The corona virus pandemic of 2020 put me, along with millions of others, out of work for all of last year.  Wednesday, the first day of New York City’s reopening, saw temperatures in the 80’s, low humidity and a lapis blue sky. The compulsion to venture out for an afternoon of busking was irresistible. At the entry to the park at West 72nd St., only one pedicab driver was working, and no vendors. The spring annuals were not yet planted out; only the red dog roses seemed happy.  Trash trees, like ailanthus, poked through the undergrowth, awaiting the gardeners’ shears.

At the Imagine Mosaic, a single guitarist played “Eleanor Rigby,” starting with the last verse (“…died in the church…”), then hearing himself, starting again (…picked up the rice…).  The winding path to the crosswalk which leads to the statue of Daniel Webster was lined with hellebore and wild geranium.

At Bethesda Fountain, The Central Park Conservancy Garden Party was underway, with all the brightly dressed ladies sporting their best chapeaux for the event.  Before hiking down to the Norway Maple to start my set, I spotted Dominic, the big bubble man.  We fist-bumped our greetings.  There was a tacit acknowledgement between us:  hula-dancing and big bubbles, signatures of the before times, were now harbingers of the after times.  Before parting, Dominic warned me about the amplified guitarist who has made himself a regular.

The foot traffic was light, allowing a little time to tune both my uke and my voice.  I started out slowly, quietly, fumbling at first with chords I hadn’t played in 18 months.  Muscle memory, however, is a wonderful thing; within 5 minutes I confidently started my set.  Mr. Ukulele was back.

A large group from San Diego walked by.  “Aloha.  Have you got time for a hula dance today?”

After the initial hesitancy, a lanky teenager with a wise-guy smile stepped forward.  I fitted him for a lei and off he went to “The Hukilau Song.”  He was all arms and legs, not a hint of grace, yet he delighted the adults, as well as the other kids in his group.  His mom gave him 2 singles for me, and his dad kicked in another.

A young couple from Arizona stopped to dance the hula.  They swayed shyly to “The Hukilau Song.”  “Thanks for stopping,” I told them when we’d finished.  The man put a fiver in my case, and they walked off hand in hand.

A tall, thin boy with a pretty blonde girlfriend stopped to introduce himself.  He was working to complete his requirements for Eagle Scout and asked if he could record me for MacDonald House, so when the kids came back from their treatments, they’d be greeted by my happy uke.  I put my hand out in assent, and we exchanged the official Boy Scout handshake.  I recruited the girlfriend to dance the hula.  At the finale of “The Hukilau Song,” he pointed the camera at my solar-powered hula girls.  “Fantastic,” he said, “I’ll run this on a loop, they’ll love it.”

He pulled $3 out of his wallet and tossed them in my case.

Two young women in black caps and purple gowns walked by.  “Have you got time for a graduation hula?”

While I put leis over their mortarboards, a woman stopped to ask, “What college?”

“NYU.”

“My niece goes there, she’s trying to decide whether to stay in the dorm or get an apartment.”  There then followed a discussion about dorm fees and average rents in the neighborhood.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman, seeing me patiently waiting for her to go away, whereupon she wished the graduates luck and went away.

Despite not having a clue what they were going to do next, the recent graduates gave me a fiver, bringing my first day’s total to $16.