House of dreams and melodies
I can remember the crisp morning air nipping at my legs as I scampered to nature’s call. The worn path led to the outhouse, weathered and leaning, a familiar sight in everyone’s backyard. Some folks got fancy and painted theirs, and even hung a picture on the wall.
Most were one-seaters, made for the adult anatomy. To a small child of 3 or 4, the hole looked like a big monster’s mouth waiting to swallow you up (or down).
Dreams were born there, gazing through the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. I wanted to grow up and be one of the ladies on those pages, and wear pretty clothes like they did. I sometimes wondered if there were really that many new things in the world, because we sure never had them. We weren’t fortunate to have soft, scented toilet paper, either. But not ever having seen the real thing, we didn’t miss it.
My fear of spiders probably stemmed from this humble place. I just knew that one was going to bite me from underneath. Luckily, I escaped that terrible fate, but I hung onto my fear of spiders.
Grandpa would take his harmonica and compose some of his best tunes there. We always knew where Grandpa was when strains of his favorite melody floated across the yard.
After being spoiled by modern plumbing for 30 years, I can’t say that I miss the old outhouse. But at least it didn’t cost $20 dollars a month to flush it.
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