Years ago, I was given the smokestack of a foundered tugboat, all that was worth salvaging, it seemed. It has served me variously as a "conversation piece", as a flower pot, with tendrils of bacopa hanging out of the mouth like smoke in a downdraft, and, more recently, as a dry spot to store recycled garden bags.
It had been painted in successive coats of marine orange, red, and green. In recent years, the paint has been dropping off in chunks, layer by layer.
|Old photo of morning light on my wall, with half the smokestack.|
I'm almost finished packing; we're loading the truck two mornings from now. I brought in the smokestack to clean off the dust and bugs, ready for transport. When I up-ended it to see if any plastic bags were still stuck half-way down, I found, instead, a fat spider and a web across the entire width of the smokestack, and loaded with paint chips, orange, red, and green.
|Spider and her paint chips.. Maybe she's planning a re-decorating job?|
|"Hmmm. Green is good, but red looks warmer, and winter's coming. Or would orange be better? Decisions, decisions ..."|
I dusted the outside of the smokestack, but I left Ma Spider and her paint chips alone.