I only have this story secondhand, so unlike the rest of my seen-it-with-my-own-eyes stories, this one could conceivably be conjecture- though I have at least four actual witnesses to the event.

My inlaws have a couple of cottages on Lake Huron. Now, don’t think Matha Stewart cottages. Think sturdy little shelters in the dunes. Lots of them still have outdoor crappers. At the time of the story, my inlaws cottage was one of them. By the time I first saw it, it had indoor plumbing.

Anyway, back in it’s heyday, it saw a lot of parties, a lot of long weekends, a lot of kids sleeping in bunk beds while moms and dads and aunts and uncles played poker, drank rye, and smoked, late into the night.

On one of these nights, one of the combatants had had a little too much to drink, a little too much to party, and had to head out to the outhouse to relieve herself of her stomach’s burden.

In the morning, she discovered she was missing her false teeth.

In those days, the cost of false teeth was prohibitive.

I’ll let you fill in the rest of the story. And let you wonder, as I do, who had it worse; the three of my inlaws that had to don boots, move the outhouse, and wade in to find the teeth, or the person who had to clean them and put them back into her mouth.