The current generation doesn’t know about that faraway
building with the crescent moon on the door and the roll of toilet paper in one
coffee can and a supply of lye in another. Oh, and the smells that the lye did
nothing to dispel. Today we all recognize various Port-a-potty closet-sized
facilities which use different chemicals that really do make the plastic
enclosure odor-free. And private.
The two- and three-seaters had no dividers. Just holes
in a wooden bench over holes dug in the ground. Because the outhouse was far
from the campground’s large cabin where we slept on cots lined in long rows
against the rustic walls, the buddy system was enforced. No one went to the
outhouse alone. And, with the 3-seater, we could even take another scout.
I was reminded of this experience the other day in the
library when I entered the washroom and heard someone talking. Yes, there was a
woman in a stall, having a very private conversation on her cellphone, while
doing something private. Clues indicated a woman close to my age, which, I will
say, added to my surprise. The dark and distant outhouse was a perfect place
for girl’s secrets, even with the stench. The private few feet of a closed door
in a public bathroom? Not so much.
You
may have had a similar experience, but mine took me back to those long ago
Memorial Day weekends at a campground, with friends and patriotic songs around
a campfire while making s’mores. It was sweet innocence of the true meaning of
the day, of the wars to come, of the rapid changes to our norms on all fronts,
changes that would even make outhouses obsolete. It was time for giggles and secrets
in the dark, for ghost stories, and holding hands on our way to the
three-seater.
Marilyn
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