Outhouses

Fond Memories?

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, I was very much used to hot and cold running water — unless we went to stay at Grandma's house. She lived out in the country on a dirt road in a house surrounded by fields of corn one year and tobacco the next.

Grandma's kitchen had a hand pump — that you had to prime — at the kitchen sink. The pump was modern plumbing for Grandma and the "only" plumbing in the five-room house.

A "real" bathroom was miles away. We took baths in the "wash tub," and we went to relieve ourselves in that dreadful outhouse. I was so afraid of it; I hated that place! Even if your bodily functions drove you to it, it still took courage to go inside! It stank to high heaven and it wasn't the kind of place where you could talk a sibling or a cousin into standing outside the door while you "went." Grandma was too old to keep it up, and it was just plain disgusting.

Years removed, I can even laugh about it. But I sure hated it then! I would like to have been able to write here about a fond memory or two of Grandma's outhouse, but there are no fond memories of it - whatsoever! Well, unless you count the happy relief I would feel when waving goodbye to Grandma through that cloud of dust from the backseat of Daddy's beloved station wagon!

Image: © Ian Munroe

In The Cornfield

It is a weathered little building, precariously erect. Milkweed and dog fennel grow tall and wild all around it. A little girl creeps reluctantly toward its rickety facade. Slowly, she opens the door. Flies buzz around her head as they pass out into the light then back again into the stench. Her nose wrinkles; her mouth disappears into a tight little line. She wills herself to lift a foot inward steadying herself with one hand on the dry wood of the door frame. Just then, she hears the rattled warning from a snake's tail. Her scream is mute. Barreling out into the cornfield, she stops only when she is out of air. Bending forward with her hands on her knees, she tries to catch her breath. A breeze rustles the prickly cornstalk leaves. Slowly, her breathing starts to regulate; she becomes aware of the sounds of a distant tractor and the gay squeals of her siblings at play. Her eyes soften as she takes in the green beauty all around her. Her body releases its tension. The black dirt is cool to her bare feet; its earthy smell fills her nostrils as she swings her foot across it in an arc. Then, she gets down on all fours, picks up a stick and starts digging.

Image: © Carolyn Tiry