Alaskan Escapades: The Adventures of Danger Gurl

The Mysterious Case of the Flying Privy

Everyone has one. That unique relative that is the one last to laugh at a table joke, but laughs the loudest. She's plaid when everyone is stripes, she's short haired when all others are long, and loud when others are quiet. She is always laughing, always there, and never short of a good story. In our family, her name was Aunt Maxine, but she insisted on being called Aunt Max. 

 Aunt Max could really tell a story. She was our family's oral historian. She knew every name, every birthday, every birth weight, which person was left handed (because she was), and every detail of every life. I loved when Aunt Max visited and she usually stayed for weeks at a time. We'd hike, pick flowers, and she'd teach me the names of every herb, plant, and weed in the forest. Best of all, she taught me how to tell stories too. Aunt Max didn't waste a breath or thought on fiction. Her's were stories of family, friends, love, and funny moments and this story was one of my favorites. It happened shortly after my Papal and my Gran were married during a typical Alaskan Springtime. I'll share it here at high risk of spoiling the quality of the yarn by committing it to print. 

As I believe that I have said, it was springtime in Alaska. The flowers were starting to pop out like rashes of color on the black and white of winter and all of the animals were beginning to venture into this new cornucopia of life. I must point out to my friends of the lower 48, that this was both a wonderful time and time to not let one's guard down. Bears are waking and having been robbed of months of eating, they are generally up for solving this problem a quickly as possible. We seldom left the house without protection and my Papal was not a man that went around unprotected anyway. Papal was also an early riser. He would wake at the crack of dawn and stand stretching his muscles on the front porch then head out for his morning constitutional (as he liked to put it). This morning was no different. Aunt Max had come the day before and he was going to get the morning started before everyone stirred. 

I feel obliged to point out another thing. Though Papal and Gran were not poor, their house did not have indoor plumbing. It had a couple bedrooms, but one walked up the path to a tiny one-hole privy to do one's business. It's how we liked it, and that didn't change till long into my later childhood. We carried water from a well and didn't really think too much about it. 

On this morning, my Papal stood on his porch and stretched his sleepy frame. He was happy to gain a moment of peaceful solitude and readied himself for the walk up the path. I can see him standing there much the same way as when I knew him not overly tall, nor overly muscled. My Papal was a solid man, muscles taut and hands that showed the scars of years of fishing. Battered from handling many lines and a bit bulgy at the knuckles that had been broken and healed over the years. He yawned a few times and stepped off the porch towards the path. 

 Now Papal had one habit that Gran insisted was abominable. He never quite made it all the way to the privy on these walks. There were many trees and he had a few favorites that he liked to "contribute to". Before you judge him too sharply, however, realize that our closest neighbors were an hour's hard drive away and he was a good man with few faults. 

 He walked almost the full distance to the privy this morning and found a quiet spot to "contemplate" his day. After checking for bears, he proceeded to get busy...a process that included him dropping pants and taking on a less than defendable position. He was well along in his solitude when a sound came out of nowhere, startling him. 

 "Well hello there mister stinky," the disembodied voice said. 

Now one at this point one would naturally find this a bit disquieting while one was busy doing one's contemplation and Papal jumped not totally knowing where the voice was coming from. 

 For all my urban friends, I would like to pause here and point out that trees have a tendency to mask sounds. In the quiet of the morning, it can be somewhat troubling to tell just where a sound is coming from. My Papal was having this problem. He jumped up and spun around trying to determine whether he'd heard, what he'd heard or was he still just dreaming. 

"Now why'd you go and do that there," the voice rang out once again, "now go on...get out of here. Can't you see I'm busy?" 

 The sound of something heavy being thrown and banging against a tree rang out. Suddenly a blur of fur came bounding down the pathway directly towards him. Now Papal is not the excitable type with years of fishing. It left him a steady and thoughtful man, but during springtime in Alaska, one does not just wait around and think when the fur flies and pants are hanging down around ankles. 

 What happened next though is still hotly debated at the Sunday dinner table to this very day. I shall do my best to sort through these tales astutely and give you the proper picture. According to my Papal, a huge bear came flying at him from nowhere and he only had seconds to react before becoming breakfast. He grabbed his gun and fired a warning shot in the air. To the credit of his side of the story, this does usually send most bears packing in another direction and nary another round is wasted on the event. However, this time, the entire privy came bounding down the path next and crashed into splinters just feet beyond him. 

 Now according to Aunt Max, she'd also been up early to gain some quiet time in the privy when all this started. I feel obligated at this point to share that my Aunt Max was somewhat afraid of cramped spaces. She would block open the privy door so that she didn't feel so closed in (according to her). 

 She'd been minding her own business when a large and "rather nosey" raccoon decided to join her in her morning endeavor. This, according to her, was a friendly but unwelcome invasion of her space and she was going to tell the creature off and no two words would be confused. When she did, however, she found that the privy was suddenly being riddled with bullets. Not knowing why, she decided to take immediate action and head for cover. 

 I am afraid that I must stop here and share one more small but significant detail that I've left amiss. That is that Aunt Max was...well, max. She was not to be confused with a small woman by anyone's definition. She was "well settled", as she liked to call it, and when she decided to exit our privy...well, the privy simply had to give way. 

 Papal called it the law of gross tonnage. A larger vessel has the right of way on the water and the smaller simply must...well, move...and move that privy did. Aunt Max's skirt caught the run-down privy directly in the hardware as she left through the open doorway. Aunt Max, her skirt, the privy, and rolls of toilet paper came flying down the pathway towards my Papal in a matter of mere seconds. 

 In the end, regardless of who's story was truly the correct version of events, everyone came out with something. Papal had a new story to tell down on the docks, Aunt Maxine got a new skirt, and we all got a brand new cement brick privy. The fancy privy stood there even in my days many of years later. 

 So goes the tale of the flying privy or the story of the angry bear attack. However, you decide to consider it or whichever side you take. In any event, so went the poor, old and rotted privy. May it rest in peace...or pieces.