The little patch the house sits on is mostly green now, with untwirling buds of leaves and blue jays scolding each other in the mornings. My god, it's almost like spring.
Behind the house sits a good sized hill - trees grow (the soil is probably three inches deep in decaying pine needles) and the occasional wild critter gambols through, but other than Bear's mighty chain-saw there's not a lot else going on up there. The kids like to go wander around while B cuts up firewood.
(These are the Easter Bunny woods.)
Between the house and the woods lies the watershed, which stays wet most of the spring and fall. During the summer, though, it's possible to traipse through it and find interesting things - like antique beer cans, twisted bits of unknown metal, or even old bottles.
Part of the area, you see, was the household dump. The place where bottles and cans and rusted out household things were tossed. We've cleaned it out as we've found it, but it's not as though there's masses of stuff around - just bits, here and there, reminding us that we aren't the only ones who've spent our lives on this land.
The children like to bring me back things to ooh and aah over. Blue glass, a Watkins bottle, still with stuff (cod-liver oil??) inside. Small stuff.
And then a few days ago they found the motherlode. Back in the woods. It's huge. It's....oh, here:
I thought it was a Gallo bottle until I saw that it has 'Made In Canada' stamped into the glass on the bottom. And while the top is tightly rusted on, the sludgy blackness inside looks like oil. Motor oil. B thinks perhaps it's gas mixed with oil - for a chainsaw, perhaps? - and now I have no idea what to do with it. Putting it in the recyclable bag seems....well, stupid, and letting something like this (possibly filled with something flammable) simmer in the relentless heat of the dump foolhardy. Pitching it back into the underbrush where it's been for the last forty-fifty years isn't an option.
So help! Whufa I do with this?