Literary Arts Partnership at UCF

The Outhouse

I remember when I was a child of twelve. My family and I lived on a natural gas booster station in the country on the Kansas plains. Our neighbors had a farm and an outhouse. The first and last time I ever used an outhouse was when I spent the night with my classmate who also had a riding horse of her own.

I had to go to the bathroom before I went to bed and it was dark. I hadn't paid any attention to where or if they had a bathroom. I took it for granted. When I announced I had to go to the bathroom it was a production. Her dad stood up and walked us to the door and outside. We walked a narrow path full of chicken manure, then finally the outhouse was in sight. It looked so tall, the door was not quite straight and there was a moon shaped window in the door. As anyone here ever used or even seen a real working outhouse?

Before the door even opened, the smell was so bad it was hard to go in. When I touched the door to hold it open, I had splinters. It smelled so bad I could taste it. From here I wasn't sure what to do. I looked around and saw toilet paper—something familiar. I felt better but I couldn't breath it stunk so and the door had slammed shut. I was about ready to wet my pants when I spotted a small, round space between the boards nailed together to make a bench

This space I assumed was the place to put my bare bottom. The space turned out to be a hole above a nasty, smelly mess. From there I heard the chickens outside.

Done, outside, fresh air.