I loved it! There was a lake, and thick woods for many adventures. While I realize now that its doubtful any pirates ever sailed into northern Idaho to bury their treasure, I spent many days that summer wandering around, certain I would chance upon a cave stuffed with a fortune in doubloons.

Since my Uncle Miles' cabin was still a work-in-progress, it had no indoor plumbing. This meant two things: Bathing consisted of a bucket of very cold water being dunked on you (something my uncle referred to as a "mountain shower" and I referred to as "a fucking joke"), and you had to use the outhose if you wanted to shit. As most of you are no doubt aware, an outhouse isn't the most pleasant-smelling building in the world. They tend to rank somewhere better than an abatoir but worse than the house of your crazy aunt who has the twenty six cats. Although my aunt and uncle took great pains to mask the odor, all the scented air freshners did was to make it smell as though some mountain man had used it to shit a bouqet of tulips. Consequently, the outhouse was a fair distance away from the rest of the cabin. Just walk down the path to get to it, and oh by the way, try not to brush against any poison oak on your way.

Normally, this was all well and good. Until one evening when I awoke around three in the morning, my sphincter quivering as it held back a mighty log. I was already starting to push fabric, so returning to bed was out of the question. My only solution would be to trek out to the outhouse.

Unfortunately, my nine year old mind knew the consequences of going to the outhouse at night. I was certain to be mauled by a bear, devoured by some many-tenacled monster who had made the outhouse his lair, or kidnapped by the pirates who knew of my plan to steal their pieces-of-eight.

So I couldn't go to the outhouse. In my bowel movement-induced desperation I grabbed a roll of paper towels and stole outside, to the front deck. I found a secluded part of the deck that had probably never seen the footprints of a human fall across its weather-treated redwood planks. I peeled my pajama bottoms down and hung my pale young ass off the deck, to do my business. The whole time my head was on a swivel, like an owl as I kept out a sharp eye for the bears, monsters or pirates who were no doubt already creeping through the shadows, ready to snatch me away.

I finished my business and quickly wiped with the paper towels. I would like to take a moment to thank my Aunt Connie for purchasing the cheapest paper towels she could find, with a texture that combined the smoothness of pine bark with the velvety plushness of 40 grit sandpaper. Hastily I shot back inside and slammed shut the door, feeling lucky to have gotten it closed just as whatever nefarious creature of the night that had been stalking me had pounced at me.

The next morning I awoke, smugly with my knowledge of having executed the perfect crime. The mob could've made Hoffa disappear, but could they have shit off their uncles deck without anyone discovering? Ha! I was a mastermind. Such were my thoughts as I marched to the breakfast table, rubbing away eye boogers.

Waiting there for me and my sister was a very stern-faced Uncle Miles. He looked at us with what must be the same look a beat cop gives to someone he just caught purse snatching. "Who in the hell took a shit off my deck last night?" he demanded.

Panic splashed over my face like I'd been suprised with another "mountain shower." Like any kid my Maginot line of defense consisted in denying any knowledge of the crime. "Someone shit off your deck? Are you sure? That's sick. Who would've done such a thing?" Miles was having none of it. He was too clever, too cunning to fall for such a static defense.

Of course, I was a criminal mastermind and my super-genius nine year old brain decided on a superior defense. "Well then," I offered, "maybe a hobo did it!"

"A hobo?!" asked my Uncle Miles in the same incredulous tone of voice that would've been used had I proposed that the turd in question had been lain by Martians or the Pope. "How would a goddamn hobo get the same goddamn paper towels that we have?"

My younger sister began to laugh hysterically and I knew I was caught. My Uncle Miles gave me a shovel and let me know that if I ever again chose to plop a brown trout right in front of his beloved porch swing that I would be spending the rest of the summer locked into the outhouse.