Since my last outing, the gardeners in Central Park have been busy.  Skeletal tulips and south African daisies have been cut down or grubbed up to make room for new plantings, pink begonia, multi-colored cosmos, stella d’oro lilies.  Dog roses bloom in profusion, both behind the bench where the button seller sits, as well as along the paths that lead toward Bethesda Fountain.

A new guy is singing at the Imagine Mosaic.  Unlike the usual platoon of guitarists, this on stands and sings non-Beatle songs.  In the foliage lining the path, I spotted tradescantia and astilbe.  Both giant catalpas are clothed in white blossoms.

It’s June, and the Central Park Conservancy has covered the fountain area in tents for its fund-raiser.  In the small area to the north, between the fountain and the water, the jazz combo has found room to play.  I kept walking to my spot under the maple, facing the English mulberry, which has started forming berries.

Before long, 3 girls from Central Virginia stopped to hula.  They were in their mid-teens.  One of them knew the gestures for “The Hukilau Song,” while the others followed along.  It was very important to their mother, or whoever she was who was shepherding them around, that I understood they were not from Northern Virginia, as if she wanted to pick a political fight with this New Yorker.

A class of 30-40 high schoolers came by.  “Has this group got time for a hula today?”

“Not now,” said the teacher in charge.  “We’re on our way to lunch.”  I sang “I Wonder Where My Little Hula Girl Has Gone” as they walked by.  Two stragglers examined my case.  One of them gave me 50 cents; not to be outdone, his friend gave me $2.

As a 40-something man approached, I saw him reach for his wallet.  We exchanged broad smiles as he launched a dollar into my case.

A pre-teen girl started dancing as she passed.  “I know you want to hula,” I said, and I was right.  With a lei around her neck, she flashed a winning smile, planted her feet a little too far apart and started to hula.  The more she danced, the wider her stance; by the end of the song she looked like she was going to do a split.

A woman stopped her bicycle in front of me and dismounted.  Her name was Tony, a bus driver from the Denver suburbs.  “Did you take a day off from work?”

“This is my work.”

“Are you retired?  I can’t wait; another 10 years to go for me.”

After her hula, as she pulled 2 singles from her purse, she said, “You’re probably a millionaire, and here I am giving you money.”

Her friend had taken video and had already uploaded it when Tony got back on her bike.  I ran over with my card and asked her to send me a link so I could put it in my blog.  I do this a lot, although only once has someone actually sent it.  That was the Minnesota woman in October, 2016.

A 20-something woman was greatly amused as she walked by.  She got as far as the caricaturist, who was plying his trade about 20 yards away, before running back to give me a dollar, which topped off the day’s take at $8.50.