Living The Dream: 10

As part of the ongoing Sunday installments of the novel. You can find the other chapters on here, posted each Sunday morning. Thanks! 

 

JULY: ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

 

I woke up to the sun shining in through the bus windows. The sky was streaked in gold and periwinkle. My sweetie was snoring next to me. The wind gently rocked the bus, but in a good way. I yawned and stretched my legs. I climbed out of bed and took three steps to turn on the coffee pot. I stared out another window at the mountains to the south of us. Tall and craggy, they loomed over the valley we lived in.
I got dressed in the usual jeans and red tee shirt, found my new cowboy hat, and poured out a fresh brewed Joe. I opened the door quietly and stepped down on to our almost finished porch. The paint smell had finally blown away.

I stretched tall and touched the tin roof above before bending forward to scratch my toes. I looked all around and once again was overwhelmed by how beautiful the desert can be. Sitting down on the bench we’d made yesterday, I put my feet up. The coffee was perfect. The sky lightened into a teal and orange stripe fest. The silence enveloped me. I sighed. I drank the coffee.

 

“What the hell?”

In front of me stood a small animal. Furry. Four legs. Tail tucked somewhere underneath. She looked like a roast chicken that had been left drying out on the dining room table.

A stray dog, in other words, she looked like a border terrier mixed with something, I had no idea what. I put my feet to the floor softly and she flinched but didn’t run away. The poor little bugger was all skin and bones, panting even now in the cool morning temperatures. I stood up, talking gently the whole time. I took a couple of steps and climbed into the bus, grabbing a green cereal bowl and filling it with water. I couldn’t think of what to feed her.

I came back out and she’d gone. I stood there, water in hand, and started to cry. It was hormones, honest. I put the bowl on the wooden platform and sat back on the bench. Out from under my feet she crawled past me and crept over to the water. She drank half and then burped like a pro. I laughed out loud and she jumped, running back under the porch itself. I could see her through the flooring.

I drank some of my tepid coffee and started to talk. I described the bus and how we’d found it. I told her about the mice and rats. I mentioned my favorite colors. I just talked a bunch of crap really.

The dog came out and sat in front of me with her head tilted. She had long spindly legs and that scruffy wiry creamy straw-like fur that terriers are known for. On her top lip, she’d grown a short moustache. She licked her lips as I spoke.

“Are you hungry, Frida?”
She knew what I was offering and her tail made an appearance, wagging slowly and cautiously. I stood up.

“Well, let’s see what you might like, shall we? Come on inside, don’t worry; the fella snoring is one of those good ones. He’s a keeper. He’ll be nice to you, I promise.”
I looked behind me to see her at the top step, nose working furiously, aimed at the new kitchen. I squatted down and opened the fridge. We had some beans, rice, and tortillas, Mark’s leftover hamburger and fries, a bag of tomatoes, coffee, cream, and beer. Oh, and some eggs. I pulled out what I wanted and put everything on the counter above me. I found another bowl, blue this time, and half filled it with the rice, an egg and some burger and stirred it all together. I headed back outside with the little girl at my feet, staring at me expectantly.

I put the bowl by her water and stepped away.

She sat. She waited. She licked her moustache.
“Go on, it’s yours.”

 

We walked the property with the sun rising behind us. I walked and talked out loud to the pup. She bounced like a puppy, forgetting herself and chasing at leaves and flies. She looked up when I chatted. She played under the pinions and in the sand, digging furiously at a small hole. I wandered over to see what the fuss was and she stopped to stare at me. I squatted down to her height. I leaned against a banana of a boulder. She dug some more. Suddenly a mouse ran between her legs and I squealed. Frida lunged after the little creature and gave chase. I heard her excited yelps growing more and more distant. I waited. She didn’t come back when I thought she would.
I carried on walking. I reached the back half of the forty acres and came across a few deep holes, seemingly old ones, hidden by branches cut from a nearby juniper tree.

I stood on the high point that looks over a dry riverbed, an arroyo as they say hereabouts. Sand and river rock lined the route the water must take if ever it flows. We’d still not had more than a slight rain so far this summer. My umbrella stared forlornly at me from the hook on the porch.

I sat down and listened hard. No furry footsteps came my way. I sighed and stood up and walked home. I took the western path, cutting under a ridge with sandstone ledges that scared me; the slightest extra weight could bring them crashing down on me. I spotted a small stumpy cactus that had thrown out a shocking pink flower. Just the one. I got close and stared. It was delicate yet chunky. Solid in it’s new growth, the flower didn’t move in the breeze. Or when I poked it with a stick.
The sand turned a burnt sienna in places, and in others a golden cinnamon toast. I was hungry. I picked up the pace. The sky was becoming more of a gunmetal gray than the periwinkle blue I’d grown used to. In the distance I heard a rumble. It wasn’t my stomach this time.

I walked fast through the silver pale green shrubs and the forest of tall cactus near our homestead. I heard Mark snoring still. I rounded the tail end of the school bus. On the steps sat Frida, with both the water and food bowls licked clean. Her tail wriggled and she stood up and ran to me. She stood on her back legs when I bent down. A lick on the chin, and that was that; I loved her.

 

“What the hell is that?” Mark yelled from the bed.

I ran inside. Frida followed a few paces behind. On the pillow next to my boy was a mouse. A dead mouse. Mark had scooted to the bottom of the mattress. His hair stuck out in all directions and he gave me a frantic look. “How on earth did that get there? Is this some kind of a joke?”
I laughed, which probably wasn’t a good idea. He scowled. I nodded behind me. “I think she brought you a present.”

“Who?” Mark pulled his knees to his chest and stared at me in a foggy daze.
Frida stepped closer to me and peered at Mark from between my legs, all sixteen pounds of her pressed into me for support.

“What’s that?”
Frida whimpered and shook slightly. I looked down at my scruffy new friend. “That is a dog.”

“He has a moustache.”
She, yes, she does. She has a name.”

“What name?”
“Frida, her name is Frida.”
“Oh, right. We can talk about this later, okay? Can you do me a favor now? Take the corpse away.” He pointed to my pillow. “You might want to wash that before tonight.”

I picked up the mouse with his bandana. Frida watched me with her head tilted sideways. Her one ear flopped and the other stood up high. She licked her top lip nervously. I smiled at her and looked back to Mark. “Isn’t she adorable?”
“Does that mean we’re keeping her?”
I smiled sweetly. “Did you want coffee in bed?”
“We should try to find if someone lost her.” Mark said sensibly.

“But what if they did and I have to give her back?”

He drank more coffee and leaned back against the headboard. I sat next to him. Frida looked at us from over the edge of the mattress, her little tufty ears following us back and forth. She watched as we decided her fate.

“What if it was your dog? Wouldn’t you want someone to give her back?”
“Yes, of course. Damn, now we’ll have to go to Oliver and try to find her family, won’t we?”
He nodded sagely, and lightly tapped the bed once. Frida needed no more encouragement and she bounced up. She stood there for a second, all eighteen inches tall, before she circled twice and curled up at his feet. Her eyes watched him closely.

“We can make some flyers or something. Go to the Post Office and ask around at the store and at the cafe. It’s a small enough town that they probably know the dogs’ names more than their neighbors.”

Mark was right; we’d have to go look, and make sure she wasn’t simply lost. To me, there was something wrong about how scared the pup was. That shouldn’t be allowed if she did indeed have a home nearby. Maybe someone dropped her off on the highway? Left her out here on her own?

“What about driving and asking the neighbors first? We could drive up Harold’s Way and ask around.”
Frida sighed and wriggled against Mark. He reached down and petted her absent-mindedly. I said nothing and left them to it.

 

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Mark shouted out of the car window. Three big furry dogs ran up to our Subaru and barked like crazy. Frida hid at my feet. The adobe house had one wall fallen in. A horse stood in a corral and watched us, flicking its tail. The German Shepherds soon got bored and walked back over to the shade of the porch. They didn’t stop staring. The house was pretty big but incredibly run down. Gutters half fell off the roof. Buckets lay everywhere. Empty bottles and trashcans lined the driveway. An old Chevy truck sat on blocks. The firewood pile had cacti growing out of it. The path to the front door was clear and well worn. Where was everyone?
I wanted to get out and look around. Mark wasn’t going to let me.
“Remember what Dieselhead Danny said, about how people don’t like visitors showing up uninvited? Especially folks they’ve never even met. We’re lucky we didn’t get shot.”
He looked around nervously, smoking as he checked his mirrors. “Do you have that note about Frida? We can stick it to the gate post on the way out.”
We turned the car around slowly, trying to avoid the stuff lying everywhere. The gate had been open when we drove up but I got out and pulled it shut behind us. I had some duct tape and I attached the description of Frida to the right hand side. That would get their attention.

 

One by one, we stuck notes on gates and sometimes on front doors, depending on the dog situation. If none charged us as we drove up, I was sent to do the deed. If the car was surrounded, Mark admitted defeat and we drove away with Frida on my lap. Her fur tickled. She leaned against me, nestling in for hugs when Mark wasn’t looking. We spent most of the morning looking for her owners but no one could help. Not that we met many people, but still, we did run into a few and not one recognized her. There was one last reclusive homestead on the way to Oliver we were told to check out first.

The gate was firmly shut but for some reason Mark insisted on going up closer. I got out to push the metal gate out the way when a voice shouted out to me.

“Don’t do that.”
Deep and strong, the voice was of God, booming out from the unseen. I spun around. A tall dark-skinned woman strode towards us. Frida whimpered and ran for the car, bouncing in and onto Mark’s lap. I was on my own here.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I started in my polite middle class way when she reached me. At some six-foot or so, she made a remarkable first impression. The long legs reached higher than my waist. The tee shirt hugged a skinny wiry body devoid of anything extra, (that’s a polite way of saying she was flat-chested), the muscles shaped her arms into string beans, and her hair was a silver gray, and almost invisible it was that short. Her blue eyes took me by surprise. I didn’t expect that. I stuttered out the story of finding Frida. “Are you missing a dog?”
“I might be. Describe her again.” She had a no nonsense approach for such a strange answer.

“Surely you’d know if a dog’s gone, right?”
“Not necessarily. You see, I run a rescue here. That’s why I didn’t want the gate opened by strangers. Look up the hill and you’ll see my dogs are watching us closely.”
I looked and almost fainted. The hilltop was lined with dogs staring at me, bunches of dogs, all eyes focused on my healthy sized thighs, the color of a medium rare hamburger.

“How many do you have?” I shuddered in awe.
“Thirty-three. Or maybe it’s thirty-two now?” She smiled and suddenly I liked her. A childish mischief came out in the twinkle in her eyes. I grinned back.

“Let me show you Frida, she’s with Mark in the car.”
“Okay, that’ll work. I did get some dogs in recently that haven’t adjusted to the pack dynamic. They want to leave. I try to take a handful in to Santa Fe each month to find more permanent homes, you know, but that’s hard to do sometimes.”

We walked back, introduced ourselves, and she talked about the sanctuary. She’d had the place for fifteen years, starting with two rescue dogs that she found wandering her land. Mark watched us but didn’t get out of the car, Frida sat on his lap, and they both stared at us worriedly. Her little ears drooped at the sight of us.

“Is that one of yours?” I asked.

Louise stepped closer.

“Yep, she came in last week. She hates it here. The other dogs are much bigger. This isn’t really the place for a dog like her; she’s too vulnerable. Too small.”
“How did you end up with her?” Mark piped up, curious after all.

“Her owner died of old age and in his sleep. The EMTs brought her here when no family came forward. They’re pretty good like that, taking care of more than just the emergency patients. You could say that she came here reluctantly.”
We stood next to each other in silence. In the Subaru, Frida sat on Mark’s lap and licked her nose nervously. The storm hovered above the hills to the north of us, which were lit by a streak of sunlight within a mix of dark gray and baby blue clouds. Ominous.

“Can we keep her?” Mark said it first. I grinned at him and he smiled back briefly before focusing on the woman next to me. She stood quietly scratching her shaven head absently.

“On one condition,” she answered after a moment spent assessing us both. “You come help me here with the dogs and the property. My husband left me last spring, for a woman with two cats.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I need help, with maintaining the place more than anything, but also taking four or five dogs to town each month to find them homes.” She broke into a toothy gapped grin that made me nod my head without thinking it through. She stuck out her hand to mine. I shook hers and I didn’t wonder why.

She stepped closer to the car and leaned down and into the window. Mark held onto Frida. Louisa laughed softly.
“Don’t worry, she’s yours. I’d say she’s about three years old, and I know she’s had her shots and been spayed. I have the records for you. She’s a good dog. Thanks for taking her.” She petted the pup gently. Louisa looked into Mark’s eyes. “I’ll see you on the weekend, shall I? Not too late, I get up a six.”

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Living The Dream: 9

As part of the ongoing Sunday installments of the novel. You can find the other chapters on here, posted each Sunday morning. Click on the image for a link to the whole novel if you can’t wait.  

DECEMBER: HOW TO

“I’m not sure, to be honest. Mark’s really good at improvising, that made it all a game, you know?” I reached down and petted Nelson’s head, reassuring myself.   “Mark just knew how to look at what we had lying around, and then create from that. He taught me a lot, that’s for sure. I’d not really built anything until we got to the land. I was the dreamer, the researcher, the teacher but he taught me how to play.”
“Your home became an art project then?” Angie sat back and finished her enchiladas. Jonnie was still eating but listening fully. It was good to talk. I hadn’t stopped yet.

“Yeah, I guess so. We had fun; making plans, playing with the materials. I love how our home was so, well, organic I guess. We didn’t really know what we needed until it became obvious. It was all so different to living in the nice little home in Olympia, gardening and watering with the hose, walking to town if we needed to pick up something. This was a whole new world for us. For me.”

I drifted off for a moment, picturing how Mark and I’d created such a home within months.

 

 

 

 

JULY: ART PROJECTS 101

 

 

“Are you sure that’s level, Jenny?”

I stepped back a few feet and looked again. It seemed pretty good to me and told him so. I walked around and checked from all the other angles. Yep, pretty good. I came back to the first post and took up my grip again. Mark let go of the four by four and grabbed his tools. A new cordless drill and a pocket full of screws made the boy so damn happy. He attached a crossbeam to another angled piece of two by four. The posts now stood up on their own. The porch was taking shape.

Impressive.

Next he had me hold more lumber in place as he screwed in the eight footers and tied it all together to make a basic framework for a roof. We’d dug the holes earlier in the day before it all got too hot. No cement but rocks and sand packed in tightly seemed to be enough to keep everything solid. Our plan was to build six uprights and create a frame of two by fours for a shed-like roof. On that we’d simply screw in the old eight foot sheets of corrugated tin that were stacked up near the driveway. Reuse and recycle had become our new mantra. In Santa Fe, Mark had discovered Habitat for Humanity where you could buy lightly used building supplies. It had become a favorite place to visit. Sinks, furniture, plumbing, electrical, you name it, they stocked it. Mark loved coming home from his errands with a box of screws that cost him only a dollar. Or that time he’d bought a kitchen cabinet made of old metal, absolutely rat proof and perfect for his next project. Yep, the homestead was coming along nicely and at a great price.
Mark set up a platform to stand upon by using his dad’s table. He started laying the lumber out for the next stage. I held pieces in place, trying to keep my face out of the direct sun. I didn’t want to look like some of the women around here. Much too wrinkled for my tastes.

“Can you go get some roofing for me?” Mark stood up on the table as he worked. “I’d say we can get this part done today and build the actual platform in the morning. What do you think? Are you up for another hour or so?”
“Sure, let’s get as much done as we can. I’ve still got some energy. I’ll go get you a sheet.” I wandered off down the dirt track and off to the right. Under another bunch of short stumpy trees I found the stack of old tin. I picked up a piece and brought it back to the school bus. I passed it up to him.

“This roof will make all the difference. Can’t you see us sitting on the deck for our morning coffee?” I was excited at seeing our first real building project come together.
Mark grunted as he worked. “Next time get a couple of sheets, okay?”
“Oh, right.”
Back and forth, I carried dirty, somewhat rusty, roofing. I set him up with what he needed, passing screws, tin, bottles of water. He worked. I helped. The roof was done. Nothing moved when I shook the posts. It all held firm.
“Good job.” I congratulated my boyfriend. “What do you need now?”
“A bath? A shower? A pizza and a beer.”
“Okay, let’s see. I have a beer for you. Does that work?”
He jumped back down and stood there admiring our work. He opened a beer and drank a good part of it before answering me. “That’s much better. Thanks. But what do you say to us staying in town tomorrow and getting a motel room?”
“Really? How decadent of us. I’d love it.”
He grinned and sat down in the shade of his new patio. He looked up at new roofing and nodded to himself. His shirt was drenched and his hair lay flat for once. The burnt toast color suited his face nicely. I stayed lobster pink, a rose by any other name.

“How about our goal is for finishing the deck tomorrow, putting across the wood to make some kind of platform, and making sure it won’t move in the wind? It won’t take me too long. I’ll probably be done by lunchtime and we can go to town after that and relax for the night.”
I sat next to him and leaned back. I gave him a short sweet kiss.

“When you do that, if you don’t need me, I want to get the painting done inside. It can air out when we’re away for the night. What do you think?”
“Yep, that works. But more importantly, what’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
I opened the cooler and rummaged around for a second, then pulled out the hot dogs and a pack of whole-wheat buns. Mark grinned.

“I think I need to eat something a bit healthier tomorrow night, but for now, no complaints. Do you need help? I’ll go wash up a bit if that’s okay?”

“Sure, go for it. I’ll make us a fire.”
He wandered off to the car and pulled out a five-gallon container of water. He filled a bucket, found his soap, and striped down to his boxers. He washed. I watched. It was a good evening at the homestead.

 

The night trickled along easily. We had a sweet routine of work, cook, drink, and then daydream. We’d chat about the different ideas for homes, and how could we do it, get a home base by winter? It was dawning on us both that this was a bigger project than imagined. He was growing into the idea of yurts and teepees and stuff like that, each being quick and easy to set up, even if you had to pay more upfront. I wanted us to build with stones taken from around the land, or even better to make adobes and create some funky weirdly shaped dome home. The labor-intensive options didn’t get his enthusiasm for some reason. We were chatting about compromising with a yurt that had straw bales set around the base for extra insulation when we saw flashing lights heading up our driveway.

We both stood up. Visitors? At this time of night?

Mark threw on a couple more logs so we could see what the hell was going on. Three large huge sounding trucks pulled up next to our campsite with their spotlights blinding us but I couldn’t see what was going on. Who were they? I shaded my eyes, unsure as to where to look or talk. A voice from the darkness spoke.

“Do you have a permit for that fire?”

A door opened and in the distance more vehicles rumbled down the driveway. For us?
“What’s going on? What do you mean, a permit?”

Mark walked into the light. I lost sight of him.

I felt naked in my shorts and tee shirt under the bright lights. I never had been one for standing on stage in front of strangers. I wanted the darkness back. I wanted the silence back.
The fire trucks kept their engines running. I moved into the shadows and tried to work out what was going on. Mark was surrounded by some ten firefighters in full gear. Helmets, boots, reflective coats, the lot. Radios beeped and voices bounced off each other.
“Didn’t I meet you the other day?”
I jumped and coughed. Next to me stood the man from the EMT vehicle in the parade.

“No, but I saw you at the Independence Day event. I caught a candy you threw.” I replied in surprise.
“Oh that’s right,” He smiled. He was smaller than I’d pictured, with a bit of a belly stuck out over his pants, and his skin hadn’t tanned like most peoples round here. But he was in uniform, what can I say? I liked uniforms. His dark hair was cut military style, and he had a salt and pepper moustache that didn’t make me laugh out loud. He smiled again. Perfect teeth. That must have cost his parents a fortune.

“I’m Graham. I’m with the Fire Department.”
“Jenny. I’m new to town. Welcome to my home.” and I blushed. It was too dark to tell, thankfully. I wanted to giggle. I stifled another cough instead.

“Have you ever thought to join the department? I could do with some sweet female energy. There.” He stepped closer. Nice aftershave.
“Really? You could? I mean, what do you need? At the department?” I didn’t tell him that I hate blood and can’t stand anything bigger than my campfire. ‘Hot’ scares me. He didn’t scare me. Well, not like that. His green eyes held me captive as he talked about volunteering. I had no idea as to what he said. I watched his mouth. Nice soft lips he had.

I suddenly realized that a couple of men were throwing dirt on our fire. They stood around in a group and with shovels in hand, messed up our very nice new fire-pit. I was  none too impressed.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” I stood between them and the smothered flames.
Mark jumped in and explained to me how there was a countywide ban of open fires. The wild fire risks were too great, he’d been told. In the Jemez Mountains some fifty thousand acres had already burnt up this summer. Everyone was scared. Especially as they were all waiting for the monsoon season to kick in.

“No more fires for us, eh?” He smiled nervously. “And if their boss shows up, we’re in trouble. They’d have to give us a ticket. But since we’re new and haven’t been here long enough to hear about that kind of fire ban, we’re okay this time. The Fire Officer told me it’s a fine if we get caught with another fire. Bummer eh?” He whispered and stared behind me, “Hey, honey, who’s that watching us?”
I turned to see the Graham head back towards the Fire Engines. A couple of men, and I think one woman, walked up to him.

“Hey Chief. Are we done yet?” someone asked him.
“Yes, let’s call it in and go back to Oliver. Did you make sure the fire’s out?”

“Yes sir.”
Graham waved at us both politely and climbed up into the lead vehicle. The other volunteers came and shook our hands first, almost apologetic for disturbing us, and they too left.
We stood in the dark and watched their lights grow smaller and smaller, with no sounds but for an owl to keep us company.

“Bedtime, I guess?”

What kind of toilet do you have?

Susan stood in front of me as hundreds of women surged past us on their way to hear Ani DeFranco on stage. “Well?”

I took a moment, searching for the best euphemism but gave up. “I shit in a bucket.”

It’s a nice bucket. It sits in a nice wooden box with a lid. I shit in a bucket. A honey box. Outhouse. Compost toilet. Humanure. There are so many ways to speak nicely of my toilet.  The question is asked often though, more than I’d expected after living off grid most of my adult life. Curious as to how I live, these strangers and friends wonder about my ablutions.

Let me explain. Life off grid, my style, is to keep it simple. Rain-catchment into 800 gallon tanks that feed the kitchen and one for the bathroom. Solar electric power, a small system of 150 watts, which is enough for this computer, the lights, water pumps, and internet. I don’t need a hairdryer, this in New Mexico, everything dries within minutes.

There’s a woodstove in the living room and a small propane one in the kitchen. The fridge and stove are propane too and they deliver out here as needed, about twice a year on average. Not bad. Not expensive. And after many a year without a fridge, I love having cream for the coffee and a cold beer waiting at the end of the day.

That’s your introduction. Back to my buckets. Yep, you know what I do in them but why? and how do you deal with it afterwards?

Yes, I have choices, a bucket, a compost toilet, or an outhouse. I don’t have enough water or funds for a traditional septic system, and why bother when these other methods work pretty well. It’s much more hands on though, and not everyone who visits  me likes that aspect.

When you do what you do in the clean green bucket, cover everything with sawdust or peatmoss. This is to contain smells, visuals, and helps decompose your shit. When the bucket’s close to full, then bring it out to the compost pile…but make sure your pups aren’t anywhere near. Dogs are nasty critters, well, Rosie is. So I made the compost pile with four pallets tied together, then fenced off to keep her little white nose from browning. I keep a bale of straw near by, again, to cover the layers of poop and sawdust, to help decompose and smother the smell.

It’s not bad, I like having the indoor bucket toilet but I am thinking of changing it up. That’s where this essay comes in. I’m thinking outloud. You see, I’m tired of emptying buckets when people stay up here. I’m tired of buying the straw, the sawdust, the cleaning supplies to bleach and scrub the buckets. It’s time for a change. The question is, do I go back to an outhouse?

I do love my outhouse, but it’s filling fast. I need to pay someone with a small backhoe to dig another deep hole, one to last a few years at a time. The cost to dig, and rebuild is close to $300.

So I started thinking of getting an actual premade compost toilet. Those plastic kinds you see in Backwoods Magazine and the such. The pros? Once every few weeks or even a month before cleaning out the tray underneath. The seat is clean and professional looking these days, nice and traditional in shape more often than not. The cons? Cost. The cheapest I’ve found is a Biolet non-electric for $1200. The need for fans. The fact that if you don’t quite keep the balance of peatmoss and ‘presents’, then the cleaning tray isn’t quite so nice to empty. It’s work if you mess it up…I’m also not sure of the smell. Some reviews say you’d need an electric fan to keep the outside not smelling of urine. Other people say it depends on the temperatures. The reviews are mixed.

Photo on 4-28-14 at 5.04 PM

I’m confused. Does it make sense to keep doing what I’m doing with the buckets? Throw down a few hundred for each new outhouse? Or use my savings on a plastic pre-made compost toilet that might smell?

So I ask you. What kind of toilet do you have?