Houses came and went, but the old outhouse retained its Spartan lines, a familiar piece of architecture on the home farm.
Ours bore all the trademarks of a typical model: the grey, weather-beaten exterior peppered with knotholes, the jagged half-moon carved in the sagging door, the shanty roof bared defiantly to the elements.
Over the years the prairie winds had forced the whole structure to lean slightly back on its haunches. To postpone the inevitable, or maybe as a necessary precaution against Halloween pranksters, the “house of Parliament” was propped up from behind by a couple of poplar poles.
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Following a well beaten path, I twisted the swivel button on its rusty nail, the door creaked open, and I hooked it shut with a hook made from an old clothes hanger. The hook had scratched a perfect arc in the board to which it was fastened, the depth of the engraving being some indication of the building’s age.
A shaft of yellow sunlight peered through a knothole, illuminating the cobwebs draped from every corner. Beside me was an ample supply of obsolete newspapers and the second last Eaton catalog.
As time marched on, the outhouse boasted some modifications. The shanty style roof was replaced by a peak and a diamond shape replaced the half-moon in the door.
There was even a store-bought hook and a spring that snapped the door shut behind me. The place smelled like creosote disinfectant and there was a real roll of toilet paper hanging from a wire.
Come spring, I sloshed through the puddles, breaking the ice that formed around their edges. Muddy footprints covered the floor of the outhouse and rain dripped down from the eaves and trickles in around the cracks. The dead leaves in the corner soaked it up until they were a sodden mass, but outside the first pussywillows brushed softly against the roof.
In summer, I dawdled along the path until the mosquitoes swarmed up grey before me, and with flailing arms I ran the last few steps, grateful for the relative protection of the outhouse. Safe within, I could hear my tormentors seeking their revenge. A shiny black beetle sometimes crawled about the floor and I amused myself by blocking its movements with my big toe. A red squirrel skittered across the roof, scolding me for intruding on its territory.
In fall, the smell of harvest was in the air. Coloured leaves padded the path to the outhouse. A shallow box in the corner with a B.C. fruit label contained a fresh supply of peach-scented paper. An enterprising mouse had chewed the pages of the spring and summer catalog that had recently expired.
Then came winter, and who but a martyr could forget those memorable trips to the outhouse in the middle of January? Blowing against the frost on the kitchen window, I squinted through the little peephole and decided whether I could make it over the snowbanks or if I should allow enough time to shovel a path. The door of the outhouse strained against a snowdrift as I squeezed myself in. The bare branches of the willow scratched and clawed at the roof. Wisps of snow swirled around my feet. Then came the ultimate test of courage: I took a deep, deep breath and sat down on the hoar-frosted seat.
Through all four seasons the stoic old outhouse stood its ground, as one person after another sought asylum within the privacy of its four board walls. Because the call of nature was an accepted part of daily life, no one ever questioned the propriety of my visits. Here I could wax eloquent on a prepared speech, pore over the contents of that first love letter, cram for tests at the last possible moment or bone up on current events, courtesy of the weekly paper. My husband, like many an aspiring musician, remembered being exiled to the outhouse to practice his tin flute, while his dog sat outside and howled accompaniment.
It was a place where time stood still, where totally immune from distractions, I could either concentrate on the urgent or relax in a brief respite from all responsibility, sitting alone for those personal needs that were strictly my own, no questions asked.
