I’d call it a perfect September morning. The humidity was low and the air felt cool despite temperatures in the 70’s. There were many fewer pedicabs lined up at the Women’s Gate, and many fewer rowboats available for rent. I looked forward to a day in the sun.

Things looked good as I turned toward the fountain. I heard John Boyd’s group, as usual, but no one else seemed to be busking. The closer I approached, however, the more clearly I heard classical guitar music coming from a tape recorder. On the stone bench, on my stage, so to speak, sat a dark-haired man, leaning closely over a puppet about 18” high. The puppet was dressed like a toreador, and the man manipulated its arms to the music. This was a new one. Doesn’t he know amplification is forbidden in the park? Where are the park police when you need them?

I set up on the path, turned my face to the clear blue sky, and sang my songs. After an overlong while, a Hispanic man and his wife put a dollar in my case. I invited them to hula, but they had no idea what I said, so I acted it out. We all had a good laugh as they walked on.

Maggie and her master stopped to chat. Maggie is the scottie who likes to sit at my feet and listen, often at great length. Her master and I praised the day, remembered days past, and contemplated days to come. “In honor of the start of football season,” I said as introduction, and started to play “You’ve Got to Be a Football Hero.” A new tune for me, it was a little ragged, but I got through it. Maggie’s master pulled out a crumpled dollar and tossed it in my case. Altogether, over the years, he’s probably given me 5-6 bucks.

A lady in overalls and a straw hat, hauling a backpack, dropped a dollar as she quickly walked by; she was gone before I could ask her to hula. In fact, there were no hulas at all today.

An old man with a scraggly gray beard laboriously walked by, then came back and leaned against the wire fence nearby. In a baseball cap and dungarees, he seemed to enjoy the music. I saw him smiling at my strategies to get people to hula. He sang along to “Tiptoe through the Tulips.” When a family of Orthodox Jews strolled by, and the father tossed a coin in my case, the old man looked over to see the shiny quarter on top of the singles.

A parks department worker came by pushing a spewing and coughing double-wide power mower. He stopped right in front of me and opened the fence. “I’m just going to do this little piece here,” he told me. I looked at my watch; it was time to go anyway.

As I picked up my $3.25 and stuffed it into my breast pocket, the old man came forward with a dollar. Without a word, he put it in my case and walked away.