The sky looked like a concrete sidewalk, including the variations of gray and the swirling irregularities, as if smoothed by a distracted workman. Rain was predicted for the morning, but by noon it still hadn\u2019t come.<\/p>\n
There seemed to be no life on the wisteria covering the north pergola. Upon closer investigation, however, I could just make out some growing tips emerging from the vine\u2019s creases. It was the change of shift at the Imagine Mosaic, one guitarist carrying away his case to count his money, the next sitting down on the back of a bench, his feet on the seat, his case on the ground, tuning up. The magnificent magnolia was drawing a crowd; I edged my way past to avoid spoiling anyone\u2019s photos.<\/p>\n
Was that a raindrop? No. Is that a dandelion? Yes. <\/p>\n
The cowboy had arrived before me, so I set up under the leafless maple. A man smiled as he tossed me 50 cents, then looked to the sky. “It’s not gonna rain,” I said, just as the leading edge of the front moved overhead, and annoying drops turned into real rain, rain I could no longer ignore. I folded everything into my case and headed for the tunnel under the road leading to the Conservatory Pond. Although I was no longer walking with an air boot and cane, I could still only make my way slowly, so I got pretty wet.<\/p>\n
The space under the tunnel was packed with tourists waiting it out. Despite the darkness, I found a cloth in my case and wiped down my uke. After 10-15 minutes, the rain stopped, the sun peaked through, the people scattered, and I headed back to the maple. On a hunch, however, I kept walking to the fountain to find the cowboy hadn\u2019t come back, so for the next hour, center stage was mine.<\/p>\n
A school group from San Diego had time to hula. Eight or nine teenagers donned leis and pranced around. Once again, my case filled with bills. After the dance, the kids hung around, during which time I learned that they\u2019d never heard of Laurel and Hardy (\u201cHonolulu Baby\u201d) or Dean Martin (\u201cMaking Love Ukulele Style\u201d). One girl asked what decade my songs were from. \u201cMostly the 20\u2019s and 30\u2019s.\u201d The look on her face made me realize just how long ago that must seem. Comparatively speaking, how many songs from the Civil War did I know at her age?<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you got time for a hula today?\u201d<\/p>\n
A shy teenage girl from Virginia was talked into dancing by one of her friends. After a few bars of \u201cThe Hukilau Song,\u201d a pair of younger girls from somewhere else wanted to join in. \u201cPut on a lei.\u201d I motioned to the colorful array of leis draped over the back of my case. The three danced a verse, the Virginian bowed out, and the kids kept waving their arms until the final Huki-huki-huki-hukilau. What had started as a dreary day was now bright and warm. When I played \u201cTiptoe through the Tulips,\u201d I felt that by singing, as the song says, “we’ll keep the showers away.” The front moved through;people were happy to add to my growing pile.<\/p>\n
Over my shoulder I could hear amplified music. It was the Chinese accordion player, sitting on her stool in her cap and sweater, midway between me and the Boyd singers in the arcade. She was really too close \u2013 I could have called her out on her breach of busker etiquette — but I didn\u2019t. It had been a fine day. I made $22.42.<\/p>\n
As I walked past the accordion player, she played the theme from \u201cThe Godfather.\u201d In a box at her feet were a few dollars and her CDs. My CD, \u201cAloha, New York,\u201d is currently out of print. I must attend to that.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"