Another plague year has passed.  Yesterday, having assessed the weather, local covid-19 infection rates, my mood, and my collection of clean aloha shirts, I took the subway to 72^nd St., and walked east to Central Park’s Women’s Gate.  Over the wall, white and yellow daffodils bloom among the purple myrtle, with waves of blowsy tulips in various shades of pink, leading one into the park.  Three tall yellow fritillaria, crown imperial, rise above the fading tulips; father on, behind the leafless rose bushes, another royal fritillaria ascends.  It is still too early for most plants, but the spring blossoms are glorious:  grape hyacinth, wood hyacinth, violets, forsythia, hellebores.

At the Imagine Mosaic, the platoon guitarists now tolerate amplification.  The chestnut tree has been pruned to within an inch of its life; tiny buds, looking like Christmas tree lights, poke out of the few remaining limbs and branches.

Farther into the park, blackened magnolia flowers have bloomed and died in the sun, while in the shade of neighboring trees, the flowers are fresh, the size of an open hand.

Austere Daniel Webster, standing erect, oversees the mown lawn at his feet where fat robins peck for worms.  In the distance, pink cherry blossoms light up the horizon with color.

Well before I turned to descend the stairs at Bethesda Fountain, I heard the amps, one on the east side, one on the west — bad behavior everywhere.  Moving out of the plaza toward my spot on the path to the Boathouse, beneath the Norway Maple, I asked the eastern guitarist if anyone had spoken to him about the use of electronic devices.  His response: “I don’t care about that.” 

To say that I was out of practice is to understate how much the pandemic has eroded my skills.  I forgot chords, words, whole songs.  Yet with repetition, the music returned, and under that warm spring sky, with my mask in my pocket, I felt the rush of pleasure that animated Mr. Ukulele from the beginning, 14 years ago.

A man walked by and put a dollar in my case.  Two young Chinese women walked by, conferred, then each put a dollar in my case.

A little girl of 6 or 7 stood by the fence with her mother and little brother to watch the boats on the lake.  I invited her several times to dance the hula, but she was shy.  She would peek at me from behind her mother’s skirts.  I would wave a lei at her and she’d giggle and hide her face.  Finally, the mother asked me if the leis were for sale.  Leis, of course, are my means of production, so I don’t like to sell them, but knowing I had an unopened bag of leis from prior years, I said, “Ok, $2.”

The mother flipped through some bills in her wallet.  “I give you a ten.”

Two young women, one from Beacon, NY, one from Queens, stopped to dance the hula to “The Hukilau Song.”  They said they didn’t know how, but they were naturals.  They laughed and swayed and gave me $2 a piece.

A teenage boy, like many like him over the years, felt compelled to throw a nickel in my case.  “Mahalo,” said I.

A bride and groom walked down the path with their photographer.  It was a November/December romance.  The bride thought it would be a good idea to take a picture with Mr. Ukulele, the groom not so much.  Nevertheless, he bent his head to receive my lei, as did his bride, and we three smiled for the camera.

Ninety minutes flew by.  I closed with “Little Grass Shack,” then counted my take: $19.05.