November 19th

The Long Awaited Drop

    

     Have you a favorite day of observance?  I've discovered November 19th is "World Toilet Day" commemorating something close to my heart (and other vital organs).  Unlike "World Wood Day", "Towel Day" or "International Pneumonia Day", the day of the 'privy', 'loo', 'dunny', 'john', and 'porcelain throne' has a special hold on me.  This grip is rivaled perhaps only by the likes of "Mother's Day" or "Fourth of July".

    Recent events have encouraged me to share the celebration.  The coincidental timing of the November date with a huge toilet event in my life was a golden opportunity I couldn't bypass. 

     
    As an observant child, I tended to notice in detail a great deal of the world around me.  Anything in the bathroom was a category all its own, but the toilet was the mysterious hub around which the rest of the room of privacy revolved.

    If it didn’t function properly, the entire household was thrown in to a near panic.  If it was dirty, it needed cleaning but not like the dishes in the kitchen sink or the laundry in the hamper.  It needed special cleaning with special cleansers and its very own scrubber…housed in its very own little cage.  Wearing rubber gloves while cleaning the toilet was mandatory.  I supposed that was because it was so special, we didn’t want to get peanut butter and jelly or some kind of sticky or dirt on it.

     Summers I would live with grandparents on the farm.  That toilet usually worked well but there were strange reddish brown streaks down into the bowl.  No matter how hard grandma scrubbed, they never went away completely.  ‘Hard water’ she called those marks.  That had me puzzled.  I knew about hard water but it was really cold and if you slipped on it outside, you’d fall on your – part that goes on the toilet. 

     Whatever that ‘hard’ stuff in our toilet was that irritated grandma so, it was better than what the neighbors had.  They didn’t even have any place for hard water marks!  Whenever we were going over to Claribel’s house I would ready myself by using our toilet before we left.  If you had to go to the bathroom there, it was outside the main house in what appeared to be a little bitty tall skinny playhouse.  Stepping in to that aroma and chiefly unfurnished little structure was telling.  It was no playhouse.  It was dark and scary for a little person.   The dim in there was broken with only little evenly spaced craggy vertical lines of daylight peeking through the wall boards and that one weird shaped hole way up high on the door.  The big sittin’ hole in the only bit of furniture sure looked a lot deeper than the toilet at home.  If I fell in at grandma’s I might get wet, but at Claribel’s I might not get found again!

     
     When I was quite young (2^nd grade), my dad started taking me to work with him on weekends.  His second job was Night Audit at motels and hotels around town.  After an early evening nap, it was no-bedtime-up-all-night Fridays and Saturdays.  He would have me stay with him at the desk for about half the night, teaching me all sorts of grown up skills: making change for customers, answering the switchboard, etc..

      I could usually manage to stay awake past 2:30 a.m. when the restaurant and bar would close and we were the only two in the community areas.  That was my time to explore.  I poked around, finding everything from ice cream in the coffee shop freezers to the funny looking brushes sticking up in the sinks in the bar.  Pretty much whatever wasn’t locked, I checked out.  That included the men’s room where hung the strangest looking thing to wash your hands.  It was lower, I guessed for kids, but the faucets were elusive.   I accepted dad’s answer regarding the odd fixture, but later still wondered why boys had to have such things only when they were away from home.  Dad and grandpa either didn’t pee at home or they found the regular toilet sufficient. 

      One of the lodgings where dad worked and took me was the largest downtown hotel.  For a short time, they charged everyone (including the staff) to use the bathrooms.  Like a vending machine, a coin had to be dropped and the dial turned to open the door to the stall.  And just like a vending machine, they would often malfunction and disallow access to the vital receptacle.  These things irritated dad intensely.  They caused him delays getting in and out quickly.  Not only did it take too long to get back to tending the front desk, bookwork, and cash drawer, but there was no end of displeased customers’ complaints directed his way.  Additionally it created a foul smelling and filthy mess, as some of the uninhibited pub patrons would simply use the sink or the floor if their inebriation blocked their ability to figure out how to access the relief stations.  Dad quickly caught on to the solution.  When first arriving at work, he would take the tape dispenser to both bathrooms, open the stalls with coins from the petty cash drawer and then tape the latches open so people could freely access them.  It didn’t take management long to see the pitfalls of their hopeless cash cow.  Coin toiletry was soon removed.

   
     Many find it a distasteful topic on which to dwell but the darned things are an essential part of our lives, with surprising interesting historical aspects and mechanical elements.  Most of us take it for granted and don’t focus a lot on the receptacle.  The originators of our modern facility eventually perfected it to the point where we don’t have to, unless it becomes “out of order”.  Since 1596 the flushing toilet’s popularity has grown, augmented in the mid 1800’s largely by an English fellow.  As destiny would have it, a sanitary engineer named Thomas Crapper promoted the field of sanitation plumbing and held several toilet related royal warrants (patents).[1]  His name has been attributed to being the springboard of the modern slang, but the term “crapper” is of a Middle English, Dutch, Old French, and Medieval Latin mixture.  The first reference to ‘crap’ as bodily waste dates to 1846 where Oxford English Dictionary referred to the privy as a ‘crapping ken’ – ‘ken’ meaning a house.[2]

      Water closet or the “WC” seems to be universally understood as the closet sized room with the water.  That term first appeared 1755, and thanks to the spread of the British Empire, is understood many places the world over as the toilet.  The “Loo” is also a term typically used by the Brits.  Argument for the French influence on its etymology is compelling with the warning “Regardez le leau”(“look for the water”) being hollered out city apartment windows when the chamber pot contents were cast onto the street. 

     Before the wonders of the porcelain bowl, ancient civilizations desirous of having clean living circumstances, contrived elaborate structures.  The wealthiest of the Incas had long single entry stone rooms about 15 ft. by 5 ft. with a trough or ditch down the middle for the water to be let in to wash away the waste.  At the opposite end from the entry was a stone bench with the seating hole.  The flushings would travel from under the bench, presumably running down the mountain into, or near terraced fields.  The Romans during their Empire built similar structures, but they were more inclusive of the larger population.  Like the great public baths of notoriety, their lavatories were of a communal nature also.

    
    In modern times, there are toilets around the world varying in style from our own home version.  Some remote parts of central Asia in Tibet actually use portables.  They are grassy little shacks made predominantly of reeds. Mounted on a wheeled contraption, they resemble a three-wheeled relative of the rickshaw.  I’m confident the contents are utilized as they find a purpose for everything.  Nothing is wasted.  On a little travelled road, our small group stopped to admire a great Buddha carved into the hillside.  I asked our guide about when the next restroom would be available.  I thought he understood English pretty well, but when he pointed to the Tibetan ‘portapotty’ I expressed my doubt.  He responded with his high spirited laugh, assuring me I could take advantage of that if I wished.  Anyone was welcome to contribute to the “food for mountain” (fertilizer).  A shaky looking outhouse on wheels caused me to envision great disaster.  I could wait until the next stop.

      Tibet’s ‘Big Brother’, mainland China, is gradually providing Western toilets in their restaurants and public facilities.  And proud they are of these modern advances.  Their very pleasant smiling features may announce when you walk in the door, “Thank you so much for coming.  We provide for you one hundred eighty dumpling”.  This greeting may be extended with gesturing in the appropriate direction, “And this way we have for you Western toilet.”  They are very hospitable people, and this is a sure sign of accommodating their guests.

      The Western variety is in the minority though and don’t necessarily work very well.  The common toilet for the urban Chinese woman is a small step up where there awaits a pair of evenly spaced stationary porcelain ‘skis’ with uneven tread.  She places a foot on each ski.  Between and below these rails is a cavernous maw of slosh awaiting the offerings. 

    This design seems to predate women wearing pants and I determined it must be workable only for younger women without weakened arthritic knees or ankles.  Except for the availability of toilet paper, it’s reminiscent of squatting in the underbrush alongside a field on the farm.  (Just hang on tight to any belongings you might take in with you.  The slosh accepts any sacrifices!) 

   
     Much further North and West in Russian cities¸ the toilet mechanisms were very much like our American ones.  The biggest difference was what appeared to be the ‘handicap rule’.  I would queue up waiting my turn in the restroom line at a restaurant or the airport.  A native, spotting my cane, invariably won me a quick no-nonsense escort past the waiting line and directly to the handicap stall, always left available for those whom the facility was designated.  I wished I could have told them how remarkable I found this behavior.  I had to be content with ‘thank you very much’ in Russian – which they always seemed to appreciate from an American tourist.

    
    ‘Down Under’ the Aussies and Kiwis have combined the best of all worlds.  Nearly everywhere there is a tiny step up in to the bathroom, about 1 ½ to 2 inches.  This seems to facilitate quick and easy cleaning of the entire room as there is a very slight slope to the central floor drain, where the washing is swept and gone.  It took a few stubbed toes and stumbles to get used to the elevated bathroom floors, but it seems a very efficient sanitation strategy. 

    As for the ‘dunny’ itself, my first encounter should have been videoed.  Before travelling there, friends had suggested I check out the spin direction of draining water.  I was told water would spin counter to the northern hemisphere’s direction.  I tripped in to the bathroom the first evening and landed on the toilet seat, cracking it.  I managed to get my business done and stood peering down in to the extra deep bowl with its square drainage hole.  Finding no handle to depress, I supposed one of those buttons on the tank top must be the device.  I planned on breaking nothing else as I was braced, waiting to see the opposite spin.  With my curiosity growing at how a ‘spin’ would work in a squared bowl, I chose a button and pushed. 

    The bowl was instantly awash in a tremendous fountain of four powerful geysers, one from each side, rising up to the seat then falling to attack its prey.  No mercy or hesitation was shown.  Startled, I bolted upright and backward with the sink blocking what might have otherwise been a fall in to the bathtub!  While I wiped the trace splashes from my face, I found in only a few short seconds the battle was finished.  The uprising had been quieted, with the ‘enemy’ vanquished and gone.  I was pleasantly amazed that anything could work so well.  I borrowed the “Crocodile Dundee” movie line regarding his knife – “Now that’s a toilet!”        

  
     I've not traveled with the purpose of researching the iterations of the W.C..  After a lifetime of tinkering, warily watching, and helping the lazy things drain themselves, I have developed an acute appreciation for a properly functioning fixture.  My accumulated observations since childhood have directed my interest when encountering toilets.

    When I was not much taller than the plunger handle, I learned to recognize signs of malfunction.  Holding down the handle for a few seconds could predict the extra measures needed, if any.  The bowl contents would start up slowly at first, the spin gaining momentum until finally there was enough impetus to make that final choking and gurgling disappearance.  That was when all went well.

     For the other times, a welcome convenience would be a pail in the vicinity of the nearby bathtub for a fill ‘n pour maneuver in into the bowl to give everything a push.  Other useful equipment is the plunger, and a healthy supply of towels…in case use of the above was not choreographed smoothly.

     After all the plunging and re-flushing efforts have failed, frustration intensifies.  These are inanimate objects, but after serial malfunctions from the offender, threats arise, ‘I’m telling you now - - Don’t make me take off that tank lid!’  That is when all those warrants of Mr. Tom Crapper hit the fan.  The chain rattles.  The flapper gets pushed, raised and pushed down again.  Oh!– there’s something inviting a screwdriver.  Do the fill ‘n pour in to the tank because it fills too slowly to start the whole routine over again.  A fresh flush would be needed to see if all this fussing has done any good.  I have at times done my best band-aiding and jury rigging with paper clips, wire coat hangers, corks, and rubber dog toys (sorry Fido).  Every so often, one of my ‘adjustments’ does quite well.  I believe the longevity record for my inner tank handiwork stands at about eight years.

       
     I once heard someone on the radio comment on how many months or years out of an average urban American’s life is spent sitting at stop lights.  The inference was that stopping at red lights was irretrievable time lost.  A traffic signal is only encountered those days when one is driving in an area where there are active lights.  And even then, the law abiding or lucky among us can often catch many of those green, thereby not accumulating time wasted.  Whether or not you drive, in or out of the city,  no matter who or where you are, if visits to the biffy are not part of absolutely EVERY DAY of your life - - you should go to the doctor and get that checked out. The point being everyone uses the toilet every day.
    The gauntlet thrown down, I had to do some figuring.

    In my current home of twenty years, Step One of the flushing routine has been to get the dog’s water bucket.  The bathroom door location for this tool is dual purposed.  It is conveniently located for flushing and refilling(for both the dogs and the next attention to the 'throne').  It is braced on one knee to start the pour into the bowl while simultaneously pushing the handle.  Usually this completes the flush and then it’s off to the bathtub to refill the bucket.  This process takes about one and a half minutes.  If the above doesn’t quite complete the task, Step Two with the plunger must be employed.  That will get everything out of the bowl, but I just don’t trust the questionable degree of angle on that big pipe running across the basement toward the septic.  So I give it an extra push with another bucket of water and another fill for the dogs.  (They have always had multiple bucketfuls of fresh drinking water every day.)  Step two adds a little more than a minute to the process, making one toilet flush conceivably three minutes in duration.

    Depending on one’s general health and what was recently consumed, a frequency count might be from six to a dozen visits every day.  For myself, I’ll split the difference and go with nine.  Accounting for workdays, and weekends, my home flush count for one week would be about thirty two.  Skipping a flush now and then knocks that back to twenty.  These misses result from being really pressed for time to get somewhere or being particularly annoyed at the Loo-imposed bondage.

    As I try to get away from home whenever I can, I used only forty nine weeks for the yearly calculations .  What should be a two second push of a handle as you’re heading for the door, has cost me a grand total of 613 hours in the past twenty years. ~ ~ And my husband wonders what I do with all my spare time. 

    
    My latest escape took me to Alaska.  Indoor plumbing there is common in the bigger towns.  Getting away from the urban areas is pretty easy…unavoidable actually.  Most of the state is rural and wilderness, but there are little gatherings of people.  Villages and communities all over utilize Claribel’s farm version of the toilet.  They call it the “long drop”.  Due to piping distances and permafrost, this is the norm.  Folks there are used to lack of plumbing.  Some who have moved away from the bigger towns seem to enjoy not having to clean and fix toilets.  One young lady even told me it was “liberating” not to have that mess anywhere inside her house.

     As I began comparing my situation with theirs, I wondered if it would really be so bad having a “long drop” and getting rid of the poor set up at home.  I supposed it would be contrary to city ordinance to have an outhouse next to our deck, but long flights give rise to imaginative creations.  With nothing better to do at thirty-three thousand feet, I thought of calling that toll free “I’m-gonna-dig” number and get the safe spot marked.  We might put up a privacy fence so the neighbors couldn’t see the digging.  The dirt could be secreted away at night and the final building would be explained as a utility shed.

    Arrival at the hometown airport was late.  Both my husband and daughter were waiting with their separate vehicles.  This seemed like an excessive welcome but I was glad to have been missed.  My husband and I took my mom and travelling companion home first.  As we continued the night’s zig zag across town, I thought it would be nice to stop for a little nip of “welcome home” cheer.

    My suspicions hatched as he hummed and hawed over that idea.  He finally confessed that our daughter would be waiting at our house. 

     “Didn’t she have a twelve hour workday today?  She wouldn’t be at our house.  She’s tired. She’ll be at her house by now,”  was my argument.

    “No, no.  She should be waiting for us.”

    I seemed to have missed something, so decided to attribute it to my fatigue.  Some of the gifts I had purchased wouldn’t arrive for a few more days, but I could give her things I packed in my suitcase so she wouldn’t be hanging out for nothing.

   
    We walked in to the frantic dancing of a very excited dog… and some bathroom items scattered about the living room.  The bathroom door was shut.  I chattered incessantly about the trip, the flight, and the souvenirs.  I interjected a comment about the misplaced bathroom items.  The response was that our dog couldn’t be trusted in the bathroom.  He would get in to things.  I knew he occasionally rifled through the waste basket but why would these other items be set out?

    My non-stop ramblings resumed as they patiently listened.  Finally, after twenty or thirty minutes, I had to utilize the dog’s water bucket.  Opening the door, I found the light on…but…wait.

     
    What was I about to walk on?  This was not my bathroom floor.  My floor was riddled with termite holes covered over with discarded cookie sheets and lumpy throw rugs.  This was new, smoothe, and sporting a large bow of sparkling ribbon!  My gaze moving upward took in a great helium ‘Spongebob’ birthday balloon sitting on – on – on NOT my sink, nestled in NOT my cabinet.  I was dumbstruck speechless, probably with my jaw hanging open.  There was a new floor, sink, cabinet, balloon, and two sparkling bows. 

    Not to be left out, there was a sparkling bow on the new seat and lid of the vigorously scrubbed clean toilet.  I could tell right away the seat had been replaced.  There had been a wooden one that I was planning to get rid of because it was coming apart and pinching the backs of legs with its splitting grain.  I peeled up the ribbon and opened the new white plastic lid. 

    At last a comment, “Oh the new lid is perfect.  I was planning on ditching that old one…Oh my gosh, you guys really got those hard water stains cleaned out!  Grandma would be envious.  How did you get it  so .. perfectly ..  clean down there?  ….how   did   the    shape   of    the …

                                                                     IS THIS A NEW TOILET!?!?”

  
     Yes, it was all new, a most magnificent birthday present!  I told them of my “dream long drop” and they related some of the progression of the bathroom re-do.  It didn’t start out to be as encompassing as it ended, but one thing led to another.  My daughter explained that when they got the floor out she realized the extent of the job.  She wondered if they could just put it all back and get me a manicure instead!

   Old habits can die hard and it has taken me a couple months to feel it is okay not to hover, ensuring the disposal completion.  I have grown comfortable enough to play a little game of pushing the handle and getting out of the bathroom before the flush’s final cough (I do still listen though).  Today I am awed that I can join millions of Americans.  I too can spend two seconds to press the handle and head for the door.

  
    The only one not impressed is the dog.  Now he has to remind me to freshen and refill his bucket of water.

   

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[1] Hart-Davis, Adam, "Thomas Crapper, Fact and Fiction”, from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
[2] "World Wide Words" from Wikipedia