When Mom was living on the farm in her youth, their bathrooms were outside. I can remember visiting my grandmother’s house and having to walk the sandy pathway past the chicken coop to the outhouse. The seat was wooden so I had to carefully balance to avoid splinters. It, of course, smelled terrible. The weather also was either too hot or too cold. It was one of the most difficult parts of visiting Grandmama. The outdoor “shower” was pretty terrible, too, but I’ll save that story for another time. I don’t remember if there was a cut out in the door, but I do remember being able to look through the gaps in the board and hoping no one else came down that path!
Mom remembers her childhood so clearly. Her mind has created pathways back to those memories, and, especially in her dreams at night, she goes back in time easily. She talks aloud in her sleep and will chide her brother Bean for something he’s done or converse with her sisters or mama. Many times it seems she’s throwing a party or gathering of some sort. She gives directions on where to park their cars and a quick who’s who of other guests. Then, as any good hostess must, she points out the way to the outhouse.
During her night time “conversations,” I am amazed at how her mind works. Each time, I consider making a recording of her. She is the perfect hostess and can carry on conversations with farmers, preachers, and kids alike. One night she talked for over three and a half hours, barely taking time for a breath. I finally fell asleep so I don’t know if the party was over or how it ended. As I listened, I realized how clear her conversation was – much clearer than during the day. She rarely repeated herself, and if she did, it was because she was talking to someone new to the gathering.
Some of her memories do translate into her waking hours. Maybe because she grew up in the country, she feels like the floor is always dirty. I don’t believe she went barefoot as an adult. I can remember her frustration at me running barefoot through the woods or across the gravel driveway. My dirty feet probably drove her crazy. Also, she doesn’t want clothing to touch the floor. She taught me to put on my pants by folding them up in my hands and then putting my legs in, much the same way folks put on socks.
Now as I get her dressed, she constantly reminds me not to let her clothes drag through the dirt on the floor. There may be a dust bunny or two, but I know her floors aren’t covered in dirt. But if I don’t pull those pant legs up, I’m in for it. So I remind myself to be patient and try to see as she sees: the wooden and dirt floor from her childhood. I try to remember what it must have been like to use the outhouse in party clothes and do my part to keep her clothes from picking up dirt or splinters.
I can only see those long ago days through Mom’s memories, but I try to always remember to be grateful for indoor plumbing and wooden floors!
