Recently, our household faced the critical question, “How many drywall buckets does the average family need?”

I asked my husband why there were so many that end up stored in my garden shed, and he told me it’s because our friend who lives in the studio above the barn brings them home after he’s done a drywall job.

On the day when I needed the space in my garden shed, I carried a half-dozen or so empty drywall buckets out into the yard. I requisitioned one for the ice melt for our walkway. It was selfish of me to take it because someone had attached a beautiful rope handle though there was no cover.

When our friend came home, I asked him to keep whichever buckets he needed and could store in “his space” under the porch and leave the others in the barn. I’d drive them to the transfer station with the rest of the recycling later.

“We could leave them down at the end of the driveway,” he said, hopefully. I held my tongue rather than ask, “Why?”

Now I worry that I may have hurt his feelings by failing to understand the value of the unused but always available drywall bucket.

Later that day, friends drove by and stopped to talk. When I noticed six to eight drywall buckets in the back of the truck, I asked, “What’s with all the drywall buckets?”

Our friend replied, “What do you mean? I collect seaweed at the beach, bring it home and spread it on the garden.”

With this comeuppance, I humbly recognized the inherent dignity of the drywall bucket. No job too small or too dirty.

Then I made my pilgrimage to the transfer station. In a concession to my newfound respect for the unneeded drywall buckets, rather than throw them into the Dumpster designated for plastic, I placed them on the ground in front of the recycling container. What if someone came along, saw those drywall buckets and tried to crawl down into the Dumpster to get them? Might as well make it easy for whoever needs them.

That afternoon, my husband gathered the fireplace broom and shovel, making ready to clean the ashes out of the woodstove.

Unaware of most of what had transpired that day, he turned to me and innocently asked, “Where can I find a drywall bucket for the ashes?”

Sheepishly, I told him, “Go out to the barn and use the drywall bucket with the rope handle, the one with the bag of ice melt in it.”

And I silently wondered whether those drywall buckets that I didn’t think we needed that morning were still sitting there in front of the plastic recycling Dumpster at the transfer station. But I knew they were gone.

Susan Graham is a resident of Kennebunkport.

 

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