The house behind the house

The Outhouse

This was sent to me by a very good friend who I’ve 

Been unable to convince, YET, to become a blogger.

Thanks Jan, just loved it.  

The House Behind the House 

    One of my fondest memories 

    As I recall the days of yore 

    Was the little house, behind the house, 

    With the crescent o'er the door. 

    'Twas a place to sit and ponder 

    With your head all bowed down low; 

    Knowing that you wouldn't be there, 

    If you didn't have to go. 

    Ours was a multi-holer, three, 

    With a size for everyone. 

    You left there feeling better, 

    After your job was done. 

    You had to make those frequent trips 

    In snow, rain, sleet, or fog..... 

    To that little house where you usually 

    Found the Sears-Roebuck catalog. 

    Oft times in dead of winter, 

    The seat was spread with snow. 

    Twas then with much reluctance, 

    To that little house you'd go. 

    With a swish you'd clear that wooden seat, 

    Bend low, with dreadful fear 

    You'd shut your eyes and grit your teeth 

    As you settled on your rear. 

    I recall the day Ol' Granddad, 

    Who stayed with us one summer, 

    Made a trip out to that little house 

    Which proved to be a bummer. 

    Twas the same day that my Dad had 

    Finished painting the kitchen green. 

    He'd just cleaned up the mess he'd made 

    With rags and gasoline. 

    He tossed the rags down in the hole 

    And went on his usual way 

    Not knowing that by doing so 

    He'd eventually rue the day. 

    Now Granddad had an urgent call, 

    I never will forget! 

    This trip he made to the little house 

    Stays in my memory yet. 

    He sat down on the wooden seat, 

    With both feet on the floor. 

    He filled his pipe and tapped it down 

    Then struck a match on the outhouse door. 

    He lit the pipe and sure enough, 

    It soon began to glow. 

    He slowly raised his rear a bit 

    And tossed the flaming match below. 

    The Blast that followed, I am told 

    Was heard for miles around; 

    And there was poor ol' Granddad 

    Sprawled out there on the ground. 

    The smoldering pipe still in his mouth, 

    His eyes were shut real tight; 

    The celebrated three-holer 

    Was blown clear out of sight. 

    We asked him what had happened, 

    What he said, I'll n'er forget. 

    He said he thought it must have been 

    The pinto beans he'd et! 

    Next day, we had a new one 

    Dad put it up with ease. 

    But this one had a door sign 

    That read: No Smoking, Please! 

    Now that's the story's end my friend, 

    Of memories long ago, 

    When we went to the house behind the house, 

    Because we had to go. 

    ~Author Unknown