Spirit Vessel II – Sister Fisher and the Holy Ghost

It had been a long summer day of swimming and giggling.
Gran and the children were almost asleep.
Gully and I came down from the studio to hear about their day.
Amanda told of the book she was reading at the lake.
Isaac was proud of putting his whole head under the water.
Gran had a very tired smile on her face.
When it was my turn, I told them about the fisherman.

Early that morning Gulliver and I had been at the other end of that same lake for our walk.
There was a wiggly layer of mist rising off of the glassy water.
A canoe and a rowboat and a long skinny scull were silently moving along with the fish.
We headed into the woods following the old fishing trail.
It is wide enough for one person and a dog, but only if the dog runs ahead.
It’s a little over a mile, along this trail, to the dam where you come out of the dark green wool coat of a forest to a wide open sky.
There is a strip of grassy land which borders the lake on the left and drops way way down on the right
to some steps of water that spill down from the dam above.
We like to walk all the way out to the big gears which rumble as the dam opens,
pause to look at the beauty, and then head back home on the trail.
This is where Gully usually runs off the path, down to the big boulders at the edge of the lake, and jumps off for her swim.
If it is a warm day I like to stand next to her when she comes out and shakes.
It was and I did and we both looked up to see a figure headed, as we were, back along the path from the dam.
A tall man dressed all in khaki from sloppy hat to muddy boots carrying a five gallon bucket and favoring its weight.
The cigar smoke wafted in his wake and we slowed down so as not to startle him as we made our way back to the main trail.
I stopped to let him pass us and wait for the pup to catch me up and to tie a loose lace around her curious neck
and to watch the great blue heron sail away. Back on the trail we moved cautiously at first.
Watching for the interloper. We never saw him again. One more whiff of cigar but no fisherman.
Now this path is a pebble’s throw from the lake.
Dense undergrowth lines both sides all the way out and back.
No way he could have gotten off of that trail without either of us hearing him.
No where for him to hide. He had simply vanished.

WHOOSH ! Isaac popped up off of the couch. A GHOST !!! he cried.
A SPIRIT !!! ,  Amanda yelped.
Gran mumbled, what are you doing waking these children up. It’s bedtime.

The kids had spent some time in the studio that weekend
and had lots of questions about the Spirit Vessel painting which was on the easel in progress.
Where did I get the baby bird ? Why am I painting an old rusty toolbox ? Where is the smoke coming from ?
My little muses were fired up after the story and we sat up a little later that night and,
together, composed this, the second in what was clearly becoming a series of Spirit Vessels.
The cigar came from Barb’s factory in The Brogue
and the kids suggested the fishing rod which was leaning against the stone fireplace.
The black bag which I had thought to be an old doctor’s was Pat’s contribution
when she said it looked like the black book bags she had carried at school for the nuns.
And the spirit ?
Well…..

Well…..