There aren’t too many people any more who have had the joy of using an outhouse. I’m not talking about those simple hole in the ground toilets at camping grounds. I’m talking an honest to God outhouse.
Small tiny shack, most have a green or red roof, why I don’t know. Then there’s the crescent moon cutout on the door or wall. I’d like to know where that traditional design comes from.
What brought this up is that I’ve run across a cousin who remembers trips to my Grandmother’s house in Virginia. My Grandmother had running water in her kitchen but she didn’t have a bathroom. She has a washing shack that had electricity and a washer and dryer but when it was bathtime you either did a quick wash down in the kitchen with the door locked or heated water and took a bath in a metal tub in the shack out in the backyard. I never did the metal tub thing… I always made do in the kitchen. My Mother on the other hand on one trip was having problems with a skin condition and needed to bathe semi-regularly. So she experienced the tub bath. She said it made her appreciate indoor plumbing so much more that she had.
But back to outhouses. I loved going to my Grandmothers but I always dreaded the outhouse issue when I was very young. I think you know where I’m going with this. We’re talking about a shack that’s outside in the elements… nature… spiders…. snakes. *shudder* My Grandmother, God love her, always made it worse by warning us to watch out for black widow spiders and snakes.
I had this fear of screwing up and not paying attention and ending up in the hospital, drooling, and convulsing on the exam table as the Doctor asked my parents what had happened.
“Well Doc she screwed up and didn’t pay attention and a black widow spider/snake bit her on the ass while she was using the outhouse…”
I also wonder if this is where my claustrophobia got it’s start. Small confined space don’tcha know. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve been in an outhouse and it starts raining and thundering and lightning. And you sitting there without an umbrella. I was a small child and I started limiting MYSELF on how many liquids I drank so I wouldn’t have to make that horrible trip at night. Those emergency night time trips were the worst. I always demanded that my Mother make the trip as well and check out the shack before I did what I’d come to do. My Grandmother had an answer for that one.
After dinner dishes were washed, and the kitchen was sparkling, at night at the end of the kitchen right near the back door she’d place a chamber pot in a convenient place. When you’re a child it’s not too hard to squat down but when I got older I made the deicision that it was simply too much damned trouble and would hold it all night long. I was nearly 5′11 at that point and we’re talking about using something that basically looks like a stockpot placed on the floor. The knees would scream.
The chamber pot reminds me of something that happened here when I was pregnant with Joshua. We have an area in town with a lot of antique shops. Richard and I were looking for something to do so we went to a few one day. I was standing looking at something else, don’t know what, when I heard these two women discussing something they’d found. I looked over at what they were looking at just as one woman said it was the perfect size to make a stew in. I glanced over and nearly lost it.
They were holding a chamber pot that was exactly like the one my Grandmother had. I cleared my throat and gently told them that I didn’t think it was what they thought it was. I told them it was a chamber pot. One woman looked at me like she was confused. I explained what it was, delicately, and said I knew because I’d used one just like it in Virginia as a child. The woman holding it gasped and dropped it, turned beet red, and laughed self-consciously. They thanked me and I waddled off as gracefully as a pregnant woman can while trying to not laugh out loud.
Ahhh genealogy brings up all kinds of memories… don’t get me started on the bridge that led to my Grandmother’s house. The railing had gaps in it so huge you were afraid you’d slip on a wet spot and go right into the creek.
Where my Grandmother would gladly tell you she’d seen water moccasins aka cottonmouth snakes….
