I got a late start on Friday. My ukulele case, which has been falling apart for the last year or more, needed additional repairs before I could go out. While I wait for a new case to arrive, I keep the old case going with safety pins and wire garbage bag ties. It was well after noon when I entered the park. The usual Beatles repertoire was afoot around the Imagine Mosaic, while on the rock leading away from Strawberry Fields a 60-ish guitarist, with a harmonica holder around his neck, sang “You Know It Ain’t Easy.”

At the fountain, I assessed the cool breeze, the blazing sun, and decided to start the day on center stage. As I set up, a father and his two sons were tossing coins in the fountain. While little girls make wishes, little boys take aim at the Angel of the Waters. “How about a hula today?”

With their father snapping pictures, the boys waved their arms and shuffled their feet to “The Hukilau Song.” At the end, he gave them each a dollar to give to me, after which he himself put a fiver in my case. Seven dollars, and I hadn’t even put my own lei on yet.

The big bubble man put his soapy pail down in front of me. I was contemplating speaking to him about moving farther off when a young woman gave me 2 Susan B’s, and advised me to get out of the sun. So rather than confront the bubble man, I closed my case and carried it up the path toward the boathouse, to my shady spot under the maple.

A few minutes later, two 50-something men in aloha shirts wandered by. “How’re you guys going on this beautiful day?” I asked. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“Of course,” said the shorter.

“Delighted,” said the taller. “Just last night in our hotel room,” the taller told me when the dance was done, “we were saying that we couldn’t be any happier. Now look. You’ve raised the bar.” I watched as he drew a twenty from his wallet.

“Hey, thanks a lot.”

“No, no, thank you.” Off they strolled, their feet just touching the ground.

At the end of my set, I heard the melodic screech of an electric violin. Walking back toward the fountain, I stopped to chat. “Amplification is not allowed,” I told the young man, “so turn it off, or at least turn it down, or you’ll screw it up for the rest of us.”

Back at Strawberry Fields, the harmonica-and-guitar man was gone, replaced by the accordion player, enrapt in her soulful rendition of the “Theme from the Godfather.” Another guitarist, from his bench near the mosaic, was singing from the Beatles songbook. Two pm, and the second shift had started work.