When we went fishing the other day in Florence at the Founders Park, we happened to stumble upon this little artifact. For those of you who have grown up with tiled floors and enameled fixtures in your bathroom, you are in for a rude awakening. This is what is known as an outhouse. The out house is a little house behind the big house where you lived. We have come a long ways since these days and I did not even dream there were still such things around. Here is living proof.
This is the floor of said outhouse. Now be aware that beneath this floor is a very messy pit where human waste is/was collected. I do not know if this is a working outhouse and I did not step inside and peer down the hole so I can not even venture a guess. No, I am curious, but not that curious!
The wood looks old and weathered enough to make me think this is the authentic outhouse, but since there was no sign of a homestead any where near here, I think it was placed here more as a piece of history.
And there you nave the bench upon which one perched to do one's business. I myself would be scared to assume that position since I am deathly afraid of spiders and I am pretty sure this would be a perfect place for one to lurk. Probably a very large family of the arachnids could be located under that bench.
So, kiddies, what do you think? I do know that visiting this little building the other day sort of knocked my longing for the good old days right in the keester. I long for the tranquility that came with the life we lived back then such as no ringing phone, no blaring television, no interstate outside my door, but I have become quite accustomed to running water, both hot and cold, and the gentle swish of water when I flip the chrome handle of my pretty white commode. I can stand for hours under the hot shower and never miss that aluminum tub on Saturday nights.
Yep, I have become a slave to modern conveniences. And so it goes.
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