My pipes are groaning. Whenever you turn off the shower this groan aches loudly in the walls of the house for a minute or so. Still, indoor plumbing beats an outhouse. If you’ve never used an outhouse you simply haven’t lived. Grandma Alberta lived in Bushnell, SD (population 75 give or take) for most of her 98 years and resided in a house that looked pretty much like the barn across the yard. Unlike the barn though, the house had a paint job and that was in sorry shape so Dad and I set out to give it a fresh coat of whitewash with lime green for the trim. The house didn’t have indoor plumbing so dad hooked a motor up to the old long handle pump in the front yard. When Grandma needed water just plug in the motor and you’re ready to go. The glass in the windows was so old that it wasn’t remotely flat and clear. It warped the view outside because it was wavy. Grandma had this odor about her that was an unmistakable cross between Ben Gay and liniment with a splash of prairie air. Dad said it came from the time she fell in the outhouse. The outhouse was a classic two holer. The narrow door hung crooked and, unlike the cartoons, had no clever carving in it like a crescent moon or whatever. It did, however, have a doorknob made out of an empty wooden spool for thread. In the outhouse hung a sears catalog. The shiny pages were always saved for last for obvious reasons. If that didn’t suit you, a bucket of corncobs set in the corner. Those you could recycle. One summer afternoon a prairie tornado came through as they often did. Everyone had a storm cellar. We called them basements and they are a Yankee’s best kept secret. I say this because somewhere between Oklahoma City and Dallas people just stopped digging them. For some reason these Texans educate their children to protect themselves from an F5 twister by getting in the bathtub. People don’t die too often from twisters in the Dakotas. Know why? Cause they’re in the basement, not in the bathtub! Anyhow the twister came through and grandma headed to the basement till it blew over. Except for a few dozen trees (that were piled up into the best fort a kid ever had) the only thing that was affected was the outhouse, which was upside down in the field. Grandma came up from the basement but didn’t bother to go out to inspect the damage. After all, there was chicken frying on the stove. Evening came and, as per the routine, she took a stroll to the outhouse before turning in for the night. The combination of her poor eyesight and brisk walking proved tragic this night as the classic two holer had now been transformed into a one holer. One big hole. I’m not sure how she managed to get out. That’s always been part of the mystery. All I know is that every time my pipes groan, I think of the outhouse, corn cobs, Grandma Bert, and the farm, and I’m thankful.