I thought the season might be over, until it topped 70 degrees on Friday. It should not have surprised me. A trip to The Mr. Ukulele Archives revealed that busking after 11/1 occurred 5 out of my 8 years, after 11/15 twice, and on 12/1/10, records show I took in $1.

The sky was November gray, with thick fast-moving clouds allowing patches of blue to appear. The cosmos, cleome, and lantana were grubbed out at the Women’s Gate entrance. Yellow leaves carpeted the lawns, except where the park workers had raked clearings, leaving piles for another crew to remove. Oak leaves filled the air like snow flurries, and piled high against the curbs. Tourists took pictures of squirrels sniffing for acorns.

At Bethesda Fountain, I acknowledged the comic book man, his wares wrapped in protective sleeves propped up on the bench, and took possession of center stage. Before long a group of high school girls from Toronto sat near me for a group photo. I invited them all to hula, and two accepted. They danced a credible hula, returned their leis and walked away.

Two Russians eyed me as they walked by. One stopped and said, “How much CD?”

I told him $10; he shook his head and reached for his wallet. It was my last CD; I’ll have to make more this winter. I also gave him my card. “If there are any problems with it, let me know.”

“From Moscow?”

“The internet is everywhere,” I said, thinking, ok, maybe not everywhere.

A young man with broad shoulders and dark hair walked up from the benches. He put a dollar in my case and said, “You’ve got a really good voice.” I thanked him. “Really good.”

A couple of 30-somethings with two daughters walked by. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

The girls looked at mom and dad hopefully. Mom smiled. “I’ve got a lei for you too?” I teased her. She didn’t take it, but while the girls and I went to the hukilau, I could see over my shoulder that mom was swaying right there with us, showing her daughters how it was done. Dad gave me $2.

“I don’t have any money,” said a girl of 5 or 6, as she put a handful of change in my case.

“Would you like to do the hula?”

“No, thank you,” she said, and she ran off.

A young teen boy came by and gave me a buck. So did a young teen girl. The wind blew water from the fountain onto me; for a moment I thought it was raining, until the sun appeared, bright and warm.

“You did that,” the comic book man shouted at me. He’d been listening to my songs of tropic islands, palm trees and dancing girls since I got there.

“I did, I did do that.”

The little girl with no money came back. “Do you write all those songs?”

“No, they were written before either of us was born.”

“Do you come out here every day?”

“No, just when the weather’s nice. I don’t think I’ll be out here much anymore.”

“Can’t you do something else, like sell hot chocolate?”

“No, I don’t think so, but I don’t mind. I’ll see you back here in the spring, ok?”

“Ok,” she said, and she ran off again.