That Old Building

In the past we have commented upon the many phases of living back in the old days including the old country store from our present day mode of life. I seem to have forgotten another item which played a very important part of our lives, particularly to those who lived in the country. Every home, every hamlet had them. Yet, if we were to take a tour of these same hamlets and our country scenes, chances are that you would have a tough time finding one of these. They came in all sizes, forms and colors. Many of them had ornamental designs cut or carved into the front between the top of the door and the cone of the roof. These constructions had no elaborate fixtures. There were no fancy chairs, mirrors, ash trays or old brass spitoons. Perhaps the most impressive item to be found here might have been an out of date Sears Roebuck or Montgomery Ward publication.

The seats were bench type in which skilled craftsmen had cut comfortable round openings in large, medium and sometimes small sizes. Yes, I am referring to the old family backhouse. It seemed that this building had in various communities, other titles bestowed upon it.

This piece of property seemed to be the target years ago of Halloween pranksters. I know of one resident in years past who suspected that his place was on the agenda for such a raid, therefore, he secretly hid himself inside. He felt he would certainly be able to catch the culprits in the act. Whether or not the culprits knew of the old man's presence inside is not known. However, all of a sudden, the building was tilted forward until it fell to the ground. The only door was face down, thus trapping the owner inside. His calls and curses finally aroused members of the family. It required the help of strong hands and backs of the neighbors to come to the rescue of the highly heated gentleman. There was suspicion that one or two hands that helped push the little building forward, helped to lift and push in a reverse direction. This fact was never verified.

Although I am not a student of poetry, yet, I have never found a poem, which so vividly describes this old country landmark as James Whitcomb Riley wrote in his famous "The Passing of the old Country Backhouse".

"When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles and tears

A weather beaten object looms through the midsts of years.

Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more

And hurrying feet a path had made straight for its swinging door.

Its architecture was a type of simple classic art

But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.

And oft the passing traveler drove slow and heaved a sigh

To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posey garden that the women loves so well,

I loved it too, but still I loved the stronger smell

That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,

And told the night o'er taken tramp that human life was near.

On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower.

Delightful, where my grandsires sat and whiled away an hour.

For there the summer mornings sits very cares entwined

And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies

That flitted to and from the house where Ma was baking pies.

And once a swarm of hornets bold had built a place there

And stung my unsuspecting Aunt—I must not tell you where.

Then father took a flaming pole, that was a happy day.

He nearly burned the building up but the hornets left to stay.

When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse

We banked the little building up with a heap of Hemlock boughs.

But when the crust was on the snow and the sullen skies were gray,

In sooth the building was not the place where one should wish to stay.

We did our duties promptly, there no purpose swayed our mind

We tarried not nor lingered long on what we left behind.

The torture of that icy seat would make a Spartan sob

For needs must scrape that gooseflesh with a lacerating cob

That from a frost encrusted nail was suspended a string.

My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.

When grandpa had to go out back and make his morning call

We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.

I knew that hole on which he sat, t'was padded all around

And once I dared to sit there, t'was all too wide I found.

My loins were too small and I jack-knifed there to stay

They had to pry me out or I'd have passed away.

Then father said ambition was a thing that little boys hold shun

And I'd have to use the children's hole till the childhood days were done.

And I still marvel at the craft that cut these holes so true

The baby hole, the slender hole that fitted sister Sue.

That dear old country landmark: I've tramped around a bit

And in the lap of luxury lot has been my chance to sit.

But ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I've bobbed of yore

Then see the shanty where my name is still carved upon the door.

I ween the old familiar smell will soothe my jaded soul.

I'm now a man, but none the less

I'll try the children's hole.

Am I right or wrong"