The Outhouse
I bought an old outhouse a couple of years ago to use for garden tool storage. Looking at it also reminds me of my childhood. A piece of my childhood I don’t want to go back to; I like indoor plumbing.
But the memories are fond.
Kinda.
At Grandma and Grandpa Beaty’s home it could be dangerous trying to make it to the outhouse. It sat away from the house, for obvious reasons, and Grandma’s little banty roosters often stood between the house and the outhouse.
You never knew when, it never was an if, they were going to attack. For no bigger than they were, they packed a lot of fright into their little bodies. Anytime I saw one of them outside near the outhouse I’d wait until I couldn’t hold it any longer before venturing that direction. Almost lost control of the bladder and bowel a few times when they snuck out from out of the old shed that was between to house and the outhouse and launched their attacks.
Using newspapers, and old magazines for toilet paper wasn’t fun. Hot days when the flies were buzzing weren’t all that much fun. Cold days when you tried to stay an inch or so above that cold wood wasn’t all that fun either.
And it wasn’t any fun at all after dark. Who knew what haints were around that place? No wonder we used an old lard bucket at night. Which also wasn’t a lot of fun having to empty the next morning.
I’m glad my outhouse has been repurposed for tools.
And memories.