The Outhouse

The unpainted wood of the outhouse at the Raymond Miner farm was weathered on the exterior, but it was special and had two holes. When Granddad built the privy he made the board seat wide, cutting one larger hole for adults and a smaller one for kids. He didn’t want to lose a child into the putrid pit below.

Grandma Becky didn’t buy or believe in the luxury of toilet paper for the john. Oh, no, old outdated catalogues fulfilled that purpose. The whole way to the toilet I would pray that there were still some dull pages left. No one wanted the shiny ones. Those pages made sharp, hard painful edges when crinkled for use and if they weren’t crinkled, the smooth slick, surface was little more than useless. The dull surfaced pages would soften when they were balled up and smoothed out and became tolerable if not comfortable.

In winter, I would put off the trip to the john until my eyes and my bladder bulged or I was about to lose control. The steps to the outhouse had no railing to hang onto or steady anyone in their trip through no man’s land.

Sheer bravery got me to the toilet and remove the lid for the chosen hole. Frigid winter winds would blast through the wind tunnel that I’d just created. It took real courage to unfasten my pants, push them down into a crumpled heap around my ankles, then tentatively place my unwilling bare flesh over the hole as a partial stopper for the gusts of icy air.

The board seat was frigid. I was glad it was wood and not metal or I’d have been frozen to the seat until spring thaw. The wind always managed to squeeze through the hole between the seat and my warm flesh. It would discover a way to slip its icy fingers beneath my coat and caress my chest and back. Goosebumps appeared on top of goose bumps and I would start to shiver. I knew I needed to finish before my teeth began to chatter sending out distress signals in Morse code.

I leafed through the diminished catalogue pages, searching for the cherished dull paper. I was at a point of panic, thinking of the torture of the shiny page. Frantically, desperately, I flipped the leaves of advertisement, passing over the tantalizing views of panties and brassieres. Pictures, that would on a normal day cause boys to linger were passed over in the search for just one dull sheet of paper.

Aha, I was safe; one lone dull page in the catalogue’s index directing inquisitive minds to where men’s shoes, suits, and ties could be found. A hasty tearing, the quick crush, and the smoothing of the paper was a prelude to the actual cleaning of the derriere.

The return of the pants to the point they could be cinched around my waist was welcome warmth. I was hoping that the return trip to the warmth of Grandma’s house would be uneventful as I hurried up the Everest of the concrete back porch steps.