Ode To A Outhouse..
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 Eatons 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!!!
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 Eatons 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!!!
0
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OUTHOUSE POEM
The service station trade was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick
Piled shavings on the ground.
The country bards were present, too,
With Glittering blade and bough,
Had I retained the things I heard
I'd be much wiser now.
No town facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.
"Where is the ladies restroom, sir?"
The owner leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded toward the shack.
With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, just like a snake
Or spider might be in it.
With startled look and beet-red face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car
Just like three gals before.
She missed the foot log - jumped the stream
The owner gave a shout,
As her silk stockings, drooping down
Caught on a sassafras sprout.
She tripped and fell - got up, and then
In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.
Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we found
The whittling owner knew.
A speaking system he'd devised,
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat.
He'd wait until the gals got set
And then the devilish tyke
Would stop his whittling long enough,
To speak into the mike.
And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror to her heart,
"Will you please use the other hole,
We're painting under here!"0 -
[:D][:D]Good! 0 -
Outhouse poem from my youth:
This is the place you like to come,
To do the things that must be done,
Do them well
Do them neat
But please don't do them on the seat
Management:
We aim to please
You aim too, Please0 -
i always liked this one.
this is the place
to dump your guts
not a place
to bust your nuts
so keep it nice
keep it neat
go to your room
to beat your meat0 -
As a youngster in the late 40s, early 50s, I had occasion to use a privy when I visited my Uncle's farm. I was always scared that something would come up out of there and drag me in, while chewing on me. Had several nightmares about it.
Sure miss my uncle. Really can't say that I miss the outhouse, though !!
D.0 -
In the winter it made you do your duty and get back in, pushed a few over on Halloween they were fun if you didn't fall in while pushing[}:)][^][:(] 0 -
I liked Kevin's better. 0
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