It was another gorgeous day, and not a saxophone in sight. I set up at center stage, turned my face to the sun and sang my heart out. A girl from England stopped to hula. Her boyfriend got it all on film, then, with a simple “Thanks, love,” they walked off. At least, I thought, her dance might give others the idea.

A misbehaving toddler, not yet 2 years old, cried from one end of the plaza to the other, with her exasperated mother chasing behind. When the little girl saw me, we locked eyes, the crying stopped, and soon she was dancing joyfully to “Tiptoe through the Tulips.” We kept this up through 2 verses and 3 choruses. Observers seemed amused to watch the dynamic between us, and the little girl’s mother seemed relieved. At the song’s conclusion, the mother whisked the girl back into her stroller and rolled away.

A young man in jeans and tee shirt finally got me started with a dollar.

A 20-something bike rider dismounted right in front of me to listen. After 2 songs, I asked, “Do you like ukulele music?”

“I like listening to you play it,” he said. Just then, a woman of a certain age brushed by him and put a dollar in my case. The bike rider, perhaps realizing the rules of the game, walked his bike to the east-bound path and listened from there.

After taking a few pictures of me, a man dug deep into his pocket and came up with 56 cents to give me. Most people give me a thumbs-up for a photo, if they give me anything.

Almost every day in the park, for the last six or seven years, an elderly black woman has walked by, east to west, and never even looked at me. A few years ago I started greeting her with an aloha, and today, for the first time, she pulled a crumpled single from her pocketbook and dropped it in my case. “Do you write your own songs?” she asked in a West Indian lilt.

I explained that my songs were largely from the 20s and 30s. “Even older than me,” she said. “They’re lovely.” If that were the only dollar I earned all season, I would be satisfied.