First, Blake Garden, then the Library.

It was Tuesday. I was on time for the free concert.

One of the musicians was already there, arranging his things. He had music and sheets of lyrics, a music stand, his stringed instrument which has a name, I just don’t know what it is.

I sat not far away this time, facing the bay. He was on my right.

We talked. He told me his cohort, the guitar player, was late, but should be coming.

I mentioned my blog, and that he was in it. When Kristina and I first saw them months earlier, it was mostly all Irish music.

The guy was friendly and good at talking. We established that he was indeed one of the two I had seen earlier. “It probably was me.” “Yes, I think probably it certainly was.” Now that I was sitting closer, I could see him better.

I said, “There are people in 61 countries reading my blog. They’ll want to come here to hear you.”

A couple of “regulars” were sitting perpendicular on my left. They talked about the girls who wouldn’t be coming to do the Irish dancing, one, a daughter or granddaughter, was ill.

The musician guy said he had been to the doctor that morning, injections for sciatica.

“Does it hurt? Are you in pain?”

“Not so much.” He sounded like my Father, stoic.

They talked doctors for awhile, trading stories. I felt peripheral to an inner circle which allowed or accepted me. It felt good.

Then the guitarist arrived and unpacked and they were ready to begin.

This time it was mostly folk music, but also popular songs. They played and sang, taking turns, trading off. It was like a venue where they serve beer.

A youngish energetic woman came by and squatted down to join the conversation. She also knew everybody. She loves her job and is good at it. Turns out she’s the Assistant Park Chief, very lively friendly, quick mind, seemed to remember me.

I said, “I think I gave you my card” and I fished out another one.

She searched her memory, tried my name, “Stanley,” looked at the card and said, “Gary. I wasn’t even close.”

I said, “Close enough.”

She said, “Thank you for your kindness.”

She had to go off on her rounds and the music continued.

The couple on my left, upper middle age, the guy pulled out his harmonica and tapped it on his thigh, keeping time. You could see he wanted to play along, and sometimes did, not loudly. I remembered him from before.

A few people walking the garden paths paused, listened. Some sat on the benches to my left. A mother with two boys, one with some kind of handicap, joined. The other boy, maybe eight years old, had come by before on his own, sat as if he belonged, left, came back.

At one point he filled the empty seat in the bench on my right. I whispered, “I kept your seat for you.”

The woman on my left said, “How about some Bob Dylan?”

I wonder if they know that he’s the first and only song writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

The two musicians broke out copies of the lyrics and passed them around.

People joined in.

Then the harmonica guy said, “How about something from my generation?”

The musicians said teasingly, “When did your generation begin and end? We play all the songs.”

I don’t remember now, but it was something we all knew, like “Good Night, Irene.” He harmonica-ed vigorously and we most of us sang along, even me, though tentatively because I wasn’t sure if I was matching the note, and so sang either in harmony or disharmony, a common problem of mine.

Our Park Ranger woman friend walked by and tapped her watch. She was letting us know it was almost closing time. I knew she was going to lock the lower gate.

The musicians were packing up and the first one said, “Can I have your card too?” He told his companion musician, “There are people in 61 countries who read the blog, and we’re in it.”

The woman on my left asked for one too, and I gave her the last one in my little card case. It was a good distribution, three in one day.

I walked by the empty office and left by the side gate on the right, for me a new exit, and then a walk up a new street back to Arlington Avenue and the Library.

I greeted my library friends and looked at the sale shelf, then walked by the DVDs for check out. I was looking for the movie “Mindwalk” because we had talked at home about Mont Saint-Michel. They hadn’t seen it, asked, “What’s it about?” I tried to explain, “Nothing in particular, and everything, starring Liv Ullmann, Sam Waterston, John Heard, with a wonderful philosophical walk down the mountain in detail,” and they said, “Uh…” and I said, “You gotta see it,” and they said, “Maybe…”

The library didn’t have it, I guess I’ll have to go to Rasputin’s Records and hope for the best, so I went back to the corner on the right with cushy chairs and magazines on the wall racks.

I got three copies of The New Yorker and sat in a chair with a sliding tray. Across from me was the old guy I always see, sitting in the same place, reading a book. He looks his age.

He read for awhile, put his head back, closed his eyes.

I read a bit of The New Yorker, put my head back, closed my eyes.

I dozed a bit, woke up, read some more.

The guy got up, left, asked me something. Apparently someone had left a phone, plugged in and charging, on a little platform.

Was it mine? I said, “No.”

He unplugged it and I guess took it to find the owner or turn it in at the desk.

I re-filed my New Yorkers and walked toward the desk and the entrance exit.

Little children were still playing on the floor in the children’s area on the left.

I said again to the Librarian at the counter this time, “Thank you,” and “This is my second favorite library.”

She’s heard it before, but is pleased every time.

I went back up the hill to home, determined to write something about this day so it could be posted and the people with my card could see themselves.

Now it’s the next day. I hope it’s not too late.

I do recommend Blake Garden to everybody, especially on Tuesday afternoon, for quality friendly free live music.

Just the way I recommend Robert Reich’s movie The Last Class.

Everybody should see it.