My grandmother took up oil painting when she was in her sixties. It was a joy to watch her artistic talents take shape in her paintings. One of those paintings was particularly intriguing. Her art teacher had handed her a black and white magazine photo of a gristmill in winter. He said that he and she would each do a painting of the photo, but neither would consult the other or show them their painting before it was finished.

What was intriguing is this: When they compared their completed paintings, there was quite a difference between the two. Her teacher had painted a dark and stormy winter day. The stream by the mill looked frozen solid, and the mill itself, in apparent need of maintenance, was surrounded by heavy snow drifts. The sky was foreboding, and a large branch of an old, craggy tree was leaning precariously toward the mill.

In stark contrast, my grandmother had chosen a palette of pastels and presented a much brighter winter scene. She painted a sky permeated with wispy clouds, hinting at the remnants of a storm long past. The icy stream by the mill, lined by snowy banks, reflected the azure expanse above. A barren tree nearby was full of healthy-looking branches waiting for the spring thaw to bring forth their buds, and the mill, though laden with snow, appeared to be well maintained and ready for summer operation.