Coen contemplates Elmo

 This is my grandson, Coen Sylvia. He's about 18 months old in this photo. He's watching his favorite TV show, Elmo the muppet, and is deeply engrossed, as you can see. Taken Sept. 28, 2005.
 

Compassion and understanding

Al Pacino tells the following story: "During one of my performances I made a connection with a pair of eyes in the audience, and I thought, 'This is incredible; these eyes are penetrating me.' I went through the whole performance just relating to those eyes, giving the whole thing to those eyes. When curtain call came, I looked in the direction of those eyes, and it was a seeing eye dog ... I couldn't get over it -- the compassion and intensity and understanding in those eyes, and it was a dog."

From time to time I've seen the same quality in my own dog Bogie's eyes, but I had always assumed they were faux qualities. I thought, "It's amazing how they mimic our own emotions." Because, hey, they're animals. They don't really have compassion. They can't really "understand," the same way we understand.

The Pacino story woke me up. Hey, maybe they aren't "mimicking" our emotions. Maybe they really have those same emotions, in even greater quantity or intensity than we do.

Now when Bogie looks at me that way I'm going to be thinking that he really is "intense, compassionate and understanding."

The above is from a sermon by the late Tom Ahlburn. Pretty remarkable.

A day in Apple Valley

Our gradndson, Aidan, was only two when this little gem was taken. His mother, Hillary, snapped it on a day when the two of them -- along with Jonathan (his dad) -- were out picking apples and pumpkins. I love the sweater, but the smile says it all.

Our new home in the Tamaron section of Sarasota.

The world can be a cruel place

An apparition? A mirage? Both? Neither?

She was wearing a gossamer-thin blouse and jeans and came floating across the parking lot like an apparition. I was sitting at an outdoor table, drinking coffee from a paper cup. As she headed straight toward me I figured I was in for an adventure, and quietly wondered what kind.

“Do you have a cell phone?” she asked, her blue eyes barely visible behind her sunglasses. The strong Florida breeze was whipping around her blond hair.

Yes, I told her, and she asked if she could make a phone call on it. “What kind of phone call?” was all I could think to ask. And that started her going.

Her husband had driven off with all their possessions, she said. They had been doing their laundry in a Laundromat when he stormed off. They had been married a year and nothing like this had ever happened to them, she said.

She started crying. “Nothing is working out right now,” she said, through her tears. “We just lost our new house. My catering business is really hurting and Josh can’t find a publisher for his books.”

Her first husband had been killed in a roadside accident two years ago, she said. “I watched the whole thing. He stopped to help someone change a tire and another car came along and killed him. Josh and I were writing a book about the incident when he asked me to marry him. I didn’t know what to think.”

Now they had no home, no money, and no prospects. “What’s wrong with people today?” she cried. “Everyone is so cruel, so uncaring. We haven’t had a place to stay for three days and the motels are all full. Those that aren’t want $100 a night and we can’t afford that.”

She got on my cell phone and called Josh, but was quickly transferred into voice mail. “Josh, honey, where are you? What’s wrong, sweetheart? Whatever it is, we can work it out. We’ve worked out bigger problems before. I love you, honey. Please come back to me. I’m sitting here at Panera’s with a nice man who’s lending me his cell phone. Please come back to me.”

The tears were rolling down her face. She handed me the cell phone back and left with a “Thank you.” The last I saw of her she was walking across the mall parking lot, the tails on her blouse blowing in the breeze, the sun reflecting off her yellow hair. I never learned her name. When you’re broke the world can be a cruel place.

A troubadour comes to town with his guitar on his back

In a way, Chris the troubadour is still trying to fulfill his father’s dream. Chris was playing his guitar at the Old Salty Dog last night and, outside the noise and hubbub of the bar, talked about his family. There were a fair amount of people in the place-nothing extraordinary, but the crowd seemed into it. He played old Neil Young songs, making me recall Young’s originality and freshness. He also played tunes by such performers as Simon and Garfunkle and other “classic” musicians of the pop genre.

As a testament to the vagaries of his career, he had a box in front of him that said “Chris’s Tips.” It was empty.

Chris came to Florida this winter from his home in Warrensville, Ohio, and said he was glad he did. “We live in the snow belt,” he said, in between sets. “We got 90 inches this winter - a new record.”

The snow mass was enough to cause him financial damage, as part of the roof on a greenhouse he owns collapsed and was awaiting him back in Warrensville. He was anticipating the neighbors’ complaints about the mess.

Chris’s father owned the greenhouse and he was trying to make a go of it, but “it’s tough to make a buck in the nursery business,” he said, so he’s not about to give up his singing/playing career. Besides, he seemed to enjoy it too much and was looking forward to next year, when he already had several gigs lined up.

Back in Warrensville he also has a girlfriend waiting for him: his wife divorced him years ago and he doesn’t get enough time to visit with his son. "I lost my son,” he said, then quickly rephrases it. “I mean, I gave up living with him when the divorce came through.”

Chris has a friendly face and is eager to talk to customers. He asks everyone for requests. Barbara requested “Hotel California.”

“Wow, that one stretches my vocal cords,” he says. “I can’t figure out what key they’re playing in, or how they have their strings tuned.” After a moment he says, “I’ll play it anyway, sometime in the first 10 minutes of the second set.”

Instead, though, he starts the set with it. His voice strains to hit the higher notes. As I listen I’m reminded how the words are something of a metaphor for the troubadour life he has set for himself:

“You can check out any time you want,”
“But you can never leave…”

Want a scan? Meet me in the Flamingo Room

Let's say you needed a scan - a CT scan or one of the others. Where would you expect to go to get this scan? A hospital, right? Or a walk-in clinic.

Would you expect to go to a motel? Yesterday, I was reading the Herald-Tribune when a yellow flyer fell out of it onto my lap. It was advertising various scans "at below-market prices." For example, you could get a "deep leg vein scan" for only $60 and a "pancreas scan" for another $60

This is how Florida is different from Rhode Island, where we lived the past 25 years. You would never see this kind of thing advertised up there, let alone in a Sunday newspaper flyer. Even though getting an "aorta artery scan" is only $45 I doubt that any of the people I know would rush to this company, UltraLife, for a scan. New Englanders prefer to be conservative; stick with their own physicians.

These scans, by the way, were being administered for one day only at a nearby Comfort Inn, not exactly a confidence builder there. And if you didn't like that, they were being offered in nearby Bradenton at a Quality Inn (the Flamingo Room, to be exact).

I think I'll pass.