Posts Tagged ‘My Little Grass Shack’
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Mr. Ukulele Returns
0April 14, 2022 by admin
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 72nd 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.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: My Little Grass Shack, The Hukilau Song
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Halloween: The Last Day of the Season?
0November 1, 2018 by admin
Despite the sub-60-degree temperature, I sallied forth for what I expected to be my last busking of the year. It had been 4 weeks since my last outing. Along Central Park West, Michaelmas daisies turned brown amid the begonias, which endured. The rose bushes sported orange hips; ageratum and celosia have so far survived.
I greeted Randy at the Imagine Mosaic. He opined about the disappearance of Canadians from the park. “I love those guys, they’re the best tippers,” he said, then went on to blame Trump for his diminished receipts.
The wood anemone along the path was resplendent with flowers. At the statue of Daniel Webster, the preparation for the NYC Marathon was underway, mostly in the form of tall chain link fencing. At the top of the stairs at Bethesda Fountain, I stopped to marvel at the beauty of the fall colors reflected in the lake.
I greeted Dominick, the big bubble man, who commented on my absence. He told me he’d purchased a warm costume to help him through the winter. Unlike last year, he had a place to stay when it got cold.
A tall young woman rode up on her bike. “Have you got time for a hula today?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” She was from Amsterdam. After a few moments chatting about her country, where my wife and I have visited many times, I put a lei around her neck and sent her dancing off to the hukilau. At the end, she gave me back the lei (“for the next tourist”), and asked how much for the solar-powered hula girl. I let one go for a fiver.
Another young woman walked by and asked if she could take my picture. She would not hula, but did give me a dollar.
A strapping young man from Australia complimented me on my music and dropped a handful of change in my case. Among the nickels and dimes were at least 10 quarters. A young woman walked by and added her single.
A woman of a certain age stopped while I played “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.” “I didn’t give to the saxophone player, he was bad,” she told me. “You, on the other hand….” She finished her sentence by waving a dollar at me and placing it in my case.
A young man got up from the bench and tossed in a buck.
It was Halloween. Some costumes that wandered by were complex and imaginative, but the costume du jour seemed to be black ears mounted on a headband, easy enough to remove if one had to be professional. Then a woman walked by with a lampshade on her head. “Have you got time for a hula today?”
She did, while her friend photographed her. She gave me a dollar, immediately followed by another dollar from a woman who’d been listening from the bench.
A man came close with his camera and captured my finale, “Little Grass Shack.” He put some change in my case before he started, then put in some more when I’d finished.
With $13.91 in my pocket, I left the park, thinking this was most certainly my last day of the season.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: I Can't Give You Anything But Love, My Little Grass Shack
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The First Busk of October
0October 4, 2018 by admin
October has become my favorite month. A day like Wednesday holds the record for perfection, the temp, the sky, the crowds, the works. Center stage was all mine. As soon as I started, a small band of Argentinians stopped to hula. It was a ragged dance by a fun-loving group. In addition to “The Hukilau Song,” they danced to “My Little Grass Shack,” at the end of which I retrieved the leis before they asked for another song. The leader, a polite 50-something man who spoke English, thanked me profusely and put a fiver in my case.
A family from Tennessee, mom, dad, junior and sis, slowed as they got close to me. “Have you got time for a hula today?” No, they did not, yet they didn’t move on. I cajoled junior, “Do you know anybody here? No? Then what are you afraid of?”
Dad said, “Let ‘er rip.” He took a lei and put it on. “Come join me,” he said to his family, but instead they moved away, so he danced his hula alone, and did a fine job of it, returned the lei and pulled a single from his wallet.
A young man walked up to me and said, “You are really cool. Keep it up.” He was from Germany, a Jehovah’s Witness, although why he felt the need to mention that I don’t know. He put a bright new quarter in my case.
A half-dozen or so Chinese tourists walked by. One of them, an old lady, stopped in front of me and gave me the once-over. Scowling, she gave me a dollar. I asked her if she’d like to hula, but she didn’t seem to understand.
A young woman had been listening from the benches; I watched her toes tapping. When I smiled at her, she smiled back. Later, she walked up with $2 in her hand, and told me she was from Colombia.
A woman poured a purseful of coins into my case. She was from Manchester (“right in the middle of the UK”). A late teen with his parents gave me dollar, followed by a 20-something who’d been listening from the bench.
“Do you like ukulele music?” I asked him.
“Not really, but I like to support local musicians.”
More listeners, more dollars.
A woman approached and identified herself as a pediatric nurse at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles. She wondered if I’d sing a song to her friend, Phyllis, who was celebrating her 30th year of employment there. I readily agreed, singing “Happy Anniversary to You,” for which I received a 10-spot.
A woman stepped forward from a family of Koreans. I put a lei around her neck. She danced while her family took pictures. She may have put money in my case. Money was coming my way so fast, I lost track of who gave what.
A man asked if I’d sing a song for his girlfriend with the lyrics, “Tony misses you.” Adapting a simple chord pattern to simple lyrics, “Tony misses you, Tony misses you, you must believe it’s true that Tony misses you,” Tony was delighted. He tossed a fiver in my case, then sat down on the bench and sent off the video.
My set ended after 90 minutes, with a pile of bills in my case, $29, plus another $2.54 in change. I love October; it’s become my favorite month.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: Happy Anniversary to You, My Little Grass Shack, The Hukilau Song
