The Three-Holer

I spent eleven of the first twelve years of my life in that old frame house which still stands at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets in North Lewisburg.  Mom had moved us there - herself, my sisters Charma and Norma, brother David and myself - within a few months after my Dad's death in the closing months of World War II.  Mom was the recipient of Dad's life insurance, all $10,000 - which was the amount the government paid to the war's casualties back in those days.  She decided, as a sole parent with five mouths to feed, to invest that money into suitable shelter for her brood.  The old house, lacking a decent coat of paint at the time, was solid, and well-built in spite of its age.  The old masonry addition which extended from the back of the house toward the north was generally cool, dark, and little-used.  The attic of the structure had once been heavily insulated with a firm wooden floor to support the tons of sawdust which were scattered there.  This place had once been used to store ice which had been carefully sawed from Spain Creek during the winter months.  The construction of the storage area, along with the insulating properties of the sawdust, kept a great deal of ice usable for many of the warmer months of the years.  Unfortunately, that practice of harvesting the ice and storing it away in this attic had ended many years before we took up residency in the old house.  The sawdust had remained, however, and this area became a secretive place where, as I grew older - about eight or nine years of age -  I could explore.  There was an entry door high in the northern-most side of the structure to which I occasionally climbed.  I struggled to open the door, and then entered the dark and dank long, but narrow attic room.  It had a peculiar odor, and looked foreboding, and although I usually had a flashlight with me I never strayed too far from the entrance.  It was just an interesting place to spend a few quiet moments when no one was around to keep my prying eyes away.

The old house consisted of seven rooms:  the living room at the southwest corner, with two bedrooms which extended toward the east; a dining room which was situated in the middle of the house, and two additional bedrooms - a larger one which extended to the north, and the smallest one which extended to the east; and, finally, there was a large kitchen, with a back door which opened on the east onto a concrete porch, and another door to the north which opened onto a damp, musty-smelling fruit cellar.  There were three entrances to the house - a front door with an accompanying unenclosed concrete porch which opened at the southwest corner of the house; a side door which opened onto yet another concrete porch at the west side of the house for entry into the dining room; and the back door, previously mentioned, which opened from the kitchen onto the back porch.

There was a driveway which ran adjacent to the house on the south side where the car was parked, although it was years before we ever had a car to park there  "Back in the day," Mom did not own a car; she walked to the "downtown" area to purchase her groceries, to pick up and send out her mail, and to pay her utility bills.  The local movie house provided periodic entertainment, as did a small roller-skating rink which Lionel Grauman occasionally made available in a part of his auto repair garage.  We kids traipsed off in the early morning hours to make the long walk to the elementary or high schools which were located on East and Maple Streets.  We walked in spite of the weather conditions, knowing that there was no one to transport us to or from school.  (This eventually led to the argument which I occasionally offered to my own kids in the future that if I could "walk to school in bare feet, in the rain and snow, uphill, while fighting off Indians" they could surely do likewise).

My kids and grand kids today find it hard to believe in today's era of "luxuries"  that we had no "indoor plumbing" in that old house when I lived there.  Sure, there was a white, metal,  porcelain-painted, free-standing, two-sink appliance which eventually stood there after plumbing was installed, but before that we washed dishes in a small metal bucket, and ourselves in a large, galvanized washtub using water which had been heated to near-boiling on the old kitchen stove.  The water used for these purposes was gathered from an old metal pump which stood on the concrete back porch.  There was always a bucket of water beside the pump, with a metal cup.  The cup was dipped into the water, which was then poured into the top of the hand-operated pump to "prime" it so there was enough suction for the pump to draw the water up from our rain water cistern.  Yes, that's right - rain water!  The tin downspouts on our house led directly from the roof line to a hole in the top of the cistern.  Whenever it rained -or later when snow which had been trapped on the roof and thence in the gutters melted - the liquid flowed through the system and was deposited in the concrete cistern for storage.  Our only access to that life-giving liquid was via the old pump and its ever-demanding handle.

Buckets of water were carried into the house for use in drinking, or cooking, for washing dishes, daily hand and face washing, and for that once-a-week bath on Saturday night.  Gallons of the stuff were heated up on a regular basis, then poured into that old galvanized washtub to which Ivory soap flakes and a soap bar were added to see to our hygienic needs.  (Historical note:  we used Ivory because it produced a rich, thick lather because it was "99 and 44/100% pure" according to the advertising campaign).  Waste water from cooking or washing was collected - once again in a metal bucket - and carried outside where it was unceremoniously emptied out on the lawn.

Ah, but what you ask, did we do for our toilet needs if there was no running water in the house?  We braved the elements (wind, rain, snow and dark-of-night) to walk the sixty-feet-or-so distance from the back door of the house to the outhouse - that stand-alone, wood framed, building which sat atop a pit which had been excavated for the purpose of gathering and storing human waste.  The outhouse had an entrance door at the front which could be opened.  As the user did so, he or she could step into a small four-walled chamber which had a raised platform into which two rather large holes had been cut.  The user could then (standing if a male or seated if a female) urinate into one of the available holes.  Or, if the other bodily function was necessary, the user would sit down to make use of the "facility."  On an adjacent wall could be found the occasional roll of toilet tissue - more often or not, the old, periodically-received Sears & Roebuck catalog was sitting on the platform.  It served three major purposes:  as reading material while completing the body function, as a wish book for things the reader would like to have but knew that he/she would never, ever have, and as a source of paper to finish up the process.  The waste paper - and other human by-products - left for deposit in the pit accumulated for a year or two, adding a particularly questionable aromatic environment to the outhouse.  When it became necessary to do so, the outhouse was lifted up from its temporary foundation, and moved to another location, a new pit having been dug specifically for that purpose.  The older pit was filled in with the soil, rocks and other debris which had been removed from the second pit.

Traveling to the outhouse in the dark-of-night was a particularly alarming situation.  There was no outside light to illuminate the path to the outhouse, and there was no light inside the facility to dispel the darkness.  Who knew what demons or other nighttime terrors roamed the shadows on either side of the pathway?  Who knew what evil would be lurking just inside the outhouse door, waiting to snatch some poor, unsuspecting child to the dark side?  And in the foul rainstorms of the springtime, or the cold, blustery snowstorms of the winter, it was a wet, cold, miserable trip to the outhouse.   It was best to quickly finish "the business" and to scurry back into the relative safety, shelter, and warmth of the house. 

By 1957, the size and makeup of our household had changed.  Mom had remarried.  Putt (our stepfather), and two additional kids - Cheryl and Jimmy - had been added to the fold.  Charma had graduated from high school and left to marry Lee Arnold Forrest in 1951.  David graduated from high school, and enlisted in the U.S. Air Force in 1954. The old wood-or-coal burning stoves which were used in the living room and dining room to heat the house had been replaced with fuel oil stoves.  The back porch area had been enclosed with a sturdy addition to the house.  Indoor plumbing was installed in the kitchen, with hot-and-cold running water replacing the old vacuum pump which had graced the back porch.  The old rain water cistern was discontinued, filled in, and covered over with concrete.  But, the configuration of the rooms in the house remained the same.  We still had to make the trip outside the house and walk the pathway to make use of the "facilities."

On a hot, muggy 4th of July in that year, Putt and his father, Tom Forsythe, borrowed a truck and made a short drive into the farm country which surrounded North Lewisburg.  Putt had spotted an old, no-longer-used wood frame outhouse on one of his many excursions into the countryside.  He had negotiated a deal with the farmer to purchase the outhouse.  So, early in the morning he and Tom drove out to the site to load the purchase onto the truck.  An hour or so later they returned to our home, and backed the truck into the yard.  They labored for a few hours excavating a new pit for the benefit of the new outhouse.  As the afternoon wore on they finished the task, off-loaded the frame structure, and positioned it in place over the new pit.  Just a short time later, a fresh roll of toilet tissue was hung from the new holder, and the new "facility" was "ready for business."  The old pit was filled in, covered over with freshly-cut sod, the old outhouse loaded upon the truck for transport to the area landfill, and all was right with the world.

Only later, when the opportunity presented itself and the need was great did I open the door, step inside, and avail myself of the new surroundings.  A couple of things I noticed right away - the new outhouse was wider, taller, and generally "roomier" than the previous one.  And, it now sported three holes in that raised platform instead of the old, familiar two.  We had moved up in the world!

Historical Note:  my cousin, Betty Ruth Evans Dixon, and her husband Floyd bought this home in 1957, and our family moved "into the country" for one year before buying another home on East Street adjacent to the old high school.  Betty and Floyd remodelled one of the bedrooms in their home to accommodate a bathroom, thereby dispensing with the "three-holer."  Our house, on East Street, was the first place (at age 13) I ever lived with an indoor bathroom - believe it or not, kids.