Charis' Law of Thermal Dynamics

I recently relocated from the balmy, beautiful, southeastern United States to the brilliant, bracing, northeast.  I was a transplanted southerner, having lived in six different states throughout my life.  It wasn't until I moved that I realized what a Dixie Chick I have become.  I thought I was prepared for a return to the north.  I have sweaters, mittens, gloves, and a taste for sauerkraut.  However culture shock hit me squarely in the forehead and I have been forced to contemplate the peculiarities of my new life.

I like to jog most mornings.  In the south this can frequently take much longer than you intended as all the other joggers/dog walkers/stroller pushers going by will wish you a good day, and if you aren't careful, inquire about your health and tell you all about their auntie who has a fabulous lemon tea that will help you with that cough.  Of course, I'm referring to the strangers.  Heaven help you if you run into a friend or mere acquaintance.  You might as well just stop, settle in on the front porch with a tall glass of something cool, and accept that your day will start a little later than planned.

On my first jog in my new neighborhood I cheerfully waved and called out "Good morning!" to each fellow sojourner.  No one replied.  No one even raised their eyes from the pavement in front of them.  After three months, there are now a few who will nod in my direction upon hearing my greeting.  I know what they're thinking. "There's that crazy new lady.  I'd better nod.  She looks unstable."  Two days ago and older gentleman actually said as I passed, "Going uphill is hard!" There is hope.

Another sharp contrast is the way people talk. In the south people open their mouths really wide, use lots of ah vowels,  and take their time.  For example, a popular exclamation of surprise is, "Weeeeelllllll, ahhhhhhh nevah!"  On the other hand, the denizens of my new home speak very much like the man who came to our door yesterday.  My son answered the door and I heard someone say, "Idabudafidder."  "What?" asked my son.  "Idabudafidder," the man insisted.  "Uhhhh," my son answered.  I went to the door and asked, "What is it?"  "I'm the bath fitter," the man said very slowly and distinctly, as if talking to those who don't speak his language, which surely includes me.

And they drive the way they talk.  So fast.  So very, very, fast.  They honk.  Sometimes at me.  In the south you only honk to get the attention of your friends in the car next lane over.  And they're probably in some beat up old Chevy held together with twine and duct tape, but with great rims, man!  Now as I cast my gaze upon the freeway in front of me I see an endless sea of Audis and BMWs cruising by at 85 mph.  None of them are fixed with duct tape, by the way.

So it has been perplexing, this change of hearth and home.  And I've come up with a theory.  It's called "Charis' Law of Thermal Dynamics."  It is as follows:

If you live in a climate that requires thermals, it will affect your social dynamics.

Let's look at it more closely.  In the north where it is very cold, people don't want to open their mouths for long periods of time to talk.  It lets in too much cold air.  Therefore they speak quickly and keep the lips close together.  In a similar manner they are reluctant to open their homes.  It's just too cold! In the south there is no fear of the freeze, so they open their mouths wide, homes have wide front porches and verandas to catch a bit of breeze, and their hearts are wide open as well.  

It sounds as though "Charis' Law of Thermal Dynamics" could be a depressing bit of news, but it is possible to bridge the gap.  The great American composer, Samuel Barber, was born just outside of Philadelphia in 1901 and spent his entire adult life in New York City. Yet he took the words of a great southern writer, James Agee, and composed the most beautiful song for soprano and orchestra.  It is called Knoxville: Summer of 1915.  With lyrics such as, "It has become that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently…" you feel as though you have entered the deep south with lush harmonies and soaring woodwind melodies accompanying your path.  It is a masterful work, northern wit and wisdom meets southern soul.

If Barber can cross the Mason-Dixon line, so can I!  To my new northern friends I say, "Y'all come on down to the house and I'll fix a little something for ya."

To my old southern friends I say, "Goddacommuppavisit!"

Samuel Barber, composer

James Agee, writer

Can't You Do a Friend a Favor?

"It is not so easy to be a friend, is it Reuven?"  So says David Malter to his son, Reuven, in The Chosen by Chaim Potok.  I agree.  To be the right kind of friend at the right time is a challenge and a test of who we are as individuals.  It is easy to be the kind of friend we want to be, but can we be the kind of friend another needs us to be?

I have/had/have a good friend of many years who recently asked me to let him go, to let him shut the door on five years of family dinners, birthday parties, game nights, rehearsals, concerts, plays, camping trips, and generic hanging out.  To compound the matter, he was more than just a friend, he was a collaborative partner.  We met in a theater.  We were in many shows and were writing a musical together.  This, too, has ended.  He gave me permission to remove his name from the title page.  Per his request, I now write alone.

I am reminded of the great musical theater team of Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart.  They collaborated on over 500 songs, including some of the greatest standards of all time, such as "My Funny Valentine" and "Blue Moon."  When a 17 year old Rogers met the older Larry Hart for the first time he said, "I left Hart's house having acquired in one afternoon a career, a partner, a best friend, and a source of permanent irritation."  I echo that sentiment.  Yet this legendary friendship and partnership also came to an end.  Hart was an alcoholic and was soon uncontrollable, drinking and partying late into the night, inevitably hungover when it was time to work.  Rogers had to find a new partner for his next musical and successfully teamed with Oscar Hammerstein II.  Meanwhile Hart, after a late night drunken binge that left him exposed to the cold and the elements, died of pneumonia at the age of 48.

The demise of my collaboration is not nearly so colorful.  No drinking, drugs, or parties are involved.  Instead there is a much more potent force, a new "friend," a fiancée, to be exact, who apparently can't abide the old friendship.  And so the choice is before me.  Do I really let him go?  How badly I want to send him a birthday card, a wedding present, an email with a funny picture I know he would enjoy.  I know where he lives, where he works, his new cell number, his parents address, all his email addresses.  Why can't I just keep in touch a little, from a distance?  There's an old Rogers and Hart song, "Can't you do a friend a favor?" with the following lyric:

You can count your friends

On the fingers of your hand.

If you're lucky, you have two.

I have just two friends,

Only two, just me and you.

That is all I demand,

And a good friend heeds a friend

When a good friend needs a friend.

I will heed.  I will end this friendship, collaboration, partnership.  I will let him walk away.  I have deleted his number from my phone, erased his texts, put away his photos, and, hardest of all, scratched his name off the title page of the musical with a black Sharpie.

Precisely because he is my friend.

Lorenz Hart

Richard Rogers