“Where are we? We are in the land of poo—duck poo, cow poo, sheep poo, goat poo…in fact, it’s the British Museum of Poo!” from “Nanny McPhee”

Greetings Dear Ones!

Dawn comes darkly through the heavy mists these days. The Connecticut River, which is a mere two miles from my easterly-facing windows, drools and turns drowsily beneath its duvet of feathery fog. The leaves are turning and sleek and cheeky chipmunks are getting very fat. They scurry everywhere on their little errands. The grasshoppers are starting to sleep off the last of the summer wine and the bug choir is losing faith in itself. A few stark trees have already begun a bare-armed revelé in their opening ballet against the sky. In these sharply grey and golden days, my mind naturally turns to poo.

There are ten little pullets pooping in the mudroom off the kitchen and they are incredibly stinky—it’s time to get them into the chicken coop, which needs to be winterized. I need to get all the sheep dung out of the back of the car—since the eight-mile ride from Hermit Hollow had a laxative effect on these wooly ruminants, who treated the vehicle like a moving port-a-potty. And I can’t wait to harvest all the “compost” (a.k.a. poop) out of their old shed and put it on the future garden spots here…

I am not afraid of poo.

I am a Seamstress, a Shepherdess, and a Mother. These jobs often require one to deal with a bit of poo, though Prudence thinks we should not discuss this. I tell Prudence to take a whiff of her smelling salts or pass out. We haven’t had a good blog about poop in a long time. I’ve been obsessed with the attempt to elevate or encourage myself (and anyone else who cares to listen) during these pandemic times which feel so alienating and disorienting. I’ve tried to see the Good in everything and extol us to reach Higher, work Harder…blah…blah…blah… This is what I do when I am Afraid. This is all well and good but sometimes, when things get especially crazy, it’s good to ground ourselves in some richer, um… Organic Material. It’s wonderful to realize that we are Organic Beings who occasionally (don’t tell Prudence!) actually take a dump ourselves.

I realize that this is a sensitive subject for some who, like Prudence, don’t want to admit these things—sweet, polite, oblivious folks who report demurely to a porcelain closet every now and then to relax on a specialized chair with their pants down while they scan their Facebook or Instagram feeds in order to fill their minds with ca-ca. So! If you are one of these people who don’t like poopy talk, read no further. Tune in next week for something cleaner.

Turn back now.

You have been warned.

The following is a true story. It happened to a woman I know intimately—a bosom friend, shall we say. She had just moved to a little farm in Vermont and awoke one morning to discover the power had gone out. Power, as we all know, is that thing that enables one to Flush a Toilet. Think about it. In every sense of the word, this is Truth, metaphorically, metaphysically, and literally. It may not seem so to the uninitiated, since toilets do not appear at first glance to require electricity, but they DO require water and power is what brings the water from the well. In the olden days, that power came in the form of pioneers with buckets, who pooped in outdoor privies so it didn’t matter anyway. Today, electricity drives the pump which pipes it straight to the house. It is quite possible to flush toilets as long as one refills them with water but if a woman has not pre-emptively gathered buckets of water, or prepared an emergency cistern, she may not be able to flush her toilet.

This is a harrowing revelation to one who normally avoids sugar and dairy products but spent the previous evening feasting on warm apple-dumplings slathered in ice-cream, washed down with raw hot cider—which were now having the same effect unpaved roads have on sheep in a Ford Explorer. Add a bean burrito for lunch the day before and you can appreciate that she had a SITUATION brewing. She scanned the horizon for Pioneers with buckets but none were forthcoming. She thought about using the toilet anyway and leaving the lid down until the power returned but she had no idea how many hours, days, or weeks that might be. She would most certainly make the house smell worse than the chickens in the kitchen were doing. Workmen were coming to the house that afternoon—what if they needed to use the bathroom? What if someone discovered what she had done? It was beyond mortifying to consider. She was going to have to think of a different Plan.

She did what she does best and tried to ignore the situation—occupying her time by phoning the power company to see when the downed lines might be restored. She listened to pleasant muzak while on hold and tried to distract herself from The Situation. For a while, her bowels complied. Eventually, the rumblings could not be ignored. She hung up and thought with panic that she might be forced to knock on a neighbor’s door and beg access to her “water closet.” Then she realized the power was out all over the hill and no one’s wells would be pumping any water. They were all on individual septic systems. Besides, pre-dawn, before the roosters are up, is hardly normal calling hours even for the best of neighbors, nevermind those on the verge of incontinence.

“If only I had an outhouse,” she thought, glumly clenching her flannel-clad buttocks. What good is an old-fashioned farm in Vermont without an old-fashioned outhouse? Or at least one remodeled in the image of a trendy “composting toilet,” like those cool kids in Brattleboro have… (Note to self: you must add “outhouse” to the list of things to build here. Something quaint but functional—with at least two or three holes cut in the plank, and a tiny one for the cat—just like Puppa had when he grew up.)

“This is what comes of drinking too much raw cider,” she thought bitterly. Raw cider, as all country folk know, turns to scouring powder in the body and is more effective than any colonoscopy prep for making a person whistle-clean from end to end. She could tell that the countdown had started. She was on her way to a major blow-out.

Then she had the good fortune to remember the stories of a Dear Soul who travels the world doing incredible nursing and triage for sick children in war-torn countries like Syria and Serbia. Many’s the time this Dear Soul has had to dig a small hole and poop into it because there is no other sanitation facility available. It seemed crazy to have to do the same in a non-war-torn part of the back yard—but a great relief to not be shot at, unless deer season had started… had it? Should she wear an orange vest? There wasn’t time to find out. Bathrobe flapping, she put on her wellies and dashed outside.

Where was the shovel? She couldn’t find the damn shovel. Oh, yes. She had left it in the blueberry patch when she had been transplanting bushes. She started to run and then realized it was safer to do a stiff-legged goosestep sort of thing instead. She made her way to the blueberry patch and looked with interest at the large holes that had been excavated when she moved the former inhabitants to new locations. This one, right here, would be Perfect. But no! It was in direct sight of the neighbor’s kitchen window! That would never do. Why had she gotten rid of all the weeds? She was as exposed as a gazelle on the Serengetee . She would have to go somewhere else, where no one could see her. She took the shovel and darted urgently from place to place around the property. It was hard to find the Right Place. One was too hard to dig, others were too close to the house, many had too much nearby poison ivy even to consider… “Who knew it was so hard to find a decent place to take a dump outside?” she marveled. “No wonder the dogs can’t manage it…”

In the nick of time, she found a place where the earth was loose, the trees were dense, and astonished chipmunks were few. As her answer to Nature’s Call echoed down the valley, she got in touch with her inner Victorian who would have been appalled at doing such a vile thing inside a home. (The first indoor plumbing was in cellars, not the “decent” part of the house.) That’s what outdoor privies are for! We are supposed to do this outside. In the long history of human civilization, crapping indoors is a relatively new trend—a blip—a fad. And she realized her shame was just a story she was telling herself—shame that echoed all the way back to the very first seamstress and her fig leaves—but was probably just some marketing propaganda from a porcelain salesman. The morning sun crested the hill, warming her backside as she planted her feet firmly in the dirt to hold herself up. It felt good to be Grounded in the earth. Nature is not something we gaze at during Leaf-Peeping season. It’s something we ARE. How Wonderful to be Alive! Outside! Taking a crap in a vast, sacred garden…How wonderful to feel the sun where the sun don’t shine. (There is nothing quite like the sun hitting a moon.) This ruggedly optimistic middle-aged woman found herself giggling and stretching, expanding with relief—barely resisting the urge to scratch the earth triumphantly with her hind legs, like a cat covering scat. Taking a shit outside turned out to be the best thing she did all day.

If there’s one thing that 2020 seems to be good at, it’s throwing us each a little bit more than our share of doo-doo. Some of it is even of our own making. It’s ok. Powerlessness leads to panic, panic leads to Surrender, Surrender leads to Serenity, with a touch of poison ivy and concern for our neighbors thrown in for good measure. It’s like the whole 12-step process in a single squat. We keep learning humility. We keep finding our balance and getting grounded. And shit keeps happening!

Have Courage dear ones. We are of the earth and to the earth we shall return. May the trees and flowers be all the richer for it. Keep Merry and Gentle and keep up your Good Work!

With sew much love,

Yours aye,

Nancy

P.S. As soon as she entered the house, the power was back on. Of course it was…