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What a Delight
0September 9, 2016 by admin
Correction: The cleome behind the benches at Women’s Gate are not yet dead, as reported yesterday. They must have been watered after I left the park and have sprung back to life. There even appears to be some new growth. For the astilbe, alas, there was no resurrection.
It is Fashion Week in NYC; the park sported many more willowy blondes than usual. One of them, in a purple summer dress with heavy black shoes, started me off with $1.25, including a Susan B.
I played in the sun by Bethesda Fountain for 90 minutes. More hot and humid than is really good for me, I stopped for water breaks every 20 rather than my usual 30 minutes. Three women tossed change in the fountain nearby. One of them, from California, said, “I love the ukulele. I’ve been playing one for about a year.”
“So how about a hula? Then we’ll see what you can do.”
She peeled a fiver from a wad of bills in her purse. “Little Grass Shack?” she requested.
She danced beautifully, with all the hand motions apropos to the lyric. When I handed her my uke, she strummed a few practice chords, then softly sang a jazzy version of “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” I sang even softer backup.
A young bearded man in a cap, a Turk, stood a few feet in front of me and shot video. I gave him a show; he gave me 51 cents.
A group of teenagers from Ecuador happily danced to “The Hukilau Song.” They just as happily walked away.
A trim 40-something man in a white suit and panama hat put a dollar in my case. A 60-something woman, who had been listening from the shade of the benches, gave me a dollar and said, “What a delight to hear you on this fine afternoon.”
Aloha to that.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: Dream a Little Dream of Me, My Little Grass Shack, The Hukilau Song
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After Labor Day
0September 8, 2016 by admin
Returning to the park after Labor Day, I found another 2 weeks of drought had taken a toll. Red fuschia and begonia languished in the shade; a small patch of cornflower looked like abused badminton birdies, brown and broken. Amid the dependable roses, fat yellow rose hips formed. The last of the cleome under the dogwood bloomed white, while the great mass of them behind the benches had burned up.
The crowds were thin. The guitarist sang “All You Need is Love” to a small audience at the Imagine Mosaic. At the road, where, amazingly, bike riders stopped for the light, the spent spikes of Lady’s Mantle were 4 feet high, sedum showed some pink florets and the astilbe, like the cleome, was burned to a crisp.
I approached the cowboy. “When’s quitting time?”
“I have no idea.” He looked at his watch and said, “15 minutes.”
So I moved on, past the portraitists under the maple, to my #3 spot, under the sheltering bush across from the boat rental kiosk, where I sang, for the most part, to myself. At one point a group of 5 young people from the Czech Republic stopped. “I’ll dance the hula if you teach me how,” said a 20-something woman. I did, and off we went to the hukilau. After the dance, I told her of my visit to Prague “before you were born, in 1970.”
.
“That’s before my parents were born,” she said. “You have such good memories of my country,” she added. “Now you have given us good memories of yours.” With that, they walked off.After 30 minutes, I tossed all my paraphernalia into my case and went back to center stage. By this time, a rock trio had set up near the lake and were shouting lyrics rather than singing them, like a Seattle grunge band. The doo-wop group was making great use of the acoustics in the arcade. Despite the ambient noise, however, I set up again. As long as I played, I couldn’t hear the competition.
A jolly man and his jolly wife gave me a dollar. The man said my music was making a wonderful day even more so. A lady walked by and tossed a dollar in my case. Two women, who had been sitting on the bench, tapping their feet to my tunes, finally picked up their belongings and made ready to leave. But first they put $2 in my case and chatted about the old songs.
A bride and groom, with entourage, appeared at the fountain. It was already past quitting time, but I sang out “The Hawaiian Wedding Song” for them, then closed, as usual, with “Little Grass Shack.”
Category Uncategorized | Tags: All You Need Is Love, Little Grass Shack, The Hawaiian Wedding Song
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Too Hot to Hula
0August 26, 2016 by admin
The sweep of the plantings on the north side of Womens’ Gate goes something like this: lantana backed by fuschia, cleome, more cleome backed by roses, more cleome. The skinny pink and white petals don’t have much color, and the spooky green-bean-like pods below add nothing, if not an unpleasant arachnid element. The wisteria on the pergola hasn’t bloomed in years, and the easternmost branch of the chestnut tree is turning brown with blight.
In the dappled shade of Strawberry Fields, however, the white asters, what we call in our house Michaelmas Daisies, line the paths. The purple variety was in bloom on the roadsides the day we were married.
It was hot. I considered walking down to the maple and playing in the shade, but center stage was too alluring. An English woman gave me a dollar. “It’s too hot to hula,” she said. I told her I loved people from England; they liked the ukulele and understood the wordplay of the lyrics.
A group of high schoolers in white tees congregated in the shade across from me. Their leader told me there was no time for a hula today. There was time enough, however, for a couple of the kids to put together 2 dollars and change for me. The young man who brought it over was from Barcelona, and was on his way to Wisconsin for a lengthy stay. “Are you spending the winter there? Good luck.” He returned to his friends. I wondered if they all were destined for Wisconsin.
A flamboyantly dressed man in granny glasses gave me a dollar. “Thanks, I enjoyed the show.”
A shaggy biker dude of 50 or more, dressed in black, walking with his presumptive wife and son, passed by. We exchanged looks. I said, “Aloha.” They walked to the water, then stopped on the way back and put some change in my case. He was a magician from Baltimore, who busked, from what I heard or imagined, up and down the northeast. He was well versed in the laws and regulations of various locales. I told him how I got a permit from the police to busk in Provincetown, which I still carry in my wallet.
“And are you the magician’s assistant?” I asked his presumptive wife. The boy of 12 or 13, bored, embarrassed or both, sat on the edge of the fountain a fair distance away. She nodded. “Does he ever make you disappear?”
“Just let him try it,” she said, her role no longer in doubt.
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