The park foliage drooped in the heat.  Nothing new seems to have been planted this week.  The big surprise was a dusty pink wood anemone in bloom under the pin oak by the road.  In the shade by the lake, the jazz combo was reduced to a bass, drums and keyboard.

It looked as if center stage was mine.  Past the big bubble man and snakes on segways, a woman had set up a table with manual typewriter, ready to write poems to order.  I let her know I would set up near her before I saw the erhu player, scratching out “Besame Mucho.”

“Never mind.”

Under the shade of the maple, I began my set with “Making Love Ukulele Style.”

“Hey,” a man shouted as he walked by, “Can you spell ukulele backward?”  I did and he kept walking.

A young family with 2 daughters walked by.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“Absolutely,” said mom.  The elder girl, about 7, was shy, but the younger was full of energy; she romped through 2 verses of “The Hukilau Song.”  Dad coughed up a buck.

A 50-ish woman stopped to give me a dollar, followed by a woman whose kids were being drawn by a nearby caricaturist.  Another caricaturist set up on the other side of me.  He watched my act for a while, then packed up his stuff and moved on.

A young woman gave me a smile and a dollar.  She had no time to hula.

As I wrapped up, 2 families with 4 kids under 5 agreed to hula.  Draping leis around their necks, I gave them a quick lesson and sent them off to the hukilau.  They started with enthusiasm, but before I got halfway through the first verse, their arms fell to their sides, smiles faded, boredom set in.  Across the path, the moms started dancing, encouraging the kids to follow their lead, but it was no use.  I brought the song to a merciful end. One of the dads made a dollar donation.

I played “Little Grass Shack,” stuffed 5 singles into my shirt pocket, packed up and went home.