Gone with the Wind

I was driving off the summit yesterday, a hot cup of coffee nestled between my knees and dragging an empty stock trailer. An unexpected sound interrupted my morning reverie. It was my usually mute cell phone.

“Pep,” I said. “Tater,” came the answer.

Tater Turner was almost a father to me and better than an uncle. He was the one I blamed for getting me into the California cattle business.

“They’s gonna shut down my ranch!” he howled. “They’s worst than the IRS! They’s worst than the Green Peacers!”

“Who’s messing with you now Tater?” I asked.

“The @*#%$ preservationists!” he yowled into my ear.

Thirty minutes later I was following the crooked barbed wire fence down the long dirt road that led to Tater’s Oasis Ranch in the Eastern part of the county. The Turner family had been scraping out a living here for more than 100 years. I pulled my truck and trailer up next to a new hybrid SUV next to the old sprawling ranch house. The SUV had a license plate frame that said “Wellesley Alum.” There was a New York Times on the back seat. I immediately knew Uncle Tater was in deep, deep trouble.

I walked around to the rear of the house. Uncle Tater stood wearing spurs, folding and unfolding his old ball cap. A man and woman, both dressed in tan safari outfits, were looking at the rear of the house and whispering to each other.

“Well Mr. Turner,” the woman looked down at a lap top computer. “I don’t think the house will qualify as a truly historic structure. It is 100 years old, it has great bones, but all of these awful alterations…”

“Improvements,” I said under my breath.

The woman glared at me with the piercing eyes of a fanatic. Her gray hair short and spiked like a porcupine.

“All of these alterations have diminished its authenticity,” chimed in the soft looking gent. “I’m afraid our commission will take it off the certification list.”

Uncle Tater breathed a sigh of relief. “This is my friend Pep. He helped me with a lot of the fix ups when he was a carpenter.”

The couple looked at me like I was a serial killer.

“I think the house and even barn should be documented,” the woman said. “If you ever tear it down, you will have to erect a bronze plaque on the spot with the historical data.”

We both nodded.

As they were walking to their car, the woman suddenly stopped. Her piercing gaze shifted back to the west of the house. She then went on point like a $500 bird dog.

“What is that?” she inquired.

Tater and I looked to where she was pointing but didn’t see anything.

“Oh my!” the Gent said.

“That classic bucolic profile!” she said. “Pre-Prairie School or even Chicago primitive!”
“With some elements of refinement!” said the Gent.

In a rush of excitement, the khaki clad pair rushed toward the back of the house. Tater and I followed in their perfumed wake. They were standing next to the smallest structure on the Oasis Ranch.

“A perpetual image of the Western landscape,” she opined.

“A poem in wood to lost America,” he added.

“It’s my Uncle Roscoe’s outhouse,” said Tater.

“When was this incredible structure built?” asked the woman.

“Careful Tater” I whispered.

Completely in shock Tater blurted out, “Mostest likely around 1915. That was when Roscoe came here from Missour-a.”

“What was the original purpose?” asked the Gent. Tater tried to side step around the obvious answer.

“Roscoe was a gentleman of the old order,” Tater said. “He always had to have an outhouse to maintain his sense of manners.” The woman was typing furiously on her laptop. “He went to a bar-be-que once and asked why Californians done everything backwards…why they cook outside and have toilets in the house.”

“Well Mr. Turner,” the woman said in her boarding school accent. “This has all the hallmarks of a historic structure. I am submitting it to the High Commission on Historical Buildings and Restoration Mandates. We will review its provenance. The building techniques and materials will be fully analyzed.

“I would be careful on analyzing all of the materials” I quipped.

The preservationists glared at me.

“And do not think of making any alterations until the commission can convene a panel of experts.” They slapped an orange tag on the side of the old wooden privy.

As they drove away down the long dirt road, Tater sighed deeply.

“I was gonna tear it down and plant a peach tree there. Peaches always taste the sweetest when they are planted near a septic tank.”

“Don’t worry Tater,” I said. “Your old outhouse won’t survive another snowy winter…especially if your friend Pep accidentally hits it a couple dozen times with an empty stock trailer.”

Tater smiled. “As Uncle Roscoe used to say when he came out of the outhouse in the morning….gone with the wind!”