As children, we saw things much differently than we do now as adults, but the knowledge of years does little to change the feelings we have with our memories.  I can still feel the same feelings that I had as a child, remembering the experiences of my childhood.

           I grew up on a farm in Indiana in the years following World War II.  I remember those years as happy times, and I truly wish that all of our children could grow up in the world in which I did.  It was a safe and quiet world – a world with few bad guys to fear, and the security of a whole family, not a fragmented family or a single-parent household.  I had peach trees to climb (complete with bees), a cow trough to “swim” in (when the bull was out of sight), a creek in which to wade (crawdads and all), fresh cut hay to smell, and clover to make bouquets for my Mommy (if I could find any without honey bees).  In all, life was good during that time – with a minor exception or two.

           For instance, there was the outhouse, that little building out behind the house.  The little building with the half moon cut in the door.  We went out the door of the house, around the corner, and down to path to get to it.  As such facilities go, it was an elegant affair – a two-holer, complete with Penney’s catalog (which had a big toy section) and a candle.  My mother kept it scrupulously clean.  The only smells it ever had were of chlorine bleach and candle wax.  It was a chamber of horrors.

           First, I had to open the door and go in.  I stood there staring at the door, knowing I had to open it, knowing I had to go through it, trying to make my hand reach out and grasp the handle.  The little building stared at me, its evil half moon eye watching and waiting.

           “Maybe I’ll wait, “I thought.  But I had already waited, and I danced from foot to foot, trying to get up the nerve to open the door and enter.

           In a sudden burst of bravery (and the urgency of nature’s call), I grabbed the handle, yanked the door open, and rushed in.  I stood inside, whispering the Lord’s prayer (the only prayer I knew by heart), hoping I could see again fast, before anything could get me.  As my eyes adjusted to the dim light (I wasn’t allowed to use matches, so I couldn’t light the candle), I peered around.  The tiny room was like the maw of a huge beast.