Mr. Ukulele

A hillside of once white tulips molder brown and gray on their stems.  An occasional exotic bulb, survivor of years past, blooms scarlet or yellow among the wreckage.  The Women’s Gate entrance to the park is in colorless transition, after spring bulbs and before the roses.  Elsewhere, wild pink geranium dominates, poking through the ferns at the Imagine Mosaic, and surrounding the tree at the crosswalk, where bicyclists, with increased frequency, stop for red lights.

On the other side of Daniel Webster, azalea have taken over, denser and more colorful the closer I get to Bethesda Fountain.  People have lined up to take pictures in front of an 8-foot-tall blood red azelea; the approach to the stairs down to the fountain is more muted, with smaller bushes in salmon and white.

My busking started slowly, with my first dollar recorded after 14 minutes, from a young man off the bench.  A slender mom, and her pre-teen son on a skateboard, stopped to listen.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“It would have to be a short one,” said mom.  “We’re on our way to ballet class.  How about it?” she said to the boy, who shook his head emphatically no.  “We do like your ukulele,” she said, and tossed 3 quarters in my case.

A little girl of 6 or 7 was reluctant to hula, but her mom settled it by pushing her toward me.  After putting a lei around her neck, I gave her a very short hula lesson, which consisted of raising her arms to form the horizon, then moving her arms to make the ocean waves.  Keeping arms up is the hardest part for little kids, and this kid was no exception.  Every 4 bars of the “The Hukilau Song,” her arms sank.  Mom immediately put her own arms up and we were good again for another 4 bars.  After the dance they walked away.

A photographer gave me $2 for a picture.  Then Carole, my park photographer friend of many years’ standing, stopped to chat.  She put a dollar in my case, as has become her custom the first time we meet each season.

A small boy of 3 or 4 bipped and bopped to my music.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”  There was no response; perhaps they didn’t understand English.  At the conclusion of my song, “Honolulu Eyes,” the dad gave the boy a dollar to put in my case, for a total of $9.15, including a 5-cent Euro coin.

The early totals this year, with earnings north of $20, were bound to plummet. Nine dollars is a fine day’s pay; no doubt I’ll have something to say about break-even ($2.70, round trip senior subway fare) before the season is over.

What were vivid pink tulips have faded to mauve and the once-spectacular fritillaria, now a scraggly stalk and crown, stands high above the ground cover with nothing to show.  Bleeding heart and something like a bottle brush shrub fill out behind the benches.  Wisteria blooms behind the north pergola; it’s thrown itself over the wall toward the bridal path below.  Just past the Information Booth, a patch of white trillium has appeared, and, following the path to Cherry Hill, another trillium, this one wine red, has bloomed in the deep shade.

The chestnuts trees in Strawberry Fields are covered with flowers, pointing heavenward like candles on a Christmas tree.  I spotted a bearded oak for the first time (who knew?).  Sakura cherry trees carpet the lawns beneath them with pink petals, each, according to Japanese lore, the soul of a samurai.

The Italian accordion player sat on the southern rim of the fountain; I set up at the east-northeast, where I could still hear when I wasn’t playing.  So I played.

Bethesda Fountain was not very busy.  After 15 minutes, a couple off the bench gave me a dollar.  A family from Vienna stopped to listen; Vater sent his 5-year-old daughter, Lillianne, to me with 3 quarters.  I directed her to my case, and picked up a lei for her.  “Wilst du tanzen?”

Lillianne would not tanz, but the next little girl, she from France, gave it a try, for which I got a dollar.  Passersby helped fill the case, especially a number of teenagers who tossed in coins.  A couple who had been sitting near me at the fountain, gave me $2 when they got up to leave.  A Chinese woman took my picture and placed a dollar and change in my case.

As it got later, lunch over, the crowd thinned.  I took the opportunity to try out a new song, “North Dakota, South Dakota,” which I’d worked out over the winter after hearing Jerry Lewis sing it.  As I finished, a man of 50 or so walked briskly past me.  “Bet you never heard that one before.”

He kept walking, then turned and came back.  “Gotta tip the busker,” he said, reaching for his wallet.  He was from Atlanta and played the trumpet, but couldn’t make a living at it.

About this time a scraggly old man with a radio playing loud latin music walked into the plaza and sat down near the lake.  I wanted to ask him to turn it down, but decided that if he hadn’t thought of that himself, there was a chance he was as crazy as he looked.  The accordion was gone, so I moved away from him for the last 30 minutes of my session.

Five teenagers were sitting on the bench, chatting, playing with their phones, and occasionally standing up to dance to my music.  They eventually made their way to me.  The leaders were a slight, tattooed girl from Romania, and a heavier girl from Indiana.  I turned to greet a short, clean-cut boy from Montenegro and a tall blonde boy from Latvia.  The last kid was from Indiana too.  At the end of the dance, everyone put something in my case.

While singing my final number, “Little Grass Shack,” a 30-something threw money in my case and said, “Too bad you were drowned out by the radio. I much prefer live music.”

“How about you and me take care of that guy?” I said.

“No, I’m a peaceful man.”

“Me too,” I said.  “It’s all about aloha.”