On a humid Tuesday morning, with hurricanes in the Atlantic driving powerful winds and moisture at New York City, I sallied forth to Bethesda Fountain with my ukulele.  On my way, I counted wood anemone flowers.  The plant along the path had been invaded by boneset, yet still managed 13 flowers; the other, 8.

My paraphernalia started blowing away before I even set it out.  First the plastic hula girl packages, followed by the plastic bag I store leis in, then some leis themselves.  I anchored the leis in the outside pocket of my case, still allowing them to drape over the back so people could see them.  I protected the hula girls by standing them in the lee of my case and the ledge of the fountain.

A little kid watched at a distance.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

She ran to her family, who were sitting around the fountain to my right.  As I sang my opening numbers to a largely empty plaza, I frequently turned to her and made beckoning motions.  She would not hula, but before the family moved on, she ran over and tossed some small change in my case.

Two Swedish women had been eating their lunch by the lake.  As they walked by, one of them dropped a dollar and change.  “Thank you so much for the entertainment.”

Carole stopped by to chat.  A photographer, she often came to the park with her camera.  “Why isn’t anybody paying attention to you?  Won’t anybody hula?”

I offered her a lei, which, as usual, she refused.  She stood with me while I busked, and watched all the people who walked by without a glance at the man with the uke.  “I don’t get it,” she said, giving me a dollar, then went off to find something more interesting to shoot.

An Israeli man came off the benches with $2.

A woman smiled broadly as I played.  She asked lots of questions about my ukulele and told me she played guitar.  I offered her my uke.  “No strap?” she said, then sat down at the edge of the fountain and started to play.  This woman had no idea.  Her fingers flopped all over the fret board.  “Every chord is minor!”  She mumbled lyrics.

I took the uke back and began to sing “My Baby Just Cares for Me.”

A strong gust of wind whipped through the plaza.  My case blew closed with a thud; leis, business cards, cocktail umbrellas went flying.  The woman got up to help collect things nearby.  The leis and a section of AM NY had blown all the way to the niche where the eastern wall meets the stairs.  I picked my stuff out of the jumble of dead leaves, drinking straw wrappers and single ride metrocards.

While I was gone, the woman had taken up my uke again and brought forth a tortured tune.  I battened things down, pleased to find that the lid had closed on my money before it could escape.  But where were my notes?  I always jot things down so I can write this blog.  Leaving the woman with my uke, I walked off to find the 3 ½ x 5 inch piece of paper.  It was not by the stairs, it hadn’t blown over the wall to the lawn.  There it was, at the feet of a woman on the bench.  I walked up to her, excused myself and retrieved it.

With everything restored, I took back my uke.  “Would you rather I not sit here?” the woman said.

“You’re free to sit wherever you want,” I said, “but it would be better if you listened from over there,” pointing to the benches.

She got up and stood 10 feet in front of me, through several songs, applauding after each.  When she finally walked away, I felt a weight lift, and the return of joy.

A young woman gave me a dollar.  She had to catch up with her family, or she would certainly hula.  “Bring them back here and everyone can hula.”

At the end of my set, I sat down to make some notes.  A 40-something man with a red handlebar mustache walked up with a dollar.  It was s $7.91 day.  I got everything packed up but the leis.  The plastic bag I keep them in was gone.  For the third time, I searched downwind, this time without success.