The Blessings Continue

It's beginning to feel like a regular love fest, this busking thing.  Today alone was worth an entire entry.  Two businessmen from Saudi Arabia stood in front of me listening.  This was their first visit to Rittenhouse Square, and the were in love with the friendly atmosphere.   They remarked how people of all ages and income levels and races seemed to be getting along well and all enjoying the gorgeous May weather.  They wanted to take a picture of me.  As I was posing, a very cute, young African-American woman ran up to me and threw her arm around me and smiled at the camera, wanting to get in the picture.  I had never seen her before, but she was very friendly and we posed together.  She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.  The men asked me if I knew her.  I told them, no, but that type of thing happened every day to me when I was busking.  The city that loves you back.  I sang a few songs for them, and eventually the crowd embraced them and they were gone.

Then there is the aging hippie who claims he met me thirty years ago in his recording studio and the August Sky albums my wife and I made in 2002 were actually made thirty years ago.  This man visits me regularly.  He is warm and friendly and harmless.  We always exchange handshakes and he often leaves a token of his appreciation in the guitar case.  Today it was a nearly empty bag of loose cigarette tobacco.  Anyway,  today was exceptional, because he was giving me insider information about the end of the world, which is going to happen next week.  But I shouldn't worry, because he loves me and my wife, and he's reserved a place on the boat for us to safety.  Then he started babbling in tongues.  I swear.  Occasionally he'd lapse into English, but primarily he babbled his own syllabic mumblings.  I finally thanked him for watching out for us and I'd be sure to pack my bags this weekend.

Because I love you, my readers, I feel compelled to share this insider information with you.  Be ready.  Pack your bags.

Finally, the day ended with a wonderful little girl and her mother sitting down in front of me.  I sang her some kids' songs.  She was pretty precocious and requested I sing something I wrote myself.  "Fake" songs, she called them, as opposed to "real" or popular songs.  I sang her my song about Rittenhouse Square called "September Painting."  As I sang, she pulled out paper and opened up her marker box and started drawing.  She created a beautiful portrait of her and her mother.  I was hoping she'd give me the "painting," but I wouldn't presume anything.  As I was packing up my guitar to leave, she ran over to me with the portrait.  Signed with a heart.
I think I have the best job in the world.   But I'm not so sure about next week.  The end of the world.  I might pack a toothbrush and guitar, just in case. 
But in the meantime, the blessings continue.