1. Back in the Saddle

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    August 16, 2015 by admin

    Friday was hot, humidity low. I considered center stage, and was a little relieved to find the cowboy in his usual spot. It was pleasant under the maple. Early on an English woman took a baggie full of change out of her purse, scooped out a handful into my case and soldiered on. “Good job,” she said. The bubble of anxiety I didn’t even know I had popped. Today was not going to be the day, the day I took in nothing, either.

    A woman and her two daughters were happy to hula. I couldn’t place the accent. After she gave me a dollar, I asked her where she was from. She said, “Hrens.” I asked again. “Hrens.” I looked pleadingly to the children, who were no help. Then we figured it out; she was from France.

    “Oh, Madame,” I said, embarrassed. “Je suis désolé.” She looked pretty annoyed. “Merci, merci beaucoup,” I waved to them as they walked toward the boathouse.

    “Did you sleep in that shirt?” That was Mercer saying hello. In fact, I had worn today’s aloha shirt last night to dinner at his house. His wife, Ellen, gave me a quick peck on the cheek as she ran past. “Got to go to the bathroom.”

    “How about ‘Anything but Love,’” said Mercer. We ran through it twice, I gave him 16 bars for a scat solo, and then I joined him for the final 16 bars for a big finish. Mercer bowed to the caricaturist on one side, to the woman with the baby carriage on the other, and to all the rowboats at sea.

    “That’s too much,” said Mercer. Ellen had come back and put a dollar in my case. I got another peck and off they went to The Met, to see the Sargent exhibit.

    Sisters, maybe 4 and 6, dressed in identical gingham dresses, came walking by with their mom, or nanny. They did a sedate, if not motionless hula. I tried to get them to move their arms; nanny/mom was showing them how, but they both had their eyes on me. The younger one sometimes shook her hands over her head, but seemed to know that wasn’t quite right. The nanny had one of the girls give me dollar. I figured she was the nanny, because mom would have given a dollar for me to both girls.

    While the caricaturist drew his sister’s portrait, a young boy swayed with the music. He’d been there a while, and now that the portrait was almost done, he asked his mother for a dollar for the ukulele man. “Have you got time for a hula?”

    “No, no thank you,” he said, smiling. He seemed happy to be asked.

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  2. Worst Day Ever

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    August 15, 2015 by admin

    Tucked in a shaded corner near the Strawberry Fields sign, a mass of Michaelmas daisies bloomed. Long white petals, varying in number from 6 to 9, radiated from a small yellow center. Someone played “Imagine” at the Imagine Mosaic.

    Here is the chestnut report: withered leaves cover the ground; more than half the leaves still on the tree are blighted. The golf ball sized nuts are also browning. I crushed one underfoot to find the nut still unformed, although the meat inside was moist and green, suitable, I’d think, for the most discriminating squirrel.

    Grass grew a foot high around the rhododendra, and had started to bolt.

    The cowboy crooner was there again. As I walked by he called for volunteers to dance to his next number, the beautiful “Quando, Quando, Quando.” I could have told him it wasn’t so easy to get people to dance.

    Maggie the dog stopped to visit. The black scotch terrier sitting at my feet, seemingly absorbed in my music, made a wonderful photo op. After some time, Marcel scooped the dog up and whisked her away, after which I played for the next hour pretty much to myself.

    Just when I thought that this would be the day, the day I took in nothing, an old woman fumbled in her change purse. “I’m sorry it’s not more,” she said, putting 8 dimes into my case. “You were so nice to me.” I had no idea what she meant by that; perhaps she’d seen me before and we’d exchanged pleasantries.

    A 20-something on a bike braked in front of me. He reached into one pocket, then another. “Sorry, mate, all I have is Irish money.”

    “No problem,” I said. “Next time you’re at the pub, have a drink for me.”

    A teenaged boy gave me a quarter.

    A family stopped to hear me play. “Have you got time for a hula today?” The young daughter danced beautifully to “The Hukilau Song.” “Where are you from?” I asked her between verses.

    “Holland.”

    “Holland? Wow, I know Holland, what city?”

    She looked puzzled. “Holland,” she repeated.

    I looked toward the parents. “Holland, Pennsylvania.”

    “Pennsylvania, ok,” I said, and launched into the second verse. At the end of the dance, they walked off. The day’s total came to $1.05, my worst day ever.

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  3. Randy Joins the Rotation

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    August 14, 2015 by admin

    His dobro on his lap, Randy sat just outside Strawberry Fields. Ordinarily, an artist sets up at this spot, but Randy had taken it when the boys at the Imagine Mosaic gave him a hard time about joining in their rotation. The urban cowboy was back at the fountain, accompanied by a soft electronic bass line. I set up under the maple, soon joined by a caricaturist on the opposite side of the path.

    As with so many days in the park this summer, the crowds were thin and the money tight. Two girls, sisters, were getting their portraits done. While one sat, the other checked me out; I gave her a big smile. A few minutes later, she put a dollar in my case. When it was her turn to sit for her portrait, her sister wandered round and she too put a dollar in my case. This artist was a fast worker. Others, who advertise a 10-minute portrait, can take 20-30 minutes. But, as promised, 10 minutes was all he needed. The portraits, framed in black matte, were tucked away among mom’s shopping bags. As her family walked away, the little girl found another dollar to give me. When offered, however, she declined to hula.

    A mom with 3 kids stopped to listen. “Have you got time for a hula today?” Only one child stepped forward. Without once breaking into a smile, the girl waved her arms, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and danced through both verses of “The Hukilau Song.” She didn’t seem to be having any fun at all, yet mom thought it worth a fiver.

    Two teens, who said they grew up in Hawaii, did a proper hula. They had learned all the moves to “The Hukilau Song” in third grade. They made quite an attraction, causing many people to stop and admire. At this point, two guys, raising money for a basketball league by selling candy, started shaking hands with my audience, dogging them down the path as they tried to get away. Soon everyone was gone, my Hawaiians included, and I none the richer.

    A kid walked by and dropped 18 cents, followed by a 40-something woman who donated a dollar with a big smile and warm thank-you. Later, while I played “Tiptoe through the Tulips,” an old man of at least 80 took out his wallet. His companions kept walking while the man carefully extracted a single for me.

    On my way out of the park, $10.18 in my pocket, I saw Randy again. He had set up his chair at the Imagine Mosaic, and was playing Beatle songs on a guitar, like everyone else in the rotation.

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