I remember that outhouse very well. For some reason, it had three holes. Confusing to a little tyke. It was oddly fascinating to me that the woman went together. I am not apt to want to share private moments like that with one or more other guys. But the women did. Company and conversation, I guess. Conversation is best had, in my humble opinion, in the house or other places.
I remember being troubled as to which hole I should use. Only two would have posed lesser a problem. One could have been designated for number one toilet function and the other for number two. There were no number threes that I knew about. What might I have been missing? I settled on the one in the middle for the sitting down function. Farther away from the sides with cobwebs and other varmints. I think I may have taken turns with the outside holes for the standup function. But, being a boy also allowed the prerogative of standing on the porch, standing near a tree, or whatever out of the view of others places that might be available.
I remember puzzling about the three holes a lot. I know that says something about me. I was anxious. I had a degree of OCD. Without much more to do at my grandparent’s house (it was not kid friendly) I was obsessed with the number of holes in the outhouse. I think I may have figured out the rationale, but I never asked to have it verified. I had asked what was done with the stuff in the baskets. “I dig a deep hole and bury it”, stated my grandfather. Lesser often to dig, I surmised. Not a job I would have liked. Nowadays it would be possible to star on a TV show doing such a job.
I remember a lot of things about the outhouse. No corn cobs, though I had heard stories of them. But there were Sears and Roebuck catalogs. The pages were not user friendly. I preferred them as Christmas “wish books”. Toilet paper eventually replaced the catalogs. That was a relief. I am not sure there is any particular moral lessen in the memories. But there might just be. I will let you decide.