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My grandmother had a rustic cabin near Lake Michigan, in what is now Whitefish Dunes State Park. What it lacked – running water, electricity and insulation – it more than made up for in solitude and natural beauty. There was a narrow meandering gravel footpath that led back through hemlock, cedar, Canada yew and thimbleberry to an old fashioned “two-holer.”

The outhouse had a slant-back roof and two tiny triangular windows on either side, up near the ceiling. Since you tend to answer “the call of nature” alone, the obvious question is, why a two-holer? As Grandma would put it, “You boys use that seat on the left.” The right side was hers. I guess she preferred her seat…pristine.

This photograph shows my grandmother’s cabin, which sat right where the kiosk is now at Whitefish Dunes State Park.

The outhouse was a lot more than just a potty. Red thumbtacks held up various and sundry ancient postcards, Christmas cards, clippings and tidbits of philosophy. There was also storage for a few implements: a hoe, shovel, rake, axe and scythe stood in the corner next to a large bag of lime.

But the best part was it provided daily solitary sojourns to a secluded place of contemplation and quiet. Twitters and tweets came only from such critters as warblers, and vireos. The small windows afforded a verdant view only to those on tiptoe. But the door, if left open, provided a panorama of woodland beauty. An occasional mosquito would drift in through the gaping entrance, hoping dinner might be occupying that wooden seat. An ample amount of exposed skin would welcome the intruder, which could be dispatched either by a swift swat, or it might be waylaid by one of our orb weaver spiders’ well placed webs.

Bumblebees had found access to a nesting site, right next to the door, through a small knothole in the floor. It was strange to hear the buzzing grow louder until the insect appeared and then disappeared into its hole. As a child I felt no particular kinship with bees. In fact, one had planted a certain amount of fear in me with its stinger. But somehow, in the outhouse this armed insect didn’t scare me. Rather it roused my curiosity a great deal. I couldn’t help wondering what it was doing under that floor, in particular. Bumblebees became more interesting than they were scary.

Another outhouse visitor was the familiar Harvestman, also known as daddy-long-legs. They’ve been around long enough to qualify as elders…showing up in well preserved fossils that are more than 400 million years old (they predate the dinosaurs by a couple hundred million years). Unlike their relatives, the spiders, which have two prominent body parts (cephalothorax and abdomen), these unique arachnids appear to have only one oval body part, and, unlike spiders, they produce neither web nor venom. Moving gracefully on eight incredibly long legs, one came through the door tap tap tapping, feeling its way along the floor. It found the remains of a mosquito I had swatted, and carried it out. Between the two of us, we’d invented fast food.

When you sit quietly for a while, you can’t help but notice that critters begin to emerge from hiding. The outhouse provided a sense of place, revealing some of nature’s mysteries. From that vantage point I became preoccupied with everyday life, as a wasp visited a flower, a startled squirrel peered over at me, or a chickadee would land in the doorway and quickly take off. Also I observed dramas of life and death such as the spider coming out to collect an insect in its web, or a snake “tasting” the breeze with its tiny tongue, for some hint of prey. For a brief time I was connected with the world around me. The privy made this possible. What a perfectly subtle way to help a young boy slow down and focus on some of the everyday magic of nature.

One of my fondest memories of the old outhouse was being there during a rain. The only sounds were rhythmic pattering and dripping, added to the steady sibilant soughing sound of nearby Lake Michigan. The drenched and dripping hemlocks and cedars, the intense shades of green, and a feeling of aloneness gelled into a sublime solitude, which could aptly be described as a spiritual experience.

In this era of relentless communication: Facebook, cell phones, smart phones, text messaging, etc., more than ever, we need special places to regularly retreat and spend time alone. Don’t get me wrong… I’m not suggesting bringing back the two-holer. What I am suggesting is a special place to regularly visit for brief periods…a corner of a backyard, a gnarled old cedar, or a small shelter with a chair. A lady near Baileys Harbor kept a lawn chair sitting in the middle of her property, where she would go to observe, meditate, write or just sit. It’s now a Door County Land Trust site known fittingly as “Solitude.” Thank you, Kate.

I‘m grateful for those valuable experiences as a kid, where the “shining big sea water” meets the shore. I still love to go periodically to secluded places to pay attention to the nuances of nature, to meditate, to get beyond the clutter of modern living and enter the “real world” for brief periods – to quietly contemplate one small corner of the universe.