My grandmother lived in one of those white houses designed to catch the slightest breeze during the endless hot and humid South Carolina summers. I lived with my uncle, my aunt and my cousins, who built the house over the years. A screened back porch wrapped around the kitchen and back bedroom.
That porch had all sorts of things, including tools, a washer-dryer, and a big freezer. Homegrown squash and pepper strips hung from the rafters. The ever-present trash can was located directly below the kitchen window, which opened onto the porch. The pigs loved the sight of that bucket until they ended up in Uncle Henry’s heavy pot of black hash.
Indoor plumbing has arrived, replacing the old latrine. But when I woke up during the night, I was scared to look for that bathroom, with its pink tub and sink. He knew the way to the old latrine. I had nightmares about falling into that garbage can.
It was not easy to find that elegant room to go to the bathroom in the dark. It was on the far left side of the porch. Going to the bathroom meant stepping out of a loft wrought iron bed and wandering the kitchen and porch without waking anyone.
There were no night lights. The farmers needed a good night’s rest and the rooster crowed early. To make matters worse, the bathroom was right next to the bedroom window, which of course was usually open. So what you had to do, you did as quietly as possible.
When several families came to visit, four large wrought-iron beds were crammed into that bedroom, where my parents, aunts, and uncles slept. Children slept where there was space elsewhere. I was the youngest cousin and I was usually in bed with Grandma.
This was all very good until one particular night. Aunt Lois needed that back porch bath. She arrived well. But getting back into the right bed was a problem, a big problem, as it turned out. It was pitch black in that bedroom, with four practically identical siblings, two of them twins, sleeping soundly. I mean, they were until Aunt Lois came back and knelt on what she thought was her own bed.
The problem was that his knee was not on the bed. It was on Uncle Henry’s chest. And Uncle Henry was not Aunt Lois’s man, but Uncle Jake. My dear aunt was a heavyset woman with a strong voice. Poor unsuspecting Uncle Henry, with the sudden onset of pain and immense pressure, woke up screaming, sure that he was dying of a heart attack. Aunt Lois thundered, “Jake, where are you? Jake, where are you?” Her knee was still firmly planted on Uncle Henry’s chest.
Chaos followed. Everyone in the house began to wake up. But the help did not come for a simple reason. No one could stop laughing. Laughing loud. Fortunately, someone finally turned on a light and figured things out. Uncle Henry’s heart immediately returned to normal once the offending knee was in its rightful place.
Everything was finally fine again. I don’t remember going back to sleep that night. As for going back to the back porch bathroom? Advantage, toilet!