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The
Outhouse
A
Toilet Humor
By:
Gary Gray
I
read in the newspaper recently that the
United States had finally rid itself of
the outhouse. The story proclaimed that
everybody in the country now has indoor
plumbing. Nonsense.
When
I was a boy, my grandparents lived on a
small tobacco farm near the town of
Nicholasville, Kentucky. I spent many of
my summer days scampering around this
farm.
Off
the narrow, winding country road, at the
end of a long gravel driveway, stood the
main house, a large white countrified
house which had been originally built as a
one-room schoolhouse in the early 1900's.
Flanking the old house was a rustic wood
plank barn, designed for the drying of
tobacco. A small orchard sprinkled with
apple, pear and peach trees straddled the
far side of the barn. Behind the barn
stood the most interesting and magnetic
structure on farm-The Outhouse.
The
farm had neither running water nor
plumbing. An indoor bathroom was out of
the question. Doing ones business required
a saunter from the house down a path along
the side of the barn to a multi-holed
outhouse. Making things worse, at night
one was required to carry a flashlight to
find their way, unless of course ones nose
was as finely tuned as a blood hound. Mine
was not. I preferred the
flashlight.
How
anybody could think to build a multi-hole
toilet is a mystery to me. I can only
imagine Mom & Dad sitting happily
together in cheerful conversation whilst
the kids run in and out. For some reason,
I never could imagine the group gatherings
the structure was designed to
accommodate.
I
say multi-holed, as there were five
perfectly cut and aligned circular
openings in the 'sitting zone'. There were
no special adornments such as toilet seats
or fixtures. One had their choice of
several possible locations for this
matter. Toilet paper, in its wilted
splendor, was simply kept sitting on a
ledge on the opposite wall, within easy
reach. The floor was covered with the
cheapest possible linoleum and seemed to
curl on every edge. Scuffs, gouges, and
other unidentifiable matter of ancient
origin peppered the floor. In the corner,
there was always a half-used brown bag of
lime with the telltale signs of white
powder fingerprints on the folded
opening.
It
was simple and functional. It was a
complete structure, enclosed on all sides,
a nice door and sturdy roof. The whole
structure was covered with tar and
brown-sand laced shingles, the same type
as used in virtually every other auxiliary
structure on the farms in the
region.
The
outhouse served other purposes. It was a
playground. Never mind the two ponds, the
horses, and the abandoned cars. Forget
about the two wells and rusty water pumps.
Cows, chickens, and pigs were no match for
the fun to be had near the multi-holed
magnet. My sisters and I had more fun in
the outhouse than any other place on the
farm.
Grandma
never seemed to mind. I cannot recall a
single instance where she ever warned us
of the evils of playing in the outhouse.
She must have known we were down there.
Surely, she did not believe that our sole
purpose was to relieve ourselves from our
gorging on the sour apples from the
orchard. We had no clue that we could die
of disease or possibly fall in and suffer
profusely. The biggest danger I recall was
the variety of insects, spiders and snakes
that would make their home there. My only
real fears were being bitten on the butt
by some deadly spider or have a snake
strike me from below. The presence of
insects and other critters also had its
benefits. They served as ammunition in my
constant war with my sisters for control
of the structure.
My
sister did throw a kitten down the hole
once. She was young, she did not know that
the poor kitten would be scarred for life.
She did have to give the poor creature a
bath after my grandfather rescued it with
a rope attached to the end of a tobacco
stick.
For
me, the outhouse was a fort from which I
could launch a fusillade of apples and
pears at my hapless sisters. It was a
superb hiding place also. I could dodge
the elders by holing up in the outhouse. I
avoided many a chore by virtue of its
location. I even went so far as to build a
tree house in the walnut tree that draped
the structure. From my walnut tree perch,
I could guard the entrance with a
diligence that would make the guards at
Buckingham Palace proud. Of course, right
of way was granted to the elder residents.
In fact, I was best served to be totally
stealthy in my perch, lest I be summoned
for some arduous chore as a result of
being observed.
All
things must pass however. I recently
visited the old farm. It has been 30 years
since my days of playful delight at the
multi-holed magnet. The old farm is still
there. It looks much like it did when I
was a child, if not perhaps a little
smaller. The outhouse is gone. The marvels
of modern science have allowed the current
occupants of the place to enjoy the
convenience of plumbing. Their children
play happily in the yard and in the still
standing orchard. I saw a horse behind the
barn. There were chickens running in the
yard as well. From what I observed, the
ponds were still full of frogs and
possibly tiny fish.
If
those children only knew what fun they
could really be having.
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Editor's
note;
While
this story is not based on
memories of the Ozarks, it is
still emblematic of life
experiences many of us had while
growing up in that wonderful
place known as rural
America.
about
the author;
Gary Gray lives with his
wife Cindy in Englewood,
Colorado.
Gary is a US Navy
Veteran and has worked for The
Wall Street Journal since
1981.
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