My grandmother lived in one of those white houses designed to capture the slightest breeze during the endlessly hot and humid South Carolina summers. She lived with my uncle, aunt, and cousins, who built the house over the years. A screened in back porch wrapped around the kitchen and back bedroom.

That porch contained all kinds of things, including tools, a washing machine, and a large freezer. Pumpkins and strings of homegrown peppers hung from the rafters. The ubiquitous waste pail was just below the kitchen window, which opened onto the porch. The pigs loved the sight of that bucket until they ended up in Uncle Henry’s heavy black pot of hashish.

Indoor plumbing has arrived, replacing the old outhouse. But when I woke up in the night, I was afraid to look for that bathroom, with its pink tub and sink. He knew the way to the old latrine. I had nightmares of falling into that waste bucket.

It wasn’t easy finding that fancy bathroom in the dark. It was on the far left of the porch. Going to the bathroom meant getting out of a tall wrought-iron bed and groping around the kitchen and porch without waking anyone.

There were no lights at night. The farmers needed a good night’s rest and the rooster crowed early. To make matters worse, the bathroom was right next to the bedroom window, which of course was usually open. So what you had to do, you did as quietly as possible.

When several families came to visit, four large wrought-iron beds would be piled up in that bedroom, where my parents, aunts, and uncles slept. The children slept where there was space elsewhere. I was the younger cousin, and was usually in bed with Grandma.

This was all very well until one particular night. Aunt Lois needed that bathroom on the back porch. She arrived fine. But crawling back to the right bed was a problem, a big problem, as it turned out. It was pitch black in that bedroom, with four virtually identical brothers, two of them twins, fast asleep. That is, they were until Aunt Lois returned and put her knee on what she thought was her own bed.

The problem was that his knee was not on the bed. She was on Uncle Henry’s chest. And Uncle Henry wasn’t Aunt Lois’s man, he was Uncle Jake. My dear aunt was a large woman, with a strong voice. Poor unprepared Uncle Henry, with the sudden onset of pain and immense pressure, woke up screaming, sure he was dying of a heart attack. Aunt Lois rumbled, “Jake, where are you? Jake, where are you?”, her knee still firmly planted in Uncle Henry’s chest.

Chaos ensued. Everyone in the house woke up from their sleep. But help did not come for a simple reason. No one could stop laughing. Laughing out loud. Fortunately, someone finally turned on a light and made things right. Uncle Henry’s heart immediately returned to normal once his injured knee was in its proper place.

Everything was finally alright again. I don’t remember going back to sleep that night. As for going back to the bathroom on the back porch? Bonus, loo!