RUMORS OF WAR

When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom...
—Mark 13:7-8a

Then the king of Sodom, the king of Gomorrah, the king of Admah, the king of Zeboiim, and the king of Bela (that is, Zoar) went out, and they joined battle in the Valley of Siddim with King Chedorlaomer of Elam, King Tidal of Goiim, King Amraphel of Shinar, and King Arioch of Ellasar, four kings against five.
—Genesis 14:8-9

In our weekly staff meetings, we are reading sections of the book of Genesis as broken out in a commentary by renowned Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann. This week's "section" was chapter 14. Craziness abounds as Abram's nephew Lot is captured in the above mentioned fray. Abram takes his own horde of trained men and frees Lot. When the war ends, Abram, by right, is allowed the spoils of war and he refuses! He is simply content with the freedom of his nephew and the ability to continue to inhabit his own land. Now there is a lesson for today's warmongers. Free the people of Iraq, if that is truly what you intended, and then leave their oil to them.

I am currently reading An Iliad by Alessandro Barrico. Barrico has reimagined The Iliad with a modern audience in mind. His retelling is economical in language, told in sparse prose and condensed scenes, unlike a great verse translation like that from Robert Fagles. That doesn't mean that Barrico's book is bad. It has its moments.

One of the interesting features is that the story is told by twenty-one different characters, each with his, her, or its own chapter, rather than a single narrator. This collage of voices gives us a slightly different view of events while still following the basic outline of Homer's story.

Another piece that intrigues me is that Barrico is trying to draw analogies between the unending war of the Trojans and Achaeans, and our modern thirst for bloodshed and carnage. The bodies still pile up in Barrico's version of events:

Sarpedon was hit in one thigh, and the eager bronze penetrated to the bone. His companions seized him, without even pulling out the spear. The long spear was heavy, but they carried him off, like that. And Odysseus, seeing his companion Tlepolemus die, rushed to finish off Sarpedon. He killed Coeranus and Alastor and Chromius, and Alcander and Halius and Noemon and Prytanis. He would have gone on killing if Hector hadn't suddenly appeared, clothed in shining bronze, terrifying. [38]

Hector almost sounds like a god when he appears before Odysseus, except that the gods are only alluded to as distant figures here. They have all but been removed from the text. As Barrico writes in his introduction: "I removed all the appearances of the gods...They are probably the aspect of the poem most extraneous to a modern sensibility, and often break up the narrative, diffusing a momentum that should rightly be palpable." Barrico doesn't feel them necessary. I disagree. The oftentimes provide momentum and motivation, giving us rationale for the actions of characters. As a reader, I don't have to take the gods as literal beings, although there is nothing wrong with that, either. But, don't pretend they don't matter or that they insult my "modern sensibilities."

The other issue I have with Barrico's telling of the tale is that he has italicized portions of chapters that are pieces that he added to the text. Although they are few, they are also the most stilted pieces of writing in the story. They also draw attention to Barrico and away from the text, the tale itself. Okay, okay, I get it. You are a writer. This is your postmodern intrusion into the text. I don't want to read about you, Alessandro Barrico. You have inserted yourself as a god into the tale, and have diffused momentum, which is why you claim you left the gods themselves out of the text.

I have read three-quarters of the book and will probably finish tonight. This is a good introduction to Homer's tale. It is a quick read that is fairly well written, even if it does have its faults and quirks. The best thing, though, is that it got me to dust off my copies of Robert Fagles's translations of The Iliad and The Odyssey, and to peek between their covers again.

LINCOLN'S MELANCHOLY

Whereas “melancholy” in Lincoln’s time was understood to be a multifaceted phenomenon that conferred potential advantages along with grave dangers, today we tend to discount its complexities. Psychiatrists see only a biological brain disease. Psychologists see only errors in thinking. That is, is you don’t like yourself, or you feel hopeless, or you see life as fundamentally dissatisfying, you’ve fallen victim to what researchers call “learned helplessness.” By some blend of bad genes and bad experience, you have come to see the world in dark hues. Therapy and medication can help you to see the world the way healthy optimists do. (134)

What’s striking is that all five of the “mature” defenses [psychiatrist George] Vaillant identifies were present in Lincoln as he managed the country and himself. Humor, as we’ve seen, allow a person to fully engage with reality while enjoying its absurdities. Healthy people also practice suppression, which, quite unlike denial, is the selective, forceful act of pushing away the oppressive stimuli; anticipation, which involves dealing with the moment in part by looking ahead to the good and the bad that lie in the future; altruism, or placing the welfare of others above oneself; and sublimation, which involves channeling passions into art. (182-183)

—Lincoln's Melancholy by Joshua Wolf Shenk

Thank God I am not a "healthy optimist." Thank God I am not in therapy or on medication, yet. Thank God I am fairly good at incorporating most of the five "mature" defenses into my life most of the time. It is taking time, but I become more comfortable with my own darkness, my own depression, my own melancholy, with each passing month. Some are easier than others.

"Healthy optimists" scare me because they oftentimes seem to me to live in escapist fantasies or survey their environment through the lens of an unrealistic worldview. I believe that the current executive branch of the federal government is filled with "healthy optimists" who just happen to have the nuclear button in one hand and a warped reading of Biblical apocalyptic texts in the other. No wonder I have "nuclear dreams."

Joshua Wolf Shenk, on the other hand, gives us a look at one of our greatest presidents, Abraham Lincoln, and how his melancholy, his dark outlook on life, helped to shape his presidency and his handling of the Civil War. The book gives great insight into (1) the nineteenth century view of melancholy/depression; (2) its contrast with our "modern" understanding of the same; (3) Lincoln's lifelong struggle with it; and (4) how Lincoln was shaped by it for the better of his person and for the country.

It really was one of those books that spoke deeply to me because it (1) is well-written; (2) is well-researched and noted, with seven years of research and writing undergirding it; (3) is written by someone who struggles with his own melancholy/depression; and (4) speaks to my own struggle. Lincoln's Melancholy was a book that I needed to read at the particular moment it entered into my life, in the same way that The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, by Andrew Solomon, and Unholy Ghost: Writers on Depression, edited by Nell Casey, did.

Thank God for the friend that recommended it to me. Now, I do the same for you.

SNOW DREAMS

SNOW DREAMS

I am the tender of the fire when the snows come. And they come. I am the protector of the hearth. Still they come.

I am not particularly fond of snow, but I do appreciate the change that it brings. Time seems to slow down. The landscape harbors a new silence. Boundaries disappear. All places become fluid, liminal zones. Snow also makes me think of two books that I enjoy.

The first is The Promise of Winter: Quickening the Spirit on Ordinary Days and in Fallow Seasons, with reflections by theologian Martin Marty and photographs by his photographer son Micah Marty. Each pair of pages has a photograph of a snowy landscape on one page and on the opposite one or two verses from a Psalm, a reflection upon the Psalm and the photograph, and an additional Bible verse that further elucidates the Psalm, reflection, and photograph. It is a book that I find soothing, especially when I am in a sad or dark moment. It is a way to center myself again, to reflect in my own right upon the photograph, the theme, the Biblical verses. As I recently read in Lincoln's Melancholy by Joshua Wolf Shenk: "Modern studies confirm the salutary effects of faith on depression." (195) I already knew that through my own experience but it was nice to have it stated by someone who also identifies as a depressive—Shenk, himself. (This was also the passage of Lincoln's Melancholy I flipped open to when trying to decide if I wanted to read it. As soon as I read the passage, I knew that I was going to read the book.)

The second is Dreamers and Desperadoes: Contemporary Short Fiction of the American West, edited by Craig Lesley. This was a book I had to read in college for an American literature class. The primary reason that I associate this book with snow is due to Ivan Doig's short story, "Winter of '19," which Doig adapted from Dancing at the Rascal Fair specifically for this collection. The story is a harrowing account of sheep farmers—a farmer, his son Varick, and his brother-in-law Rob—that must head out in a blizzard to get hay for their flocks or risk losing all of their sheep. The trade-off is that they themselves may perish in the snow. And, if that was not enough, there is tension between the narrator and Rob. As he states, they are "brothers-in-law, partners in sheep, enemies." However, they must work together, against the snow and cold and blindness that nature has conjured or they will perish. Every time I read the story my stomach churns.

Snow. A dream in itself. A blanket that buries dreams.

CHRISTMAS DREAMS

Friday evening, the wife, the child, and I visited the bridge that spans the Stuck River in Sumner for the official bridge lighting ceremony, which is adorned in more than 10,000 Christmas lights. Santa Claus then passed by in a horse-drawn carriage, which was followed by the Old Cannery Warehouse "train" and a vintage fire-engine, both decked out in Christmas lights. The child was especially smitten with all of the lights and activity.

WANDERINGS

The child and I decided to escape the house for awhile on Friday morning, but also wished to avoid all of the crowds and craziness of Black Friday. Therefore, we went for a walk with downtown Puyallup as our destination. The goal was to pick up the Thanksgiving issue of The Herald (formerly The Pierce County Herald, which was formerly The Puyallup Herald), the local weekly newspaper. We bought it from a newspaper box in front of the post office and went inside Central Perk, a local coffee shop, in order that I could get a peppermint hot chocolate and the child could eat her snacks, consisting of dried berries, cheese bunny crackers, and Cheerios.

As soon as we sat down the rain began to pour from the sky, adding to the record monthly rainfall (for any recorded month) for the area. So, we waited out the rain. It was rather nice, because the two of us just had to slow way down, be in the company of one another, and wait. When the rain mostly died down, after about half an hour, we started wandering back home. We passed the barbershop that I frequent and there were no other customers. That meant an unexpected visit to the barber. The child read books and waited patiently while my hair was cut.

After the haircut, the child and I wandered home, out of the cold and back into the warmth of our home for lunch and naps.

---

An aside: the barbershop I go to is owned by two brothers, one of whom lives half a block from me. The one who is my neighbor is also an artist who has created a website of stories for children called Fletcher Hill. (Check it out!) If he cuts my hair then the two of us oftentimes end up discussing his website and any changes that have occurred since he last cut my hair. This time the other brother cut my hair.

YET ANOTHER THANKSGIVING TALE

Amidst the visiting, eating, rough-housing with small children, drawing of names for Christmas presents, and other assorted happenings, was the Jones Soda Dessert Pack tasting. My preferences, from favorite to least favorite, of the five we tasted are:

(1) Blueberry Pie Soda—It smelled like artificially flavored blueberry candy and tasted like blueberry cotton candy. It was as though Jones Soda had combined their Blueberry and Cotton Candy sodas. It was right on the verge of being too sweet, but managed to walk the line without stepping over. Yum!

(2) Banana Cream Pie Soda—It smelled like banana cream pie and tasted of the same. I am not a big fan of banana cream pie, but this put a new spin on the flavor, while remaining most faithful to its namesake.

(3) Key Lime Pie Soda—I love key lime pie. I love key lime yogurt, key lime sherbet, key lime-flavored chocolate. I think you get the picture. This was faithful to the flavor of key lime desserts. I just feel that the Blueberry Pie and Banana Cream Pie sodas were better.

(4) Cherry Pie Soda—It smelled like a cherry Jolly Rancher. It tasted like artificially flavored cherry candy. It wasn't bad, but it didn't stand out, either.

(5) Apple Pie Soda—The weirdest one of the bunch. It smelled exactly like a green apple Jolly Rancher. The flavor, however, was faintly of apples and moreso of a cinnamon-sprinkled pie crust. I would probably pass on this one.

All in all, the Jones Soda tasting was a lot of fun. Thank you to the brother and the sister-in-law for bringing a small amount of quirkiness to the holiday gathering.

ANOTHER THANKSGIVING TALE

Thanksgiving dinner at the mother-in-law's house was wonderful. Three families were represented—mine, my wife's, and my sister-in-law's. Everyone brought a different dish so there was plenty of good food.

I decided to try Duvel Belgian Golden Ale from Brouwerij Moortgat. I wish I had not. Everything I had read prior to its consumption praises it. I don't believe it to be a bad beer; it was okay. It was not to my liking, though.

The appearance was its greatest asset. It is a beautiful ale. The color was a hazy, translucent, straw yellow that glowed with light. The head was enormous, lasted for quite awhile, and left behind intricate lacing.

The aroma was heavily weighted toward banana with hints of light spiciness, citrus, and alcohol. The taste was somewhat off for me. It was rather dry, almost too dry, and reminded me of a dry white wine. I felt that the aroma was much stronger than the flavor, and was not too pleased with the way that Duvel sat in my mouth.

Perhaps the advertising machine that has made Duvel ubiquitous in beer magazines and other media has overhyped this ale. Perhaps I am a ruffian. Either way, I was disappointed.

A THANKSGIVING TALE

The drive to Bremerton for Thanksgiving dinner was horrible. Holiday traffic was actually light. Conditions, though, were awful. The first half of the trip to the mother-in-law's house was in torrential rain, with a bunch of impatient drivers. The second half of the trip to the mother-in-law's house was in mixed rain and snow, which was sometimes quite heavy, also with a bunch of impatient drivers. Needless to say, I had both hands on the steering wheel all of the way over, and thought my hands were going to require surgery for removal from said wheel. I was tempted to take my favorite nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug, naproxen, due to the stress having settled into my lower back, but ultimatley refrained. The return drive home was less stressful, although we had the privilege of sitting in heavy traffic at the Tacoma Narrow's bridge. Thank God for getting us back and forth in one piece!

on THE TAPHANDLE

Last Friday, the family needed to get out of the house for a while. I suggested Trackside Pizza, which we had eaten at once before. It is a great local restaurant that opened within the past six months.

Like The Powerhouse, it is located right next to the Burlington Northern railroad tracks, hence the name. While eating you can watch, hear, and feel the trains pass. The owners have kept the interior brick of the building exposed and have decorated with a few old soda and railroad signs. The decor is minimal but in keeping with the atmosphere of the space.

The child got to make her own pizza, which will probably be more fun for her and for us when she is older. Our server asked us what topping she wanted and then brought out a circle of dough and the toppings. The wife and I helped the child add the red sauce, mozzarella cheese, black forest ham, and—a surprise addition from our server—pineapple. The child followed the server to the front of the restaurant, to their open kitchen, handed the pizza off to the cooks, and said, "Pie up!" That elicited a bunch of hoots and encouragement from the kitchen staff. The child was beaming. The child was also curious about where her pizza went, so I had to explain that it was being baked and she could have it back soon.

The child's pizza went in with the California Zephyr the wife and I ordered. Ours was a medium crust pizza glazed in olive oil and topped with barbecue sauce, mozzarella cheese, barbecue marinated chicken, red onion, and fresh cilantro. Although I favor red sauce on my pizza, this was a nice diversion, and something both the wife and I could enjoy.

I also ordered a Side Track IPA. This IPA played nice with the California Zephyr. Side Track is on tap at Trackside, but I know little else about it. I believe, after talking to some of the servers, that it may be brewed by Pacific Rim Brewing Company of White Center. I have contacted Pacific Rim to see if this is true. I have also inquired whether or not this is an IPA brewed specifically for Trackside or if this is a renamed version of their Rat City IPA.

Side Track IPA was very good. It had a nice clear, orange-copper color; frothy head; and excellent lacing. Its aroma had a hint of floral surrounded by the citrus of lemon and grapefruit. The flavor was bitter, which one would hope with an IPA, but not too bitter. The finish was long, but smoothed out nicely after the initial flavor. The citrus and hoppiness just kept going and going and going...

All in all, a great family night out with good beer and good pizza.

---

On our previous visit, I had Trackside's The B&O. This pizza comes loaded with black forest ham, pepperoni, mushrooms, Italian sausage, black olives, and mozzarella cheese, all on red sauce. I had mine minus the mushrooms. Highly recommended.

The wife previously had The Athenian. It is a pizza with olive oil and roasted garlic base, mozzarella cheese, sun dried tomato, red onion, green pepper, kalamata olive, and feta cheese. She recommends it.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Thomas Hardy's Ale by O'Hanlon's Brewery of Whimple, Devon, England

One word: heaven.

This bottle was from their 2004 bottling. It has its own identification number, No. P 54232. I drank it in a snifter, as recommended for barley wines. In fact, the wife, child, and I wandered around town today and picked up the snifter in one of the local antique shops. It was nice to wander again, after all of the rainy weather, and especially nice just to enjoy my day off with the family.

First, the appearance of this ale...
Beautiful. A slightly murky brown, translucent ruby around the edges. No head on the pour. Soft, slow carbonation. It sits well in the glass.

Second, the aroma...
Molasses and caramel at the forefront. A slight hint of alcohol, which one would expect with an alcohol by volume of 11.7 percent! Raisin and cherry. A very light smokiness well-hidden in the background.

Third, the flavor and palate...
A sweet beginning that continues for a long while and then adds just a touch of bitter in the finish. The flavor moves across the tongue from front to back then into the back of the mouth before moving into the upper throat. The full body has a slightly oily feel to it which coats the tongue while melting into and around it. Once Thomas Hardy's hits the stomach a rich warmth builds and radiates out. This is not a beer to gulp down but to quietly sip.

Fourth, the food pairing...
I had this with homemade chili. The flavors of the chili—chili powder, cumin, black pepper, tomato, hot pepper sauce—worked nicely as a contrast to the dark fruitiness and maltiness of the ale. I would imagine that this would be a wonderful barley wine to accompany dessert as well, perhaps a light, spiced or fruited, cake.

This was a wonderful surprise and an ale that I plan on having again.

PICK OF THE WEEK

The Top Foods in Federal Way would not seem a likely place to have a good selection of beer. And, it does not. Instead, it has a great selection of beer.

I visited the store a couple of weeks ago and discovered an aisle that is carefully tended by Charles. All I can say is that Charles rocks! He obviously cares very much about the beer that his section stocks. He asked me if I needed any help. I told him that I was just checking out their selection of ales because I had heard good things about them. He seemed somewhat shocked that I would drive to Federal Way to visit his beer aisle.

The next thing you know, Charles is explaining some of his beer philosophy to me. He likes to rotate his stock, and doesn't return to items too often. He has some exclusive deals with a few Pacific Northwest brewers. Some of them bottle in special sizes for the Federal Way Top Foods or give Charles "first shot" at new brews. He bottle ages some of his barley wines and other ales in the back before they even make their way to the sales floor. I was very impressed.

I don't always feel like driving to Federal Way, however, so I visited the Puyallup Top Foods. Although it is not quite as extensive in breadth or depth as the Federal Way store, the Puyallup Top Foods has a very good selection of craft beers and microbrews, as well as imported beers, especially some good Belgian ales.

The Puyallup location will primarily keep me busy in my search for great craft beer with a few trips throughout the year to Federal Way to see what Charles is up to. A joyful discovery on a whim of wandering!

INTERMISSION

To you, the devoted reader:

Whether you are a regular visitor, an intermittent visitor, or a first-time visitor, I apologize to you for my absence over the past week. Some personal crises—which will be neither discussed here and now, nor in the future, for they are mine, and not for public consumption—have kept me away from the Work Table for some time.

I have, however, had time to drink a couple of great beers, as well as read some great articles and books, which will be presented to you in the near future. Please be patient as I get my life in order!

Troy.

THE JOYS OF LIFE

The child loves hot dogs, especially those filled with processed cheese. I also happen to enjoy them as a guilty pleasure. The child also loves what she calls funny faces.

The picture on the left, taken by me, is of my masterpiece lunch presentation for her—a funny face consisting of a whole wheat slice of bread head; mustard and ketchup face; and hotdog eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and hair. The picture on the right, taken by the child, is the funny face she created later, consisting of a hotdog rhombus.

STORM DREAMS 3: ALL WASHED UP

Clockwise from upper left: (1) an area of the park across the street from my house that is under about four feet of water, none of which should be pictured from this vantage point; (2) trees now in the Puyallup River as it creeps through the park; (3) the roiling of the river looking down from the nearby bridge; (4) trees that normally are about five feet above the river now in it.

Once the river crested and the waters began to recede, we could finally get some rest. The wife and I did not get a lot of sleep on Monday evening or early Tuesday morning as the river rose. When I arrived at work, there was water damage and/or flooding everywhere. Water was dripping into our administrative space, our parking lot was partially flooded, gutters were clogged and overflowing, and our chapel's basement was flooded. I spent most of Tuesday cleaning gutters, vacuuming water out of drains and stairwells, working with the carpet cleaning crew that arrived to clean and dry out our chapel carpet, and other assorted water related tasks.

I am still trying to catch up on sleep from the anxiety, worry, work, and weariness associated with water and more water.

STORM DREAMS 2: TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

The trail just ends. In the waters of the Puyallup River. A river that should not be seen in this picture.

This is a picture of the trail that normally runs parallel to the Puyallup River rather than being submerged within it. A few hundred feet down the path are flooded apartments. The spot where I took this picture is about one hundred feet from my front porch.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Old Nick Barley Wine Style Ale by Young's

This was my first experience with a barley wine. I rather enjoyed the experience. It reminded me of a fruitier version of a brown ale.

A somewhat creamy, somewhat frothy, light brown head didn't care to hang around for too long, but did leave some nice lacing behind. The color of Old Nick was beautiful. It was a rich brown with a ruby red tinge at the edges.

The aroma was of molasses at the forefront with a slightly sweet background that seemed to be a mixture of pine and floral notes. It also smelled more like red wine than a beer. The flavor also tasted of molasses, with hints of dried fruit—raisins, dates, currants, perhaps even cherries (although very subtle on the cherries, if so). The beer sat mid-palate in the mouth, and started slightly sweet, becoming drier as the finish progressed.

I ate this with the wife's chilaquiles, which may have been just a tad too spicy for the richness of Old Nick, but it worked well, nonetheless. I imagine this would be another ale that would go well with roasted meat, potatoes, and carrots.

---

Aside number one:

The child has been observing me spending a lot of time checking out the beers I drink for appearance, aroma, flavor. She watches me as I sniff the beer, sometimes many times, or for a long moment. She watches as I take a small sip to run around my mouth before taking a larger quaff. She watches me taking notes.

So, she is sitting in her highchair watching me savor my Old Nick, and she is playing with her Halloween candy. I told her she could eat one piece. She chooses a small Hershey's chocolate bar.
She tells me she is tasting it (trying to be like me). I ask her what it tastes like. She replies, "A door!" She should know since she licks everything!

---

Aside number two:

From the website of the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms:

However, an increasing number of "flavored malt beverages" have varied and diverse characteristics which distinguish them from traditional malt beverages. Further, these characteristics are so diverse that the demarcations between "flavored malt beverages" and distilled spirits or wine products are becoming increasingly blurred and undefined.

Which is why Old Nick is called a barley wine style ale rather than just barley wine. Even though Old Nick is a barley wine, the strange hybrid drinks (flavored malt beverages), have made brewers more wary about how they package their products. Adding "style ale" to the description ensures that it is in the category of ale rather than being confused with wine, which is unacceptable to ATF. Beer and wine are separate categories and must remain such.

Therefore, brewers argue from a historical perspective. This or that type or style of ale has a history, unlike "flavored malt beverages." I find the sense of history and historical "connectedness" fascinating.

STORM DREAMS

The chill of late October gives way to the relative warmth of early November. The storms are coming.

The soil, once parched by summer sun, is now saturated with the autumnal rains of the Pacific Northwest. The ground cannot slake its thirst and continues to drink. It cannot contain the object of its appetite.

The Puyallup River, only a few hundred feet away, laps at its banks, as well as at the edge of my dreams. The Puyallup River, once bound, is now a nightmare in the making. The cold, murky, muddy water, filled with debris—twigs, branches, stumps, whole trees—eases into liminal zones it rarely visits. The water weaves between brambles and blackberry bushes. It crawls over the grass, ever closer to the purported safety of my home.

Security is a falsehood. I tremble in my sleep, which is light and fitful. I listen for the patter of the rain. I listen for its intensity. It increases. It decreases. Crescendo. Decrescendo.

Work is no relief. You would think I could go there to escape the damp and cold. But inside it is damp and cold. A broken furnace, leaking carbon monoxide, is shut off until repairs can take place—"Next week," the promise last week, and now, this week, a delay in parts. Next week becomes next week becomes next week. Water drips, and, later, streams, from a leaky roof through light fixtures and heating ducts. The drip of water plays a rhythm in small plastic bins that are scattered about the floor to catch the intruder. Tip tip tap. Tip tip tap.

A noise that becomes difficult to shake, whether asleep or awake. Tip tip tap. And, ever still, the river creeps closer...

PICK OF THE WEEK

The pick of this week is staying home. The weather was wet and dreary. We have used our wood stove approximately three times within the past five years. Now we can add two more to the total.

The past week was one in which the wife, the child, and I all seemed a little fatigued. Whenever the child went to sleep at night, I was quick to follow, which is unusual for me. I tried to read and would fall asleep. I was supposed to be writing a letter of reference for a friend, but whenever I tried to write it I would fall asleep. I would sit down in front of the television for two minutes, and, you guessed it, I would fall asleep.

The child and I were supposed to head up to Seattle to visit one of my friends. He had to postpone the visit due to illness, which was a blessing in disguise for me. It allowed me time to just stay at home, get some chores done, and relax. Laundry, cooking, chopping wood, cleaning the gutters in torrential downpour, washing dishes, and playing with the child, along with sleeping in front of the fire have been the order of the past two days. The two highlights, however, have to be, in no particular order, (1) the fire, which actually got the house a little too warm at 82 degrees Fahrenheit, and (2) the dinner of pot roast, roasted vegetables, and Big Sky Brewing Company's Moose Drool Brown Ale that I prepared.

Now, I am going to head off to try and read a few pages in St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell before I drift off to sleep near the fire. Pick of the week, indeed.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Buzzsaw Brown Seasonal Ale by Deschutes Brewery

Buzzsaw Brown is a summer seasonal that was accidentally hidden away for awhile in my basement.

The quote on the bottle reads:
Buzzsaw Brown Seasonal Ale is lightly hopped with a biscuity character and a smooth finish. Milder than a porter, brown ales are especially rewarding after a hard day's work.

Well, there is not much to argue with in that brief explanation. It is lightly hopped, with a more malty, earthy flavor. The "biscuity character" is a good description of both the taste and the texture of this ale. The taste is somewhat like a biscuit (I like to describe good beer as bread in a bottle) and the texture is thicker than some other beers. It does have a smooth finish and is milder than a porter or stout. And, this beer is especially rewarding after a hard day's work of further "frying" my eyes at a computer terminal.

The wife made chicken piccata and this is the ale I chose to accompany it. It wouldn't seem a natural choice to some, but the earthiness of Buzzsaw Brown helped to ground some of the tang and pizzazz of the lemon and capers of the piccata. It was a good pairing, as far as I am concerned.

COLLABORATIVE MONSTERS

It is Halloween. We are supposed to be keeping monsters at bay. Instead, the child and I are creating them.

Between the two of us, we possess two Mr. Potatohead bodies, the accessories for the equivalent of three Mr. or Mrs. Potatoheads, and one set of Mr. Potatohead safari accessories. We keep switching out parts. This set of eyes for that set of eyes. A beak instead of a bulbous red nose. Different shoes. An ear as a hat. After every few switches, the child has us trade the Mr. Potatoheads and begin switching parts anew. The improvisation, directed by the child of course, has created some rather interesting creatures. They are not those that will inhabit tales of generations to come, but they are monsters nonetheless, and they will be spoken of in the company of the child and I. We will whisper about them. We will remember them on cold autumn nights. They will be summoned forth on future Halloweens. They will creep about in the recesses of our minds. They will haunt us.

---

At work, for our staff meetings, we have been reading the book of Genesis as broken up in a commentary by the Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann. We are still in the early chapters of Genesis. These are the tales of the warriors of old, the men of renown, the Nephilim, the giants, the sons of God who mate with human women. These are the tales of phenomenal floods, bloodshed, angels who guard paradise with flaming swords, the rule of Nimrod. These are the tales of an age lost, perhaps of a time and places that never were.

I am reminded of the gods of old and their comingling with humans. Of chimeras, gryphons, creatures half human and half beast, horse or cow or other. Of gorgons, cyclops, minotaurs. Of Leviathan, Behemoth, alligator, hippopotamus. Of giants and dwarves. Of the Other.

I am reminded of the first chapter of For the Time Being by Annie Dillard. She is looking through her copy of Smith's Recognizable Patterns of Human Malformation. She perfectly captures the mixture of fascination and horror that we have for the Other and its siren song. She writes:

A chromosome crosses or a segment snaps, in the egg or the sperm, and all sorts of people result. You cannot turn a page in Smith's Recognizable Patterns of Human Malformation without your heart's pounding from simple terror. You cannot brace yourself. Will this peculiar baby live? What do you hope? (page 6)

The question remains there before you: What do you hope?

---

Where do monsters not lurk?

---

I started reading the new collection of short stories by Karen Russell, entitled St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves. It is also the realm of monsters. The monsters within are all too real, which is the whole point of all monsters. They are attempts for us to describe the undescribable. They may inhabit the language and landscapes of myth, legend, fable, or fairytale, but they still know how to prickle us with fear and worry.

Karen Russell sees monsters around the children in her tales and speaks those monsters to life without explicitly naming them. The anxiety is tangible, like the monsters themselves—rape, incest, mental illness, abandonment. The Bird Man may have the ability to imitate the calls of birds with beauty and talent, but he is still a molester. And, even though, we as readers don't "see" the molestation, it is hinted at, it is there, present, destroying, tearing asunder those it touches.

---

How do we protect ourselves from the monsters? How do we stop them? How do we slay them?

---

Every once in a while, the game of collaborative monsters that the child and I are engaged in is interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. We are stopped, pulled back into the space and time of the here and now. The child carries a basket of candy at my flank as I pull the door open to view those who are still trying to keep the monsters at bay.