This page, WRITE TO A PICTURE, is an invitation to our regular writers and to our visitors. Send an original poem, a story, or your recollections. Share your thoughts and experiences with those who like to READ what others write. Send to me at

 Early 'Write To A Picture' pages are archived. The links are here:

Beach Scene "1" Old Train Station "2"
The Carousel "3" The Fifties "4"
Summer Picnic "5" From The Heart "6"
Cloudy Moon "7" September Morn "8"
Passing The Time "9" Apples "10"
Rain "11" Pumpkins "12"
Halloween "13" Big City "14"
Remembrance Day "15" Autumn Harvest "16"
A Cozy Nook "17" Migration "18"
The Kitchen On Memory Lane "19" Holding Hands "20"
Indoor Gardening "21" Playing In The Snow "22"
Bonding With Children "23" Old House "24"
The General Store "25" Friends and Friendship "26"
The Kitchen Window "27" Gentle Hearts "28"
Our Sweet Tooth "29" Cars "30"
Our Good Morning! "31" Pictures on the Wall "32"
Easter "33" Our Feathered Friends "34"
My Bucket "35" ~ Reserved ~


My Bucket

By Marilyn (

There are all kinds of buckets: brass buckets, galvanized buckets, wooden buckets, plastic buckets, a coal bucket, just to name a few. We use buckets when we can't carry something in our hands, like water or dozens of ice cubes.

This week's 'Write to a Picture' title is called "My Bucket". Think of yourself with a bucket. What's in it? I have blackberries in mine but you might have a gallon of maple syrup in yours.

I have picked a lot of blackberries in my life and I usually put those I picked in a galvanized bucket. I'm thinking of an earlier time when the fields behind my home were full of blackberry vines. My father would grab up a basket or a bucket and invite me to go blackberry picking. Mother made delicious blackberry cobblers and when blackberries were in season she made a lot of them.

After I married and left home I picked blackberries and made jelly. Today you can find 1/2 pint containers of blackberries in the supermarkets for $3.00 each. I roll my eyes when I see them because I sold my berries for .50 cents a gallon.

Now that I've told you what I have in my bucket, how about you telling us what you have in YOUR bucket. Fiction or fact, we look forward to your entry.


Grandma's Pail

By Swampetta (

When Grannie did mop the floors,
She'd open the windows and doors.
With her mop and pail,
She'd leave a shiny trail.
And the suds would make waves on the shores.

Her "Bucket" stayed outside.
It was rusty and looked rather fried.
She had her own rules,
Made us look like fools,
If we snuck the bucket inside!


Bucket of Happiness

By Sharon (

Oh I got a bucket of happiness
Cause life is so very grand
Glad to be in my world of family love
Living in American sand

Nowhere else would I drather be livin
No other life I'd desire
For in my home and here in this fine land
Love lights my happiness fire

Bucket of tears never crosses my path
Sunshine warms across my face
I feel sorry for those suffering woes
In our world of human race

Don't ask me to trade you my good bucket
For any you offer me
For my bucket of happiness is filled
With sweet love sunshine and glee


My Bucket

By Phyllis Ann (

Soak the ham overnight in a large pot or lard stand. Clean the ham thoroughly with a stiff brush to remove the mold. Cut off the hock. Place ham in a large cooking pot or lard stand and cover with fresh water. Bring water to a boil and simmer 45 minutes to an hour. Remove from heat and wrap the covered lard stand with blankets to keep it warm. Leave the ham alone for 24 hours. Remove from broth; bone and skin the ham. You'll know the ham is ready because the bone will feel loose and should come right out. Press the deboned ham all back together. Wrap with plastic wrap and refrigerate. The next day the ham will be really easy to slice.

Down the steps and out into the yard,
I carry my bucket which once held Grandma's lard.

Some of the old folks called it a lard stand and used it for country hams.
I'm carrying it to the old pump for water for the garden, Grandpa Sam's.

You might call it a bucket; it has many uses, you see.
Watering those prize tomatoes is what fills me with glee.

The pump stands at the edge of the garden green.
Rich, ripe vegetables way down the yard can be seen.

My bucket will hold water and then produce for the eating.
Grandma, Grandpa and me at the table will be meeting.

Country ham, lard biscuits, tomatoes and home made jam,
I'm proud to be a farmer's grandchild, yes I am.


My Bucket

By Tom (

Oh how well I remember that damn bucket, a two-and-a-half-gallon, heavy duty galvanized bucket. When I went to Parris Island, South Carolina to Boot camp, we were herded into a building where our heads were cropped to a skin head status. We were issued our clothing and herded to the barracks. Then we were issued, oh we had to pay for it all, a scrub brush, a bar of soap like the old lye soap my grandmother used to make and a scrub brush, along with that damned bucket.

Over the next three months or so we used the bucket to sit on and to wash our clothes in; if you really screwed up you wore the bucket over your head. That bucket was our friend, that was what we were told.

One Friday right after supper, well evening chow they called it, we fell out with our buckets and were marched out and told to each get a bucket of sand, for tonight we were going to celebrate a great Marine Corps tradition. We marched back then we removed the double-deck bunks and our footlockers from the barracks. You know what is coming?

Next we dumped the bucket of sand on the deck and then we each poured a bucket of water on the sand and with our brush proceeded to have a sand field day, to scrub those of wooden floors, er, ooops I mean deck until it was a nice light pale brown or yellowish tan. Then it was replace the bunks and gear, had a quick shower and were allowed to go to bed. That tradition was held every time someone in the Platoon messed up badly or we did lousy on an inspection.

Another time, after evening chow each squad leader collected a dollar, think it was a dollar, from each member of the platoon. We fell out with a towel around our necks and our buckets in hand. We were marched to the grinder, a large flat parade ground where there was a stage and movie screen. We were honored to see Mrs. Hank Williams and her group perform. Of course we sat on our buckets. A lot of mornings we would fall out with our buckets and proceed to police the roads around the base.

And so it went, and when we were finished with Boot camp we cosmolined our rifles and turned them in; however, the morning we outposted we turned in our buckets and bedding.

Oh I remember that bucket well and what is funny, I swiped one of those dang buckets when I was in Hawaii, back in the 50s, and it is under the table on the back porch. Memories of the bygone years.


My Bucket

By Amy (






The Old Well

By susi (

Grandma and Grandpa Taylor's farm was in Marionville, Missouri. All of us kids use to go down there and stay. It was an old house without any plumbing and with coal oil lanterns with the mantles made out of ashes. Each room in the house had a doorway that led into the next one. If you started in the living room you could go to the dining room, from there into the kitchen, out of the kitchen into a bedroom, from that bedroom to another and out of that one into another, then back into the living room. We had some wonderful games of tag in that house. Outside was the yard full of tiny Banta roosters and hens and always lots of chicks. Beyond the yard was the big old barn. Just before you went thru the gate into the barnyard, there was the well. It was a wooden structure with a roof. A nail held an old metal dipper and then there was the crank handle that we turned to lower the old bucket way down into the well to draw up the coldest, purest water one could ever hope to drink. It was always the chore that the kids never whined about doing. I loved lowering that bucket and bringing it back up full of that sweet coldness. I have a picture of my sister, Norma, standing next to the well. Looking at that picture brings back so many wonderful memories of the old Taylor farm, and those buckets of frigid water that we drew out of that well.


Ice Bucket

By RickMack (

I have a metal bucket for ice -
Actually, it’s galvanized tin.
For parties, I fill it once or twice,
To cool off whiskey, vodka and gin.

As the evening’s fun moves along,
And the liquor continues to flow,
My guests sometimes will break out in song,
And it seems like they never will go.

The bucket remains empty by then,
And in the fridge, ice cubes are gone, too.
Soon it’s “Bye, we must do this again,”
When that ice bucket sends them a clue.


The Bucket

By Connie (

We carry buckets of water as
well as buckets of milk
buckets of feed and buckets of paint
All essential things we use or
need to sustain our lives
But has any one ever carried a bucket of love?
How heavy do you think it would be
especially if you decided to add
some compassion, and sympathy in it too?
Would it be too heavy for us?
Would it be too much of a burden?
A painter carries around buckets
without even noticing how heavy they are
Would we still carry it if it
were only a 'giving' bucket
Do we give expecting something or
do we give with no thought of receiving?
How heavy is your bucket?
Is it so light there is not much love in there
............ or is it heavily filled?
After all, a bucket of love is cheap
We never have to pay for it and it
cost nothing to give -- only a loving heart !!


A Bucket's Life

By Norma (

There resides in the hall,
An old wooden bucket
Very old, very old.

On the Georgia ocean,
A fisherman’s shape
Silhouetted in the dawn.

The old wooden bucket
Held frightened minnows,
Bait for his poles.

When his life had fished enough,
His child remembered
The old wooden bucket.

Cleaned and bleached it
Pure as she as a bride
She placed sugar inside.

From it scooped its sweetness
For many a loving pie
And treats for her family.

She was blind, could no longer see,
The old wooden bucket
Found another birth,

Cleaned and varnished,
It held scraps and scissors,
For her daughter’s quilting colors.

Her daughter now herself gone,
Has passed its loving service down,
That dear old wooden bucket,

In the hallway by a telephone,
A ladder back chair,
Its duty now to let a phone book rest.

The old wooden bucket, my own.


The Galvanized Buckets that Hung in the Well

By Evelyn (

I luxuriate in baths and showers and all things made possible by modern plumbing. In my early years, baths in a zinc wash tub next to the kitchen stove on Saturday nights were as close as I came to these indulgences. We didn’t have water from a faucet in the kitchen. Our water came from a well in the back yard. It was crystal clear, cool and pure. In the well house, the pole structure in the center of the roof supported a pulley, chain and a two and a half gallon galvanized water bucket. The chain, which wound around a “drum” made of a log, seemed like it was a hundred feet long as the bucket, filled with water, was drawn by the crank handle to the surface.

The galvanized water bucket

The well was central to our very existence on the farm. Perhaps this is why I have always felt an affinity with the woman of Samaria in the Bible, better known as, “The Woman at the Well.” At Jacob’s well she was approached by Jesus as she was about to draw water. His simple request was, “Give me a drink.” I was always struck with her reply, “Sir, you do not even have a bucket and the cistern is deep!” As a youngster, these lines made me wonder if her well was as deep as mine!

I learned early on how to draw water. Watching the bucket going up and down into the well filled me with pure fascination. When I was finally tall enough to crank the handle on the drum and draw up my first full bucket of water I was filled with sheer pleasure. It was a sign that I was growing up. I was finally able to carry it to the kitchen and fill the water bucket on the wash stand. The dipper that everybody used to drink hung over the bucket from a nail on the wall. Soon it seemed I was drawing bucket after bucket of water to fill the hot water tank on the kitchen stove as well.

The bucket at the well ca 1939
(Daddy pulling Johy, Jr.'s tooth)

Drawing water for use in the kitchen wasn’t the half of it. In the summer when the workers were in the field every two hours fresh water had to be drawn and taken to them. The Alabama sun was brutally hot. The cold well water was refreshing. After the mules were unharnessed, they would drink a tub of water before being let out to pasture. Bucket after bucket was drawn every Monday. Rain or shine, it was wash day! The novelty and initial exhilaration of the “grown up status” of drawing water quickly became a chore that I’d just as soon pass on to someone else. Being the oldest of my siblings it would be a while before someone else would relieve me of the task.

If the long lineage of galvanized water buckets that served the family could speak, they would have many stories to tell. The buckets that were once secured by a chain and lowered from a pulley into the dark. deep cool confines of the well were the life source, the key to everyday living on the farm. The well was their domain, a wide hole dug through sand stone that reached the water stored in a well-furnished aquifer deep in the earth in the backyard of my farmhouse home. The trip up and down the stone walls of the well got it knocked around pretty badly. When the bucket began to leak it had to be replaced. The life of a galvanized water bucket was a hard one!

There was no rest for the weary bucket even after it retired from the well. When it was replaced by a new one they found all sorts of uses for it. Sometimes it would be filled with corn shelled by a warm fire for chicken feed the next day. Sometimes it would be used to gather eggs in the evening. In the barn it would be used to feed cotton seed meal and hulls to the cows. The buckets came in handy to gather vegetables from the garden and gravel a mess of new potatoes in the spring to cook with early sweet peas just picked in another bucket! The buckets were always handy for gathering nuts in the fall as well.

Influenced by the 1942 Fred MacMurray, Susan Hayward Movie, “Forest Rangers,” I decided to rig a shower out of an old water bucket the same as Susan had done in the movie. Hammering holes in an old bucket, I set it up behind the barn since there was no other place to put it. Sadly, enthusiasm for my project was not shared by other family members. I went back to the Saturday night zinc-tub-beside-the-kitchen-stove routine until we moved to Ohio.

However, my dream for a bucket shower did not die. Many years later, in 1994, camping in Amish rustic cabins, without indoor plumbing, my dream of a bucket shower lived! Here is my grandnephew, Chase Watson, getting his outdoor shower! The cold shower must have toughened Chase up a bit. He is now a Cadet in his Junior Year at Virginia Tech.

Bucket made into a shower head!

The old well of my youth remains. Today, however, a bucket is no longer lowered into the well. Instead a pump was installed and the kitchen now has running water. Yes, I like running water and wouldn’t like to go back to the old way. Yet the memory of Daddy coming home with a shiny new galvanized water bucket then replacing the old one with a ceremonial flair takes me down Memory Lane and I have a sudden attack of nostalgia. Drawing water from the old well had a place for me among the numerous milestones of growing up. Life wasn’t so bad.`

Aunt Liz peering down the old well, ca 1989

Daily I tie a rope to my “bucket” and lower it into the deep well of my consciousness. With the lessons I have learned through my life I am ever confident that when I pull it up it will be filled with all of the good things of life. It will never be empty if I lower it carefully, thoughtfully and with love!


Old Wooden Bucket

By Mary (

Old wooden bucket
you've seen better days;
useful and cherished, yes, YOU,
deserve so much praise ~

Attached to that rope
sent down far below;
the depths of grandpa's well
you were fond of I know ~

Hoisted back up
clear, cool water to the brim;
how did you hold it, grandpa knows,
we'll ask him ~

Tha secrets tha slats
made ta fit to a tee;
sa tight nota drop'd be
spilt - grand bucket, ya see ~

Tha ropes gotta hold
tha pulley ta boot;
up n down ~ down n up
times a million, whata hoot ~

Me buckets tha best
waters gardens n critters;
fills washtub fur dishes
washes alla what litters ~

Yep, me old wooden bucket
was plain but a dandy;
n when we wuz thirsty
it came in right handy!

Mary Carter Mizrany©
April 24, 2007


My Pail

By Barbara (

My first milking experience required a milking stool and milking pail. haha

Well, a little milk did I coax from that old nanny goat. As I got up to leave she kicked that bucket over and the milk soaked my old shoes. Dad wasn't impressed either, he had no more respect for my milking talent than nanny did.

I tried several others days to milk her but her hind leg was faster than I was. She was determined and I wasn't . Nanny and the kids got out and into the apple orchard one day while i was in school. Dad got rid of them. He seemed to agree they were a lot of trouble.





Watch these pages for more of these "Write to a Picture" pages.
In the meantime, click the links below for
poems and stories by our other authors.

Catly Comfort

Heart To Heart

Afternoon Birds

The Sound of Sunshine

One of These Days

Our Feathered Friends ( 14 Authors )

Lara's Den has free E-cards. I make them and offer them to our visitors and authors.
Click the button to access the index.

And.......for many others, click the index image.


Graphics by Marilyn