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Since we lived on the docks, near a neighborhood called Pinners Point, this toilet was reached by a small bridge over a marsh, for it sat over a lagoon of tidal water. I will spare you further details.
One night a year or so later the old john met its glorious end. Under a full moon there was a great high tide. My cousin Tronnie was a year older than me, and I would take any dare he proposed. So we decided to push the outhouse off the end of the bridge into the waters and watch it go out to sea as the tide changed. But the proud double holer resisted our best efforts. Tronnie and I strained against nails driven in the 19th century by long dead railroad' men, laughing at our weakness from their graves.
But then my brother Buck showed up. He was older, bigger, and stronger. With his help we finally disengaged the john from the bridge. My brother Buck was also an inspired zany. “It should go out to sea with honor,” he said. Lighting a “strike anywhere” kitchen match, he set fire to the Sears Roebuck catalogue and tossed it into the privy just as it hit the water.
“Like in King Arthur’s Court,” he said solemnly. We agreed, as if we understood perfectly what he was referring to. We watched as our plan worked. The tide shifted quickly, pulling the burning bier out to the channel of Scott’s Creek, into the Elizabeth River, and out towards the Chesapeake Bay. Under the moon, in the quiet
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