By Elizabeth Langer
It had been a rainy December morning and I needed to walk. From late October through mid November I had checked out Central Park for fall color, invariably disappointed. I blamed it on climate change.
By December, my expectations were low. When the rain let up, I trudged through puddles at every crosswalk, heading east toward the West 69th Street entrance. The sun was out and the park was festive with tourists and New Yorkers, young and old, speaking countless languages. But my December prize was the late color blazing from the trees.
I am a painter. Walking through the park was like entering a painting. I felt fortunate to capture a piece of the magic.