Dark gray clouds obliterated the sun for long stretches, and a cooling breeze blew in from the north, over the lake. When the clouds rolled on, bathing center stage in noontime clarity, I put my hat back on until the next gray wave rolled in. I’m trying to work the hat into my routine; it’s not a good idea for me, or anyone, to stand in the summer sun for 90 minutes.

A couple of kids came by to hula, yielding $2 from one parent, $1 from another. “Can we do it again?” one squealed. “Why not?” I transitioned from “The Hukilau Song” to “My Little Grass Shack.” Together, the parents coughed up another $2, as if buying tickets for the carousel.

A woman of a certain age checked me out, as she and her friend headed toward the water to chat. After a few songs, they got up to leave. The woman walked past me and dropped her dollar in my case. “You’re great,” she said. “Thanks for what you do.”

Three young women stopped to hula. A man from Würzburg, now living in Woodstock with his American wife, said he liked my music. A bride and groom wandered by with their photographer, looking for the perfect backdrop. I, of course, burst into “The Hawaiian Wedding Song.” The couple continued to wander around the fountain, impervious to the music meant for them. There were lots of tween boys and girls with loose change, and the usual number of walkaways. A distinguished man with a gray beard and a neck-load of camera equipment managed to record the complete “I Wonder Where My Little Hula Girl Has Gone,” gave me a thumbs up, and returned to his family in the shade. Later, when I looked his way, he was gone.