Robin Writes: Privy to a summer horror
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By Robin Garrison Leach
Your wonderful indoor bathroom. If you’re under 50, you may not realize just how good you have it.
Regardless of the season or time of day, we sprinted to the outhouse behind the house—which seemed varying distances from the house in direct proportion to our urgency.
For kids, the outhouse was horrific in the summer. Wasps infiltrated the outhouse every year, building honeycombed hotels seemingly overnight. The heat of the day made the outhouse even more aromatic than usual.
And, of course, all that summertime watermelon and Kool-Aid forced us down the path with regrettable frequency.
The walls of our outhouses were planks of tired wood, with splintery gaps here and there. Peeking eyes could watch us if they dared to brave the elements and atmosphere, but that usually wasn’t a problem.
The mosquitos, however, had no qualms about sneaking through the cracks to pay us a visit. Some of the worst itchy bites I ever had were in places I never thought a mosquito could find.
Our eyes darted like hummingbirds around the tiny enclosure as we sat down. The wasps patrolled the perimeter of the inside walls, their lazy legs hanging down defiantly as they flapped shiny wings. It was important to stay calm—we knew not to make any sudden swatting motions.
The summer sun made them testy; they were in no mood for our company. We concocted strategy plans and positioned our feet as we watched the wasps; if they chose to attack while we were “busy” could we make a quick getaway?
What would be worse…the multiple stings or the idea of stumbling into the sunshine with our shorts around our ankles?
We took on a defeated, slumped-down position atop the seat, sweating from the combination of sauna-like heat and stinging fear.
There was another terror that awaited us kids in the outhouse. The biggest fear of all slithered nervously from child to child, making us giggle tiny giggles of dread.
No parent on earth could convince us otherwise. And nothing made the outhouse scarier.
Snakes. There we were, our little pink bottoms positioned defenselessly atop a dark hole. SOMETHING COULD BE DOWN THERE. No normal animal could endure it. Only a big, ugly, flat-headed, forked-tongued, slitted-eyed, sharp-fanged reptile whose appetite for sewage made him longer and meaner than any snake before or since.
And that snake HATED us. Hated us for blocking out the sunlight. Hated us for being up HERE while he was down THERE.
So, we hurried. We did our business, all the time trying to think of other things besides the wasps above and the snakes below. A spider sometimes waved a webby leg from the shady corners of the outhouse. Sweat tickled wiggly strands down our backs. Don’t move suddenly. Get done. Get out.
The outhouse door banged shut as we bounded through, trapping all the horror inside. Like a shell-shocked soldier, we squinted our sweaty eyes against the blinding sunlight, thankful to be un-stung, unbitten, and free to breathe through our noses once again.
I would love to say that those were the good old days. I would love to spin tales of adventure and hilarity around the ordeal of the odious outhouse. And it would be great to be able to look back fondly to the quaint times when bodily functions were performed in the great outdoors.
But I can’t. When I step into my pretty little bathroom, I thank Heaven for each and every modern convenience it provides. It is a wonderful, comfortable place.
I do, however—to this day—glance into the depths of the water before I take a seat. Snakes are tricky creatures, and they hold grudges.
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ν Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
