The Outhouse
By Dale Larsen
When I first moved to northern Minnesota, I dug an outhouse behind the plumbing-less shack I bought south of town. At the time all my neighbors had outhouses, so it seemed like the thing to do. One neighbor openly pondered the eccentricities of people who lived in town and didn’t have outhouses. He’d often shake his head and say, “Seems like townsfolk enjoy crappin’ in their houses and eatin’ their supper out on the lawn.”
My own newly dug outhouse wasn’t the first I’d ever used. Growing up in rural Wisconsin, my family boasted a two-holer. I never quite understood why adults built outhouses with two holes, since all the adults I knew seemed to believe using the outhouse was a solitary activity. But back when I was six and my older brother, Lynn, was eight, we’d often occupy a hole each while engaged in the same activity. My dad kept a metal bucket filled with wood ashes next to a stack of Sears catalogues and old magazines. Once the ashes were spread down the hole, the air took on a pleasant earthy smell. And on hot summer days, it was often cooler inside the outhouse than under our best shade tree. Lynn and I were never in a hurry to leave.
One August afternoon, Lynn finished before me and stood leaning against the wall of the outhouse, practicing a James Dean imitation he’d been working on. He was also casually spinning the elastic band of his underwear around his raised index finger in his own patented way of showing off. “Go ahead and ask me any question,” he said. “I know how everything works.”
At first I didn’t believe him, so I asked him a tough one. “So, what makes trains go?”
He raised an eyebrow, as if it was a silly question, one that everyone knew. “Why, the wheels make it go, of course,” he answered.
Lynn had an answer for everything, and he was my hero because if it.
Suddenly, his white briefs flew from his finger and sailed down the vacant hole. It was a perfect shot, passing through the polished wooden rim without so much as touching an edge. We both stared silently at the open hole for a few seconds wondering what this meant. The only sound was our breathing, and mother’s wringer washing machine chugging in the back yard.
Lynn quickly realized this meant trouble, and that trouble was best shared with a little brother. “I did that on purpose,” he said. “I bet you can’t do it.” I wasn’t convinced, so he offered me proof by sending one of his socks down the hole with an arching wrist shot. Not to be outdone, I peeled off my tee shirt, wadded it in a ball, and took my own best shot.
Maybe smart people wouldn’t have done what we did that afternoon, but a challenge skillfully applied between two young boys can be a powerful thing. One challenge let to another and in a matter of minutes, we managed to send all our clothing down into the dark unknown.
My mother, being a Christian woman, believed that sparing the rod would spoil a child. When we presented ourselves back at the house buck naked, we paid dearly. Spankings without pants were always the worst kind.
Soon summer ended and winter arrived, bringing with it the long, cold, and dark nights of December. Our trips to the outhouse became shorter, more purposeful, with fewer distractions. The Christmas season provided plenty of distractions inside the warm walls of our house. Christmas never yielded many gifts, and any new possession that entered our simple world held a great deal of fascination.
Lynn was particularly fascinated by a picture book of classic Hollywood monsters, given to him by our uncle. I was pretty taken with it too. I’d never seen Dracula or Frankenstein on the big screen. But visions of these menacing creatures created an elevated security risk to my just-before-bedtime walk to the outhouse. But when I asked Lynn to go along with me, he said, “No.” I cried and my mother took me instead.
The night was moonless, but the path was dimly lit by a canopy of stars spilling across the night sky like diamonds against a jeweler’s felt. Mother took my hand as we started out. She told me that I didn’t need to be afraid of going out alone at night. Looking up at the sky, she said there was an angel behind every star, each one carefully watching down over me.
At six years old, I lived in a world of possibilities, a world void of the cynicism that I would later armor myself with as a teenager. I could easily picture these angels, looking down at me, protecting me. With my mother’s warm hand around mine, I wondered why they needed to be there watching now.
I don’t have an outhouse anymore, and my brother and I buried my mother years ago. But I still sometimes step outside to look up at the stars at night. Sometimes I cry.
When I first moved to northern Minnesota, I dug an outhouse behind the plumbing-less shack I bought south of town. At the time all my neighbors had outhouses, so it seemed like the thing to do. One neighbor openly pondered the eccentricities of people who lived in town and didn’t have outhouses. He’d often shake his head and say, “Seems like townsfolk enjoy crappin’ in their houses and eatin’ their supper out on the lawn.”
My own newly dug outhouse wasn’t the first I’d ever used. Growing up in rural Wisconsin, my family boasted a two-holer. I never quite understood why adults built outhouses with two holes, since all the adults I knew seemed to believe using the outhouse was a solitary activity. But back when I was six and my older brother, Lynn, was eight, we’d often occupy a hole each while engaged in the same activity. My dad kept a metal bucket filled with wood ashes next to a stack of Sears catalogues and old magazines. Once the ashes were spread down the hole, the air took on a pleasant earthy smell. And on hot summer days, it was often cooler inside the outhouse than under our best shade tree. Lynn and I were never in a hurry to leave.
One August afternoon, Lynn finished before me and stood leaning against the wall of the outhouse, practicing a James Dean imitation he’d been working on. He was also casually spinning the elastic band of his underwear around his raised index finger in his own patented way of showing off. “Go ahead and ask me any question,” he said. “I know how everything works.”
At first I didn’t believe him, so I asked him a tough one. “So, what makes trains go?”
He raised an eyebrow, as if it was a silly question, one that everyone knew. “Why, the wheels make it go, of course,” he answered.
Lynn had an answer for everything, and he was my hero because if it.
Suddenly, his white briefs flew from his finger and sailed down the vacant hole. It was a perfect shot, passing through the polished wooden rim without so much as touching an edge. We both stared silently at the open hole for a few seconds wondering what this meant. The only sound was our breathing, and mother’s wringer washing machine chugging in the back yard.
Lynn quickly realized this meant trouble, and that trouble was best shared with a little brother. “I did that on purpose,” he said. “I bet you can’t do it.” I wasn’t convinced, so he offered me proof by sending one of his socks down the hole with an arching wrist shot. Not to be outdone, I peeled off my tee shirt, wadded it in a ball, and took my own best shot.
Maybe smart people wouldn’t have done what we did that afternoon, but a challenge skillfully applied between two young boys can be a powerful thing. One challenge let to another and in a matter of minutes, we managed to send all our clothing down into the dark unknown.
My mother, being a Christian woman, believed that sparing the rod would spoil a child. When we presented ourselves back at the house buck naked, we paid dearly. Spankings without pants were always the worst kind.
Soon summer ended and winter arrived, bringing with it the long, cold, and dark nights of December. Our trips to the outhouse became shorter, more purposeful, with fewer distractions. The Christmas season provided plenty of distractions inside the warm walls of our house. Christmas never yielded many gifts, and any new possession that entered our simple world held a great deal of fascination.
Lynn was particularly fascinated by a picture book of classic Hollywood monsters, given to him by our uncle. I was pretty taken with it too. I’d never seen Dracula or Frankenstein on the big screen. But visions of these menacing creatures created an elevated security risk to my just-before-bedtime walk to the outhouse. But when I asked Lynn to go along with me, he said, “No.” I cried and my mother took me instead.
The night was moonless, but the path was dimly lit by a canopy of stars spilling across the night sky like diamonds against a jeweler’s felt. Mother took my hand as we started out. She told me that I didn’t need to be afraid of going out alone at night. Looking up at the sky, she said there was an angel behind every star, each one carefully watching down over me.
At six years old, I lived in a world of possibilities, a world void of the cynicism that I would later armor myself with as a teenager. I could easily picture these angels, looking down at me, protecting me. With my mother’s warm hand around mine, I wondered why they needed to be there watching now.
I don’t have an outhouse anymore, and my brother and I buried my mother years ago. But I still sometimes step outside to look up at the stars at night. Sometimes I cry.