
1 dash Deva absinthe
2 dashes Peychaud bitters
2 dashes Angostura bitters
1 twist lemon peel
ice

Chill an old-fashioned glass by filling with crushed ice. In another glass mix the sugar with the bitters dissolving the sugar. Add some ice, stirring to chill. In the old-fashioned glass remove the ice and pour in the absinthe coating the entire glass. Remove the excess absinthe. Add the rye whiskey and bitters/sugar mixture. Add the lemon twist.

Oh my, rye!

However, if you’re not a fan of whiskey but want to see how rye can influence a malt-based beverage, you’ll be glad to learn that some microbrewers have been experimenting with the grain in their beers to good effect. I recently enjoyed Bear Republic’s Hop Rod Rye, which as the name suggests featured a balance of hoppy and earthy aromas and flavors, and Honey Rye Ale, from Lake Placid Brewery, which was sweet and slightly astringent. Here’s an interesting article on the rise of rye-based beers, in case you’re getting thirsty.

Now that we’ve filled our glasses, it’s time for a little mood music. A long time ago, I learned the difference between so-called “Dixieland” and New Orleans-style jazz. But don’t ask what that is — as my friend, mentor, and curmudgeonly jazz critic Hayden Carruth would have said, “I know, but I’m tired of telling.” Suffice it to say, like pornography, you’ll know it when you see it. And there’s no better venue to see (and hear) the real thing than the dingy, cramped, stifling, and always “hot” Preservation Hall. The Grand Ole Opry it ain’t, and as tourist traps go, it’s got all the charm of a rotting roadside gin joint. But for $5 or so, you can sit close enough to stuff a dollar in the bell of a trombone during requests and listen to jazz the way it’s been played pretty much since the turn of the last century.

Earlier this year the house band, which occasionally records and tours, put out a new record, Preservation: An Album to Benefit Preservation Hall & the Preservation Hall Music Outreach Program. As the rather unwieldy title indicates, the effort is an attempt to raise money for the many local musicians who were displaced (or worse) by the hurricane. But what makes this LP more interesting and valuable than a typical tribute record is that the band invited a variety of artists, from pop to hip-hop and elsewhere, to jam with them. Among my favorites are Jim James from My Morning Jacket soft-singing “St. James Infirmary” (here’s live footage from the recent Newport Folk Festival) and Tom Waits’s gravelly, off-kilter version of “Tootie Ma Is a Big Fine Thing.”

Listen to “Tootie Ma Is a Big Fine Thing” (mp3):

Not only do these combos prove to be good representations of the native music but they also offer an excellent example of what a delicious gumbo is New Orleans-style jazz — a heady mishmash of traditional and novel styles, based on standard compositions, with lots of improvisation.

Another, more recent contribution to that region’s musical philanthropy is the Gulf Aid AllStars project. Organized by rapper Mos Def, and featuring members of Preservation Hall, as well as Lenny Kravitz, and Trombone Shorty, the group released an original composition (and a video), the jammin’ “It Ain’t My Fault,” available on iTunes, to provide relief from the latest insult on the Delta and its environs. I should also mention Backatown, the new LP from Trombone Shorty & Orleans Avenue (who played “One Night Only” recently on Letterman). It’s a funked-out, brassy answer to the question, who’s making good jazz records these days?

And now that we’ve got the fluids and music flowing, it’s time to settle in with a good book. One of my greatest used bookstore discoveries was Faulkner House Books, off Jackson Square, a boutique-like setting situated in the eponymous writer’s one-time residence. It is a destination spot for any bibliophile seeking trinkets from Southern and other literary luminaries — I once splurged on an autographed copy of A Craving for Swan, a collection of essays by Transylvanian transplant Andrei Codrescu. I really did.

But the writer I have mapped out now is Tennessee Williams, who would turn 100 in 2011. Although “10,” as he often signed his letters, wasn’t born in New Orleans, he moved there in 1939 and called it his home for much of the rest of his life. And, most important, he chose the city as the setting for many of his most absorbing plays, most notably the storm-tossed Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (watch the corny 1958 movie trailer) and the sultry A Streetcar Named Desire (check out this serio-comic interpretation by The Simpsons). My favorite, The Glass Menagerie, though set in St. Louis, is a Southern sympathizer for sure and will be reissued early next year by New Directions, with an introduction by playwright Tony Kushner. (You may read an excerpt here.) As a “memory play,” it seems like the most suitable material for perusal as we raise a glass and blow out another candle for New Orleans. Especially since, as Williams observed, “in memory, everything happens to music.”

As always, tell us what you think. What are your favorite memories of New Orleans? Are there other native foods, musical styles, or authors that you think everyone should know about? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

Recently, I overheard my girls singing the words to “Daughters” by John Mayer. This pleased me, but perhaps not for the reason you’d think. Although I like it when my kids sing, I generally don’t like them singing songs like that written by a guy like this.

Nonetheless, I am a big fan of any art that celebrates the relationship between dads and their daughters. And, as luck would have it, around the time they were crooning “fathers, be good to your daughters,” I received a review copy of My Father’s Places, a new memoir about growing up with the poet Dylan Thomas, written by his only daughter, Aeronwy. It’s a lyrical, episodic, and entertaining little book, revealing an intimate side of a man who cultivated a very commanding public persona. It’s also somewhat of a cautionary tale for any father who wants to be a famous writer, or vice-versa.

It should be no surprise to anyone familiar with the facts of his bio that Thomas, also a playwright and the author of one of my most cherished holiday stories, A Child’s Christmas in Wales, proves to be an overgrown child at home. According to his daughter, he shirked his work whenever he could, producing a “sea of sorries” for publishers, and spent most of his time (and money) in local restaurants or pubs — from which his young daughter often had to collect him and help him “negotiate the path down to the front door.” And though he was a kind and loving head of household, he didn’t exactly rule the roost. Once, as Aeron vividly recalls, Dylan came running into the kitchen from the lavatory, “braces falling down over his two-sizes-too-big trousers, [and] shouting, ‘Rat.’” He climbed onto the table, “screaming like a stuck pig.” It took all the women, including his wife, Caitlin, his daughter, and Dolly, the housekeeper, to chase the “dark-grey-mud-coloured creature” out into the garden.

What’s more revealing is that, though he wrote in grandiloquent detail about his own carefree and wondrous childhood — most famously in the poem, “Fern Hill” — the hard truth is that his daughter’s upbringing was anything but idyllic. The book opens in 1949, with six-year-old Aeron and family moving to a dilapidated boathouse on the edge of the small Welsh village of Laugharne (the real-life setting for his masterpiece, Under Milk Wood). The family had very little money, suffered a continual influx of Thomas-seeking revelers, and navigated a watery landscape that, though rocky, bird-filled, and generally a “place to explore, to run around,” was muddy, damp, and cold most of the year.

And the estuary wasn’t the only chilly feature.When her father was able to write, Aeron recalls, he spent long hours locked in a shed, with the shutters closed, because he “loathed the noise of children more than the sun.” Or, as he put it, in a letter to a friend, “Our little spankers make so much noise I cannot work anywhere near them, God grenade them.” An exaggeration, for sure. But not exactly a nurturing environment, either, where a small child would feel “tickled by the rub of love.”

Thomas did dote on his daughter, however, when he chose to pay attention to her. (In addition to competing for his affection with her father’s work/play habits and long absences due to reading and lecture tours in Europe or America, another child, a boy, arrived shortly after they moved to Laugharne.) For example, Thomas loved reading books to his daughter “once or twice a week, usually on bath night,” and the passages detailing these moments are the most endearing in the book. The two Thomases would settle into “a capacious armchair … with Dad modulating his voice differently for each character,” discussing the merits of each of the books (everything from Grimm’s fairy tales to Wind in the Willows), and debating which wonder-world was better than the other. The true life of the father, then, for Dylan Thomas — who died tragically in 1953, at 39 — was steeped in fiction.

Somewhat coincidentally, I have been reading To Kill a Mockingbird at bedtime to my youngest womanly warbler. I say “somewhat coincidentally” because I originally picked the book in honor of its landmark year — it turned 50 on July 11 — and because it’s one of my “fraverits,” as my niece says. But what I’ve come to realize is that it provides an interesting contrast to what I encountered in the Thomas memoir. Although a work of fiction, Harper Lee’s prize-winning novel offers a very realistic portrayal of a positive relationship between a dad and daughter during difficult times.

Like Dylan Thomas, Atticus Finch worked long hours away from home and left others to do much of the work of raising his kids. And although his relationship with Scout was anything but “close,” at least compared to the way I interact with my daughters and son, Atticus was loving, kind, and understanding.

Unlike Dylan, however, Atticus serves as a sort of moral hero for his family. I don’t think I need to repeat any plot lines here (and I think Gregory Peck would frown if I did), but suffice to say that, through both actions and words, Atticus shows his children how to grow up. That, as he tells his daughter, Scout, “sometimes we have to make the best of things,” and show empathy for others and learn humility for yourself. Traits that, sadly, Thomas didn’t share. Sure, Atticus is a made-up character, but one that I think most real-life dads would like to emulate.

So, if you want to celebrate, and perhaps enhance, your relationship with your female children, I recommend buying a copy of My Father’s Places, or even dusting off your copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from 8th grade. But don’t waste your time learning the words to a song written by a guy you wouldn’t want anywhere near your daughter.

As always, tell us what you think. Are you a fan of Dylan Thomas? If so, which is your favorite story or poem? Do you think characters in a novel can serve as role models? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

Sometimes, the best way to learn something about yourself is to make a connection with someone else.

I suspect my wife and oldest daughter understand this. Over the past several years, they have developed a close relationship in an unlikely way — by reading books. Most moms and their girls pal up over other, more traditional activities, like shopping for shoes or cooking. And though this pair shares those interests, their bond over books is strongest, right now.

It all started with the first Harry Potter, when Anna was 9 or so. They took turns reading it one summer, discussing it at length, loaning it to their friends, and, eventually, rereading it prior to the movie’s release. They cruised likewise through each subsequent volume in the series, as it was published, and never let up. They’ve since progressed to other similar fantasy books, including the Twilight cycle, and more. I suspect (and hope) that their hobby has become a habit that will continue for many years to come.

To be honest, I’ve always felt a twinge of jealousy over this relationship. Although I haven’t had much interest in the books they’ve read — and wouldn’t want to intervene for fear of changing the dynamics — I have relished the thought of sharing a similar experience.

My son, Will, my likely partner, had never shown enough interest in books to make this happen. He was too young to be swept up by the first wave of Hogwarts hogwash, and though I read the first few books to him at bedtime, he never developed an affinity for any of it. He has always enjoyed having me read books to him, especially adventure stories, and we’ve devoured quite a few over the years — everything from Treasure Island and the Hardy Boys series to The Bones on Black Spruce Mountain by David Budbill and The Neddiad by Daniel Pinkwater. All terrific books, mind you, but it’s not the same kind of give-and-take affair.

Occasionally a book has caught his attention, such as Dave Barry’s fluffy Peter and The Starcatchers or the lightweight Wimpy Kid diaries, and even more challenging novels, such as Go Big or Go Home, which he liked so much he wrote about it here. But he has struggled with reading, for many reasons, and so, few books seem to inspire him enough to invest his free time, or to involve me, in the way that Potter did it for Anna and Amy.

Until now, that is. Early this year, Will discovered The Lightning Thief, the first in the Percy Jackson & The Olympians series. And suddenly his attitude toward reading was transformed, in epic proportions, from apathy to absorption. His only struggle involved putting the book down, no matter the time of day, and he practically raced to finish it in time for the release of the movie — in fact, he declared (older-sister-style) that the family could not go see the film version over spring break until he had read all 375 pages. (He did finish it in time, by the way, and we did all go to the movie, which we thoroughly enjoyed.) Best of all, he decided to conquer the whole series, on his own, and asked me to join him.

You may be wondering (as I was, at first), what’s the hook? What made such a difference? Well, there are several causes I can point to, after having read the book and seen it adapted for the big screen. For one thing, Rick Riordan, the author, creates a fast-paced, fresh and funny take on the quintessential hero’s quest. Think Harry Potter meets Greg Heffley. It’s magical and mysterious, hip and humorous. What’s not to like about that?

Also, and this is important personally for Will and for me, Percy (whose full name is Perseus) has to deal with some learning and behavioral issues — for instance, he struggles with reading and sometimes experiences “moments,” as he says, “when my brain falls asleep or something and the next thing I know I’ve missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it.” As it turns out, Percy’s disabilities stem from the fact that he was born a demi-god, the child of a mortal woman and a Greek god — one of “the big three,” in fact — so he is better equipped for the ancient world than his own.

Sadly my own issues are far more pedestrian, though no less surprising, at least to Will. My confession to him, when agreeing to our mini “book club,” that I am a tediously slow reader was an eye-opener. He assumed that, because I have made a career out of reading and writing, I would speed past him as we moved through the series together. Truth is, my natural word-for-word pace is slower than average. In other words, I read every word — sometimes more than once — and only partly because I have to. Am I a slow reader because of my profession, or did I find a job that suits my, well, abilities? I don’t know, and I don’t care. It’s what I do and I like it this way. It’s an occupational hazard, yes, but it has put the two of us on a level playing field.

However, I think the biggest reason that Will and I have been captivated by the adventures of Percy and his pals is the author’s use of Greek mythology to tell his tale of heroism. Sure, plenty of heroes (super and otherwise) have occupied Will’s world over the years: everything from comic books about Superman, Batman and Spider-man, to the “Rescue Heroes” dolls he played with for hours as a little boy, to his obsession with the Star Wars trilogies, and, lately, to the sports heroes he talks about as if they were his companions. But all of these characters, real or imagined, are drawn, directly or indirectly, from the sources that fill the pages of the Percy Jackson books.

As any faithful Scribbleskiff reader knows, the Greek myths are my Achilles heel. (Pun intended, and here’s a reason why.) They are some of the oldest stories in the civilized world and they are packed with enough meaning and possibility to be as relevant and useful in Homer’s world as they are in Homer Simpson’s. In other words, mythology is the stuff that little boys (of any age) are made of.

And this distinction must have contributed to Will’s low interest in the Potter books. A story about adolescent wizards flying around on brooms and conjuring spells is fantastically (and lucratively) entertaining, for sure, but their world is make-believe and exists outside the realm of “real life.” On the other hand, reading about how a relatively normal kid must learn to live with his troubling legacy (he is not “just your average son of Poseidon,” after all), as well as the discovery that his disabilities are actually his strengths, must be more universally meaningful and gratifying.

At least it is to me. And to Will, who is clearly enjoying our voyage of discovery. He is already way ahead of me and has reached the point where he’ll say, “Dad, wait till you get to the part where [such-and-such] happens…” And when I ask, “Why, what’s going to happen?” He’ll simply reply, smiling slyly, “You’ll have to read it for yourself.” Sometimes, and this is most exciting to me, he’ll ask, “Where are you now? Did you get to the part about the blue food?” And I’ll say, “Will, there’s no blue food.” “Sure there is, Dad,” he’ll say confidently. Then he’ll flip my book open, thumb through a few pages, and with total recall point to one small paragraph early in a book he read three books ago and say, “here, see?” Will’s eagerness to lead, and my desire to follow, is proving to be the most palpable benefit of our new partnership.

All this talk of fathers and sons and books and mythology has caused me to reconsider a volume of poetry I received earlier this year but only partially read. And it’s caused me to reconsider the notion of relationships in general.

Called My Minotaur, the book is actually a collaboration between Keith Holyoak, a translator and poet, and his son Jim, an artist. (You can read more about the book, including an excerpt, here.) My Minotaur seemed intriguing, not only for the title and enigmatic cover, but also for the idea of it: combining poems and illustrations. It can be a potentially rewarding endeavor that, unfortunately, rarely pays off. Quite often the written work and the work of art (say, photography) are created separately and thus have little in common when commingled. The result can be inspiring but incoherent.

But that’s not the case here. The Holyoaks worked together to create this book, and nearly every tightly crafted, often terse poem sits opposite an equally skillful illustration. More important, many of the poems and drawings show a direct correlation, as with “In the Damp Cellar,” a brief poem of four couplets that is rendered by the artist as a stack of books, with each pair of lines written on the spines. It’s an effective way of giving greater depth to an otherwise brief experience. The same holds true with “Portrait of Jesse Villareal,” a narrative poem about two artists encountering, mingling with and interpreting the same subject matter (you can listen to and watch that encounter on this video): The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

In other instances, where the ties between the visual and literal are much harder to discern and more open to imagination, the works still seem to sprout from the same source of inspiration. These poems and illustrations interact with and react to each other on the page, rather than simply coexisting across the expanse of whiteness between them. And that is the source of their power and beauty.

This to me serves as the perfect metaphor for any good relationship, father-and-son or otherwise — especially one that’s collaborative (from the Latin, meaning “to toil together”) and thus becomes as varied and expressive, mysterious and linear, argumentative and harmonious, etc., as any of the entries in this handsome book.

I didn’t fully appreciate My Minotaur until I began my own literary relations with my son, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps the experience of interacting with Will for a common cause — his newfound interest in books, for instance — got me thinking, about the benefits of reading books, the importance of family ties, the necessity of coactivity, and so on. And maybe that’s the point: cooperation can lead to edification and growth. I suspect the Holyoaks would agree with this.

Right now my son and I are only co-readers. But perhaps some day soon my role with Will, who has also expressed an interest in (and shown some aptitude for) writing and creativity, will be transformed to that of co-authors, as well.

As always, tell us what you think. Have you read either of these books? What are your stories from Greek mythology? Do you think artistic collaboration is a good idea or a bad one? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

All too often, as I’ve come to discover, it takes the death of a writer before I finally take a serious interest in his or her books.

Such was the case a few times in the past year or so. After hearing about the death of someone whose work I either knew in passing, such as John Updike, or had knowingly passed over, such as Jonathan Williams, I headed to the shelves, mine or the library’s, and began pulling out volumes.

Rereading Lucille Clifton is a blessing in disguise.

Sadly it is the case again this week. Lucille Clifton, a prize-winning Maryland-based poet who held several high-profile positions, including the state’s Poet Laureateship, died on February 13 after a long battle with cancer.

However, unlike most of the authors I’ve discussed in this space, I had a personal connection to Clifton that outweighed my interest in her public output. In other words, though I am fairly uninformed about Clifton’s books and their contents, a near-encounter with her more than a decade ago left me feeling we were somehow linked.

In early 1995, Clifton chose me to participate in a literary event sponsored by HoCoPoLitSo, a highly respected arts organization in Columbia, Md. On a whim, and at the considerable urging of my mother-in-law, I had entered a poetry contest for which Clifton was the judge — and the prize. The group of winners, which included a dozen or more pretty well-known local writers (and me!), was invited to give a reading with Clifton in May of that year, in front of a large audience.

I was thrilled. It felt like a vote of confidence, a real Sally Field moment for my burgeoning career in the literary arts. Even though I had read very few of Clifton’s poems — in fact, I (ever so wrongly) confused hers with Maya Angelou’s — I knew who she was and sensed that she already had a place reserved in the poetry Pantheon. I couldn’t wait to stand next to her at the podium.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance. Although I participated in the reading and had a great time — and even befriended a few writers with whom I later helped form the Wineglass Court Poets workshop, which still meets regularly — I never read with Lucille Clifton. As it turns out, she had gotten a better offer for that day: to give a reading for the Academy of American Poets at The New School in New York.

(Ironically, as I found out later, through the Academy’s newsletter, Clifton’s reading buddy that day was Hayden Carruth, my former teacher, longtime mentor, correspondent, and friend! Here’s a picture of them together, presumably discussing the merits of my poems.)

Although none of us could blame Clifton for choosing to read at a hip New York venue, rather than an indifferent interfaith center in Columbia, I still felt a little cheated. I secretly hoped I’d have another opportunity to meet her and say thanks. But none materialized and, sadly, none ever will. Still, the news of Clifton’s death has afforded me the chance to remember that happy day in May, and it has given me an excuse to read, and reconsider, some of her poems.

Clifton published more than a dozen volumes of poetry in her lifetime, as well as a memoir and many books for children. What I picked up from the library, though, was Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems 1988-2000, which seemed the most appropriate because it includes a selection of the poems she likely would have read at the HoCoPoLitSo event.

It’s a book I remember reading through when it was published in 2000, partly in honor of our “near miss” and because it won the National Book Award. But I didn’t remember much about its contents or my reaction to them until I opened it again last month.

What struck me immediately was how candid, emotionally raw, and confrontational many of her poems were. I had forgotten how inaccessible they had felt to me at the time, how alienating, because, though I tried, I just couldn’t relate to the subjects she celebrated (and, at times, railed against) — her working-class African-American heritage, her femininity and sexuality, her role as a wife and mother, etc.

With titles like, “poem to my uterus,” “poem in praise of menstruation,” “why some people be mad at me sometimes,” “slaveships,” and “my dream about being white,” these poems were almost too hard to read, let alone comprehend or enjoy, for a young man raised in a white, fairly affluent, privileged and protected world. Not that it should matter, but it did and, I’m afraid to admit, it kept me from delving much deeper.

But in rereading this book now, 10 years later, I have found a new appreciation for Clifton and her poems. Sure, I’m older and likely closer to the age she was when she wrote some of these poems. And I’ve also shared some of her storied experiences, namely aging and parenthood.

But, more to the point, what I’ve come to realize is that it’s not what she wrote about, but how she wrote it, that is most appealing. For one thing, she crafted her words in a spare, informal style, unadorned by traditional poetic trappings and often without punctuation or capitalization. And that honest simplicity is something I seek out in other writers (such as Li-Young Lee) and try to emulate in my own poems.

More important, what I see now is the fact that, in spite of her often combative tone, her poems couldn’t contain or conceal her humanity. In other words, in the face of even the harshest realities, Clifton maintains a warmth and kindness, and even a little humor, that disarms and delights. For example, among her “wishes for sons” are “cramps,” “a strange town / and the last tampon,” with “no 7-11″ in sight. Most of all, she hopes (as only a mother could),

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.

Here’s another example, from an untitled poem in her book Quilting, that I imagine was inspired by the many encounters she had, and readings she gave, with folks like my friend Carruth.

when i stand around among poets
i am embarrassed mostly,
their long white heads,
the great bulge in their pants,

their certainties.

i don’t know how to do
what i do in the way
that i do it. it happens
despite me and i pretend

to deserve it

but i don’t know how to do it,
only sometimes when
something is singing
i listen and so far

i hear.

This is a sentiment that I think transcends its subject matter. Anyone who has accomplished a seemingly difficult task, one beyond all “certainties,” can understand and relate to this feeling of accidental triumph. Clifton’s gift, then, seems to be the ability to embrace her fears and harness them to solve the mysteries, large and small, she uncovers in life. And that’s a lesson that anyone — of any age, race, or upbringing — can learn.

I encourage you to get a copy of Blessing the Boats and read it all the way through. You may be surprised at what you learn and “hear.” As an incentive, I’ll leave you with the title poem from that collection. It seems like a fitting way to say thanks and farewell to a poet who, though I never met, nonetheless has become important to me — “despite me”:

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back   may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

As always, tell us what you think. Do you have memories of Lucille Clifton to share? Which poems or books of hers would you recommend to others? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

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