Chuckle bucket

Not too often, but on occasion, I come up with little or no ideas on what or which I should tackle as a column for the upcoming weekly deadline. When that happens, I usually stir the contents of my chuckle bucket, my smile pile, or my grin bin. But this morning, just as I was about to do this, my computer indicated that an additional email had arrived, so I checked it out.

From an email friend, whom I have not yet knowingly met, came a chuckle worth sharing. The generation equalling my age will totally recollect. Though presented with pics and song, I can send you only the words, titled The House Behind The House.

 One of my fondest memories, as I recall the days of yore, was the little house, behind the house, with the crescent o’er the door.

‘Twas a place to sit and ponder with your head all bowed down low, knowing that you wouldn’t be there if you didn’t have to go.

Ours was a multi-holer, with a size for everyone. You left there feeling better, after your job was done.

You had to make those frequent trips in snow, rain, sleet or fog – to that little house where you usually found the Eaton’s catalogue.

Oft’ times in dead of winter, the seat was spread with snow. ’Twas then with much reluctance, to that little house you’d go.

With a swish, you’d clear that wooden seat, bending low with dreadful fear, you’d shut your eyes and grit your teeth as you settled on your rear.

I recall the day Ol’ Granddad, who stayed with us one summer, made a trip out to that little house, which proved to be a bummer.

’Twas the same day that my Dad had finished painting the kitchen green. He’d just cleaned up the mess he’d made with rags and gasoline.

He tossed the rags down in the hole, went on his usual way, not knowing that by doing so he’d eventually rue the day.

Now Granddad had an urgent call, I never will forget! This trip he made to the little house stays in my memory yet.

He set down on the wooden seat, with both feet on the floor. He filled his pipe and tapped it down, and struck a match on the outhouse door.

He lit the pipe and sure enough, it soon began to glow. He slowly raised his rear a bit and tossed the flaming match below.

The blast that followed, I am told, was heard for miles around; and there was poor ol’ Granddad sprawled out there on the ground.

The smouldering pipe still in his mouth, his eyes were shut real tight; the celebrated three-holer was blown clear out of sight.

We asked him what had happened, what he said I’ll ne’er forget. He said he thought it must have been, the pinto beans he et!

Next day we had a new one, Dad put it up with ease, but this one had a door sign that read: “No Smoking, Please.”

Now that’s the story’s end, my friend, of memories long ago, when we went to the house behind the house, because we had to go.

This is the weekend, folks, that I’ll be out at the Erin Fall Fair – hope to see you all there.

Take care, ‘cause we care.





Barrie Hopkins