My first day out in a month, just back from the coast where I became Grandpa Ukulele.

The park was lush summer green. I took a quick inventory of the flowers at the Women’s Gate: morning glory, both pink and purple, and a variety I don’t know — perhaps no morning glory at all — with small yellow petals, a burgundy center and almost no sex organs; lantana both tall and short, red fuchsia and cleome, lots and lots of cleome. A mound of spirea was a week away from blooming, the stella d’oros were done, their seed pods the size of my thumb. And of course the roses, doing their duty, some red stalks thick with buds reaching 10 feet in the air.

Across the road, at the Imagine Mosaic, the guitarist sang “Here Comes the Sun.” Randy, the dobro player, was set up on the rock with the plaque listing the countries of the world who supported John Lennon’s philosophy of peace. Someday, when I feel I can stand the irony, I’ll read it.

Across the road to Daniel Webster, and over Cherry Hill to Bethesda Fountain, there is no color at all, until the water lilies, blooming yellow and pink, at center stage. Except for the big bubble man, no one was busking. “This is weird,” he said, leaning on his sticks in front of a pail of soapy water.

A little out of practice, I forgot some chords, forgot some words, but warmed up fast enough. A man in a panama hat gave me 50 cents. Later, a young girl also gave me 50 cents.

A horde of South African teenagers descended on the fountain area. The adult supervision discouraged them, but a group of 6-8 kids wanted to hula. They danced to “The Hukilau Song,” both verses, while their friends took pictures and shot video. A few kids tossed some change into my case, then rejoined the group.

An English adolescent in a ponytail and braces on her teeth, stared wide-eyed at a homeless man who sloshed through the water with his pant legs rolled up, reaching for the silver tossed in by wish-makers. “What do you think he’s doing?” I asked her.

“Cleaning up?” When I explained what was going on, she said, “There’s a wishing well in our village, and people throw in coins. I never thought about where the money goes.”

Three women were sitting on the bench, moving to the music. I invited them to hula, and one pointed to the other, the other to the third. In the meantime, I scooped up 3 leis and waved them as enticement. One stood up, sat down; the other stood up, sat down. “Am I going to have to come over there?” I advanced on them and led them back to center stage, where they danced a lovely hula. They were Polish. At the end of the dance, they returned the leis and walked away.

At the end of my set, there were only coins in my case, totaling $1.77.