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.

PRIDE

(n) the consciousness of one’s own dignity

(the opposite of one's shame)

In Calico Lane, I write about living in Chaffee County, Colorado for eighteen years. Eileen and I loved the little mountain towns and Poncha Springs was our home where we first felt comfortable with our gender identities.

Chaffee County is God's country. It's home to the fabulous 14000-foot Collegiate Peaks Range and the Arkansas River. It's where sunsets and sunrises display hues of purples, reds, oranges, and yellows that take one's breath away. It's a county where 85% of the area is National Forests or Bureau of Land Management lands. We were proud to say we lived in such a place, at an elevation of 7500 feet, with deer and rabbits coexisting in the fields as fox and coyote waited patiently for supper; it's where eagles and hawks scoop up rodents and bull snakes just outside the fence line.

Salida, the county seat---two miles from Poncha Springs---features artists' galleries and restaurants lining the streets in the state's largest historical district; and where the place where five thousand or so friendly people call home.

Salidans have pride in that FIB ARK (First in Boating on the Arkansas) takes place in their town every June. It is on the Arkansas River where rafting events and competitions between both national and international kayakers occur. Eateries, hotels, and campsites are packed with tourists and lovers of things that float on water! Every imaginable river water event takes place over the course of one week. When we first observed FIB ARK, in June of 2000, spectators lined the river banks not more than two deep -- compared with throngs over six deep in 2017.

Chaffee County had about eighteen thousand residents who were proud to live in that mountain area, but the county didn't recognize PRIDE month as a worthy celebratory event. We continued to remain closeted. That changed when we became involved with Salida's Stage Left Theater community. This diverse mix of thespians and crew was our family of choice in the Rockies. We, like others in the LGBTQ community, were KINDA 'out.'

Fast forward to 2013: DOMA is overturned. And several months later, my wife and I were the second same-sex couple to be wed in Chaffee County.

June is PRIDE month and Chaffee County first officially recognized PRIDE in June of 2017. We joined several friends in our first-ever Pride event. A thin crowd lined the main street in Salida on that day in June. I was told the reason for Pride Month is not for the LGBTQ community to be reminded of their existence, but rather to remind straight people that the LGBTQ community belongs. In Calico Lane, I write “We all share being human, and that’s enough for me.”

The Arkansas Valley continues to celebrate diversity with PRIDE now extending for three days in June ( www.arkvalleypride.com ). Events for entire families include games, picnics, booths, shows at Riverside Amphitheater and yes, a parade with residents and visitors crowded along the streets.

Coincidentally, in 2017, PFLAG celebrated the 45th anniversary of founder Jeanne Manford's famous march with her son, gay-rights activist Morty Manford. PFLAG has been saving lives, strengthening families, and changing hearts, minds, and laws since 1972. In 1972, the girls who frequented the White Elephant (an apartment in Calico Lane) hadn’t heard about PFLAG—I cannot envision how our lives would have been different if Scranton, PA, had a PFLAG chapter!

I was 64 years of age when I participated in my first Pride event in Salida; and now, at age 69, I will speak at a local PFLAG chapter. You may ask, “What took you so long?”

In Calico Lane, I pen “…it’s never too late to realize what’s important in life and become true to the person you are—whether it takes several years, a few decades, or a lifetime.” So, perhaps the answer to the question, 'What took you so long?' is simply: It's time.

Salida, Colorado's First Pride Parade, June 2017

Blue

She sees me approaching and quickly turns her attention to the coloring book. The new crayons I brought yesterday are within her reach.

“So, what’s this?” I ask.

She lifts the box of crayons, “I got new crayons yesterday. I like when they’re new because they’re pointy. It’s easier to stay inside the lines when the crayons are new.”

“That’s very pretty,” I whisper as I pull an empty chair from the table; I bend to kiss the top of her head. Baby shampoo, I think, and sit alongside her.

She exhales deeply, “This is my job. Today I have two pages.”

I nod my head in agreement. My eyes won’t turn away from her. She is deeply absorbed in her job, her brow slightly furrowed.

She continues with the yellow crayon, “Yellow is for the sun.” In case I didn’t know this, now I do.

I pick up the box of eight crayons – most of which have already lost their points; and make a mental note to purchase a larger box with more colors and maybe a sharpener. “Yes, and red is for the flower,” I speak softly.

“Red. Red is for flowers.” She carefully places the yellow crayon into the box and extracts the red one.

“What about the blue one?” I ask. The blue crayon is pointed, not yet used. Would she remember blue is my favorite color? I prod, “What is blue for?”

Silence. She works the red within the lines of the flower petals. It’s a beginner’s coloring book with large, easy prints. Some of the pages are missing, but it doesn’t matter.

“Green is for grass.” She takes the crayon and fills in the blades of grass strung along the bottom of the page. “Oops!” It snaps in half under her tight grip. “That’s okay,” she grins. “There’s only a little bit of grass.”

We giggle. Not the deep belly laughs of days before. I loved those laughs.

She slides the two pieces of green crayon into the box.

“Tomorrow I’ll bring you a new green one, a pointed green,” I promise.

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “See my house?”

A dog-eared page is to her left on the table. Its rough tear marks indicate a hasty extraction from a more advanced coloring book. The red and brown blend together. I am guessing that the colors represent the brick of her house. A brown and green tree, decorated with red dots, stands beneath an uncolored sky. Yellow lines stretch out from a bright yellow sun.

I’m holding the blue crayon. “Do you like the blue one?” I persist waving the crayon in front of her.

“Black is for dirt,” She replies as she pulls the black crayon out of the box.

“Yes, black is for dirt.” The ticking clock above the bookcase echoes in the nearly empty activity room. Far away chatter is muffled.

She inspects the box, “Orange is tricky. You don’t use orange much.”

“Orange could be for a pumpkin,” I offer, almost excitedly, although not expecting a reply.

A bell rings in the distance; and apron wearing staff approach appear from a swinging door at the back of the room.

“Oh,” she says, and quickly closes her coloring book. “It’s time to wash for dinner.” She takes the blue crayon from my hand, now still on the table top. “You have to go. Tonight’s guest will be Frank Sinatra. This is the best resort ever.”

I rise, “Okay, Auntie Heley, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She touches my arm and smiles. Our eyes meet for an instant. Her frail fingers bring a flood of memories. For a moment I want to believe she knows who I am. I kiss her forehead and turn toward the entrance foyer.

“Blue.” My favorite aunt says confidently, “Blue is for beautiful. It always reminds me of you, Judy.”