For several days, I have been in Washington, D.C. for a convention of 6,300 high school students who work on yearbook, newspaper, online sites, and broadcast. There was no ukulele in site. There was no time to play a ukulele even if I’d found one.
The callouses on my fingertips grew soft. My ear craved the sound of the ukulele. My fingers gripped wooden chairbacks (when I found one) and tested the wood for right hand exercises.
At one point when I wasn’t doing convention sessions, I found I had traveled somewhere near Chinatown. While waiting for the crossing light to change I asked another pedestrian, “Is there a music store nearby? The kind that sells guitars, banjos and stringed instruments.”
She turned and looked at me and said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
I smiled. Looked at my softening fingertips.
Some time later, I noticed the turning leaves. Although it was cold and wet, the leaves were pretty in the Capitol.