Try to Remember the Kind of September...

I've lost the desire to be in the sun for long periods of time and the winters in Northeastern Pennsylvania were brutal. Flowers blooming and lawns greening with the spring rains are wonderful sights, but it's always been the crisp autumn air that put joy in my step.

Autumn has been my favorite season for as long as I can remember.

In September, I loved going back to school. It was more than the new shoes and a bookbag stuffed with tablets and number two pencils; it was more than a different homeroom with a new teacher. Sure, I enjoyed learning but there was something about reconnecting with classmates after the three-month separation.

In grade school, my summers were spent with the friends in my neighborhood and as I progressed from elementary school to high school, friends from nearby towns kept me busy. Once school was in session, it was always a treat to see classmates who lived further away.

Last week, the children in my neighborhood returned to their classrooms. The week before Labor Day, I asked one ten-year-old if she was looking forward to school. She twirled around excitedly and chirped, "Yes! I'll be with my friends."

I won't tell her that as the years pass she will lose track of those childhood friends. I won't tell her that eventually, we go our separate ways. I'll allow her to enjoy her September to reconnect with friends because grownups allowed me that pleasure when I was a child.

I attended the same school district from Kindergarten through twelfth grade. I doubt I'd recognize most of my classmates but I remember their names. I'll occasionally search Facebook for those names and every once in a while I will locate someone. We'll do a message exchange, most times, but eventually, communication drops off. The evidence of too many years and too many miles between us. I'm thankful for those who have chosen to keep in touch.

COVID-19 halted our 50th High School reunion in 2021 and 2022. Maybe there will be a 55th reunion for 2026--but today that seems so, so far away.

Till then, I'll remember the many wonderful Septembers of past years.

40th Lakeland High School Reunion - 2011 - Windsor Inn

I'm seated, wearing a light blue shirt.

Quite a Ride

During a recent phone conversation, my son asked, “How are sales?” He was referring to my memoir, Calico Lane, which I published in January as an Indie Author---an independent author.

Allow me to tell you a little about that journey:

First off, I was determined that Calico Lane would be traditionally published. I took weeks of classes on writing the perfect sixty-page book proposal. I studied countless samples of query letters and then followed through with a query writing seminar. I spent months carefully honing and sending queries to 75 agents. I remained hopeful. I researched which memoir genre agents were either ‘looking for the next NY Times Best Seller' or 'eager to represent debut authors.’ Lord knows I tried to achieve representation through an agent. I imagined a traditional publisher offering me a good deal. I daydreamed about finding a literary lawyer who would pour over my book contract and advise me accordingly.

Responses from the agents were, in so many words, “no thank you” and, “sorry, not a project I can get behind.” Sadly, more than half did not acknowledge my inquiry.

Discouraged and after a year of deadends and disappointment, I was truly exhausted. My work area was buried beneath research files and the background drafts of Calico Lane. I turned to Amazon, followed their guidelines, and uploaded my book. I became a published author in seconds.

During the first couple of months following the "launch," everyone who knew me knew my book was out and available for sale.

As the saying goes, "hindsight is 20-20." I learned plenty after-the-fact. For example, the marketing should have been going on while I wrote and revised my drafts. Also, a social media platform should have been built. The book release date/launch date should have been announced on every FB site possible, through ads, and with email blasts. But I am not of the 'should've, would've, could've' mindset.

The entire process is overwhelming, especially for first-time Indie Authors. We invest in online writing courses and workshops, attend conferences, and talk with everyone who’s ever traveled this road to publication.

Publishing is mostly on our own, and we pay for all the services, such as editing, cover design, and formatting, as we creatively manage our dollars to produce the end product: A book.

It is a dance, from one guaranteed method to another as we learn about the successes and failures of other Indie Authors through FB sites, blogs, workshops, conferences, and podcasts.

Finally, the book is out and we watch for readers’ reviews and gaze dreamingly at the number of books sold in the ‘reports’ section of our Amazon’s dashboard page.

We pay table fees to get our book in the face of event go-ers. We do book readings and signings. We visit bookshops where Indie Authors have a 'local author' shelf. We even purchase books from Amazon and give them away (there are no free books to authors when dealing with Amazon).

We keep our ‘swag’ (give-a-ways like magnets and bookmarks) in the car glove compartment and at least one copy of the book on the back seat – JUST IN CASE!

Eventually, sales drop off. Since my book, Calico Lane is a memoir, and because I’m a regular person with a social media presence likened to a drop in a bucket, sales were not significant.

However, I am pleased with the reviews Calico Lane has earned on Amazon. The earlier rankings were noteworthy for as much as I understand the mystery of algorithms.

I am humbled and appreciative of those who supported me along the way, and who continue to support me and tell their friends about my book. I am thankful for each and every reader who took the time to post a review on Amazon and GoodReads.

Still, an author aspires to reach thousands of readers, not merely a few hundred. Some yearn to receive a call from Netflix and news that Ron Howard wants to direct a movie based on their book.

That’s when I had the dream. It was a phone conversation with my son, and as always, he asked how the book was doing.

In the dream, I shared my ups and downs.

Then, the dream plot shifted to a scene at his house. In the scene, for some reason, I was looking inside his bedroom closet and dresser drawers. That’s when I found them! Boxes and boxes of my book with receipts…he’d been purchasing several a week since the book was launched!

In my dream state, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over my entire being. When I woke, I vowed that future answers to book sales questions would be a simple, “Well, it continues to sell."

And, I continue to enjoy the ride!

Privy Please

For starters, an outhouse is not to be confused with an outbuilding. Sheds, garages, and barns are types of outbuildings. Outhouses are toilets located outside of the main living area.

In Calico Lane I write about my grandparents' homes. Both homes included privies or outhouses.

An uncle once told his story of a dark winter night in the 1930s. Wearing just a sleep shirt, his bare feet crunched the snow as he skipped outside to the privy only to find the outhouse occupied. He jumped up and down yelling, "Spiashaisia, spiashaisia!" (Hurry up, hurry up! ). His father's gravelly voice replied, "Cho tam?" (Who's there?) My uncle turned and ran back into the house because he knew he'd be spanked for rushing his father.

Mom's family (Fedorchaks) nearly double the size of Dad's (Kieharts) had a 3 x 3-foot single hole outhouse. Dad's family's outhouse was much larger, probably 7 x 5-foot, and had two holes. One would think it'd be the other way around as the number of Fedorchaks was greater than the number of Kieharts. But dad's childhood home included tenants. When I asked why his outhouse had two holes, Dad replied matter-of-factly, "A large hole for adults, the smaller one for children."

Back in the day, Dad said a bucket of lime was kept in the corner of the privy. Users were reminded to scoop a bit of powdered lime with a can and sprinkle it into the pit. On laundry days, the leftover wash water was poured over the floor and bench area for cleansing, followed with splashes of rinse water. Those outhouses were not comparable to today's composting toilets or chemical toilets.

The early pioneers and cowboys used leaves of the mullein plant and handfuls of straw as paper options. Later, newspaper and magazine pages were used to clean oneself. It's said that during the 17th century, French cabinet makers invented the bidet; they are popular in several countries today (France, Japan, and Italy to name a few) and are slowly becoming popular in the United States. But, I digress.

One and two-hole privies are most common, but there are also three-and-more-hole outhouses; there is reportedly an existing eight-seater somewhere in Pennsylvania.

And there are two-story outhouses as well! These were referred to as "double deckers." They were commonplace on restaurant and apartment properties as early as the mid-1800s. I saw my first two-story outhouse in St. Elmo, Colorado. It was located at the back of a large structure (probably an apartment building) in the rural mountain mining ghost town. In Crested Butte, Colorado, a two-story outhouse has a "Mine Boss" sign on the upper room, and the bottom room is labeled "Miners".

Almost all outhouses are wood, but there are reports of a brick outhouse in Virginia.I have never seen one, but I hear there are 'squat toilet' outhouses--a hole in the ground that one squats over, enclosed by a wooded structure. For some reason, that freaks me out more than sitting on a wooden bench with a sawed-out circle.

A cutout symbol on the door of an outhouse indicated whether it was a ladies' room (moon) or a men's room (star or sun), my guess is that any hole would do in most situations.

In my grandparents' towns, these pit latrines were abandoned when the town's sewer lines were mandated sometime in the 1960s, but dad's family's privy was still in service in the 1990s, according to a cousin who lived in the house.

I've seen some outhouses with porcelain seats and lids affixed to the chamber hole of the wood base. For years, my wife and I took photos of outhouses we'd see on the properties we appraised or when trekking in the mountains. Some had been converted to tool sheds or gardening sheds and were brightly painted and decorated with baskets of dried flowers and wall hangings.

When snowshoeing or hiking in the Colorado mountains, every once in a while we'd come upon a pit latrine. A welcomed site. The issue with these outhouses, especially in the summer heat, is the stench and flies. If the hole has a lid, closing it after use will keep the flys and odors at bay. But not everyone is aware of this courtesy.

Today, outdoor enthusiasts typically carry sanitation kits for keeping with the "pack it in, pack it out" forest service mantra.

And, I'll close by saying, "There's no place like home."

Rear view of a two-story outhouse. An engineering feat where a wall separates the poop chute from the first-floor toilet area. Both privies can be occupied at the same time. St. Elmo Colorado.