You’d be hard pressed to find an outhouse in America today, even in Amish country. They’re still out there in rural areas, but few are still used for their original purpose. Some have been converted to other uses such as tool sheds or to house a few chickens, but most have simply become folk art relics to be photographed and even written about. Books about outhouses include: Outhouses: The Hole Truth and Nothing Butt the Truth by Patricia Lorenz, Nature Calls: the History, Love, and Charm of Outhouses by Dottie Booth, and The Vanishing American Outhouse by Ron Barlow.
I had the good fortune of growing up in the country. This meant that, except at school, I never used anything but an outhouse until I was 14. One outhouse stands out more clearly in my mind than all the others. In the spring of 1955 Dad had to take up the task of building a new outhouse. This need came about when we moved to a little three room house on Brokaw Road near Butler the first week of February. At all of the previous places we’d lived (which numbered 8 over the preceding 7 years) the outhouses had been of sturdy construction with more than ample capacity to meet our family’s needs, but this was not the case when we arrived at the little house on Brokaw Road. The outhouse we found was ancient, it leaned precariously to one side, and we could clearly see that it was rapidly nearing the end of its capacity to serve as a place of quiet contemplation and tranquil elimination.
As urgent as our need for a new outhouse was, construction had to wait until spring because the ground was frozen harder than a block of ice. Dad used a yardstick and a slide rule to do some calculations. He determined, if we were conservative in our use of the old outhouse, it would meet our needs until spring. His plan was simple. He would make it a habit of holding the forces of nature until he arrived at work each day and then make every effort to release those forces again before returning home in the evening. We children were instructed to do the same upon our arrival at school each morning and before boarding the bus for the ride home in the afternoon. Except for weekends and uncontrollable emergencies Mom would be the only daily user of the outhouse.
For several weeks it appeared as though Dad’s plan would work, but by the end of March even I, as a third grader, could see that he had woefully underestimated our weekend usage. This problem was exacerbated by unexpected company on two consecutive weekends. I could see the consternation welling up in Dad’s eyes each time a visitor excused him or herself to make a trip to the outhouse, and not one had any regard for Dad’s capacity calculations, even though he had posted them on the inside of the outhouse door for all to see.
Despite the frozen ground, Dad decided it was time to start digging the hole for the new outhouse. He selected a spot and began chipping away with a mattock, swearing with every stroke, and muttering something under his breath about those damn neighbors using their own outhouses. Luckily, the ground began to thaw so that by late April the digging became easier and the work progressed with less difficulty through the month of May. When we children arrived home on the last day of school we found that Dad had taken the day off, and we watched in silence as he threw the last few shovels of dirt from a hole that measured eight feet long, six feet wide, and five feet deep. Beside the hole stood a large pile of lumber to build the new outhouse.
The next day was Saturday and Dad began construction at the crack of dawn. The blueprint was in his head, and he swung the saw and pounded the hammer as though he had built a dozen outhouses before. He stopped only for an occasional drink of water and a ham sandwich for lunch. By mid afternoon on Sunday the project was complete and Mom was given the honor, in a manner of speaking, of “christening” the new outhouse. Then we children, with some delight, each took an inaugural poop.
Once word got out people came from miles around to see our fine new outhouse. Not a single person could recall ever seeing a three seat outhouse, and certainly not with a skylight. One neighbor, who happened to be one of those visitors who had used the old outhouse, said, “By golly, this is the Taj Mahal.” And no wonder; Mom had placed a mirror on the inside of the door and hung a calendar with nature pictures on one of the walls. An oil lamp was mounted at the center of the back wall where it could easily be lit at night, and shelves were placed in each front corner to hold copies of the Sears catalog. My Step Dad even placed a long peg on each side of the door to hold toilet paper in case the day should ever come when we could afford to buy it, though I don’t recall it ever did.
Dad decided the best way to dispose of the old outhouse would be to set it ablaze which we did the next Saturday night. We enjoyed the bonfire it created, but opted not to roast hotdogs or marshmallows over its flames.