1962…June. Age 10

The Johnson brothers and I hauled grandpa’s old outhouse on my Radio Flyer wagon all the way down Moffit Street to the end of our hedgerow. We had the two-hole outhouse perfectly positioned at 20 feet above sea level in less than three hours. It was stately, and most folks who noticed it as they drove slowly by, yelled something at us…we never knew exactly what. Only a few were at a loss for words. We assumed it was all complimentary.

We made a grapevine ladder that matched the decor and climbed up fast like chimpanzees in search of buckets of bananas. An outdoor sign was hung that stated, “ No Girls Allowed.”  Buttface had brought it from his home. I’m not sure it was necessary, but it was well done.

A summer rainstorm drenched our world for two days, so we were out of the tree house business for a while. We moved on to other activities like throwing old walnuts at cars on Fourth Street. Some people didn’t like the surprise sound of hard walnuts hitting the windshields. Edgy people are not happy people. The state cops showed up and figured we were the problem since we were each holding a bucket of walnuts. We got a lecture but no public flogging. They took our buckets away but said if our fathers wanted them, they could come to the police station and pick them up. I told the police that the buckets had tiny holes in the bottom and our fathers probably wouldn’t even miss them. Buttface belched out in his anxiety “thank you sir!”  What a moron and kinda stupid, too !

The day after the storm left it was so hot and steamy. Us guys scaled up the grapevine ladder and got into the clubhouse to enjoy the afternoon. It had changed into a working outhouse. The rain had brought the worst out of it. It’s a shock to the nose. Seems like someone had used it recently. A fifty-year-old outhouse should be seasoned by then. Once the tears in our eyes dried away, we thought we could stay inside, but our noses wouldn’t give it up. We opened the door and stood on the rim of the soggy platform like starlings sunning their selves. We looked about our world, and there, about 30 feet below us, stood a gorgeous girl in a pretty light blue sundress. She was looking straight at us, and her mouth was hanging open. We knew she was stunned by the clubhouse features. Nope, it was the smell of the features!  I broke the ice by asking her name. It was Jen. Age 12. A gorgeous tomboy. We made a very quick decision and allowed her to join us. A remarkable young woman who could swing from all the grapevines. Knew more ways to tie knots than we did and even untie the knots. Usually, we couldn’t untie our sophisticated knots. 

She scaled our ladder and joined us on the rim of the platform. She only stayed a little while because of the odor. Jen suggested that we leave and play some baseball. We did. Buttface had left a worthless scented candle burning in the club house. The clubhouse caught fire, and we watched it burn like a paper bag. We had a great clubhouse for a week, but nothing lasts forever. The good news is that we met Jen and she was a lot more interesting than an outhouse.

Hug your kids and love your neighbor.