On a recent Saturday, I shopped in Lincoln Square. It’s a few blocks of small stores and has an old-fashioned, neighborhood vibe.

When, in December, snow falls on Gene’s Delicatessen, Merz Apothecary, and the nail salon I occasionally go to, I think of Bedford Falls from the Christmas movie classic, It’s a Wonderful Life.

I fight the impulse to run down the limited access boulevard and scream, I love you Bailey Building and Loan!

At the end of March, I am struck by different things, but I’ll still find myself charmed by the neighborhood vibe.

It’s not yet time for summer concerts near the fountain by Café Selmarie, but you can sense that spring is on the way.

On this recent afternoon, I saw throngs of parents, with young children in tow, performing their Saturday round of errands.

Banking and visits to the specialty shoe store (for high-end running shoes) and aromatic walk-throughs of the spice shop are always more enjoyable when there’s a puppet show on the corner.

Near the martial arts studio that’s been there forever, I noted a colorful pop-up tent, the size of teepee.  A small crowd of Saturday shoppers gathered a few feet in front of it.

The blue structure was hand-painted with the slogan, FEAR NO ART.  I slowly stepped closer, not wanting to disrupt anyone’s view of the show in progress.

Through a little window, about two thirds up from the ground, there was a hand puppet, a little grayish bear, making sweeping gestures as he supposedly sang along to an old wah-wah jazz tune from a century ago.  The nasal tenor and 3-piece combo that provided back-up could be heard on crude speakers planted on the cement nearby.

…Now, I ain’t got nobody, and nobody cares for me!
That’s why I’m sad and lonely,
Won’t somebody come and take a chance with me?

Two year-olds, just barely able to walk out of their strollers, and a few slightly older children,  seniors, fresh from the bank, not fully adapted to ApplePay or Zelle and flush with cash, stood transfixed in front of the tent’s window.

The kids seemed to be bopping along, dancing in place, with the ‘20s style jazz standard.

The meaning of the words, I considered, were beyond them, but the singer’s voice had a certain playful appeal.  The singer on the recording sounded like any kid would if he pinched his nostrils closed and belted out a tune.

The little bear puppet looked so lovable, flailing his short, furry arms around, periodically bringing his paws to his chest, to his heart.

I saw the smiles on the kids’ faces, on the grannies’ faces, and in the expressions of the earnest, super dads, equipped with fancy backpacks, ready to pull out a juice cup at the first whine.

At the end of the song, I saw a few parents give their ambulatory munchkins dollar bills to place in the pouch on the side of the tent.

After tentatively stuffing a bill in the tent’s tip sleeve and hearing a voice saying THANK YOU, a brave little girl, and budding patron of the arts, jumped back.

Where did the voice come from?  The little bear puppet seemed to be acknowledging the gesture of gratitude – but, wait a second – he’s not real.  And even if the thank you came from a person inside the tent, how could he know the exact time when someone approached the tent and tip pouch? 

I looked at all the faces in the crowd.  I imagined everyone, regardless of age, was thinking that the little girl who wanted to give the little bear (and puppeteers) a dollar had these questions.

Yes, the grown-up and practical side of me understood how these things worked, but at the moment, I slipped into the magic of the puppet show. Like the little girl, I was okay that the source of this voice was a mystery, that someone unseen could witness her demonstration of appreciation and know it meant something.

I forgot about when I was born, when I graduated college, and when I’d be eligible for social security benefits.  For a few moments, I forgot when the parking meter where I beached my Toyota was set to expire.

Enjoying a street corner puppet show and realizing that, in my heart, I am no different than the art-loving little girl wearing purple leggings is no small thing.