Outhouses bring out the best in overnight guests ~ October 17,1985

David Heiller

There’s always a bit of adventure when friends and relatives come to visit at our house, often thanks to not having an indoor bathroom.

I’ve gotten used to the privvy, but city-dwellers especially seem to put the walk to the outhouse in the same category as a trip through the jungles of the Amazon.

The bane of many guests at our house
 in those days: The Outhouse.

Take this past weekend, for example. On Saturday morning, my mother-in-law arrived for a two-day visit. She sat down at the kitchen table and announced, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Most 53-year-old women don’t proclaim such things at the kitchen table. But at our house such announcements are often made by guests, because our bathroom is a two-seater about 20 yards from the house. By stating her intentions, my mother-in-law was working up the courage to actually pay her visit.

An hour later, still sitting at the kitchen table and two cups of coffee further along, she announced again, “Well, I guess I’ll go to the bathroom.”

“I thought you said that an hour ago,” I said.

“Yes, I did,” she answered, not moving.

Sometime that afternoon—I never did see her leave—she made the trip, and survived. That’s a sidelight to the main story here. You see, for the weak of heart—or bladder—we have a chamber pot, one which my wife gives up for a night as an age-old gesture of hospitality when company dares sleep over. Cindy dutifully offered the chamber pot to her mother, who almost grabbed it out of her hands, as the thought of stumbling outside in 30-degree night darkness sank in.

These two are what got my mom to even consider 
a visit to our VERY humble abode.

I arose early Sunday morning at about 5 a.m. to get a bottle for our son, and walked past mom’s sleeping form, on the hide-a-bed in the living room. I heard the cat outside. She’s been catching a mouse nearly every morning in our living room, so I let her in.

An hour later, I got up again, to light a fire in the wood stove. As I entered the living room, there sat Lorely, at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. Seeing her up on a Sunday morning at that hour is like seeing the sun rise at two in the afternoon. Darned near unheard of.

“What are you doing up?” I asked.

“That cat of yours caught a mouse.” She gestured to a dead mouse, in front of the stove, which the cat had proudly laid out for all to admire.

“That’s good,” I said. “When did she catch it?”

“Just now.”

“And it woke you up?” I asked.

“Woke me up?” she asked. “I was sitting on the chamber pot when it happened.”

Now I could understand why she was so wide awake.

My mother was not a cat person, but she and
 Miss Emma became the best of friends.

“I was just sitting there; and the cat crouched over there, and then this mouse ran in front of me, and...”

Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t finish. The outhouse was bad enough, and even inside, there was no safe haven for bodily functions.

That night, I asked Lorely if she felt up to the mouse challenge again. Cindy butted in: “Mom, maybe you’d like to sleep in our bed upstairs? We’ll sleep on the hide-a-bed. You wouldn’t mind, would you, David?”

I had slept on our hide-a-bed once before, and was still recovering from the back pain. “Well, we’ve had mice upstairs,” I said cautiously.

“When?” Cindy demanded.

“Why just the other day. In fact, it was so big, it might have been a rat, I’m not sure.”

Cindy’s mom looked at me, actually looked through me. Her eyes flashed back on a mouse in front of her as she squatted helplessly in dim morning light. “Do cats eat mice on beds?” she asked.

“Go ahead, sleep in our bed, I don’t mind,” I said.

Lorely slept a sound, mouse-less sleep on Sunday. I woke up feeling like a piece of rebar was holding my back in place.

People tell me I should put a toilet in our house. Maybe they’re right. But even a sore back is worth the adventure that comes with our outhouse.