One of my bygone
recollections,
as I recall the days of
yore
is the little house, behind the house,
with the crescent o'er the
door.
'Twas a place to sit and ponder
with your head bowed down
so low,
knowing that you wouldn't be there,
if you didn't have to go.
Ours was a three-holer,
with a size for every one.
You left there feeling better
after the job was done.
You had to make these frequent trips,
whether snow, rain, sleet,
or fog,
to the little house where you sat
and read the Sears Roebuck
catalog.
Oft times in dead of winter
the seat was covered with
snow.
'Twas then with much reluctance
to the little house you'd
go.
With a swish you'd clear the seat,
bend low and, with shivers
in mind,
you'd blink your eyes and grit your teeth
as you sat on your behind.
I recall the day that Granddad,
who stayed with us one
summer,
made a trip to the shanty
which proved to be a
hummer.
'Twas the same day my Dad finished
painting the kitchen green.
He'd just cleaned up the mess
he'd made with rags and
gasoline.
He tossed the rags in the shanty hole
and went on his usual way,
not knowing that by doing so
he would eventually rue the
day.
Now Granddad had an urgent call;
I never will forget!
This trip he made to the little house
lingers in my memory yet.
He sat down on the shanty seat,
with both feet on the
floor,
then filled his pipe with tobacco and
struck a match on the
outhouse door.
As he took a long puff on his pipe,
he slowly raised his
behind,
tossed the flaming match in the open hole,
with not a worry on his
mind.
