Another near 90-degree day; most everything looks parched.  The wood anemones, on the other hand, are thriving everywhere I’ve spotted them.  They’re full of buds and flowers, which, so far, I’ve resisted counting.

Something strange is going on at Cherry Hill:  leaves are spread out on the lawn, as if overnight the season had turned.  I picked some up; they were real oak leaves in orange, yellow and red.  The Central Park Conservancy, it turns out, was filming a promo and had the leaves shipped in.  “Where’d they come from?” I asked two black-shirted production assistants.

“No idea, ask props.”

When I left the park, one of the assistants had raked the leaves into piles and was packing them into boxes.

Colin told me he’d got a late start and needed another 30 minutes.  I continued to the maple, where a caricaturist had set up, then settled opposite the boat rental kiosk, in the shadow of the bushes that lined the path.  Like yesterday, after 30 minutes, the traffic of people that flowed back and forth in front of me left no tokens of appreciation, so I packed up everything and went back to the fountain.

Colin sang “Cuondo, Cuondo, Cuondo” (Italian pop song, first recorded in English by Pat Boone, 1962), then closed with “Sweet Caroline” (Neil Diamond, 1969).

A group of Spanish kids were marched into the fountain area and let loose.  I put 6 of them in leis.  Despite their pleas for “Despacito,” I played “The Hukilau Song.”  One of them tipped me a buck, the rest walked away, but over time 3 came back with another buck each.

A young photographer from Argentina took a series of pictures of me.  “Now that you’ve got your photos, how about a hula?”  She looked around, then agreed.  She danced freely, throwing her arms around and laughing.  At the end of the dance, she gathered her equipment, shook my hand and walked away.

Two 20-somethings slowed to hear me as they walked by.  They stopped about 10 yards away to confer, then one of them turned back with a dollar.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“It’s too hot to hula.”

Too hot to hula, I repeated to myself.  I’ve heard that excuse many times before; today it just might be true.