All’s Well at Burwell’s

Chad Berginnis shares a story during the roast. To his right is Nicole LeBouef, new Deputy Assistant Administrator for NOAA for the National Ocean Service. Photo by Susan Fox.

Chad Berginnis shares a story during the roast. To his right is Nicole LeBouef, new Deputy Assistant Administrator for NOAA for the National Ocean Service. Photo by Susan Fox.

Warmth is a concept with many dimensions. In the realm of physics, it is a relative measure of temperature. In reference to weather, perhaps the most common subject of human conversation, it is a measure of the kinetic energy of the atmosphere around us, which is constantly changing. Mark Twain has been erroneously quoted as saying, “Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” His friend Charles Dudley Warner sort of said it, but no mind. On Tuesday, February 7, in Charleston, South Carolina, no one around me had any complaints. We were perfectly happy with the kinetic energy of the atmosphere of the day, which brought the city to a very comfortable 75° F. No rain, just a mild breeze. Let it be. (You can accurately take that quote from the Beatles.) Two days later, I would have to return to Chicago, where it was 18° F. when I stepped off the airplane.

Like many other English words, warmth takes on many metaphorical and emotional connotations derived from its physical qualities. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” President Harry Truman used to say, and he was not referring to room temperature in the White House. Conversely, there is the warmth of positive human relationships, just as there is a chill in the air when they are not going well.

That evening, at a downtown Charleston restaurant, Burwell’s, I experienced that warmth at a group dinner organized by some National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) staff for those members of the NOAA Digital Coast Partnership who were attending the Coastal GeoTools Conference. The partnership consists of both NOAA, through its National Ocean Service, and eight national nonprofit organizations, including the American Planning Association, which I represented along with a colleague, Joseph DeAngelis, a research associate for the Hazards Planning Center. The conference was hosted for NOAA by the Association of State Floodplain Managers (ASFPM).

Susan Fox, NOAA point of contact for APA in the Digital Coast Partnership, presents a gift before the roast. Photo by Miki Schmidt.

Susan Fox, NOAA point of contact for APA in the Digital Coast Partnership, presents a gift before the roast. Photo by Miki Schmidt.

But enough of the organizational details. Shortly after all our carloads arrived at Burwell’s, and our party of 24 was led upstairs by the wait staff, it became apparent that something special was afoot. Miki Schmidt, Division Chief for Coastal Geospatial Services at NOAA, attempted to get people’s attention by clinking empty glasses. It wasn’t working, so I decided to use my booming voice to say, “Miki wants your attention.” That worked. Then he announced, to my surprise, that they wanted to honor my upcoming retirement with a few gifts, among which were a framed certificate of appreciation from the U.S. Department of Commerce for my service in supporting Digital Coast and a framed photograph of those who had attended the last full meeting of the partnership in Rhode Island in September 2016, signed by many of the attendees. The warmth of the professional and personal relationships built with colleagues since APA joined the partnership in 2010 became readily apparent to me in this unexpected moment.

Allison Hardin poses with the wolf; David Hart observes (September 2011). Photo by Melissa Ladd.

Allison Hardin poses with the wolf; David Hart observes (September 2011). Photo by Melissa Ladd.

Then we sat down, and the “roast” began. More than once, as Miki seemed ready to turn the floor over to me for the final word, someone new would pop up to offer stories both fun and serious. Yes, it was true that I had once, wearing a moveable wolf mask, climbed through the open window of a park shelter in Madison, Wisconsin, during an evening reception for a partnership meeting hosted by ASFPM, asking the whereabouts of “them three little pigs.” Undaunted by the momentary confusion my entrance engendered, Allison Hardin, a planner from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, insisted on posing for a photograph with the wolf, who politely obliged. I was known (though not alone) in trying to provide such moments to enliven the more relaxing moments of partnership gatherings. When my “final word” finally came, I shared not only some enhancements of the recollected moments, but my own plans beyond APA, which I discussed in a recent blog post, “The Fine Art of Stepping Down.”

Still, the Digital Coast Partnership was also built through a great deal of hard work, which was also celebrated. The representatives of the groups involved worked hard over the past decade to build the partnership, which is now celebrating its tenth year. Meetings sometimes involved long discussions of how we could better collaborate, and we now often partner on important proposals and projects in which our complementary strengths facilitate important progress in achieving Digital Coast’s mission. NOAA established Digital Coast to advance the use of geospatial technology by coastal communities to improve and enhance coastal planning and resource management. Much of this consists of a substantial and growing of free, online tools and resources for mapping and visualization purposes. The partnership consists of the user communities that can help vet Digital Coast products and assist in their dissemination. But the operative Digital Coast slogan has been “More than just data.” It is the human dimension that matters, and the science and technology have been means to an end, which is enabling the achievement of noble coastal community goals such as environmental protection, hazard mitigation, economic sustainability, and climate resilience.

And so—I suppose it was appropriate that the organizers of the dinner chose to bring us to Burwell’s Stonefire Grill, which generates its own warmth through its comfort menu of steaks and seafood. Though it certainly can be pricey like any steakhouse (most steak entrees are between $30 and $40), the food is outstanding. Personally, I indulged in the lobster bisque for starters. It offered some of the deepest, most flavorful spoonfuls of joy of any bisque I have had in a long time. Alan, our waiter, was not lying at all when he told me it was great. On the subject of warmth, let me add that the wait staff of Alan, Mat, and Will were very patient and careful in tending to this large crowd, as was bartender Jo Jo Chandler. I did not meet the owner, John Thomas, but he is to be commended for both the staff and the cuisine. The Wagyu flat iron steak that I ordered was tender and delicious. I also indulged in a side order of Brussels sprouts, which I love but which require some attentive preparation to succeed. These were great in part because they were prepared in combination with caramelized onions. Others around me

Miki to the right of me in the upstairs dining room at Burwell's.

Miki to the right of me in the upstairs dining room at Burwell’s. Photo by Susan Fox.

enjoyed the seafood offerings, including oysters and scallops, and I heard no complaints and considerable praise. I can assure readers that, if you visit Charleston, Burwell’s is worth a visit for one of your evening outings. It also features a warm and casual atmosphere and a good downstairs bar, from which that amber beer in my hand originated, courtesy of Chad Berginnis, the executive director of ASFPM. I wasn’t sure, when we first arrived, why he offered to buy. Now I suspect he was in on the “roast” plan all along. Thanks, I say, to all of my friends at Digital Coast. My actual retirement from APA may have been almost four months away, but they knew this might be the last chance to do it before that day came. I hope they do the same for others when the time comes.

Jim Schwab

 

Where’s My Coffee? Where’s My Kitchen?

Daylight Savings Time has expired, giving me an extra hour this morning right after the goblins of Halloween have disappeared—you know, those kids in costumes (mostly accompanied by parents, some also in costumes) who depleted our supply of Mini Rolos last night. I almost dreaded answering the door because the place is a mess. It will remain a mess for another week and a half. And then there was Roscoe, our Springer Spaniel, who for the most part behaved himself on command while people arrived and went, but at one point jumped on a futon near the front window to bark at a departing band of trick-or-treaters and nearly toppled it. I left it slightly upturned toward the window so that he couldn’t do it again, then fixed it once the ordeal was over.

You see, this was no ordinary Halloween. This was Halloween in the middle of an expensive kitchen renovation that was triggered by a slow pipe leak that almost surely had its origins in last winter’s polar vortex that brought temperatures down to the teens below zero (Fahrenheit). But there was no pipe burst at the time, which would have immediately triggered emergency action on our part to get it fixed. Because we routinely at the onset of cold weather turn off the valve behind our stove that controls water to the outside faucet, the water does not freeze. But that did not mean that the 1994-vintage pipe, apparently built closer to the outside wall than would now be allowed, would not experience some stress. So, in May, we discovered that instead it had experienced a slight split that allowed water to leak slowly and unnoticeably—until the Chicago Water Department sent us an alert that water had been running 48 hours continuously. This could be just normal usage on your part, the notice said, but we thought you should know.

IMG_0175

We called a plumber. He found the split, and we fixed that, but the damage was already done. The drywall had gotten wet, causing mold to grow. Stopping the leak stabilized the mold, or so we thought, and we spent much of the summer contemplating our next move. Clearly, the moldy drywall had to go. But then there was damage to the lower cabinets surrounding the stove and under the sink. And then we learned we could not match those cabinets, so all the cabinets had to come out in order to replace them. Pretty soon we were selecting an entirely new set of cabinets, including those below an undamaged island countertop, and undertaking an entire kitchen renovation. That includes refinishing the hardwood kitchen floor, portions of which had gotten a bit wet.

Those following this blog regularly—and there are now more than 8,400 subscribers among you—may have noticed I have not written much lately. And I am writing this piece at 5:00 on a Sunday morning. That is because, in addition to the normal demands of my urban planning work, and the teaching demands of my fall class at the University of Iowa as an adjunct professor, I am now living amid semi-organized chaos because the kitchen renovation got underway last Tuesday. Before that could happen, my wife and I, with some help from our daughter and her husband, who are living with us at the moment, stripped everything from our cabinets and cupboards, carefully piled the contents into bins, and moved them into the garage, the living room, or into my home office, or whatever place seemed appropriate—cups, plates, pots, pans, whatever. And so I sit here, longing for those days not so long ago when I could wander into the kitchen early in the morning, fill up the carafe with water, the basket with coffee, and turn on the coffee maker and partake of my early morning pleasure along with—oh, yes, did I mention that I don’t know where someone put the toaster, and we don’t have easy access to cereal bowls, and right now I feel like driving around the corner to that Dunkin’ Donuts to make life easier by getting breakfast passed to me from a drive-thru window?

Right now, the infected drywall has been cut out, the cabinets and sink are gone, and thick plastic from ceiling to floor seals off the part of the kitchen that contains the three appliances that are left—the stove, dishwasher, and refrigerator. And you get to them through the back door, but HEPA filters are cleaning the air until an inspector runs environmental tests tomorrow to certify the job. And then the other folks come in who are fixing the plumbing, adding insulation, replacing the drywall, repainting, and then refinishing the whole kitchen floor before bringing in the new cabinets, the granite countertops, the new sink and built-in microwave, and two weeks from now on, having suppressed my longings for modern convenience for nearly three weeks, I will be exulting in a whole new look in our modernized, better insulated kitchen, and all will be well.

And all of us who live here—including our daughter, who has been recovering from surgery that took place just a week before all this started—will have demonstrated just a fragment of that community resilience I have discussed on this blog. Other than bitter Chicago winters, I have never personally been subjected to the major losses I have seen others endure in the many disaster-stricken communities I have visited and worked in. But I have some glimmer of the stress it imposes. With a good imagination, I can kind of figure out the rest. It builds character, if nothing else.

And now I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to drive to that Dunkin’ Donuts and get my morning fuel. I would have made some coffee in the coffee maker I brought upstairs to our third-floor den and parked on an antique table atop a cover, along with a bag of ground coffee, but I can’t find the dish detergent to clean it. My wife probably knows where she put it, but she’s still asleep. These are the things you get used to. For a few weeks anyway, while the house remains a construction site.

Jim Schwab