Old
Outhouse
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The
Old Outhouse |
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Outhouses Remain Fixture
of Arizona Rural Life
by Robert Lucas
It seems Americans love their outhouses, but
only after they have indoor plumbing. How else do you explain the
number of backyard shacks surrounded by lilacs and roses so many years
after their footpaths have dissolved into the soil, their hinges petrified
with rust and their aroma long gone on an afternoon breeze? Why would
imaginative entrepreneurs still offer tours of the outhouses of America,
shanty-shaped salt and pepper shakers for the dinner table, or “Outhouses
of America” wall calendars?
Why would the Apache County health department propose a new regulation
to allow an earth-pit privy as long as it is constructed in a way that
safeguards health? Well, because many residents on remote ranchettes
are already using them, and they are a cheap, water-saving alternative
to a septic system. “We want to have a low-cost solution for people
who own acreage in the county,” says health district director Elizabeth
Kizer. “Currently, it costs $3,000 to $5,000 to install a septic.”
Some families can’t afford that. But there are ways to dispose of
human waste and still protect the health of residents and the ground water.
In the past, there were no regulations in
Apache county governing the use of outhouses. Now, regulations adopted
by county supervisors allow residents to work with a registered sanitarian
to construct an approved earth-pit privy, or install a chemical or incinerator
toilet, a vault privy or a pail or can privy. “I think when people
are unable to afford a standard system,” explains Kizer, “they create their
own alternatives. And we want to make sure there is a cheap alternative
that doesn’t negatively effect public health.”
Earlier this year, that became a smelly issue
in rural Pennsylvania when an Amish man was jailed for refusing to bring
a pair of school outhouses into compliance with state sewage laws.
Unlike the story in song by Billy Ed Wheeler: “They past an ordinance
in the town; Said we'd have to tear it down, That little brown shack out
back so dear to me. Though the health department said, It's day was
over and dead; It will stand forever in my memory,” Pennsylvania reportedly
didn’t have a problem so much with a school biffy or kybo. What got
the attention of health department authorities was the practice of hauling
the contents to nearby fields and spreading human fertilizer. In
response, the offender said continuing the tradition was an important part
of his religious beliefs.
While most Americans don’t believe in outhouses
religiously, they prefer a sparkling and gurgling water closet, many have
a soft spot in memory for that “shack kinda’ frail with a two-holed seat,
at the end of the trail where old friends meet.” In the 18th and
19th centuries, having a sturdy backhouse at least a hundred feet from
the back door was a welcome relief to the previous practice of chamber
pots under each bed. There are examples of the oft-cited comfort
station built solidly of brick still in back of many a colonial mansion.
And while flush toilets began to move these functions indoors before the
end of the 19th century, the lowly outhouse remained in widespread use
at least half-way through the next century.
Children who grew up on the farm, or the reservation, or in remote sawmill
camps of northern Arizona knew the backyard john well. Even those
of us who enjoyed indoor bathrooms couldn’t always escape the experience
of the tiny booth with moon cutouts for windows, a door that wouldn’t stay
shut or snow blowing through the cracks between the boards. Diane
of St. Johns remembers the outhouse at elementary school in Bryce, Arizona,
northwest of Safford. There were two holes for boys and a separate
two holes for girls. Elynn of St. Johns grew up on a farm outside
Snowflake with eight brothers and one bathroom. She remembers that
her dad built an outhouse down by the barn so you could go and then get
back to work without returning to the main house. It was also convenient
when nature called while the bathroom was occupied by a slowpoke.
“Come one, come all who seek relief, perform
the humble deed. Here beauty bows to duty, and pride makes way for
need!” Yes, the little brown shack in the garden has inspired musicians
and poets, household knick-knacks, hundreds of postcard designs sent to
relatives back home and countless jokes provoked by lingering memories.
There really were many examples of two-story outhouses, not just the one
explaining the theory of trickle-down politics (politicians upstairs with
voters below). And, yes a few wooden cubicles got turned over on
Halloween, hopefully while unoccupied. One special shack in Alaska
now has a bronze plaque. On a night in 1957, Dexter Stegemeyer was
sitting in his outhouse with the door open to watch the stars when he noticed
one light was moving in a straight line. It wasn’t an airplane or
a meteor. It turned out to be the first sighting from earth of the
first artificial satellite, the Soviet Sputnik.
Other little houses have their own places
in history. The National Park Service once built an outhouse that
cost more than $333,000. It’s an exceptionally pretty thing, all
of cut stone blocks. Historical archaeologists like to search out
old outhouses because they find interesting artifacts buried in the pit.
And climbers of Mount Whitney in California are wishing they still had
the highest outhouse in the continental US. The Forest Service got
tired of hauling out the contents of the pit every so often by helicopter,
so they removed the facility in 2007. Now they provide hikers with
plastic Wagbags to “pack it in; pack it out.”
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An outhouse attached to the main house.
“We grew up in New Hampshire and had an attached outhouse. A two holer I might add. Even after they put in indoor plumbing, which was before my time, it was still there cause it was part of the house. You could say we had an indoor outhouse. We thought it was really cool that the outhouse our great grandparents built was still there. Then one winter when the pipes froze and broke to the bathroom and we had to use the indoor outhouse. I think I was 10 or 11 at the time, and my sister even younger. We didn't think it was cool any longer it was down right cold. I bet she still remembers that winter just like I do. I could not even imagine walking through snow to get there, as I bet, you had to do.” -- Lily, 1998
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How did the convenience shack come to be marked with a quarter-moon cutout?
According to Iowa's Vanishing Outhouse
by Bruce Carlson, generations ago in Europe separate outhouses for men
and women commonly provided at roadside lodging were marked with cutouts
to identify gender for illiterate patrons. The house for men was
marked by a full circle representing the masculine sun, while the feminine
moon marked the ladies room. No doubt, the cutout also provided much
welcome ventilation.
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