Since our father was both beekeeper and dairyman, our property on the edge of a southern Manitoba Mennonite town was nicknamed The Land of Milk and Honey. The idyllic title did little to lessen our daily tasks about the farm, and we teenagers complained loud and long about all the chores we said we were forced to do.

The houses in town, as well as ours, hadn't as many conveniences as they have now. True, there was electricity, but central water mains and sewer systems were still in the future. An outside privy discreetly hidden by a large honeysuckle bush was a cosy two-seater accommodation scrubbed out by my sister who truly hated this job. It was a good place to meditate as we paged through outdated Eaton catalogues placed there in lieu of toilet tissue. Special bonding took place as we sat cheek to cheek, discussing clothes and boys, wasting time, and giggling foolishly.

"Are you going to babble in there forever" shouted our brother who was onto us and our way of skipping out or at least postponing the work to be done. He brought his fist down hard on the door.

Honey, sweet to the taste and wholesome to the body, has been known to mankind since ancient days. King Solomon used the word in his love-songs, and we follow his example by calling a dear one 'Honey'. When I helped with harvesting my dad's honey, I got a much different view of the term as well as the product. Honey is terribly sticky, adhering tenaciously to all it touches. It was my job to wash it off everything. The water became gooey and thick so it had to be changed often. Mother thought it wasn't a good idea to just spill it somewhere on the ground. "We'll get so many flies that we won't know what to do. Pour it down the toilet hole. Surely it can't harm anything there."

Not harm anything? It started to ferment, that's what it did, giving a whole new meaning to the word 'honeyman'. The stink emanating from the concoction below, together with the fumes activated, threatened to anaesthetize anyone who stayed in there longer than a few minutes. Alas, all the pleasure had gone out of our homey retreat back of the barn close to the narrow back lane. For a few days it bubbled and fizzed so that the stench spread beyond the little house standing there so innocently by itself.

On warm summer nights, father liked to roam about his property in the dark and check things out. Before long he noticed the Mountie's car with its lights out slowly cruising along the lane. It stopped close to the outhouse, then backed up a little, stopped again, and finally moved on. Father watched it repeat this manoeuvre several nights in a row.

"Why is the police officer snooping about our outhouse, do you think?" he asked mother one morning.

"He's not snooping. He's sniffing," replied mother. "He must think he smells alcohol brewing some place. The other day he came into the garden and asked me for some dill for his wife who was making pickles, he said! I know she's got rows and rose of dill right by her back door. He's nosing around because he thinks we have a still somewhere, maybe in the barn."

Father grinned. "No wonder he's here night after night. Too bad he's never gone into the biffy." Father scratched his head. "We'd better stop pouring that water down there. I don't think I can stand the atmosphere much longer myself."

So it came about that my sister and I got our favorite hideout back and, to this day, the Mountie never solved his crime.

Broadcast on CBC Radio, January 20, 1999

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