Well, have you?
Just the other evening one of my stories was being read
during my writers’ group meeting. Actually it was Kelly reading—I love to hear
Kelly read my stuff. At any rate, the story contained several references to
outhouses and the comment was made something to the effect “You just might be
slighting those of us that aren’t outhouse aficionados.”
I had never considered the fact that not everybody had
experienced the outhouse adventure. Only one other in the group had ever
ventured inside an old country crescent moon operation. Oh sure, most of them
had a port-a-let experience or two, but not the outhouse of days gone by.
Not having a current pix to share, I obtained this one from a public domain.
I guess I give away my age when I can report that at one
time this style of movement operating adventures was common place. Now I’m not
reporting that I grew up in this environment; but I will say that I routinely
came across this adventure maybe just a little more than the rest.
I feel a little sorry for my colleagues that haven’t had this
experience; whether it be just out back behind the house, off to the side of a
cotton patch or one of those Tishomingo, Mississippi[i] or
Snook, Texas[ii]
operations that I most frequented during my youth—I will not say the pleasure
was all mine—at times they were the only game in town.
The facility was not anything
like those referenced above. The outhouse in question was erected on the drop zone
west of Fort Greely, Alaska
and didn’t have the accompanying odor problem that routinely is associated with
that rural southern type of facility. The reason for the lack of odoriferous content
is because the aroma generally
associated with outdoor facilities is astonishingly done-in by the extreme elements of the Alaskan winter weather fairly
immediately. Just about everything freezes amazingly quick in these conditions.
My experience reminds me that this phenomena starts to take place somewhere
close to -30ºF.
However my experience that day in
question took place at a temperature some 50ºs south of the -30ºF mark—but I will save
that story for another time. I will say, it was a trip that I will never
forget.
So, I am at a loss for the
appropriate advice when it comes to getting today’s world acquainted with the
outhouse of the days-gone-by. You’ll just have to search out your own
opportunities.
This is one of those experiences
that you have to have on your own—not a single soul can do it justice. I guess
its all up to you.
If you, on the other hand are an expert in this area; I
welcome your comments.
[i] Tishomingo, Mississippi is about as far as you can
go in the northeast corner of Mississippi. In fact, it is so far into
the corner there that it just might be in Alabama. At any rate, I came across
a rural outhouse there in the summer of 1965 that tied for the second most foul
order I have ever come across. Its mate at number two is probably an Army
portolet at Oak Grove, North Carolina that had to be at least two
or three days past due on its pumping schedule.
[ii] The foulest smell, by far, I
encountered in Snook, Texas when I was just a lad of
twelve. My Dad had high jacked me to attend a community BBQ with him in the
community of Snook. The activity was being held in a pasture just off the main
street of Snook. The only public facility, as far as I could determine, was a
four-holer, separated by a wall (two on one side and another two on the other)
dividing the activity between men and women. This was absolutely the worst smell
that I ever came across in my entire life – very bad, man!
