These cool, uh, cold, October nights we've been experiencing bring back memories of the MOI that occurred oh so many years ago in Wisconsin Rapids. MOI stands for "Miller Outhouse Incident."
As far as I can recall, there weren't very many outhouses in the city at that time, but for some reason or other, the Millers did not have indoor plumbing nor was their home electrified. The family didn't have much to do with anyone in the neighborhood. They were, however, cordial and mainly kept to themselves. Everywhere they went they walked, for they had no automobile. Whenever they went shopping, they wheeled a cart downtown and returned with it, fully stocked.
They lived only two houses east of us on the northwest corner of Wisconsin and Eleventh Streets. A rather old, white-haired couple, the Millers had one teenage son, Richard, who everyone called "Dickie." Dickie was much older than we.
We kids would often sight individual Milller family members either take his or her leisurely time as she or he made her or his way from their home's back door to the little out building in the rear of the large garden. They were excellent gardeners.
Sometimes, we kids would laugh as one Miller would make a beeline flight for the little building. We figured he or she had the dirty hurries or else must've avoided nature's call for some reason or other, and now it was run, or else.
During warm, sunny, summer months, the Millers peeled off their clothes and lay down on towels as if they were on a beach somewhere in Europe, most likely, we figured, France.
That's when Bobby Kell, a year older than I, came running over to our house in order to spread the news. "The Millers are butt-naked," he'd say. Bobby and his older brother, Jimmy, lived on Baker Street. They had two younger sisters, "Hen House" Helen and Betty Ann. The Kells' backyard was adjacent to the Millers' backyard. We could stand in the rear of Kell's garage and lean over the fence that separated the yards and touch that outhouse.
Actually, we had to stand behind the skeleton of an old car that was at the rear of Kell's garage. That old car provided us a plenty of fun. Sometimes, we'd make believe it was a race car and we'd go, "Vroom, vroom, vroom," turning the steering wheel, here and there. At other times it became a Sherman tank and we'd "rat-a-tat-tat" as we shot down Nazi or Jap warplanes although we had won both wars some time ago.
To the rear of that car was the Miller outhouse and another larger building adjacent to it on the west side, a shed of sorts, where in front and on the ground the Millers chose to lay naked on nice summer days.
The shed was the same color grey as was their outhouse, for neither bore any remnants of paint. However, some boards that made up the shed's siding had at least a quarter of an inch of space between them. Looking in those spaces, we'd muffle our giggles to our hearts' content while we watched the three naked Millers.
At the time, I was hanging out with the Danielson brothers, Paul, who was my age, and his year younger brother, Glen. Paul was a fellow classmate at Howe School annex. The Kells attended SS. Peter & Paul Catholic grade school. We public school students called them "Cat-lickers." Although we Smullens were half-Irish and half-Italian and Catholics, to boot, Dad insisted that his offspring attend public school.
Bobby Kell bragged to us that he and his brother, Jimmy, were planning to tip over the Miller outhouse in three nights exactly. Later, with Bobby gone, the Danielsons and I decided we'd beat the Kells to their pushover by one night, precisely.
That specific night was a cool, dark, October night. First, we decided to relieve some neighbor's apple tree from a few apples before we reconnoitered our target. We climbed to the roof of our garage in order to make certain there was no Miller family member in the outhouse. We figured they must've been in bed because all their kerosene lamps had been doused.
We waited. And we waited some more. Then, after we finished with at least two apples each, we agreed that no one in the Miller household was going to use the outdoor john. It was time to make our move.
As if we were members of some guerilla unit, we decided to approach the outhouse directly, avoiding going over any fence. As we made our way through the Millers' garden, we heard nearby dogs bark and howl. Scared out of our wits, we halted. We stood there as if we were cast angelic statues in a cemetery. The dogs quieted down.
We made it to the building's rear and the three of us pushed as hard as we could. The outhouse tipped slightly but it did not tip all the way over. "Should we go?" I asked, wanting to get out of there.
"No," Paul said. "We've agreed to push it over, and we're gonna stay here until we push it over."
"I'll open its door," said Glen, taller and heavier than either Paul or I, "and I'll pull. You guys push."
"Okay," agreed Paul.
I wanted to get out of there but nevertheless accompanied Paul to the john's rear. Glen was stationed at the front. "Push," he whispered. We pushed. "Harder," Glen urged as he pulled and grunted. Remarkably, the building went over with hardly a sound.
"Don't fall in," Paul laughingly warned in a whisper before we rushed back to the apple tree and then to the roof of our garage. Not one kerosene lamp was lighted. In time, we agreed it was late and we'd better return to our respective homes, the dirty deed accomplished. Anyway, we had finished with the apples and agreed to act innocent the next day.
So, whom did the cops visit early the next morning and both accuse and question? You guessed it: The Kells.
Although Bobby and Jimmy had an inkling as to who performed the dastardly deed, they did not snitch us out. Thankfully.
What a time all of us had, laughing while the Kells told us over and over about the cops' visit. It was fun being a kid back then, but not so much fun for the Millers. Soon after MOI, they had indoor plumbing installed in their home.
As far as I can recall, there weren't very many outhouses in the city at that time, but for some reason or other, the Millers did not have indoor plumbing nor was their home electrified. The family didn't have much to do with anyone in the neighborhood. They were, however, cordial and mainly kept to themselves. Everywhere they went they walked, for they had no automobile. Whenever they went shopping, they wheeled a cart downtown and returned with it, fully stocked.
They lived only two houses east of us on the northwest corner of Wisconsin and Eleventh Streets. A rather old, white-haired couple, the Millers had one teenage son, Richard, who everyone called "Dickie." Dickie was much older than we.
We kids would often sight individual Milller family members either take his or her leisurely time as she or he made her or his way from their home's back door to the little out building in the rear of the large garden. They were excellent gardeners.
Sometimes, we kids would laugh as one Miller would make a beeline flight for the little building. We figured he or she had the dirty hurries or else must've avoided nature's call for some reason or other, and now it was run, or else.
During warm, sunny, summer months, the Millers peeled off their clothes and lay down on towels as if they were on a beach somewhere in Europe, most likely, we figured, France.
That's when Bobby Kell, a year older than I, came running over to our house in order to spread the news. "The Millers are butt-naked," he'd say. Bobby and his older brother, Jimmy, lived on Baker Street. They had two younger sisters, "Hen House" Helen and Betty Ann. The Kells' backyard was adjacent to the Millers' backyard. We could stand in the rear of Kell's garage and lean over the fence that separated the yards and touch that outhouse.
Actually, we had to stand behind the skeleton of an old car that was at the rear of Kell's garage. That old car provided us a plenty of fun. Sometimes, we'd make believe it was a race car and we'd go, "Vroom, vroom, vroom," turning the steering wheel, here and there. At other times it became a Sherman tank and we'd "rat-a-tat-tat" as we shot down Nazi or Jap warplanes although we had won both wars some time ago.
To the rear of that car was the Miller outhouse and another larger building adjacent to it on the west side, a shed of sorts, where in front and on the ground the Millers chose to lay naked on nice summer days.
The shed was the same color grey as was their outhouse, for neither bore any remnants of paint. However, some boards that made up the shed's siding had at least a quarter of an inch of space between them. Looking in those spaces, we'd muffle our giggles to our hearts' content while we watched the three naked Millers.
At the time, I was hanging out with the Danielson brothers, Paul, who was my age, and his year younger brother, Glen. Paul was a fellow classmate at Howe School annex. The Kells attended SS. Peter & Paul Catholic grade school. We public school students called them "Cat-lickers." Although we Smullens were half-Irish and half-Italian and Catholics, to boot, Dad insisted that his offspring attend public school.
Bobby Kell bragged to us that he and his brother, Jimmy, were planning to tip over the Miller outhouse in three nights exactly. Later, with Bobby gone, the Danielsons and I decided we'd beat the Kells to their pushover by one night, precisely.
That specific night was a cool, dark, October night. First, we decided to relieve some neighbor's apple tree from a few apples before we reconnoitered our target. We climbed to the roof of our garage in order to make certain there was no Miller family member in the outhouse. We figured they must've been in bed because all their kerosene lamps had been doused.
We waited. And we waited some more. Then, after we finished with at least two apples each, we agreed that no one in the Miller household was going to use the outdoor john. It was time to make our move.
As if we were members of some guerilla unit, we decided to approach the outhouse directly, avoiding going over any fence. As we made our way through the Millers' garden, we heard nearby dogs bark and howl. Scared out of our wits, we halted. We stood there as if we were cast angelic statues in a cemetery. The dogs quieted down.
We made it to the building's rear and the three of us pushed as hard as we could. The outhouse tipped slightly but it did not tip all the way over. "Should we go?" I asked, wanting to get out of there.
"No," Paul said. "We've agreed to push it over, and we're gonna stay here until we push it over."
"I'll open its door," said Glen, taller and heavier than either Paul or I, "and I'll pull. You guys push."
"Okay," agreed Paul.
I wanted to get out of there but nevertheless accompanied Paul to the john's rear. Glen was stationed at the front. "Push," he whispered. We pushed. "Harder," Glen urged as he pulled and grunted. Remarkably, the building went over with hardly a sound.
"Don't fall in," Paul laughingly warned in a whisper before we rushed back to the apple tree and then to the roof of our garage. Not one kerosene lamp was lighted. In time, we agreed it was late and we'd better return to our respective homes, the dirty deed accomplished. Anyway, we had finished with the apples and agreed to act innocent the next day.
So, whom did the cops visit early the next morning and both accuse and question? You guessed it: The Kells.
Although Bobby and Jimmy had an inkling as to who performed the dastardly deed, they did not snitch us out. Thankfully.
What a time all of us had, laughing while the Kells told us over and over about the cops' visit. It was fun being a kid back then, but not so much fun for the Millers. Soon after MOI, they had indoor plumbing installed in their home.
RSS Feed