1. Return from a 10-Day Absence

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    June 11, 2015 by admin

    More than a week has gone by since my last trip to the park. New plantings of foxglove, and other showy flowers, have joined the cosmos and cleome. Small patches of astilbe and hellebore peak out from under the rose bushes. Large spiraea bushes are covered with tight bud clusters just days away from opening. Already little white florets are visible.

    The Central Park Conservancy has taken over Bethesda Terrace for a fund raiser. The area is barricaded from all 3 south-end staircases to the north-end of the fountain; the only way in is from the east, and once in, there is no place to go but out again. I set up on the path, under the maple. Looking over the ugly green fence hiding the improvements to the rowboat rental operation, I noticed the still green mulberries on the giant English Mulberry tree, where later in the year birds will gather for its sweet treats.

    A group of middle-schoolers stopped, but only one boy put on a lei to hula, while his 20 or so classmates, looking rather bored, watched. With the final chord of “The Hukilau Song” still ringing, off they trudged. “Aloha.”

    Moments later, another school group, this one from PS 16 in the Bronx, found time to hula. So many dancers, so few leis. I stopped between verses so those with leis could pass them to those without, then reprised the first verse to give another group a chance. One teacher gave me a fiver, another a single.

    Meta walked by without her harp. She was extremely agitated. “I’ve got no place to play,” she said, “and I’ve got to play. They just threw me out in front of the boathouse. I tried to play by the bench,” she continued, pointing back toward the fountain, “but Alex is being a real jerk today.” Alex is the painter who sells his wares. “He keeps feeding the squirrels, and the people would much rather look at squirrels than listen to music. When I asked him to stop while I was playing, he just shrugged, like he doesn’t understand me. He understands me,” she went on, and in an act of frustration made the motion of garroting him with a harp string.

    “I don’t have to play,” I told her. “You can play here.”

    “Oh, no,” she said, but in the end she agreed and headed back to the boathouse to get her instrument. While she was gone, a young man gave me dollar.

    Pushing her harp up the slow incline, she said, “You know what, I’ll try to work with Alex. Thanks for the offer,” she added. “You’re very kind.”

    A little girl of 4 or 5 stopped to hula. After putting on her own lei, she passed out leis to the 3 adults accompanying her. She also rearranged my hula-dancing dashboard figure and my solar-powered hula girl. Everything and everyone exactly how she wanted, the girl danced beautifully. An adult gave her a dollar to drop in my case.

    A girl and her mother stopped to dance. At the end of the dance, instead of giving me a dollar, the girl asked, “Can I have a dollar?”

    “Go ahead,” I said, “take one.” When they’d gone, I replace it with a single from my wallet.

    Another dollar here and there made a substantial pile in my case. Toward the end of the set, a school group from Texas – the same group that had no time to hula earlier – had time now. Three girls did a spirited line dance, if not exactly a hula. Their leader gave them each a dollar to give to me.

    On the way out of the park, with $15.35 in my pocket, I passed Meta on her end of the bench. She seemed less agitated; I could see the bills piled high in the collection box at her feet. Alex was painting at the other end, not a squirrel in sight.

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