Aunt Madge's house in Margaret.
Submitted photos
Laurie Mustard stands outside an old outhouse that every member of his immediate family had been in. It has since been demolished.
I Have just been diagnosed with PTOD: Post Traumatic Outhouse Disorder.
My condition stems from my failure to save my Aunt Madge’s outhouse from her yard in Margaret, Man. I procrastinated and the local folk did a town-wide clean up of derelict buildings and junk — and they took my Aunt’s outhouse and what was left of her garage off to the dump.
Just as with all of us old enough to remember when Elvis died, I recall — intensely and painfully — the precise moment that I realized my aunt’s outhouse was gone.
Sitting in my car, staring at the empty lot, I went both cold and numb at the same time and stayed that way for an interminable period of time — maybe 10 seconds.
It may seem odd to mourn an outhouse, but perhaps once you understand the significance of that little wooden retreat, empathy and compassion will stir in your soul and you’ll feel my pain with me for a brief moment.
As humble as it was and despite the purpose of that little smelly shack, it was the only building still standing here in Manitoba — or in the world, for that matter — that all my immediate family and relatives had been in at one time or another.
A sacred dwelling, really. I should perhaps have had it designated an historic building, therefore preventing its destruction and getting a few thousand dollars of your tax money to restore it to its original old-growth wood splendour.
But alas, it’s too late. Not that I didn’t try to rescue it a couple of times. I nailed a two-by-four to it once and tried jacking it up with my Jack-All, but it was just too firmly rooted — and maybe it just didn’t want to leave.
I realize now I should have just taken my Sawzall, cut the corner posts at ground level, and it would have been mine.
But I didn’t think of that then.
So be it.
It is what it is and I have learned to live with it.
It’s a shame, though.
I wanted to bring that ancient commode home to Headingley and mount it on a mound in the yard somewhere.
Instead of serving its original purpose, I’d put pictures of all my relatives on the inside walls and use it as a place of contemplation.
Or, befitting the new me that I have been cultivating, it would have made a fabulous place to meditate.
I could even have placed a token Eaton’s catalogue in there.
Oh well. It is what it is: I waited too long and the opportunity passed me by.
If nothing else, that little outhouse has taught me a valuable life lesson — one I am truly grateful for.
Besides, a guy out near Deloraine has offered me his vintage brick s---house.
My only challenge will be getting it home without it vibrating apart on the highway.
I know he wants it gone and as I ponder how to move it — procrastinating once again, I must admit — he may demolish it, thereby self-inflicting yet more PTOD pain in my brain.
God help me.
To be serious here for a moment (something that’s not always easy for me to do): I really wish I’d saved my family’s poop shack.
But hey, as Dr. Phil says, "You choose the action, you choose the consequences" — and I chose to procrastinate, so shame on me.
I’m comforted knowing there’s still one place in Manitoba — in the world, in fact — where there exists a repository cradling the mother lode of Mustard DNA.
It’s very fertile ground, no doubt — there for all eternity, I’m sure, ‘cause no one’s moving to Margaret anymore.
I doubt the ground where that outhouse sat will ever be disturbed again, to which I say, "amen."
Looking through some old family pictures, I discovered a photo of Aunt Madge sitting on the step of her little house on the Prairie, snuggled between the outhouse and the street, possibly as far back as 1921.
The house was still standing there till at least the mid-1980s, I believe, when she moved to a seniors’ residence in Killarney.
The uncertainty regarding the date written on the picture stems from my Dad who — to keep himself occupied while recovering from a stroke — wrote what he believed to be the year many of the old family pictures were taken.
Upon closer inspection after the fact — and too late to do anything about it — we found in many cases that his dating was inaccurate.
If you want family history preserved, you need to get it done while those who lived it still have a healthy memory.
I guess as afflictions go, having PTOD isn’t such a burden to carry.
I might be kidding.
I love messing with acronyms — it’s so much fun.
Unless, of course, we’re talking about PTOD: such a huge, merciless burden to carry.
Comments or feedback, love to hear from you!
lmustard1948@gmail.com
