by Tom Hutton

Available time is one of the great joys of retirement. Earlier in my life as a physician, this commodity was always in such short supply . To fill our hours now, we look for fun activities. We even stoop to such lowbrow activities as dedicating new enterprises on our adjacent ranches with our wine drinking and good friends, Tom and Linda Norris. Recently we finished construction of an “outhouse” located behind our hay barn that actually houses a composting toilet (privies are illegal in Gillespie County).

To fully dedicate our new facility, I read “Ode To The Outhouse” as printed below. We also needed one brave, unabashed being to inaugurate it. Young Graham, our almost six year old, stepped up, and sat down, and with an audience gave his all.

An Ode To “The Outhouse”– Author Unknown

The service station trade was slow

The owner sat and rocked around,

With sharpened knife and cedar stick

Piled shavings on the ground.

No modern facilities had they,

Just a log across the rill,

It led to a shack, marked His and Hers

That sat against the hill.

“Where is the ladies restroom, sir?”

The owner leading back, Said not a word but whittled on,

And nodded toward the shack.

With quickened step she entered there

But only stayed a minute,

Until she screamed, just like a snake

Or spider might be in it.

With a started look and beet-red face

She bounded through the door,

And headed quickly for the car

Just like three gals before.

She skipped the log, and jumped the stream.

The owner continued to rock about,

As her stockings, down at her knees,

Caught on a sassafras sprout.

She tripped and got up, and then

In obvious disgust,

Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,

And faded in the dust.

Of course we all wanted to know

What made the gals all do

The things they did, and then we found

That the whittling owner knew.

A speaking system he’d devised,

To make the thing complete,

He tied a speaker on the wall

Behind the toilet seat.

He’d wait until the gals got set,

And then the devilish tyke

Would stop his whittling long enough,

To speak into the mike.

And as she sat, a voice below

Struck terror, fright and fear.

“Please use the other hole,

We’re painting under here!”