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thing that stands like a monument to all those who have passed through the Hollow before. There, solid and timeless against the elements, stand an outhouse. A privy. A toilet. A johnnyhouse. The little brown shack out back.
A quick glance at the Internet informs me that I am not alone in my nostalgia for the throne at the end of the path. There are books, essays, poems, photographs, and even an Outhouse Preservation Society.
I must confess they would never have me as a member. Around or about 1952, the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad, in a fit of managerial benevolence, installed indoor plumbing in our old “section house.” Our ancient outhouse, a two seater painted in the railroad’s colors, purple with silver trim, soon fell into disuse. The only time we boys ever visited was to peruse the old Sears Roebuck catalog's lingerie section while smoking our first cigarettes. They were Old Golds as I recall, and the trick was to act as if we enjoyed them while on the verge of a serious internal attack.
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