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 The Lav Of My Life: ChiefThunderbutt's Country PooperPosted 06.16.2008 by ChiefThunderbutt (777)
Being born at the beginning of WW II in the outskirts of Nashville had its ups and downs. Even though we were only a few miles from town, it was basically a rural setting. There were two dairy farms within two miles of our house and we had a neighbor who eschewed cars and used a horse-drawn wagon for all his local trips. On the down side, we had no running water in our home, so we depended on a well in the backyard. Needless to say, no water in the house meant no porcelain throne to sit upon while crapping. We had the dread outhouse: the bane of all country folk.
Let me paint a picture for you: the time is two AM. You are lying in your cozy bed, deeply sunk into the soft folds of a warm feather mattress, when suddenly it happens. The turnip greens and hog jowl you dined upon for supper start rumbling in your tummy; or could it be the delicious crackling cornbread that contained just the right amount of crispy pork skin, or maybe even the green beans that had simmered all day awash in floating hunks of fatback. It really makes no difference, as the ominous rumblings are getting lower and lower. Something wants to come out and is hell bent on having its way. You groggily arise, in your flannel pajamas, and pad to the back door for a peek out at the weather. Oh, no... it is snowing quite heavily, and there is already a deep accumulation on the ground; plus, the temperature is down around twenty degrees. The rumbling in your bowels becomes more pronounced -- something demands release and it demands it soon. Your desperate mind seeks a solution -- anything other than slogging through half-a-foot of snow. "The chamber pot," you think. (Of course you did not call it that; most country folk referred to it as a "slop jar.") But the slop jar was reserved for urine collection only. Pooping in it might be allowed if you were sick or being given an enema, but it was otherwise off-limits for solid waste collection. You resign yourself to the inevitable and begin to dress. First, a warm, fuzzy pair of heavy woolen socks. Then a muffler around the neck and a heavy overcoat on top of the flannel pajamas. Pull a warm stocking cap over your head and cram your feet into rubber galoshes and finally you are ready for your big adventure. We had a modern outhouse, in that it had an electric light that could be turned on from the back porch. You had, in your haste, neglected to close the snaps on the galoshes, so you picked up several pounds of snow that would be melting around your feet by the time you had covered the hundred foot distance to your destination. Ahh... here you are at last. Soon you will have relief from the pressure that has been steadily increasing since the poo first alerted you to the fact that it wanted out. Quick: pull up the coat, drop the pajama bottoms, and plunk that ass down on that... ice-cold seat? Yes, the seat is the same temperature as the outside air. Many questions run through your mind. Just how cold is this going to be? Did my ass get damp with perspiration while I was trekking here? Will it freeze to the seat, making me an outhouse prisoner whose dead, frozen body will be discovered by a family member in a few hours? No more time for opining on possibilities -- grit your teeth and smack that ass down. Ahhhh... relief... now wipe that ass and get back to that feather mattress. What? No paper. Luckily there is a Sears and Roebuck Catalog, kept primarily for reading material, that could be used for wiping in an emergency. I highly recommend the index pages -- the rest of the pages are glossy and only smear. (Years after I left home, I lived in Japan and rented a house that contained a benjo. A benjo is an outhouse that is actually inside the house. We had to go through two doors to get to it, but we did not have to venture out into the elements. The smell was mostly contained with lime and there was no odor in the rest of the house at all. I thought the Japanese were wonderfully inventive to have come up with such a modern idea.) I totally lost my faith in outhouses at about the age of twelve. One day I noticed my mother heating bucket after bucket of water and taking them out to a small outbuilding. A short time before she had carried a galvanized washtub into the same building. I queried her as to what she was doing, and she answered, "Your father fell through the outhouse floor." My poor father had been preparing to take a dump when he spied a spider on the floor. Wishing to clear the building of a possibly dangerous arachnid, he had stomped on the beast. Unfortunately the floor was not structurally sound enough to withstand stomping. Also, unfortunately for my father, we had a very deep pit under our toilet. The hole had been blasted down through bedrock with dynamite and was Dad's pride and joy. The neighbors, with their shallow pit toilets, would have to move them every few years, but ours was good forever. Until the floor was rebuilt, we had to open the door and hang our asses over the threshold and let fly. I thought this was a dangerous practice as there was always a possibility of one losing one's balance and tumbling backwards into deep shit. I started taking all my business to the woods behind our property, and to this day I prefer the alfresco poop above all others. My father departed this life at the relatively young age of sixty-two. His death was forty-six years ago, and I still love and miss him. But I still smile, with a tear in my eye, when I remember the day he fell in the toilet. Post new comment
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