1. Too Hot to Hula

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    August 26, 2016 by admin

    The sweep of the plantings on the north side of Womens’ Gate goes something like this: lantana backed by fuschia, cleome, more cleome backed by roses, more cleome. The skinny pink and white petals don’t have much color, and the spooky green-bean-like pods below add nothing, if not an unpleasant arachnid element. The wisteria on the pergola hasn’t bloomed in years, and the easternmost branch of the chestnut tree is turning brown with blight.

    In the dappled shade of Strawberry Fields, however, the white asters, what we call in our house Michaelmas Daisies, line the paths. The purple variety was in bloom on the roadsides the day we were married.

    It was hot. I considered walking down to the maple and playing in the shade, but center stage was too alluring. An English woman gave me a dollar. “It’s too hot to hula,” she said. I told her I loved people from England; they liked the ukulele and understood the wordplay of the lyrics.

    A group of high schoolers in white tees congregated in the shade across from me. Their leader told me there was no time for a hula today. There was time enough, however, for a couple of the kids to put together 2 dollars and change for me. The young man who brought it over was from Barcelona, and was on his way to Wisconsin for a lengthy stay. “Are you spending the winter there? Good luck.” He returned to his friends. I wondered if they all were destined for Wisconsin.

    A flamboyantly dressed man in granny glasses gave me a dollar. “Thanks, I enjoyed the show.”

    A shaggy biker dude of 50 or more, dressed in black, walking with his presumptive wife and son, passed by. We exchanged looks. I said, “Aloha.” They walked to the water, then stopped on the way back and put some change in my case. He was a magician from Baltimore, who busked, from what I heard or imagined, up and down the northeast. He was well versed in the laws and regulations of various locales. I told him how I got a permit from the police to busk in Provincetown, which I still carry in my wallet.

    “And are you the magician’s assistant?” I asked his presumptive wife. The boy of 12 or 13, bored, embarrassed or both, sat on the edge of the fountain a fair distance away. She nodded. “Does he ever make you disappear?”

    “Just let him try it,” she said, her role no longer in doubt.

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  2. A Rare Friday

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    August 23, 2016 by admin

    I went to the park on Friday, a rare occurrence for me, but the day was too fine to let pass. Except for the soldiering roses, the plantings were lush and deep August green. As I walked through Strawberry Fields, I heard a trumpet in the distance. Walking closer, I picked up the sound of more instruments. It was the jazz trio playing “Pennies from Heaven” across the road from Daniel Webster. The Boyd Family sang sacred music in the arcade; I sang strictly secular on center stage.

    Two little Spanish girls walked up, each with a quarter in her hand. They danced a halting hula, turning from time to time to their parents far away, then back, giggling, to each other.

    An expensively put-together woman in her 50’s found a dollar in her purse for me.

    A short distance to my right, a long-legged model posed for a photographer and his 2 assistants. One of the assistants was swaying to “Honolulu Eyes.” She turned to see me watching, stopped in embarrassment, turned away, then started swaying again. They finished shooting about the same time I finished singing. “Have you got time for a real hula?” I asked the assistant, waving a lei at her.

    “Go ahead,” said the photographer. He even took a few snaps of her going to the hukilau. When she gave me a dollar, he pulled out a dollar too. I lifted an eyebrow to the model, but she demurred.

    With about 30 minutes left in my set, the ballerina came by with her gym bag, white face and bun. She stretched ostentatiously as she waited for me to leave. I ignored her, and did not leave. After another song, she did.

    A family walked by. Dad gave the elder of two a dollar for me. I’ve observed many a child taught to tip the busker this way.

    A family of Canadians came by. They were from Alberta, loved New York, and loved my music $2 USD worth.

    I counted out $7.50 for the day. On my way out of the park, the cold water man gave me a thumbs-up, a reminder that it’s not about the money. “Aloha.”

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  3. “I Don’t, but Ashley Does.”

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    August 19, 2016 by admin

    “What a beautiful day for fishin’.” Temps in the 80’s, humidity low, puffy white clouds scudding across the clear blue sky. I took a seat at the fountain and waited until the cowboy finished. I began with “The Hukilau Song.”

    Two little French girls put on leis and waggled through a verse. Each one handed me a dollar. After a few more songs, a woman got up off the bench and tossed a buck in my case. “I truly felt as if I was there,” she said.

    A photographer captured most of “Tip Toe through the Tulips.” After putting his camera away and hoisting the case over his shoulders, he stopped by with a dollar.

    A half dozen teen-aged girls came down the path. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

    One girl tried to drum up interest, but got no takers. “Well, I want to dance,” she said.

    “What say we go to the hukilau?” I said.

    “I know that one.” She danced using all the movements she’d learned in elementary school on Oahu. Barely 5 feet tall, with flowing black hair and pudgy cheeks, she attracted a crowd. I brought the dance to a close, she bowed to scattered applause, returned the lei and walked away.

    A 15-year-old girl, who’d been watching from the bench, gave me a dollar. Two sisters stopped to put a dollar in my case. I invited them to hula, but only one took me up on it.

    With a short time left in my set, Maggie the dog, and her owner, Marcel, stopped to say hello. This was the first time out for them in over a week.

    “Have you got time for a hula today?” I addressed a couple of college girls, who, accompanied by an older woman, were wonderingly taking in the circus atmosphere at the fountain.

    “I don’t, but Ashley does.” I waved a lei at Ashley, who put down her backpack and made ready to dance. This time, we skipped the hukilau and went back to “My Little Grass Shack.”

    The presumptive mom found a fiver in her wallet and handed it to me. “We’re from Chicago,” she said, “and having a wonderful time.”

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