The Demise of Max

She came with plenty of warning, barreling in from hundreds of miles east toward the eastern seaboard at a steady 28 miles per hour. Without any help from other storm systems also heading toward Baltimore, Hurricane Sandy was a formidable beast in her own right, cutting a wind-field swath an unprecedented 800 miles across, with record-breaking low pressure readings in her eye, and propelling sustained winds of 80-95 miles per hour as she passed over Cuba and the Bahamas, leaving death and destruction in her wake.

As she converged on Baltimore and the rest of the east coast, Hurricane Sandy crashed into another storm arriving from the west, as well as an arctic front coming in from the north, creating what was being referred to in the news as a superstorm. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, this confluence of atmospheric events was occurring on a full moon, when gravitational pulls would be causing higher tides than normal. Meteorologists reported that there were no computer models which could accurately predict what would happen. No hurricane of this size had ever made landfall in the United States this late in the season – late enough to meet a strong Nor’easter packing blizzard levels of snow on its way down from Canada.

I prepared the best I could. I put all my patio furniture away, took down the ten-foot-tall scarecrow who oversees the autumn display in my front yard, picked the last of my tomatoes, bought duct tape and zip ties and bottled water. And then I waited, along with my fellow mid-Atlantic residents, for Sandy’s arrival.



Me, left, with Liz, center, and Katie, right



As the winds picked up and the rain began to lash, I got a call from the owner of the stable where I keep my horse, Chubby, just a mile down the road from my home in Baltimore County. Could I come help with the evening feeding? The 40 horses at the farm were a bit spooked by the bluster and the more hands on deck when their dinners were served, the better. Meteorologists were predicting the worst of the winds to hit between 5:00 p.m. Monday evening and 2:00 a.m. Tuesday morning. Bundled up in slickers and hoods, five of us started serving rations of equine grain at 4:00 p.m. to try to beat the gale and get all the mares and geldings fed and sheltered before the worst of the storm, and darkness, fell.

Once I was safely back home down the street, I hunkered down. Rain water cascaded down my exterior basement steps and seeped in around the pipe leading to my well pump. I took the shop-vac down into my primitive, dirt-walled cellar, hand-dug beneath the kitchen in the 1930s when my 1862-era farmhouse first obtained electricity, and vacuumed up the water as fast as it was coming in. I lit candles around the house in anticipation of losing power and built a fire in my fireplace for supplemental warmth. The gale howling outside was intense. My lights flickered but never went out, and when I finally succumbed to nervous exhaustion and went to bed, I actually slept quite well – one of the benefits of extremely low atmospheric pressure.

I didn’t hear the crash in the din of the squall. But I awoke in the morning to find that one of the gigantic and much beloved trees on my two acres had been felled by Sandy’s intensity. As with all five of the historic trees on my property, this one had not only a name, but a face, as well. Maxwell was the weakest of my prize specimens, but no less beloved. When his root system began to give way several years ago and he developed a significant crack up his middle which visibly heaved and audibly creaked in the wind, I couldn’t bear to chop him down, so I had a tree service cut away a third of his crown believing, as I’d been advised, that once relieved of so much of his mass, Max would die slowly in place over several years without toppling over.

I marveled at his resurgence the following spring and in the years after his pruning, when he seemed to defy all odds and regained a robust, leafy stature. And I worried anew a few weeks ago, when it seemed that Max had tilted ever so slightly in the direction of his weaker side. It was hard to tell with a tree so massive. Perhaps it was only my imagination. I chose denial, as we so often do with events we’d rather forestall. Indeed, I had gone around, in the hours before Sandy’s arrival, and talked to each of my giants. Be strong, I whispered. Stand your ground in the coming gale.

But there was no denying fate now. My beloved Max was on the ground, splayed out like a man done in by a massive coronary. He took out a good-sized mulberry tree on his way down, and crushed a fence and a garden gate. But that was all. In his closing lurch, my beloved ent had fallen in a direction that caused no harm to human or essential structure. For this I was grateful.

In assessing the consequence of Sandy’s wrath, my tour of the property eventually took me around to the front of my farmhouse. And there I was greeted by another unwelcome surprise. Peter and Paul stand side-by-side just beyond my front porch, guarding my house like sentinels. Like Max, they are both 150-year-old oak trees, but unlike Max, Peter and Paul are hearty and healthy. Paul, in fact, is in contention to be declared the third largest white oak in Maryland, so I’m talking about some trees of significant size here. In any event, one of them had apparently dropped a limb in the night. Not sure which of the two it was, and it doesn’t really matter. The branch crashed into the back of my Honda Civic, smashing the rear windshield and denting the roof and the rear quarter-panel.

As Tuesday’s gray dawn gave way to leaden daylight, I stood in the pelting rain and fashioned a temporary covering for my car’s rear window out of visqueen and duct tape. At least I still had electricity in my home for heat and water and cooking. I had a comfortable shelter unharmed by the storm. My animals and I were all safe. And I had insurance.

As I write this, six million households are still without power on the east coast. Over 50 people lost their lives in the hurricane’s fury. In the process of returning my ten-foot scarecrow yesterday to his post at the corner of my little piece of terra firma, I considered how truly lucky I am to have come through a storm of such significance with so little to complain about. I will miss Max deeply. But he will be turned into firewood to keep me warm in the years ahead and, as such, will continue to provide good cheer and comfort with his presence. I couldn’t ask for more.

Happy Halloween,

Lynell

Carving Out Some Time For Fun

In my part time role as a volunteer for the Maryland Park Service, I donned my ranger uniform yesterday and headed to Soldiers Delight Natural Environment Area, a federally designated wildland just up the street from my home in Baltimore County, Maryland, where I also serve as vice president of the nonprofit Friends group for the habitat and where I volunteer every other weekend as a docent at the area's visitor center. My mission on this eerily beautiful Saturday night with a full moon peeking through a misty haze? To conduct a two-hour pumpkin-carving program open to children and adults. I spent all day preparing the Visitor Center auditorium for the event, which I have conducted every October for several years now. I covered tables with festive orange tablecloths, set out plastic bowls to capture pumpkin guts, spread hundreds of paper carving patterns on a table for participants to choose from, and filled another table with marking pens, candles, scotch tape,  scrapers, knives, tiny saws and other carving implements.

Setting the stage

There was a good turnout for my program. Families with children attended, as well as several groups of adults. To my surprise, a couple of people showed up with expensive-looking recording equipment and asked if they could photograph my event. Laura Cordoso, of the United States Marines, and Jason Huddleston, of the U.S. Air Force, explained that they are currently enrolled as students in a photojournalism class at Defense Information school on nearby Fort Meade Army Base. They had been given an assignment to find a pumpkin-carving event to photograph, and were seeking permission to document my program while it was underway and then videotape interviews with a few participants afterward. I readily agreed, delighted to garner publicity for our park programs. Laura, 22, who works in marketing for the Marines, and Jason, 32, who works as a news photographer, are both career military. They said they are taking what they described as "upgrade training" to become full-fledged military photojournalists. They promised to send me a CD of their finished segment, which is due to be turned in to their instructor next Friday.

As my group of eager carvers studiously transferred patterns from paper (or their imaginations) to orange flesh, hollowed out their pumpkins, and then set knife to gourd to fashion frightening Halloween images, I regaled my audience with an Irish myth explaining how the jack-o-lantern originally came into being. It seems a frugal Irishman named Stingy Jack played a trick on the devil one day and then, having tricked Satan a second time, promptly died. God didn’t want to let such a nefarious character as Stingy Jack into Heaven, and the devil, a bit peeved at having been made a fool twice, didn’t want Stingy Jack to join him in Hades, either. So the devil condemned Stingy Jack’s soul to walk the earth forever, with only a burning coal to light his way.

Stingy Jack's rutabaga

Jack hollowed out a rutabaga to hold the flickering ember and poked holes in the sides to emit the fire's shine. But the sight of the glowing orb frightened Irish peasants as he passed by their cottages in the dead of night. The peasants, referring to old Stingy as "Jack of the Lantern", put their own candles in hollowed-out potatoes, setting them in windows to scare off Stingy Jack and other evil spirits. The story goes that when Irish settlers emigrated to North America, they discovered pumpkins growing in our soil, which were far easier to carve than turnips, and so the American custom of carving jack-o-lanterns was born.

When everyone was finished carving, we lit candles inside the jack-o-lanterns and turned off the auditorium lights. Everyone oohed and aahed at the goulish grins and imaginative designs. A grand time was had by all.

Cheers,

Lynell

The Tweeds Have It

As the lucky recipient of a brand new "care package" of gently used clothing from my best friend’s mother, Joyce, I couldn’t wait to put an outfit together around a pair of gray tweed Savanna 1114 tailored shorts that were tucked into the box with several other exciting vintage pieces which I'll be bringing to you in the next few weeks. The moment I saw the dapper wool in the carton, I knew I wanted to pair it with a crisp black cotton Worthington blouse with contrasting white collar and turn-back cuffs I bought at JCPenney at least ten years ago. I threaded a vintage black leather belt from Target through the pant loops and tied a mixed-metal pendant on a black cord from my summer trip to Ireland around my neck.

With mixed-metal earrings and a black and gold seashell fashion ring rounding out the jewelry quotient, I turned my attention to footwear. Boots or pumps? I decided while the outfit would be adorable with boots, there will be plenty of days in the months ahead when it will be so cold and raw that boots will be my only option, so why not bare a little leg while it’s still warm enough to do so? I pulled on a pair of my favorite black Total Support pantyhose by JCPenney, a staple of mine for over 30 years because they are easy to wear, last forever with care and make my legs feel fabulous all day long, and added my most comfy platform pumps by Call It Spring, also from JCPenney.

Since the forecast called for breezy temps in the mid-60s, I knew it would be a perfect autumn day for my "new" abbreviated trousers. I was right!

Cheers,

Lynell

Once Upon A Time...

Jesse and me on our wedding day in 2001

Eleven years ago Saturday, on October 20, 2001, I married Jesse James Turner, the man for whom I moved from Dallas, Texas, to Baltimore, Maryland in May of that year. It was a fairytale wedding, held in northern Kentucky where most of Jesse’s immediate family lived, which included many more brothers and sisters (six) than I had (two).

Turner siblings from left to right (and in birth order):
Jesse, Lynn, Scott, Tammy, Jay, Sherry and Tawny

As it turned out, Kentucky was a fortunate choice, since Jesse’s two youngest sisters owned a catering company at the time. All of Jesse’s siblings pitched in to help with our wedding plans, from picking out the wedding and reception venue (a historic barn filled with old farm implements and antique clocks, set amid velvety hills dotted with horses), selecting the dinner menu (and then cooking it and supervising the serving of it), baking and decorating the cake, ordering the flowers, the musicians, the disk jockey and the photographer, to decorating the reception hall inside the barn. Since the momentous event was held mid-autumn, I chose fall hues for the color scheme. Even Jesse’s father got in on the preparations by surprising us with a pair of jack-o-lanterns at the head table, expertly carved with our names in beautiful script.

Jesse's father, Jim, carved the pumpkins

Jesse's sister, Tawny, made the cake

On the eve of the appointed day, Jesse and I flew in from Maryland. My sister, Leslie, flew in from California.  My best friend, Kari, flew in from Texas to be my maid of honor and Kari’s parents, Joyce and Lyle, flew in from Washington state to give me away, as both of my parents were long deceased. The Turner siblings had done a masterful job pulling every detail together beautifully, and I couldn’t have been happier with the result.

Me with Kari's parents, Joyce and Lyle



Kari and me

The dress I designed

Ours was a fabulous wedding in every way, any girl’s dream come true, considering the miniscule budget I had to work with after spending most of my money to buy a house in Baltimore County a few months earlier. A dear friend from when I lived in Reno, Nevada, Judith Foreman, custom-made my tea-length wedding dress in ecru lace over ivory satin. She didn’t even use a commercial pattern. "Draw your dream dress on a piece of paper" she said, "and I’ll make it for you".

I designed a fitted bodice with a plunging neckline, a Guinevere dropped waist flowing to a sweeping full-circle hem and long, graceful Juliette sleeves flared at the wrists. Judith added seed pearls all around the off-the-shoulder neckline, draped strands of pearls over the elbows and across the open back, and centered a large pearl cabochon at my décolletage. After eighty hours of intense labor, Judith had, indeed, sewn the dress of my dreams, and I felt like a princess as I put it on.

The day of our nuptials dawned crisp and bright in Boone County, Kentucky. A classical guitarist and flutist played Pachelbel’s Canon in D major and other soothing tunes as guests took their seats on the lawn just outside the ancient barn. At the appointed time, a horse and carriage delivered me to the ceremony, and on Kari’s father’s arm I walked down the grassy aisle to meet my handsome groom.

After the ceremony, Jesse and I climbed into the horse-drawn coach and were whisked away, into an incredible sunset, as our guests made their way across the lawn and into the barn for the reception and dinner. Actually, we just rode in the hansom around the block and back, but it was an incredibly dreamy equestrian touch that rocketed my low-budget wedding into the romantic stratosphere.

Both longtime certified scuba divers, Jesse and I honeymooned at Caneel Bay on St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands, a resort known for its world-class underwater topography. We were not disappointed. And since the horrific events of 9/11 had just occurred six weeks prior to our wedding, bringing air travel to a virtual standstill for months afterward, we had the resort practically to ourselves. There were only five other honeymooning couples on the entire estate the whole time we were there.

Our marriage only lasted six years, when differences of opinion about matters of grave importance to a marriage (trust and money) became so conflicted that our union could not survive, despite three years of intense counseling. But a mutually deep and abiding friendship has persisted. We can’t bear to live under one roof, but we do take pleasure in each other’s company and often seek each other out for social engagements. Since 2007 Jesse has been settled in an apartment in Baltimore City, and I continue to live in the house I bought in 2001 here in suburban Baltimore County. We grieve over the demise of our marriage, but we appreciate the friendship we continue to enjoy. Ours might not be a conventional relationship, but it works for us.

So on Saturday we celebrated our eleventh year of ersatz matrimony with dinner at the classic Prime Rib restaurant in downtown Baltimore (www.theprimerib.com). I marked the occasion by wearing my favorite asymmetrical tunic with scalloped-edge trim in my favorite color, which I bought from Chico’s shortly after I moved to Maryland. I added black leggings by HUE for Macy’s and the bright red Betseyville pumps by Betsey Johnson that I bought a few weeks ago for my birthday. Highlighting the hints of yellow and orange in the red top were my favorite pieces of jewelry: citrine and garnet necklace, earrings and bracelet set in gleaming gold, all from Fire & Ice Jewelers of Baltimore, that were gifts from my husband years ago.

By candlelight we treated ourselves to filet mignon with lobster tail, roasted artichokes and a bottle of fine wine. The restaurant surprised us with chocolate mouse for dessert, and we raised a glass to toast our bittersweet circumstance, thankful that an enduring friendship is the lucky consequence of a marriage that isn’t anymore. Happy anniversary, Jesse.

Lynell

Walking For John -- Creating a Beautiful Baltimore

Me with John's business and life partner, Roya Golpira

Saturday dawned crisply in the Baltimore County suburbs as I pulled on my exercise togs, tied my sneakers and headed downtown to Baltimore City, where I joined other hardy, like-minded souls on the patio outside the John Gutierrez Metalworking Studio (http://gutierrezstudios.com) as we prepared to embark on a five-mile hike to honor the artistic legacy of my dear friend, John Gutierrez, who succumbed to cancer three years ago. While only 36 people had registered for the Gutierrez Memorial Walk in the weeks leading up to this third annual celebration of John’s commitment to the arts and to bettering the lives of his fellow Baltimoreans, the number of eager participants swelled on this day to more than a hundred – all sipping apple juice in the brisk morning air as they reached into their pockets to give generously to the Gutierrez Memorial Fund which supports the arts by sponsoring artistic apprenticeships and participation in community beautification.

A lingering overcast was still present in Baltimore City at 10:30 a.m. as the crowd gathered to begin their stroll from Gutierrez Studios through historic Druid Hill Park, the third oldest park in the United States. Once we got underway, I was delighted to make the acquaintance of two remarkable women, Caprece Jackson-Garrett and Leasa Fortune, who are very active in Baltimore community affairs and served on the volunteer staff for Saturday’s event.

www.artblocks.org



Caprece planting daffodils in 2011

As we walked, Caprece and Leasa explained that ARTBlocks is the beneficiary of the proceeds from this year’s Gutierrez Memorial Fund. ARTBlocks was created in 2010 to help Baltimore communities transform their public spaces through the grassroots process of creative place-making. It is ArtBlocks' vision to see the unique creative spirit and inventiveness of every Baltimore community reflected and expressed in its public spaces. 

Artistic columns by ARTBlocks
beautify the Mondawmin neighborhood

Last year ARTBlocks volunteers worked with Mondawmin neighborhood residents to increase the safety and beauty of a problematic intersection near the entrance to Druid Hill Park by planting over a thousand daffodil bulbs, among other improvements.

Rawlings Conservatory Palm House

Saturday's circuitous route through the picturesque park took us past some notable landmarks which were, helpfully, staffed by the Friends of Druid Hill Park, including the Rawlings Conservatory and Botanic Gardens, established by the City of Baltimore in 1888 and renamed more recently for the father of our current mayor. As one of the few remaining Victorian conservatories left in the world, the five story all-glass palm house was designed by architect George Frederick, who also designed Baltimore’s City Hall. As we rounded the scenic lake inside the park, the morning’s cloud-cover gave way to a brilliant blue sky, creating a striking backdrop for the dramatic autumn colors which are just now reaching their peak here in the mid-Atlantic.

My new friends, Caprece Jackson-
Garrett, left, and Leasa Fortune



My old friends Wayne Nicolette,
Jesse Turner, and Debbie Nicolette

Once the hundred-plus walkers made their way back to the patio and memorial firepit at Gutierrez Studios, the fabulous Woodberry Kitchen Restaurant next door offered up steaming bowls of vegetarian chili with toppings of shredded pork, cheddar cheese and sour cream sauce.  The ever-popular Rufus Roundtree & Da B'More Brass Factory entertained us as we ate with their terrific funkadelic music.  Complimentary Pinot Grigio was offered, and I had a glass!  Wine at noon – not an extravagance in which I usually indulge, but I was feeling quite virtuous for having walked eight kilometers in the brisk autumn air.

Everyone gathers at the Gutierrez Memorial firepit for chili and wine after the walk

In all, the Gutierrez Memorial Fund raised over $15,000 for ARTBlocks on Saturday. I was honored to be a part of such a joyful and worthwhile endeavor. It was a perfect way to spend a beautiful fall day.

Cheers,

Lynell

Dress Blues

Today was all about hand-me-downs! My entire outfit, except for my shoes, was given to me, bit by bit, by others, and I couldn’t be happier with the stunning ensemble I was able to create from the separate pieces. The classically tailored rayon shorts, the creamy blouse in a tone-on-tone paisley pattern, and the lacy blue vest, all by Liz Claiborne, were in a box of gently worn clothing sent to me recently by my best friend, Kari’s, mother, Joyce, who lives in Spokane.

My diamond and sapphire earrings were a birthday gift from Kari, herself, last year (sapphire is my birthstone). The blue and silver fashion ring was also a gift from Joyce, and my beloved indigo-glass and rhinestone necklace is an heirloom that belonged to my grandmother. Only my ecru spectator pumps with stacked wood heels, which I purchased at ALDO last year, were a wardrobe accessory of my own choosing.  Despite the divergent sources from which today’s ensemble sprung, the result looks as pulled together as if I had snatched it wholesale off a mannequin.

I’m afraid there won’t be too many more days this year when the weather will be summery enough for the wearing of cropped trousers, so I was excited to hear that the temperature would reach 70 degrees Fahrenheit in Washington D.C. today and quickly decided to scoff at convention and sport my "new" slackettes in mid-October. I was glad I did.

Cheers,

Lynell

Carrying Klaus

I wore a truly vintage dress today – a thick cotton A-line dress by FADS with a flared hemline so sweeping it practically doubles the amount of fabric in the garment. I bought the simple frock back in the early 1970s when I worked for JCPenney Company in northern California. I believe I owned the same dress in red at one time, although I only have the black one now. The dark color has faded, but the material is soft and oh-so comfortable, like an old friend.

All that basic black was a perfect backdrop for my new birthday jewelry: a gorgeous silver filigree necklace and earrings in the shape of delicate leaves by Fire & Ice Jewelers of Baltimore (www.fireandice.com), a gift from my dear friends Robert and Jan – perfect for celebrating today’s crisp, autumn weather and falling foliage. I added a wide, triple-buckled belt from The Limited Too, my favorite black platform pumps by Call It Spring for JCPenney, and a silver-metal filigree bracelet-watch I picked up at a Dallas airport boutique a couple of years ago.

My eventual destination was, as usual, a day of research at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. But first I had a mission. My dear friends, Mary and Klaus, who are godparents to my rescue kitty, Ember, have been suffering through Klaus’s battle with esophageal cancer for over a year now. Although the cancer itself is in remission, the result of all the treatments has left Klaus with a foodpipe so narrow that he cannot swallow anything solid. Needless to say, this has taken all the joy of eating away from Klaus and it's been a struggle to keep him nourished.

Klaus and me

A new treatment was attempted recently by the University of Maryland Medical Center in Baltimore: hyperbaric oxygen therapy; an attempt to speed the healing of the esophagus and keep the tissue soft and pliable. And, remarkably, it seems to be working. But the treatments in the oxygen chamber are long – about five hours – and they must happen every single day, five days a week, for the therapy to be effective. Needless to say, this regimen has been exhausting for both Mary and Klaus, and leaves no time for anything else in the day which might offer relief or a pleasant distraction. So last week Mary put out a call for help. Was there anyone among their friends and neighbors who could drop Klaus off at his daily treatments in the morning or pick him up in the afternoons?

As it turns out, picking Klaus up at their home in the morning and dropping him off at the UMMC treatment center happens to be right on my way to the Library of Congress, so I volunteered to help. A number of people stepped up to assist, and I was assigned Tuesday mornings. Today was my first day as Klaus's taxi driver.  I picked Klaus up and transported him to the treatment center and was on my way to the Library of Congress with nary a wrinkle in my normal commute, but the good feeling of having helped friends who are very dear to me stayed with me all day long!

Cheers,

Lynell

　

A Story For The Season

With autumn's chill in the air and the fragrant scent of woodsmoke wafting through my neighborhood, I thought I'd share with you all an essay I wrote in 2008, back when my husband and I were still trying to make our marriage work, back when I only owned one cat. It's a cautionary tale, but one with a happy ending, thank goodness. Enjoy.

Lynell

Always Look In The Direction Your Cat Is Looking

It was Friday night at my house. The chill October air had spurred me to put out my autumn decorations the previous Sunday, piling the fireplace mantel in the dining room high with silken fall leaves and real and imitation gourds, nuts and fruit, Indian corn and pine cones. Anticipating my weekly "date-night" with my husband, I built a roaring fire in the fireplace and set the dining room table. Jesse was on his way with take-out from our favorite Italian restaurant and a bottle of red.

I tuned the radio to our favorite evening blues program and lit the candles which emerged from the harvest display atop two wrought-iron candlesticks on the mantelpiece. I looked at my watch. Everything was ready.

Our gray kitty, Underfoot, appeared to be in a mood to play and, having nothing more to prepare, I got down on the floor with him and we engaged in a game of hide and seek around the kitchen island. My back was to the dining room, opposite the direction that Underfoot was facing. I thought we were having a pleasant, interactive game, but Underfoot's gaze kept shifting from me into the room beyond. I teasingly thought to myself that his startled expression made him look as though he thought the house was on fire, and I was reminded of ancient folklore which describes cats as "seers" who follow the auras of spirits around a room while seeming to be looking at nothing.

Finally, my curiosity piqued, I turned around to see what was catching the cat's rapt attention. Flames were shooting from the top of the mantel into the air. My house was on fire. I leapt to my feet just as the smoke alarm's shrill wail began to pierce the air, causing the cat to hightail it for the perceived safety of the basement. I grabbed my fire extinguisher from the kitchen, but figuring out how to pull the pin and whether I had to break the seal first seemed to require a longer learning curve than I had time for. I set the fire extinguisher down and grabbed a large pitcher from the kitchen cabinet, filling it with water in the sink, which seemed to take an eternity. While the pitcher filled, I grabbed a kitchen towel and headed toward the flaming ledge.

In my attempt to smother the flames with the towel, I managed to send the burning harvest decorations crashing to the ground, spreading flaming bits all over my antique hardwood floor. I tried to stomp the blazing fragments with my foot, causing melted synthetic gourd to stick to my shoe, all aflame. Now my shoe was burning, too. My emergency "extinguishment" was not going very well. Flames on the mantel continued to stretch toward the ceiling.

I put out my shoe and ran back into the kitchen for the pitcher of water. As I prepared to splash water on the mantel and the floor, I pondered the words in an email I had just received the week before from my insurance agent, cautioning against dousing certain fires with water lest it lead to a most un-Martha Stewart-like explosion. I quickly reasoned that this was not a grease fire and began to administer water from the pitcher across the flames. Thankfully, this tactic worked far better than my towel-smothering effort, and I soon had almost all the flaring spots merely smoldering.

By now the house was filled with thick, acrid smoke and I could feel it drawing into my lungs with every hyperventilated breath I took. Enter Jesse, through the kitchen door, wine in one hand, dinner in the other, his ever-present cell phone pressed firmly to his ear with his shoulder. Nothing new there. I waited for Jesse to drop his cell phone in horror and rush to my aid, but to my surprise he continued his telephone conversation standing in the kitchen in plain view of me and my obvious emergency scene, seemingly oblivious to the pungent smoke and the shrieking wails of the smoke alarm. I waited some more, continuing to douse bits of smoldering plastic gourd. At least Jesse comes by his absent-mindedness honestly, I thought to myself. Finally, realizing that Jesse was so absorbed in his conversation that he must not see or smell the smoke or hear the screaming smoke alarm, I did what any red-blooded, adrenaline-filled woman would do in such a situation, especially since I had the "emergency" pretty much handled by then. I screamed -- a blood-curdling, ear-splitting scream that would have done a starlet proud. I heard Jesse say: "Omigod. I have to hang up immediately". He came rushing into the dining room.

I know exactly what happened. A silken leaf on the rosette around the candlestick had brushed too close to the flickering pillar on the sill. I saw the errant leaf when I lit the wick, and had tucked it back down, away from the flame. But the heat from the candle must have expanded the fabric and caused it to unfurl, sending the imitation foliage back into the path of the fire.

Later, as Jesse and I ate our now-cooled dinner, having cleaned up the mess left behind by my firefighting adventure, I decided that I would, from now on, immediately seek out the focus of my cat's long gaze, no matter how silly and unfounded in reality I might think it to be. My fireplace mantel doesn't look very Martha Stewart-like anymore, half of it laden in autumnal splendor and the other half rather devoid of anything but blackened bits of melted plastic and charred debris. But I think I'll keep it that way this fall, as a reminder of how lucky I am to enjoy a life of small adventures that mostly end pretty well. Be safe.

Lynell Tobler

October 3, 2008

Sister To Sister

I was elated this week to have a brief visit from my sister, Leslie who, as senior scientist in charge of the Viral Reference Laboratory of the Blood Systems Research Institute in San Francisco, stopped off in Baltimore for a few days on her way back from attending the annual conference of the American Association of Blood Banks (AABB), held in Boston this year. After four days of meetings intended to advance hematologic technology and cellular therapies worldwide, including such heady subjects as Biovigilence Training and Immune Effector Mechanisms & Theraputics, I picked Leslie up at the Baltimore airport for what we hoped would be a soothing respite from her intense cranial exertion over the preceding days.

Leslie and me in the upland rainforest exhibit

An Atlantic puffin at the National Aquarium

We started by sleeping in.  Late.  I took the day off from work Wednesday and when we finally arose from our slumber, we shared a breakfast of sliced peaches and an omelet. With tickets in hand on a briskly gorgeous fall day, we proceeded to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, where we spent several relaxing hours at our country's National Aquarium, closely inspecting the remarkable inhabitants, from Australian archerfish who spit forceful streams of water more than six feet through the air to knock crickets and other insects from their perches with uncanny accuracy, to the arctic lion’s mane jellyfish with tentacles historically stretching more than 120 feet in length. We marveled at the sawtooth and hammerhead sharks, wondering what Mother Nature intended by allowing such odd characteristics to survive eons of more mainstream evolutionary shifts.

 

Golden Lion Tamarin monkeys

And we delighted in watching as a pair of golden lion tamarin monkeys, observing the human activity below from lofty branches in the upland rainforest exhibit, suddenly scampered back into their enclosure and forcefully pulled the door shut behind them!  "An aversion to people", explained the friendly docent. The pair, cage-raised since birth, could take only so much interaction with humanoids, it seems, before finding it necessary to make a hasty retreat back to the security of their hut.  I could relate.



A 1/87 scale model of the City Center DC retail complex

Finally dragging ourselves away from the wondrous aquarium, we wandered up the Baltimore expressway to Xibitz Design and Fabrication (Xibitz.net), inside which is housed a custom workshop owned by my former husband, Jesse Turner, of LIDCM Corporation (www.lidcm.com), who builds high-end architectural models for retail and mixed-use developers. Right now, Jesse and his crew of twenty employees are putting the finishing touches on an elaborate scale model of the forthcoming City Center DC shopping center.  Leslie and I were eager to see how Jesse’s latest project was coming along.  

Turtle-candy tart with Gran Marnier-enhanced whipped cream

After oohing and aahing over Jesse’s obvious mastery of his subject, my sister and I drove to the ever-expanding Towson Towne Center mall, where we spent a little time Christmas shopping at our favorite shelter stores, Pottery Barn and a newly opened Sur La Table. Then it was on to the supermarket for provisions and then home to relax in front of a crackling fire before sitting down to a dinner of our longtime family favorite – my late mother’s classic Caesar salad, followed by a decadent Turtle-candy tart with Gran Marnier-enhanced whipped cream – from a recipe I clipped recently out of Country Living magazine.

The Great Hall at the Library of Congress Jefferson building

On Thursday it was back to work for moi, so Leslie accompanied me on my lengthy commute by rail and car to the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. for a day of research, which we enlivened with a look at the gorgeous Thomas Jefferson building, the original Library of Congress edifice, constructed in 1897 as a palatial monument to America’s appreciation of literature, science and art, which was designed to show how the United States could surpass European libraries in grandeur and devotion to classical literature. The elaborate façade and interior of the entrance pavilion and great hall, for which more than forty American painters and sculptors produced commissioned works of art to inspire optimism about America’s future, was enthralling.

Once safely back at home, I built a roaring fire in the fireplace and made a flavorful apple-squash soup for our dinner, which I served with braised romanesque cauliflower brightened with garlic and lemon. As we considered the political ramifications of the evening’s vice-presidential debate, Leslie and I reveled in our closeness, enjoying the intimacy of our sisterhood, even though we are separated by fifteen years in age and were born of different mothers.

And early this morning, as I dropped Leslie off at the Baltimore airport for her return flight to northern California, I was glad to have spent such a wonderful past few days with my beloved sister. They are precious to me, these coastal visits, when we are apart from each other day to day by so many thousands of miles.

Cheers,

Lynell

A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost ~ Marion C. Garretty

Pintucked Pinstripes

It just felt right to wear buttoned up pinstripes Tuesday, with the weather all blustery and autumn-like. So right, in fact, that I awoke in the middle of the night with a kernel of an idea about what I would wear germinating in my sleepy brain. By morning I had it all worked out: my vintage gray pinstriped jeans by Lee with gathered ankles salvaged from a box of clothing I saved from the 1970s, jeans so old that not only were they made in the USA, they actually boast a tag inside that says Garment Workers Union of America.  With the pinstriped trousers, I chose a white collared shirt with crisply turned-back cuffs by Worthington for JCPenney that I’ve owned for over a decade and a black cotton vest with a fluttery lapel by International Concepts (INC) for Macy’s. A look through my extensive belt collection turned up a vintage Merona belt from Target, so old that the black suede had faded to dusky iron. Perfect.

I brightened up all that ashen neutrality with a golden–hued vintage pendant chain that belonged to my grandmother and some gold-colored beaded hoop earrings with a matching bracelet that I found a Cost Plus World Imports last month. I added a fabulous fashion ring made from a gold-encrusted black and white seashell that I bought from a jeweler at Maryland’s Renaissance Festival last year and selected some black, almond-toed booties by Cami for Spiegel.com to keep my feet toasty. Finally, I wrapped a luscious gray, white, beige and charcoal scarf around my neck to ward off the bluster and set out on my long commute to the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. for a day of research.

My outfit was a study in shades of gray, matching the leaden sky.

Cheers,

Lynell

How Does My Garden Grow?

I am so excited that people are asking to hear (and see) how my new garden is coming along. To see the initial design and construction, go to my posts dated 6/25/12 "My New Garden" and 7/18/12 "My Garden -- An Update".  As this year’s "summer project", my readers know that my garden did not take shape until the middle of the growing season, so I doubted I would get much of a crop of anything this first year.

But Mother Nature seemed intent on proving her fortitude. I harvested bell peppers, cucumbers and four kinds of tomatoes in September, and I have more tomatoes coming than I know what to do with. My pumpkin vine, a gift from dinner guests on August 12, was no more than a foot long when I planted it. Now, not even two months later, the vine is well over twenty feet in length and boasts numerous yellow blossoms. I don’t know if there is enough time left before the first frost arrives to form an actual pumpkin, but we’ll see. The natural world is an amazing thing. I am thrilled that most of what I’ve planted has thrived.

There are some lessons learned. My soil, extremely acidic due to the gigantic pine tree under whose boughs my garden grows, has proved extremely hostile to hollyhocks. My irises and hydrangea are doing well. So also are my black-eyed susans, butterfly bushes and zinnias. The gerbera daisies don’t mind the harsh pH, and neither do the coral bells, salvia, cone flower, veronica and yarrow. But I can’t get foxglove or sunflowers to grow to save my soul.

 

This pumpkin vine, a gift from Nick and Jenny, is over twenty feet long now



My dear friend, Lora Wong, a newly minted master gardener, gave my garden a resounding thumbs-up when she got her first look at it last week, and my mower-man, owner of 4 Seasons Landscaping, LLC (http://www.facebook.com/landscaping4seasons), said he was quite impressed with my design. Next week I’ll be attending the Bluewater Baltimore Society’s all-native plant sale at Herring Run Nursery in Baltimore (http://www.bluewaterbaltimore.org) to see if I can get some brilliant goldenrod and statuesque joe pye weed, some fragrant bee balm and frilly coreopsis into the ground before the growing season comes to an abrupt halt in a few more weeks. 
 
I happened upon a good recipe on FoodNetwork.com recently for anyone who has an abundance of tomatoes and basil in their gardens this year.  I have a profusion of both. The recipe is for a rustic tomato-basil soup and it's super tasty and very low-calorie:



Tomatoes proliferate!



Some are quite large



Tomato tart before baking

Still more tomatoes to use up?  Here is a fabulous recipe for a  delicious, low-calorie tomato tart.

Tomato tart after baking





... and another for my easy-to-assemble three-tomato salad.

Colorful three tomato salad

For someone with next to no experience growing plant life, this initial experiment in flower and vegetable husbandry has been amply rewarding for me. I can hardly wait to get started next year!

Cheers,

Lynell