The weatherman promised a fantastic Friday, so I went to the park and was glad I did.  The platoon guitarist played “Imagine” at the Imagine Mosaic.  Colin, the cowboy, quickly wrapped up “Hotel California” (Eagles, 1976), and yielded center stage to me.  My first dollar came from one of the begging Buddhists who presses prayer flags in the hands of people and asks for money.  My second dollar came from Colin.

A Chinese teenage girl couldn’t wait to dance.  Her friends roared with laughter as her hula burst forth to the strains of “The Hukilau Song.”  At the end of the song she collected coins from the friends to give to me.  A 20-something hipster handed me a dollar, and a couple of kids threw in some change.  The teen-aged son of a family walking by pulled a dollar out of his pocket and threw me the shaka sign, the Hawaiian equivalent to thumbs-up.

A group of bicyclists rested on the bench.  After listening for a while, one of the men, tall and broad, came forward with $3.  He was from Germany, near Lake Constance.  “Ah, der Bodensee,” I said, channeling Herr Hannes, my German teacher in junior high.

Next came a girl from Virginia, who danced a charming hula, acting out the net-throwing and eye-rolling I sang about in “The Hukilau Song.”

A 20-something girl in black watched from the shaded path; I spotted her again, standing around the fountain to my left, and a third time on the bench to my right.  While I serenaded a couple of little kids, she snuck in behind me and tossed a dollar in my case.  “Thanks,” I said, catching her in the act.  She smiled and was gone.

Carole, the photographer, stopped to say hello.  She hadn’t seen me in a while and thought I might be playing somewhere else.  As we chatted under the blue sky and billowy clouds, with people milling all around us, and the sound of the fountain splashing, the children laughing – even the Russian accordionist somewhere out there – I felt I was home, among friends.

A 40-something woman put a handful of change in my case.  A different begging Buddhist gave me a dollar.  He faced me, clapped, put his hands together and bowed.

Two pre-teens from Chicago gave me a dollar.  They didn’t want to hula, they wanted to talk about ukes.  “That’s a tenor ukulele, isn’t it?” said one.  She was teaching herself to play.  I handed her the uke; “Let’s see what you can do?”

The other girl was taking lessons too.  When it was her turn, she picked out a little tune and was quite pleased with herself.  An adult standing by insisted on pictures.  Afterward, she tucked a ten-spot under the capo in my case.

At the end of my set I folded $24 in bills into my pocket, and pushed $1.70 in too-hot-to-handle change into the shade of my ukulele case to cool.  A man in a business suit, complete with tie and suspenders, walked up, took out his wallet and extracted a single for me.  “I used to dress like that,” I said.

“I wish I could dress like you.”

“Some day you will.”