I suppose that it is commonplace for us to have to overlook the things that give us comfort and pleasure. Men overlook the contributions that women make in cooking their meals and keeping their houses clean. Children often overlook the efforts of their parents in providing schooling for them. So being forgetful is not an unusual event. However, overlooking the comfort and joy that our commodes bring to us, is not something to be celebrated. Going “commodeless” is far from a joy. Indeed, it is a trial. I know a good bit about that thought.
Growing up during the 1930s, on occasion we visited my father’s brother George, and his wife Essie. While we were in southern Illinois, in Pope County, we also tended to visit Elmer and Grace Collier, who was my mother’s sister. Their homes had no electricity or running water. Indeed, they were dependent upon outhouses.
At that time, I slept in my underwear and had no such things as pajamas and house shoes. If there was a need to use the outhouse late at night, it became a substantial trial.
On one occasion, when my grandfather died in 1932, the time of year was Christmas time. Using the outhouse at that time in frigid weather was far from a joy.
When I joined the American Army and was sent to North Africa, I found that using the outhouse in some locations required putting up with sandstorms that blew through the tarpaulin shacks. That was true in Atar, Mauritania and Tindouf, Algeria. It was also true in El Genina and El Fasher in the Sudan. All things considered, it may be assumed that I am an expert on “commodeless” living.
My last overseas assignment was in Accra, which is located in Ghana. This was a large British-built airbase, which I thought was quite comfortable after the African campaign. Curiously, the British had provided commodes but they failed to provide doors. The commodes were open to gawkers, which for newcomers could prove disconcerting. I am reasonably certain that in London and the rest of the British Empire, doors are provided for the commodes and that they also can be latched.
Jumping ahead a good many years, it turns out that I moved to Millburn, New Jersey in 1969. The leading hardware store at that time was run by a fellow named Harvey J. Tiger. Mr. Tiger did not appreciate chewing the fat as he went about his work. It was all business. His store was at least twice as long as it was wide. He had displays against the walls as well as drawers underneath the displays. Mr. Tiger stood at the back of the store near a cash register and we were obliged to take our purchases to him and he would check us out. Not long after I began to patronize Mr. Tiger, it appeared that a plumbing salesman had taken over. The salesman had introduced pastel-colored commodes with contrasting tops. If one were willing to wait for a while, he could order a purple commode with a green top, if it was so desired. Apparently Mr. Tiger did not think much of this arrangement and after six months or so it was gone.
The point here is to remind readers that they would certainly not enjoy “commodeless” living. Commodes ask for nothing. They simply accept the wastes from the human body and wait for those wastes to be flushed away. They do not criticize or comment and are thoroughly apolitical.
Finally, there is a nostalgic note having to do with commodes. On October 31, 2005, I was lying on a guerney in preparation for being transported to the operating room for the final operation on my one remaining eye. There was a men’s room nearby and I left the guerney to use it because I knew my operation would take quite awhile. The basic fact is that the last thing that I ever saw before blindness took over was a commode. Hence, the sense of nostalgia that envelopes this subject.
One way or another, it seemed to me as a chronicler of affairs having to do with mankind, that we have overlooked the commodes which serve us every day. They bring joy to our lives and are essential to our well being. Therefore I thought while I was still alive, that I should offer recognition to the vital part that commodes play in our lives. And so it is that I offer this robust ode to our modest commodes and thank them for all of the help that they have rendered to mankind. It seems to me that such an ode is long overdue.
E. E. CARR
June 29, 2009
Essay 392
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Kevin’s commentary: A moving piece, to be sure. I wonder though — the toilet might have been the last thing Pop saw, but I wonder about some of the other absolutes. What’s the prettiest thing that he remembers seeing? The ugliest? Has the memory of how any objects look faded away? Is there anything in particular that he has no idea what it looks like, or anything that he couldn’t possibly forget even if he wanted to? Hopefully he’ll see this and answer a question or two.
Read more of Pop’s thoughts re: toilets (because why wouldn’t you want to do that?) here.