Way back yonder in the Appalachian holler, before indoor plumbing and other luxuries, during the winter or inclement weather, every house had one or more chamber pots. That was the formal name and a more acceptable phrase in social circles; however, they were also known by various other names including slop pot, pot, slop bucket and the slop jar.

Some of these most necessary items were rather fancy and ornate containers, but most were quite simple in design and purpose. I have seen decorative ceramic ones, some with elaborate decoupage or hand paintings, and ones with or without lids, but most were enameled metal pots with a matching lid and a wire handle.

You’ve all heard the joke about the fellow trying to describe a fancy bed with a roof over it. He pretends to be unable to recall the name of the bed type and asks another for assistance. The intended target hopefully says, “Canopy?” And the prankster responds with, “No, we kept that under the bed!” Get it? “Can o’ pee.”

In my childhood home, in the heart of coal mining country, we had one in each bedroom, for it was quite a jaunt to the outhouse in the middle of the night, not to mention when there were several youngsters who needed to go and right now. These pots didn’t smell too great, but they sure were handy.

When I was about 4 years old, I visited with my Poppy and Maw (my paternal grandparents) often. One cold, blustery winter day — likely a Sunday afternoon, for there was a front room full of men deep in conversation — Maw requested that someone attend to the duty and empty the pot.

Poppy and the others seemingly didn’t hear her, for they continued to be engrossed in whatever topic of importance was on the agenda that day. As the request fell on deaf ears, they procrastinated, but I noticed that it was already quite full. As a matter of fact, I have been reminded by one of my uncles who were present that it was beyond being ready to empty.

Always the helpful and obedient child, I said, “Me will, Maw,” and I headed off to the adjoining bedroom. I had to wrap both arms around its circumference just below the rim in a huge bear hug in order to even lift it from the floor. It was far too awkward and heavy for the scrawny preschool child I was, and as a result, the weight of it and the momentum of its sloshing contents thrust me forward.

Somehow, I managed to safely maneuver it through the bedroom and upon entering the front room where the men were seated, inertia took over. The lid slid and rattled, dropping off and the foul contents splashed out as the pot itself escaped my determined but futile grasp.

That is when it erupted. First, the contents flew — all over my great Uncle Dock, and then the accompanying noise. If I had tried to hit his face dead center, I could not have been more accurate. His companions roared with laughter amid their gasps and nose-pinching gags. It created a horrendous mess and an even more hideous stench.

Maw charged in from the kitchen to discover the source of the tumult. It didn’t take her long to discern the preceding course of events.

“Mary Lou! What have you done?” she lamented.

The hoots, howls and horror-stricken gasps subsided while the men waited with baited breath to see how this event would unfold. I was mortified. No child ever felt more regret nor misery than I did at that moment. Death was imminent, I was certain.

Poor Maw, so horror-stricken that she didn’t know where to begin, somehow managed to hurl accusations at the slackers present.

An attempted plea for mercy failed me as no sound escaped my lips. You would have thought Uncle Dock would have been the one most disconcerted by this sudden turn of events, but ever the gentleman, it was he who came to my aid.

“Now, Florence, simmer down. Anybody can see the child was just trying to help when we men should have already done the deed.”

He got up, came toward me and despite his rather odorous dilemma, proceeded to console me. He convinced the stunned onlookers that no real harm had been by my impulsive call to action.

Now, I ask you, how could you not love a man like that?

— A coal miner’s daughter born in Appalachia and schooled in Michigan, she currently lives in rural Athens. Hill describes herself as a cook and cookbook author, jack of all trades and master of none, a Christian wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. She shares her home with her husband, Bob, and their spoiled-beyond-belief dog, Molly.