Chungshan North Road extends from Taipei's governmental district at the intersection of Chunghsiao Road to the suburbs of Shihlin and Tienmu roughly ten kilometers away. Much of this major thoroughfare is lined by fashionable stores and expensive boutiques, offering everything from consumer electronics to the latest in European clothing and furniture. Next to the Fuhsing bridge at Changan Street, close to downtown, is a shop very different from all the other stores. The open storefront is stacked high with wooden containers of many sizes and shapes. A rather crude sign, hand- painted in large, black Chinese characters, adorns the top of the storefront: "Lin Tien Wooden Bucket Shop." The city once had thirty or more places selling traditional wooden buckets, but this is the sole survivor of the craft in Taipei.
For the thousands of commuters who cross the Fuhsing bridge on their way to work every day, it is difficult to miss the corner shop. The morning sun gives a warm glow to the wooden buckets, tubs, and steamers stacked at its entrance, and the building's ornate brick facade, which dates back to the Japanese occupation period (1895-1945), also attracts attention.
The shop does not have a door. Instead, a narrow space between stacks of buckets forms a natural entrance. Inside, visitors will invariably find an elderly man surrounded by piles of wood shavings and dozens of old, well-worn tools. Beads of sweat gather on his brow as he works intently on a partially completed wooden bucket resting between his legs. This is cooper Lin Hsiang-lin (林相林), a master bucket craftsman, and second-generation owner of the Lin Tien Bucket Shop.
The work area is as cramped as the narrow entrance. Lin, his son, and an employee work on a slightly elevated platform, about ten feet long and five feet wide, which takes up nearly half the shop. The rest of the room is filled with stacks of buckets and other wooden containers for sale. In the corners and remaining space are tools, planks, shaped staves, partially finished buckets, and an assortment of ancient clutter. Fortunately, a high ceiling prevents a feeling of claustrophobia.
Despite its meager proportions and cluttered interior, the place exudes an air of aged grandeur. The inside walls were once plastered with a mixture of gypsum and hemp fibers, then white-washed. Over the years the wall has chipped away in uneven layers, exposing large sections of the brick underneath. The wooden beams of the ceiling are worn with time; the raw wood shows through in spots where the original maroon finish has faded. But the most obvious indication of the shop's age is on a crossbeam at the middle of the room: a miniature grandfather clock, its glass yellowed and covered with dust, has the date 1928 painted on its face. But the room has not fallen into disrepair, it has aged gracefully. "Since my father opened the shop sixty-five years ago, it has never been renovated or remodeled," Lin says. "I've kept it just the way it was back then."
Lin has spent forty-seven of his sixty-four years working here. He began studying bucket-making as soon as he finished elementary school. And if there is any meaning in names, Lin's certainly seems to indicate he was destined for the occupation. In his name, the Chinese character components for "wood" appear five times; both his surname and the second character of his given name mean "forest." Lin admits he never really considered any other trade. "I was born the year after my father founded the business, and as a child I spent a lot of time here," he says. "From a very young age I knew I wanted to carryon the trade. As soon as I completed elementary school, I went to Keelung to study with a well-known Japanese bucket maker."
Lin's apprenticeship was a traditional one, working in his teacher's shop in exchange for instruction. "I had to work very long hours," he recalls. "My elderly teacher was in the habit of rising right at dawn, and I had to get up with him. Often we didn't stop work until around midnight. For my labors I received food and lodging, but no salary." As with most traditional apprenticeships, the master craftsman seldom set aside time for formal instruction. Instead, Lin learned by watching, repeating, and remembering the occasional tip offered in the course of work. "It took me more than six months just to become familiar with the various planning techniques used in making buckets," he says.
Why did Lin apprentice with a Japanese instead of a local craftsman? The choice was based on the quality of craftsmanship. "There were three basic schools of bucket-making at the time—the Lukang school [from central Taiwan], the Fuchow school from Fukien province on the mainland, and the Japanese school," he says. "Actually, the shape and style of buckets made by these three schools were similar because wooden buckets were common to both Chinese and Japanese culture. The difference lies in attention to detail, and the fineness of workmanship. In this respect, the Japanese school was superior." As an example, Lin says that the Lukang and Fuchow schools used a single strand of steel wire to truss the bucket." but the Japanese school braided two wires together for durability and aesthetic appeal.
Lin's arduous apprenticeship was made even more difficult by the war, which engulfed Japanese-occupied Taiwan. Keelung, where he worked, was a strategic northern harbor and was hit almost daily by Allied bombing runs. Lin spent a good deal of time scurrying in and out of air-raid shelters. After three years of working under such stressful conditions, he returned to Taipei in 1944. But the situation was not much better. Many people had fled the city for the country side to wait out the war, including Lin's father, who left his son in charge of the business. "By then there were air raids almost every day, so I dug a bunker right in front of our shop," he says. "Every time the sirens sounded, I pulled on my gas mask and jumped inside. Business was affected, of course, but people still came to buy buckets or have their old ones repaired: "The war also influenced the business in other way". "The Japanese confiscated our metal supplies for military use," Lin says, "so we had to use bamboo strips to truss the buckets. But the bamboo bindings usually lasted only three months or so."
The fifteen years following the war were the golden years for Lin and the rest of Taipei's bucket-makers. Business boomed as the island returned to peace. "Wooden buckets were an essential item of daily life," Lin says, "They were used for cooking rice, bathing, washing clothes, and as night-soil pails." In those days, Lin estimates, as many as thirty wooden bucket shops were operating in Taipei alone. "In fact, we named our shop "Lin Tien" because right next door to us was another business run by a family with the same last name. Their shop was the Lin Wooden Bucket Shop, so we added 'Tien' to our sign, which had no special meaning, to distinguish between us." Despite the competition, business was so good that Lin's small shop couldn't accommodate it all. He therefore opened a factory on nearby Sungchiang Road, which employed more than ten workers at its height.
"Good things don't last long," goes an old Chinese saying, and Lin's business eventually fell on difficult times. When plastic utensils, electric rice cookers, and modern bathroom fixtures were introduced to Taiwan in the early 1960s, they brought the inevitable demise of the traditional craft. "Look at this," Lin says, holding up a small wooden bucket about a foot in diameter and ten inches high. "This costs about US$36. A plastic bucket the same size costs less than US$2. How can we compete?" Convenience, as well as cost, also played a role. Plastic buckets are easier to clean, store, and care for. Plastic quickly caught on, and Lin began reducing the number of workers in his factory, eventually closing it. And before long, Lin's competitors were going out of business.
Despite the mechanization that has come with the island's industrial and economic development, Lin has made no changes in the way he makes his bucket and other wooden items. Watching him work with his assortment of specialized tools, visitors can sense the pride and respect he has for his craft. "I’ve always made every thing by hand, one at a time," he says. What about power tools? Lin shakes his head with a smile. The same tools used by traditional Chinese carpenters and woodworkers are just fine, thank you. Of these, there are many. For example, Lin has over a dozen different planes, some not much bigger than the palm of one hand, others more than three feet long. Each has a specialized use. One of the smallest has a curved blade used to cut the croze, or groove, along the lower in side surface of the bucket where the bottom is filled tightly in place.
Lin's saws seem to be about the same age as the shop. Their C-shaped wooden handles are worn with use. Wide-blade saws are used for cutting wooden plank into staves, while the narrow-bladed ones are used like a jigsaw to cut curved edges. An assortment of knives, chisels, and hammers rounds out the tools election.
At least a dozen steps are involved in making a wooden bucket. First, Lin cuts wooden strips about three inches wide and an inch thick to the proper length and planes them until smooth. The edges of each one must be planed to precise angles so that the staves will fit tightly together and curve around into a circle. The job is complicated because the top of the bucket has a larger diameter than the bottom. Lin uses a special measuring stick to help him achieve the necessary angles. Next, he bores two holes about three-fourths of an inch deep into the edges of each slave and insert" bamboo pegs into the holes on one side. The staves are then all filled together and temporarily secured with bamboo strips. He next planes the inside and outside of the bucket again until the stave joints are smooth. He then cuts the croze about two inches from the base of the bucket, shapes the bottom to the proper size, and forces it into the groove. He hammers two rows of steel or copper bands into place to truss the bucket firmly, and finally, he planes the top edge of the bucket until it is smooth. Lin's seasoned proficiency makes it appear easy, but looks are deceiving. Precise fitting of the wooden pieces is essential, or the bucket will leak.
Every couple of months Lin leave, the shop to purchase wood. He has always used red cypress and Chinese fir. "I choose the wood depending on what the bucket will be used for," he explains. "Red cypress is a more beautiful wood, and gives off a pleasant odor on contact with hot water. This smell is desirable for bathing, so we use the wood for bathtubs. But for rice-cooking buckets, it's better to use the odorless Chinese fir." These days, Lin is making the majority of his buckets from fir because Taiwan's red cypress forest, are dwindling and have become the focus of conservation efforts.
Over the past twenty-five years Lin has struggled to hold on to his dying craft, and has succeeded against the odds. Several years ago the going was especially rough, as the few remaining wooden bucket shops competed for the little business that was left. "One reason I managed to hold out was because I owned my own shop," Lin says. "If I had to pay rent on this building, there's no way I could have survived," No less important, he clearly has a tenacious desire to keep the traditional craft alive.
Lin made it through the hard times, and his only son, who works in the shop with him a, one of his assistants is preparing to carry on tradition for a third generation when his father steps down. Happily, business is improving. "Wooden buckets are no longer the everyday household items that they once were," the elder Lin says. "Now people are buying them to decorate their homes." As the island has become more comfortable affluent, many people are starting to integrate tradition with their modern life-style. One place to start is in interior design. For example, when refrigerator, were introduced, people gradually discarded the wooden cabinets with screen, which were commonly used to store food. Once chopped up for firewood or thrown in the trash, the cabinets are now hot item, in antique shops. Minus the screens, and refurbished with a coat of natural stain over the original wood, they are popular pieces of living room furniture. Lin's buckets fit into this new decorating trend. They can be used as planters or to hold magazine or umbrellas. Lin is also making smaller wooden items that can be used as tabletop planters, fruit baskets, or decorative pieces.
The practical uses of Lin's craft survive as well. Many breakfast shop and street vendors still sell steamed glutinous rice cooked in traditional wooden buckets because they claim the flavor is better. Lin also makes small and large steamers for preparing the popular Chinese snack foods and breads sold by shops and street vendors throughout the city.
In a single workday, Lin can make two large buckets or four smaller ones. Sale prices range anywhere from about US$25 for his smallest bucket to roughly US$100 for a shallow wooden tub about three feet in diameter. He binds his buckets with either thin steel wire or inch-and-a-half thick copper bands. ''The copper bands are much more attractive," he says, "but buckets bound with steel wire are more durable." And if shoppers cannot find exactly what they want in the stacks of buckets outside the shop, he also does custom work.
Business has been fairly good lately. But it is no secret that Lin could make a lot more by closing up his shop and renting or selling the space. Given Taipei's real estate values, especially in central Taipei, he would immediately become a wealthy man. But Lin resists all offers to do so. Why does he continue to work from 8:30 A.M. until well after dark instead of choosing a comfortable retirement? The words don't come easily. Lin gestures and points to his heart. "This is the family business, " he says. "I've known it all my life. What would I do if I closed up shop? And what would happen to the craft of wooden bucket-making? Someone has to preserve it."