Sandecki writes from Terrace, B.C. This column originally appeared in the Terrace Standard.
Try telling grandchildren who have been raised with indoor plumbing that one winter a prairie blizzard piled snow to the top of Mrs. Jones.
Watch them search Grandpa’s face for signs he’s pulling their leg.If they decide he’s serious, younger ones will ask, “who was Mrs. Jones? Was she a neighbour?”
Older kids will wrinkle their foreheads, perplexed. “How could she stand still that long without freezing to death?”
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In 1947, when Grandpa Russ (my younger brother) was eight years old, a blizzard of monumental proportions raged across Saskatchewan for 10 days, burying a kilometre-long train to a depth of eight metres, closing highways into Regina and marooning towns, farmsteads and homes until feed for animals and food and fuel for people began to run dangerously short. Small RCMP planes dropped rescue rations.
Once Grandpa holds out a black and white photo of him bundled in warm clothing, only his eyeballs peeping above his scarf like the kid wishing for a Red Ryder BB gun in The Christmas Story, showing him straddling the ridgepole of a shingled roof no longer than a toboggan, the kids will sidle up to pepper Grandpa for details.
In our farm home, Mrs. Jones was Mom’s discreet designation for our outhouse, situated beside a circular lilac hedge next to an empty garage.
On a warm summer day the aroma of lilacs wafted in carrying along the occasional bumble bee.
Reading room would have been an equally appropriate tag. Once ensconced, if duties and temperature allowed, Mom would read the Winnipeg Free Press or The Western Producer, catching up on any bits in the women’s section she hadn’t had time to read before the newspaper became backup in case toilet tissue ran out.
Our Mrs. Jones had been properly built by Mom’s father, a qualified carpenter, from spruce shiplap and cedar shingles left over when he finished constructing an Eaton’s house on his treeless homestead.
In the blizzard of 1947, snow centrifuged around the house, burying the shoulder height lilacs, the log ice house and the garage that had sheltered Grandma’s Model T. Only the roof peaks were visible.
Naturally, climbing up the hard drifts, scampering over the roofs and zipping on our sleds down the short but steep lee side was exciting and worthy of a photo (eight exposures per film, to be developed months later after mailing the roll to a photographer in North Battleford, Sask.)
Today’s families would record the phenomenon in a home video for live action and true colour.
Other families favoured different nicknames for their outhouses, depending upon background and upbringing.The John ranked first for common usage. Biffy hinted at a British background.
Out of the earshot of respectable women and children, or when drunk, men might refer to the crapper. This crude reference gained coffee klatch acceptance years later when TV comedians groped for more shocking expressions to provoke nervous laughter.
Most kids are familiar with outhouses from camping with family or youth groups, but they’re unlikely to meet Mrs. Jones among the whispering pines. Nonetheless, you can find whole books filled with photographs of only outhouses.
Outhouse enthusiasts belong to clubs dealing with outhouse memorabilia. Songs and poems abound commemorating the fresh air convenience, and as for jokes, there is no shortage.
My brother stumbled on just one more outdated label foreign to his grandkids when he compared snow height in the 1947 photo to Mrs. Jones.
