When one of my students mentioned receiving a commission to paint an outhouse, I smiled, not because I knew the work would make an attractive addition to someone’s bathroom wall but because it brought back an episode from my childhood.
My sister Jean and I were spending part of the summer with Aunt Theresa in the “country” which to us was located a few miles beyond our Grandfather Link’s home on Crittenden Drive. Louisville’s Standiford Field now sits on land that was once the old Link homeplace with its barn in the rear.
Aunt Theresa’s house was adjacent to the home place. On her parlor table was the neighborhood candy store where she offered small items for sale to neighborhood children. There were no stores nearby so this was a modest gathering place for youngsters to bring their pennies and bright eyes.
We were fascinated with the pump in her kitchen that had not yet been replaced by a running water faucet. Baths were taken in a huge washtub with water pumped and then heated on the kitchen stove. We felt like pioneers living in some Western movie.
Behind the house was a shed for Aunt Theresa’s chickens and an Outhouse for private use.
During the daytime, we spent carefree hours playing with our cousins from next door in the fields and up in the barn loft. At twilight, we either huddled in a group for telling incredible stories or outdid each other in stealthy hide-and-seek games.
At night I would enjoy looking at the sheet music of Stephen C. Foster and plinking the notes of “Beautiful Dreamer” one note at a time on the upright piano near the parlor. During the summer I developed a fondness for Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees” set to a haunting melody.
Sleep time was spent in absolute comfort snuggled in a feather mattress. With the scent of citronella heavy in the air, we would fall asleep to the lull of country crickets.
Our cousins grew up with Aunt Theresa’s hens and rooster that had the run of the yard. Using one hand they would shush them away with little thought. Not so for the city girls to whom the master of the flock took a decided dislike.
As luck would have it, Jean was confined to the couch as she was not feeling well, so I was on my own for the day.
Not finding my cousins in the backyard, I was ready to return to the house when the rooster appeared and squawked toward me hatred in each leap.
Frightened, I judged the nearest refuge was the outhouse only a few feet away. I jumped inside and trembling, flattened myself against the inside left wall just in time to see the irate rooster make a flying arc in the air and graceful plunge into the open toilet hole.
I froze, pondering my next move as I anticipated his furious rise from the hole. There was silence. Nothing. I was safe!
Regaining my composure, I stepped outside the outhouse and went on to find my cousins who had finished their chores and were ready for playtime.
Later during dinner that evening, Aunt Theresa asked her brother, “Have you seen the rooster?”
When he shook his head in a negative manner, I looked down at my plate thankful that she did not ask me that question.
After all, what would a city girl know concerning the whereabouts of a missing country rooster?