Book Makes Outhouses Seem Charming, Quaint

“Outhouses of the West” With photographs by Sherman Hines, text by Silver Donald Cameron (Firefly Books, 72 pages, $19.95)

These are a few things I learned as a child about outhouses:

Flashlights that have rolled into the hole continue to shine for a surprisingly long time. They can be considered an outhouse nightlight, though, since they give the outhouse a surreal glow at night.

Wasps are bad news. Even the thought or the sound of wasps is not good.

Lighting newspaper and dropping it in the hole to take the edge off a frosty morning doesn’t work.

Our family lake cabin had only an outhouse through my childhood and teen years. Then we got indoor plumbing. But outside the frost-free months, and during all plumbing crises, our outhouse still sees action.

During childhood summers spent with my grandparents at the cabin, my grandmother always referred to the outhouse as Mrs. Jones, as in “I’m going to visit Mrs. Jones.” My grandfather just left the cabin and came back later, thinking, I suppose, no announcement was needed. As small children, we had to report our comings and goings to Mrs. Jones, which might have seemed necessary since there were more black bears about in those days.

Naming the outhouse did not, however, make it endearing. Which makes me think the author and photographer of a new book, “Outhouses of the West,” are not veteran outhouse users. The photographer of this coffee-table book, Sherman Hines, does his best to make outhouses seem charming, quaint and creative in their architecture.

He found outhouses of weathered boards, log outhouses, one painted red, and another wired with lights. A few were still in use, as evidenced by the paths beaten to the door through weeds or snow. Most, though, look long-abandoned.

What struck me most about this odd book was the absurd prose by Silver Donald Cameron. Example: “This book is about the lusty roistering, rammish society which has dug deep into the fecund earth of Western North America. It is about culture and architecture, about moments of contemplation in the midst of strenuous pioneering labor.”

The book is an attempted parody that falls short, missing the opportunity for the retelling of real stories that truly are funny. Outhouses tipped over with folks inside. Exploding outhouses. Mishaps when floorboards rotted.

I went through a period when I feared bears or sasquatch lurked at night in the woods surrounding the outhouse. The last trip before bedtime involved my brother and me exploding out the back door of the cabin in a dead run to the outhouse. One would stand guard outside with the flashlight, urging quickness inside. We’d change places and then repeat the sprint to the cabin door.

Older, but no less fearful, I once locked myself into the outhouse for more than half an hour after a bear growled in the woods just beyond. It didn’t sound at all like my brother.

Despite my grandmother’s euphemism, our outhouse, even when painted, never seemed quaint. Childhood chores included daily sweeping of the outhouse, spraying for carpenter ants, and sprinkling lime stored in a coffee can into the hole during hot weather to quell the smell.

“Outhouses of the West” gives not even a nod to the fears and revulsion people often associate with these primitive toilets. Indeed, save for one photo of an outhouse in use by a cowboy, there are no people at all. And what are outhouses without people? Just shacks with bad reputations.

A plumbing crisis this summer forced me to think more than I really want to about our outhouse. “Outhouses of the West” arrived just in time and I’m using it as an idea book while contemplating building a new Mrs. Jones.

Ours has listed, and rain and snow blown through the cracks have warped much of the interior. This time we might design a window so a flashlight isn’t required on cloudy days. We’ll figure some way to keep the toilet paper roll dry or just give up and permanently keep it in a coffee can. We’ll screen the inside of the boards so the paper wasps don’t build big nests just inside the door.

These are things I learned as an adult.