There is new growth on the rhodies, especially those that had suffered the worst winter-burn. In the sun, the leaf clusters looked like yellow blossoms. From his encampment up on Cherry Hill, a homeless man shouted “Aloha.” The park seemed a bit more crowded, but not much.

Within the first few minutes after setting up under the maple, I tried to cajole 3 sisters from South Jersey to do a hula. It was the middle child’s 12th birthday. “You’ll never get a 12-year-old to do that,” her mom told me. Which, as it turned out, was all mom had to say for the dodecanerian to put down her backpack and grab the lei from my hand. “I can’t believe it,” mom said, putting 2 singles in my case. “You got her to smile.”

Across the path, a woman of indeterminate age fiddled with her camera. She put me in focus, then started walking toward me until the lens was up in my face. She snapped the picture and backed away. She pulled a dollar out of a zippered pocket in her vest, put it back and came up with 48 cents.

It was another summer day, populated by hula-dancing walk-aways, thumbs up passers-by, Hassidim in rowboats, and teen-aged boys who fake-sneeze “you suck” for their friends’ amusement. A quartet of unaccompanied women in hijab walked by. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“No, thanks, we’re good.”

A young teen girl marched up to me with a smile on her face and a dollar in her hand. She too had no time to hula. I watched as she continued up the path. The candy man was waiting for her; he grabbed her hand and started his spiel. She produced a dollar for him too.

He grabbed other hands, most of which were quickly withdrawn. As they passed by me, the people patted their pockets or clutched their purses. It was time to go home.