Bucket

The magic is still there. 

Or maybe it's the mystery. 

Whatever it is, there are still things about me that my wife finds surprising. And I'm choosing to believe that's in a good way. 

Last week we were watering some of our new trees with a hose. My wife asked, “How much water should I give them.” 

I said, “I've been doing about ten gallons.” 

She said, “How will I know it's been ten gallons?” 

I said, “It takes 42 seconds to fill a five-gallon pail. So, about twice that.” 

She gave me a look. I'm used to getting looks, but I'm not entirely sure what this particular one meant. We've only been together since 1973, so I don't have a complete handle on what all her looks mean, but it seemed to indicate that she was thinking, “Why would any human being feel the need to know how long it takes to fill a bucket?” 

It could have been worse. What I was really thinking was that since our well pump cuts in at 40 pounds pressure and cuts out at 60, sometimes it only takes 37 seconds to fill a bucket and sometimes it can take as long as 51. I am capable of learning – I've finally learned she really doesn't want to know the full content of what's going through my mind at any given moment. And I think most of us can agree that's a good thing. You know that game young lovers play, “What are you thinking right now?”  

She never wants to play that game. Not ever. For instance, last week I was visiting my dad and mentioned that I'd been walking past Uncle Carl's old threshing machine, so I checked to see if the pencil notations that showed what yields had been in 1949 were still legible. Then we talked about Uncle Carl for a while, remembering the dog he had that rode on the fender of the tractor while he was cultivating, and we spent a few futile minutes trying to remember the dog's name. We remembered all kinds of other things, including the time he caught a giant northern pike in Long Tom Lake and when he and my mom were on a tour bus in Morocco and the bus stopped to let a passenger vomit alongside the road. (The woman hadn't listened to the advice to not eat fresh vegetables.) While they were parked, a camel wandered up and stuck his nose in the window next to my mother. We remembered all those things, but not the dog's name. 

Two days later, at 9:30 pm, my wife and I were quietly reading when I suddenly exclaimed, with great vigor and relief, “Skinner!” Does anyone want to know the path my mind took to arrive at the name of Carl's dog? No, they do not. 

I got to this point in writing my column and was kind of stuck. As usual when that happens, I read it out loud to my wife, seeking her input. She gave me a look, another one, and said, “You have no idea what I was thinking when you told me about the hose.” 

I said, “Okay, what were you thinking?” 

She said, “I was thinking that was clever.” 

I said, “Well, that's not funny.” 

“I know,” she said, “so do what you usually do. Just make some [s**t] up.” 

So, I did. 

Copyright 2023 Brent Olson