I was making notes about the 2 stella d’oro lilies in full bloom behind the benches at 72^nd St.  Were they the harbingers of a second blooming, or 2 stragglers who had been waiting in the weeds for this opportunity?  Entering the park with me were a dozen or so red T-shirted teen-aged girls.  I let them pass.  At the back of the line was a red T-shirted overweight man, their guide.

“Where’s your group from?” I said.

“Mostly from Germany and Japan.”  The axis tour, I thought, but did not say.  “I had a group that danced with you last week, from Spain.”

“Bring them by again,” I said, remembering that particular hukilau, for which I received nada.

Colin told me to set up, he was about to sing his last song, “Africa,” by Toto, 1982.  The crowd around me at the fountain sang along, so did passersby, who took pictures and mouthed words.

I started my set, as usual, with “Making Love Ukulele Style.”  Somewhere during my medley of “Sunday,” “Fit as a Fiddle,” and “I Saw Stars,” a little kid gave me 36 cents.

“Have you got time for a hula today?”

A willowy 20-something blonde said, “Why not?”

“My favorite answer,” I said, reaching for a lei to put around her neck.  “No reason at all.”

Her name was Hannah, from Norway.  She danced a beautiful hula that would warm the fjords of your heart.  Then she walked away.

A young girl of 9 or 10 wandered free around the fountain.  I saw her checking me out several times.  Finally, she approached with a dollar in her hand, but instead of putting it in my case, she clutched it to her chest and shyly peeked at me.  Without a word from me, she inched closer, threw the dollar in my case and burst into a bright grin.  Her name was Alia, and it didn’t take long for her to hula.  By this time her family had gathered, taking pictures.  When Alia faltered, her grin turning to panic, she would focus on her grandfather, who danced a silly hula in encouragement, and all was right again.

A 30-something woman and her mother gave me a dollar.  When I asked if she’d like to hula, she said, “Why not?”  She was born in Arizona, but had been living in Amsterdam for 20 years, and had earned her BS, “in Dutch,” her mother bragged.

My 90 minutes was almost up, and here I was, once again, below my break-even by 34 cents.  The fountain area was thinning out.  Something in me said, pack it up and go home.  Yet how could I ignore the evidence that showed that 99% of the time I made my nut.  So I kept on singing.

A 20-something floated into my vision.  She was short with a pixie cut and the ubiquitous white ear buds.

“Have you got time for a hula today?”

“Why not?”  Why not indeed.  She was from California, now living in Cobble Hill.  With her dollar, I’d had another successful day.

My time up, I sat down, stuffed $3.36 in my pocket and was carefully folding my leis so they wouldn’t get tangled when I sensed somebody standing over me.  A woman and her daughter wanted to buy a solar-powered hula girl for dad’s dashboard.  They chose turquoise and handed me a fiver.