Tickle your bum

When I was five years old, my brother Ken had been born, and I went from good, to naughty. I was no longer the center of my mother's universe. We lived at that time, in 1939, in Melfort Saskatchewan, and my father was mostly out of town at work. My mother had a daytime girl to help with the household. At the back of our lot was the outhouse where we did our "business". The outhouse was a one holer and not over a pit but rather over a can that was emptied by the frequent visits of the honeyman. The access to the can was a flap that lifted up on hinges, at the back of the outhouse. The daytime girl who helped my mother came out to do a bit of "business" herself when I and my small friend were playing in the lane. The scene I am about to describe is as vivid now in my mind's eye, as it was at the time! When the day girl was in the outhouse, my little friend and I lifted the back flap, and he held it while we inspected. I can see now, that big bum hanging through the one holer, as if it was yesterday. I tickled it with a long piece of grass which was within easy reach. Then we ran. I can remember her racing out of the outhouse and yelling "I'm going to tell your mother! " I don't remember the outcome. Memory is selective.