Been re-reading this topic. I think one of the differences in our generation and those to come is the time spent being inside vs outdoors. We practically lived outside and most kids these days play/stay inside. Anyone agree?

chick

The House Behind The House


One of my fondest memories
As I recall the days of yore
was the little house, behind the house,
With the crescent o'er the door.

'Twas a place to sit and ponder
With your head all bowed down low;
Knowing that you wouldn't be there,
If you didn't have to go.

Ours was a multi-holer, three,
With a size for every one.
You left there feeling better,
After your job was done.

You had to make those frequent trips
In snow, rain, sleet, or fog--
To that little house where you usually
Found the Sears-Roebuck catalog.

Oft times in dead of winter,
The seat was spread with snow.
'Twas then with much reluctance,
To that little house you'd go.

With a swish you'd clear that wooden seat,
Bend low, with dreadful fear
You'd shut your eyes and grit your teeth
As you settled on your rear.

I recall the day Ol' Granddad,
Who stayed with us one summer,
Made a trip out to that little house
Which proved to be a bummer.

'Twas the same day that my Dad had
Finished painting the kitchen green.
He'd just cleaned up the mess he'd made
With rags and gasoline.

He tossed the rags down in the hole
Went on his usual way
Not knowing that by doing so
He'd eventually rue the day.

Now Granddad had an urgent call,
I never will forget!
This trip he made to the little house
Stays in my memory yet.

He sat down on the wooden seat,
With both feet on the floor.
He filled his pipe and tapped it down
And struck a match on the outhouse door.

He lit the pipe and sure enough,
it soon began to glow.
He slowly raised his rear a bit
And tossed the flaming match below.

The Blast that followed, I am told
Was heard for miles around;
And there was poor ol' Granddad
Sprawled out there on the ground.

The smoldering pipe still in his mouth,
His eyes were shut real tight;
The celebrated three-holer
Was blown clear out of sight.

We asked him what had happened,
What he said I'll ne'er forget.
He said he thought it must have been
The pinto beans he et!

Next day we had a new one
Dad put it up with ease.
But this one had a door sign
that read: No Smoking, Please!

Now that's the story's end my friend,
Of memories long ago,
When we went to the house behind the house,
because we had to go.

For those who never had to trot out in the Cold.....

Just Give Thanks!!!

chick

Holding my side laughing! Why this is brilliant! Did you build this beautiful out-house, Chick?

"He said he thought it must have been
The pinto beans he et!"

Too funny!

I'm picturing this huge house on the beach with all the boomer women playing jacks, jumping rope, swirling that Hoola Hoop, and playing tag 'til dark. Then we go inside and break out the wine to reminisce and share stories.

Chickadee,
I love it!!! What a great poem. I don't know how grandma's generation managed. It is so cold here today; I'm thanking God for in-door plumbing. My teeth chatter when I just think of walking outside--say nothing of "going" outside. LOL
Dotsie,
A boomer stagette!!! What a neat treat that would be, huh???
Ciao for now,
B. Rose

OMGoodness.... outhouses and explosions do NOT mix in my mind...poor grandpa!!!!!

E-Gads, there is nothing as primitive and discusting as an OUTHOUSE. So glad those days (for the most part) are over. Loved the poem Chickadee, what marvelous talent you have.

Oh Chatty, I wish I could take credit, but I have no idea who the author is. My Aunt from Canada sent it to me. She knows too well the outhouse. I believe some parks in Canada still have them.
All I know is the wood would leave a ring on my butt if I stayed reading the catalogue too long.

Anyone else bathe in jug and basin?

chick

We shared bath water in a no. 3 tub, maybe once a week, when some of my siblings and I stayed with my paternal grandparents. Our grandmother would heat the water on the stove and turn around and pour it into the tub, which was positioned near the back door in the kitchen.
The outhouse was about 200 yards from the backporch. We had to go down a trail in knee deep weeds to get to it. The seed ticks would jump from the weeds onto our bodies. When we returned to the house, our grandmother would take a soft bristled brush to us to get the little critters off. Oh, and the spiders in the one-holer - eeeek! It wasn't until the late 50s that they (finally) got indoor plumbing.

gimster, did it bother you at the time? It probably sounds archaic now, but it was what you were used to so I'm wondering if it freaked you out or did it feel normal?