The Outhouse: The Great Thumbelina Rescue
Back in the 1950s, there was no indoor plumbing in the small cottages that were used primarily for duck hunting on Duck Harbor Pond. Going outside to the outhouse to relieve yourself was a luxury for a hunter. It wasn't long before sanitation codes required indoor plumbing, and outhouses became a thing of the past.
As outhouses go, ours was top of the line. It was a "two-seater"—you opened the door and could choose left or right to sit, and sometimes enjoy the company of another. Complete with covered toilet seats, two wooden windows that slid to the side to open (to air the place out), and red checkered curtains for décor, it met every description of modern.
It was positioned about 20 feet from the back door of our small cabin. During the day it was just the right distance to keep odors away, but at night, not so perfect. The well-known, very dark nights at Duck Harbor made you think twice if you awoke needing the facilities.
Beyond the practical, obvious use of our outhouse, there were others. We were 4, 5, and 6-year-old imaginative kids! Who would think an outhouse could provide hours of play for Patti, Allyson, and me? It served as a toll booth, a switchboard, and of course, an outhouse—but not in the sense you're thinking.
I swear outhouse play happened on some of the hottest days at the lake. I remember being in there after lunch when the sun, and smell, was the most intense. We played after our morning chores and before we spent the late afternoon wrinkling in the water.
The Fateful Day
This particular day, it was a dollhouse for Allyson and me. For Betsy Wetsy and Thumbelina, that day was potty training day. If you're not familiar with beloved Betsy or Thumbelina, they are very different dolls. My Betsy was made of stiff plastic—you could move her arms and legs and they would stay in that position. Her design was to facilitate bottled nourishment from the hole at her mouth through to the hole where she wet her diaper. She could sit on her own, making her perfect for sitting on the toilet seat for training.
Thumbelina, Allyson's beloved, not so much. She had a plastic head and plastic only on the lower part of her arms and hands, with one thumb that protruded so she could suck her thumb. As well, her lower limbs below her knees were plastic. The rest was like a soft, snuggly pillow. Her purpose was to snuggle next to you, sucking her thumb while you held her.
Betsy easily sat on her toilet seat. Thumbelina, not designed to maintain any bodily position, was placed on her toilet seat. I can still hear the splash into the brown, murky, stinky slop below.
The horrific, unimaginable happened.
After the fall, there was a moment of dead silence in the outhouse. Both Allyson and I froze, gazing into the hole. Life as we knew it at 4 and 6 was over. Allyson's child was drowning.
Then came the blood-curdling scream. The door flew open: "Mommy, Mommy, Thumbelina fell down the outhouse!"
The Rescue Mission
My mother was good. Sitting lakeside with Aunt Ann Von Ohlson, she responded to the alarm.
I remember every detail. It was hot, very hot, and the stench of the outhouse could have triggered vomiting. Mom stayed cool. She calmed Allyson, passed her off to Aunt Ann, and then, like it was an everyday happening, she fetched a fishing pole with a very large hook. To this day, I cannot recall my mother ever in contact with a fishing pole except for that day with Thumbelina. I don't know how she put that large hook onto the fishing line.
Thumbelina was getting more and more saturated in the muck and sinking fast.
Carefully lowering the hook into the smelly, semi-solid liquid (did I mention it was a very hot day?), she fished for Thumbelina. We waited, and waited.
With the precision of a professional fisherman, my mother's first cast into that honey hole was perfect, right on Thumbelina. The challenge, however, was to hook her. Dragging the hook under the surface with the body quickly sinking, she made contact, piercing Thumbelina's chest. It was enough to bring her to the surface.
God gives one amazing ability when a life is at stake. To give up on her, throw her away, leave her sinking would have been murder.
Slowly, very slowly, with all of us holding our breath and vomit, she reeled her to the surface, up through the toilet seat. We all stood back while she maneuvered her out of the outhouse to the lake (quite a distance on a hook), dripping sewage in the path.
Waiting was her assistant, Aunt Ann, ready with rubber dishwashing gloves, bleach, and detergent.
The Recovery
For a while, it was touch and go. We stood by in silence, only breathing between sobs, while Mom scrubbed the life back into Thumbelina. She required chest sutures (Mom was a great seamstress) where the fishing hook punctured her material skin and likely her imaginary lungs. She was drenched in baby powder to mask lingering odors.
She was in quarantine for several days, recuperating in the sun on the dock, drying, before she could be played with again. She lost some of her pink glow that all babies have after so much bleach, scrubbing, and baby powder.
All these years later (about 63 years), it is a testament to the love Allyson had for Thumbelina and the active love Mom had for us. Thumbelina lives on, very much alive and still loved.
Soon to come to the Duck Harbor Newsletter: more outhouse stories, including the switchboard and toll booth adventures.
