View From The Top of The Outhouse

Outhouse memories may seem like a rather strange subject matter, but not if you had experiences,  other than the obvious,  with outdoor toilets of yesteryear.   I’m completely comfortable  with sharing some of my recollections of having fun on top of a wee little building.

I should let any readers know why one would elect to reminiscence about an outhouse.  With some ‘older kids’ from my era, no explanation would be necessary.  However, if any younger members of my family read this blog page, which some of  them have been known to  do…..probably with a lot of cringing involved,  they would not get the whole ‘fun on an outhouse’ thing.

I grew up in under rather poor circumstances.  Well, I probably shouldn’t say we were poor…..because we actually were only lacking money.  There’s a lot more to enjoying life than a bit of cash and material doo-dads.  My dad generally worked as a hired hand for farmers or ranchers when I was growing up.  That was a labor intensive job which was not known for paying very good wages but had the benefits of living in a house…generally small and without any amenities such as running water,  window screens,  heat source and often, no electricity.  Sometimes it included a cow so we could have fresh dairy products, courtesy of my mother’s endeavors.   It also meant moving around a lot while he looked for that proverbial climb out of poverty.

Looking back, I’m sure the parents felt for every step forward there was two steps back.  As kids, we didn’t feel their frustration and despair.  We were having self-made fun and creating our own entertainment.  This is where the fore mentioned outhouse comes into play, both literally and figuratively.  Do I hear whistles of relief from those of you who thought I was never going to get to the point?

My family loved to sing, although none of us were very talented at it.   We’d sing together and play our various instruments (badly) that were handed down from either other family members or recovered from a junk yard. Don’t know who decided I should play a wheezing accordion or where it came from.To this day I hate the sound of anything that resembles that of  an accordion, as I’m sure my whole family did.  However, I was very game about most anything where music was involved so I would add my screeching (singing) and wheezing (accordion) to the pack. 

Sometimes evening would end on a quiet note because nobody was in the mood for singing.  Except possible a kid or two.  This friends, is where the outhouse comes into play.

I have an aunt who is only 8 months older than I am (my grandma & grandpa apparently decided on one last burst of energy and passion that resulted in her.  Bad for them; great for the two of us.)  I had 5 brothers and Janny, who was like a sister because she spent so much time with us.  Together, we could ward off boredom in a zillion ways.   My mother always insisted the two of us were more trouble than any pack of boys and could think of twice as many ways to get in trouble.  And that was only counting the things she knew about!

One of our favorite things to do on a dark, summer evening was to climb on top of the outhouse for a song fest.  You have to realize,  many years ago, life in the country was (as a general rule) very safe for  kids so parents didn’t worry if you were entertaining yourselves outside at night. We would sit or lay up there admiring the stars while singing…..we thought….in perfect harmony, the latest songs of the day.  I doubt it was our imagination that coyotes sang along with us in the distance. Probably more than one chicken in the coop stopped laying eggs for several days just from the sounds emitted in the night air, but hey!  We were convinced we were great!  That, however, was about the only tame thing we did involving the outhouse.

I happened to have a mixed blessing.  I can’t smell.  Never could.  Sometimes it definitely worked to my advantage and caused me to be a bit careless.  Like all kids,  we’d sometimes play hide & seek.   At one particular place we lived for awhile, had a brand new outhouse over a very deep hole.  Yes…that became my hiding place.  Not just inside the little building, that would be too easy and the first place the “seeker’ would look.  I’d crawl through one of the holes (a two-seater, it was grand!), place my feet on some pieces of wood holding the building together while clutching a couple more pieces with my fingers.  A very precarious position to be in considering what I would’ve landed in if I’d lost my  hold or a foot slipped.  Fortunately kids have the distinction of not only being brave but enjoy a lack of reasoning powers to get them through the day.  If I’d been capable of thinking that trick through, I’m sure I wouldn’t found a different hidey-hole  (pun intended.)  May I say nobody ever thought to look for me there?  Nor did I tell any of them until later where it was and why they couldn’t find me.  None of them recovered from that bit of news.

Thanks to Janny and I, one of my younger brothers grew up to be a champion spitter.  No, this isn’t something he aspired to, but something he became out of survival.  For some strange reason I can’t even  began to fathom, we one day decided it would be great fun to toss my brother, Doug, up on top of the  outhouse. He was probably only 4 or 5 at the time.  Too young to fight for his life.  After we got him up there,  he’d be crying because, lets face it…..he really didn’t want to be up there in the first place….we’d give him instructions that we’d get him back down IF he could hit one of us on our head with a wad of spit.  Yes, I know.  I am a bit ashamed all these years later.  But, only a little bit because I still remember what great sport this was!  Well, Janny and I would go into the outhouse, that yell,  “Go!” as we burst out, both of us running as fast as we could while poor little Doug would be on top,  crying, and spitting. This wasn’t a one time thing, because frankly, even the smartest of 4 or 5 year olds have to have time to catch on to a new talent.  I’m sure he probably reverted to wetting his pants because he didn’t want anywhere near that outhouse, but I can’t prove that.  He’d never admit to it and the parents are deceased.  Gradually he graduated from crying and screaming to being just darn angry.  When he was angry he could spit better.  Over time he’d become furious when we’d overtake him and toss him on the outhouse so his ability to spit became lethal.   The day arrived when this feisty little guy could not only spit a wad on the back of our heads but get us again when we turned around.  We cheered him on while wiping spit out of our eyes and praise him for being a prize spitter among all spitters.  Somehow it didn’t encourage him nor keep him from getting angry and run screaming into the house to tell on  us.  After many threats and hours of standing in separate corners (my mothers favorite mode of punishment) we finally decided our moments of glee from being spit on by Doug just wasn’t that great of fun.  It was time to move on. 

 This picture is Janny &  I during our early creative years.  In back in the object of our "experiments",  Doug and the little guy in front is younger brother Larry.  He had other problems to overcome, the least being Janny and I.

One day, Janny and I were gazing at the marshy swamp at the base of a hill,  Perched near the top of this hill was…..yeepers, you guessed it.  The outhouse!  This is where we were reclining when we hit on an idea.  If we were to roll down the hill in a barrel, would it stop before it went into the swamp?  After a short argument of “you try it,” to “No, you try it,”  we decided either of us trying it could be folly without a test run.  Who happened to wander over to see what we were doing?  Yeah, that little kid that apparently had forgotten the bad things that could happen to him when he was in our vicinity.  Janny and I locked eyes as the idea hit both of us at the same time.  Sigh!  Poor Doug!  Today it’s almost impossible  not to feel sorry for him and what we put him through.  But,come on….could you have resisted such an easy target? 

We just happened to have the barrel we had been contemplating using nearby.  So with little ceremony but great glee we lifted Doug up, stuffed him into the barrel, with him crying and screaming (that kid ALWAYS seemed to be doing those two things,)  and gave the barrel a shove down the hill.  The screaming got louder, but the barrel did stop before it got to the swamp.  Great news, but was it a fluke?  Just luck that it stopped before rolling into the swamp?  We decided another test run was in order.  So, we janked a blubbering  Doug out of the barrel, rolled the barrel back up the hill, scooped  him up and stuffed him inside the barrel once again.  Off it went….more screaming and crying….more of Doug was bouncing out of the barrel,  but…yay!  Once again it stopped before hitting the water.  We were ready for a 3^rd run at it but, Dougs screams had evidently been unquestionably louder because this time mom came running.

The punishment that followed was much harsher than a length of time standing  in our respective corners.  Suffice to say  sitting down to  supper was probably a bit difficult because our bottom cheeks were still smarting.  Back than, little thought was given to smacking the kids where they most needed it.  It also worked because except for a few minor incidents, I don’t think we ever used Doug as our entertainment and/or experiment again.  He was slow to get over a few of the playdates he had with us.  In fact, he’s not speaking to me today!  He needs therapy perhaps to get over his childhood.   Mine, however, was great!  Every child  should have an outhouse at one time or another…..if nothing else, just for  the memories it can evoke.