Author Unknown

Received from Judy Fisher in June 2003

      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 every one.
      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.
      T'was 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
	  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
      And 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 ne'er forget.
      He said he thought it must have been
      The pinto beans he 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.

    For those who never had to trot out in the Cold.....
    Just Give Thanks!!!