From: Bob Niemoeller
Columbus
Whenever that Rube Goldberg contraption in the toilet water tank malfunctions, when our kids tried to flush their dead kitty down, when I pay the utility bills, that is when I fondly reminisce on the “outhouse era.”
For you youngsters who regrettably missed out on that experience, here’s a brief description. The outhouse was a minimally sized “house” always placed “out” in the back yard. Never the front. It’s only furnishing was a board seat with a hole in it aligned precisely with a hole in the ground. A simple solution to a necessity. No leaks, no clogs, never needed a plumber. Never a problem. Well, almost never.
If you can think about this in the long term, you’ll realize that the hole in the ground eventually becomes full. OK, if you’re young and agile, maybe you can go one more time. But we hoped and prayed that the next patron would not be an overnight guest disadvantaged by the darkness.
The problem required the services of entrepreneurs commonly known as “honey dippers.” I think the name is self explanatory, so I’ll not elaborate further. But when their service was completed, one could go for years without any problems.
However, it was whispered among friends that the “honey dippers” were hard-pressed to find a proper “disposal site,” Boards of Health would have panicked at most of the sites.
Times were tough on the farm then, and Dad came up with the “perfect” solution: Our fields would become the disposal site and we could save money on commercial fertilizer. Hard to argue against that.
Arrangements were made, carried out and we were on track for a bumper crop. However, as usual, there were unforeseen consequences. Unforeseen by me, that is.
For some reason, Dad decided that this year I was big enough to do the spring plowing. I proudly dropped the plow into the ground, smiling at my good fortune, listening to Dad’s new tractor give its every last horsepower.
Oh, yes, those unforeseen consequences!
When the tractor came upon the disposal site, it stopped as if we’d hit a wall. I lunged into the steering wheel because the drive wheels had lost all traction and were spinning like pinwheels slinging bits and pieces of “fertilizer” high into the air and raining down indiscriminately on anything and anyone in the vicinity. Did I mention that in those days tractors had no cabs? Luckily for me, E. coli had not been invented yet.
After due deliberation, Dad decided to discontinue this practice. He just couldn’t stand to see his tractor get so filthy dirty.
