Thursday dawned to reveal clear blue skies, low humidity, cool breezes; it was a beautiful day for a hula. Other people thought so too. The park was mobbed. I rushed past the red and pink begonias, past the cone flowers and cosmos. Behind the mass of color were fire red fuschia, in front deep purple heliotrope. On the sides, lantana in yellow, red and orange.

A new guy sang out “Let It Be” at the Imagine Mosaic; at the end of the bench an older man sold cold water, “a dollar less than the hot dog man.” The pods on the catalpa are almost 2 feet long.

I set up on center stage, i.e. the east end of the fountain, and opened with “Making Love Ukulele Style,” followed by “Sunday,” “Fit as a Fiddle,” and “I Saw Stars,” then returning to the Hawaiian theme with “Ukulele Lady.” I noted attention, amusement, acceptance building up around me. I convinced a young man taking a picture to hula. A couple of teens talked each other into a dance. I didn’t mind the walk-aways; they gave others the idea.

My first contribution came from a man just walking by. Then a German-speaking 6-year-old stopped, transfixed. “Wollen Sie der Hula tanzen?” Tanz she did, swaying from side to side while she flapped her hands uncertainly.

Another little girl planted her feet near me and laid her dollar in my case. “Would you like to hula?” “Oh, yes.” A man in a matching tie-dyed shirt was standing by the lake. “Is that your Dad over there? Make sure its ok with him.” It was.

A blonde mom parked her stroller a few feet in front of me. A toddler stood tethered to one side while his 4-year-old sister stared at me, absorbed, on the other. I ran through a few songs, got the kids bopping a bit. Mom dug around in a bag on the stroller. It was either money for me, or a cellphone. The odds were 10-1 against me. It was sunblock. Through another few songs, mom goopped up the kids, then away went the sunblock, out came the wallet with $2 for me.

A dozen or so teenage girls from Argentina were up next, followed by another group from Spain. When both sets of dancers walked away, a 20-something man stepped up with a couple bucks. The cold water man from Strawberry Fields set up shop in the shade in front of me, calling out “agua frio, agua frio.” A single here, a single there floated into my case. It was shaping up to be a wonderful day on all counts. Now 3 women each gave me a dollar. “How much for the lei?” one asked. “Can’t sell them,” I said. “These are my means of production.”

At the end of the set, I counted $16 in my case, a better than average sum on a better than average day.