It was warm and overcast on Good Friday.  In the weeks since my last outing in the park, the yellow daffodils were replaced by a white variety, swaths of pink and white tulips opened as wide as saucers, while tall stems of yellow fritillaria wowed the tourists.  Other spring starters, like bleeding heart, grape hyacinth and Virginia bluebell, bloomed behind the benches.  Across the road, at the Imagine Mosaic, the beds were thick with pheasant’s eye narcissus.  Magnolia bloomed in several locations.  Foot-high Solomon’s Seal and hellebore lined the path toward the statue of Daniel Webster, around which dandelions poked above the grass.

As I neared Bethesda Fountain, I noted flowering forsythia and the trees, so many trees, showing red and green leaf tips and pollen-rich florets.  There were mobs of people around the fountain, which was filled with water, and operating.

I set up, got to my feet and opened with “Making Love Ukulele Style.”  Before long, a man gave me a dollar.  A little later, a dad with 2 young sons stopped to listen and gave each boy a buck to give to me.  For the next 30 minutes, a steady stream of singles filled my case, but no one would hula.

“Have you got time for a hula today?”  This time I asked a group of teenage girls from Montreal.

“I do,” said one, who was immediately joined by 2 of her friends.  Another 10 or more girls gathered to watch, as well as a ragtag bunch of curiosity seekers.  The girls hula-ed through 2 verses of “The Hukilau Song,” then stood with me for a picture, while members of their group started tossing money into my case; the dancers put money in too, probably doubling my take up till then.

I sang “Little Grass Shack” for a grandma from W. 84^th St., who was enjoying the sun with her granddaughter.  She gave me a dollar coin.

A family of 4, mom, dad and 2 daughters, stood nearby, waiting for me to finish a song.  They were from Waterloo, Belgium.  They wanted to know if I could sing “Happy Birthday” to Pierro.  We all sang together into the camera.

“Do you want to sing it in French?” I asked

“Of course not,” said dad with gallic disdain.  “It is an English song.”

While dad and I talked about Bruges, one of the daughters put a few bills in my case.  Later I was pleased to spot a fiver.  After another song, and another single, I looked down and saw what I thought was another fiver.  No, wait, it was a 50!

The last time I got a 50-dollar bill, it was from a tv production company who paid me not to play.  I’ve gotten a few 20’s over the years, and once was handed a $100-dollar bill by a man who was part of a foursome from Nantucket who very much enjoyed my music. 

I ended the day with a few more singles, and one more hula, by a 20-something woman from Maryland.  On my way out of the park, I said hello to Dominick, the big bubble man.  He said, “I can’t believe what a good day this is.”  With $78.22 in my pocket, I enthusiastically agreed.