Posted tagged ‘outhouse’

Smokin Outhouse

December 29, 2014

THE THREE BARES by Robert William Service

Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn’t get em clean And so she thought she’d soak ’em in a bucket o’ benzine. It worked all right. She wrung ’em out then wondered what she’d do With all that bucket load of high explosive residue. She knew that it was dangerous to scatter it around, For Grandpa liked to throw his lighted matches on the ground. Somehow she didn’t dare to pour it down the kitchen sink, And what the heck to do with it, poor Ma jest couldn’t think.

Then Nature seemed to give the clue, as down the garden lot She spied the edifice that graced a solitary spot, Their Palace of Necessity, the family joy and pride, Enshrined in morning-glory vine, with graded seats inside; Jest like that cabin Goldylocks found occupied by three, But in this case B-E-A-R was spelt B-A-R-E—- A tiny seat for Baby Bare, a medium for Ma, A full-sized section sacred to the Bare of Grandpapa.

Well, Ma was mighty glad to get that worry off her mind, And hefting up the bucket so combustibly inclined, She hurried down the garden to that refuge so discreet, And dumped the liquid menace safely through the centre seat.

Next morning old Grandpa arose; he made a hearty meal, And sniffed the air and said: `By Gosh! how full of beans I feel. Darned if I ain’t as fresh as paint; my joy will be complete With jest a quiet session on the usual morning seat; To smoke me pipe an’ meditate, an’ maybe write a pome, For that’s the time when bits o’ rhyme gits jiggin’ in me dome.’

He sat down on that special seat slicked shiny by his age, And looking like Walt Whitman, jest a silver-whiskered sage, He filled his corn-cob to the brim and tapped it snugly down, And chuckled: `Of a perfect day I reckon this the crown.’ He lit the weed, it soothed his need, it was so soft and sweet: And then he dropped the lighted match clean through the middle seat.

His little grand-child Rosyleen cried from the kichen door: `Oh, Ma, come quick; there’s sompin wrong; I heared a dreffel roar; Oh, Ma, I see a sheet of flame; it’s rising high and higher… Oh, Mummy dear, I sadly fear our comfort-cot’s caught fire.’

Poor Ma was thrilled with horror at them words o’ Rosyleen. She thought of Grandpa’s matches and that bucket of benzine; So down the garden geared on high, she ran with all her power, For regular was Grandpa, and she knew it was his hour. Then graspin’ gaspin’ Rosyleen she peered into the fire, A roarin’ soarin’ furnace now, perchance old Grandpa’s pyre….

But as them twain expressed their pain they heard a hearty cheer—- Behold the old rapscallion squattinn’ in the duck pond near, His silver whiskers singed away, a gosh-almighty wreck, Wi’ half a yard o’ toilet seat entwined about his neck….

He cried: `Say, folks, oh, did ye hear the big blow-out I made? It scared me stiff – I hope you-uns was not too much afraid? But now I best be crawlin’ out o’ this dog-gasted wet…. For what I aim to figger out is—-WHAT THE HECK I ET?’

 Smokin outhouse

OK, I came across this ditty from my old pal Robt. Service and I realized I must have saved it because of a thing I did when I was a kid. We had an old relic of a car in the back field, I think it was a Model ‘T’, and I was playing in it and found to my surprise and delight that it still had gas in the tank. Being the enterprising youngster that I was, I figured out how to siphon that gas out into a bucket. As I remember, it took more than one bucket.

Anyway, now that I had the buckets full of gas, what to do with it? I couldn’t let it go to waste and I probably didn’t want to bring it to anyone’s attention what I had done. I looked around and spotted the outhouse that was only 20 or 30 yards away. Well, what better use? It was smelly and had bugs in it and who knows what else. So I hauled the buckets over and poured them down the hole. Didn’t seem enough. Those dang bugs and stuff were already surviving some pretty frightful conditions and some gas fumes probably weren’t going to bother them much. Well, I bet if I threw a match in there it would make a difference! So, I snuck into the house and found some stick matches and ran back to the outhouse.

When I threw that match into the hole there was a tremendous ‘whoosh’ and I fell back into the field as a huge column of black, greasy smoke billowed out of the outhouse and covered the neighborhood. I asked Mildred Hardenbrook, who lived behind us, about five years ago- she was about 90 then, if she remembered that and she said, “Oh, yes! I remember!”

I thought that darn fire would go on forever! It took hours to burn out and all that time it stunk and created a terrible spectacle and I just wanted it to be over with. I do think it took care of those pesky bugs and whatnot though.

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