A PRIVY HALL OF FAME
And wouldn't The County be the perfect place for it?
by Duane "Dewey" Dow

Indoor plumbing is nice, in fact might even be the very symbol of genteel civilization. But say, don’t you miss the old outdoor toilet?

The young among us won’t know what the heck we’re talking about, but for we of a certain age, the privy is a venerable, romanticized institution that served us marvelously for generations. And it’s just cruel to see it go.

You knew the end was at hand when the 2000 Census trotted out those frightful numbers: "Fewer than half of one percent of U.S. homes are now without plumbing." And you can guess where that leaves the privy.

Most of us geezers grew up using modest wooden two-holers (the large hole for the adults, the smaller one for the kiddos). But remember that there were talented "architectural engineers" among us who fashioned much fancier facilities; ones with half-moon shapes on the doors, all the way up to elegant, brightly painted creations that rivaled garages in their depth, breadth and charm. A former teacher of mine, Althea Turner, recalls that she and her sister enjoyed wallpapering their privy every spring, then adorned the paper with pictures cut from magazines.

I’m here to suggest a nifty way to pay tribute to the past glories of the outhouse. Why not a Great American Privy Hall of Fame? In fact, there are at least two old Northern Maine privies that would make superb candidates for such a Hall. And some dandy qualifiers in Southern Maine, too.

An Allagash Lake lumber camp, for example, boasted an eight-holer the likes of which has never been equaled in the Frozen North, folks say.

And even double-deckers, known to some as "skycrappers," were once in fashion. A few years ago, the town of Poland, Maine, tore down a double-decker that served municipal employees from 1908, and a two-decker next to the Bridgewater Town Hall is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Now, how can you top that? Well, okay, there is said to be a three-decker in Bryant Pond, Maine, but I can’t find it.

I know you must be curious. Why two, even three stories? Well, for one thing, the gentlemen used the bottom floor, the ladies had the second. Who had a third floor I have no idea. And you’d like to know how what came from the top got to the very bottom without coming in contact with anybody in between? Another case of amateur privy engineering, akin in genius to the loo on wheels--with shower attached--still operating in Wells.

I’m sure you agree, all of these splendid examples belong in a Privy Hall of Fame, and why wouldn’t The County be the perfect place to put it? We always had more than our fair share.

There’s an Outhouse Museum in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, but that should be little competition for the Aroostook tourist dollar.

Many old-timers will recall that it was common at public functions for someone to read "The Specialist," a knee-slapping tale about Lem Putt, champion privy builder of Sangamon County, Illinois. Lem settled for nothing less than first-class, bright-colored monuments to his woodcraft, starting with cut-outs of stars, diamonds, or crescent moons carved in the doors. And all had ventilators, thank you very much, and sturdy 4x4 supports, driven five feet in the ground to prevent wind gusts--and pranksters--from tipping them right over.

Yeah, you’ll spot an active out-of-the-way privy even today, but mostly we’re left with the comical little postcards the tourists like, showing privies adapted to new uses. These really are just for folks from away.

There have been some wonderful names for the outhouse, like Mrs. Murphy, Thunder Box, The Dooley, Biffy, Parliament Building, the Gas Chamber. Many folks just made up their own terms of endearment.

Not everybody had the same outhouse accessories, of course, but these items were considered standard: toilet paper in a can with rice in the bottom to prevent sogginess, hedge apples in a box to ward off spiders, lighting of some sort (flashlights or scented candles, in a pinch), Sears catalog, magazine rack, and an inside latch to keep out the people banging on the door.

The Census gatherers say that about 4,500 Maine houses still lack "complete" plumbing, so maybe the privy is not on the verge of complete extinction, and that makes this old fella glad.

I loved the three-holer at The Old Mill School on the Chapman Road in Mapleton where I spent the first two school grades. Whenever I’d had enough of class I just raised one arm and either one or two fingers, and Teacher Irene Dow (my aunt, by the way) waved me to the back, into the uni-john with the Sears catalog on a cord. And she always had the good sense never to ask me what took so long.