Burning Outhouses

For those of you who don't know me or my family personally, I'm about to "out" myself after being "outed" elsewhere.

In my appearance, I look exactly like my maternal grandmother. I always have and probably always will. Yet, in my personality, I have a streak in me that I just can't seem to tame. That streak comes directly from my father.

You see, he always called it like he saw it. He didn't mess around. If you asked him for his opinion, he gave it to you. Subtlety wasn't one of his strong points.

He used to be a plumber and worked on many construction sites. Now, everyone knows, you can't have a bathroom unless a plumber was there first. So, on construction sites they have what are now called port-a-johns or--before the invention of plastic--plain old wooden outhouses.

In Indiana, where I grew up, it was the company's responsibility to maintain the outhouses and keep them clean. One day, after the company had severely neglected the outhouse and wouldn't take care of it no matter what . . . well, my father took it upon himself to take care of it.

He gathered his reading material and entered the outhouse. I don't know how long he was in there but shortly after he left, everyone noticed the smoke and the flames. The outhouse was a total loss. He burned it to the ground.

No one in my family knew about this until many, many years later when my second brother became a plumber. It was also a story that was told with pride at my father's funeral.

And so, if you want my opinion, all you have to do is ask. You'll get an honest one. Be careful, though, it just may burn down your outhouse. Bahahahahahaha!

Happy Scrapping!