When we bought our house in 1969, beginning 4 decades of fixing and renovating, there was a modest two-holer outhouse, "out back." It was insulated with white-washed, corrugated cardboard nailed to the inside of the clapboard. That insulation wasn't very effective on bitter cold January nights. It was on one of these nights that a former owner, Harry Crossen, died. According to Donald Beamish, a neighbour and rescuer, Harry's body had fallen against the outhouse door, which swung in. This made retrieving Harry awkward and time-consuming. The side of Harry's face was solidly frozen to the door, Donald recounted, and required prying with a spade to loosen it. Donald also noted that Harry looked quite himself when he was laid out in the parlour for his wake.
When time came to remove the outhouse, we first removed the cardboard. Behind one piece we found a few scraps of Eaton's Catalogue which had not found their way into the pit. They had some pencil scrawling on them which has only recently been deciphered.. Before you think this might be a ghost story, I assure you the writings had nothing to do with the circumstances of Harry's death and although the voice comes from beyond the grave it is not a malevolent one.
The first piece consists of only the last five lines of what was obviously a searing love poem. I call it,
"Love Poem, Unbegun."
............
They're luscious just to gaze upon,
And now Dear Sarah that is it,
My thoughts have wandered quite a bit,
It's just as well you're not here now,
I have to go---------- and, milk the cow.
The next poem we call,
"Why I lie here as I do."
The ox what gored me must have thought
that in his yard I shouldn't ought
to have been running so unclad
to rescue from our little lad
the cat which he had strung aloft
above the empty old hay-loft.
He hadn't tied the line 'round Kit
but stuffed her right in old basket
and rope up over beam he threw
as Kit to greater heights he drew
and I was witness to the deed
from window which the barn o'ersee'd.
So wanting not to waste a step
the barnyard fence I deftly leapt
forgetting that the yard was home
to ugly ox we called Jerome.
I never saw his startled face
so caught up was I in the race
to reach the lad and make him stop
before the basket reached the top.
When tough old horn met weak old flank
perhaps he thought I should him thank
for helping me move swiftly on
to heights and speeds I'd never gone
but thoughts like that just never came
while yelling curse in ox's name.
It's mostly turned out quite alright
our Kit was rescued from her fright.
The lad's been punished as is fit
(Manure from oxen smells a bit)
and while I lie here as I do
Jerome is down there lying too.
Copyright 2010 Stargeazer
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