One of my bygone recollections
As I recall the days of yore
Is the little house, behind the house,
With the crescent over the door.
With your head bowed down low;
Knowing that you wouldn’t be there,
If you didn’t have to go.
Ours was a three-holer,
With a size for every one.
You left there feeling better,
After your usual job was done.
Whether snow, rain, sleet, or fog
To the little house where you usually
Found the Sears-Roebuck catalog.
Oft times in dead of winter,
The seat was covered with snow.
‘Twas then with much reluctance,
To the little house you’d go.
Bend low, with dreadful fear
You’d blink your eyes and grit your teeth
As you settled on your rear.
I recall the day Grandpa,
who stayed with us one summer
Made a trip to the shanty
Which proved to be a hummer.
Finished painting the kitchen green.
He’d just cleaned up the mess he made
With rags and gasoline.
He tossed the rags in the shanty hole
And went on his usual way
Not knowing that by doing so
He would eventually ruin the day.
I never will forget!!!
This trip he made to the little house
Lingers in my memory yet.
He sat down on the shanty seat,
With both feet on the floor.
Then filled his pipe with tobacco
And struck a match on the outhouse door.
He slowly raised his rear:
Tossed the flaming match in the open hole,
with no sign of fear.
The Blast that followed, I am sure
Was heard for miles around;
And there was poor ol’ Grandpa
just sitting on the ground.
His suspenders he held tight;
The celebrated three-holer
Was blown clear out of sight.
When we asked him what had happened,
His answer I’ll never forget.
He thought it must be something
That he had recently et!
Which my Dad built with ease.
With a sign on the entrance door
Which read: No Smoking, Please!
Now that’s the end of the story,
With memories of long ago,
Of the little house, behind the house
Where we went cause we had to go!
