Fleur de Aleta

Today was Gregory’s first day of eighth grade.    His last first day of middle school.   I’m not entirely sure when we got here.   Summer seemed to stretch out in front of us not very long ago, and suddenly this morning Gregory was getting ready for eighth grade at Haynes. Oma and Opa brought him to school, and I was left with the strange realization that the summer before eighth grade was officially over.  M aybe that’s why I’m glad I spent some of it asking him questions.   Last summer I did a Q&A with Gregory, and this summer I wanted to do it again. There is something about asking the same child questions from one year to the next that captures things a photograph can’t , n ot just how much taller he has gotten or how much older he looks.   It captures the way he thinks.    Gregory has always had his own way of thinking.   This summer I gave him questions that ranged from vocabulary and science to history and engineering. His ans...

The Thursday Guide by: Aleta Gay Grimball O'Brien   Every Thursday at precisely ten o’clock, Mr. Ellison unlocked Gallery Three.   He never hurried.   The key turned once.   The heavy oak door sighed inward.   Then he stepped inside as though entering someone’s home rather than a museum.   “Good morning,” he said.   He wasn’t speaking to the visitors.   There weren’t any yet.   He was speaking to the paintings.   Evan noticed it the first week of his internship.   The old man paused in front of each canvas, studying it for a moment before moving to the next . S ometimes he smiled , s ometimes he frowned ever so slightly  and o nce, Evan could have sworn he heard him whisper,   “You still don’t like that corner, do you?”   The painting, unsurprisingly, offered no opinion.   By ten-fifteen, the first tour had gathered.   Sometimes it was a group of families, retirees usually came early and in the afternoo...