Our guests slip into their places with what I hope is a sense of occasion.

Not wanting to ghoulishly remind Joan of fire, at the table tonight I have not set or lit my usual tapered candlesticks.

Rick, my dear mischief-maker, had told me that he intended to ask Bob Geldof to say grace, but now my spouse holds off. Maybe he is wary that Bob may address God as ‘Dude,’ offending sacramental tradition. So it is Billy Graham who says a fast, multi-worded grace and message of comfort, and of course he has a way of delivering it electrically. We are rapt.

It also is the most inclusive invocation that our Shaker dining table has ever witnessed. Billy even conjures blessings for our absent children, Bob’s absent daughters, Joan of Arc’s ward/stepson (?) asleep in the next room, plus Billy’s own children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. It includes Christians, secular humanists, and non-Christians. The seculars and the non-Christians may be going to Heaven too, Billy explains.

Billy’s prayer is so ecumenical, so noble, that afterwards Rick has an opening of sorts to spice things up with a contrast; that’s his curmudgeon ‘thing.’ It is a non-inclusive tale he has picked up in his Folklore research: “Have you heard the one, Billy, about the Catholic Bishop who wanted to support a Baptist counterpart? ‘In the end, we both worship the same God,’ the Bishop says in Rick’s story says, ‘you in your way, and I in His.’”

The groan from Bob is the party's only direct reaction to Rick’s religiously incorrect joke. I understand now that tale ‘works’ better -- if it ‘works’ at all -- in print than in discourse. Rick tried it out on me last night, and I did not anticipate that it would fall flat. Rick had wanted to explore why Minister A can fulminate over Minister B seeing God's ways differently. We thought the joke could launch a conversation about different churches coming to understand their differences, thereafter acting on their commonalities. My conclusion is that there is a time and place to talk about church unity but not here, not tonight.

Only partially daunted, Rick musters his pride and passionately ladles out his yellow mung dal soup. It is the most ambitious soup he has ever made. It is a mix of mung beans, turmeric, ginger, jalapeño, zucchini, chilanto, lemon juice, cumin, coriander, and three curry leaves.

Reminiscing with strangers is never easy. Nevertheless, over our second course (seared sea scallops on baby spinach with crème), once more Bob reaches back in time. In 1957, almost 30 years before his initial Live Aid show at Wembley, Bob says that same stadium was the site of the largest religious gathering in British history. At the time, Bob was only six years old. He was not there then, but he says that it was such a "big deal" that he heard about it. Next, with a melodic ‘Tah Dah,’ Bob points to that event’s central figure, “Billy, come on now, you were all wet, weren’t you?”

Oh my. They are at it again.

Billy bobs his head and beams broadly at the cut. Then there’s something revealing (and surprising to me): in 1957, a driving rain had dampened Billy and his rally. Hence Bob’s ‘all wet’ comment had a basis in fact. The problem, Billy says, was an absence of physical shelter (Billy then slips in the claim that umbrella-like, God provides a spiritual shelter).

Joan of Arc mentions Billy’s belief in Wembley and elsewhere -- that Christ’s salvation alone is the lasting solution to personal and world problems. In pretty much the same words, she also re-scores her earlier point that God is not a metaphor but a living being that affects our day-to-day lives.

Joan and Billy may be at opposite ends of our dining table, using different sets of salt & pepper shakers, but theologically they still seem together.

Billy says that is also the message of salvation that he took to New Orleans after the Katrina hurricane. For him, that visit that was “so emotional that I could not even talk to my wife for a while.”

That wife, a missionary’s daughter, died recently. Joan is the first among us to express condolences over Billy’s loss. For talking with surviving spouses, I have yet to learn how to turn my declaration of sympathy into some useful purpose. Hence tonight, when Joan mentions Ruth Graham’s passing, I keep my condolence short. Bob is better at voicing regret than I am…

First in, James Dean. He comes in a leather jacket, blue jeans, and a cloud of smoke. He seems open and decent. He may not be a man's man like Clark Gable was in the movies of the '30s and '40s, a gruff chap I might have wanted to resemble (I say 'might have' because frankly I don't remember much of my early wants, except that I dwelt in externals). Nevertheless, Barb may be right: James is more than just a boy-toy. James is also interesting because he has a touch of the skepticism and 'Up Yours!' attitude of a contemporary who came to fame later, the early John McCain (as depicted in biographies with subtitles such as Man of the People and An American Odyssey).

With James, quickly we get beyond talk about the weather. The snow has stopped here, but it's still cold, and James says he doesn’t go out anymore unless he really wants to. He adds that he feels “cheerful” but not “optimistic” about being here. We’ll see if that is a distinction without a difference. Couldn't he be at least cautiously optimistic?

James says he’s seen some squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons, and other small animals rummaging around outside. “That’s a sign of a healthy neighborhood, but do your neighbors try to poison them?” James seems skeptical when Barb says “No.”

James insists that he always liked mixing it up with folk who are not actors or directors. “It’s especially nice to meet people who could be schmucks but who turn out to be mostly normal.” Oh oh, tonight Barb and I will have to be mostly normal.

James says he’s interested “in seeing how people live these days.” Barb takes him on a tour of the house, the whole house.

I hear them now, down in the basement. She’s handing him a large, green, and slightly used ashtray from the ‘50s. It’s made out of plastic, has astrological signs around its circumference, and is not “us.” It’s our most unforgettable wedding gift, stored on an old shelf for moments like these. James agrees it’s not quite right as an ashtray, but adds that everything about life is not quite right anyways.

A week ago, after we nailed down a visit, Muhammad Yunus phoned back to ask if he could be helpful in facilitating tonight’s party. “Much obliged,” we’d said, “we’re taking care of it.” He asked for the name of the nearest hotel.

Now, he drives up in a haste on a foot-pedal bike from that hotel, leans that two-wheeler against our porch, and sweeps us away with his vitality. I suspect his force is internal, not because of any milk he drinks standing up. Muhammad bemoans his tardiness and wishes that Mapquest had a guide for bike routes. Its online (car) directions misled him.

Jackie Robinson is impressed the hotel rents bicycles. Muhammad explains that it tries to be eco-friendly for travelers. “I get to see more communities that way.” Muhammad’s not eco-preachy in making that point.

En route he was taken by the fair number of our locale's hardware stores. He passed a plumbing supply store that was holding a seminar on solar heating.

Perween Warsi says, "Coming here tonight, I saw a fair number of construction bins in driveways. I figure your neighbors are buying renovation goodies at those stores and fixing up their houses."

Jackie had noticed a home where half of a pile of logs was split and stacked for firewood.

I venture that after our hard winter, this year’s spring is exceptionally brilliant. This is the best time of the year to see our neighborhood in its green gladrags. Cool weather plus abundant rain have yielded rich colors. I allow as how our young neighbors think our foliage isn't all that special. Because Barb and I are the geezers on the street, these neighbors joke that our verdict stems from our advanced age, weak eyesight perhaps.

"After the rain, good weather/In the wink of an eye/The universe throws off/its muddy cloths." That's Perween. Reciting a poem Ho Chi Minh wrote while in prison.

We demand more. "...All the birds sing at once/Men and animals rise up reborn/What could be more natural?/After sorrow comes happiness."

A young neighbor from up the street ambles by with his 4 or 5-year-old daughter. They both wave.

Perween turns to Mohammad. “The whole world was very happy in 2006 to hear you’d won the Nobel Peace Prize. I even gloated.”

A quick intake of breath and Muhammad shares the moment when he and his fellow-citizens first heard. He was at home, in lungi (sp?), which I assume is informal clothing for Bangladeshi men. To acknowledge the thousands who had rushed to congratulate him, he came out of his house so fast that it was difficult to change clothes.

Jackie sees me drawing a blank. “‘Lungi’ means ‘loincloth,’” he says.

On prodding, Muhammad says he shared the Prize with the Grammen (village) Bank that he founded. It loans an applicant just a little money, about $200 US. In the under-developed world, that’s been enough to lift most applicants out of poverty.

Perween lauds her fellow-South Asian for giving his share of the $1.4 million for other anti-poverty measures including an eye bank, a health scheme, and a system for drinking water in rural Bangladesh. She’s especially delighted that he’s harnessed market forces in a start-up that’s developing low-cost, high-nutrition food. That initiative supplements his Bank’s selling of penny packets of different seeds. Grameen is the country’s largest supplier of seeds.

Barb fishes for more personal data: “Did your parents live to see your marvelous successes?” Most did.

That discussion reels in data about everyone’s childhoods. The grandson of a slave and a sharecropper’s son, Jackie was the most disadvantaged. Grew up with four siblings and a single Mother who worked 12-hour days as a domestic. Jackie did odd jobs, joined a gang, and (as he admits) stole food from grocery stores.

When she was living in Bihar state, Perween was part of a cohesive, well-off family with an amply stocked kitchen. She doesn’t say if she was high-caste.

From his tiny ornaments shop, Muhammad’s Father struggled to send nine children to higher education. Mohammad’s memory of his Mother, before her mental illness, was of her reciting stories and poems. He doesn't remember any by Ho Chi Minh.

When I come out of the toilet, folk have moved to the living room. As far as I can figure, they are discussing the apt disposal of excreta. Proper disposal, it appears, can reduce diarrhea by 40 percent. Hand-washing helps further.

Frankly, I’m surprised the conversation has taken this turn. Not that the sanitizing of excrement is unmentionable in polite circles, it’s just that the subject is unexpected.

A little sheepish, I sit down beside Jackie Robinson. “Hey guys, look, I washed my hands.” I’m not sure Perween Warsi is responding to me when she says, “You need to be positive, especially when things go wrong.” I haven’t the foggiest how or if that maxim ties into what they’ve been saying.

Muhammad Yunus continues holding forth: “A latrine is a kind of rare commodity in the villages. It’s not available, so people go out in the open. Right from the beginning, we introduced one practice... If you are becoming a Grameen Bank member, one of the first things you do as a show of your good faith in Grameen Bank, is to dig a hole. And from now on, you’ll use the hole as your latrine.

“In the beginning, there was a lot of opposition to it. People would complain, ‘It smells. Why should we do it in one place when we can do it everywhere?’ We explained the risk of doing it everywhere, how that spreads diseases, and so on…But we promoted that this was the way you joined Grameen Bank…

“A few years later, I was visiting a village…a woman rushed at me and hugged me, and saying something…I couldn’t understand… In Bangladesh, a woman hugging a man in front of everybody is quite a scene. So I was feeling embarrassed… but she wouldn’t let me go. She’s still saying something in the local dialect that I can’t understand. [Then a local colleague interpreted the woman’s words:] ‘You are a great savior. You saved women from the punishment of Hell.’

“I said, ‘What does it mean? How did I save women from the punishment of Hell?’ [The interpreter] explained, ‘Because of those latrines that we built, because you insisted on it…Look, men can do it anytime they want, day and night, but women had to wait until the darkness of night. No mater what problem she has, she couldn’t do it anywhere because women are not allowed to do it. Now she can do it anytime she wants.’”

“I looked at her, and it really gave me something to think about. I said, ‘We argued about the latrines and so on the health grounds. We never even realized what a difference it makes, what kind of impact it makes on women in a society that restricts them from coming out of the house, and what a punishment it is for that person.”

My wife looks like she too wants to hug Muhammad. In front of everybody.

A ladybug crawls across the floor. Barb scoops it up and takes it outside.

I feel back into the conversation, and digress aloud with a years-ago tale our kids tell about how, once when driving them to a game somewhere, Barb saw an old turtle starting to cross a certain road at Okeson's Place. Barb got out of our car, blocking traffic both ways, and carried this member of a turtle family to the other side. When she rejoined the kids in the car, she had scratches on one hand. Barb never mentioned that to me, I never noticed any scratches or heard about any infections, and the story may only be apocryphal.

Lately, at Okeson's Place, I have noticed a new sign installed by the Highway Department: an icon of a turtle followed by 'Xing.'