In urban areas, just push the handle down and it becomes the city's problem. Your responsibility ends and the Department of Public Works very ably continues the process. For some of us in the rurals, it gets a little more complicated since we much maintain our own septic tanks and drainfields. Farther out, it is taken care of with a short walk to—as I saw one such facility dubbed with a rustic wooden sign--”the privy in the pines.”

Yes, I'm talking about the business of “making it go away.” My attention was drawn to this subject by a newspaper article about an Amish colony that had run afoul of the local health department. The issue at hand was that of outhouses.

Having lived, at times, off the grid, I've had the opportunity to refine my skills and opinions about operating an outhouse. There is nothing undignified or unsanitary about an outhouse that is constructed and cared for properly.

The pit needs to be dug where it can drain into the ground rather than fill with runoff or ground water. A chemical cover of sorts, usually lime or wood ashes, needs to be present in ample quantity, along with something to scoop it with. It hadn't previously occurred to me that instructions for the uninitiated might be helpful. While using a local backwoods facility, I noticed a sign placed above the large metal bucket full of wood ashes. It read: “PLEASE USE WOOD ASHES TO COMPLETELY COVER ALL FRESH TURDS!” It was certainly to the point and effective.

During the 1930s, the Works Progress Administration (WPA) built numerous outhouses area, several of which are still in use. They all follow the same design, which includes a square wooden flue rising from the box that comprises the seat. The fumes are carried away through natural convection. A fine mesh screen tops which helps discourage untimely visits by opossums and crows that may be attracted by the goodies below. One would do well to follow this design.

A mildly scented candle might be a nice touch. Apart from visiting blacksnakes, brown recluse spiders, and frigid mornings (though a hot cup of coffee is nowhere better enjoyed!) you should have a perfectly comfortable, functional, and respectable facility—way better than one of those blue things.

Many families, including, I would presume, the Amish--said to be the most reclusive and primitive division of the faith--were simply doing their business in plastic buckets, then spreading it on nearby fields. El grosso. It's no wonder that the authorities took an interest. I was equally surprised and disappointed to hear that they used plastic buckets, rather than those hand-carved from white oak.

Anyway, experience has taught many of us that a five-gallon plastic bucket, such as those that tractor fluids come in, can be a very accommodating version of the old-time porcelain or enameled “thunder mug.” However, this is a provision that should only be used when there is good reason not to take that short walk. Some situations might be SEVERELY inclement weather, clear danger from wildlife, illness, injury, or an escaped convict in the area. Even so, the waste material should be dumped down the maw of the outhouse and covered when access is again possible. The bucket should then be washed and stored for other emergencies. To do less is pure laziness. `

At least that's what I like to tell myself. In isolated periods of depression and apathy, I've become a bucket person. However, I learned my disrespect for the practice early in life. As kids with indoor plumbing, we were shocked by reports of a certain branch of our family in a depleted Appalachian coal mining region who, much like the Swartzentubers, would reportedly “go in a can then throw it out the back door.” (please note that, in the case of our relatives, the land is so steep that the waste often lands a safe distance down the slope)

Though they're related to me, I'm not sure that this gives me license to suggest that there may be some inbreeding among these folks. Still, not only are they limited to relatively (sorry) few last names, but many seem to have the same first names as well. For example, there's Homer from over the fork in the creek, Homer from across the creek, Homers from below the fork, down the creek, up the creek, in the creek and so on.

It stands to reason that negative rumors and stereotypes are usually the result of the activity of a highly visible minority. This is probably the case with the Swartzentubers—I hope so, anyway.

Sooner or later, you may have to move your outhouse, though it takes a surprisingly long time for the pit to fill up. Make sure to leave room for a thick cover of dirt—enough to plant a fruit tree. You may gain some insight into how those pear trees that we see near old farmhouses got so huge.

So much for my adventure in writing about things scatological. Interestingly, it is generally held that Mozart had a fascination with this subject, usually in a humorous vein. If I piped Ein Klein Nachtmusik out to the outhouse, it would probably put its patrons to sleep. I know, I know—just make it go away.

P.S. While writing this, I noticed that the Joe Pye weeds along the river have grown to their full height of about ten feet and are in bloom. They also conceal our swimming hole from view. Thanks, Joe Pye, wherever you are.

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