The out back

Linda Drollinger
Posted 8/21/12

My 90-something great-grandfather had one in the ‘50s—a little house behind the bare-bones cottage that lacked even running water. It looked like a Tobacco Road shack and smelled to high heaven, …

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The out back

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My 90-something great-grandfather had one in the ‘50s—a little house behind the bare-bones cottage that lacked even running water. It looked like a Tobacco Road shack and smelled to high heaven, but it served its purpose as a no-frills answer to nature’s calls.

Today, outhouses are pretty much a thing of the past, although still legal under certain conditions in New York and Pennsylvania. One town code enforcement officer (CEO) told me that New York leaves the question of outhouses to the local CEO’s discretion. In the absence of specific town ordinances either prohibiting or regulating their construction, that CEO said he would respond to an application for a new outhouse by engaging an engineer to determine soil percolation requirements, which would in turn dictate seepage pit size and depth.

During the weeks of recovery from Superstorm Sandy, I came to appreciate what an outhouse has to offer: privacy, protection from wildlife and the elements, a place to rest the derriere (especially welcome to aged knees), and a home for toilet paper and sundries as well as reading material. (In days gone by, Sears Roebuck’s big catalog served this dual purpose.) It was also an excellent, if normally unsung, meditation space.

When the power first went off, leaving waterless all whose supply came from drilled wells, it was kind of fun to dash behind the garage and take care of business before passersby on the road could glimpse what was going on 50 feet away. I got an inkling then of why men so enjoy writing their names in the snow. It was less fun at night, though. And when the weather turned considerably colder, it was considerably less fun.

One rainy night, while I shivered and juggled an umbrella, a flashlight, toilet paper and a plastic bag, a curious coyote approached without warning. Startled, I screamed and dropped the flashlight. Howling, snarling and stamping followed. The coyote made some kind of noise, too, before it fled in fear. But that wasn’t the worst nighttime incident. The worst nighttime incident involved freezing temps, a lost flashlight, a slip and fall, and... well, never mind.

It’s best not to dwell on unpleasant memories, or so my mother has always said. When I recall those days without electric power, I think of the power that came in its place. There was something joyously primitive and sensual, if less hygienic, about venturing into nature to answer its calls. More than that, it was a constant reminder that we are part of nature, not apart from it, and that we should never try either to rise above it or to subjugate it. It is as much a part of us as we are a part of it. And that, my friends, is outhouse wisdom.

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