The cleome is having a second blooming, pastel pink and white explosions beneath the rose bushes.  The long-lasting asters thrive, while the horrible boneset, a weed in anybody’s book, has established a beachhead and begun its invasion.

It’s not nearly as nice a day as yesterday, though still warm.  When I get to the fountain, I find a woman in an encampment, including beach chairs and umbrella.  She has a hand-lettered sign, with the headline:  FAMILY DESTRUCTION, subheads REPEAL Title IV and ABOLISH CPS/DCF.  It went on to denounce “fascist family courts” and the foster care system.  There was a guitar case at her feet.

“What are you going to do with this?”  As if I didn’t know.

“I’m going to play it.”

I walked off to my maple and started my set.  Gray clouds swept the sky.  Fewer boats were on the lake; fewer people walked the paths.  For a full 30 minutes, the only money in my case — excepting my $2 seed money — was a Canadian penny that I missed yesterday.

Feeling aggrieved, I threw all my paraphernalia in my case and carried it back to the fountain.  The protest singer was seated behind a music stand, strumming her guitar.  I walked to the south side of the fountain, 180 degrees from her.

A crew in black tee shirts set up a photo shoot by the lake.  I asked a heavily tattooed man if they needed silence, because I intended to do my hula act nearby.  “No problem, we’ll be done soon.  Do your thing, man.”

Two young women sitting on the rim of the fountain near me gave me a dollar.  A passerby tossed in another.

Four-year-old Rilynn strayed from her parents.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”  The question was directed to her parents.  I pulled out my baby lei.  “This will fit just right.”  She started by dancing a graceful hula, but when she focused on my solar-powered hula girls, she began to imitate them, stiff-armed, and with a little hitch in her hips.

Three film students from Hawaii gave me a dollar and stopped to chat.  They didn’t know how to hula and had never heard of a hukilau.  “I thought every kid in Hawaii learned to hula in school.”  They looked at each other blankly.

My low-G string snapped, again, during “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.”  I continued to play through to the end.  Without low-G, my tenor uke sounded like a soprano uke.

Speaking of sopranos, a large woman in black, costumed in fur and a floppy hat, set up 90 degrees from me, facing the arcade, and belted out a few arias at a very high decibel level.  She soon disappeared.

With 10 minutes left to play, I stood up with my newly strung, and tuned, uke.  Four teens in school uniform took pictures of themselves in every combination.  As they ran off, one of them gave me 50 cents, bringing the day’s take to $6.51.