While I was not born in the dark ages, Gramma’s house was—no
electricity, and no running water, except to the kitchen basin. That’s the short list. Think arctic cold
rooms in the winter, suffocating in the summer. Daily delivery of big blocks of
ice to keep things cold, wood burning stove to keep things hot. Saturday night
baths in a large galvanized tub, everyone using the same water, Children last.
I was children.
And outhouses and chamber pots.
Pure luxury for the recent pioneer, they were pure adversity for
those of us who knew better—a real bummer (For my pun-loving grandchildren and
their father.)
A little rectangular structure with a door made of cheap wood was relegated
to a back corner of the lot as far from civilization as possible. Dim light
streamed through knotholes revealing a low bench with a large round outlet upon
which one sat descending to not far enough. An old Sears catalog served as
toilet paper. The stench was palpable, hardly more bearable than one’s need of
it.
No lingering.
No reading.
And no breathing.
Unless you were a mischievous male, who used the open window, nocturnal
needs were taken care of with chamber pots resembling large porcelain coffee
cups. Everything done at night was done in impenetrable blackness, thus, the rules.
1.
Don’t step in the pot.
2.
Keep pot under bed.
3.
Make sure you know which side.
4.
Don’t push pot too far under
bed.
5.
After using, return pot to its
exact place.
6.
Empty pot every morning first
thing.
Breakfast at Gramma’s house more than made up for
the misery.
