NYT-1201: STATE OF THE ART A Thermostat That's Clever, Not ...

for the talent, shares a few unprintable thoughts
, and turns to play a soulful take of “Come Back t
o Sorrento.”
“I got to be Boyd,” he says, as aides scrape the r
emnants of pork fried rice from plastic dinner pla
tes. “If I die Boyd, I’m still Boyd.”
Mr. Dunlop arrived at the brown-brick nursing home
nearly four years ago, a strong-willed but slight
ly bent half-note. He had 50 cents in his pocket,
too much sugar in his blood, and a need to be arou
nd others. He liked to sit in the lobby and greet
people, especially the women.
After a while, Mr. Dunlop let it be known that he
was a musician. This did not distinguish him in a
place where someone might claim to be a retired co
ncert violinist or President Obama’s mother, and,
in the first case at least, be telling the truth.
Also, music here usually meant something to be end
ured — the weekly sing-along, say, with a resident
armed with his own electric keyboard.
The broken cafeteria piano was a tease that Mr. Du
nlop could not resist. He played when no one else
was around, between meals, early and late. He lear
ned how to dodge the piano’s flaws, how to elongat
e the good notes and suffocate the bad.
Nothing like his music had been heard in these cle
anser-scented halls. The sounds of Boyd, including
the occasional yowl, would flow from the empty ca
feteria to greet Kate Wannemacher, the director of
nursing, as she arrived early in the morning. “He
plays right out of his heart,” she says.
Life kept time to a nursing home’s beat. Breakfast
lunch dinner, breakfast lunch dinner, with occasi
onal riffs of bingo, sing-alongs, insulin shots, p
aranoia, and more bingo. Mr. Dunlop had his bellic
ose moments, but mostly he was charming away in th