It Starts with a P
The Source
They called me late one night. “Ken, we’ve got a situation and we wonder if you could handle it.” It was the executive secretary of an organization that supervises most activities of Illinois elementary schools. “This guy has a kid who he says is a really gifted young speaker, but he’s got a lousy speech coach. He wants to hire a private tutor for his son going into national competition.” The city was nearby and it sounded interesting, so I told them to put the young genius in touch with me and I’d do my best to spiff him up before the big contest. The next morning I got a call from a fellow with a heavy accent, asking if I could meet at the family home and I agreed. I live in Arenzville, so I don’t know much about gated communities. This one was uber-gated. My car was stopped by a uniformed guard who called my host and after a quick look-over they let me in. I wasn’t in Arenzville any longer, Toto. Home after palatial home, mansions....heck I was born in Perry where indoor plumbing was a big deal. Some of these folks had little houses attached to their big house for little people who did nothing but take care of the big house. When I found the place I searched for the front door. It seemed like one of those exclusive clubs where if you had to ask how to get in then you didn’t belong there. Finally settling for what looked a lot like a back entrance (probably used by the little people who took care of the big house) I rang the doorbell. The little people must have had the day off because I was met by the actual lady of the house, a charming, svelte blond who welcomed me in to meet the family. In situations where you’re actually blown away by your surroundings you do your best not to act as if you’re blown away by your surroundings, but I’d never walked on white shag carpet. They had an actual carpet rake leaning up against a grandfather clock. I’m not kidding. They raked their carpet. I looked down at my scuffed Wal-Mart tennis shoes and asked if I should remove them. “Oh, we don’t do that,” said my hostess, and she showed me into their living room where the rest of the family was waiting. So there we sat: the lovely mother, a freshly scrubbed little girl, young speaker lad, the daddy, and me. Daddy was from India and I made a wild stab and said, “Would you be a doctor?” He was startled that I’d nailed his occupation. “How did you know?” How do you answer a question like that? “Uh…just guessed.” It would have sounded silly to say, “You have stethoscope marks in your ears.” Bottom line: it was a delightful afternoon. The young man was indeed talented, the oratorical advice he’d been given was indeed bogus, and the family members were indeed gracious. It was an afternoon well spent. All through our tutoring session I kept eyeing a full-length, white Steinway grand on the east side of their stadium-sized living room, and when we were finished I asked who played the piano. The little girl shyly raised her hand and I asked if she’d play me a piece. The upshot of the thing is that we ended our time together with the two of us doing duets. Delightful. After lemonade and cookies I got up leave and the daddy said, “You say you live in Jacksonville?” I told him that I lived near there. “And who you is your doctor?” I didn’t realize that other doctors asked people these questions. I said…(okay, I’ve got to cheat here, not wanting to offend any of local doctors, but I gave him my doc’s name which I can’t spell but it starts with a “P,” he plays a mean 18 holes, and has a fondness for spicy Curry). The man stopped dead in his tracks and said, “Genius! He’s a genius! Wonderful diagnostician!” I went home and looked up the word and found out this was a good thing. As he walked me to the car, the young doctor extolled the excellence of Passavant Hospital, telling me how fortunate we were to have such a facility in our rural community, and this was in the days back before the various inter-hospital alliances of today. I drove home feeling….I don’t know…healthier. It’s become a reflex with me now. When I drive down Walnut and pass my hospital, I smile. Like my MD’s name and my yearly checkups, it starts with a P.