ranchwife said:
Shelly said:
Les said:
ranch wife... vacation outside the house? ...you mean outside to feed the cows, clean the barn, stuff like that there???
You'd better watch yourself, Les! Alberta is right next door to Sask., and ranchwife and a couple of other ladies are already threatening to come gang up on my hubby for making me walk fencing. You could be next!
anybody with directions to Les's place?? :wink: :wink: :wink: Yup...you are in deep now! :shock:
LOL
Could this be (Granddad) Les's place .... not the 'doghouse', but close!
The House Behind The House
One of my bygone recollections, as I recall the days of yore
is the little house, behind the house, with the crescent o'er the door.
'Twas a place to sit and ponder with your head bowed down so low,
knowing that you wouldn't be there, if you didn't have to go.
Ours was a three-holer, with a size for every one.
You left there feeling better after the job was done.
You had to make these frequent trips, whether snow, rain, sleet, or fog,
to the little house where you sat and read the Sears Roebuck catalog.
Oft times in dead of winter the seat was covered with snow.
'Twas then with much reluctance to the little house you'd go.
With a swish you'd clear the seat, bend low and, with shivers in mind,
you'd blink your eyes and grit your teeth as you sat on your behind.
I recall the day that Granddad, who stayed with us one summer,
made a trip to the shanty which proved to be a hummer.
'Twas the same day my Dad finished painting the kitchen green.
He'd just cleaned up the mess he'd made with rags and gasoline.
He tossed the rags in the shanty hole and went on his usual way,
not knowing that by doing so he would eventually rue the day.
Now Granddad had an urgent call; I never will forget!
This trip he made to the little house lingers in my memory yet.
He sat down on the shanty seat, with both feet on the floor,
then filled his pipe with tobacco and struck a match on the outhouse door.
As he took a long puff on his pipe, he slowly raised his behind,
tossed the flaming match in the open hole, with not a worry on his mind.
The blast that followed, I am sure was heard for miles around;
and there was poor ol' Granddad just sitting on the ground.
The smoldering pipe was still in his mouth, his suspenders he held tight;
the celebrated three-holer was blown clear out of sight.
When we asked him what had happened, his answer I'll never forget.
He thought it must of been something he had et!
Next day we had a new one which my Dad built with ease.
With a sign on the entrance door which read: No Smoking, Please!
Now that's the end of the story, with memories of long ago,
of the little house, behind the house where we went cause we had to go.
~ Author Unknown
