The Minnesota Farm Woman

Barney the Chihuahua doesn’t like winter. Not one bit. His gene pool is from warm and sunny Mexico, while mine is from the almost endless winters of Scandinavia. Funny about those gene pools, though. I don’t much care for winter, either. We really don’t need a thermometer around here. If it is 80 degrees, Barney digs in his heels and doesn’t want to come in the house. At 65 degrees, he’ll still want to walk around sniffing every bush and tree and marking his territory. Barney thinks the entire county is his territory, by the way. At 50 degrees, a few quick sniffs and a brief er…whizz… will do, and he prefers to guard his territory from the window seat in the warmth of the house. At 30 degrees, a quick in and out is it. When it is below zero he doesn’t even make it off the porch. No way, no how. Ten steps and he becomes a cowering shivering bundle of misery, lifting each paw off the ground and looking so pitiful that he needs to be picked up and taken inside or stuffed inside your parka. Barney’s antics make me think of my Minnesota ancestors, and how they answered the call of nature. If you are wondering why in the HECK I am even discussing this subject, just know that I have a writer’s brain that often takes off in all kinds of strange directions, and believe me, it can be a curse as well as a blessing. My own grandparents probably didn’t have indoor plumbing in their youth, but how about going back even more years? How did people “go” in Victorian times in the middle of winter? I can’t imagine walking to an outhouse at 10 below zero in a January wind and actually shudder at the thought of sitting down on that freezing cold seat. There were also the indoor chamber pots, which would be a bit warmer, but the women had to deal with petticoats, pantaloons, or for the Farm Women, scratchy woolen long underwear. Chamber pots are actually quite small, too, and if you look at the pictures of my ancestors, you will understand just why I am wondering and why I am not a size three. Our biffy, as my dad always called them, is located not far from the house, between the back door and the chicken coop. Whoever put it in decided that it should have a place of honor, smack dab in the middle of the back yard. We don’t use the outhouse, but it is there just in case our septic should ever freeze over some winter or if we should ever decide to throw a big, wild, outdoor party. I can only hope that neither of these would happen. In the meantime, it’s time to take the dog out.