It was not something nice.
Since we have moved into our 1890 Victorian house, we have discovered all manner of interesting goodies left behind by the former owners. Our idealistic sensibilities have been damaged by a serious dearth of cash and gold doubloons, treasures which we assumed would simply drop out of the ceiling tiles at surprising moments, or cascade into our arms when we peeled back the hideous wallpaper. My pal in Mahopac is always finding cool stuff on his property, like Native American artifacts and gravestones. We find things like human faeces.
Since that 2008 post, we have unearthed the following:
1. A tarnished spoon
2. Two very old bottles buried in the garden (pretty cool, actually, but yet another painful reminder of all the historic stuff that the former owners destroyed and mangled)
3. A few tattered paperdolls in a crawlspace under the stairs
4. 6 undamaged--and empty--cardboard toothpaste boxes from the 1970s (I sure forgot what the old Crest branding used to look like, and boy was I glad to see it again)
5. A can of "genuine Florida sunshine" in the rafters of the basement (It fell out on my head while I was doing laundry and almost gave me a melanoma)
6. Two perfectly pristine turds, and their accompanying toilet paper, resting near a small pipehole in the front yard
Ah, this last find was the most startling, I must say! For months, we had wondered just why this pipe existed. It lies flush with the ground in the grass next to our walkway, and the cap on it has a small hole in the center about two inches in diameter. Sometimes the boys poke sticks into it, and we can see water glimmering below. I had a theory at one point that it once housed a flagpole. Until yesterday, it was an interesting little mystery.
While walking past it, our nanny heard an ominous gurgling and bubbling sound, concurrent with shower, dishwasher, and toilet usage within the house. Later, she discovered that "something" had been tossed up with some force from the pipe's aperture. My husband was beckoned, and bent over to view just what it was. "Those are...turds," he said, with some evident lack of pleasure. A few shiny flies buzzed up and confirmed the diagnosis. Then he glanced down at his sandals. The sidewalk next to the pipe, where he was standing, was puddled with what appeared to be "water" but clearly wasn't just "water."
My middle child was fingered as the former owner of the offending objects, given away by his size and for the fact that it was he who sat upon the pot before the earth began gurgling and released its foul offering. He denied it, of course: "My little brother has the smallest poops in the house because HE is the smallest! So those are his turds." His argument had a fatal flaw, as the youngest and the potty have not yet become acquainted.
We noted with some relief that the aperture in the pipe, being the small size that it is, would prevent some of the potential "larger items" from escape. But then my husband shook his head with a sad and portentous expression. "Whatever force shot those turds up outta that hole, it's pretty powerful. I think almost anything might get pushed right through. Boom!"
It could become our own Old Faithful, finally making us rich through tourism dollars. I hope that the wee, sweet bunny rabbit is not in the area when she blows again.
