You drive down the Avenue one season of the year through a great ripple of crocuses.
Next time tulips from here to infinity.
Sometimes you notice that at each end of each garden there is a new young tree - a hundred or so of them from the 96th Street entrance down to where the Avenue ends at Grand Central Station. Or maybe next time they're locusts, or London plane trees. At Christmas time, as now, they've been replaced by small firs. I suppose we take it so easily for granted, and thousands of the true city types never notice the changes at all because the very large workforce that performs these magical transformations works by night and by stealth. In 50 years of living round the corner from the long divide of Park Avenue I have never seen any of them at their remarkable labour of creating, along three miles, complete variations of miniature landscapes about, it seems, once every few weeks.