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.
Calls of nature
January 19, 2015 by The Minnesota Farm Woman
My Grandfather was appalled at the idea of an indoor outhouse. He shuddered and flatly stated, “who would want to s&#t in the house? ” Guess it’s what you are used to.
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It isn’t near so cold here. Coldest ever was 0. Once. But I surely do recognize the dog signals you describe! 😀 I also remember the chamber pot in my grandparents trailer. (ca. 1957) A small, enamel, pot with a nice fitting lid. Difficult to manage even at kid size.
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Thanks for reading, Lynda!!
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We have one near our garden yet – and how often it comes in so handy – and it keeps the house clean! lol
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Lol…no tromping dirt all over the floor. Thanks for reading!
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Lost forever is a picture of me somewhere, as a toddler, in my grandmothers house, using a five pound coffee can as a bathroom. Poor hillbillies version of a chamber pot I guess. 😊
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We have an outhouse that my husband built before we were living up here and had “indoor” luxuries–when we have our big Camporees, the men use the outhouse and some of the women too!! It is also used as a storeroom like for all my canning jars??? Yes, I sterilize them first!!!???
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Lol!
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