Happy New Year, long ago memories

By Mary Lou Sartor

The clock is ticking, and my life story is still fresh in my store. Paul and our daughters have suggested that I continue working on my book. I have decided to move a little faster in that direction.

This winter day, as I write this, it is raining outside. Later today, the temperature will drop, and no one likes cold rain.

The forecast mentioned something about light snow. However, I’ll be high and dry in a warm house with all the conveniences needed. None of the winter’s hardships I have known was a blessing.

This writer thought the following might fit nicely somewhere in the pages of that book. After all, a book about my life would not be complete and truthful without detailing a few hardships…

This was in my notes years ago. When I was a kid, we had to go outside to the “backhouse” in all kinds of weather. Winter had its drawbacks. It drew us back to the house in a hurry. The old outhouse sat at the bottom of the hill in our backyard. It was not much of a hill, but we noticed the slope of the ground most when it was snow-covered. After we walked down the highly traveled path a few times, it became very slick. Yes, there were times while carrying our granite pail/jar full of night water down the hill I fell, it flipped its lid, and the contents scattered.

It was the most important outbuilding on the four acres of the property, and we all visited it often,

as did all of our friends and people II did not know. It was a single-story building with the “V” shaped cut toward the middle of the top of the door. It provided very little light inside. The seat had two round holes, and the dark, dirty, scary shoveled-out below. My dad had a store of strong ropes and an assortment of steel traps hanging on spike nails in the corner. Dad furnished it with old newspapers with my favorite comic strips inside.

The Sears and Roebuck Catalog played a role too! At night when the lantern light shone on those ropes, they looked like giant snakes ready to strike at any moment. Spiders resting in their huge webs did not help matters either. I was too short to look out; sometimes, my brother, the prankster, would lock the door from the outside and ignore my pleas. I often thought I heard voices outside in the darkness when it was only the wind whispering through the sleeping branches of the old apple tree.

I was very happy when dad announced that Horace Earley and Johnny Jenkins would build a new outhouse. I watched every board go up that new addition to the place. The two-by-fours were fresh, and the walls and floor were rough-hewn boards. What a beautiful privy Dad said, “Paint it,” and we did -- with oil-based red barn paint.

Like a tour guide, I directed those to the site that needed the comforts the building could provide for the first two weeks or so while the place looked so nice.

Well, dad removed the old toilet shortly afterward and moved all the ropes: traps, and assorted yard tools into the outside restroom. The catalogs were replaced with little blank pieces of thin paper on a roll. Still, when the sun went down and the flashlight or lantern gave out, it was no place to be after dark.

Once, Dad forgot to close the door, and the beagle jumped in one of the holes. He pulled the lifeless-like dog from the first landing above the bottom. Thank God I took it upon myself to help revitalize the limp slippery canine. I placed him on a pile of railroad ties and went to work with gloved hands. Soon, his lungs cleared, and he coughed it up as a bad experience. My dad was proud of me, but I could not understand why he did not hug me for saving Commentator. During time no one would come close to me either.

Dad kept that outhouse for years after that, even though Mr. Pollack built a new modern bathroom after I left home in 1957. My Craftsman tractor and I took it down in the summer of 1994 when I gained ownership of the homestead. When we laid that place to rest, the fragrance went with it. That was another bittersweet moment in my history.

Think about the outhouse -no air conditioning in summer, cold as a tomb in winter, and the basement only got cleaned once a year. The seats and floor could not get by without a brisk broom scrubbing with wash water laced with Lewis Lye.

It doesn’t surprise me that they are obsolete today. What surprises me is that they have an important place in my memory bank. I reckon in those days that it was a good place to go!

Well, what do you think, or is it more “pooh-pooh?”

I can be reached by phone at 317-286-7352.