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Robert Edward Lee Dalton
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One thing I ain't never been able t' figger out is th' shameful shortage
of literature 'bout any sort of exploits involvin' the outhouse. I know, through my
own childhood experiences, that this naughty little nook has been th' scene of many
adventures an' fantasies.
F'rinstance; b'fore all th' grocery stores bloomed with colorful
tiers of tenderly-textured "twilight" paper, no john woulda been fully
furnished without last year's edition of th' family catalogue. Many
times I'd thumb through th' soiled pages till I found a face I didn't
like. An imaginary trial ensued, after which I would condemn th' luckless
lout to a "fate worse'n death" an' cast him into th' "bottomful
pit".
Outhouses came in all sizes, shapes an' colors, an' a whole passle
of different designs. Some were single seaters, for solo jobs; some had
two seats, for joint efforts, an' some, like Aunt Nellie's boardin'
house convenience, had three holes (fer emergencies, such as Thanksgivin',
Christmas, an' ever' other Friday, when she served pinto beans
with hot peppers an' onions).
Some suffered from slab seats which bristled with more splinters
than a pile of sawmill seconds, while others sported hand-planed portals.
Th' latter were quite comfy except for the winter months when th' parlor
patron had t' overcome th' cold by settlin' in with a sorta bouncin'
motion. Even this discomfort was alleviated by a few of th' families
in th' holler. Theirs had fur-lined seats with real fancy lids that
covered th' bomb bays an' allowed th' user t' pretend he was settin'
in an easy chair with no other purpose but complete relaxation.
I'm certain that many of us know a lot of people who spent hours
relaxin' on these restful perches. But how many know anybody who had
the intestinal fortitude t' venture inside one? Well, I knew one, an'
he proved t' me that heroism's a thing not limited t' battlefields or
catastrophes.
If you've ever had th' guts t' lock a lingerin' gaze inside th'
formidable yawn of an outhouse hole, you can conceive th' gargantuan
proportions a man's courage would have t' reach to allow him t' venture
into th' faint light of those repugnant depths. Now ol' Buddy was not
a brave boy, an' that lends th' venture even more of a valorous ring.
In our time, these little squattin' shanties were used fer a whole
buncha things that didn't have a lot t' do with their intrinsic purpose
of design. More often than not, ours would have one or more of its
oaken sides covered by the boat-bottom shapes of gran'pappy's skin-
boards on which he dried th' fruits of a riverbottom trap line. And,
since the outhouse was th' closest buildin' t' th' river, it wuz the
ideal spot t' store th' fishin' gear, which could be cleaned an’ rigged
from a very comfortable sittin' position. It also contained a collection
of worn-out carpentry tools, a stack of unread magazines, a pile of
retired bed clothes, (which came in very handy on those nippy winter
mornins') an' a pile of corn cobs, which I hesitate t' comment on.
It's a fact that many people piled all this junk into that beleaguered
little buildin' in a feeble attempt t' camouflage its actual purpose.
Usually, this was practiced by families beset by occasional visits from
some fancy city-slicker who'd left th' hills years b'fore but had t'
return ever' once-in-uh-while t' remind himself of what he'd been
missin'. That way, he could get up enough guts t' face another few
months in th' city. If th' snob stayed too long though, th' camouflage
attempt would inevitably be defeated, 'cause even city boys gotta go
sometime. However, access t' th' little perch wuz made laborious enough
by the piles of debris that he went as seldom as possible. Heaven help
him if he had a pressin' emergency.
An outhouse unfortunate enough t' stand th' proper distance from th'
back porch had one purpose which, if overlooked by city folk, was well
used by the hillbilly. Its solid, flat surface presented a perfect
spot t' hang a target on. If th' front wall didn't catch a slug, th'
back wall was ready an' waitin', an' very few of 'em ever succeeded in
plowin' through th' whole thing. It was customary, of course, t' make
certain th' backstop wuz unoccupied at the onset of th' fusillade. But
once done, th' shooters could engage themselves in th' one sport th'
hillbilly enjoys most--killin' outhouses.
Back in th' hills they's two things a feller can excel at an' gain
prestige from. One is pitchin' horseshoes, an' th' other is shootin'.
Th' chance t' take an active part in either event wuz a country boy's
dream, an' we would always be handy whenever one er the other wuz in
progress. If somebody wuz takin' potshots at th' toilet, Buddy an' I
would volunteer t' be runners.
A runner wuz a feller who'd trot down t' the outhouse after each
group of shots, take down th' target, trot it back up t' th' porch, an'
wait patiently while th' marksmen cussed an' discussed their accuracy.
Now that might sound like a lotta work, but th' reward wuz a chance t'
take a turn with one of the artillery pieces b'fore the ammunition wuz
expended, an' we considered that experience well worth th' legwork.
On th' day of the aromatic adventure we had shuttled th' targets
back'n forth twenty er thirty times, sat on th' kickin' ends of a
couple of blunderbusses, an' d'cided t' survey th' damage that wuz done
by th' spittin' ends. Th' field pieces of th' day had been a 30-30, a
twelve-gauge, an' a 22-caliber rifle. Needless t' say, th' target side
of the outhouse looked like the recipient of a well-coordinated strafin'
run by a close-order flight of supersonic termites.
As we stood there amazedly gazin' at th' damage a few little pieces
of gun-flung lead could do, we both contracted a hankerin' t' see what
th' spent missile looked like after dishin' out such devastation. This
idea wuz booted in th' rear by a brilliant money-makin' scheme that
grabbed us both by th' gizzards at th' same time. We realized that one
of them spent slugs could be worth anywhere from a dime t' fifty cents
t' th' neighborhood kids, who usually valued such trophies very highly.
Now, in those glorious days, a dime would buy two bottles of pop, an'
fifty cents wuz a fortune. So, when we began t' visualize th' treasure
that lay before us th' hunt wuz really on! We gouged, we probed, we
pried slabs apart till it wuz a miracle that ol' outhouse wall didn't
collapse before the onslaught. After about thirty minutes of fruitless
demolition work, we decided t' give up on the outside wall an' move to
th' secondary backstop on the inside. This wuz a splash of genius. No
sooner had we scrambled into th' fragrant throne room than we spotted
four partially protrudin' nuggets imbedded in that wonderful back wall.
We were in th' money!
Shakin' like a drunk with a case of th' DT's, I unfolded my jackknife
an' began a surgical operation that would have plummeted any soap-opera
doctor t' shame. With th' cautious touch of a three-toed mink at an
apple-laden steel trap, I gently coaxed th' first profit-promisin'
pellet from its precarious perch an' caught it on its first bounce from
th' sittin' slab. Ordinarily, this feat might not seem overly difficult,
but if you try it with one knee on either side of an aromatic bomb bay
openin' you'll realize the amount of skill involved.
In my mercenary mind I was now fifty cents richer, an' I began to
whittle tiny oaken flinders from around a second slug. By this time,
Buddy, who was cautiously crouched over number two hole with a clothespin
grip on his irritated nose, was becoming impatient at not having
received of the rewards yet, an' began t' complain quite vigorously.
However, I had pinpointed two more of the precious pearls and reassured
him that the next one was his. He calmed a bit, unpinched his nose,
pressed his face to a handy knothole, sucked a gulp of unperfumed air,
an' returned to total concentration on our profitable endeavor.
Plop! A second treasure nugget tumbled into my open palm. That made
a whole dollar's worth!
Buddy held me to my promise; the next one wuz his. With th' look of
a weasel who wuz gettin' ready t' gnaw through th' hen house door, he
grabbed th' jackknife and began t' probe with such recklessness that
he coulda made short work of a petrified tree stump. He chopped that
wood away like a teethin' beaver, an' in no time flat had unoaked
another priceless pellet.
B'fore I could open my mouth t' warn 'im about that last thrust, th'
little slug swished through the air, and zap!... down th' honey hole.
Now, it wuz bad enough fer a hillbilly kid t' let fifty cents slip
through his fingers that easily, but t' compound th' disaster, th'
second slug, bein' very near th' first, wuz dislodged by th' bumpin'
an' fell just an instant later. Buddy swiped at it, caught it, performed
th' most bedazzlin' jugglin' act I've ever witnessed, and zap!...down
th' honey hole.
My delicate eardrums were then pounded by th' most gruesome medley
of anger-begotten sounds conceivable. If th' Devil had heard it he
would have signed up fer two more semesters of cuss-college an' spent
his recesses hidin' in th' bushes. T' say that Buddy wuz horribly upset
would be a verbal "fizzle". In an innocent attempt t' calm him down, I
suggested sympathetically that perhaps he could locate an' fish 'em out.
I suppose I could have offered him one of mine, but I didn't want t' be
that sympathetic.
That section of the wall which was below seat level, being very
shoddily constructed, was blessed with a number of wide cracks which
illuminated th' grisly scene below quite nicely. As we peered down at
th' forbidding mass, we could see many objects definitely foreign to
the under-seat sea. There was the gapin' mouth of a drownin' whiskey
bottle desperately suckin' fer air, th' yawn uv a sinkin' tomato can
that'd once served as a "portable potty", numerous very unlucky fashion
models with very dirty faces, an' a large orange juice can which refused
t' relinquish its position on th' surface of that murky mass. Just a
foot er two away from the obstinate o.j. can, and lying a few scant
inches apart, were the ill-fated slugs.
We searched frantically for somethin' t' grapple with, but to no
avail. There wuz nothin' in th' shanty with proper qualifications fer
th' job. An' t' make matters worse, th' slugs were bein' slowly swallowed
by a stinky sea of s... whatever.
It wuz too much! A desperate Buddy reasoned that if a big ol' orange
juice can could remain on the surface, so could he. B'sides, drastic
measures must be used in drastic situations, an' this was, most certainly,
a drastic situation.
He stuck his head down th' hole in an effort t' survey the area more
closely, withdrew it t' gulp a fresh breath of air, then took another
look t' make sure he knew the exact location of his two tiny treasures.
I wuz tempted t' snicker at th' sight of someone with th' wrong end
on th' hole, but I couldn't bring myself to inject levity into what was
a very serious situation. So I pursed my lips an' suffered while he
climbed up on th' seat, took another deep breath, pinched his nose shut
with one hand, an' with quiverin' chin, began th' dreaded descent.
In all my years to this day, I've heard of many great deeds. I've
seen re-enactments of epic battlefield heroics. I've heard of countless
acts of valor in hospitals, on the highways, at scenes of great
disasters—anyplace where outstanding courage wuz called for an' given.
But I have never witnessed or heard of anything to compare with the
awe-inspiring spectacle of my friend, Buddy, bravin' the ominous yawn
of that hideously malodorous toilet hole.
Needless t' say, his reasonin' wuz somewhat amiss, an' when his
courageous foot set down on that orange-juice can it found no stalwart
ally amid th' ghastly grime. Young as I wuz at th' time, I knew what
t' do in just about any sort of crisis. I could handle snakebite, dogfight,
green apple bellyache, near-drownin's, cuts, sprains, broken
bones, an' poison ivy. But what does one do when a bosom buddy is bein'
slowly sucked down into an unspeakable mass of horrible smellin' s...
whatever?
Well, I did the only thing any buttermilk-drinkin', corn-huskin'
country boy could do...I screamed fer Granny! Then I screamed fer Granny
again! Finally, after an eon of terror, a wild-eyed Granny came chargin'
down th' hill.
"What's wrong? What's wrong?!"
"Buddy's drownin'!"
She bolted fer th' river.
"No, no, he ain't down there!"
"Whur's 'e at?!"
"He's in th' toilet hole!"
In th' middle of a direction-reversin' spin, she stopped like a
nut-cuttin' squirrel who'd heard a gunshot, an' turned an awful color,
kinda like a sick chameleon. I know she figgered I wuz lyin', but I
guess I was such a ghastly, ghostly white that she thought better of
it. Anyway, she got there as Buddy's torso was oozin' in an' thrust her
arms down that honey-hole in a wild grab fer 'is wrists.
That's when I first realized just how tremendously strong a hillbilly
granny could be. She hauled him outta that muck like a team of frightened
Clydesdales, an' b'fore ya could say "'possum's paws" he wuz danglin'
at the end of two outstretched arms lookin' like th' deliquescent image
from an indigestion-inspired nightmare, an smellin' exactly th' same.
Thank th' good Lord fer th' presence of that life-savin' river. It
wuz th' one an' only time I ever saw anybody carry sixty pounds of
country boy sixty-five feet down a steep river bank at arm's length
an' full speed.
She musta baptized him (full immersion) in that water thirty er forty
times, which I'm sure wuz th' reason th' fish didn't bite fer three days.
But just b'tween you an' me, I would much rather have done without th'
fishin' than to have put up with that horrible stench any time.
T' top it all off, th' only thing I got from th' whole mess wuz a
hot seat an' ten cents fer them other two slugs... an' I had t' give
Buddy one bottle o' pop.
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