In my last blog, I mentioned how poor my family was when I was growing up back in rural Georgia. Ironically perhaps, my brother, Bud, and I were discussing this very topic just the other day—our impoverished childhood. The funny thing, however, as he and I both agreed, was how we never thought of ourselves as poor (at least not until we began school, made friends, and visited their homes), perhaps because we realized we were considerably better off than the family that lived about a half mile up the road in the curve of the road. After all, we had coal heat and they had to chop firewood. Our dogs were fat and sleek; theirs were skinny and mangy. We each had a bicycle (albeit hand-me-downs from richer cousins) while those kids shared one dilapidated old Huffy upon which they had to take turns. And, to top everything off, we had electricity in our outhouse. Granted, it was one lone 60-watt bulb over the doorway, but it was electricity just the same.

Now I am sure that many of you did not have outhouses when you were growing up. In fact, many of you have probably never even seen an outhouse, that is, except perhaps in movies like Deliverance; however, trust me, outhouses were not uncommon in rural Georgia prior to the 70’s, which was when my parents finally added a bathroom onto that little house on Vickers Road.

I clearly recall our outhouse. It was down the hill in back of the house and to the left of Daddy’s cornfield, so that if one was inclined to leave the door open (for ventilation), one could watch the cornstalks’ golden tassels wave in the balmy breezes of summer or listen to those same cornstalks, now withered and brown, rattle in the frigid winds of winter. Moreover, our outhouse had two seats (something I never really understood since going to the outhouse was a private affair and not exactly a shared activity); and, just over the doorway, was the electric light. It was sheltered by a little metal cap of some kind; and the switch to turn the light on was in the house, which meant that when one visited the outhouse at night, one had to remember to flip the switch beside the backdoor or else find oneself in the dark when one reached one’s destination. Not that there had always been a light, given I can remember a time when one’s making that nocturnal journey down that hill in the dark involved one’s carrying a flashlight; and I really cannot recall exactly when Daddy added the luxury of electricity, but I do recall being quite impressed with my daddy’s innovative modernization of that little-house-out-behind-the-house.  

Now, in looking back on those days, I sometimes wonder just why it is that people today think they need so many bathrooms in their houses. There are even some who think they need a private bathroom for each and every member of the family. Come on, folks, what’s wrong with sharing a bathroom? In fact, most houses circa 1975 (an educated guess on my part) had only one bathroom and everyone shared it (well, except for houses in movies, which didn’t count). I mean, you tell me; does each and every kid in a family really need his or her own bathroom to mess up every day of the week? Does the dog? The cat? And do bathrooms have to be so downright huge. Many today, in fact, are considerably larger than the house where I grew up. Plus, do they have to contain dressing rooms, state-of-the-art lighting, Jacuzzis, Whirlpools, walk-in closets, and heated toilet seats?

Not that I think we should return to using outhouses (they did have their drawbacks, namely the flies), yet, on the other hand, I do think people today have lost complete sight of what a bathroom is supposed to be—a functional, utilitarian room wherein one can bath and take care of “private” matters. I also think the bathrooms of today are symbolic of many things that are wrong with our modern society, for example, its unabashed materialism. Plus, maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t help but think that today’s overly luxurious and often ostentatious bathrooms say something quite sad about where our priorities lie as a nation.