Four 40-something women stopped me as I walked by and asked me to take their picture as they sat at the edge of the fountain. After two snaps, I invited them to do a hula. “Not me.” “Not me.” “Not me.”

“I will,” said one.

“I knew she would,” the others said. I quickly unpacked my uke, and off we went to the hukilau. The women were from Texas, the dancer from the Houston area. She closed her eyes and undulated languorously, while her friends took photos. I got a fiver from a friend and a buck from the dancer, an excellent start to the day.

There were several groups of elementary school kids assembling on the stairs or at the fountain for class pictures. They were young and hard to manage, so I wasn’t surprised that the teachers did not want to stop for a hula. But a quartet of high school boys, on a trip to NYC from Atlanta, had wandered from their classmates and wanted to dance. I gave them a quick lesson, they lined up and danced a marvelous freestyle. When called back to their group, they dropped $2 into my case.

A little girl of 4 or so walked up to me, wanting to dance. “Are you here with your mom or dad?” I asked. “Go ask them if it’s ok.” She ran off and soon returned with permission. Two verses of “The Hukilau Song” were not enough for her, so I played “My Little Grass Shack” too. Off she ran again, this time returning with a dollar for me. Her mother, father and brother followed. She told me her name was Sienna. “The color or the town?”

Her brother answered, “The color, two n’s.”

Walking down the path toward me came the dog Maggie and her master. They’ve been regulars over the years. Maggie loves my music; she happily sits in front of me to listen. A photographer thought the scene cute and started taking pictures. A toddler on a leash approached and bounced up and down on her chubby knees, grinning and clapping. Finally a 75-year-old man in a baseball cap stopped to listen. “This is my music,” he said in a thick middle European accent, and as I sung out “Get Out and Get Under the Moon” he began to tap dance. Amid all this chaos, money piled high in my case.

The tap dancer was Sam Katz, who after a career dancing in the city now lived in Parsippany. He had not lost his joie de vivre. The photographer was Ann Price. Here is one of the pictures she took.

Another 1pm drought took hold, and for the next 30 minutes, except for 2 women bikers eating lunch, I sang to the empty spaces. As I packed up, one of the bikers approached and gave me $3. “Thanks for entertaining us,” she said.