Save Water and Sooth the Soul*

     I am about to tell a secret, a secret held deep in the heart of water-haulers, wood burners, and homesteaders nestled far in the backwoods of Maine. The Maine Bucket Bath Rules! It is on a par with plugging for bass on a bug-free summer day. Of course, as Aleister Crowley knows, you can tell secrets and reveal mysteries all day to no avail. Only those who choose to listen will hear the magic of this truth.

     The belly rolling guffaws of dedicated full-bath tubbers and the tittering giggles of the dancing shower tribe aside, I will leave you to be the final judge. As the tubber harks back to their luxurious bathing ritual, fifty gallons of oil-fired water, two feet deep at the spigot, towels fatter that corn-fed hogs drape from pegs in the knotty pine walls next to a verdantly framed trio of well-rounded naked ladies capering in some fantasy faraway pool, the bather will fold up in a gale of laughter generally reserved for late-night comic priests as they picture a poor, lost soul like a refugee from a cardboard box squatting in a tiny basin, pouring tepid water over their greasy head with a plastic cup.

     As the tubber’s laugh subsides, the Shower tribe people are creating their own vision of the bucket-bath: the silly oaf scrunched up in a slime-slick trough as some heavy-bellied primitive indiscriminately pours a stout pail of cold, clammy water over their companion’s head and calls the job done with a spit in the bucket for good luck. The tubbers and shower tribe feel just a slight tinge of guilt that such a delusion could exist in an otherwise sweet and sane world.

     And who am I to pooh the POV of those happily hygienic folks? Employing the criteria for a competent judge as put forth by John Stewart Mill, I have had the pleasure (or pain) of experiencing the good, the bad, and the really ugly bathing events throughout my history of hygiene. I know the beauty of the long, full immersion bath and the invigorating joy of a hope-I-get-lucky tonight shower or a post-game hose down. Then I have taken the creek-dunk, the three-minute saltwater sailor’s scrub, the belly-wound bath, the pre-lockup kerosene rinse, the communal hot-tubbing debacle, and the kitchen sink quickie. I am a well-washed man.

     While the tubber gets lost in the steamy haze of their bath, sinking further into the warm embrace of welcoming waters until naught but the nose and a knob of knee are left above a heap of glittering bubbles, we hear the sigh as all of their trouble and woes disappear beyond the bounds of earthly travail and they are gone—until a rude pounding on the door intrudes upon their bliss—you awaken and the water has grown chilly and you find yourself floating in a room temperature broth as greasy and smelly as cold duck soup, glistening with a gray sheen of soap scum, sebaceous skin oils, and body flotsam. The relentless pounding is the shower-tribe frantically queuing up for bathroom time.

     These people come in large, noisy groups and are always in a hurry. They will “hop in the shower” real quick before dashing off to the doughnut shop, job interview, or a blind date. A shower is an inconvenient necessity and, at its best, a brief diversion from a hectic and demanding schedule. The shower is a five to ten minute event and, in communal settings such a school gyms, military barracks, and prisons, you can effectively clean two dozen people in one fell swoop (I have had the “pleasure” of all three settings) Whenever someone has been in the shower for more than their ten minutes, we all know what they are doing and we sure wish that they would do it somewhere else. But, enough of the escapist attributes of the tub bath and the diversionary element of the shower. It is the full and deeply satisfying engagement of the bucket bath which we are interested in.

     A Maine bucket bath is a full-bodied existential encounter with oneself, and, if you are lucky, you may have the added delight of sharing this activity with your sweetheart or, if you have a large family of five or so, you can clean the whole lot with less water than it takes for one ten-minute shower. As the tubber steps back to escape their travails and the shower-people step aside from their busy lives, the bucket bather steps forward to embrace the phenomenological bliss of washing oneself well. Or  of washing their sweetie well. Whether you place your catch basin next to a warm, wood-fired stove as a mid-winter blizzard howls its arctic anthem or go outside during the summer months to bathe beneath the stars and rinse in sparkling moonbeams, the first full ladle of warm water flowing over your body will bring a joy unavailable under the agitated pitter-patter of a shower-head or wallowing in the shriveling confines of a tub. You will interact fully with your body as you lather and scrub with your favorite (organic) soap then enjoy a casual rinse and leave your catch-basin feeling fully cleansed, completely relaxed, and filled with a rousing vitality. This is a form of body-work which has been largely forgotten with the advent of running water, and of great benefit both to yourself and to our lovely planet.  Do this and witness.

     Eco-Bonus:  Full tub bath  (2x weekly)     60-100 Gallons of water per person.

                     Shower   (7x weekly)   175 (or more) Gallons of water per person.

                     Bucket bath (3x weekly)  5 to 9 Gallons per person.

     And this eco-bonus does not include the savings in fuel costs to heat the water and the environmental impact of using and heating so much water then sending it all to a water treatment plant to be “fixed.”

           

* Attention Body/Mind/Spirit Workers: add the Maine Bucket Bath to your list of services and you, your clients, and our Mother Earth will be well-rewarded on many fronts…

By: Chuck Kniffen