1. Back from a Break

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    June 19, 2014 by admin

    Away for 2 weeks, I returned to the park on a blazing hot day. Spring is definitely over. At the West 72nd St. entrance, the Women’s Gate, astilbe, daylilies and morning glories hide in the shade behind the walls, among unidentifiable weeds and wildflowers. Hosta is pushing toward the sky. The flowers on the catalpa have come and gone, except for a few laggards on the lower branches, where the white clusters are protected from direct sun.

    I was not surprised to see that center stage, around the fountain, was unoccupied. I kept walking; today was no day to stand in the heat. My spot on the path was perfect today. In the shade, with a cool, persistent breeze off the lake, I tuned up and let loose. A young boy watched, listened and gave me a buck before I’d finished the first verse of “Sunday.” Well rested and in good voice, I bellowed out a few more tunes. There weren’t a lot of people today. School groups and tourists, if they had any brains, were shuffling through the cool confines of the Met or the Museum of Natural History. A young man got the aloha spirit, a young woman shook 36 cents out of her change purse.

    Randy, the dobro player, stopped to chat. He looked up at the leafy canopy, felt the breeze and nodded with appreciation. “You’re in your element today,” he said with a parting smile.

    As indeed I was. Not only was it cool and shady, but, as I sing in “Ukulele Lady,” today the tricky wicky-wacky wooed.

    “Have you got time for a hula today?”

    “I’ll try,” said one of a group of high school girls and boys from New Jersey. She couldn’t convince the boy she was with to join in, but another girl finally donned the pink lei and they went to the hukilau together.

    A little later, I saw a bridal party crest the hill and saunter toward me, so stopped singing “Honolulu Baby” and broke into “The Hawaiian Wedding Song.” The bride herself, dressed in white and holding her train over her arm, dropped a fiver in my case. “As we say in Hawaii, Mazel Tov.”

    Next came two young girls, out for a fun day in the park. The younger, maybe 9 or 10, was in face paint, the other appeared to be her sister or babysitter. They danced shyly and giggled when I sang about the lovely hula dancers rolling their eyes.

    An hour seemed long enough today, so I packed up and headed home. At the top of the stairs, a string quartet in full tuxedoed splendor, tuned up. Several tables for two were set with linen, china and crystal. “What’s this?”

    “We’re promoting a new show on FX, Tyrant, premiering June 24,” said a 20-something dressed in black.

    “Cool, what’s for lunch?”

    “We don’t serve lunch. People are supposed to bring their own lunch and eat it here, where they can get a little taste of royalty.” I looked around at the hot dog truck. The musicians looked hot and unhappy.

    “Hey, I don’t begrudge you guys a living, but do you really think the world needs another show about excess?”

    “You have a watch and cell phone,” he countered.

    “Really, is that the best you can do?”

    “Just kidding.”

    “Uh huh.” Seems like the only way to get a taste of royalty these days is to kiss Rupert Murdoch’s ass.

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  2. Getting Hot

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    June 2, 2014 by admin

    They’ve planted out cosmos at the entrance to the park, just a few inches off the ground, yet already showing colors of white, pink and red. Just past the drinking fountain between the button sellers, wisteria tendrils, dripping down from a pergola and blowing wildly in the wind, seemed to be going for my throat. On the lawn south of 72nd St., what the maps call Terrace Drive, sunbathers stripped down to catch the rays. It was hot.

    It was so hot, Arlen and Meta were nowhere to be found; I had Bethesda Fountain to myself. There was a nice mix of dancers today: toddlers who didn’t know what they were doing, co-eds from Queens who did, moms and dads demonstrating for their children. A green-shirted elderly conservancy worker nodded hello, then stopped as if he wanted to say something. I recognized him. A few years ago, early in the season before the Quiet Zone wars, he told me that he liked my music, but once the fountain was turned on, people had a right to hear the splashing water without distraction, so I should find someplace else to play. Perhaps he too recalled that conversation, and witnessed its effect, because he turned without a word and walked away. A teenager from the East 60’s said he liked my music, but he didn’t dance.

    After 90 minutes I packed up. I folded $12 into my pocket, but the change in my case had become too hot for me to count until I got home.

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  3. A Short Splendid Friday

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    June 1, 2014 by admin

    Friday can bring bad behavior to the park. Marching around Bethesda Fountain, a swing quintet, consisting of 3 saxes, clarinet and drums, sucked all the oxygen from the space. Dressed like clowns in hardhats, they spun from the south end, playing to the balcony, counter-clockwise to the north, where Arlen packed up his dulcimer. Meta waited for him up the path. They were moving over to the boathouse.

    I set up under my maple and opened with “I Wonder Where My Little Hula Girl Has Gone.” A toddler approached and I pretended to cry for the lost wahini. Some teenagers broke into a spaz-dance. A conservancy worker in a golf cart said, “Aloha,” as he drove by. One of the guys who tend the rowboats did a little hula. The day was developing splendidly.

    A bride and groom strolled pleasantly down the path, their photographer close behind. She was in a tropical print, he in a dark Nehru-like suit, no collar or lapels, open over a collarless white shirt. “Would you like to hear the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song’?” I asked. They seemed intrigued by the prospect and before they could think about it, I put a white lei on the bride and a purple lei on the groom. The photographer put a dollar in my case and started taking pictures. The bride did a creditable hula, but the groom could only manage to shift his weight from foot to foot and smile for the camera. At the end, however, as blue skies of Hawaii smiled on his wedding day, he gave his bride a big kiss, and me a fiver.

    A large group of middle-schoolers, according to their leader, had no time for a hula. “Where you from?” I asked the kids walking by.

    “We’re Canadians,” said one. “From Canadia,” said another. This elicited peals of laughter, doubtless an inside joke, and two more dollars, US, in my case.

    I left after an hour with $9.50. The swing band was still playing, although they’d taken off their hardhats and were sitting in the shade.

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