Growing up, we used to make trips to Sturgis, Kentucky to visit one of my great uncles and his wife. There are three things I remember very clearly about that house.
First, Aunt Valley was one of the best cooks God ever put on this earth. Second, they had well water that smelled funny and tasted even worse. And third—most important—they still had a fully operational outhouse.
As a kid, the outhouse was both fascinating and terrifying. There was something cool about having to “go out back.” They even had a light in there for nighttime visits, which sounds comforting until you realize that meant stumbling half-asleep through a pitch-black backyard, trying to find a tiny pull string while imagining every horror movie you’d ever seen. Once that light came on, you moved fast. Spiders, bugs, and various unidentified creatures all seemed to believe they owned that seat, and you were just visiting.
They finally got indoor plumbing in 1967, and I thought, “Well, that chapter of my life is officially closed.”
That was adorable of me.
Fast-forward to the early 1970s and the Boy Scouts. Enter Phase Two: the cat hole. The name is not metaphorical. You grab your little shovel, move far away from the water source (this is very important—trust me), and dig a hole about six to eight inches deep. In cold weather, or when motivated by fear and urgency, one to two inches has been known to suffice. Leave no trace… or at least pretend you tried.
When my scouting days were over, I again thought, “Surely I’m done with this now.”
Life laughed.
Next came the Marines and Phase Three: straddle trenches—one of the least appreciated engineering feats in human history. Picture a long, deep cat hole. You place one foot on each side, squat, and conduct your business with absolutely no privacy. If someone else was already there, you had two options: squat facing them (intense eye contact included) or sit behind them and stare at their back. Neither choice builds character in the way recruiters promise.
This becomes especially challenging after a steady diet of C-Rations. The sounds coming from that trench were… unsettling. Let’s just say no one needed sound effects to know what was happening.
When I got out of the Marines, I was certain of one thing: from now on, I would only use indoor plumbing.
Once again, life said, “Not so fast, young Jedi.”
Before earning a camper with a bathroom, I had to endure Phase Four: privy toilets while tent camping. If you’ve never used one, imagine an outhouse that has been neglected, resented, and possibly cursed. The smell alone could strip paint. If there was toilet paper, it was either soaking wet (from reasons you never want explained) or so thin you could read a newspaper through it—after you’d already touched it.
Privies are also home to creatures science has not fully classified. Nothing keeps your mind sharp like hearing something move in the darkness below you or feeling something crawl across your foot. At that moment, your brain convinces you that you will not survive this experience.
Today, we have a very nice fifth wheel with a real bathroom and shower—even when boondocking. I’ll sometimes see someone heading for the campground bathhouse and think, “At least there’s power and a flush toilet in there.”
I will never again say, “I should never have to use one of those.”
Because life has made it very clear: it’s not done testing me yet
Leave a Reply