I am writing in my nine-year-old voice in this section of my memoir:
We don’t have a bathroom like other people. We have an outhouse with a path leading to it. It's not far from the house. In winter, we kids use a metal pot that stays in our spare room upstairs. We use last year’s Montgomery Ward catalog for a lid. I think Dad uses the outhouse all year ‘round. I don’t know about Mother. I don’t really notice her go upstairs OR to the outhouse. But I do know that Mother is the only person allowed to carry the metal pot from upstairs for emptying; she doesn’t mind emptying the pot, she told us, but there’s no way she wants that pot spilled on the stairway.
I love this little tidbit. Really paints a picture (of urine,) but a picture none the less.
ReplyDeleteI still marvel at the wonders of the modern toilet. Most people would not find quite the thrill I do, but surely you can relate, being one of the few of our generation who 'went' without.
-Mit