CHRISTMAS CELEBRATIONS AND FRIENDS

Mary Ann and Darrell

The Greek word philia means affection or friendship, and C.S. Lewis wrote one of the best treatises about this special relationship with others in The Four Loves, my favorite book by the great Anglican apologist of the 20^th century: “It may be a common religion, common studies, a common profession, even a common recreation. All who share it will be our companions; but one or two or three who share something more will be our Friends. In this kind of love, as Emerson said, ‘Do you love me?’ means ‘Do you see the same truth?’”

Pistachio cake

The Christmas season provides fertile soil for commonality among cherished friends, and lately I’ve been blessed to have been invited to a few celebrations in which I’ve enjoyed the “real glory of friendship,” as Lewis puts it. The most recent of these celebrations took place this week when I and my friends Vickie Sullivan and Mary Ann Wilson, went over to Church Point, Louisiana for dinner especially cooked by Darrell and Karen Bourque. Darrell, a former poet laureate of Louisiana and acclaimed poet (as well as my mentor in poetry), had prepared a succulent pork roast, fresh asparagus, quinoa with chunks of sweet potato; and Karen, master glass artist, had created an artistically-arranged green salad with thinly sliced avocado and homemade dressing. The piece de resistance was a beautiful white pistachio cake with coconut frosting, pictured here.

Karen and Diane

As we sat around the table, I thought about Emerson’s words: “Do you see the same truth?” Most of the conversation centered on common interests: books, art, and politics, but table talk soon turned to concerns about a mutual friend who has been diagnosed with cancer, and we discussed the humanitarian work she has done during her almost-80 years. Our friend, Jane Bonin, a former professor of English at the University of Louisiana, Lafayette, was affiliated with the Hunger Project for many years, presenting talks to various groups to raise the consciousness of people regarding the problem of hunger in both Acadiana and Washington, D.C. where she migrated after leaving Lafayette, Louisiana. She was dedicated to the sustainable end of world hunger and to the maxim of “Creating An Idea Whose Time Has Come.” A few years later, she joined the Peace Corps and served in both Malawi and Niger, Africa for six years. Her experiences in Africa have been recorded in The Color Of A Lion’s Eye, released earlier this year.

The note of solemnity that had begun the conversation about Jane’s condition, changed to one of shared acknowledgement as we talked about Jane’s resilience and strength. And after a few moments, we were laughing about adventures several of us had experienced with her; e.g., “The 6-Day,” a leadership training course in which we rappelled off the side of a mountain and endured the famous “Tyrolean Traverse.” During this exercise, we were strapped at our waists and had to propel ourselves, hand over hand, across a wire strung above a ravine yawning beneath us. What we remembered was how long some of us (Jane and I included) hung in the middle of the wire and, finally, those who had made it to the “farther shore” sat on the end of the wire so that it sloped downward, and we could get off. These efforts of fellow participants underlined the support we had been promised when we entered the rigorous program. We were greeted by cheering supporters who massaged bound muscles in our arms and told us how accomplished we were to have moved across the wire. Actually, the Tyrolean Traverse is a good metaphor for the support of friends.

It was late when we drove away from the dark countryside near Church Point, but the three of us left the celebration at the Bourque’s table feeling not only the warmth of strongly-supportive relationships in which all of us “saw the same truth” but were buoyed by the “real glory of friendship.”

And we just know that Jane is going to make it across that yawning ravine again.

WEATHER WATCHING

I don’t know whether I have any antecedents who watched the weather, but I do know that my youngest daughter, Elizabeth, inherited my penchant for turning on weather reports and transmitting them to anyone who will listen each morning. In the order of morning breakfast: first, there is the blessing of food; then the weather report. Before the advent of iPhones, I received weather reports via television, but now, after I look outdoors and survey the heavens, I push the little app for “weather” to discover whether I’m under a cloud or the sun is going to brighten my day.

A deceased friend of mine, James Wyche, went a step further in weather watching by gauging and recording rainfall at Belmont Plantation in New Iberia, Louisiana for the National Weather Service for years. I don’t know who took over Jimmy’s responsibilities, but I’ve often thought about measuring the deluges that overtake my sinking backyard here in Louisiana. And following these inundations, I’ve also thought about taking a mosquito count of the maringouins that hover around the flooded patio.

According to Lucia Stanton in “Monticello Weather Report,” Thomas Jefferson was a sophisticated weather watcher who kept a meteorological journal at Monticello in Virginia and in Paris, France during the five years he spent there. His observations went a step further than Jimmy’s in that he recorded the temperature range, rising each day at first light, which he considered to be the coldest time of the day, to gauge the temperature. Then he would take more readings at 3 – 4 o’clock, recording them in an ivory pocket book and copying them in better form later. In addition to the weather, he’d record the appearance of birds, frosts, and the leafing and flowering of trees. He also recorded whether the day was cloudy, fair, rainy, or snowy.

During the five years Jefferson sojourned in Paris, he kept a record of cloudy and sunny skies and later compared the record to that of American skies, which he declared were more cheerful and sunny than those of Paris. Jefferson attempted to collect data on humidity by experimenting with different types of hygrometers and was disappointed that they did not provide accurate observations. Stanton reports that part of Jefferson’s official instructions to Lewis and Clark in 1803 included a clause advising them to observe the weather and to record dates at which “particular plants put forth their flower, or leaf, time of appearance of particular birds, reptiles, or insects…” Today, Monticello is one of 12,000 weather stations affiliated with the National Weather Service, a service that hails Jefferson as the “father of weather observers.” Stanton states that Jefferson regarded “climate [as] one of the sources of the greatest sensual enjoyment…”

Here’s my weather poem as recorded in Old Ridges, 2009:

“WE’RE WARNED TO STAY INDOORS”

because gray clouds hover over Sewanee, Tennessee,

red dust hangs above Sydney, Australia,

rain is flooding the streets of Atlanta, Georgia,

smoke billows out of cracked chimneys,

and the heavens are polluted everywhere.

The moon has a red penumbra,

dull water courses through

once clear-bodied streams,

deserts, occasionally troubled

by outbursts of wind-driven dust,

are now besieged by atomic sifts,

a strange pollen falls on bare heads.

We’re swimming in a wasteland every day,

and no one cares.

Like hollow-eyed dolls,

we’re desperate to believe

it’s all part of a set:

the gleeful forecaster with small baton,

a harbinger of bad news

moving over the colored map,

natural disasters created by networks,

Armageddon on the weather channel.

But we’re safe inside,

trapped in the evening news,

the climate of last resort.

And no one really wants to go outdoors.