I entered the park with some trepidation. There were 3 guitarists in Strawberry Fields, one playing, one on deck and one counting his money on the fringes of the throng. At the outcropping with the international plaque, the homeless guitarist made it 4 musicians operating in the Quiet Zone. I looked around for the Park Rangers, hardly noticing the white dangling bells of the Solomon Seal spreading beneath the trees, or the delicate violets emerging from heart-shaped leaves in the lawn.

At Bethesda Fountain, Rakeem was blowing up a storm on his saxophone. I asked Jim, the big bubble man, if he’d had trouble yesterday. “Yeah, they tried to chase me, but I made them call their sergeant and she said I was okay.”

Rakeem said, “I haven’t had any problem, and I just saw them walking by a few minutes ago. They rousted you? With that puny little uke?”

I set up on the path, looked around, started to play. Not long afterward, an energetic young man asked if I could play while he rapped. I asked him for a beat and he started huffing and bupping in syncopated time.

“Sorry, man, I’m pretty much a plink-a-plink kind of guy.” After playing around with a few more chord patterns, he found one he liked (Am, E7, Am, E7) and off he rapped about hanging in the park with the ukulele man. About 10 feet away, a cameraman and soundman captured the show.

His name was Ed Bassmaster, a YouTube star, and he was gathering material for his upcoming tv show on CMT (Country Music Television). Ed pulled $4 out of his own pocket, then a production assistant gave me another $20 after I signed a release. He took my card and said he’d let me know when the show was on.

An old man took my picture and gave me a dollar. Another man emptied his pocket of quarters; he was a Brit, judging by his “you’re welcome” when I thanked him. A Japanese man listened to “Honolulu Baby.” After 2 verses, when the 3rd chorus came around, he started singing quietly with me. We chatted for a while. “Haru wa kite,” I said.

“Yes, spring has arrived,” he said. He dug deeply into his backpack and pulled out a change purse. Turning his back to me, he seemed to be counting for a long time, then he put 17 pennies in my case.

A black man, bopping his head to the music, walked by with his girlfriend. As he got close, he let go of her hand, crumpled up a single and tossed it, like a foul shot, into my case.

A couple from Virginia came in view. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“No, no, but I like your music,” said the man, giving me a dollar. “If we did have time, I’m sure my wife would love to hula.” A guitar player himself, he was interested in my instrument, how it was tuned. I handed it to him; once he got used to the missing 2 strings, he was playing beautifully. It wasn’t long after that I had a lei around his wife’s neck and off she went to the Hukilau. “Boy, that’s worth something,” he said, handing me a 10-spot.

Every few minutes, it seemed, someone was giving me money: a few teenagers, 2 German girls, a dog walker who swooped past, dropped a buck, and said, “That’s because you sound so happy.”

By the end of my set, I’d made $47.76, a very fine take for a day that started out with so much anxiety.

Leaving the park, I saw the song and dance man whom I warned last year to lose the amplifier. Waiting patiently for him to finish his number were 2 park rangers, not Officers Brown and Wheeler this time, rather Officers Thomas and Gonzales. They wanted him to turn off the amp, and to take down the self-promoting sign he’d rigged to the balustrade.

I recognized Officer Thomas from years past and, explaining what had happened yesterday, asked if the rules had changed. When I named Brown and Wheeler, a knowing look crossed her face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If you aren’t amplified and are at least 50 feet from a monument, no problem.”

“Would you say it’s 50 feet from the fountain to dry ground?”

Officer Gonzales took a good look. “No problem,” she said.