Owning a home with a white picket fence was a common dream for American couples. Was it ever your dream? Send a poem or prose for this page.

White Picket Fence

White Picket Fence

The white paint was no longer bright,
In spots it was peeling away.
For some time, a sorry sight,
But he’d repaint that very day.

The perfect frame for any yard,
It set the Cape Cod home apart.
But painting it would be so hard -
Planting those roses wasn’t smart.

Pickets wrapped in thorny branches
That would have to be pulled aside.
Thick gloves worn to take no chances,
Who knows where prickly points hide?

And those flowers were a mistake,
Growing out in front on the ground.
What an obstacle they will make,
Trying to spread drop clothes around.

The red brick walk looks lovely, too,
Be careful of white paint splatter.
Perhaps the rustic look will do.
Will painting it really matter?

RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)

The White Picket Fence

Down the street they ran,
Big sticks in their hands.

Running them along the pickets was such fun,
They loved the sound they made under the noon day sun.

Grandma looked out her kitchen window to see the boys,
She had a frown on her face as she heard the noise.

Grandpa looked out around the curtain to get a view.
“Boys will be boys", he said, "nothing new".

Off they ran to the movies laughing as they went,
Not a care in the world had they, and nothing to repent.

Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@msn.com)

White Picket Fences

We moved to this house in 'forty-four
Bare yards, weeds, and spindley trees
It was a house of six rooms and a path
The folks were happy when handed the keys

It took a couple years to get the yards in shape
Daddy worked in the factory, and mom had kids to raise
On the list of priority, the garden came first
Planting, growing and canning filled her days

But as time went on, and we all pitched in
The weeds were all gone, the garden work settled down
Daddy decided it was time to start building the fence
A monumental job our yard to go 'round

We had considerable land that he had planted to grass
And about a thousand pickets to confine
So he got busy, bought the wood, and made each one
After work, in his limited spare time

Now Daddy, a carpenter he was really not
But he worked painstakingly on his fence
He knew he could do it, determination his fortA'
And this job he knew was immense

The work went slowly, pickets carved, painted white
and built into eight-foot long sections
Then the post holes were dug and the stanchions put in
Then he attached his fence of protection

Then came the planting of flowers down its length
And an arbor that he covered with roses
"Seven Sisters" bloomed in wild abandon
And their beautiful scent filled our noses.

After forty-five years the fence sagged and broke
Eventually chain link replaced the once lovely wood
He was proud of the white picket fence that he built
So I will say, "Daddy, you did the job good!"

susi Taylor (Texaswishr@aol.com)

My Father's White Picket Fence

My father loved to garden and he loved flowers. He also liked pretty things so he built a white picket fence. The fence ran across the back of the yard, and beyond it he had his vegetable garden. I can still see the tall red hollyhocks, the blue delphiniums, and the snapdragons that grew in front of his fence. He grew roses, too, but they were in a separate bed. There was one rose...a red rambler...that grew along one end of the fence. Those bright red blossoms against the white wooden pickets were a beautiful scene.

I married young and my hubby and I had very little money. My father built us a 'little red house' and built it behind the white picket fence, on part of the land where we'd had the vegetable garden. A gate was installed and it was through this gate that my daughter, Lynn, and my son, Mike, would go to visit their Nana and BawBaw. Oh, what wonderful memories I have of my father's white picket fence.

Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)

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Graphics by Marilyn


I took the picture while visiting Kennybunkport, Maine.