No farewells for the privy, its stories

We moved to Blount County from Birmingham when I was 9, but before that we visited often.

The rural area where my grandparents lived was so primitive when World War II ended they still cooled their milk in a spring and read by kerosene lamps.

It was an exciting life as long as I knew a two-hour car ride would return me to civilization.

They had no indoor plumbing, which meant trips to the outhouse, which we didn’t mind because flushing at home seemed antiseptic. The outhouse brought us nose to nose with nature the way portable toilets jolt our senses today.

There wasn’t much danger of us getting stranded in the privy because it had no lock. Neither did it have a sign signifying it was or was not occupied. You took your chances, especially if a gaggle of girl cousins were around to jerk the door open.

The outdoor toilet’s offspring, the portable potty, is a modern marvel for our grandchildren, especially for 5-year-old Emma Grace, who pays homage each time she passes one.

So she was delighted to find portable potties during our week at the beach. The portables brought in for the July 4 overflow crowd had locks. Regina, our four oldest grandchildren and I came across four of them one afternoon when surf, sand, and ice cream had temporarily run their course.

Each child had a personal portable potty.

They washed their hands and swapped potties while we sat on a nearby park bench.

Things were fine until Emma Grace decided to lock her potty door, which apparently was much easier than unlocking it.

She wailed. The boys laughed, seeing her plight as high adventure.

“We’re going to leave you,” her cousin Trey teased.

“Noooo,” came the mournful sound from within.

The boys shouted instructions and yanked the door. Emma Grace hurdled forward.

The misadventures of privies will always be with us.