I grew up in the 1950s and our bathroom was out behind the house and down a long path. We didn't have any chamber pots in the house so, unless you wanted to make a long trip in the dark, one learned not to drink too much before going to bed.

On Sunday nights, mom would sometimes make a big dish pan full of popcorn, with lots of real butter, and fix Kool-Aid to go with it. This was a real treat for us kids as we seldom got sweet drinks; it was normally water or milk.

It was one of those Sunday nights with Kool-Aid that I got carried away and drank three glasses of that marvelous sweet stuff. I knew I shouldn't have drunk that extra glass of Kool-Aid with my popcorn, but it tasted so good. Well, maybe I would make it through the night if I went pee just before bedtime.

No such luck. I woke up a little after midnight with an overwhelming urge to pee. I was never going to make it through the night so I figured I might as well get it over with. I crawled out of bed, went down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen, and out the back door. It was the middle of summer so it was quite warm. I was grateful for that.

When I got to the outhouse I noticed the door was open. Dad wouldn't be happy if he found someone had forgotten to close it again. Dad told us to make sure we shut the door because the stupid chickens had a habit of falling into the privy holes. More than once, I watched while dad and my brothers dug a hole under the back of the outhouse so a chicken could get out.

I also noticed the toilet was getting quite full and smelled bad. Dad would probably dig a new hole and move the outhouse in the next day or so. After which, dad and my brothers would fill the old hole with dirt and pack it down.

Smelly, or not... I needed to pee in the worst way. I pulled my pajama pants down, seated myself over one of the holes, and let it go. Ahhh, what a relief and.......Ouch! I felt a sharp pain in my bottom and heard a loud growling below me in the toilet. I let out a shriek, jumped off the toilet, and ran as if the hounds of hell were after me. For all I knew, maybe they were.I ran through the back door still screaming at the top of my lungs. Dad and mom both came out of their bedroom wondering what all the commotion was about.

"There's a bear in the toilet; he bit me on the butt", I screamed. "He probably would have eaten me if I hadn't run fast enough". I was crying hysterically by this time.

Dad grabbed his shotgun and headed outside to investigate the situation. Mom pulled my pajama pants down and, sure enough, she found a nasty bloody spot on my hinny. She cleaned and disinfected the bite before putting gauze and tape over it. Mom muttered something about going to the doctor and getting me a penicillin shot the next day. I didn't like the sound of that, I hated getting shots.

It wasn't long before dad came back carrying a dead possum.

"Here's your bear", dad chuckled. "He probably didn't like it when you peed on his head so he bit you. You can't really blame him; I wouldn't want someone to pee on my head either. I told you kids a thousand times to close the outhouse door. Now maybe you will listen to me. I will move the outhouse tomorrow; the possum couldn't have reached your hind end if the toilet hadn't been so full". Dad was still laughing as he headed back to bed.

Humph, I didn't see what was so funny; I could have been killed if that really had been a bear. Dad would have felt bad then instead of thinking it was funny.

Oh well, I admit I learned a good lesson that night. Always close the outhouse door and, most importantly, never ever pee on a possum; it makes them extremely angry.