During some years, the Missouri dogwood trees were blooming and the ticks were already scrambling about for blood. But during the early-in-the-year camps, the ones called Spring Fling, we usually froze our tushies off, since Old Man Winter had not quite let go of the season yet. Singing around the campfire one year, I melted the toe of my snow boot and never even felt it; and my feet were STILL effing frozen!
It was especially fun trying to go to the bathroom in the latrines at these camps.
The summer latrines were just a bunch of holes dug by an auger of some kind; we had to bring sheets, and then find sticks big enough, and then rig up our own walls so we could have SOME kind of dignity. Usually a clever (or lazy) scout leader would steal the tomato spikes from her husband's backyard and we had to tie up the sheets to them. The camp provided an open-bottomed box with a hole in the top to sit on. Each evening we buried the fertilizer contents and moved the sheet (shit?) rig to a new hole. During the week, at least one of the lats would fall over or blow open while someone was mid-poop. My best friend was fortunate to have a blowout of this nature. Alas, I wasn't present or you'd read more about it. I did laugh my ass off all day when she told me! (Good times!)
Those summer latrines included the neighborhood wasps with a hefty helping of hot stench. I myself never, EVER used one. I peed in the woods and, if necessary, cheated by using the barn bathroom for any #2 duty. Can you say "Shameful Shitter?"
Every summer we lamented and pined for Spring Fling lats. Because the winter latrines were just so much better! They were permanent wooden ones like a park might have. As a matter of fact, these were considered Cadillac Girl Scout lats! No stinging creatures yet, not as much stink in the colder weather, and even a chemical smell thrown in to add to the aromatic aura.
However, in the winter, there were special precautions to be taken. Even as a tweenager, we instinctively knew that the call of the wild must be listened to with plenty of advance warning. A Scout must pay heed early on because of the many layers of clothing. The fourth Girl Scout Law: Honor and live by the early detection of defecation.
A post-breakfast and pre-sunshine warmth additive, the early detection defecation system sounds the alarm. A snow-booted trod to the latrine ensues. The early birds sing a glad tiding of sweet, cheerful melodies. The sun shines brightly and it will be a beautiful early spring day. My breath makes steamy puffs in the brisk, crispy air while I make crunchy steps in last year's fall leaves toward the elimination destination. Taking off my mittens, I open the latrine door with creaky hinges and shut it softly so as not to interrupt the sounds of nature. It's a beautiful day to be alive, even in a latrine!
Once the door is latched, the process is painstaking in more ways than one: First, wonder where one puts mittens on a perceived grody latrine floor. Remember the coat pockets! Tuck mittens in pockets. Pray that mittens do not fall out of pockets and into lat hole. Next, undo coat buttons and pull up coat. Tuck coattails under arms to get to jeans. Take a quick peek in all corners for spiders. Nothing. Good! Undo jeans while holding up coattails and pull down jeans. Long underwear and undies go down with jeans. Expose bare ass. Inhale sharply because of the freakin' cold bare ass! Reassure self that most bugs don't like the chemical/shit smell, either.
The rusty, nasty toilet seat calls for a hover. Too cold, anyway, to sit on it. (I have no excuses. I always hovered at this juncture in my life.) Take a peek at the blue-black brackish water down below, with toilet paper and shit piles sticking up out of it. Wrinkle nose. Bump bare butt on lat wall. Ewww! Brush off imagined spider webs. Pray for a spider-less circumstance. Turn the other cheek to the hole. Back up gingerly. Squat over hole.
Wait.
Shift weight a little, legs shackled by jeans and underwear. Wait some more. Wonder why there is a lid on the hole. Why did they bother? No one ever dared to touch it!
Sigh... It's a shy turd.
Legs start shaking.
Pee. Pray that pee makes its target and misses jeans, long underwear, and undies. Search more desperately and still find nothing to aid in the hover. Be glad it's early enough in the day that the floor isn't wet yet. Shift weight again. Decide to let coattails down over cold bare ass. Hope that coat does not touch toilet seat.
Finally! A breach occurs. Wish for handicap rails. Strain to hurry the process. Peek back to make sure target is attainable. It is, except during the peek. Stare at floor. Wish for nose plugs. See a daddy longlegs appear from right corner. Bend over onto own lap in imaginary air chair to relieve shaking legs. Tuck coattails around on to lap and support elbows with knees. Peek through legs to reassess target. Finish dropping a couple logs that land with a soft mucky plop into the toilet paper mush below.
Look for fresh toilet paper roll. Be happy that there IS toilet paper! Wonder why there wasn't a toilet paper check BEFORE getting bare-assed. Roll eyes at self. Check on daddy longlegs that is getting too close to right foot. Pull coat up. Wipe. Look for handle to flush. Laugh at self, still feeling like the job is not done without a flush.
Now: at this time, the Mother Nature Symphony strikes up the Spider-Scout Waltz. It's a beautiful melody that calls for an enchanting embrace. Daddy Longlegs bows and asks for my hand in a dance! I curtsey in affirmation as I pull up my coattails. Daddy Longlegs moves in. I continue to hold up my coat while pulling up my undies as I slide backwards. Faster now, Daddy Longlegs follows suit! I hold up my coattails some more while pulling up my long underwear with a romantic flair. I sweetly shuffle my shackled legs away from Daddy Longlegs, still holding up my coattails, then pulling up my jeans and tucking in Dad's oversized shirt. Debonair Daddy Longlegs changes course, gingerly advancing towards me. I adjust and repeat my layered-clothing ministrations seven times. I adjust and repeat a graceful Daddy Longlegs evasive measure, also seven times. Once satisfied with the lower-half bundling, I pull down sweatshirt one and sweatshirt two over jeans. Then I smoothly glide away from Daddy Longlegs once more in our dance. Fix coat. Button. Put on mittens. Tuck Dad's sleeves in mittens.
Ugh! In disgust I take mittens BACK OFF to undo latch to get out.
Softly returning my attention to my partner, I take one last delicate step as I flit over Daddy Longlegs in polite ceremony. It is our final step of the elegant Spider-Scout Waltz. Bowing deeply in a fond farewell to Daddy Longlegs, I escape backwards out the creaking door.
Feeling much lighter and smiling to myself, I skip away. I breathe! Birds and nature sounds resume their normal spring day. I redo my mittens. It's a beautiful day to be alive, now that I am out of the latrine!
I go back to the campfire. I back ass up to the campfire. I speak not of my arachnid interlude. It is there, at the campfire, where I realize that I'm grateful. I am grateful that a smiling snake didn't ask the Outhouse Orchestra for a Snake-Scout Samba.