“I will not sit
on a paint bucket. Period.”
“It’s only for the summers, Hon,” I argued.
“Don’t care, no
paint bucket.” Dick folded his arms, his chin thrust defiantly forward.
We had a
newly-built cabin in the lower Catskills with a separate bath house containing
an old tub large enough for a midget to sit. Missing was a toilet. We were
living off the grid. No electricity, no water source. After consulting several books on the subject,
the paint bucket seemed our only choice -- unless husband Dick forked out big
bucks for a compost toilet.
“Listen,” I
began, “a paint bucket is the smaller version of a purchased toilet. We prepare
it to accept a layering of stuff inside. Never any odor. Once loaded,
we cover it, set it aside to compost, and begin with a new bucket.”
“And what
happens when we’re ready to come home and there’re forty buckets composting?
“Well, uh, let’s
play it by ear the first year,” I replied weakly.
Such a simple process to create your own
toilet: You take a five-gallon plastic paint bucket and have ready in a small
garbage can torn-up newspaper, leaves, sawdust, and food scraps. Begin with the
first bucket layered with scraps, alternate waste and scraps until the bucket
is full; snap on a lid and place it in the sun outdoors and proceed to use
second container. A bi-weekly walk in
the woods to collect moist leaves lying near the ground keeps the scrap bucket
ready in an emergency. At the end of a
period of time the covered waste disintegrates into a loam-like substance,
clean and ready to nourish plants. Paint buckets cost a couple of dollars at
the local hardware store. Who could improve on an instant bathroom?
Dick next
complained about a permanent ring indention appearing on our backsides. I
suggested, “We can use a toilet seat.”
“Negative,” he
quickly countered. I rolled my eyes.
There’d be no friends visiting; we had been told how crazy we were at age 70 to
tackle living without amenities. Who would spend the night if we had no
television set?
I quickly
replied, “Inside the bath house we’ll post a sign with directions ‘How to Use
the Toilet.’ To ease the process, a decorative cardboard crown will hang next a
sign stating ‘For Guest Use Only’. Directions will suggest the sitter put on
the crown and pretend to be King or Queen of his/her throne. Our friends will ignore the inconvenience and
come out smiling.”
“The crown thing
is stupid. Management doesn’t approve!” Dick declared
How could I win?
I gave up fussing and let Dick have his way. He ordered a medium-sized
composting toilet. We installed it into our new bath house by setting up a pipe
that reached from toilet to the outside roof. The toilet was so high off the floor we had to
put a step stool in front to hike ourselves up onto the seat.
I smiled all summer.
His way cost time and energy. He soon discovered the New York summers failed to
produce enough heat to compost the material. He spent time every eight days
raking out the compost himself and disposing of it.
*
Below is an at-the-door glance of bath house interior. Tub in rear, compost toilet on right. We gave up using toilet and used Wag Bags.
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