Chilling Memories

Granddad Miner’s unpainted wood of the outhouse had a weathered exterior, but it was special with two holes. He made one larger hole for adults and a smaller one for kids. He didn’t want to lose a child into the noxious pit below.

Grandma didn’t believe in toilet paper. Old outdated catalogues filled the purpose. The whole way to the outhouse, I’d pray that there were some dull pages remained. No one wanted to the shiny ones. Those pages made sharp painful edges when crinkled for use. If they weren’t crinkled, the smooth slick surface was useless. The dull surfaced pages would soften when they were crumpled were more comfortable.

In the winter, I put off the trip to the john until my bladder bulged or I was about to lose control on my puckering string. I’d hurry across the back porch. My winter boots kept my feet safe from splinters, then I faced the danger of descending a dozen snow and ice-covered concrete stairs. Quite a few cousins chipped a tooth, cut a lip, or earned a goose egg in the rush down those stairs. There was no railing to hang onto or to steady anyone in their trip.

Bravery got me to the toilet where I’d to remove the lid for the hole. Frigid winter gales blasted through the wind tunnel I’d just created. It took real courage to unfasten my trousers, push them into a crumpled heap around my ankles, then gingerly place my bare flesh becoming a partial stopper for the arctic gusts.

The seat was frigid. I was glad that it was wood and not metal or I’d have been frozen to the seat until the spring thaw. The wind always found a way to squeeze through the hole between the cold seat and my warm flesh. It discovered new ways to slip icy fingers beneath my coat and caress my chest and back. Layers of goose bumps would appear and I’d start to shiver. I hurried to finish before my teeth began to chatter sending out distress signals in Morse code.

I leafed through the pages of the catalogue searching for a sheet of cherished dull paper. I was almost at the point of panic thinking of the torture that the shiny page would cause. Frantically… desperately, I flipped through leaves of advertisement passing over tantalizing panty and brassiere pictures would normally titillate boys to linger, were cast aside in the search for just one dull leaf of paper.

Aha, I was saved! One lone dull page remained. It was the catalogue’s index directing inquisitive minds to the locations for men’s shoes, suits, and ties. A hasty tear, the quick crush, then smoothing of the paper was the prelude to the actual cleaning.

The return of my pants to the point they could be cinched around my waist was greeted with welcome warmth. I prayed the return trip to the warmth of Grandma’s house would be uneventful as I jogged up the Everest of her back porch steps.