The science of waste disposal in the olden days had a local flavor. As a young boy in Melfort I always had an intense interest in this art. When my brother Ken was born four years later I went from good to naughty but my interest in disposal was unchanged. We had a one holer in the back lane with a back flap on a hinge and a can under the hole to receive for disposal of the contents by the honeyman. As a five year old I remember vividly lifting the flap and inspecting what seemed like a large buttock in the process of evacuation and tickling it with a piece of grass, eliciting howls of rage.
As a young teenager we lived in Lestock in a small town railway station that had a two holer over a single pit. My chores at home included emptying the can in our indoor toilet room in the winter into the two holer. I remember it was important not to trip and fall as I carried the can down the stairs to the outhouse. I got twenty dollars a month from the CNR to put lime into the pit from time to time and make sure that paper was available in the outhouse since that two holer was for the station's public use. Since I was shy I couldn't conceive a twosome having a chat on my two holer in a relaxed way as they engaged their process.
In the larger town we lived in, Kindersley, the science of disposal was much more professional and though our toilet was indoors with a can we had to put our can outside on the street for the honey man to collect in his horse drawn tank. In the winter he allowed a kid to hitch his sleigh on the back of the tank for a ride on the street because it wasn't too stinky at that time of the year. You had to be careful if he stopped too fast. There was no flushing away the end of our product, sight unseen, banished from reality, detached from our humanity like those blase folks in the city
When your mother finally persuaded, cajoled or bribed you to produce a poop in the potty, this seminal event meant for you, a showering of approval, a sense of providing great pleasure for your parent and a newly found sense of esteem. It's no wonder that in the recesses of our adult mind the appearance of the bowel movement gives a certain guilty pleasure to the assessment of the length, breadth and color. Our cranial software retains that old imprint of wonder at that childhood event and the pleasure principle reappears.I was often denied this pleasure since the two holer outhouse was dark and dank. Inspection was difficult.The scatological merriment that often occurs when matters like these are considered by some is pointedly males only. And some males pointedly. I guess so!
There was a time in early medical history when detailed inspection of the lowly poop was serious business and one of the few diagnostic tools available. Appearance, consistency, color and odor all entered the diagnostic armamentarium of the good physician. It became the 'ne plus ultra tool' then. Now tools are augmented by computer imaging, fiber optic colonoscopy and microbiology. Poopology may be still a fertile source however for psychological inquiry.
As a young teenager we lived in Lestock in a small town railway station that had a two holer over a single pit. My chores at home included emptying the can in our indoor toilet room in the winter into the two holer. I remember it was important not to trip and fall as I carried the can down the stairs to the outhouse. I got twenty dollars a month from the CNR to put lime into the pit from time to time and make sure that paper was available in the outhouse since that two holer was for the station's public use. Since I was shy I couldn't conceive a twosome having a chat on my two holer in a relaxed way as they engaged their process.
In the larger town we lived in, Kindersley, the science of disposal was much more professional and though our toilet was indoors with a can we had to put our can outside on the street for the honey man to collect in his horse drawn tank. In the winter he allowed a kid to hitch his sleigh on the back of the tank for a ride on the street because it wasn't too stinky at that time of the year. You had to be careful if he stopped too fast. There was no flushing away the end of our product, sight unseen, banished from reality, detached from our humanity like those blase folks in the city
When your mother finally persuaded, cajoled or bribed you to produce a poop in the potty, this seminal event meant for you, a showering of approval, a sense of providing great pleasure for your parent and a newly found sense of esteem. It's no wonder that in the recesses of our adult mind the appearance of the bowel movement gives a certain guilty pleasure to the assessment of the length, breadth and color. Our cranial software retains that old imprint of wonder at that childhood event and the pleasure principle reappears.I was often denied this pleasure since the two holer outhouse was dark and dank. Inspection was difficult.The scatological merriment that often occurs when matters like these are considered by some is pointedly males only. And some males pointedly. I guess so!
There was a time in early medical history when detailed inspection of the lowly poop was serious business and one of the few diagnostic tools available. Appearance, consistency, color and odor all entered the diagnostic armamentarium of the good physician. It became the 'ne plus ultra tool' then. Now tools are augmented by computer imaging, fiber optic colonoscopy and microbiology. Poopology may be still a fertile source however for psychological inquiry.
RSS Feed