The path to the old outhouse ~ December 2, 1993

David Heiller

We got a foot of snow last week,

And while it made the fields look sleek,

It drifted deep across our yard

And digging out was mighty hard.

David's beloved outhouse.
 It was all we had for many, many years.

I dug a path to the garage

And to the sauna I dislodged

About a half a ton of snow.

Then to the woodpile I did go.

But there’s one trail that still not done,

That used to rank as Number One,

And now I feel like a lazy louse:

I didn’t shovel out the old outhouse.

We got an indoor job last June.

I swore I wouldn’t use it soon.

“It’s for the wife and kids,” I said.

While manly pride filled up my head.

But these days when my tea kicks in,

I stay inside with guilty grin,

And from a big newspaper stack

I read the sports page front to back.

My words of pride are sounding hollow.

And if you ask, I’ll have to swallow

Hard and answer straight:

The outhouse now don’t seem so great.

Oh, that old north wind feels cold

On the backside of a 40-year-old!

And there’s 30 feet or more

Of snow before I reach its door.

Grandma once said something funny,

How they used to skin a bunny.

Around the hole they’d put the fur.

I guess that really tickled her.

But inside mine it’s not a treat

To settle on that frosty seat.

No matter how I have to go,

It’s just no fun at 10 below.

I guess I haven’t found the habit

Of sacrificing some poor rabbit

I’d have to pity that poor hare.

It’s something that I couldn’t bare.

Another reason I’m perturbed:

My catalogues are undisturbed

Victoria’s Secret goes unread

No flights of fancy fill my head.

They’re lying in the old two-holer

Right below the paper roller.

They’re used in an emergency

When I’ve gone through the last Τ.P.

I’d better stop this poem before

My mother reads it and gets sore.

Bathroom humor gets her mad.

The two-holed kind is twice as bad.

Still I miss my time alone

In the outhouse. There I’ve grown

To like the songs of chickadees

As they flit among the trees.

The dog will come and say hello,

Some rabbit tracks will dot the snow.

The snowy garden corn stalks bring

A smile of hope and thoughts of spring.

So when the snow begins to melt

And warmer temperatures are felt,

I won’t whine, complain, or grouse.

I’ll shovel that path to the old outhouse.