For the past week, a large, old bucket has been sitting in the middle of our living room floor. A primitive piece, it’s worn wooden slats held together by one thin, remaining wire band, with a metal handle and a curious hole carved into one of its sides.
Personally, I am rather indifferent about the bucket. I mean, it’s nice - as far as century old wooden buckets go. But, you know, it’s still a bucket.
And then there is my husband.
He had spent the better part of the day waiting to purchase it at a farm sale, and even more time discussing it - the craftsmanship that went into making it, and all the work it had done over the course of its life.
“Just think of all the things this bucket has seen. All the grain it’s carried, all the animals it has fed ...”
“Maybe you should write a story about the bucket,” I encouraged him.
“No, but maybe you should.”
Not being enamored with the bucket, I initially blew the idea off - the story of the bucket really should be told by someone who actually felt something for it. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was possibly on to something. In reality, life on the farm revolves around chores;ergo, life on the farm revolved around this bucket. And a bucket as old as this has probably seen some pretty serious life. Writing a story about it could actually be somewhat thought provoking. I decided to do some research, and see if I could pinpoint more of an exact time frame of the said bucket’s working existence. Entering a brief description on the world wide web, a bucket nearly identical to the one gracing our living room floor immediately popped up.
“Hey, Hon ... I found your bucket.” I turned the computer screen in his direction, thinking he would be pleased with my discovery.
“It’s an ice cream bucket?” The words “ice cream” seething from his mouth as though they were toxic.
“Well, that’s what the internet says. You know - sometimes the internet is wrong ...”
“No. It IS an ice cream bucket. A lazy, good for nothing, wussy, ice cream bucket.”
“It’s good for ice cream,” I said, trying to recover the joy this bucket had brought him just a few, short minutes ago, before technology interfered. “People like ice cream ...”
“But the boy! The boy was carrying the bucket out to the cows.”
“Maybe the boy helped make ice cream with his family.”
“His DAD was in the WAR!”
Sometimes facts are necessary, even if they are uncomfortable. Other times, they really aren’t necessary at all. Like, when they make a man you love lose his imagined faith in a bucket. (It really was more devastating to watch unravel than it sounds - or that my laughter may have indicated.)
On that note - if you happen to know of anyone who has a deeply seated dream of a life revolving around ice cream, let me know. I’ve got a bucket for you.