The outhouse at our cottage was like most outdoor toilets at cottages all across Canada. It was painted bright white to give the impression of being clean and sanitary. But this outhouse had something different hidden within. Instead of a hole in the ground beneath the seat, our outhouse had an empty forty-five-gallon drum. The drum was to be removed and emptied when full—eliminating the hassle of relocating the building and digging a new hole when the old one became full.
This idea was my father’s brainchild.
After mental calculations—which I’m sure involved Einstein’s theory of relativity, chaos theory, and quantum physics—Dad figured that the drum would take at least two years to fill.
One weekend we headed up north to the cottage and discovered that Dad had erred in his calculations. It had been just two months since he’d installed the tank, but it was already overflowing. We had horrifying visions of bailing out the contents of the barrel, but much to our surprise Dad said this wouldn’t be necessary. He said everything was “under control.”
Now, when Dad was discharged from the army at the end of the Second World War, he was permitted to retain his Lee Enfield 303 rifle. For what purpose I’m not sure, unless his commanders foresaw the dilemma that was to befall him in the summer of 1960.
I had never known Dad to use a rifle. So when I saw him working the bolt action and inserting a shell into the chamber, I was intrigued. (I was an eleven-year-old boy; anything that involved guns was interesting.) My mother and my three brothers and I gathered on the porch and watched as Dad made his way, weapon in hand, to the small white building in the bush.
Dad’s plan was to puncture the barrel in several strategic places, permitting the liquid portion of the contents to drain away. According to his new calculations, this remedy would permit us to use the system until next summer.
By this time we’d gathered near the front of the outhouse to watch his act of genius. Dad entered the building, lifted the seat, and brought the weapon to his shoulder. Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger a gust of wind swung the outhouse door closed, engulfing him in darkness.
The 303’s report was strong enough to rattle the door on its hinges, but it didn’t open until Dad pushed it from the inside.
He staggered out of the tiny building with his hands covering his ears, moaning something about a ringing sound and a stinging in his eyes.
He was covered head to toe.
None of us had the courage to go near Dad; in fact we all backed away as he lurched—stunned and stinking—around in the bush. Mom, who had to yell to be heard above the ringing in Dad’s ears, directed him to the lake where he removed his clothing and washed.
The outhouse, which had been plastered with artwork and pink newspaper clippings, was ruined. The pink Toronto Telegram pages were no longer pink. A major refit was in order—a job eventually assigned to Dad.
We ended up moving the outhouse the next weekend, and Dad never tried shooting in enclosed spaces again. As a matter of fact, I don’t think Dad fired a rifle for the rest of his life.
Calgary, Alberta
(submitted by his mom, Gladys Sandland of Newcastle, Ontario)